editorial wild oats by mark twain illustrated new york and london harper & brothers publishers--mcmv copyright, , , , by samuel l. clemens. copyright, , , by samuel l. clemens. copyright, , by harper & brothers. _all rights reserved._ published september, . [illustration: see p. "i fancied he was displeased"] contents page my first literary venture journalism in tennessee nicodemus dodge--printer mr. bloke's item how i edited an agricultural paper the killing of julius cÆsar "localized" illustrations "i fancied he was displeased" _frontispiece_ "he had concluded he wouldn't" _facing p._ "gillespie had called" " "wheezing the music of 'camptown races'" " "i have read this absurd item over" " "a long cadaverous creature" " "there was nothing in the pockets" " +----------------------------------------------------------------------+ |transcriber's note: the dialect in this book is transcribed exactly as| |in the original. | +----------------------------------------------------------------------+ editorial wild oats my first literary venture i was a very smart child at the age of thirteen--an unusually smart child, i thought at the time. it was then that i did my first newspaper scribbling, and most unexpectedly to me it stirred up a fine sensation in the community. it did, indeed, and i was very proud of it, too. i was a printer's "devil," and a progressive and aspiring one. my uncle had me on his paper (the _weekly hannibal journal_, two dollars a year, in advance--five hundred subscribers, and they paid in cord-wood, cabbages, and unmarketable turnips), and on a lucky summer's day he left town to be gone a week, and asked me if i thought i could edit one issue of the paper judiciously. ah! didn't i want to try! higgins was the editor on the rival paper. he had lately been jilted, and one night a friend found an open note on the poor fellow's bed, in which he stated that he could no longer endure life and had drowned himself in bear creek. the friend ran down there and discovered higgins wading back to shore. he had concluded he wouldn't. the village was full of it for several days, but higgins did not suspect it. i thought this was a fine opportunity. i wrote an elaborately wretched account of the whole matter, and then illustrated it with villanous cuts engraved on the bottoms of wooden type with a jack-knife--one of them a picture of higgins wading out into the creek in his shirt, with a lantern, sounding the depth of the water with a walking-stick. i thought it was desperately funny, and was densely unconscious that there was any moral obliquity about such a publication. being satisfied with this effort, i looked around for other worlds to conquer, and it struck me that it would make good, interesting matter to charge the editor of a neighboring country paper with a piece of gratuitous rascality and "see him squirm." [illustration: "he had concluded he wouldn't"] i did it, putting the article into the form of a parody on the "burial of sir john moore"--and a pretty crude parody it was, too. then i lampooned two prominent citizens outrageously--not because they had done anything to deserve it, but merely because i thought it was my duty to make the paper lively. next i gently touched up the newest stranger--the lion of the day, the gorgeous journeyman tailor from quincy. he was a simpering coxcomb of the first water, and the "loudest" dressed man in the state. he was an inveterate woman-killer. every week he wrote lushy "poetry" for the _journal_, about his newest conquest. his rhymes for my week were headed, "to mary in h--l," meaning to mary in hannibal, of course. but while setting up the piece i was suddenly riven from head to heel by what i regarded as a perfect thunderbolt of humor, and i compressed it into a snappy footnote at the bottom--thus: "we will let this thing pass, just this once; but we wish mr. j. gordon runnels to understand distinctly that we have a character to sustain, and from this time forth when he wants to commune with his friends in h--l, he must select some other medium than the columns of this journal!" the paper came out, and i never knew any little thing attract so much attention as those playful trifles of mine. for once the _hannibal journal_ was in demand--a novelty it had not experienced before. the whole town was stirred. higgins dropped in with a double-barrelled shot-gun early in the forenoon. when he found that it was an infant (as he called me) that had done him the damage, he simply pulled my ears and went away; but he threw up his situation that night and left town for good. the tailor came with his goose and a pair of shears; but he despised me, too, and departed for the south that night. the two lampooned citizens came with threats of libel, and went away incensed at my insignificance. the country editor pranced in with a warwhoop next day, suffering for blood to drink; but he ended by forgiving me cordially and inviting me down to the drug-store to wash away all animosity in a friendly bumper of "fahnestock's vermifuge." it was his little joke. my uncle was very angry when he got back--unreasonably so, i thought, considering what an impetus i had given the paper, and considering also that gratitude for his preservation ought to have been uppermost in his mind, inasmuch as by his delay he had so wonderfully escaped dissection, tomahawking, libel, and getting his head shot off. but he softened when he looked at the accounts and saw that i had actually booked the unparalleled number of thirty-three new subscribers, and had the vegetables to show for it--cord-wood, cabbage, beans, and unsalable turnips enough to run the family for two years! journalism in tennessee the editor of the memphis _avalanche_ swoops thus mildly down upon a correspondent who posted him as a radical: "while he was writing the first word, the middle, dotting his i's, crossing his t's, and punching his period, he knew he was concocting a sentence that was saturated with infamy and reeking with falsehood."--_exchange_. i was told by the physician that a southern climate would improve my health, and so i went down to tennessee and got a berth on the _morning-glory and johnson county warwhoop_ as associate editor. when i went on duty i found the chief editor sitting tilted back in a three-legged chair with his feet on a pine table. there was another pine table in the room and another afflicted chair, and both were half buried under newspapers and scraps and sheets of manuscript. there was a wooden box of sand, sprinkled with cigar-stubs and "old soldiers," and a stove with a door hanging by its upper hinge. the chief editor had a long-tailed black cloth frock-coat on, and white linen pants. his boots were small and neatly blacked. he wore a ruffled shirt, a large seal ring, a standing collar of obsolete pattern, and a checkered neckerchief with the ends hanging down. date of costume about . he was smoking a cigar, and trying to think of a word, and in pawing his hair he had rumpled his locks a good deal. he was scowling fearfully, and i judged that he was concocting a particularly knotty editorial. he told me to take the exchanges and skim through them and write up the "spirit of the tennessee press," condensing into the article all of their contents that seemed of interest. i wrote as follows: "spirit of the tennessee press "the editors of the _semi-weekly earthquake_ evidently labor under a misapprehension with regard to the ballyhack railroad. it is not the object of the company to leave buzzardville off to one side. on the contrary, they consider it one of the most important points along the line, and consequently can have no desire to slight it. the gentlemen of the _earthquake_ will, of course, take pleasure in making the correction. "john w. blossom, esq., the able editor of the higginsville _thunderbolt and battle-cry of freedom_, arrived in the city yesterday. he is stopping at the van buren house. "we observe that our contemporary of the mud springs _morning howl_ has fallen into the error of supposing that the election of van werter is not an established fact, but he will have discovered his mistake before this reminder reaches him, no doubt. he was doubtless misled by incomplete election returns. "it is pleasant to note that the city of blathersville is endeavoring to contract with some new york gentlemen to pave its wellnigh impassable streets with the nicholson pavement. the _daily hurrah_ urges the measure with ability, and seems confident of ultimate success." i passed my manuscript over to the chief editor for acceptance, alteration, or destruction. he glanced at it and his face clouded. he ran his eye down the pages, and his countenance grew portentous. it was easy to see that something was wrong. presently he sprang up and said: "thunder and lightning! do you suppose i am going to speak of those cattle that way? do you suppose my subscribers are going to stand such gruel as that? give me the pen!" i never saw a pen scrape and scratch its way so viciously, or plough through another man's verbs and adjectives so relentlessly. while he was in the midst of his work, somebody shot at him through the open window, and marred the symmetry of my ear. "ah," said he, "that is that scoundrel smith, of the _moral volcano_--he was due yesterday." and he snatched a navy revolver from his belt and fired. smith dropped, shot in the thigh. the shot spoiled smith's aim, who was just taking a second chance, and he crippled a stranger. it was me. merely a finger shot off. then the chief editor went on with his erasures and interlineations. just as he finished them a hand-grenade came down the stove-pipe, and the explosion shivered the stove into a thousand fragments. however, it did no further damage, except that a vagrant piece knocked a couple of my teeth out. "that stove is utterly ruined," said the chief editor. i said i believed it was. "well, no matter--don't want it this kind of weather. i know the man that did it. i'll get him. now, _here_ is the way this stuff ought to be written." i took the manuscript. it was scarred with erasures and interlineations till its mother wouldn't have known it if it had had one. it now read as follows: "spirit of the tennessee press "the inveterate liars of the _semi-weekly earthquake_ are evidently endeavoring to palm off upon a noble and chivalrous people another of their vile and brutal falsehoods with regard to that most glorious conception of the nineteenth century, the ballyhack railroad. the idea that buzzardville was to be left off at one side originated in their own fulsome brains--or rather in the settlings which _they_ regard as brains. they had better swallow this lie if they want to save their abandoned reptile carcasses the cowhiding they so richly deserve. "that ass, blossom, of the higginsville _thunderbolt and battle-cry of freedom_, is down here again sponging at the van buren. "we observe that the besotted blackguard of the mud springs _morning howl_ is giving out, with his usual propensity for lying, that van werter is not elected. the heaven-born mission of journalism is to disseminate truth: to eradicate error; to educate, refine, and elevate the tone of public morals and manners, and make all men more gentle, more virtuous, more charitable, and in all ways better, and holier, and happier; and yet this black-hearted scoundrel degrades his great office persistently to the dissemination of falsehood, calumny, vituperation, and vulgarity. "blathersville wants a nicholson pavement--it wants a jail and a poor-house more. the idea of a pavement in a one-horse town composed of two gin-mills, a blacksmith-shop, and that mustard-plaster of a newspaper, the _daily hurrah_! the crawling insect, buckner, who edits the _hurrah_, is braying about this business with his customary imbecility, and imagining that he is talking sense." "now _that_ is the way to write--peppery and to the point. mush-and-milk journalism gives me the fan-tods." about this time a brick came through the window with a splintering crash, and gave me a considerable of a jolt in the back. i moved out of range--i began to feel in the way. the chief said: "that was the colonel, likely. i've been expecting him for two days. he will be up now right away." he was correct. the colonel appeared in the door a moment afterwards with a dragoon revolver in his hand. he said: "sir, have i the honor of addressing the poltroon who edits this mangy sheet?" "you have. be seated, sir. be careful of the chair, one of its legs is gone. i believe i have the honor of addressing the putrid liar, colonel blatherskite tecumseh?" "right, sir. i have a little account to settle with you. if you are at leisure we will begin." "i have an article on the 'encouraging progress of moral and intellectual development in america' to finish, but there is no hurry. begin." both pistols rang out their fierce clamor at the same instant. the chief lost a lock of his hair, and the colonel's bullet ended its career in the fleshy part of my thigh. the colonel's left shoulder was clipped a little. they fired again. both missed their men this time, but i got my share, a shot in the arm. at the third fire both gentlemen were wounded slightly, and i had a knuckle chipped. i then said i believed i would go out and take a walk, as this was a private matter, and i had a delicacy about participating in it further. but both gentlemen begged me to keep my seat, and assured me that i was not in the way. they then talked about the elections and the crops while they reloaded, and i fell to tying up my wounds. but presently they opened fire again with animation, and every shot took effect--but it is proper to remark that five out of the six fell to my share. the sixth one mortally wounded the colonel, who remarked, with fine humor, that he would have to say good-morning now, as he had business up-town. he then inquired the way to the undertaker's and left. the chief turned to me and said: "i am expecting company to dinner, and shall have to get ready. it will be a favor to me if you will read proof and attend to the customers." i winced a little at the idea of attending to the customers, but i was too bewildered by the fusillade that was still ringing in my ears to think of anything to say. he continued: "jones will be here at three--cowhide him. gillespie will call earlier, perhaps--throw him out of the window. ferguson will be along about four--kill him. that is all for to-day, i believe. if you have any odd time, you may write a blistering article on the police--give the chief inspector rats. the cowhides are under the table; weapons in the drawer--ammunition there in the corner--lint and bandages up there in the pigeon-holes. in case of accident, go to lancet, the surgeon, down-stairs. he advertises--we take it out in trade." [illustration: "gillespie had called"] he was gone. i shuddered. at the end of the next three hours i had been through perils so awful that all peace of mind and all cheerfulness were gone from me. gillespie had called and thrown _me_ out of the window. jones arrived promptly, and when i got ready to do the cowhiding he took the job off my hands. in an encounter with a stranger, not in the bill of fare, i had lost my scalp. another stranger, by the name of thompson, left me a mere wreck and ruin of chaotic rags. and at last, at bay in the corner, and beset by an infuriated mob of editors, blacklegs, politicians, and desperadoes, who raved and swore and flourished their weapons about my head till the air shimmered with glancing flashes of steel, i was in the act of resigning my berth on the paper when the chief arrived, and with him a rabble of charmed and enthusiastic friends. then ensued a scene of riot and carnage such as no human pen, or steel one either, could describe. people were shot, probed, dismembered, blown up, thrown out of the window. there was a brief tornado of murky blasphemy, with a confused and frantic war-dance glimmering through it, and then all was over. in five minutes there was silence, and the gory chief and i sat alone and surveyed the sanguinary ruin that strewed the floor around us. he said: "you'll like this place when you get used to it." i said: "i'll have to get you to excuse me; i think maybe i might write to suit you after a while; as soon as i had had some practice and learned the language i am confident i could. but, to speak the plain truth, that sort of energy of expression has its inconveniences, and a man is liable to interruption. you see that yourself. vigorous writing is calculated to elevate the public, no doubt, but then i do not like to attract so much attention as it calls forth. i can't write with comfort when i am interrupted so much as i have been to-day. i like this berth well enough, but i don't like to be left here to wait on the customers. the experiences are novel, i grant you, and entertaining, too, after a fashion, but they are not judiciously distributed. a gentleman shoots at you through the window and cripples _me_; a bomb-shell comes down the stove-pipe for your gratification and sends the stove-door down _my_ throat; a friend drops in to swap compliments with you, and freckles _me_ with bullet-holes till my skin won't hold my principles; you go to dinner, and jones comes with his cowhide, gillespie throws me out of the window, thompson tears all my clothes off, and an entire stranger takes my scalp with the easy freedom of an old acquaintance; and in less than five minutes all the blackguards in the country arrive in their war-paint, and proceed to scare the rest of me to death with their tomahawks. take it altogether, i never had such a spirited time in all my life as i have had to-day. no; i like you, and i like your calm, unruffled way of explaining things to the customers, but you see i am not used to it. the southern heart is too impulsive; southern hospitality is too lavish with the stranger. the paragraphs which i have written to-day, and into whose cold sentences your masterly hand has infused the fervent spirit of tennessean journalism, will wake up another nest of hornets. all that mob of editors will come--and they will come hungry, too, and want somebody for breakfast. i shall have to bid you adieu. i decline to be present at these festivities. i came south for my health; i will go back on the same errand, and suddenly. tennessean journalism is too stirring for me." after which we parted with mutual regret, and i took apartments at the hospital. nicodemus dodge--printer when i was a boy in a printing-office in missouri, a loose-jointed, long-legged, tow-headed, jeans-clad, countrified cub of about sixteen lounged in one day, and without removing his hands from the depths of his trousers pockets or taking off his faded ruin of a slouch hat, whose broken rim hung limp and ragged about his eyes and ears like a bug-eaten cabbage-leaf, stared indifferently around, then leaned his hip against the editors' table, crossed his mighty brogans, aimed at a distant fly from a crevice in his upper teeth, laid him low, and said, with composure: "whar's the boss?" "i am the boss," said the editor, following this curious bit of architecture wonderingly along up to its clock-face with his eye. "don't want anybody fur to learn the business, 'tain't likely?" "well, i don't know. would you like to learn it?" "pap's so po' he cain't run me no mo', so i want to git a show somers if i kin, 'tain't no diffunce what--i'm strong and hearty, and i don't turn my back on no kind of work, hard nur soft." "do you think you would like to learn the printing business?" "well, i don't re'ly k'yer a durn what i _do_ learn, so's i git a chance fur to make my way. i'd jist as soon learn print'n' 's anything." "can you read?" "yes--middlin'." "write?" "well, i've seed people could lay over me thar." "cipher?" "not good enough to keep store, i don't reckon, but up as fur as twelve-times-twelve i ain't no slouch. 'tother side of that is what gits me." "where is your home?" "i'm f'm old shelby." "what's your father's religious denomination?" "him? oh, he's a blacksmith." "no, no--i don't mean his trade. what's his _religious_ denomination?" "_oh_--i didn't understand you befo'. he's a freemason." "no, no; you don't get my meaning yet. what i mean is, does he belong to any _church_?" "_now_ you're talkin'! gouldn't make out what you was a-tryin' to git through yo' head no way. b'long to a _church_! why, boss, he's be'n the pizenest kind of a free-will babtis' for forty year. they ain't no pizener ones 'n' what _he_ is. mighty good man, pap is. everybody says that. if they said any diffrunt they wouldn't say it whar _i_ wuz--not _much_ they wouldn't." "what is your own religion?" "well, boss, you've kind o' got me thar--and yit you hain't got me so mighty much, nuther. i think 't if a feller he'ps another feller when he's in trouble, and don't cuss, and don't do no mean things, nur noth'n' he ain' no business to do, and don't spell the saviour's name with a little g, he ain't runnin' no resks--he's about as saift as if he b'longed to a church." "but suppose he did spell it with a little g--what then?" "well, if he done it a-purpose, i reckon he wouldn't stand no chance,--he _oughtn't_ to have no chance, anyway, i'm most rotten certain 'bout that." "what is your name?" "nicodemus dodge." "i think maybe you'll do, nicodemus. we'll give you a trial, anyway." "all right." "when would you like to begin?" "now." so, within ten minutes after we had first glimpsed this nondescript he was one of us, and with his coat off and hard at it. beyond that end of our establishment which was farthest from the street was a deserted garden, pathless, and thickly grown with the bloomy and villanous "jimpson" weed and its common friend the stately sunflower. in the midst of this mournful spot was a decayed and aged little "frame" house with but one room, one window, and no ceiling--it had been a smoke-house a generation before. nicodemus was given this lonely and ghostly den as a bedchamber. the village smarties recognized a treasure in nicodemus right away--a butt to play jokes on. it was easy to see that he was inconceivably green and confiding. george jones had the glory of perpetrating the first joke on him; he gave him a cigar with a fire-cracker in it and winked to the crowd to come; the thing exploded presently and swept away the bulk of nicodemus's eyebrows and eyelashes. he simply said: "i consider them kind of seeg'yars dangersome"--and seemed to suspect nothing. the next evening nicodemus waylaid george and poured a bucket of ice-water over him. one day, while nicodemus was in swimming, tom mcelroy "tied" his clothes. nicodemus made a bonfire of tom's by way of retaliation. a third joke was played upon nicodemus a day or two later--he walked up the middle aisle of the village church, sunday night, with a staring hand-bill pinned between his shoulders. the joker spent the remainder of the night, after church, in the cellar of a deserted house, and nicodemus sat on the cellar door till towards breakfast-time to make sure that the prisoner remembered that if any noise was made some rough treatment would be the consequence. the cellar had two feet of stagnant water in it, and was bottomed with six inches of soft mud. but i wander from the point. it was the subject of skeletons that brought this boy back to my recollection. before a very long time had elapsed, the village smarties began to feel an uncomfortable consciousness of not having made a very shining success out of their attempts on the simpleton from "old shelby." experimenters grew scarce and chary. now the young doctor came to the rescue. there was delight and applause when he proposed to scare nicodemus to death, and explained how he was going to do it. he had a noble new skeleton--the skeleton of the late and only local celebrity, jimmy finn, the village drunkard--a grisly piece of property which he had bought of jimmy finn himself, at auction, for fifty dollars, under great competition, when jimmy lay very sick in the tanyard a fortnight before his death. the fifty dollars had gone promptly for whiskey and had considerably hurried up the change of ownership in the skeleton. the doctor would put jimmy finn's skeleton in nicodemus's bed! this was done--about half-past ten in the evening. about nicodemus's usual bedtime--midnight--the village jokers came creeping stealthily through the jimpson weeds and sunflowers towards the lonely frame den. they reached the window and peeped in. there sat the long-legged pauper, on his bed, in a very short shirt, and nothing more; he was dangling his legs contentedly back and forth, and wheezing the music of "camptown races" out of a paper-overlaid comb which he was pressing against his mouth; by him lay a new jews-harp, a new top, a solid india-rubber ball, a handful of painted marbles, five pounds of "store" candy, and a well-knawed slab of gingerbread as big and as thick as a volume of sheet music. he had sold the skeleton to a travelling quack for three dollars and was enjoying the result! [illustration: "wheezing the music of 'camptown races'"] mr. bloke's item our esteemed friend, mr. john william bloke, of virginia city, walked into the office where we are sub-editor at a late hour last night, with an expression of profound and heartfelt suffering upon his countenance, and, sighing heavily, laid the following item reverently upon the desk, and walked slowly out again. he paused a moment at the door, and seemed struggling to command his feelings sufficiently to enable him to speak, and then, nodding his head towards his manuscript, ejaculated in a broken voice, "friend of mine--oh! how sad!" and burst into tears. we were so moved at his distress that we did not think to call him back and endeavor to comfort him until he was gone, and it was too late. the paper had already gone to press, but knowing that our friend would consider the publication of this item important, and cherishing the hope that to print it would afford a melancholy satisfaction to his sorrowing heart, we stopped the press at once and inserted it in our columns: distressing accident.--last evening, about six o'clock, as mr. william schuyler, an old and respectable citizen of south park, was leaving his residence to go down-town, as has been his usual custom for many years with the exception only of a short interval in the spring of , during which he was confined to his bed by injuries received in attempting to stop a runaway horse by thoughtlessly placing himself directly in its wake and throwing up his hands and shouting, which, if he had done so even a single moment sooner, must inevitably have frightened the animal still more instead of checking its speed, although disastrous enough to himself as it was, and rendered more melancholy and distressing by reason of the presence of his wife's mother, who was there and saw the sad occurrence, notwithstanding it is at least likely, though not necessarily so, that she should be reconnoitring in another direction when incidents occur, not being vivacious and on the lookout, as a general thing, but even the reverse, as her own mother is said to have stated, who is no more, but died in the full hope of a glorious resurrection, upward of three years ago, aged eighty-six, being a christian woman and without guile, as it were, or property, in consequence of the fire of , which destroyed every single thing she had in the world. but such is life. let us all take warning by this solemn occurrence, and let us endeavor so to conduct ourselves that when we come to die we can do it. let us place our hands upon our heart, and say with earnestness and sincerity that from this day forth we will beware of the intoxicating bowl.--_first edition of the californian._ the head editor has been in here raising the mischief, and tearing his hair and kicking the furniture about, and abusing me like a pickpocket. he says that every time he leaves me in charge of the paper for half an hour, i get imposed upon by the first infant or the first idiot that comes along. and he says that that distressing item of mr. bloke's is nothing but a lot of distressing bosh, and has no point to it, and no sense in it, and no information in it, and that there was no sort of necessity for stopping the press to publish it. now all this comes of being good-hearted. if i had been as unaccommodating and unsympathetic as some people, i would have told mr. bloke that i wouldn't receive his communication at such a late hour; but no, his snuffling distress touched my heart, and i jumped at the chance of doing something to modify his misery. i never read his item to see whether there was anything wrong about it, but hastily wrote the few lines which preceded it, and sent it to the printers. and what has my kindness done for me? it has done nothing but bring down upon me a storm of abuse and ornamental blasphemy. now i will read that item myself, and see if there is any foundation for all this fuss. and if there is, the author of it shall hear from me. * * * * * i have read it, and i am bound to admit that it seems a little mixed at a first glance. however, i will peruse it once more. * * * * * i have read it again, and it does really seem a good deal more mixed than ever. * * * * * i have read it over five times, but if i can get at the meaning of it, i wish i may get my just deserts. it won't bear analysis. there are things about it which i cannot understand at all. it don't say what ever became of william schuyler. it just says enough about him to get one interested in his career, and then drops him. who is william schuyler, anyhow, and what part of south park did he live in, and if he started down-town at six o'clock, did he ever get there, and if he did, did anything happen to him? is _he_ the individual that met with the "distressing accident"? considering the elaborate circumstantiality of detail observable in the item, it seems to me that it ought to contain more information than it does. on the contrary, it is obscure--and not only obscure, but utterly incomprehensible. was the breaking of mr. schuyler's leg, fifteen years ago, the "distressing accident" that plunged mr. bloke into unspeakable grief, and caused him to come up here at dead of night and stop our press to acquaint the world with the circumstance? or did the "distressing accident" consist in the destruction of schuyler's mother-in-law's property in early times? or did it consist in the death of that person herself three years ago (albeit it does not appear that she died by accident)? in a word, what _did_ that "distressing accident" consist in? what did that drivelling ass of a schuyler stand _in the wake_ of a runaway horse for, with his shouting and gesticulating, if he wanted to stop him? and how the mischief could he get run over by a horse that had already passed beyond him? and what are we to take "warning" by? and how is this extraordinary chapter of incomprehensibilities going to be a "lesson" to us? and, above all, what has the intoxicating "bowl" got to do with it, anyhow? it is not stated that schuyler drank, or that his wife drank, or that his mother-in-law drank, or that the horse drank--wherefore, then, the reference to the intoxicating bowl? it does seem to me that if mr. bloke had let the intoxicating bowl alone himself, he never would have got into so much trouble about this exasperating imaginary accident. i have read this absurd item over and over again, with all its insinuating plausibility, until my head swims, but i can make neither head nor tail of it. there certainly seems to have been an accident of some kind or other, but it is impossible to determine what the nature of it was, or who was the sufferer by it. i do not like to do it, but i feel compelled to request that the next time anything happens to one of mr. bloke's friends, he will append such explanatory notes to his account of it as will enable me to find out what sort of an accident it was and whom it happened to. i had rather all his friends should die than that i should be driven to the verge of lunacy again in trying to cipher out the meaning of another such production as the above. [illustration: "i have read this absurd item over"] how i edited an agricultural paper i did not take temporary editorship of an agricultural paper without misgivings. neither would a landsman take command of a ship without misgivings. but i was in circumstances that made the salary an object. the regular editor of the paper was going off for a holiday, and i accepted the terms he offered, and took his place. the sensation of being at work again was luxurious, and i wrought all the week with unflagging pleasure. we went to press, and i waited a day with some solicitude to see whether my effort was going to attract any notice. as i left the office, towards sundown, a group of men and boys at the foot of the stairs dispersed with one impulse, and gave me passageway, and i heard one or two of them say, "that's him!" i was naturally pleased by this incident. the next morning i found a similar group at the foot of the stairs, and scattering couples and individuals standing here and there in the street, and over the way, watching me with interest. the group separated and fell back as i approached, and i heard a man say, "look at his eye!" i pretended not to observe the notice i was attracting, but secretly i was pleased with it, and was purposing to write an account of it to my aunt. i went up the short flight of stairs, and heard cheery voices and a ringing laugh as i drew near the door, which i opened, and caught a glimpse of two young rural-looking men, whose faces blanched and lengthened when they saw me, and then they both plunged through the window with a great crash. i was surprised. in about half an hour an old gentleman, with a flowing beard and a fine but rather austere face, entered, and sat down at my invitation. he seemed to have something on his mind. he took off his hat and set it on the floor, and got out of it a red silk handkerchief and a copy of our paper. he put the paper on his lap, and while he polished his spectacles with his handkerchief, he said, "are you the new editor?" i said i was. "have you ever edited an agricultural paper before?" "no," i said; "this is my first attempt." "very likely. have you had any experience in agriculture practically?" "no; i believe i have not." "some instinct told me so," said the old gentleman, putting on his spectacles, and looking over them at me with asperity, while he folded his paper into a convenient shape. "i wish to read you what must have made me have that instinct. it was this editorial. listen, and see if it was you that wrote it: "turnips should never be pulled, it injures them. it is much better to send a boy up and let him shake the tree." "now, what do you think of that--for i really suppose you wrote it?" "think of it? why, i think it is good. i think it is sense. i have no doubt that every year millions and millions of bushels of turnips are spoiled in this township alone by being pulled in a half-ripe condition, when, if they had sent a boy up to shake the tree--" "shake your grandmother! turnips don't grow on trees!" "oh, they don't, don't they! well, who said they did? the language was intended to be figurative, wholly figurative. anybody that knows anything will know that i meant that the boy should shake the vine." then this old person got up and tore his paper all into small shreds, and stamped on them, and broke several things with his cane, and said i did not know as much as a cow; and then went out and banged the door after him, and, in short, acted in such a way that i fancied he was displeased about something. but not knowing what the trouble was, i could not be any help to him. pretty soon after this a long cadaverous creature, with lanky locks hanging down to his shoulders, and a week's stubble bristling from the hills and valleys of his face, darted within the door, and halted, motionless, with finger on lip, and head and body bent in listening attitude. no sound was heard. still he listened. no sound. then he turned the key in the door, and came elaborately tiptoeing towards me till he was within long reaching distance of me, when he stopped and, after scanning my face with intense interest for a while, drew a folded copy of our paper from his bosom, and said: "there, you wrote that. read it to me--quick! relieve me. i suffer." [illustration: "a long cadaverous creature"] i read as follows; and as the sentences fell from my lips i could see the relief come, i could see the drawn muscles relax, and the anxiety go out of the face, and rest and peace steal over the features like the merciful moonlight over a desolate landscape: "the guano is a fine bird, but great care is necessary in rearing it. it should not be imported earlier than june or later than september. in the winter it should be kept in a warm place, where it can hatch out its young. "it is evident that we are to have a backward season for grain. therefore it will be well for the farmer to begin setting out his corn-stalks and planting his buckwheat-cakes in july instead of august. "concerning the pumpkin.--this berry is a favorite with the natives of the interior of new england, who prefer it to the gooseberry for the making of fruit-cake, and who likewise give it the preference over the raspberry for feeding cows, as being more filling and fully as satisfying. the pumpkin is the only esculent of the orange family that will thrive in the north, except the gourd and one or two varieties of the squash. but the custom of planting it in the front yard with the shrubbery is fast going out of vogue, for it is now generally conceded that the pumpkin as a shade tree is a failure. "now, as the warm weather approaches, and the ganders begin to spawn"-- the excited listener sprang towards me to shake hands, and said: "there, there--that will do. i know i am all right now, because you have read it just as i did, word for word. but, stranger, when i first read it this morning, i said to myself, i never, never believed it before, notwithstanding my friends kept me under watch so strict, but now i believe i _am_ crazy; and with that i fetched a howl that you might have heard two miles, and started out to kill somebody--because, you know, i knew it would come to that sooner or later, and so i might as well begin. i read one of them paragraphs over again, so as to be certain, and then i burned my house down and started. i have crippled several people, and have got one fellow up a tree, where i can get him if i want him. but i thought i would call in here as i passed along and make the thing perfectly certain; and now it _is_ certain, and i tell you it is lucky for the chap that is in the tree. i should have killed him sure, as i went back. good-bye, sir, good-bye; you have taken a great load off my mind. my reason has stood the strain of one of your agricultural articles, and i know that nothing can ever unseat it now. _good_-bye, sir." i felt a little uncomfortable about the cripplings and arsons this person had been entertaining himself with, for i could not help feeling remotely accessory to them. but these thoughts were quickly banished, for the regular editor walked in! [i thought to myself, now if you had gone to egypt, as i recommended you to, i might have had a chance to get my hand in; but you wouldn't do it, and here you are. i sort of expected you.] the editor was looking sad and perplexed and dejected. he surveyed the wreck which that old rioter and these two young farmers had made, and then said: "this is a sad business--a very sad business. there is the mucilage-bottle broken, and six panes of glass, and a spittoon, and two candlesticks. but that is not the worst. the reputation of the paper is injured--and permanently, i fear. true, there never was such a call for the paper before, and it never sold such a large edition or soared to such celebrity; but does one want to be famous for lunacy, and prosper upon the infirmities of his mind? my friend, as i am an honest man, the street out here is full of people, and others are roosting on the fences, waiting to get a glimpse of you, because they think you are crazy. and well they might after reading your editorials. they are a disgrace to journalism. why, what put it into your head that you could edit a paper of this nature? you do not seem to know the first rudiments of agriculture. you speak of a furrow and a harrow as being the same thing; you talk of the moulting season for cows; and you recommend the domestication of the polecat on account of its playfulness and its excellence as a ratter! your remark that clams will lie quiet if music be played to them was superfluous--entirely superfluous. nothing disturbs clams. clams _always_ lie quiet. clams care nothing whatever about music. ah, heavens and earth, friend! if you had made the acquiring of ignorance the study of your life, you could not have graduated with higher honor than you could to-day. i never saw anything like it. your observation that the horse-chestnut as an article of commerce is steadily gaining in favor, is simply calculated to destroy this journal. i want you to throw up your situation and go. i want no more holiday--i could not enjoy it if i had it. certainly not with you in my chair. i would always stand in dread of what you might be going to recommend next. it makes me lose all patience every time i think of your discussing oyster-beds under the head of 'landscape gardening.' i want you to go. nothing on earth could persuade me to take another holiday. oh! why didn't you _tell_ me you didn't know anything about agriculture?" "_tell_ you, you cornstalk, you cabbage, you son of a cauliflower? it's the first time i ever heard such an unfeeling remark. i tell you i have been in the editorial business going on fourteen years, and it is the first time i ever heard of a man's having to know anything in order to edit a newspaper. you turnip! who write the dramatic critiques for the second-rate papers? why, a parcel of promoted shoemakers and apprentice apothecaries, who know just as much about good acting as i do about good farming and no more. who review the books? people who never wrote one. who do up the heavy leaders on finance? parties who have had the largest opportunities for knowing nothing about it. who criticise the indian campaigns? gentlemen who do not know a warwhoop from a wigwam, and who never have had to run a foot-race with a tomahawk, or pluck arrows out of the several members of their families to build the evening campfire with. who write the temperance appeals, and clamor about the flowing bowl? folks who will never draw another sober breath till they do it in the grave. who edit the agricultural papers, you--yam? men, as a general thing, who fail in the poetry line, yellow-colored novel line, sensation-drama line, city-editor line, and finally fall back on agriculture as a temporary reprieve from the poor-house. _you_ try to tell _me_ anything about the newspaper business! sir, i have been through it from alpha to omaha, and i tell you that the less a man knows the bigger the noise he makes and the higher the salary he commands. heaven knows if i had but been ignorant instead of cultivated, and impudent instead of diffident, i could have made a name for myself in this cold selfish world. i take my leave, sir. since i have been treated as you have treated me, i am perfectly willing to go. but i have done my duty. i have fulfilled my contract as far as i was permitted to do it. i said i could make your paper of interest to all classes--and i have. i said i could run your circulation up to twenty thousand copies, and if i had had two more weeks i'd have done it. and i'd have given you the best class of readers that ever an agricultural paper had--not a farmer in it, nor a solitary individual who could tell a watermelon-tree from a peach-vine to save his life. _you_ are the loser by this rupture, not me, pie-plant. adios." i then left. the killing of julius cæsar "localized" _being the only true and reliable account ever published; taken from the "roman daily evening fasces," of the date of that tremendous occurrence._ nothing in the world affords a newspaper reporter so much satisfaction as gathering up the details of a bloody and mysterious murder, and writing them up with aggravating circumstantiality. he takes a living delight in this labor of love--for such it is to him, especially if he knows that all the other papers have gone to press, and his will be the only one that will contain the dreadful intelligence. a feeling of regret has often come over me that i was not reporting in rome when cæsar was killed--reporting on an evening paper, and the only one in the city, and getting at least twelve hours ahead of the morning-paper boys with this most magnificent "item" that ever fell to the lot of the craft. other events have happened as startling as this, but none that possessed so peculiarly all the characteristics of the favorite "item" of the present day, magnified into grandeur and sublimity by the high rank, fame, and social and political standing of the actors in it. however, as i was not permitted to report cæsar's assassination in the regular way, it has at least afforded me rare satisfaction to translate the following able account of it from the original latin of the _roman daily evening fasces_ of that date--second edition. "our usually quiet city of rome was thrown into a state of wild excitement yesterday by the occurrence of one of those bloody affrays which sicken the heart and fill the soul with fear, while they inspire all thinking men with forebodings for the future of a city where human life is held so cheaply, and the gravest laws are so openly set at defiance. as the result of that affray, it is our painful duty, as public journalists, to record the death of one of our most esteemed citizens--a man whose name is known wherever this paper circulates, and whose fame it has been our pleasure and our privilege to extend, and also to protect from the tongue of slander and falsehood, to the best of our poor ability. we refer to mr. j. cæsar, the emperor-elect. "the facts of the case, as nearly as our reporter could determine them from the conflicting statements of eyewitnesses, were about as follows:--the affair was an election row, of course. nine-tenths of the ghastly butcheries that disgrace the city nowadays grow out of the bickerings and jealousies and animosities engendered by these accursed elections. rome would be the gainer by it if her very constables were elected to serve a century; for in our experience we have never even been able to choose a dog-pelter without celebrating the event with a dozen knockdowns and a general cramming of the station-house with drunken vagabonds overnight. it is said that when the immense majority for cæsar at the polls in the market was declared the other day, and the crown was offered to that gentleman, even his amazing unselfishness in refusing it three times was not sufficient to save him from the whispered insults of such men as casca, of the tenth ward, and other hirelings of the disappointed candidate, hailing mostly from the eleventh and thirteenth and other outside districts, who were overheard speaking ironically and contemptuously of mr. cæsar's conduct upon that occasion. "we are further informed that there are many among us who think they are justified in believing that the assassination of julius cæsar was a put-up thing--a cut-and-dried arrangement, hatched by marcus brutus and a lot of his hired roughs, and carried out only too faithfully according to the programme. whether there be good grounds for this suspicion or not, we leave to the people to judge for themselves, only asking that they will read the following account of the sad occurrence carefully and dispassionately before they render that judgment. "the senate was already in session, and cæsar was coming down the street towards the capitol, conversing with some personal friends, and followed, as usual, by a large number of citizens. just as he was passing in front of demosthenes & thucydides' drug-store, he was observing casually to a gentleman, who, our informant thinks, is a fortune-teller, that the ides of march were come. the reply was, 'yes, they are come, but not gone yet.' at this moment artemidorus stepped up and passed the time of day, and asked cæsar to read a schedule or a tract or something of the kind, which he had brought for his perusal. mr. decius brutus also said something about an 'humble suit' which _he_ wanted read. artemidorus begged that attention might be paid to his first, because it was of personal consequence to cæsar. the latter replied that what concerned himself should be read last, or words to that effect. artemidorus begged and beseeched him to read the paper instantly.[ ] however, cæsar shook him off, and refused to read any petition in the street. he then entered the capitol, and the crowd followed him. "about this time the following conversation was overheard, and we consider that, taken in connection with the events which succeeded it, it bears an appalling significance: mr. papilius lena remarked to george w. cassius (commonly known as the 'nobby boy of the third ward'), a bruiser in the pay of the opposition, that he hoped his enterprise to-day might thrive; and when cassius asked, 'what enterprise?' he only closed his left eye temporarily and said with simulated indifference, 'fare you well,' and sauntered towards cæsar. marcus brutus, who is suspected of being the ringleader of the band that killed cæsar, asked what it was that lena had said. cassius told him, and added, in a low tone, '_i fear our purpose is discovered._' "brutus told his wretched accomplice to keep an eye on lena, and a moment after cassius urged that lean and hungry vagrant, casca, whose reputation here is none of the best, to be sudden for _he feared prevention_. he then turned to brutus, apparently much excited, and asked what should be done, and swore that either he or cæsar _should never turn back_--he would kill himself first. at this time cæsar was talking to some of the back-country members about the approaching fall elections, and paying little attention to what was going on around him. billy trebonius got into conversation with the people's friend and cæsar's--mark antony--and under some pretence or other got him away, and brutus, decius, casca, cinna, metellus cimber, and others of the gang of infamous desperadoes that infest rome at present, closed around the doomed cæsar. then metellus cimber knelt down and begged that his brother might be recalled from banishment, but cæsar rebuked him for his fawning conduct, and refused to grant his petition. immediately, at cimber's request, first brutus and then cassius begged for the return of the banished publius; but cæsar still refused. he said he could not be moved; that he was as fixed as the north star, and proceeded to speak in the most complimentary terms of the firmness of that star and its steady character. then he said he was like it, and he believed he was the only man in the country that was; therefore, since he was 'constant' that cimber should be banished, he was also 'constant' that he should stay banished, and he'd be hanged if he didn't keep him so! "instantly seizing upon this shallow pretext for a fight, casca sprang at cæsar and struck him with a dirk. cæsar grabbing him by the arm with his right hand, and launching a blow straight from the shoulder with his left that sent the reptile bleeding to the earth. he then backed up against pompey's statue, and squared himself to receive his assailants. cassius and cimber and cinna rushed upon him with their daggers drawn, and the former succeeded in inflicting a wound upon his body; but before he could strike again, and before either of the others could strike at all, cæsar stretched the three miscreants at his feet with as many blows of his powerful fist. by this time the senate was in an indescribable uproar; the throng of citizens in the lobbies had blockaded the doors in their frantic efforts to escape from the building, the sergeant-at-arms and his assistants were struggling with the assassins, venerable senators had cast aside their encumbering robes, and were leaping over benches and flying down the aisles in wild confusion towards the shelter of the committee-rooms, and a thousand voices were shouting 'po-lice! po-lice!' in discordant tones that rose above the frightful din like shrieking winds above the roaring of a tempest. and amid it all, great cæsar stood with his back against the statue, like a lion at bay, and fought his assailants weaponless and hand to hand, with the defiant bearing and the unwavering courage which he had shown before on many a bloody field. billy trebonius and caius legarius struck him with their daggers and fell, as their brother-conspirators before them had fallen. but at last, when cæsar saw his old friend brutus step forward armed with a murderous knife, it is said he seemed utterly overpowered with grief and amazement, and dropping his invincible left arm by his side, he hid his face in the folds of his mantle and received the treacherous blow without an effort to stay the hand that gave it. he only said, '_et tu, brute?_' and fell lifeless on the marble pavement. "we learn that the coat deceased had on when he was killed was the same one he wore in his tent on the afternoon of the day he overcame the nervii, and that when it was removed from the corpse it was found to be cut and gashed in no less than seven different places. there was nothing in the pockets. it will be exhibited at the coroner's inquest, and will be damning proof of the fact of the killing. these latter facts may be relied on, as we get them from mark antony, whose position enables him to learn every item of news connected with the one subject of absorbing interest of to-day. [illustration: "there was nothing in the pockets"] "later.--while the coroner was summoning a jury, mark antony and other friends of the late cæsar got hold of the body, and lugged it off to the forum, and at last accounts antony and brutus were making speeches over it and raising such a row among the people that, as we go to press, the chief of police is satisfied there is going to be a riot, and is taking measures accordingly." [footnote : mark that: it is hinted by william shakespeare, who saw the beginning and the end of the unfortunate affray, that this "schedule" was simply a note discovering to cæsar that a plot was brewing to take his life.] the end transcribed from the harper & brothers edition by david price, email ccx @pglaf.org. proofing by alan ross, ana charlton and david. is shakespeare dead? from my autobiography mark twain harper & brothers publishers new york and london m c m i x chapter i scattered here and there through the stacks of unpublished manuscript which constitute this formidable autobiography and diary of mine, certain chapters will in some distant future be found which deal with "claimants"--claimants historically notorious: satan, claimant; the golden calf, claimant; the veiled prophet of khorassan, claimant; louis xvii., claimant; william shakespeare, claimant; arthur orton, claimant; mary baker g. eddy, claimant--and the rest of them. eminent claimants, successful claimants, defeated claimants, royal claimants, pleb claimants, showy claimants, shabby claimants, revered claimants, despised claimants, twinkle starlike here and there and yonder through the mists of history and legend and tradition--and oh, all the darling tribe are clothed in mystery and romance, and we read about them with deep interest and discuss them with loving sympathy or with rancorous resentment, according to which side we hitch ourselves to. it has always been so with the human race. there was never a claimant that couldn't get a hearing, nor one that couldn't accumulate a rapturous following, no matter how flimsy and apparently unauthentic his claim might be. arthur orton's claim that he was the lost tichborne baronet come to life again was as flimsy as mrs. eddy's that she wrote _science and health_ from the direct dictation of the deity; yet in england near forty years ago orton had a huge army of devotees and incorrigible adherents, many of whom remained stubbornly unconvinced after their fat god had been proven an impostor and jailed as a perjurer, and to-day mrs. eddy's following is not only immense, but is daily augmenting in numbers and enthusiasm. orton had many fine and educated minds among his adherents, mrs. eddy has had the like among hers from the beginning. her church is as well equipped in those particulars as is any other church. claimants can always count upon a following, it doesn't matter who they are, nor what they claim, nor whether they come with documents or without. it was always so. down out of the long-vanished past, across the abyss of the ages, if you listen you can still hear the believing multitudes shouting for perkin warbeck and lambert simnel. a friend has sent me a new book, from england--_the shakespeare problem restated_--well restated and closely reasoned; and my fifty years' interest in that matter--asleep for the last three years--is excited once more. it is an interest which was born of delia bacon's book--away back in that ancient day-- , or maybe . about a year later my pilot-master, bixby, transferred me from his own steamboat to the _pennsylvania_, and placed me under the orders and instructions of george ealer--dead now, these many, many years. i steered for him a good many months--as was the humble duty of the pilot-apprentice: stood a daylight watch and spun the wheel under the severe superintendence and correction of the master. he was a prime chess player and an idolater of shakespeare. he would play chess with anybody; even with me, and it cost his official dignity something to do that. also--quite uninvited--he would read shakespeare to me; not just casually, but by the hour, when it was his watch, and i was steering. he read well, but not profitably for me, because he constantly injected commands into the text. that broke it all up, mixed it all up, tangled it all up--to that degree, in fact, that if we were in a risky and difficult piece of river an ignorant person couldn't have told, sometimes, which observations were shakespeare's and which were ealer's. for instance: what man dare, _i_ dare! approach thou _what_ are you laying in the leads for? what a hell of an idea! like the rugged ease her off a little, ease her off! rugged russian bear, the armed rhinoceros or the _there_ she goes! meet her, meet her! didn't you _know_ she'd smell the reef if you crowded it like that? hyrcan tiger; take any shape but that and my firm nerves she'll be in the _woods_ the first you know! stop the starboard! come ahead strong on the larboard! back the starboard! . . . _now_ then, you're all right; come ahead on the starboard; straighten up and go 'long, never tremble: or be alive again, and dare me to the desert damnation can't you keep away from that greasy water? pull her down! snatch her! snatch her baldheaded! with thy sword; if trembling i inhabit then, lay in the leads!--no, only the starboard one, leave the other alone, protest me the baby of a girl. hence horrible shadow! eight bells--that watchman's asleep again, i reckon, go down and call brown yourself, unreal mockery, hence! he certainly was a good reader, and splendidly thrilling and stormy and tragic, but it was a damage to me, because i have never since been able to read shakespeare in a calm and sane way. i cannot rid it of his explosive interlardings, they break in everywhere with their irrelevant "what in hell are you up to _now_! pull her down! more! _more_!--there now, steady as you go," and the other disorganizing interruptions that were always leaping from his mouth. when i read shakespeare now, i can hear them as plainly as i did in that long-departed time--fifty-one years ago. i never regarded ealer's readings as educational. indeed they were a detriment to me. his contributions to the text seldom improved it, but barring that detail he was a good reader, i can say that much for him. he did not use the book, and did not need to; he knew his shakespeare as well as euclid ever knew his multiplication table. did he have something to say--this shakespeare-adoring mississippi pilot--anent delia bacon's book? yes. and he said it; said it all the time, for months--in the morning watch, the middle watch, the dog watch; and probably kept it going in his sleep. he bought the literature of the dispute as fast as it appeared, and we discussed it all through thirteen hundred miles of river four times traversed in every thirty-five days--the time required by that swift boat to achieve two round trips. we discussed, and discussed, and discussed, and disputed and disputed and disputed; at any rate he did, and i got in a word now and then when he slipped a cog and there was a vacancy. he did his arguing with heat, with energy, with violence; and i did mine with the reserve and moderation of a subordinate who does not like to be flung out of a pilot-house that is perched forty feet above the water. he was fiercely loyal to shakespeare and cordially scornful of bacon and of all the pretensions of the baconians. so was i--at first. and at first he was glad that that was my attitude. there were even indications that he admired it; indications dimmed, it is true, by the distance that lay between the lofty boss-pilotical altitude and my lowly one, yet perceptible to me; perceptible, and translatable into a compliment--compliment coming down from above the snow-line and not well thawed in the transit, and not likely to set anything afire, not even a cub-pilot's self-conceit; still a detectable compliment, and precious. naturally it flattered me into being more loyal to shakespeare--if possible--than i was before, and more prejudiced against bacon--if possible than i was before. and so we discussed and discussed, both on the same side, and were happy. for a while. only for a while. only for a very little while, a very, very, very little while. then the atmosphere began to change; began to cool off. a brighter person would have seen what the trouble was, earlier than i did, perhaps, but i saw it early enough for all practical purposes. you see, he was of an argumentative disposition. therefore it took him but a little time to get tired of arguing with a person who agreed with everything he said and consequently never furnished him a provocative to flare up and show what he could do when it came to clear, cold, hard, rose-cut, hundred-faceted, diamond-flashing reasoning. that was his name for it. it has been applied since, with complacency, as many as several times, in the bacon-shakespeare scuffle. on the shakespeare side. then the thing happened which has happened to more persons than to me when principle and personal interest found themselves in opposition to each other and a choice had to be made: i let principle go, and went over to the other side. not the entire way, but far enough to answer the requirements of the case. that is to say, i took this attitude, to wit: i only _believed_ bacon wrote shakespeare, whereas i _knew_ shakespeare didn't. ealer was satisfied with that, and the war broke loose. study, practice, experience in handling my end of the matter presently enabled me to take my new position almost seriously; a little bit later, utterly seriously; a little later still, lovingly, gratefully, devotedly; finally: fiercely, rabidly, uncompromisingly. after that, i was welded to my faith, i was theoretically ready to die for it, and i looked down with compassion not unmixed with scorn, upon everybody else's faith that didn't tally with mine. that faith, imposed upon me by self-interest in that ancient day, remains my faith to-day, and in it i find comfort, solace, peace, and never-failing joy. you see how curiously theological it is. the "rice christian" of the orient goes through the very same steps, when he is after rice and the missionary is after _him_; he goes for rice, and remains to worship. ealer did a lot of our "reasoning"--not to say substantially all of it. the slaves of his cult have a passion for calling it by that large name. we others do not call our inductions and deductions and reductions by any name at all. they show for themselves, what they are, and we can with tranquil confidence leave the world to ennoble them with a title of its own choosing. now and then when ealer had to stop to cough, i pulled my induction-talents together and hove the controversial lead myself: always getting eight feet, eight-and-a-half, often nine, sometimes even quarter-less-twain--as _i_ believed; but always "no bottom," as _he_ said. i got the best of him only once. i prepared myself. i wrote out a passage from shakespeare--it may have been the very one i quoted a while ago, i don't remember--and riddled it with his wild steamboatful interlardings. when an unrisky opportunity offered, one lovely summer day, when we had sounded and buoyed a tangled patch of crossings known as hell's half acre, and were aboard again and he had sneaked the pennsylvania triumphantly through it without once scraping sand, and the _a. t. lacey_ had followed in our wake and got stuck, and he was feeling good, i showed it to him. it amused him. i asked him to fire it off: read it; read it, i diplomatically added, as only he could read dramatic poetry. the compliment touched him where he lived. he did read it; read it with surpassing fire and spirit; read it as it will never be read again; for _he_ knew how to put the right music into those thunderous interlardings and make them seem a part of the text, make them sound as if they were bursting from shakespeare's own soul, each one of them a golden inspiration and not to be left out without damage to the massed and magnificent whole. i waited a week, to let the incident fade; waited longer; waited until he brought up for reasonings and vituperation my pet position, my pet argument, the one which i was fondest of, the one which i prized far above all others in my ammunition-wagon, to wit: that shakespeare couldn't have written shakespeare's works, for the reason that the man who wrote them was limitlessly familiar with the laws, and the law-courts, and law-proceedings, and lawyer-talk, and lawyer-ways--and if shakespeare was possessed of the infinitely-divided star-dust that constituted this vast wealth, how did he get it, and _where_, and _when_? "from books." from books! that was always the idea. i answered as my readings of the champions of my side of the great controversy had taught me to answer: that a man can't handle glibly and easily and comfortably and successfully the _argot_ of a trade at which he has not personally served. he will make mistakes; he will not, and cannot, get the trade-phrasings precisely and exactly right; and the moment he departs, by even a shade, from a common trade-form, the reader who has served that trade will know the writer _hasn't_. ealer would not be convinced; he said a man could learn how to correctly handle the subtleties and mysteries and free-masonries of any trade by careful reading and studying. but when i got him to read again the passage from shakespeare with the interlardings, he perceived, himself, that books couldn't teach a student a bewildering multitude of pilot-phrases so thoroughly and perfectly that he could talk them off in book and play or conversation and make no mistake that a pilot would not immediately discover. it was a triumph for me. he was silent awhile, and i knew what was happening: he was losing his temper. and i knew he would presently close the session with the same old argument that was always his stay and his support in time of need; the same old argument, the one i couldn't answer--because i dasn't: the argument that i was an ass, and better shut up. he delivered it, and i obeyed. oh, dear, how long ago it was--how pathetically long ago! and here am i, old, forsaken, forlorn and alone, arranging to get that argument out of somebody again. when a man has a passion for shakespeare, it goes without saying that he keeps company with other standard authors. ealer always had several high-class books in the pilot-house, and he read the same ones over and over again, and did not care to change to newer and fresher ones. he played well on the flute, and greatly enjoyed hearing himself play. so did i. he had a notion that a flute would keep its health better if you took it apart when it was not standing a watch; and so, when it was not on duty it took its rest, disjointed, on the compass-shelf under the breast-board. when the _pennsylvania_ blew up and became a drifting rack-heap freighted with wounded and dying poor souls (my young brother henry among them), pilot brown had the watch below, and was probably asleep and never knew what killed him; but ealer escaped unhurt. he and his pilot-house were shot up into the air; then they fell, and ealer sank through the ragged cavern where the hurricane deck and the boiler deck had been, and landed in a nest of ruins on the main deck, on top of one of the unexploded boilers, where he lay prone in a fog of scalding and deadly steam. but not for long. he did not lose his head: long familiarity with danger had taught him to keep it, in any and all emergencies. he held his coat-lappels to his nose with one hand, to keep out the steam, and scrabbled around with the other till he found the joints of his flute, then he is took measures to save himself alive, and was successful. i was not on board. i had been put ashore in new orleans by captain klinefelter. the reason--however, i have told all about it in the book called _old times on the mississippi_, and it isn't important anyway, it is so long ago. chapter ii when i was a sunday-school scholar something more than sixty years ago, i became interested in satan, and wanted to find out all i could about him. i began to ask questions, but my class-teacher, mr. barclay the stone-mason, was reluctant about answering them, it seemed to me. i was anxious to be praised for turning my thoughts to serious subjects when there wasn't another boy in the village who could be hired to do such a thing. i was greatly interested in the incident of eve and the serpent, and thought eve's calmness was perfectly noble. i asked mr. barclay if he had ever heard of another woman who, being approached by a serpent, would not excuse herself and break for the nearest timber. he did not answer my question, but rebuked me for inquiring into matters above my age and comprehension. i will say for mr. barclay that he was willing to tell me the facts of satan's history, but he stopped there: he wouldn't allow any discussion of them. in the course of time we exhausted the facts. there were only five or six of them, you could set them all down on a visiting-card. i was disappointed. i had been meditating a biography, and was grieved to find that there were no materials. i said as much, with the tears running down. mr. barclay's sympathy and compassion were aroused, for he was a most kind and gentle-spirited man, and he patted me on the head and cheered me up by saying there was a whole vast ocean of materials! i can still feel the happy thrill which these blessed words shot through me. then he began to bail out that ocean's riches for my encouragement and joy. like this: it was "conjectured"--though not established--that satan was originally an angel in heaven; that he fell; that he rebelled, and brought on a war; that he was defeated, and banished to perdition. also, "we have reason to believe" that later he did so-and-so; that "we are warranted in supposing" that at a subsequent time he travelled extensively, seeking whom he might devour; that a couple of centuries afterward, "as tradition instructs us," he took up the cruel trade of tempting people to their ruin, with vast and fearful results; that by-and-by, "as the probabilities seem to indicate," he may have done certain things, he might have done certain other things, he must have done still other things. and so on and so on. we set down the five known facts by themselves, on a piece of paper, and numbered it "page "; then on fifteen hundred other pieces of paper we set down the "conjectures," and "suppositions," and "maybes," and "perhapses," and "doubtlesses," and "rumors," and "guesses," and "probabilities," and "likelihoods," and "we are permitted to thinks," and "we are warranted in believings," and "might have beens," and "could have beens," and "must have beens," and "unquestionablys," and "without a shadow of doubts"--and behold! _materials_? why, we had enough to build a biography of shakespeare! yet he made me put away my pen; he would not let me write the history of satan. why? because, as he said, he had suspicions; suspicions that my attitude in this matter was not reverent; and that a person must be reverent when writing about the sacred characters. he said any one who spoke flippantly of satan would be frowned upon by the religious world and also be brought to account. i assured him, in earnest and sincere words, that he had wholly misconceived my attitude; that i had the highest respect for satan, and that my reverence for him equalled, and possibly even exceeded, that of any member of any church. i said it wounded me deeply to perceive by his words that he thought i would make fun of satan, and deride him, laugh at him, scoff at him: whereas in truth i had never thought of such a thing, but had only a warm desire to make fun of those others and laugh at _them_. "what others?" "why, the supposers, the perhapsers, the might-have-beeners, the could-have-beeners, the must-have-beeners, the without-a-shadow-of-doubters, the we-are-warranted-in-believingers, and all that funny crop of solemn architects who have taken a good solid foundation of five indisputable and unimportant facts and built upon it a conjectural satan thirty miles high." what did mr. barclay do then? was he disarmed? was he silenced? no. he was shocked. he was so shocked that he visibly shuddered. he said the satanic traditioners and perhapsers and conjecturers were _themselves_ sacred! as sacred as their work. so sacred that whoso ventured to mock them or make fun of their work, could not afterward enter any respectable house, even by the back door. how true were his words, and how wise! how fortunate it would have been for me if i had heeded them. but i was young, i was but seven years of age, and vain, foolish, and anxious to attract attention. i wrote the biography, and have never been in a respectable house since. chapter iii how curious and interesting is the parallel--as far as poverty of biographical details is concerned--between satan and shakespeare. it is wonderful, it is unique, it stands quite alone, there is nothing resembling it in history, nothing resembling it in romance, nothing approaching it even in tradition. how sublime is their position, and how over-topping, how sky-reaching, how supreme--the two great unknowns, the two illustrious conjecturabilities! they are the best-known unknown persons that have ever drawn breath upon the planet. for the instruction of the ignorant i will make a list, now, of those details of shakespeare's history which are _facts_--verified facts, established facts, undisputed facts. facts he was born on the d of april, . of good farmer-class parents who could not read, could not write, could not sign their names. at stratford, a small back settlement which in that day was shabby and unclean, and densely illiterate. of the nineteen important men charged with the government of the town, thirteen had to "make their mark" in attesting important documents, because they could not write their names. of the first eighteen years of his life _nothing_ is known. they are a blank. on the th of november ( ) william shakespeare took out a license to marry anne whateley. next day william shakespeare took out a license to marry anne hathaway. she was eight years his senior. william shakespeare married anne hathaway. in a hurry. by grace of a reluctantly-granted dispensation there was but one publication of the banns. within six months the first child was born. about two (blank) years followed, during which period _nothing at all happened to shakespeare_, so far as anybody knows. then came twins-- . february. two blank years follow. then-- --he makes a ten-year visit to london, leaving the family behind. five blank years follow. during this period _nothing happened to him_, as far as anybody actually knows. then-- --there is mention of him as an actor. next year-- --his name appears in the official list of players. next year-- --he played before the queen. a detail of no consequence: other obscurities did it every year of the forty-five of her reign. and remained obscure. three pretty full years follow. full of play-acting. then in he bought new place, stratford. thirteen or fourteen busy years follow; years in which he accumulated money, and also reputation as actor and manager. meantime his name, liberally and variously spelt, had become associated with a number of great plays and poems, as (ostensibly) author of the same. some of these, in these years and later, were pirated, but he made no protest. then-- - --he returned to stratford and settled down for good and all, and busied himself in lending money, trading in tithes, trading in land and houses; shirking a debt of forty-one shillings, borrowed by his wife during his long desertion of his family; suing debtors for shillings and coppers; being sued himself for shillings and coppers; and acting as confederate to a neighbor who tried to rob the town of its rights in a certain common, and did not succeed. he lived five or six years--till --in the joy of these elevated pursuits. then he made a will, and signed each of its three pages with his name. a thoroughgoing business man's will. it named in minute detail every item of property he owned in the world--houses, lands, sword, silver-gilt bowl, and so on--all the way down to his "second-best bed" and its furniture. it carefully and calculatingly distributed his riches among the members of his family, overlooking no individual of it. not even his wife: the wife he had been enabled to marry in a hurry by urgent grace of a special dispensation before he was nineteen; the wife whom he had left husbandless so many years; the wife who had had to borrow forty-one shillings in her need, and which the lender was never able to collect of the prosperous husband, but died at last with the money still lacking. no, even this wife was remembered in shakespeare's will. he left her that "second-best bed." and _not another thing_; not even a penny to bless her lucky widowhood with. it was eminently and conspicuously a business man's will, not a poet's. it mentioned _not a single book_. books were much more precious than swords and silver-gilt bowls and second-best beds in those days, and when a departing person owned one he gave it a high place in his will. the will mentioned _not a play_,_ not a poem_,_ not an unfinished literary work_, _not a scrap of manuscript of any kind_. many poets have died poor, but this is the only one in history that has died _this_ poor; the others all left literary remains behind. also a book. maybe two. if shakespeare had owned a dog--but we need not go into that: we know he would have mentioned it in his will. if a good dog, susanna would have got it; if an inferior one his wife would have got a dower interest in it. i wish he had had a dog, just so we could see how painstakingly he would have divided that dog among the family, in his careful business way. he signed the will in three places. in earlier years he signed two other official documents. these five signatures still exist. there are _no other specimens of his penmanship in existence_. not a line. was he prejudiced against the art? his granddaughter, whom he loved, was eight years old when he died, yet she had had no teaching, he left no provision for her education although he was rich, and in her mature womanhood she couldn't write and couldn't tell her husband's manuscript from anybody else's--she thought it was shakespeare's. when shakespeare died in stratford _it was not an event_. it made no more stir in england than the death of any other forgotten theatre-actor would have made. nobody came down from london; there were no lamenting poems, no eulogies, no national tears--there was merely silence, and nothing more. a striking contrast with what happened when ben jonson, and francis bacon, and spenser, and raleigh and the other distinguished literary folk of shakespeare's time passed from life! no praiseful voice was lifted for the lost bard of avon; even ben jonson waited seven years before he lifted his. _so far as anybody actually knows and can prove_, shakespeare of stratford-on-avon never wrote a play in his life. _so far as anybody knows and can prove_, he never wrote a letter to anybody in his life. _so far as any one knows_, _he received only one letter during his life_. so far as any one _knows and can prove_, shakespeare of stratford wrote only one poem during his life. this one is authentic. he did write that one--a fact which stands undisputed; he wrote the whole of it; he wrote the whole of it out of his own head. he commanded that this work of art be engraved upon his tomb, and he was obeyed. there it abides to this day. this is it: good friend for iesus sake forbeare to digg the dust encloased heare: blest be ye man yt spares thes stones and curst be he yt moves my bones. in the list as above set down, will be found _every positively known_ fact of shakespeare's life, lean and meagre as the invoice is. beyond these details we know _not a thing_ about him. all the rest of his vast history, as furnished by the biographers, is built up, course upon course, of guesses, inferences, theories, conjectures--an eiffel tower of artificialities rising sky-high from a very flat and very thin foundation of inconsequential facts. chapter iv--conjectures the historians "suppose" that shakespeare attended the free school in stratford from the time he was seven years old till he was thirteen. there is no _evidence_ in existence that he ever went to school at all. the historians "infer" that he got his latin in that school--the school which they "suppose" he attended. they "suppose" his father's declining fortunes made it necessary for him to leave the school they supposed he attended, and get to work and help support his parents and their ten children. but there is no evidence that he ever entered or retired from the school they suppose he attended. they "suppose" he assisted his father in the butchering business; and that, being only a boy, he didn't have to do full-grown butchering, but only slaughtered calves. also, that whenever he killed a calf he made a high-flown speech over it. this supposition rests upon the testimony of a man who wasn't there at the time; a man who got it from a man who could have been there, but did not say whether he was or not; and neither of them thought to mention it for decades, and decades, and decades, and two more decades after shakespeare's death (until old age and mental decay had refreshed and vivified their memories). they hadn't two facts in stock about the long-dead distinguished citizen, but only just the one: he slaughtered calves and broke into oratory while he was at it. curious. they had only one fact, yet the distinguished citizen had spent twenty-six years in that little town--just half his lifetime. however, rightly viewed, it was the most important fact, indeed almost the only important fact, of shakespeare's life in stratford. rightly viewed. for experience is an author's most valuable asset; experience is the thing that puts the muscle and the breath and the warm blood into the book he writes. rightly viewed, calf-butchering accounts for _titus andronicus_, the only play--ain't it?--that the stratford shakespeare ever wrote; and yet it is the only one everybody tries to chouse him out of, the baconians included. the historians find themselves "justified in believing" that the young shakespeare poached upon sir thomas lucy's deer preserves and got haled before that magistrate for it. but there is no shred of respectworthy evidence that anything of the kind happened. the historians, having argued the thing that _might_ have happened into the thing that _did_ happen, found no trouble in turning sir thomas lucy into mr. justice shallow. they have long ago convinced the world--on surmise and without trustworthy evidence--that shallow _is_ sir thomas. the next addition to the young shakespeare's stratford history comes easy. the historian builds it out of the surmised deer-stealing, and the surmised trial before the magistrate, and the surmised vengeance-prompted satire upon the magistrate in the play: result, the young shakespeare was a wild, wild, wild, oh _such_ a wild young scamp, and that gratuitous slander is established for all time! it is the very way professor osborn and i built the colossal skeleton brontosaur that stands fifty-seven feet long and sixteen feet high in the natural history museum, the awe and admiration of all the world, the stateliest skeleton that exists on the planet. we had nine bones, and we built the rest of him out of plaster of paris. we ran short of plaster of paris, or we'd have built a brontosaur that could sit down beside the stratford shakespeare and none but an expert could tell which was biggest or contained the most plaster. shakespeare pronounced _venus and adonis_ "the first heir of his invention," apparently implying that it was his first effort at literary composition. he should not have said it. it has been an embarrassment to his historians these many, many years. they have to make him write that graceful and polished and flawless and beautiful poem before he escaped from stratford and his family-- or ' --age, twenty-two, or along there; because within the next five years he wrote five great plays, and could not have found time to write another line. it is sorely embarrassing. if he began to slaughter calves, and poach deer, and rollick around, and learn english, at the earliest likely moment--say at thirteen, when he was supposably wrenched from that school where he was supposably storing up latin for future literary use--he had his youthful hands full, and much more than full. he must have had to put aside his warwickshire dialect, which wouldn't be understood in london, and study english very hard. very hard indeed; incredibly hard, almost, if the result of that labor was to be the smooth and rounded and flexible and letter-perfect english of the _venus and adonis_ in the space of ten years; and at the same time learn great and fine and unsurpassable literary form. however, it is "conjectured" that he accomplished all this and more, much more: learned law and its intricacies; and the complex procedure of the law courts; and all about soldiering, and sailoring, and the manners and customs and ways of royal courts and aristocratic society; and likewise accumulated in his one head every kind of knowledge the learned then possessed, and every kind of humble knowledge possessed by the lowly and the ignorant; and added thereto a wider and more intimate knowledge of the world's great literatures, ancient and modern, than was possessed by any other man of his time--for he was going to make brilliant and easy and admiration-compelling use of these splendid treasures the moment he got to london. and according to the surmisers, that is what he did. yes, although there was no one in stratford able to teach him these things, and no library in the little village to dig them out of. his father could not read, and even the surmisers surmise that he did not keep a library. it is surmised by the biographers that the young shakespeare got his vast knowledge of the law and his familiar and accurate acquaintance with the manners and customs and shop-talk of lawyers through being for a time the _clerk of a stratford court_; just as a bright lad like me, reared in a village on the banks of the mississippi, might become perfect in knowledge of the behring strait whale-fishery and the shop-talk of the veteran exercisers of that adventure-bristling trade through catching catfish with a "trot-line" sundays. but the surmise is damaged by the fact that there is no evidence--and not even tradition--that the young shakespeare was ever clerk of a law court. it is further surmised that the young shakespeare accumulated his law-treasures in the first years of his sojourn in london, through "amusing himself" by learning book-law in his garret and by picking up lawyer-talk and the rest of it through loitering about the law-courts and listening. but it is only surmise; there is no _evidence_ that he ever did either of those things. they are merely a couple of chunks of plaster of paris. there is a legend that he got his bread and butter by holding horses in front of the london theatres, mornings and afternoons. maybe he did. if he did, it seriously shortened his law-study hours and his recreation-time in the courts. in those very days he was writing great plays, and needed all the time he could get. the horse-holding legend ought to be strangled; it too formidably increases the historian's difficulty in accounting for the young shakespeare's erudition--an erudition which he was acquiring, hunk by hunk and chunk by chunk every day in those strenuous times, and emptying each day's catch into next day's imperishable drama. he had to acquire a knowledge of war at the same time; and a knowledge of soldier-people and sailor-people and their ways and talk; also a knowledge of some foreign lands and their languages: for he was daily emptying fluent streams of these various knowledges, too, into his dramas. how did he acquire these rich assets? in the usual way: by surmise. it is _surmised_ that he travelled in italy and germany and around, and qualified himself to put their scenic and social aspects upon paper; that he perfected himself in french, italian and spanish on the road; that he went in leicester's expedition to the low countries, as soldier or sutler or something, for several months or years--or whatever length of time a surmiser needs in his business--and thus became familiar with soldiership and soldier-ways and soldier-talk, and generalship and general-ways and general-talk, and seamanship and sailor-ways and sailor-talk. maybe he did all these things, but i would like to know who held the horses in the meantime; and who studied the books in the garret; and who frollicked in the law-courts for recreation. also, who did the call-boying and the play-acting. for he became a call-boy; and as early as ' he became a "vagabond"--the law's ungentle term for an unlisted actor; and in ' a "regular" and properly and officially listed member of that (in those days) lightly-valued and not much respected profession. right soon thereafter he became a stockholder in two theatres, and manager of them. thenceforward he was a busy and flourishing business man, and was raking in money with both hands for twenty years. then in a noble frenzy of poetic inspiration he wrote his one poem--his only poem, his darling--and laid him down and died: good friend for iesus sake forbeare to digg the dust encloased heare: blest be ye man yt spares thes stones and curst be he yt moves my bones. he was probably dead when he wrote it. still, this is only conjecture. we have only circumstantial evidence. internal evidence. shall i set down the rest of the conjectures which constitute the giant biography of william shakespeare? it would strain the unabridged dictionary to hold them. he is a brontosaur: nine bones and six hundred barrels of plaster of paris. chapter v--"we may assume" in the assuming trade three separate and independent cults are transacting business. two of these cults are known as the shakespearites and the baconians, and i am the other one--the brontosaurian. the shakespearite knows that shakespeare wrote shakespeare's works; the baconian knows that francis bacon wrote them; the brontosaurian doesn't really know which of them did it, but is quite composedly and contentedly sure that shakespeare _didn't_, and strongly suspects that bacon _did_. we all have to do a good deal of assuming, but i am fairly certain that in every case i can call to mind the baconian assumers have come out ahead of the shakespearites. both parties handle the same materials, but the baconians seem to me to get much more reasonable and rational and persuasive results out of them than is the case with the shakespearites. the shakespearite conducts his assuming upon a definite principle, an unchanging and immutable law--which is: and and and , added together, make . i believe this to be an error. no matter, you cannot get a habit-sodden shakespearite to cipher-up his materials upon any other basis. with the baconian it is different. if you place before him the above figures and set him to adding them up, he will never in any case get more than out of them, and in nine cases out of ten he will get just the proper . let me try to illustrate the two systems in a simple and homely way calculated to bring the idea within the grasp of the ignorant and unintelligent. we will suppose a case: take a lap-bred, house-fed, uneducated, inexperienced kitten; take a rugged old tom that's scarred from stem to rudder-post with the memorials of strenuous experience, and is so cultured, so educated, so limitlessly erudite that one may say of him "all cat-knowledge is his province"; also, take a mouse. lock the three up in a holeless, crackless, exitless prison-cell. wait half an hour, then open the cell, introduce a shakespearite and a baconian, and let them cipher and assume. the mouse is missing: the question to be decided is, where is it? you can guess both verdicts beforehand. one verdict will say the kitten contains the mouse; the other will as certainly say the mouse is in the tomcat. the shakespearite will reason like this--(that is not my word, it is his). he will say the kitten _may have been_ attending school when nobody was noticing; therefore _we are warranted in assuming_ that it did so; also, it _could have been_ training in a court-clerk's office when no one was noticing; since that could have happened, _we are justified in assuming_ that it did happen; it _could have studied catology in a garret_ when no one was noticing--therefore it _did_; it _could have_ attended cat-assizes on the shed-roof nights, for recreation, when no one was noticing, and harvested a knowledge of cat court-forms and cat lawyer-talk in that way: it _could_ have done it, therefore without a doubt it did; it could have gone soldiering with a war-tribe when no one was noticing, and learned soldier-wiles and soldier-ways, and what to do with a mouse when opportunity offers; the plain inference, therefore is, that that is what it _did_. since all these manifold things _could_ have occurred, we have _every right to believe_ they did occur. these patiently and painstakingly accumulated vast acquirements and competences needed but one thing more--opportunity--to convert themselves into triumphant action. the opportunity came, we have the result; _beyond shadow of question_ the mouse is in the kitten. it is proper to remark that when we of the three cults plant a "_we think we may assume_," we expect it, under careful watering and fertilizing and tending, to grow up into a strong and hardy and weather-defying "_there isn't a shadow of a doubt_" at last--and it usually happens. we know what the baconian's verdict would be: "_there is not a rag of evidence that the kitten has had any training_, _any education_, _any experience qualifying it for the present occasion_, _or is indeed equipped for any achievement above lifting such unclaimed milk as comes its way_; _but there is abundant evidence_--_unassailable proof_, _in fact_--_that the other animal is equipped_, _to the last detail_, _with every qualification necessary for the event_. _without shadow of doubt the tomcat contains the mouse_." chapter vi when shakespeare died, in , great literary productions attributed to him as author had been before the london world and in high favor for twenty-four years. yet his death was not an event. it made no stir, it attracted no attention. apparently his eminent literary contemporaries did not realize that a celebrated poet had passed from their midst. perhaps they knew a play-actor of minor rank had disappeared, but did not regard him as the author of his works. "we are justified in assuming" this. his death was not even an event in the little town of stratford. does this mean that in stratford he was not regarded as a celebrity of _any_ kind? "we are privileged to assume"--no, we are indeed _obliged_ to assume--that such was the case. he had spent the first twenty-two or twenty-three years of his life there, and of course knew everybody and was known by everybody of that day in the town, including the dogs and the cats and the horses. he had spent the last five or six years of his life there, diligently trading in every big and little thing that had money in it; so we are compelled to assume that many of the folk there in those said latter days knew him personally, and the rest by sight and hearsay. but not as a _celebrity_? apparently not. for everybody soon forgot to remember any contact with him or any incident connected with him. the dozens of townspeople, still alive, who had known of him or known about him in the first twenty-three years of his life were in the same unremembering condition: if they knew of any incident connected with that period of his life they didn't tell about it. would they if they had been asked? it is most likely. were they asked? it is pretty apparent that they were not. why weren't they? it is a very plausible guess that nobody there or elsewhere was interested to know. for seven years after shakespeare's death nobody seems to have been interested in him. then the quarto was published, and ben jonson awoke out of his long indifference and sang a song of praise and put it in the front of the book. then silence fell _again_. for sixty years. then inquiries into shakespeare's stratford life began to be made, of stratfordians. of stratfordians who had known shakespeare or had seen him? no. then of stratfordians who had seen people who had known or seen people who had seen shakespeare? no. apparently the inquiries were only made of stratfordians who were not stratfordians of shakespeare's day, but later comers; and what they had learned had come to them from persons who had not seen shakespeare; and what they had learned was not claimed as _fact_, but only as legend--dim and fading and indefinite legend; legend of the calf-slaughtering rank, and not worth remembering either as history or fiction. has it ever happened before--or since--that a celebrated person who had spent exactly half of a fairly long life in the village where he was born and reared, was able to slip out of this world and leave that village voiceless and gossipless behind him--utterly voiceless, utterly gossipless? and permanently so? i don't believe it has happened in any case except shakespeare's. and couldn't and wouldn't have happened in his case if he had been regarded as a celebrity at the time of his death. when i examine my own case--but let us do that, and see if it will not be recognizable as exhibiting a condition of things quite likely to result, most likely to result, indeed substantially _sure_ to result in the case of a celebrated person, a benefactor of the human race. like me. my parents brought me to the village of hannibal, missouri, on the banks of the mississippi, when i was two and a half years old. i entered school at five years of age, and drifted from one school to another in the village during nine and a half years. then my father died, leaving his family in exceedingly straitened circumstances; wherefore my book-education came to a standstill forever, and i became a printer's apprentice, on board and clothes, and when the clothes failed i got a hymn-book in place of them. this for summer wear, probably. i lived in hannibal fifteen and a half years, altogether, then ran away, according to the custom of persons who are intending to become celebrated. i never lived there afterward. four years later i became a "cub" on a mississippi steamboat in the st. louis and new orleans trade, and after a year and a half of hard study and hard work the u. s. inspectors rigorously examined me through a couple of long sittings and decided that i knew every inch of the mississippi--thirteen hundred miles--in the dark and in the day--as well as a baby knows the way to its mother's paps day or night. so they licensed me as a pilot--knighted me, so to speak--and i rose up clothed with authority, a responsible servant of the united states government. now then. shakespeare died young--he was only fifty-two. he had lived in his native village twenty-six years, or about that. he died celebrated (if you believe everything you read in the books). yet when he died nobody there or elsewhere took any notice of it; and for sixty years afterward no townsman remembered to say anything about him or about his life in stratford. when the inquirer came at last he got but one fact--no, _legend_--and got that one at second hand, from a person who had only heard it as a rumor, and didn't claim copyright in it as a production of his own. he couldn't, very well, for its date antedated his own birth-date. but necessarily a number of persons were still alive in stratford who, in the days of their youth, had seen shakespeare nearly every day in the last five years of his life, and they would have been able to tell that inquirer some first-hand things about him if he had in those last days been a celebrity and therefore a person of interest to the villagers. why did not the inquirer hunt them up and interview them? wasn't it worth while? wasn't the matter of sufficient consequence? had the inquirer an engagement to see a dog-fight and couldn't spare the time? it all seems to mean that he never had any literary celebrity, there or elsewhere, and no considerable repute as actor and manager. now then, i am away along in life--my seventy-third year being already well behind me--yet _sixteen_ of my hannibal schoolmates are still alive to-day, and can tell--and do tell--inquirers dozens and dozens of incidents of their young lives and mine together; things that happened to us in the morning of life, in the blossom of our youth, in the good days, the dear days, "the days when we went gipsying, a long time ago." most of them creditable to me, too. one child to whom i paid court when she was five years old and i eight still lives in hannibal, and she visited me last summer, traversing the necessary ten or twelve hundred miles of railroad without damage to her patience or to her old-young vigor. another little lassie to whom i paid attention in hannibal when she was nine years old and i the same, is still alive--in london--and hale and hearty, just as i am. and on the few surviving steamboats--those lingering ghosts and remembrancers of great fleets that plied the big river in the beginning of my water-career--which is exactly as long ago as the whole invoice of the life-years of shakespeare number--there are still findable two or three river-pilots who saw me do creditable things in those ancient days; and several white-headed engineers; and several roustabouts and mates; and several deck-hands who used to heave the lead for me and send up on the still night air the "six--feet--_scant_!" that made me shudder, and the "_m-a-r-k--twain_!" that took the shudder away, and presently the darling "by the d-e-e-p--four!" that lifted me to heaven for joy. { } they know about me, and can tell. and so do printers, from st. louis to new york; and so do newspaper reporters, from nevada to san francisco. and so do the police. if shakespeare had really been celebrated, like me, stratford could have told things about him; and if my experience goes for anything, they'd have done it. chapter vii if i had under my superintendence a controversy appointed to decide whether shakespeare wrote shakespeare or not, i believe i would place before the debaters only the one question, _was shakespeare ever a practicing lawyer_? and leave everything else out. it is maintained that the man who wrote the plays was not merely myriad-minded, but also myriad-accomplished: that he not only knew some thousands of things about human life in all its shades and grades, and about the hundred arts and trades and crafts and professions which men busy themselves in, but that he could _talk_ about the men and their grades and trades accurately, making no mistakes. maybe it is so, but have the experts spoken, or is it only tom, dick, and harry? does the exhibit stand upon wide, and loose, and eloquent generalizing--which is not evidence, and not proof--or upon details, particulars, statistics, illustrations, demonstrations? experts of unchallengeable authority have testified definitely as to only one of shakespeare's multifarious craft-equipments, so far as my recollections of shakespeare-bacon talk abide with me--his law-equipment. i do not remember that wellington or napoleon ever examined shakespeare's battles and sieges and strategies, and then decided and established for good and all, that they were militarily flawless; i do not remember that any nelson, or drake or cook ever examined his seamanship and said it showed profound and accurate familiarity with that art; i don't remember that any king or prince or duke has ever testified that shakespeare was letter-perfect in his handling of royal court-manners and the talk and manners of aristocracies; i don't remember that any illustrious latinist or grecian or frenchman or spaniard or italian has proclaimed him a past-master in those languages; i don't remember--well, i don't remember that there is _testimony_--great testimony--imposing testimony--unanswerable and unattackable testimony as to any of shakespeare's hundred specialties, except one--the law. other things change, with time, and the student cannot trace back with certainty the changes that various trades and their processes and technicalities have undergone in the long stretch of a century or two and find out what their processes and technicalities were in those early days, but with the law it is different: it is mile-stoned and documented all the way back, and the master of that wonderful trade, that complex and intricate trade, that awe-compelling trade, has competent ways of knowing whether shakespeare-law is good law or not; and whether his law-court procedure is correct or not, and whether his legal shop-talk is the shop-talk of a veteran practitioner or only a machine-made counterfeit of it gathered from books and from occasional loiterings in westminster. richard h. dana served two years before the mast, and had every experience that falls to the lot of the sailor before the mast of our day. his sailor-talk flows from his pen with the sure touch and the ease and confidence of a person who has _lived_ what he is talking about, not gathered it from books and random listenings. hear him: having hove short, cast off the gaskets, and made the bunt of each sail fast by the jigger, with a man on each yard, at the word the whole canvas of the ship was loosed, and with the greatest rapidity possible everything was sheeted home and hoisted up, the anchor tripped and cat-headed, and the ship under headway. again: the royal yards were all crossed at once, and royals and sky-sails set, and, as we had the wind free, the booms were run out, and all were aloft, active as cats, laying out on the yards and booms, reeving the studding-sail gear; and sail after sail the captain piled upon her, until she was covered with canvas, her sails looking like a great white cloud resting upon a black speck. once more. a race in the pacific: our antagonist was in her best trim. being clear of the point, the breeze became stiff, and the royal-masts bent under our sails, but we would not take them in until we saw three boys spring into the rigging of the _california_; then they were all furled at once, but with orders to our boys to stay aloft at the top-gallant mast-heads and loose them again at the word. it was my duty to furl the fore-royal; and while standing by to loose it again, i had a fine view of the scene. from where i stood, the two vessels seemed nothing but spars and sails, while their narrow decks, far below, slanting over by the force of the wind aloft, appeared hardly capable of supporting the great fabrics raised upon them. the _california_ was to windward of us, and had every advantage; yet, while the breeze was stiff we held our own. as soon as it began to slacken she ranged a little ahead, and the order was given to loose the royals. in an instant the gaskets were off and the bunt dropped. "sheet home the fore-royal!"--"weather sheet's home!"--"lee sheet's home!"--"hoist away, sir!" is bawled from aloft. "overhaul your clewlines!" shouts the mate. "aye-aye, sir, all clear!"--"taut leech! belay! well the lee brace; haul taut to windward!" and the royals are set. what would the captain of any sailing-vessel of our time say to that? he would say, "the man that wrote that didn't learn his trade out of a book, he has _been_ there!" but would this same captain be competent to sit in judgment upon shakespeare's seamanship--considering the changes in ships and ship-talk that have necessarily taken place, unrecorded, unremembered, and lost to history in the last three hundred years? it is my conviction that shakespeare's sailor-talk would be choctaw to him. for instance--from _the tempest_: _master_. boatswain! _boatswain_. here, master; what cheer? _master_. good, speak to the mariners: fall to't, yarely, or we run ourselves to ground; bestir, bestir! (_enter mariners_.) _boatswain_. heigh, my hearts! cheerly, cheerly, my hearts! yare, yare! take in the topsail. tend to the master's whistle . . . down with the topmast! yare! lower, lower! bring her to try wi' the main course . . . lay her a-hold, a-hold! set her two courses. off to sea again; lay her off. that will do, for the present; let us yare a little, now, for a change. if a man should write a book and in it make one of his characters say, "here, devil, empty the quoins into the standing galley and the imposing stone into the hell-box; assemble the comps around the frisket and let them jeff for takes and be quick about it," i should recognize a mistake or two in the phrasing, and would know that the writer was only a printer theoretically, not practically. i have been a quartz miner in the silver regions--a pretty hard life; i know all the palaver of that business: i know all about discovery claims and the subordinate claims; i know all about lodes, ledges, outcroppings, dips, spurs, angles, shafts, drifts, inclines, levels, tunnels, air-shafts, "horses," clay casings, granite casings; quartz mills and their batteries; arastras, and how to charge them with quicksilver and sulphate of copper; and how to clean them up, and how to reduce the resulting amalgam in the retorts, and how to cast the bullion into pigs; and finally i know how to screen tailings, and also how to hunt for something less robust to do, and find it. i know the _argot_ of the quartz-mining and milling industry familiarly; and so whenever bret harte introduces that industry into a story, the first time one of his miners opens his mouth i recognize from his phrasing that harte got the phrasing by listening--like shakespeare--i mean the stratford one--not by experience. no one can talk the quartz dialect correctly without learning it with pick and shovel and drill and fuse. i have been a surface-miner--gold--and i know all its mysteries, and the dialect that belongs with them; and whenever harte introduces that industry into a story i know by the phrasing of his characters that neither he nor they have ever served that trade. i have been a "pocket" miner--a sort of gold mining not findable in any but one little spot in the world, so far as i know. i know how, with horn and water, to find the trail of a pocket and trace it step by step and stage by stage up the mountain to its source, and find the compact little nest of yellow metal reposing in its secret home under the ground. i know the language of that trade, that capricious trade, that fascinating buried-treasure trade, and can catch any writer who tries to use it without having learned it by the sweat of his brow and the labor of his hands. i know several other trades and the _argot_ that goes with them; and whenever a person tries to talk the talk peculiar to any of them without having learned it at its source i can trap him always before he gets far on his road. and so, as i have already remarked, if i were required to superintend a bacon-shakespeare controversy, i would narrow the matter down to a single question--the only one, so far as the previous controversies have informed me, concerning which illustrious experts of unimpeachable competency have testified: _was the author of shakespeare's works a lawyer_?--a lawyer deeply read and of limitless experience? i would put aside the guesses, and surmises, and perhapses, and might-have-beens, and could-have beens, and must-have-beens, and we-are justified-in-presumings, and the rest of those vague spectres and shadows and indefinitenesses, and stand or fall, win or lose, by the verdict rendered by the jury upon that single question. if the verdict was yes, i should feel quite convinced that the stratford shakespeare, the actor, manager, and trader who died so obscure, so forgotten, so destitute of even village consequence that sixty years afterward no fellow-citizen and friend of his later days remembered to tell anything about him, did not write the works. chapter xiii of _the shakespeare problem restated_ bears the heading "shakespeare as a lawyer," and comprises some fifty pages of expert testimony, with comments thereon, and i will copy the first nine, as being sufficient all by themselves, as it seems to me, to settle the question which i have conceived to be the master-key to the shakespeare-bacon puzzle. chapter viii--shakespeare as a lawyer { } the plays and poems of shakespeare supply ample evidence that their author not only had a very extensive and accurate knowledge of law, but that he was well acquainted with the manners and customs of members of the inns of court and with legal life generally. "while novelists and dramatists are constantly making mistakes as to the laws of marriage, of wills, and inheritance, to shakespeare's law, lavishly as he expounds it, there can neither be demurrer, nor bill of exceptions, nor writ of error." such was the testimony borne by one of the most distinguished lawyers of the nineteenth century who was raised to the high office of lord chief justice in , and subsequently became lord chancellor. its weight will, doubtless, be more appreciated by lawyers than by laymen, for only lawyers know how impossible it is for those who have not served an apprenticeship to the law to avoid displaying their ignorance if they venture to employ legal terms and to discuss legal doctrines. "there is nothing so dangerous," wrote lord campbell, "as for one not of the craft to tamper with our freemasonry." a layman is certain to betray himself by using some expression which a lawyer would never employ. mr. sidney lee himself supplies us with an example of this. he writes (p. ): "on february , , shakespeare . . . obtained judgment from a jury against addenbroke for the payment of no. , and no. . _s._ _d._ costs." now a lawyer would never have spoken of obtaining "judgment from a jury," for it is the function of a jury not to deliver judgment (which is the prerogative of the court), but to find a verdict on the facts. the error is, indeed, a venial one, but it is just one of those little things which at once enable a lawyer to know if the writer is a layman or "one of the craft." but when a layman ventures to plunge deeply into legal subjects, he is naturally apt to make an exhibition of his incompetence. "let a non-professional man, however acute," writes lord campbell again, "presume to talk law, or to draw illustrations from legal science in discussing other subjects, and he will speedily fall into laughable absurdity." and what does the same high authority say about shakespeare? he had "a deep technical knowledge of the law," and an easy familiarity with "some of the most abstruse proceedings in english jurisprudence." and again: "whenever he indulges this propensity he uniformly lays down good law." of _henry iv._, part , he says: "if lord eldon could be supposed to have written the play, i do not see how he could be chargeable with having forgotten any of his law while writing it." charles and mary cowden clarke speak of "the marvelous intimacy which he displays with legal terms, his frequent adoption of them in illustration, and his curiously technical knowledge of their form and force." malone, himself a lawyer, wrote: "his knowledge of legal terms is not merely such as might be acquired by the casual observation of even his all-comprehending mind; it has the appearance of technical skill." another lawyer and well-known shakespearean, richard grant white, says: "no dramatist of the time, not even beaumont, who was the younger son of a judge of the common pleas, and who after studying in the inns of court abandoned law for the drama, used legal phrases with shakespeare's readiness and exactness. and the significance of this fact is heightened by another, that it is only to the language of the law that he exhibits this inclination. the phrases peculiar to other occupations serve him on rare occasions by way of description, comparison or illustration, generally when something in the scene suggests them, but legal phrases flow from his pen as part of his vocabulary, and parcel of his thought. take the word 'purchase' for instance, which, in ordinary use, means to acquire by giving value, but applies in law to all legal modes of obtaining property except by inheritance or descent, and in this peculiar sense the word occurs five times in shakespeare's thirty-four plays, and only in one single instance in the fifty-four plays of beaumont and fletcher. it has been suggested that it was in attendance upon the courts in london that he picked up his legal vocabulary. but this supposition not only fails to account for shakespeare's peculiar freedom and exactness in the use of that phraseology, it does not even place him in the way of learning those terms his use of which is most remarkable, which are not such as he would have heard at ordinary proceedings at _nisi prius_, but such as refer to the tenure or transfer of real property, 'fine and recovery,' 'statutes merchant,' 'purchase,' 'indenture,' 'tenure,' 'double voucher,' 'fee simple,' 'fee farm,' 'remainder,' 'reversion,' 'forfeiture,' etc. this conveyancer's jargon could not have been picked up by hanging round the courts of law in london two hundred and fifty years ago, when suits as to the title of real property were comparatively rare. and beside, shakespeare uses his law just as freely in his first plays, written in his first london years, as in those produced at a later period. just as exactly, too; for the correctness and propriety with which these terms are introduced have compelled the admiration of a chief justice and a lord chancellor." senator davis wrote: "we seem to have something more than a sciolist's temerity of indulgence in the terms of an unfamiliar art. no legal solecisms will be found. the abstrusest elements of the common law are impressed into a disciplined service. over and over again, where such knowledge is unexampled in writers unlearned in the law, shakespeare appears in perfect possession of it. in the law of real property, its rules of tenure and descents, its entails, its fines and recoveries, their vouchers and double vouchers, in the procedure of the courts, the method of bringing writs and arrests, the nature of actions, the rules of pleading, the law of escapes and of contempt of court, in the principles of evidence, both technical and philosophical, in the distinction between the temporal and spiritual tribunals, in the law of attainder and forfeiture, in the requisites of a valid marriage, in the presumption of legitimacy, in the learning of the law of prerogative, in the inalienable character of the crown, this mastership appears with surprising authority." to all this testimony (and there is much more which i have not cited) may now be added that of a great lawyer of our own times, _viz._: sir james plaisted wilde, q.c. created a baron of the exchequer in , promoted to the post of judge-ordinary and judge of the courts of probate and divorce in , and better known to the world as lord penzance, to which dignity he was raised in . lord penzance, as all lawyers know, and as the late mr. inderwick, k.c., has testified, was one of the first legal authorities of his day, famous for his "remarkable grasp of legal principles," and "endowed by nature with a remarkable facility for marshalling facts, and for a clear expression of his views." lord penzance speaks of shakespeare's "perfect familiarity with not only the principles, axioms, and maxims, but the technicalities of english law, a knowledge so perfect and intimate that he was never incorrect and never at fault . . . the mode in which this knowledge was pressed into service on all occasions to express his meaning and illustrate his thoughts, was quite unexampled. he seems to have had a special pleasure in his complete and ready mastership of it in all its branches. as manifested in the plays, this legal knowledge and learning had therefore a special character which places it on a wholly different footing from the rest of the multifarious knowledge which is exhibited in page after page of the plays. at every turn and point at which the author required a metaphor, simile, or illustration, his mind ever turned _first_ to the law. he seems almost to have _thought_ in legal phrases, the commonest of legal expressions were ever at the end of his pen in description or illustration. that he should have descanted in lawyer language when he had a forensic subject in hand, such as shylock's bond, was to be expected, but the knowledge of law in 'shakespeare' was exhibited in a far different manner: it protruded itself on all occasions, appropriate or inappropriate, and mingled itself with strains of thought widely divergent from forensic subjects." again: "to acquire a perfect familiarity with legal principles, and an accurate and ready use of the technical terms and phrases not only of the conveyancer's office but of the pleader's chambers and the courts at westminster, nothing short of employment in some career involving constant contact with legal questions and general legal work would be requisite. but a continuous employment involves the element of time, and time was just what the manager of two theatres had not at his disposal. in what portion of shakespeare's (_i.e._ shakspere's) career would it be possible to point out that time could be found for the interposition of a legal employment in the chambers or offices of practising lawyers?" stratfordians, as is well known, casting about for some possible explanation of shakespeare's extraordinary knowledge of law, have made the suggestion that shakespeare might, conceivably, have been a clerk in an attorney's office before he came to london. mr. collier wrote to lord campbell to ask his opinion as to the probability of this being true. his answer was as follows: "you require us to believe implicitly a fact, of which, if true, positive and irrefragable evidence in his own handwriting might have been forthcoming to establish it. not having been actually enrolled as an attorney, neither the records of the local court at stratford nor of the superior courts at westminster would present his name as being concerned in any suit as an attorney, but it might reasonably have been expected that there would be deeds or wills witnessed by him still extant, and after a very diligent search none such can be discovered." upon this lord penzance comments: "it cannot be doubted that lord campbell was right in this. no young man could have been at work in an attorney's office without being called upon continually to act as a witness, and in many other ways leaving traces of his work and name." there is not a single fact or incident in all that is known of shakespeare, even by rumor or tradition, which supports this notion of a clerkship. and after much argument and surmise which has been indulged in on this subject, we may, i think, safely put the notion on one side, for no less an authority than mr. grant white says finally that the idea of his having been clerk to an attorney has been "blown to pieces." it is altogether characteristic of mr. churton collins that he, nevertheless, adopts this exploded myth. "that shakespeare was in early life employed as a clerk in an attorney's office, may be correct. at stratford there was by royal charter a court of record sitting every fortnight, with six attorneys, beside the town clerk, belonging to it, and it is certainly not straining probability to suppose that the young shakespeare may have had employment in one of them. there is, it is true, no tradition to this effect, but such traditions as we have about shakespeare's occupation between the time of leaving school and going to london are so loose and baseless that no confidence can be placed in them. it is, to say the least, more probable that he was in an attorney's office than that he was a butcher killing calves 'in a high style,' and making speeches over them." this is a charming specimen of stratfordian argument. there is, as we have seen, a very old tradition that shakespeare was a butcher's apprentice. john dowdall, who made a tour in warwickshire in , testifies to it as coming from the old clerk who showed him over the church, and it is unhesitatingly accepted as true by mr. halliwell-phillipps. (vol i, p. , and see vol. ii, p. , .) mr. sidney lee sees nothing improbable in it, and it is supported by aubrey, who must have written his account some time before , when his manuscript was completed. of the attorney's clerk hypothesis, on the other hand, there is not the faintest vestige of a tradition. it has been evolved out of the fertile imaginations of embarrassed stratfordians, seeking for some explanation of the stratford rustic's marvellous acquaintance with law and legal terms and legal life. but mr. churton collins has not the least hesitation in throwing over the tradition which has the warrant of antiquity and setting up in its stead this ridiculous invention, for which not only is there no shred of positive evidence, but which, as lord campbell and lord penzance point out, is really put out of court by the negative evidence, since "no young man could have been at work in an attorney's office without being called upon continually to act as a witness, and in many other ways leaving traces of his work and name." and as mr. edwards further points out, since the day when lord campbell's book was published (between forty and fifty years ago), "every old deed or will, to say nothing of other legal papers, dated during the period of william shakespeare's youth, has been scrutinized over half a dozen shires, and not one signature of the young man has been found." moreover, if shakespeare had served as clerk in an attorney's office it is clear that he must have so served for a considerable period in order to have gained (if indeed it is credible that he could have so gained) his remarkable knowledge of law. can we then for a moment believe that, if this had been so, tradition would have been absolutely silent on the matter? that dowdall's old clerk, over eighty years of age, should have never heard of it (though he was sure enough about the butcher's apprentice), and that all the other ancient witnesses should be in similar ignorance! but such are the methods of stratfordian controversy. tradition is to be scouted when it is found inconvenient, but cited as irrefragable truth when it suits the case. shakespeare of stratford was the author of the _plays_ and _poems_, but the author of the _plays_ and _poems_ could not have been a butcher's apprentice. away, therefore, with tradition. but the author of the _plays_ and _poems must_ have had a very large and a very accurate knowledge of the law. therefore, shakespeare of stratford must have been an attorney's clerk! the method is simplicity itself. by similar reasoning shakespeare has been made a country schoolmaster, a soldier, a physician, a printer, and a good many other things beside, according to the inclination and the exigencies of the commentator. it would not be in the least surprising to find that he was studying latin as a schoolmaster and law in an attorney's office at the same time. however, we must do mr. collins the justice of saying that he has fully recognized, what is indeed tolerably obvious, that shakespeare must have had a sound legal training. "it may, of course, be urged," he writes, "that shakespeare's knowledge of medicine, and particularly that branch of it which related to morbid psychology, is equally remarkable, and that no one has ever contended that he was a physician. (here mr. collins is wrong; that contention also has been put forward.) it may be urged that his acquaintance with the technicalities of other crafts and callings, notably of marine and military affairs, was also extraordinary, and yet no one has suspected him of being a sailor or a soldier. (wrong again. why even messrs. garnett and gosse 'suspect' that he was a soldier!) this may be conceded, but the concession hardly furnishes an analogy. to these and all other subjects he recurs occasionally, and in season, but with reminiscences of the law his memory, as is abundantly clear, was simply saturated. in season and out of season now in manifest, now in recondite application, he presses it into the service of expression and illustration. at least a third of his myriad metaphors are derived from it. it would indeed be difficult to find a single act in any of his dramas, nay, in some of them, a single scene, the diction and imagery of which is not colored by it. much of his law may have been acquired from three books easily accessible to him, namely tottell's _precedents_ ( ), pulton's _statutes_ ( ), and fraunce's _lawier's logike_ ( ), works with which he certainly seems to have been familiar; but much of it could only have come from one who had an intimate acquaintance with legal proceedings. we quite agree with mr. castle that shakespeare's legal knowledge is not what could have been picked up in an attorney's office, but could only have been learned by an actual attendance at the courts, at a pleader's chambers, and on circuit, or by associating intimately with members of the bench and bar." this is excellent. but what is mr. collins' explanation. "perhaps the simplest solution of the problem is to accept the hypothesis that in early life he was in an attorney's office (!), that he there contracted a love for the law which never left him, that as a young man in london, he continued to study or dabble in it for his amusement, to stroll in leisure hours into the courts, and to frequent the society of lawyers. on no other supposition is it possible to explain the attraction which the law evidently had for him, and his minute and undeviating accuracy in a subject where no layman who has indulged in such copious and ostentatious display of legal technicalities has ever yet succeeded in keeping himself from tripping." a lame conclusion. "no other supposition" indeed! yes, there is another, and a very obvious supposition, namely, that shakespeare was himself a lawyer, well versed in his trade, versed in all the ways of the courts, and living in close intimacy with judges and members of the inns of court. one is, of course, thankful that mr. collins has appreciated the fact that shakespeare must have had a sound legal training, but i may be forgiven if i do not attach quite so much importance to his pronouncements on this branch of the subject as to those of malone, lord campbell, judge holmes, mr. castle, k.c., lord penzance, mr. grant white, and other lawyers, who have expressed their opinion on the matter of shakespeare's legal acquirements. here it may, perhaps, be worth while to quote again from lord penzance's book as to the suggestion that shakespeare had somehow or other managed "to acquire a perfect familiarity with legal principles, and an accurate and ready use of the technical terms and phrases, not only of the conveyancer's office, but of the pleader's chambers and the courts at westminster." this, as lord penzance points out, "would require nothing short of employment in some career involving _constant contact_ with legal questions and general legal work." but "in what portion of shakespeare's career would it be possible to point out that time could be found for the interposition of a legal employment in the chambers or offices of practising lawyers? . . . it is beyond doubt that at an early period he was called upon to abandon his attendance at school and assist his father, and was soon after, at the age of sixteen, bound apprentice to a trade. while under the obligation of this bond he could not have pursued any other employment. then he leaves stratford and comes to london. he has to provide himself with the means of a livelihood, and this he did in some capacity at the theatre. no one doubts that. the holding of horses is scouted by many, and perhaps with justice, as being unlikely and certainly unproved; but whatever the nature of his employment was at the theatre, there is hardly room for the belief that it could have been other than continuous, for his progress there was so rapid. ere long he had been taken into the company as an actor, and was soon spoken of as a 'johannes factotum.' his rapid accumulation of wealth speaks volumes for the constancy and activity of his services. one fails to see when there could be a break in the current of his life at this period of it, giving room or opportunity for legal or indeed any other employment. 'in ,' says knight, 'we have undeniable evidence that he had not only a casual engagement, was not only a salaried servant, as many players were, but was a shareholder in the company of the queen's players with other shareholders below him on the list.' this ( ) would be within two years after his arrival in london, which is placed by white and halliwell-phillipps about the year . the difficulty in supposing that, starting with a state of ignorance in , when he is supposed to have come to london, he was induced to enter upon a course of most extended study and mental culture, is almost insuperable. still it was physically possible, provided always that he could have had access to the needful books. but this legal training seems to me to stand on a different footing. it is not only unaccountable and incredible, but it is actually negatived by the known facts of his career." lord penzance then refers to the fact that "by (according to the best authority, mr. grant white) several of the plays had been written. _the comedy of errors_ in , _love's labour's lost_ in , _two gentlemen of verona_ in or , and so forth," and then asks, "with this catalogue of dramatic work on hand . . . was it possible that he could have taken a leading part in the management and conduct of two theatres, and if mr. phillipps is to be relied upon, taken his share in the performances of the provincial tours of his company--and at the same time devoted himself to the study of the law in all its branches so efficiently as to make himself complete master of its principles and practice, and saturate his mind with all its most technical terms?" i have cited this passage from lord penzance's book, because it lay before me, and i had already quoted from it on the matter of shakespeare's legal knowledge; but other writers have still better set forth the insuperable difficulties, as they seem to me, which beset the idea that shakespeare might have found time in some unknown period of early life, amid multifarious other occupations, for the study of classics, literature and law, to say nothing of languages and a few other matters. lord penzance further asks his readers: "did you ever meet with or hear of an instance in which a young man in this country gave himself up to legal studies and engaged in legal employments, which is the only way of becoming familiar with the technicalities of practice, unless with the view of practicing in that profession? i do not believe that it would be easy, or indeed possible, to produce an instance in which the law has been seriously studied in all its branches, except as a qualification for practice in the legal profession." * * * * * this testimony is so strong, so direct, so authoritative; and so uncheapened, unwatered by guesses, and surmises, and maybe-so's, and might-have-beens, and could-have-beens, and must-have-beens, and the rest of that ton of plaster of paris out of which the biographers have built the colossal brontosaur which goes by the stratford actor's name, that it quite convinces me that the man who wrote shakespeare's works knew all about law and lawyers. also, that that man could not have been the stratford shakespeare--and _wasn't_. who did write these works, then? i wish i knew. chapter ix did francis bacon write shakespeare's works? nobody knows. we cannot say we _know_ a thing when that thing has not been proved. _know_ is too strong a word to use when the evidence is not final and absolutely conclusive. we can infer, if we want to, like those slaves . . . no, i will not write that word, it is not kind, it is not courteous. the upholders of the stratford-shakespeare superstition call _us_ the hardest names they can think of, and they keep doing it all the time; very well, if they like to descend to that level, let them do it, but i will not so undignify myself as to follow them. i cannot call them harsh names; the most i can do is to indicate them by terms reflecting my disapproval; and this without malice, without venom. to resume. what i was about to say, was, those thugs have built their entire superstition upon _inferences_, not upon known and established facts. it is a weak method, and poor, and i am glad to be able to say our side never resorts to it while there is anything else to resort to. but when we must, we must; and we have now arrived at a place of that sort. since the stratford shakespeare couldn't have written the works, we infer that somebody did. who was it, then? this requires some more inferring. ordinarily when an unsigned poem sweeps across the continent like a tidal wave, whose roar and boom and thunder are made up of admiration, delight and applause, a dozen obscure people rise up and claim the authorship. why a dozen, instead of only one or two? one reason is, because there's a dozen that are recognizably competent to do that poem. do you remember "beautiful snow"? do you remember "rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep"? do you remember "backward, turn backward, o time, in thy flight! make me a child again just for to-night"? i remember them very well. their authorship was claimed by most of the grown-up people who were alive at the time, and every claimant had one plausible argument in his favor, at least: to wit, he could have done the authoring; he was competent. have the works been claimed by a dozen? they haven't. there was good reason. the world knows there was but one man on the planet at the time who was competent--not a dozen, and not two. a long time ago the dwellers in a far country used now and then to find a procession of prodigious footprints stretching across the plain--footprints that were three miles apart, each footprint a third of a mile long and a furlong deep, and with forests and villages mashed to mush in it. was there any doubt as to who had made that mighty trail? were there a dozen claimants? were there two? no--the people knew who it was that had been along there: there was only one hercules. there has been only one shakespeare. there couldn't be two; certainly there couldn't be two at the same time. it takes ages to bring forth a shakespeare, and some more ages to match him. this one was not matched before his time; nor during his time; and hasn't been matched since. the prospect of matching him in our time is not bright. the baconians claim that the stratford shakespeare was not qualified to write the works, and that francis bacon was. they claim that bacon possessed the stupendous equipment--both natural and acquired--for the miracle; and that no other englishman of his day possessed the like; or, indeed, anything closely approaching it. macaulay, in his essay, has much to say about the splendor and horizonless magnitude of that equipment. also, he has synopsized bacon's history: a thing which cannot be done for the stratford shakespeare, for he hasn't any history to synopsize. bacon's history is open to the world, from his boyhood to his death in old age--a history consisting of known facts, displayed in minute and multitudinous detail; _facts_, not guesses and conjectures and might-have-beens. whereby it appears that he was born of a race of statesmen, and had a lord chancellor for his father, and a mother who was "distinguished both as a linguist and a theologian: she corresponded in greek with bishop jewell, and translated his _apologia_ from the latin so correctly that neither he nor archbishop parker could suggest a single alteration." it is the atmosphere we are reared in that determines how our inclinations and aspirations shall tend. the atmosphere furnished by the parents to the son in this present case was an atmosphere saturated with learning; with thinkings and ponderings upon deep subjects; and with polite culture. it had its natural effect. shakespeare of stratford was reared in a house which had no use for books, since its owners, his parents, were without education. this may have had an effect upon the son, but we do not know, because we have no history of him of an informing sort. there were but few books anywhere, in that day, and only the well-to-do and highly educated possessed them, they being almost confined to the dead languages. "all the valuable books then extant in all the vernacular dialects of europe would hardly have filled a single shelf"--imagine it! the few existing books were in the latin tongue mainly. "a person who was ignorant of it was shut out from all acquaintance--not merely with cicero and virgil, but with the most interesting memoirs, state papers, and pamphlets of his own time"--a literature necessary to the stratford lad, for his fictitious reputation's sake, since the writer of his works would begin to use it wholesale and in a most masterly way before the lad was hardly more than out of his teens and into his twenties. at fifteen bacon was sent to the university, and he spent three years there. thence he went to paris in the train of the english ambassador, and there he mingled daily with the wise, the cultured, the great, and the aristocracy of fashion, during another three years. a total of six years spent at the sources of knowledge; knowledge both of books and of men. the three spent at the university were coeval with the second and last three spent by the little stratford lad at stratford school supposedly, and perhapsedly, and maybe, and by inference--with nothing to infer from. the second three of the baconian six were "presumably" spent by the stratford lad as apprentice to a butcher. that is, the thugs presume it--on no evidence of any kind. which is their way, when they want a historical fact. fact and presumption are, for business purposes, all the same to them. they know the difference, but they also know how to blink it. they know, too, that while in history-building a fact is better than a presumption, it doesn't take a presumption long to bloom into a fact when _they_ have the handling of it. they know by old experience that when they get hold of a presumption-tadpole he is not going to _stay_ tadpole in their history-tank; no, they know how to develop him into the giant four-legged bullfrog of _fact_, and make him sit up on his hams, and puff out his chin, and look important and insolent and come-to-stay; and assert his genuine simon-pure authenticity with a thundering bellow that will convince everybody because it is so loud. the thug is aware that loudness convinces sixty persons where reasoning convinces but one. i wouldn't be a thug, not even if--but never mind about that, it has nothing to do with the argument, and it is not noble in spirit besides. if i am better than a thug, is the merit mine? no, it is his. then to him be the praise. that is the right spirit. they "presume" the lad severed his "presumed" connection with the stratford school to become apprentice to a butcher. they also "presume" that the butcher was his father. they don't know. there is no written record of it, nor any other actual evidence. if it would have helped their case any, they would have apprenticed him to thirty butchers, to fifty butchers, to a wilderness of butchers--all by their patented method "presumption." if it will help their case they will do it yet; and if it will further help it, they will "presume" that all those butchers were his father. and the week after, they will _say_ it. why, it is just like being the past tense of the compound reflexive adverbial incandescent hypodermic irregular accusative noun of multitude; which is father to the expression which the grammarians call verb. it is like a whole ancestry, with only one posterity. to resume. next, the young bacon took up the study of law, and mastered that abstruse science. from that day to the end of his life he was daily in close contact with lawyers and judges; not as a casual onlooker in intervals between holding horses in front of a theatre, but as a practicing lawyer--a great and successful one, a renowned one, a launcelot of the bar, the most formidable lance in the high brotherhood of the legal table round; he lived in the law's atmosphere thenceforth, all his years, and by sheer ability forced his way up its difficult steeps to its supremest summit, the lord chancellorship, leaving behind him no fellow craftsman qualified to challenge his divine right to that majestic place. when we read the praises bestowed by lord penzance and the other illustrious experts upon the legal condition and legal aptnesses, brilliances, profundities and felicities so prodigally displayed in the plays, and try to fit them to the history-less stratford stage-manager, they sound wild, strange, incredible, ludicrous; but when we put them in the mouth of bacon they do not sound strange, they seem in their natural and rightful place, they seem at home there. please turn back and read them again. attributed to shakespeare of stratford they are meaningless, they are inebriate extravagancies--intemperate admirations of the dark side of the moon, so to speak; attributed to bacon, they are admirations of the golden glories of the moon's front side, the moon at the full--and not intemperate, not overwrought, but sane and right, and justified. "at every turn and point at which the author required a metaphor, simile or illustration, his mind ever turned _first_ to the law; he seems almost to have _thought_ in legal phrases; the commonest legal phrases, the commonest of legal expressions were ever at the end of his pen." that could happen to no one but a person whose _trade_ was the law; it could not happen to a dabbler in it. veteran mariners fill their conversation with sailor-phrases and draw all their similes from the ship and the sea and the storm, but no mere _passenger_ ever does it, be he of stratford or elsewhere; or could do it with anything resembling accuracy, if he were hardy enough to try. please read again what lord campbell and the other great authorities have said about bacon when they thought they were saying it about shakespeare of stratford. chapter x--the rest of the equipment the author of the plays was equipped, beyond every other man of his time, with wisdom, erudition, imagination, capaciousness of mind, grace and majesty of expression. every one has said it, no one doubts it. also, he had humor, humor in rich abundance, and always wanting to break out. we have no evidence of any kind that shakespeare of stratford possessed any of these gifts or any of these acquirements. the only lines he ever wrote, so far as we know, are substantially barren of them--barren of all of them. good friend for iesus sake forbeare to digg the dust encloased heare: blest be ye man yt spares thes stones and curst be he yt moves my bones. ben jonson says of bacon, as orator: his language, _where he could spare and pass by a jest_, was nobly censorious. no man ever spoke more neatly, more pressly, more weightily, or suffered less emptiness, less idleness, in what he uttered. no member of his speech but consisted of his (its) own graces . . . the fear of every man that heard him was lest he should make an end. from macaulay: he continued to distinguish himself in parliament, particularly by his exertions in favor of one excellent measure on which the king's heart was set--the union of england and scotland. it was not difficult for such an intellect to discover many irresistible arguments in favor of such a scheme. he conducted the great case of the _post nati_ in the exchequer chamber; and the decision of the judges--a decision the legality of which may be questioned, but the beneficial effect of which must be acknowledged--was in a great measure attributed to his dexterous management. again: while actively engaged in the house of commons and in the courts of law, he still found leisure for letters and philosophy. the noble treatise on the _advancement of learning_, which at a later period was expanded into the _de augmentis_, appeared in . the _wisdom of the ancients_, a work which if it had proceeded from any other writer would have been considered as a masterpiece of wit and learning, was printed in . in the meantime the _novum organum_ was slowly proceeding. several distinguished men of learning had been permitted to see portions of that extraordinary book, and they spoke with the greatest admiration of his genius. even sir thomas bodley, after perusing the _cogitata et visa_, one of the most precious of those scattered leaves out of which the great oracular volume was afterward made up, acknowledged that "in all proposals and plots in that book, bacon showed himself a master workman"; and that "it could not be gainsaid but all the treatise over did abound with choice conceits of the present state of learning, and with worthy contemplations of the means to procure it." in a new edition of the _essays_ appeared, with additions surpassing the original collection both in bulk and quality. nor did these pursuits distract bacon's attention from a work the most arduous, the most glorious, and the most useful that even his mighty powers could have achieved, "the reducing and recompiling," to use his own phrase, "of the laws of england." to serve the exacting and laborious offices of attorney general and solicitor general would have satisfied the appetite of any other man for hard work, but bacon had to add the vast literary industries just described, to satisfy his. he was a born worker. the service which he rendered to letters during the last five years of his life, amid ten thousand distractions and vexations, increase the regret with which we think on the many years which he had wasted, to use the words of sir thomas bodley, "on such study as was not worthy such a student." he commenced a digest of the laws of england, a history of england under the princes of the house of tudor, a body of national history, a philosophical romance. he made extensive and valuable additions to his essays. he published the inestimable _treatise de argumentis scientiarum_. did these labors of hercules fill up his time to his contentment, and quiet his appetite for work? not entirely: the trifles with which he amused himself in hours of pain and languor bore the mark of his mind. _the best jestbook in the world_ is that which he dictated from memory, without referring to any book, on a day on which illness had rendered him incapable of serious study. here are some scattered remarks (from macaulay) which throw light upon bacon, and seem to indicate--and maybe demonstrate--that he was competent to write the plays and poems: with great minuteness of observation he had an amplitude of comprehension such as has never yet been vouchsafed to any other human being. the "essays" contain abundant proofs that no nice feature of character, no peculiarity in the ordering of a house, a garden or a court-masque, could escape the notice of one whose mind was capable of taking in the whole world of knowledge. his understanding resembled the tent which the fairy paribanou gave to prince ahmed: fold it, and it seemed a toy for the hand of a lady; spread it, and the armies of powerful sultans might repose beneath its shade. the knowledge in which bacon excelled all men was a knowledge of the mutual relations of all departments of knowledge. in a letter written when he was only thirty-one, to his uncle, lord burleigh, he said, "i have taken all knowledge to be my province." though bacon did not arm his philosophy with the weapons of logic, he adorned her profusely with all the richest decorations of rhetoric. the practical faculty was powerful in bacon; but not, like his wit, so powerful as occasionally to usurp the place of his reason, and to tyrannize over the whole man. there are too many places in the plays where this happens. poor old dying john of gaunt volleying second-rate puns at his own name, is a pathetic instance of it. "we may assume" that it is bacon's fault, but the stratford shakespeare has to bear the blame. no imagination was ever at once so strong and so thoroughly subjugated. it stopped at the first check from good sense. in truth much of bacon's life was passed in a visionary world--amid things as strange as any that are described in the "arabian tales" . . . amid buildings more sumptuous than the palace of aladdin, fountains more wonderful than the golden water of parizade, conveyances more rapid than the hippogryph of ruggiero, arms more formidable than the lance of astolfo, remedies more efficacious than the balsam of fierabras. yet in his magnificent day-dreams there was nothing wild--nothing but what sober reason sanctioned. bacon's greatest performance is the first book of the _novum organum_ . . . every part of it blazes with wit, but with wit which is employed only to illustrate and decorate truth. no book ever made so great a revolution in the mode of thinking, overthrew so many prejudices, introduced so many new opinions. but what we most admire is the vast capacity of that intellect which, without effort, takes in at once all the domains of science--all the past, the present and the future, all the errors of two thousand years, all the encouraging signs of the passing times, all the bright hopes of the coming age. he had a wonderful talent for packing thought close and rendering it portable. his eloquence would alone have entitled him to a high rank in literature. it is evident that he had each and every one of the mental gifts and each and every one of the acquirements that are so prodigally displayed in the plays and poems, and in much higher and richer degree than any other man of his time or of any previous time. he was a genius without a mate, a prodigy not matable. there was only one of him; the planet could not produce two of him at one birth, nor in one age. he could have written anything that is in the plays and poems. he could have written this: the cloud-cap'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, the solemn temples, the great globe itself, yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, and, like an insubstantial pageant faded, leave not a rack behind. we are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep. also, he could have written this, but he refrained: good friend for iesus sake forbeare to digg the dust encloased heare: blest be ye man yt spares thes stones and curst be ye yt moves my bones. when a person reads the noble verses about the cloud-cap'd towers, he ought not to follow it immediately with good friend for iesus sake forbeare, because he will find the transition from great poetry to poor prose too violent for comfort. it will give him a shock. you never notice how commonplace and unpoetic gravel is, until you bite into a layer of it in a pie. chapter xi am i trying to convince anybody that shakespeare did not write shakespeare's works? ah, now, what do you take me for? would i be so soft as that, after having known the human race familiarly for nearly seventy-four years? it would grieve me to know that any one could think so injuriously of me, so uncomplimentarily, so unadmiringly of me. no-no, i am aware that when even the brightest mind in our world has been trained up from childhood in a superstition of any kind, it will never be possible for that mind, in its maturity, to examine sincerely, dispassionately, and conscientiously any evidence or any circumstance which shall seem to cast a doubt upon the validity of that superstition. i doubt if i could do it myself. we always get at second hand our notions about systems of government; and high-tariff and low-tariff; and prohibition and anti-prohibition; and the holiness of peace and the glories of war; and codes of honor and codes of morals; and approval of the duel and disapproval of it; and our beliefs concerning the nature of cats; and our ideas as to whether the murder of helpless wild animals is base or is heroic; and our preferences in the matter of religious and political parties; and our acceptance or rejection of the shakespeares and the arthur ortons and the mrs. eddys. we get them all at second-hand, we reason none of them out for ourselves. it is the way we are made. it is the way we are all made, and we can't help it, we can't change it. and whenever we have been furnished a fetish, and have been taught to believe in it, and love it and worship it, and refrain from examining it, there is no evidence, howsoever clear and strong, that can persuade us to withdraw from it our loyalty and our devotion. in morals, conduct, and beliefs we take the color of our environment and associations, and it is a color that can safely be warranted to wash. whenever we have been furnished with a tar baby ostensibly stuffed with jewels, and warned that it will be dishonorable and irreverent to disembowel it and test the jewels, we keep our sacrilegious hands off it. we submit, not reluctantly, but rather gladly, for we are privately afraid we should find, upon examination, that the jewels are of the sort that are manufactured at north adams, mass. i haven't any idea that shakespeare will have to vacate his pedestal this side of the year . disbelief in him cannot come swiftly, disbelief in a healthy and deeply-loved tar baby has never been known to disintegrate swiftly, it is a very slow process. it took several thousand years to convince our fine race--including every splendid intellect in it--that there is no such thing as a witch; it has taken several thousand years to convince that same fine race--including every splendid intellect in it--that there is no such person as satan; it has taken several centuries to remove perdition from the protestant church's program of postmortem entertainments; it has taken a weary long time to persuade american presbyterians to give up infant damnation and try to bear it the best they can; and it looks as if their scotch brethren will still be burning babies in the everlasting fires when shakespeare comes down from his perch. we are the reasoning race. we can't prove it by the above examples, and we can't prove it by the miraculous "histories" built by those stratfordolaters out of a hatful of rags and a barrel of sawdust, but there is a plenty of other things we can prove it by, if i could think of them. we are the reasoning race, and when we find a vague file of chipmunk-tracks stringing through the dust of stratford village, we know by our reasoning powers that hercules has been along there. i feel that our fetish is safe for three centuries yet. the bust, too--there in the stratford church. the precious bust, the priceless bust, the calm bust, the serene bust, the emotionless bust, with the dandy moustache, and the putty face, unseamed of care--that face which has looked passionlessly down upon the awed pilgrim for a hundred and fifty years and will still look down upon the awed pilgrim three hundred more, with the deep, deep, deep, subtle, subtle, subtle, expression of a bladder. chapter xii--irreverence one of the most trying defects which i find in these--these--what shall i call them? for i will not apply injurious epithets to them, the way they do to us, such violations of courtesy being repugnant to my nature and my dignity. the furthest i can go in that direction is to call them by names of limited reverence--names merely descriptive, never unkind, never offensive, never tainted by harsh feeling. if _they_ would do like this, they would feel better in their hearts. very well, then--to proceed. one of the most trying defects which i find in these stratfordolaters, these shakesperoids, these thugs, these bangalores, these troglodytes, these herumfrodites, these blatherskites, these buccaneers, these bandoleers, is their spirit of irreverence. it is detectable in every utterance of theirs when they are talking about us. i am thankful that in me there is nothing of that spirit. when a thing is sacred to me it is impossible for me to be irreverent toward it. i cannot call to mind a single instance where i have ever been irreverent, except toward the things which were sacred to other people. am i in the right? i think so. but i ask no one to take my unsupported word; no, look at the dictionary; let the dictionary decide. here is the definition: _irreverence_. the quality or condition of irreverence toward god and sacred things. what does the hindu say? he says it is correct. he says irreverence is lack of respect for vishnu, and brahma, and chrishna, and his other gods, and for his sacred cattle, and for his temples and the things within them. he endorses the definition, you see; and there are , , hindus or their equivalents back of him. the dictionary had the acute idea that by using the capital g it could restrict irreverence to lack of reverence for _our_ deity and our sacred things, but that ingenious and rather sly idea miscarried: for by the simple process of spelling _his_ deities with capitals the hindu confiscates the definition and restricts it to his own sects, thus making it clearly compulsory upon us to revere _his_ gods and _his_ sacred things, and nobody's else. we can't say a word, for he has our own dictionary at his back, and its decision is final. this law, reduced to its simplest terms, is this: . whatever is sacred to the christian must be held in reverence by everybody else; , whatever is sacred to the hindu must be held in reverence by everybody else; , therefore, by consequence, logically, and indisputably, whatever is sacred to _me_ must be held in reverence by everybody else. now then, what aggravates me is, that these troglodytes and muscovites and bandoleers and buccaneers are _also_ trying to crowd in and share the benefit of the law, and compel everybody to revere their shakespeare and hold him sacred. we can't have that: there's enough of us already. if you go on widening and spreading and inflating the privilege, it will presently come to be conceded that each man's sacred things are the _only_ ones, and the rest of the human race will have to be humbly reverent toward them or suffer for it. that can surely happen, and when it happens, the word irreverence will be regarded as the most meaningless, and foolish, and self-conceited, and insolent, and impudent and dictatorial word in the language. and people will say, "whose business is it, what gods i worship and what things hold sacred? who has the right to dictate to my conscience, and where did he get that right?" we cannot afford to let that calamity come upon us. we must save the word from this destruction. there is but one way to do it, and that is, to stop the spread of the privilege, and strictly confine it to its present limits: that is, to all the christian sects, to all the hindu sects, and me. we do not need any more, the stock is watered enough, just as it is. it would be better if the privilege were limited to me alone. i think so because i am the only sect that knows how to employ it gently, kindly, charitably, dispassionately. the other sects lack the quality of self-restraint. the catholic church says the most irreverent things about matters which are sacred to the protestants, and the protestant church retorts in kind about the confessional and other matters which catholics hold sacred; then both of these irreverencers turn upon thomas paine and charge _him_ with irreverence. this is all unfortunate, because it makes it difficult for students equipped with only a low grade of mentality to find out what irreverence really _is_. it will surely be much better all around if the privilege of regulating the irreverent and keeping them in order shall eventually be withdrawn from all the sects but me. then there will be no more quarrelling, no more bandying of disrespectful epithets, no more heart burnings. there will then be nothing sacred involved in this bacon-shakespeare controversy except what is sacred to me. that will simplify the whole matter, and trouble will cease. there will be irreverence no longer, because i will not allow it. the first time those criminals charge me with irreverence for calling their stratford myth an arthur-orton-mary-baker-thompson-eddy-louis-the-seventeenth-veiled- prophet-of-khorassan will be the last. taught by the methods found effective in extinguishing earlier offenders by the inquisition, of holy memory, i shall know how to quiet them. chapter xiii isn't it odd, when you think of it: that you may list all the celebrated englishmen, irishmen, and scotchmen of modern times, clear back to the first tudors--a list containing five hundred names, shall we say?--and you can go to the histories, biographies and cyclopedias and learn the particulars of the lives of every one of them. every one of them except one--the most famous, the most renowned--by far the most illustrious of them all--shakespeare! you can get the details of the lives of all the celebrated ecclesiastics in the list; all the celebrated tragedians, comedians, singers, dancers, orators, judges, lawyers, poets, dramatists, historians, biographers, editors, inventors, reformers, statesmen, generals, admirals, discoverers, prize-fighters, murderers, pirates, conspirators, horse-jockeys, bunco-steerers, misers, swindlers, explorers, adventurers by land and sea, bankers, financiers, astronomers, naturalists, claimants, impostors, chemists, biologists, geologists, philologists, college presidents and professors, architects, engineers, painters, sculptors, politicians, agitators, rebels, revolutionists, patriots, demagogues, clowns, cooks, freaks, philosophers, burglars, highwaymen, journalists, physicians, surgeons--you can get the life-histories of all of them but _one_. just one--the most extraordinary and the most celebrated of them all--shakespeare! you may add to the list the thousand celebrated persons furnished by the rest of christendom in the past four centuries, and you can find out the life-histories of all those people, too. you will then have listed celebrities, and you can trace the authentic life-histories of the whole of them. save one--far and away the most colossal prodigy of the entire accumulation--shakespeare! about him you can find out _nothing_. nothing of even the slightest importance. nothing worth the trouble of stowing away in your memory. nothing that even remotely indicates that he was ever anything more than a distinctly common-place person--a manager, an actor of inferior grade, a small trader in a small village that did not regard him as a person of any consequence, and had forgotten all about him before he was fairly cold in his grave. we can go to the records and find out the life-history of every renowned _race-horse_ of modern times--but not shakespeare's! there are many reasons why, and they have been furnished in cartloads (of guess and conjecture) by those troglodytes; but there is one that is worth all the rest of the reasons put together, and is abundantly sufficient all by itself--_he hadn't any history to record_. there is no way of getting around that deadly fact. and no sane way has yet been discovered of getting around its formidable significance. its quite plain significance--to any but those thugs (i do not use the term unkindly) is, that shakespeare had no prominence while he lived, and none until he had been dead two or three generations. the plays enjoyed high fame from the beginning; and if he wrote them it seems a pity the world did not find it out. he ought to have explained that he was the author, and not merely a _nom de plume_ for another man to hide behind. if he had been less intemperately solicitous about his bones, and more solicitous about his works, it would have been better for his good name, and a kindness to us. the bones were not important. they will moulder away, they will turn to dust, but the works will endure until the last sun goes down. mark twain. p.s. _march_ . about two months ago i was illuminating this autobiography with some notions of mine concerning the bacon-shakespeare controversy, and i then took occasion to air the opinion that the stratford shakespeare was a person of no public consequence or celebrity during his lifetime, but was utterly obscure and unimportant. and not only in great london, but also in the little village where he was born, where he lived a quarter of a century, and where he died and was buried. i argued that if he had been a person of any note at all, aged villagers would have had much to tell about him many and many a year after his death, instead of being unable to furnish inquirers a single fact connected with him. i believed, and i still believe, that if he had been famous, his notoriety would have lasted as long as mine has lasted in my native village out in missouri. it is a good argument, a prodigiously strong one, and a most formidable one for even the most gifted, and ingenious, and plausible stratfordolater to get around or explain away. to-day a hannibal _courier-post_ of recent date has reached me, with an article in it which reinforces my contention that a really celebrated person cannot be forgotten in his village in the short space of sixty years. i will make an extract from it: hannibal, as a city, may have many sins to answer for, but ingratitude is not one of them, or reverence for the great men she has produced, and as the years go by her greatest son mark twain, or s. l. clemens as a few of the unlettered call him, grows in the estimation and regard of the residents of the town he made famous and the town that made him famous. his name is associated with every old building that is torn down to make way for the modern structures demanded by a rapidly growing city, and with every hill or cave over or through which he might by any possibility have roamed, while the many points of interest which he wove into his stories, such as holiday hill, jackson's island, or mark twain cave, are now monuments to his genius. hannibal is glad of any opportunity to do him honor as he has honored her. so it has happened that the "old timers" who went to school with mark or were with him on some of his usual escapades have been honored with large audiences whenever they were in a reminiscent mood and condescended to tell of their intimacy with the ordinary boy who came to be a very extraordinary humorist and whose every boyish act is now seen to have been indicative of what was to come. like aunt beckey and mrs. clemens, they can now see that mark was hardly appreciated when he lived here and that the things he did as a boy and was whipped for doing were not all bad after all. so they have been in no hesitancy about drawing out the bad things he did as well as the good in their efforts to get a "mark twain story," all incidents being viewed in the light of his present fame, until the volume of "twainiana" is already considerable and growing in proportion as the "old timers" drop away and the stories are retold second and third hand by their descendants. with some seventy-three years young and living in a villa instead of a house he is a fair target, and let him incorporate, copyright, or patent himself as he will, there are some of his "works" that will go swooping up hannibal chimneys as long as gray-beards gather about the fires and begin with "i've heard father tell" or possibly "once when i." the mrs. clemens referred to is my mother--_was_ my mother. and here is another extract from a hannibal paper. of date twenty days ago: miss becca blankenship died at the home of william dickason, rock street, at . o'clock yesterday afternoon, aged years. the deceased was a sister of "huckleberry finn," one of the famous characters in mark twain's _tom sawyer_. she had been a member of the dickason family--the housekeeper--for nearly forty-five years, and was a highly respected lady. for the past eight years she had been an invalid, but was as well cared for by mr. dickason and his family as if she had been a near relative. she was a member of the park methodist church and a christian woman. i remember her well. i have a picture of her in my mind which was graven there, clear and sharp and vivid, sixty-three years ago. she was at that time nine years old, and i was about eleven. i remember where she stood, and how she looked; and i can still see her bare feet, her bare head, her brown face, and her short tow-linen frock. she was crying. what it was about, i have long ago forgotten. but it was the tears that preserved the picture for me, no doubt. she was a good child, i can say that for her. she knew me nearly seventy years ago. did she forget me, in the course of time? i think not. if she had lived in stratford in shakespeare's time, would she have forgotten him? yes. for he was never famous during his lifetime, he was utterly obscure in stratford, and there wouldn't be any occasion to remember him after he had been dead a week. "injun joe," "jimmy finn," and "general gaines" were prominent and very intemperate ne'er-do-weels in hannibal two generations ago. plenty of gray-heads there remember them to this day, and can tell you about them. isn't it curious that two "town-drunkards" and one half-breed loafer should leave behind them, in a remote missourian village, a fame a hundred times greater and several hundred times more particularized in the matter of definite facts than shakespeare left behind him in the village where he had lived the half of his lifetime? mark twain. footnotes: { } four fathoms--twenty-four feet. { } from chapter xiii of "the shakespeare problem restated." on the decay of the art of lying by mark twain [sameul clemens] essay, for discussion, read at a meeting of the historical and antiquarian club of hartford, and offered for the thirty-dollar prize.[*] [*] did not take the prize. observe, i do not mean to suggest that the _custom_ of lying has suffered any decay or interruption--no, for the lie, as a virtue, a principle, is eternal; the lie, as a recreation, a solace, a refuge in time of need, the fourth grace, the tenth muse, man's best and surest friend, is immortal, and cannot perish from the earth while this club remains. my complaint simply concerns the decay of the _art_ of lying. no high-minded man, no man of right feeling, can contemplate the lumbering and slovenly lying of the present day without grieving to see a noble art so prostituted. in this veteran presence i naturally enter upon this theme with diffidence; it is like an old maid trying to teach nursery matters to the mothers in israel. it would not become to me to criticise you, gentlemen--who are nearly all my elders--and my superiors, in this thing--if i should here and there _seem_ to do it, i trust it will in most cases be more in a spirit of admiration than fault-finding; indeed if this finest of the fine arts had everywhere received the attention, the encouragement, and conscientious practice and development which this club has devoted to it, i should not need to utter this lament, or shed a single tear. i do not say this to flatter: i say it in a spirit of just and appreciative recognition. [it had been my intention, at this point, to mention names and to give illustrative specimens, but indications observable about me admonished me to beware of the particulars and confine myself to generalities.] no fact is more firmly established than that lying is a necessity of our circumstances--the deduction that it is then a virtue goes without saying. no virtue can reach its highest usefulness without careful and diligent cultivation--therefore, it goes without saying that this one ought to be taught in the public schools--even in the newspapers. what chance has the ignorant uncultivated liar against the educated expert? what chance have i against mr. per--against a lawyer? _judicious_ lying is what the world needs. i sometimes think it were even better and safer not to lie at all than to lie injudiciously. an awkward, unscientific lie is often as ineffectual as the truth. now let us see what the philosophers say. note that venerable proverb: children and fools _always_ speak the truth. the deduction is plain --adults and wise persons _never_ speak it. parkman, the historian, says, "the principle of truth may itself be carried into an absurdity." in another place in the same chapters he says, "the saying is old that truth should not be spoken at all times; and those whom a sick conscience worries into habitual violation of the maxim are imbeciles and nuisances." it is strong language, but true. none of us could _live_ with an habitual truth-teller; but thank goodness none of us has to. an habitual truth-teller is simply an impossible creature; he does not exist; he never has existed. of course there are people who _think_ they never lie, but it is not so--and this ignorance is one of the very things that shame our so-called civilization. everybody lies--every day; every hour; awake; asleep; in his dreams; in his joy; in his mourning; if he keeps his tongue still, his hands, his feet, his eyes, his attitude, will convey deception--and purposely. even in sermons--but that is a platitude. in a far country where i once lived the ladies used to go around paying calls, under the humane and kindly pretence of wanting to see each other; and when they returned home, they would cry out with a glad voice, saying, "we made sixteen calls and found fourteen of them out" --not meaning that they found out anything important against the fourteen--no, that was only a colloquial phrase to signify that they were not at home--and their manner of saying it expressed their lively satisfaction in that fact. now their pretence of wanting to see the fourteen--and the other two whom they had been less lucky with--was that commonest and mildest form of lying which is sufficiently described as a deflection from the truth. is it justifiable? most certainly. it is beautiful, it is noble; for its object is, _not_ to reap profit, but to convey a pleasure to the sixteen. the iron-souled truth-monger would plainly manifest, or even utter the fact that he didn't want to see those people--and he would be an ass, and inflict totally unnecessary pain. and next, those ladies in that far country--but never mind, they had a thousand pleasant ways of lying, that grew out of gentle impulses, and were a credit to their intelligence and an honor to their hearts. let the particulars go. the men in that far country were liars, every one. their mere howdy-do was a lie, because _they_ didn't care how you did, except they were undertakers. to the ordinary inquirer you lied in return; for you made no conscientious diagnostic of your case, but answered at random, and usually missed it considerably. you lied to the undertaker, and said your health was failing--a wholly commendable lie, since it cost you nothing and pleased the other man. if a stranger called and interrupted you, you said with your hearty tongue, "i'm glad to see you," and said with your heartier soul, "i wish you were with the cannibals and it was dinner-time." when he went, you said regretfully, "_must_ you go?" and followed it with a "call again;" but you did no harm, for you did not deceive anybody nor inflict any hurt, whereas the truth would have made you both unhappy. i think that all this courteous lying is a sweet and loving art, and should be cultivated. the highest perfection of politeness is only a beautiful edifice, built, from the base to the dome, of graceful and gilded forms of charitable and unselfish lying. what i bemoan is the growing prevalence of the brutal truth. let us do what we can to eradicate it. an injurious truth has no merit over an injurious lie. neither should ever be uttered. the man who speaks an injurious truth lest his soul be not saved if he do otherwise, should reflect that that sort of a soul is not strictly worth saving. the man who tells a lie to help a poor devil out of trouble, is one of whom the angels doubtless say, "lo, here is an heroic soul who casts his own welfare in jeopardy to succor his neighbor's; let us exalt this magnanimous liar." an injurious lie is an uncommendable thing; and so, also, and in the same degree, is an injurious truth--a fact that is recognized by the law of libel. among other common lies, we have the _silent_ lie--the deception which one conveys by simply keeping still and concealing the truth. many obstinate truth-mongers indulge in this dissipation, imagining that if they _speak_ no lie, they lie not at all. in that far country where i once lived, there was a lovely spirit, a lady whose impulses were always high and pure, and whose character answered to them. one day i was there at dinner, and remarked, in a general way, that we are all liars. she was amazed, and said, "not _all_?" it was before "pinafore's" time so i did not make the response which would naturally follow in our day, but frankly said, "yes, _all_--we are all liars. there are no exceptions." she looked almost offended, "why, do you include _me_?" "certainly," i said. "i think you even rank as an expert." she said "sh-'sh! the children!" so the subject was changed in deference to the children's presence, and we went on talking about other things. but as soon as the young people were out of the way, the lady came warmly back to the matter and said, "i have made a rule of my life to never tell a lie; and i have never departed from it in a single instance." i said, "i don't mean the least harm or disrespect, but really you have been lying like smoke ever since i've been sitting here. it has caused me a good deal of pain, because i'm not used to it." she required of me an instance--just a single instance. so i said-- "well, here is the unfilled duplicate of the blank, which the oakland hospital people sent to you by the hand of the sick-nurse when she came here to nurse your little nephew through his dangerous illness. this blank asks all manners of questions as to the conduct of that sick-nurse: 'did she ever sleep on her watch? did she ever forget to give the medicine?' and so forth and so on. you are warned to be very careful and explicit in your answers, for the welfare of the service requires that the nurses be promptly fined or otherwise punished for derelictions. you told me you were perfectly delighted with this nurse --that she had a thousand perfections and only one fault: you found you never could depend on her wrapping johnny up half sufficiently while he waited in a chilly chair for her to rearrange the warm bed. you filled up the duplicate of this paper, and sent it back to the hospital by the hand of the nurse. how did you answer this question--'was the nurse at any time guilty of a negligence which was likely to result in the patient's taking cold?' come--everything is decided by a bet here in california: ten dollars to ten cents you lied when you answered that question." she said, "i didn't; _i left it blank!_" "just so--you have told a _silent_ lie; you have left it to be inferred that you had no fault to find in that matter." she said, "oh, was that a lie? and _how_ could i mention her one single fault, and she is so good?--it would have been cruel." i said, "one ought always to lie, when one can do good by it; your impulse was right, but your judgment was crude; this comes of unintelligent practice. now observe the results of this inexpert deflection of yours. you know mr. jones's willie is lying very low with scarlet-fever; well, your recommendation was so enthusiastic that that girl is there nursing him, and the worn-out family have all been trustingly sound asleep for the last fourteen hours, leaving their darling with full confidence in those fatal hands, because you, like young george washington, have a reputa--however, if you are not going to have anything to do, i will come around to-morrow and we'll attend the funeral together, for, of course, you'll naturally feel a peculiar interest in willie's case--as personal a one, in fact, as the undertaker." but that was not all lost. before i was half-way through she was in a carriage and making thirty miles an hour toward the jones mansion to save what was left of willie and tell all she knew about the deadly nurse. all of which was unnecessary, as willie wasn't sick; i had been lying myself. but that same day, all the same, she sent a line to the hospital which filled up the neglected blank, and stated the _facts,_ too, in the squarest possible manner. now, you see, this lady's fault was _not_ in lying, but in lying injudiciously. she should have told the truth, _there,_ and made it up to the nurse with a fraudulent compliment further along in the paper. she could have said, "in one respect this sick-nurse is perfection--when she is on the watch, she never snores." almost any little pleasant lie would have taken the sting out of that troublesome but necessary expression of the truth. lying is universal--we _all_ do it. therefore, the wise thing is for us diligently to train ourselves to lie thoughtfully, judiciously; to lie with a good object, and not an evil one; to lie for others' advantage, and not our own; to lie healingly, charitably, humanely, not cruelly, hurtfully, maliciously; to lie gracefully and graciously, not awkwardly and clumsily; to lie firmly, frankly, squarely, with head erect, not haltingly, tortuously, with pusillanimous mien, as being ashamed of our high calling. then shall we be rid of the rank and pestilent truth that is rotting the land; then shall we be great and good and beautiful, and worthy dwellers in a world where even benign nature habitually lies, except when she promises execrable weather. then--but i am but a new and feeble student in this gracious art; i cannot instruct _this_ club. joking aside, i think there is much need of wise examination into what sorts of lies are best and wholesomest to be indulged, seeing we _must_ all lie and we _do_ all lie, and what sorts it may be best to avoid--and this is a thing which i feel i can confidently put into the hands of this experienced club--a ripe body, who may be termed, in this regard, and without undue flattery, old masters. extracts from adam's diary translated from the original ms. by mark twain [note.--i translated a portion of this diary some years ago, and a friend of mine printed a few copies in an incomplete form, but the public never got them. since then i have deciphered some more of adam's hieroglyphics, and think he has now become sufficiently important as a public character to justify this publication.--m. t.] monday this new creature with the long hair is a good deal in the way. it is always hanging around and following me about. i don't like this; i am not used to company. i wish it would stay with the other animals. cloudy to-day, wind in the east; think we shall have rain.... where did i get that word?... i remember now --the new creature uses it. tuesday been examining the great waterfall. it is the finest thing on the estate, i think. the new creature calls it niagara falls--why, i am sure i do not know. says it looks like niagara falls. that is not a reason; it is mere waywardness and imbecility. i get no chance to name anything myself. the new creature names everything that comes along, before i can get in a protest. and always that same pretext is offered--it looks like the thing. there is the dodo, for instance. says the moment one looks at it one sees at a glance that it "looks like a dodo." it will have to keep that name, no doubt. it wearies me to fret about it, and it does no good, anyway. dodo! it looks no more like a dodo than i do. wednesday built me a shelter against the rain, but could not have it to myself in peace. the new creature intruded. when i tried to put it out it shed water out of the holes it looks with, and wiped it away with the back of its paws, and made a noise such as some of the other animals make when they are in distress. i wish it would not talk; it is always talking. that sounds like a cheap fling at the poor creature, a slur; but i do not mean it so. i have never heard the human voice before, and any new and strange sound intruding itself here upon the solemn hush of these dreaming solitudes offends my ear and seems a false note. and this new sound is so close to me; it is right at my shoulder, right at my ear, first on one side and then on the other, and i am used only to sounds that are more or less distant from me. friday the naming goes recklessly on, in spite of anything i can do. i had a very good name for the estate, and it was musical and pretty --garden-of-eden. privately, i continue to call it that, but not any longer publicly. the new creature says it is all woods and rocks and scenery, and therefore has no resemblance to a garden. says it looks like a park, and does not look like anything but a park. consequently, without consulting me, it has been new-named --niagara falls park. this is sufficiently high-handed, it seems to me. and already there is a sign up: keep off the grass my life is not as happy as it was. saturday the new creature eats too much fruit. we are going to run short, most likely. "we" again--that is its word; mine too, now, from hearing it so much. good deal of fog this morning. i do not go out in the fog myself. the new creature does. it goes out in all weathers, and stumps right in with its muddy feet. and talks. it used to be so pleasant and quiet here. sunday pulled through. this day is getting to be more and more trying. it was selected and set apart last november as a day of rest. i already had six of them per week, before. this morning found the new creature trying to clod apples out of that forbidden tree. monday the new creature says its name is eve. that is all right, i have no objections. says it is to call it by when i want it to come. i said it was superfluous, then. the word evidently raised me in its respect; and indeed it is a large, good word, and will bear repetition. it says it is not an it, it is a she. this is probably doubtful; yet it is all one to me; what she is were nothing to me if she would but go by herself and not talk. tuesday she has littered the whole estate with execrable names and offensive signs: this way to the whirlpool. this way to goat island. cave of the winds this way. she says this park would make a tidy summer resort, if there was any custom for it. summer resort--another invention of hers--just words, without any meaning. what is a summer resort? but it is best not to ask her, she has such a rage for explaining. friday she has taken to beseeching me to stop going over the falls. what harm does it do? says it makes her shudder. i wonder why. i have always done it--always liked the plunge, and the excitement, and the coolness. i supposed it was what the falls were for. they have no other use that i can see, and they must have been made for something. she says they were only made for scenery--like the rhinoceros and the mastodon. i went over the falls in a barrel--not satisfactory to her. went over in a tub--still not satisfactory. swam the whirlpool and the rapids in a fig-leaf suit. it got much damaged. hence, tedious complaints about my extravagance. i am too much hampered here. what i need is change of scene. saturday i escaped last tuesday night, and travelled two days, and built me another shelter, in a secluded place, and obliterated my tracks as well as i could, but she hunted me out by means of a beast which she has tamed and calls a wolf, and came making that pitiful noise again, and shedding that water out of the places she looks with. i was obliged to return with her, but will presently emigrate again, when occasion offers. she engages herself in many foolish things: among others, trying to study out why the animals called lions and tigers live on grass and flowers, when, as she says, the sort of teeth they wear would indicate that they were intended to eat each other. this is foolish, because to do that would be to kill each other, and that would introduce what, as i understand it, is called "death;" and death, as i have been told, has not yet entered the park. which is a pity, on some accounts. sunday pulled through. monday i believe i see what the week is for: it is to give time to rest up from the weariness of sunday. it seems a good idea.... she has been climbing that tree again. clodded her out of it. she said nobody was looking. seems to consider that a sufficient justification for chancing any dangerous thing. told her that. the word justification moved her admiration--and envy too, i thought. it is a good word. thursday she told me she was made out of a rib taken from my body. this is at least doubtful, if not more than that. i have not missed any rib.... she is in much trouble about the buzzard; says grass does not agree with it; is afraid she can't raise it; thinks it was intended to live on decayed flesh. the buzzard must get along the best it can with what is provided. we cannot overturn the whole scheme to accommodate the buzzard. saturday she fell in the pond yesterday, when she was looking at herself in it, which she is always doing. she nearly strangled, and said it was most uncomfortable. this made her sorry for the creatures which live in there, which she calls fish, for she continues to fasten names on to things that don't need them and don't come when they are called by them, which is a matter of no consequence to her, as she is such a numskull anyway; so she got a lot of them out and brought them in last night and put them in my bed to keep warm, but i have noticed them now and then all day, and i don't see that they are any happier there than they were before, only quieter. when night comes i shall throw them out-doors. i will not sleep with them again, for i find them clammy and unpleasant to lie among when a person hasn't anything on. sunday pulled through. tuesday she has taken up with a snake now. the other animals are glad, for she was always experimenting with them and bothering them; and i am glad, because the snake talks, and this enables me to get a rest. friday she says the snake advises her to try the fruit of that tree, and says the result will be a great and fine and noble education. i told her there would be another result, too--it would introduce death into the world. that was a mistake--it had been better to keep the remark to myself; it only gave her an idea--she could save the sick buzzard, and furnish fresh meat to the despondent lions and tigers. i advised her to keep away from the tree. she said she wouldn't. i foresee trouble. will emigrate. wednesday i have had a variegated time. i escaped that night, and rode a horse all night as fast as he could go, hoping to get clear out of the park and hide in some other country before the trouble should begin; but it was not to be. about an hour after sunup, as i was riding through a flowery plain where thousands of animals were grazing, slumbering, or playing with each other, according to their wont, all of a sudden they broke into a tempest of frightful noises, and in one moment the plain was in a frantic commotion and every beast was destroying its neighbor. i knew what it meant--eve had eaten that fruit, and death was come into the world.... the tigers ate my horse, paying no attention when i ordered them to desist, and they would even have eaten me if i had stayed--which i didn't, but went away in much haste.... i found this place, outside the park, and was fairly comfortable for a few days, but she has found me out. found me out, and has named the place tonawanda--says it looks like that. in fact, i was not sorry she came, for there are but meagre pickings here, and she brought some of those apples. i was obliged to eat them, i was so hungry. it was against my principles, but i find that principles have no real force except when one is well fed.... she came curtained in boughs and bunches of leaves, and when i asked her what she meant by such nonsense, and snatched them away and threw them down, she tittered and blushed. i had never seen a person titter and blush before, and to me it seemed unbecoming and idiotic. she said i would soon know how it was myself. this was correct. hungry as i was, i laid down the apple half eaten--certainly the best one i ever saw, considering the lateness of the season--and arrayed myself in the discarded boughs and branches, and then spoke to her with some severity and ordered her to go and get some more and not make such a spectacle of herself. she did it, and after this we crept down to where the wild-beast battle had been, and collected some skins, and i made her patch together a couple of suits proper for public occasions. they are uncomfortable, it is true, but stylish, and that is the main point about clothes. ... i find she is a good deal of a companion. i see i should be lonesome and depressed without her, now that i have lost my property. another thing, she says it is ordered that we work for our living hereafter. she will be useful. i will superintend. ten days later she accuses me of being the cause of our disaster! she says, with apparent sincerity and truth, that the serpent assured her that the forbidden fruit was not apples, it was chestnuts. i said i was innocent, then, for i had not eaten any chestnuts. she said the serpent informed her that "chestnut" was a figurative term meaning an aged and mouldy joke. i turned pale at that, for i have made many jokes to pass the weary time, and some of them could have been of that sort, though i had honestly supposed that they were new when i made them. she asked me if i had made one just at the time of the catastrophe. i was obliged to admit that i had made one to myself, though not aloud. it was this. i was thinking about the falls, and i said to myself, "how wonderful it is to see that vast body of water tumble down there!" then in an instant a bright thought flashed into my head, and i let it fly, saying, "it would be a deal more wonderful to see it tumble up there!"--and i was just about to kill myself with laughing at it when all nature broke loose in war and death, and i had to flee for my life. "there," she said, with triumph, "that is just it; the serpent mentioned that very jest, and called it the first chestnut, and said it was coeval with the creation." alas, i am indeed to blame. would that i were not witty; oh, would that i had never had that radiant thought! next year we have named it cain. she caught it while i was up country trapping on the north shore of the erie; caught it in the timber a couple of miles from our dug-out--or it might have been four, she isn't certain which. it resembles us in some ways, and may be a relation. that is what she thinks, but this is an error, in my judgment. the difference in size warrants the conclusion that it is a different and new kind of animal--a fish, perhaps, though when i put it in the water to see, it sank, and she plunged in and snatched it out before there was opportunity for the experiment to determine the matter. i still think it is a fish, but she is indifferent about what it is, and will not let me have it to try. i do not understand this. the coming of the creature seems to have changed her whole nature and made her unreasonable about experiments. she thinks more of it than she does of any of the other animals, but is not able to explain why. her mind is disordered--everything shows it. sometimes she carries the fish in her arms half the night when it complains and wants to get to the water. at such times the water comes out of the places in her face that she looks out of, and she pats the fish on the back and makes soft sounds with her mouth to soothe it, and betrays sorrow and solicitude in a hundred ways. i have never seen her do like this with any other fish, and it troubles me greatly. she used to carry the young tigers around so, and play with them, before we lost our property; but it was only play; she never took on about them like this when their dinner disagreed with them. sunday she doesn't work sundays, but lies around all tired out, and likes to have the fish wallow over her; and she makes fool noises to amuse it, and pretends to chew its paws, and that makes it laugh. i have not seen a fish before that could laugh. this makes me doubt.... i have come to like sunday myself. superintending all the week tires a body so. there ought to be more sundays. in the old days they were tough, but now they come handy. wednesday it isn't a fish. i cannot quite make out what it is. it makes curious, devilish noises when not satisfied, and says "goo-goo" when it is. it is not one of us, for it doesn't walk; it is not a bird, for it doesn't fly; it is not a frog, for it doesn't hop; it is not a snake, for it doesn't crawl; i feel sure it is not a fish, though i cannot get a chance to find out whether it can swim or not. it merely lies around, and mostly on its back, with its feet up. i have not seen any other animal do that before. i said i believed it was an enigma, but she only admired the word without understanding it. in my judgment it is either an enigma or some kind of a bug. if it dies, i will take it apart and see what its arrangements are. i never had a thing perplex me so. three months later the perplexity augments instead of diminishing. i sleep but little. it has ceased from lying around, and goes about on its four legs now. yet it differs from the other four-legged animals in that its front legs are unusually short, consequently this causes the main part of its person to stick up uncomfortably high in the air, and this is not attractive. it is built much as we are, but its method of travelling shows that it is not of our breed. the short front legs and long hind ones indicate that it is of the kangaroo family, but it is a marked variation of the species, since the true kangaroo hops, whereas this one never does. still, it is a curious and interesting variety, and has not been catalogued before. as i discovered it, i have felt justified in securing the credit of the discovery by attaching my name to it, and hence have called it kangaroorum adamiensis.... it must have been a young one when it came, for it has grown exceedingly since. it must be five times as big, now, as it was then, and when discontented is able to make from twenty-two to thirty-eight times the noise it made at first. coercion does not modify this, but has the contrary effect. for this reason i discontinued the system. she reconciles it by persuasion, and by giving it things which she had previously told it she wouldn't give it. as already observed, i was not at home when it first came, and she told me she found it in the woods. it seems odd that it should be the only one, yet it must be so, for i have worn myself out these many weeks trying to find another one to add to my collection, and for this one to play with; for surely then it would be quieter, and we could tame it more easily. but i find none, nor any vestige of any; and strangest of all, no tracks. it has to live on the ground, it cannot help itself; therefore, how does it get about without leaving a track? i have set a dozen traps, but they do no good. i catch all small animals except that one; animals that merely go into the trap out of curiosity, i think, to see what the milk is there for. they never drink it. three months later the kangaroo still continues to grow, which is very strange and perplexing. i never knew one to be so long getting its growth. it has fur on its head now; not like kangaroo fur, but exactly like our hair, except that it is much finer and softer, and instead of being black is red. i am like to lose my mind over the capricious and harassing developments of this unclassifiable zoological freak. if i could catch another one--but that is hopeless; it is a new variety, and the only sample; this is plain. but i caught a true kangaroo and brought it in, thinking that this one, being lonesome, would rather have that for company than have no kin at all, or any animal it could feel a nearness to or get sympathy from in its forlorn condition here among strangers who do not know its ways or habits, or what to do to make it feel that it is among friends; but it was a mistake--it went into such fits at the sight of the kangaroo that i was convinced it had never seen one before. i pity the poor noisy little animal, but there is nothing i can do to make it happy. if i could tame it--but that is out of the question; the more i try, the worse i seem to make it. it grieves me to the heart to see it in its little storms of sorrow and passion. i wanted to let it go, but she wouldn't hear of it. that seemed cruel and not like her; and yet she may be right. it might be lonelier than ever; for since i cannot find another one, how could it? five months later it is not a kangaroo. no, for it supports itself by holding to her finger, and thus goes a few steps on its hind legs, and then falls down. it is probably some kind of a bear; and yet it has no tail--as yet--and no fur, except on its head. it still keeps on growing--that is a curious circumstance, for bears get their growth earlier than this. bears are dangerous--since our catastrophe--and i shall not be satisfied to have this one prowling about the place much longer without a muzzle on. i have offered to get her a kangaroo if she would let this one go, but it did no good--she is determined to run us into all sorts of foolish risks, i think. she was not like this before she lost her mind. a fortnight later i examined its mouth. there is no danger yet; it has only one tooth. it has no tail yet. it makes more noise now than it ever did before--and mainly at night. i have moved out. but i shall go over, mornings, to breakfast, and to see if it has more teeth. if it gets a mouthful of teeth, it will be time for it to go, tail or no tail, for a bear does not need a tail in order to be dangerous. four months later i have been off hunting and fishing a month, up in the region that she calls buffalo; i don't know why, unless it is because there are not any buffaloes there. meantime the bear has learned to paddle around all by itself on its hind legs, and says "poppa" and "momma." it is certainly a new species. this resemblance to words may be purely accidental, of course, and may have no purpose or meaning; but even in that case it is still extraordinary, and is a thing which no other bear can do. this imitation of speech, taken together with general absence of fur and entire absence of tail, sufficiently indicates that this is a new kind of bear. the further study of it will be exceedingly interesting. meantime i will go off on a far expedition among the forests of the north and make an exhaustive search. there must certainly be another one somewhere, and this one will be less dangerous when it has company of its own species. i will go straightway; but i will muzzle this one first. three months later it has been a weary, weary hunt, yet i have had no success. in the mean time, without stirring from the home estate, she has caught another one! i never saw such luck. i might have hunted these woods a hundred years, i never should have run across that thing. next day i have been comparing the new one with the old one, and it is perfectly plain that they are the same breed. i was going to stuff one of them for my collection, but she is prejudiced against it for some reason or other; so i have relinquished the idea, though i think it is a mistake. it would be an irreparable loss to science if they should get away. the old one is tamer than it was, and can laugh and talk like the parrot, having learned this, no doubt, from being with the parrot so much, and having the imitative faculty in a highly developed degree. i shall be astonished if it turns out to be a new kind of parrot, and yet i ought not to be astonished, for it has already been everything else it could think of, since those first days when it was a fish. the new one is as ugly now as the old one was at first; has the same sulphur-and-raw-meat complexion and the same singular head without any fur on it. she calls it abel. ten years later they are boys; we found it out long ago. it was their coming in that small, immature shape that puzzled us; we were not used to it. there are some girls now. abel is a good boy, but if cain had stayed a bear it would have improved him. after all these years, i see that i was mistaken about eve in the beginning; it is better to live outside the garden with her than inside it without her. at first i thought she talked too much; but now i should be sorry to have that voice fall silent and pass out of my life. blessed be the chestnut that brought us near together and taught me to know the goodness of her heart and the sweetness of her spirit! transcribed from the chatto & windus edition by david price, email ccx @coventry.ac.uk the man that corrupted hadleyburg i. it was many years ago. hadleyburg was the most honest and upright town in all the region round about. it had kept that reputation unsmirched during three generations, and was prouder of it than of any other of its possessions. it was so proud of it, and so anxious to insure its perpetuation, that it began to teach the principles of honest dealing to its babies in the cradle, and made the like teachings the staple of their culture thenceforward through all the years devoted to their education. also, throughout the formative years temptations were kept out of the way of the young people, so that their honesty could have every chance to harden and solidify, and become a part of their very bone. the neighbouring towns were jealous of this honourable supremacy, and affected to sneer at hadleyburg's pride in it and call it vanity; but all the same they were obliged to acknowledge that hadleyburg was in reality an incorruptible town; and if pressed they would also acknowledge that the mere fact that a young man hailed from hadleyburg was all the recommendation he needed when he went forth from his natal town to seek for responsible employment. but at last, in the drift of time, hadleyburg had the ill luck to offend a passing stranger--possibly without knowing it, certainly without caring, for hadleyburg was sufficient unto itself, and cared not a rap for strangers or their opinions. still, it would have been well to make an exception in this one's case, for he was a bitter man, and revengeful. all through his wanderings during a whole year he kept his injury in mind, and gave all his leisure moments to trying to invent a compensating satisfaction for it. he contrived many plans, and all of them were good, but none of them was quite sweeping enough: the poorest of them would hurt a great many individuals, but what he wanted was a plan which would comprehend the entire town, and not let so much as one person escape unhurt. at last he had a fortunate idea, and when it fell into his brain it lit up his whole head with an evil joy. he began to form a plan at once, saying to himself "that is the thing to do--i will corrupt the town." six months later he went to hadleyburg, and arrived in a buggy at the house of the old cashier of the bank about ten at night. he got a sack out of the buggy, shouldered it, and staggered with it through the cottage yard, and knocked at the door. a woman's voice said "come in," and he entered, and set his sack behind the stove in the parlour, saying politely to the old lady who sat reading the "missionary herald" by the lamp: "pray keep your seat, madam, i will not disturb you. there--now it is pretty well concealed; one would hardly know it was there. can i see your husband a moment, madam?" no, he was gone to brixton, and might not return before morning. "very well, madam, it is no matter. i merely wanted to leave that sack in his care, to be delivered to the rightful owner when he shall be found. i am a stranger; he does not know me; i am merely passing through the town to-night to discharge a matter which has been long in my mind. my errand is now completed, and i go pleased and a little proud, and you will never see me again. there is a paper attached to the sack which will explain everything. good-night, madam." the old lady was afraid of the mysterious big stranger, and was glad to see him go. but her curiosity was roused, and she went straight to the sack and brought away the paper. it began as follows: "to be published, or, the right man sought out by private inquiry--either will answer. this sack contains gold coin weighing a hundred and sixty pounds four ounces--" "mercy on us, and the door not locked!" mrs. richards flew to it all in a tremble and locked it, then pulled down the window-shades and stood frightened, worried, and wondering if there was anything else she could do toward making herself and the money more safe. she listened awhile for burglars, then surrendered to curiosity, and went back to the lamp and finished reading the paper: "i am a foreigner, and am presently going back to my own country, to remain there permanently. i am grateful to america for what i have received at her hands during my long stay under her flag; and to one of her citizens--a citizen of hadleyburg--i am especially grateful for a great kindness done me a year or two ago. two great kindnesses in fact. i will explain. i was a gambler. i say i was. i was a ruined gambler. i arrived in this village at night, hungry and without a penny. i asked for help--in the dark; i was ashamed to beg in the light. i begged of the right man. he gave me twenty dollars--that is to say, he gave me life, as i considered it. he also gave me fortune; for out of that money i have made myself rich at the gaming-table. and finally, a remark which he made to me has remained with me to this day, and has at last conquered me; and in conquering has saved the remnant of my morals: i shall gamble no more. now i have no idea who that man was, but i want him found, and i want him to have this money, to give away, throw away, or keep, as he pleases. it is merely my way of testifying my gratitude to him. if i could stay, i would find him myself; but no matter, he will be found. this is an honest town, an incorruptible town, and i know i can trust it without fear. this man can be identified by the remark which he made to me; i feel persuaded that he will remember it. "and now my plan is this: if you prefer to conduct the inquiry privately, do so. tell the contents of this present writing to any one who is likely to be the right man. if he shall answer, 'i am the man; the remark i made was so-and-so,' apply the test--to wit: open the sack, and in it you will find a sealed envelope containing that remark. if the remark mentioned by the candidate tallies with it, give him the money, and ask no further questions, for he is certainly the right man. "but if you shall prefer a public inquiry, then publish this present writing in the local paper--with these instructions added, to wit: thirty days from now, let the candidate appear at the town-hall at eight in the evening (friday), and hand his remark, in a sealed envelope, to the rev. mr. burgess (if he will be kind enough to act); and let mr. burgess there and then destroy the seals of the sack, open it, and see if the remark is correct: if correct, let the money be delivered, with my sincere gratitude, to my benefactor thus identified." mrs. richards sat down, gently quivering with excitement, and was soon lost in thinkings--after this pattern: "what a strange thing it is! . . . and what a fortune for that kind man who set his bread afloat upon the waters! . . . if it had only been my husband that did it!--for we are so poor, so old and poor! . . ." then, with a sigh--"but it was not my edward; no, it was not he that gave a stranger twenty dollars. it is a pity too; i see it now. . . " then, with a shudder--"but it is _gamblers_' money! the wages of sin; we couldn't take it; we couldn't touch it. i don't like to be near it; it seems a defilement." she moved to a farther chair. . . "i wish edward would come, and take it to the bank; a burglar might come at any moment; it is dreadful to be here all alone with it." at eleven mr. richards arrived, and while his wife was saying "i am _so_ glad you've come!" he was saying, "i am so tired--tired clear out; it is dreadful to be poor, and have to make these dismal journeys at my time of life. always at the grind, grind, grind, on a salary--another man's slave, and he sitting at home in his slippers, rich and comfortable." "i am so sorry for you, edward, you know that; but be comforted; we have our livelihood; we have our good name--" "yes, mary, and that is everything. don't mind my talk--it's just a moment's irritation and doesn't mean anything. kiss me--there, it's all gone now, and i am not complaining any more. what have you been getting? what's in the sack?" then his wife told him the great secret. it dazed him for a moment; then he said: "it weighs a hundred and sixty pounds? why, mary, it's for-ty thou-sand dollars--think of it--a whole fortune! not ten men in this village are worth that much. give me the paper." he skimmed through it and said: "isn't it an adventure! why, it's a romance; it's like the impossible things one reads about in books, and never sees in life." he was well stirred up now; cheerful, even gleeful. he tapped his old wife on the cheek, and said humorously, "why, we're rich, mary, rich; all we've got to do is to bury the money and burn the papers. if the gambler ever comes to inquire, we'll merely look coldly upon him and say: 'what is this nonsense you are talking? we have never heard of you and your sack of gold before;' and then he would look foolish, and--" "and in the meantime, while you are running on with your jokes, the money is still here, and it is fast getting along toward burglar-time." "true. very well, what shall we do--make the inquiry private? no, not that; it would spoil the romance. the public method is better. think what a noise it will make! and it will make all the other towns jealous; for no stranger would trust such a thing to any town but hadleyburg, and they know it. it's a great card for us. i must get to the printing-office now, or i shall be too late." "but stop--stop--don't leave me here alone with it, edward!" but he was gone. for only a little while, however. not far from his own house he met the editor--proprietor of the paper, and gave him the document, and said "here is a good thing for you, cox--put it in." "it may be too late, mr. richards, but i'll see." at home again, he and his wife sat down to talk the charming mystery over; they were in no condition for sleep. the first question was, who could the citizen have been who gave the stranger the twenty dollars? it seemed a simple one; both answered it in the same breath-- "barclay goodson." "yes," said richards, "he could have done it, and it would have been like him, but there's not another in the town." "everybody will grant that, edward--grant it privately, anyway. for six months, now, the village has been its own proper self once more--honest, narrow, self-righteous, and stingy." "it is what he always called it, to the day of his death--said it right out publicly, too." "yes, and he was hated for it." "oh, of course; but he didn't care. i reckon he was the best-hated man among us, except the reverend burgess." "well, burgess deserves it--he will never get another congregation here. mean as the town is, it knows how to estimate _him_. edward, doesn't it seem odd that the stranger should appoint burgess to deliver the money?" "well, yes--it does. that is--that is--" "why so much that-_is_-ing? would _you_ select him?" "mary, maybe the stranger knows him better than this village does." "much _that_ would help burgess!" the husband seemed perplexed for an answer; the wife kept a steady eye upon him, and waited. finally richards said, with the hesitancy of one who is making a statement which is likely to encounter doubt, "mary, burgess is not a bad man." his wife was certainly surprised. "nonsense!" she exclaimed. "he is not a bad man. i know. the whole of his unpopularity had its foundation in that one thing--the thing that made so much noise." "that 'one thing,' indeed! as if that 'one thing' wasn't enough, all by itself." "plenty. plenty. only he wasn't guilty of it." "how you talk! not guilty of it! everybody knows he _was_ guilty." "mary, i give you my word--he was innocent." "i can't believe it and i don't. how do you know?" "it is a confession. i am ashamed, but i will make it. i was the only man who knew he was innocent. i could have saved him, and--and--well, you know how the town was wrought up--i hadn't the pluck to do it. it would have turned everybody against me. i felt mean, ever so mean; ut i didn't dare; i hadn't the manliness to face that." mary looked troubled, and for a while was silent. then she said stammeringly: "i--i don't think it would have done for you to--to--one mustn't--er--public opinion--one has to be so careful--so--" it was a difficult road, and she got mired; but after a little she got started again. "it was a great pity, but--why, we couldn't afford it, edward--we couldn't indeed. oh, i wouldn't have had you do it for anything!" "it would have lost us the good-will of so many people, mary; and then--and then--" "what troubles me now is, what _he_ thinks of us, edward." "he? _he_ doesn't suspect that i could have saved him." "oh," exclaimed the wife, in a tone of relief, "i am glad of that. as long as he doesn't know that you could have saved him, he--he--well that makes it a great deal better. why, i might have known he didn't know, because he is always trying to be friendly with us, as little encouragement as we give him. more than once people have twitted me with it. there's the wilsons, and the wilcoxes, and the harknesses, they take a mean pleasure in saying '_your friend_ burgess,' because they know it pesters me. i wish he wouldn't persist in liking us so; i can't think why he keeps it up." "i can explain it. it's another confession. when the thing was new and hot, and the town made a plan to ride him on a rail, my conscience hurt me so that i couldn't stand it, and i went privately and gave him notice, and he got out of the town and stayed out till it was safe to come back." "edward! if the town had found it out--" "_don't_! it scares me yet, to think of it. i repented of it the minute it was done; and i was even afraid to tell you lest your face might betray it to somebody. i didn't sleep any that night, for worrying. but after a few days i saw that no one was going to suspect me, and after that i got to feeling glad i did it. and i feel glad yet, mary--glad through and through." "so do i, now, for it would have been a dreadful way to treat him. yes, i'm glad; for really you did owe him that, you know. but, edward, suppose it should come out yet, some day!" "it won't." "why?" "because everybody thinks it was goodson." "of course they would!" "certainly. and of course _he_ didn't care. they persuaded poor old sawlsberry to go and charge it on him, and he went blustering over there and did it. goodson looked him over, like as if he was hunting for a place on him that he could despise the most; then he says, 'so you are the committee of inquiry, are you?' sawlsberry said that was about what he was. 'h'm. do they require particulars, or do you reckon a kind of a _general_ answer will do?' 'if they require particulars, i will come back, mr. goodson; i will take the general answer first.' 'very well, then, tell them to go to hell--i reckon that's general enough. and i'll give you some advice, sawlsberry; when you come back for the particulars, fetch a basket to carry what is left of yourself home in.'" "just like goodson; it's got all the marks. he had only one vanity; he thought he could give advice better than any other person." "it settled the business, and saved us, mary. the subject was dropped." "bless you, i'm not doubting _that_." then they took up the gold-sack mystery again, with strong interest. soon the conversation began to suffer breaks--interruptions caused by absorbed thinkings. the breaks grew more and more frequent. at last richards lost himself wholly in thought. he sat long, gazing vacantly at the floor, and by-and-by he began to punctuate his thoughts with little nervous movements of his hands that seemed to indicate vexation. meantime his wife too had relapsed into a thoughtful silence, and her movements were beginning to show a troubled discomfort. finally richards got up and strode aimlessly about the room, ploughing his hands through his hair, much as a somnambulist might do who was having a bad dream. then he seemed to arrive at a definite purpose; and without a word he put on his hat and passed quickly out of the house. his wife sat brooding, with a drawn face, and did not seem to be aware that she was alone. now and then she murmured, "lead us not into t . . . but--but--we are so poor, so poor! . . . lead us not into . . . ah, who would be hurt by it?--and no one would ever know . . . lead us . . . " the voice died out in mumblings. after a little she glanced up and muttered in a half-frightened, half-glad way-- "he is gone! but, oh dear, he may be too late--too late . . . maybe not--maybe there is still time." she rose and stood thinking, nervously clasping and unclasping her hands. a slight shudder shook her frame, and she said, out of a dry throat, "god forgive me--it's awful to think such things--but . . . lord, how we are made--how strangely we are made!" she turned the light low, and slipped stealthily over and knelt down by the sack and felt of its ridgy sides with her hands, and fondled them lovingly; and there was a gloating light in her poor old eyes. she fell into fits of absence; and came half out of them at times to mutter "if we had only waited!--oh, if we had only waited a little, and not been in such a hurry!" meantime cox had gone home from his office and told his wife all about the strange thing that had happened, and they had talked it over eagerly, and guessed that the late goodson was the only man in the town who could have helped a suffering stranger with so noble a sum as twenty dollars. then there was a pause, and the two became thoughtful and silent. and by- and-by nervous and fidgety. at last the wife said, as if to herself, "nobody knows this secret but the richardses . . . and us . . . nobody." the husband came out of his thinkings with a slight start, and gazed wistfully at his wife, whose face was become very pale; then he hesitatingly rose, and glanced furtively at his hat, then at his wife--a sort of mute inquiry. mrs. cox swallowed once or twice, with her hand at her throat, then in place of speech she nodded her head. in a moment she was alone, and mumbling to herself. and now richards and cox were hurrying through the deserted streets, from opposite directions. they met, panting, at the foot of the printing-office stairs; by the night-light there they read each other's face. cox whispered: "nobody knows about this but us?" the whispered answer was: "not a soul--on honour, not a soul!" "if it isn't too late to--" the men were starting up-stairs; at this moment they were overtaken by a boy, and cox asked, "is that you, johnny?" "yes, sir." "you needn't ship the early mail--nor _any_ mail; wait till i tell you." "it's already gone, sir." "_gone_?" it had the sound of an unspeakable disappointment in it. "yes, sir. time-table for brixton and all the towns beyond changed to- day, sir--had to get the papers in twenty minutes earlier than common. i had to rush; if i had been two minutes later--" the men turned and walked slowly away, not waiting to hear the rest. neither of them spoke during ten minutes; then cox said, in a vexed tone, "what possessed you to be in such a hurry, _i_ can't make out." the answer was humble enough: "i see it now, but somehow i never thought, you know, until it was too late. but the next time--" "next time be hanged! it won't come in a thousand years." then the friends separated without a good-night, and dragged themselves home with the gait of mortally stricken men. at their homes their wives sprang up with an eager "well?"--then saw the answer with their eyes and sank down sorrowing, without waiting for it to come in words. in both houses a discussion followed of a heated sort--a new thing; there had been discussions before, but not heated ones, not ungentle ones. the discussions to-night were a sort of seeming plagiarisms of each other. mrs. richards said: "if you had only waited, edward--if you had only stopped to think; but no, you must run straight to the printing-office and spread it all over the world." "it _said_ publish it." "that is nothing; it also said do it privately, if you liked. there, now--is that true, or not?" "why, yes--yes, it is true; but when i thought what a stir it would make, and what a compliment it was to hadleyburg that a stranger should trust it so--" "oh, certainly, i know all that; but if you had only stopped to think, you would have seen that you _couldn't_ find the right man, because he is in his grave, and hasn't left chick nor child nor relation behind him; and as long as the money went to somebody that awfully needed it, and nobody would be hurt by it, and--and--" she broke down, crying. her husband tried to think of some comforting thing to say, and presently came out with this: "but after all, mary, it must be for the best--it must be; we know that. and we must remember that it was so ordered--" "ordered! oh, everything's _ordered_, when a person has to find some way out when he has been stupid. just the same, it was _ordered_ that the money should come to us in this special way, and it was you that must take it on yourself to go meddling with the designs of providence--and who gave you the right? it was wicked, that is what it was--just blasphemous presumption, and no more becoming to a meek and humble professor of--" "but, mary, you know how we have been trained all our lives long, like the whole village, till it is absolutely second nature to us to stop not a single moment to think when there's an honest thing to be done--" "oh, i know it, i know it--it's been one everlasting training and training and training in honesty--honesty shielded, from the very cradle, against every possible temptation, and so it's _artificial_ honesty, and weak as water when temptation comes, as we have seen this night. god knows i never had shade nor shadow of a doubt of my petrified and indestructible honesty until now--and now, under the very first big and real temptation, i--edward, it is my belief that this town's honesty is as rotten as mine is; as rotten as yours. it is a mean town, a hard, stingy town, and hasn't a virtue in the world but this honesty it is so celebrated for and so conceited about; and so help me, i do believe that if ever the day comes that its honesty falls under great temptation, its grand reputation will go to ruin like a house of cards. there, now, i've made confession, and i feel better; i am a humbug, and i've been one all my life, without knowing it. let no man call me honest again--i will not have it." "i--well, mary, i feel a good deal as you do: i certainly do. it seems strange, too, so strange. i never could have believed it--never." a long silence followed; both were sunk in thought. at last the wife looked up and said: "i know what you are thinking, edward." richards had the embarrassed look of a person who is caught. "i am ashamed to confess it, mary, but--" "it's no matter, edward, i was thinking the same question myself." "i hope so. state it." "you were thinking, if a body could only guess out _what the remark was_ that goodson made to the stranger." "it's perfectly true. i feel guilty and ashamed. and you?" "i'm past it. let us make a pallet here; we've got to stand watch till the bank vault opens in the morning and admits the sack. . . oh dear, oh dear--if we hadn't made the mistake!" the pallet was made, and mary said: "the open sesame--what could it have been? i do wonder what that remark could have been. but come; we will get to bed now." "and sleep?" "no; think." "yes; think." by this time the coxes too had completed their spat and their reconciliation, and were turning in--to think, to think, and toss, and fret, and worry over what the remark could possibly have been which goodson made to the stranded derelict; that golden remark; that remark worth forty thousand dollars, cash. the reason that the village telegraph-office was open later than usual that night was this: the foreman of cox's paper was the local representative of the associated press. one might say its honorary representative, for it wasn't four times a year that he could furnish thirty words that would be accepted. but this time it was different. his despatch stating what he had caught got an instant answer: "send the whole thing--all the details--twelve hundred words." a colossal order! the foreman filled the bill; and he was the proudest man in the state. by breakfast-time the next morning the name of hadleyburg the incorruptible was on every lip in america, from montreal to the gulf, from the glaciers of alaska to the orange-groves of florida; and millions and millions of people were discussing the stranger and his money-sack, and wondering if the right man would be found, and hoping some more news about the matter would come soon--right away. ii. hadleyburg village woke up world-celebrated--astonished--happy--vain. vain beyond imagination. its nineteen principal citizens and their wives went about shaking hands with each other, and beaming, and smiling, and congratulating, and saying _this_ thing adds a new word to the dictionary--_hadleyburg_, synonym for _incorruptible_--destined to live in dictionaries for ever! and the minor and unimportant citizens and their wives went around acting in much the same way. everybody ran to the bank to see the gold-sack; and before noon grieved and envious crowds began to flock in from brixton and all neighbouring towns; and that afternoon and next day reporters began to arrive from everywhere to verify the sack and its history and write the whole thing up anew, and make dashing free-hand pictures of the sack, and of richards's house, and the bank, and the presbyterian church, and the baptist church, and the public square, and the town-hall where the test would be applied and the money delivered; and damnable portraits of the richardses, and pinkerton the banker, and cox, and the foreman, and reverend burgess, and the postmaster--and even of jack halliday, who was the loafing, good-natured, no-account, irreverent fisherman, hunter, boys' friend, stray-dogs' friend, typical "sam lawson" of the town. the little mean, smirking, oily pinkerton showed the sack to all comers, and rubbed his sleek palms together pleasantly, and enlarged upon the town's fine old reputation for honesty and upon this wonderful endorsement of it, and hoped and believed that the example would now spread far and wide over the american world, and be epoch-making in the matter of moral regeneration. and so on, and so on. by the end of a week things had quieted down again; the wild intoxication of pride and joy had sobered to a soft, sweet, silent delight--a sort of deep, nameless, unutterable content. all faces bore a look of peaceful, holy happiness. then a change came. it was a gradual change; so gradual that its beginnings were hardly noticed; maybe were not noticed at all, except by jack halliday, who always noticed everything; and always made fun of it, too, no matter what it was. he began to throw out chaffing remarks about people not looking quite so happy as they did a day or two ago; and next he claimed that the new aspect was deepening to positive sadness; next, that it was taking on a sick look; and finally he said that everybody was become so moody, thoughtful, and absent-minded that he could rob the meanest man in town of a cent out of the bottom of his breeches pocket and not disturb his reverie. at this stage--or at about this stage--a saying like this was dropped at bedtime--with a sigh, usually--by the head of each of the nineteen principal households: "ah, what _could_ have been the remark that goodson made?" and straightway--with a shudder--came this, from the man's wife: "oh, _don't_! what horrible thing are you mulling in your mind? put it away from you, for god's sake!" but that question was wrung from those men again the next night--and got the same retort. but weaker. and the third night the men uttered the question yet again--with anguish, and absently. this time--and the following night--the wives fidgeted feebly, and tried to say something. but didn't. and the night after that they found their tongues and responded--longingly: "oh, if we _could_ only guess!" halliday's comments grew daily more and more sparklingly disagreeable and disparaging. he went diligently about, laughing at the town, individually and in mass. but his laugh was the only one left in the village: it fell upon a hollow and mournful vacancy and emptiness. not even a smile was findable anywhere. halliday carried a cigar-box around on a tripod, playing that it was a camera, and halted all passers and aimed the thing and said "ready!--now look pleasant, please," but not even this capital joke could surprise the dreary faces into any softening. so three weeks passed--one week was left. it was saturday evening after supper. instead of the aforetime saturday-evening flutter and bustle and shopping and larking, the streets were empty and desolate. richards and his old wife sat apart in their little parlour--miserable and thinking. this was become their evening habit now: the life-long habit which had preceded it, of reading, knitting, and contented chat, or receiving or paying neighbourly calls, was dead and gone and forgotten, ages ago--two or three weeks ago; nobody talked now, nobody read, nobody visited--the whole village sat at home, sighing, worrying, silent. trying to guess out that remark. the postman left a letter. richards glanced listlessly at the superscription and the post-mark--unfamiliar, both--and tossed the letter on the table and resumed his might-have-beens and his hopeless dull miseries where he had left them off. two or three hours later his wife got wearily up and was going away to bed without a good-night--custom now--but she stopped near the letter and eyed it awhile with a dead interest, then broke it open, and began to skim it over. richards, sitting there with his chair tilted back against the wall and his chin between his knees, heard something fall. it was his wife. he sprang to her side, but she cried out: "leave me alone, i am too happy. read the letter--read it!" he did. he devoured it, his brain reeling. the letter was from a distant state, and it said: "i am a stranger to you, but no matter: i have something to tell. i have just arrived home from mexico, and learned about that episode. of course you do not know who made that remark, but i know, and i am the only person living who does know. it was goodson. i knew him well, many years ago. i passed through your village that very night, and was his guest till the midnight train came along. i overheard him make that remark to the stranger in the dark--it was in hale alley. he and i talked of it the rest of the way home, and while smoking in his house. he mentioned many of your villagers in the course of his talk--most of them in a very uncomplimentary way, but two or three favourably: among these latter yourself. i say 'favourably'--nothing stronger. i remember his saying he did not actually like any person in the town--not one; but that you--i think he said you--am almost sure--had done him a very great service once, possibly without knowing the full value of it, and he wished he had a fortune, he would leave it to you when he died, and a curse apiece for the rest of the citizens. now, then, if it was you that did him that service, you are his legitimate heir, and entitled to the sack of gold. i know that i can trust to your honour and honesty, for in a citizen of hadleyburg these virtues are an unfailing inheritance, and so i am going to reveal to you the remark, well satisfied that if you are not the right man you will seek and find the right one and see that poor goodson's debt of gratitude for the service referred to is paid. this is the remark 'you are far from being a bad man: go, and reform.' "howard l. stephenson." "oh, edward, the money is ours, and i am so grateful, _oh_, so grateful,--kiss me, dear, it's for ever since we kissed--and we needed it so--the money--and now you are free of pinkerton and his bank, and nobody's slave any more; it seems to me i could fly for joy." it was a happy half-hour that the couple spent there on the settee caressing each other; it was the old days come again--days that had begun with their courtship and lasted without a break till the stranger brought the deadly money. by-and-by the wife said: "oh, edward, how lucky it was you did him that grand service, poor goodson! i never liked him, but i love him now. and it was fine and beautiful of you never to mention it or brag about it." then, with a touch of reproach, "but you ought to have told _me_, edward, you ought to have told your wife, you know." "well, i--er--well, mary, you see--" "now stop hemming and hawing, and tell me about it, edward. i always loved you, and now i'm proud of you. everybody believes there was only one good generous soul in this village, and now it turns out that you--edward, why don't you tell me?" "well--er--er--why, mary, i can't!" "you _can't_? _why_ can't you?" "you see, he--well, he--he made me promise i wouldn't." the wife looked him over, and said, very slowly: "made--you--promise? edward, what do you tell me that for?" "mary, do you think i would lie?" she was troubled and silent for a moment, then she laid her hand within his and said: "no . . . no. we have wandered far enough from our bearings--god spare us that! in all your life you have never uttered a lie. but now--now that the foundations of things seem to be crumbling from under us, we--we--" she lost her voice for a moment, then said, brokenly, "lead us not into temptation. . . i think you made the promise, edward. let it rest so. let us keep away from that ground. now--that is all gone by; let us he happy again; it is no time for clouds." edward found it something of an effort to comply, for his mind kept wandering--trying to remember what the service was that he had done goodson. the couple lay awake the most of the night, mary happy and busy, edward busy, but not so happy. mary was planning what she would do with the money. edward was trying to recall that service. at first his conscience was sore on account of the lie he had told mary--if it was a lie. after much reflection--suppose it _was_ a lie? what then? was it such a great matter? aren't we always _acting_ lies? then why not tell them? look at mary--look what she had done. while he was hurrying off on his honest errand, what was she doing? lamenting because the papers hadn't been destroyed and the money kept. is theft better than lying? _that_ point lost its sting--the lie dropped into the background and left comfort behind it. the next point came to the front: _had_ he rendered that service? well, here was goodson's own evidence as reported in stephenson's letter; there could be no better evidence than that--it was even _proof_ that he had rendered it. of course. so that point was settled. . . no, not quite. he recalled with a wince that this unknown mr. stephenson was just a trifle unsure as to whether the performer of it was richards or some other--and, oh dear, he had put richards on his honour! he must himself decide whither that money must go--and mr. stephenson was not doubting that if he was the wrong man he would go honourably and find the right one. oh, it was odious to put a man in such a situation--ah, why couldn't stephenson have left out that doubt? what did he want to intrude that for? further reflection. how did it happen that _richards's_ name remained in stephenson's mind as indicating the right man, and not some other man's name? that looked good. yes, that looked very good. in fact it went on looking better and better, straight along--until by-and-by it grew into positive _proof_. and then richards put the matter at once out of his mind, for he had a private instinct that a proof once established is better left so. he was feeling reasonably comfortable now, but there was still one other detail that kept pushing itself on his notice: of course he had done that service--that was settled; but what _was_ that service? he must recall it--he would not go to sleep till he had recalled it; it would make his peace of mind perfect. and so he thought and thought. he thought of a dozen things--possible services, even probable services--but none of them seemed adequate, none of them seemed large enough, none of them seemed worth the money--worth the fortune goodson had wished he could leave in his will. and besides, he couldn't remember having done them, anyway. now, then--now, then--what _kind_ of a service would it be that would make a man so inordinately grateful? ah--the saving of his soul! that must be it. yes, he could remember, now, how he once set himself the task of converting goodson, and laboured at it as much as--he was going to say three months; but upon closer examination it shrunk to a month, then to a week, then to a day, then to nothing. yes, he remembered now, and with unwelcome vividness, that goodson had told him to go to thunder and mind his own business--_he_ wasn't hankering to follow hadleyburg to heaven! so that solution was a failure--he hadn't saved goodson's soul. richards was discouraged. then after a little came another idea: had he saved goodson's property? no, that wouldn't do--he hadn't any. his life? that is it! of course. why, he might have thought of it before. this time he was on the right track, sure. his imagination-mill was hard at work in a minute, now. thereafter, during a stretch of two exhausting hours, he was busy saving goodson's life. he saved it in all kinds of difficult and perilous ways. in every case he got it saved satisfactorily up to a certain point; then, just as he was beginning to get well persuaded that it had really happened, a troublesome detail would turn up which made the whole thing impossible. as in the matter of drowning, for instance. in that case he had swum out and tugged goodson ashore in an unconscious state with a great crowd looking on and applauding, but when he had got it all thought out and was just beginning to remember all about it, a whole swarm of disqualifying details arrived on the ground: the town would have known of the circumstance, mary would have known of it, it would glare like a limelight in his own memory instead of being an inconspicuous service which he had possibly rendered "without knowing its full value." and at this point he remembered that he couldn't swim anyway. ah--_there_ was a point which he had been overlooking from the start: it had to be a service which he had rendered "possibly without knowing the full value of it." why, really, that ought to be an easy hunt--much easier than those others. and sure enough, by-and-by he found it. goodson, years and years ago, came near marrying a very sweet and pretty girl, named nancy hewitt, but in some way or other the match had been broken off; the girl died, goodson remained a bachelor, and by-and-by became a soured one and a frank despiser of the human species. soon after the girl's death the village found out, or thought it had found out, that she carried a spoonful of negro blood in her veins. richards worked at these details a good while, and in the end he thought he remembered things concerning them which must have gotten mislaid in his memory through long neglect. he seemed to dimly remember that it was _he_ that found out about the negro blood; that it was he that told the village; that the village told goodson where they got it; that he thus saved goodson from marrying the tainted girl; that he had done him this great service "without knowing the full value of it," in fact without knowing that he _was_ doing it; but that goodson knew the value of it, and what a narrow escape he had had, and so went to his grave grateful to his benefactor and wishing he had a fortune to leave him. it was all clear and simple, now, and the more he went over it the more luminous and certain it grew; and at last, when he nestled to sleep, satisfied and happy, he remembered the whole thing just as if it had been yesterday. in fact, he dimly remembered goodson's _telling_ him his gratitude once. meantime mary had spent six thousand dollars on a new house for herself and a pair of slippers for her pastor, and then had fallen peacefully to rest. that same saturday evening the postman had delivered a letter to each of the other principal citizens--nineteen letters in all. no two of the envelopes were alike, and no two of the superscriptions were in the same hand, but the letters inside were just like each other in every detail but one. they were exact copies of the letter received by richards--handwriting and all--and were all signed by stephenson, but in place of richards's name each receiver's own name appeared. all night long eighteen principal citizens did what their caste-brother richards was doing at the same time--they put in their energies trying to remember what notable service it was that they had unconsciously done barclay goodson. in no case was it a holiday job; still they succeeded. and while they were at this work, which was difficult, their wives put in the night spending the money, which was easy. during that one night the nineteen wives spent an average of seven thousand dollars each out of the forty thousand in the sack--a hundred and thirty-three thousand altogether. next day there was a surprise for jack halliday. he noticed that the faces of the nineteen chief citizens and their wives bore that expression of peaceful and holy happiness again. he could not understand it, neither was he able to invent any remarks about it that could damage it or disturb it. and so it was his turn to be dissatisfied with life. his private guesses at the reasons for the happiness failed in all instances, upon examination. when he met mrs. wilcox and noticed the placid ecstasy in her face, he said to himself, "her cat has had kittens"--and went and asked the cook; it was not so, the cook had detected the happiness, but did not know the cause. when halliday found the duplicate ecstasy in the face of "shadbelly" billson (village nickname), he was sure some neighbour of billson's had broken his leg, but inquiry showed that this had not happened. the subdued ecstasy in gregory yates's face could mean but one thing--he was a mother-in-law short; it was another mistake. "and pinkerton--pinkerton--he has collected ten cents that he thought he was going to lose." and so on, and so on. in some cases the guesses had to remain in doubt, in the others they proved distinct errors. in the end halliday said to himself, "anyway it roots up that there's nineteen hadleyburg families temporarily in heaven: i don't know how it happened; i only know providence is off duty to-day." an architect and builder from the next state had lately ventured to set up a small business in this unpromising village, and his sign had now been hanging out a week. not a customer yet; he was a discouraged man, and sorry he had come. but his weather changed suddenly now. first one and then another chief citizen's wife said to him privately: "come to my house monday week--but say nothing about it for the present. we think of building." he got eleven invitations that day. that night he wrote his daughter and broke off her match with her student. he said she could marry a mile higher than that. pinkerton the banker and two or three other well-to-do men planned country-seats--but waited. that kind don't count their chickens until they are hatched. the wilsons devised a grand new thing--a fancy-dress ball. they made no actual promises, but told all their acquaintanceship in confidence that they were thinking the matter over and thought they should give it--"and if we do, you will be invited, of course." people were surprised, and said, one to another, "why, they are crazy, those poor wilsons, they can't afford it." several among the nineteen said privately to their husbands, "it is a good idea, we will keep still till their cheap thing is over, then _we_ will give one that will make it sick." the days drifted along, and the bill of future squanderings rose higher and higher, wilder and wilder, more and more foolish and reckless. it began to look as if every member of the nineteen would not only spend his whole forty thousand dollars before receiving-day, but be actually in debt by the time he got the money. in some cases light-headed people did not stop with planning to spend, they really spent--on credit. they bought land, mortgages, farms, speculative stocks, fine clothes, horses, and various other things, paid down the bonus, and made themselves liable for the rest--at ten days. presently the sober second thought came, and halliday noticed that a ghastly anxiety was beginning to show up in a good many faces. again he was puzzled, and didn't know what to make of it. "the wilcox kittens aren't dead, for they weren't born; nobody's broken a leg; there's no shrinkage in mother-in-laws; _nothing_ has happened--it is an insolvable mystery." there was another puzzled man, too--the rev. mr. burgess. for days, wherever he went, people seemed to follow him or to be watching out for him; and if he ever found himself in a retired spot, a member of the nineteen would be sure to appear, thrust an envelope privately into his hand, whisper "to be opened at the town-hall friday evening," then vanish away like a guilty thing. he was expecting that there might be one claimant for the sack--doubtful, however, goodson being dead--but it never occurred to him that all this crowd might be claimants. when the great friday came at last, he found that he had nineteen envelopes. iii. the town-hall had never looked finer. the platform at the end of it was backed by a showy draping of flags; at intervals along the walls were festoons of flags; the gallery fronts were clothed in flags; the supporting columns were swathed in flags; all this was to impress the stranger, for he would be there in considerable force, and in a large degree he would be connected with the press. the house was full. the fixed seats were occupied; also the extra chairs which had been packed into the aisles; the steps of the platform were occupied; some distinguished strangers were given seats on the platform; at the horseshoe of tables which fenced the front and sides of the platform sat a strong force of special correspondents who had come from everywhere. it was the best-dressed house the town had ever produced. there were some tolerably expensive toilets there, and in several cases the ladies who wore them had the look of being unfamiliar with that kind of clothes. at least the town thought they had that look, but the notion could have arisen from the town's knowledge of the fact that these ladies had never inhabited such clothes before. the gold-sack stood on a little table at the front of the platform where all the house could see it. the bulk of the house gazed at it with a burning interest, a mouth-watering interest, a wistful and pathetic interest; a minority of nineteen couples gazed at it tenderly, lovingly, proprietarily, and the male half of this minority kept saying over to themselves the moving little impromptu speeches of thankfulness for the audience's applause and congratulations which they were presently going to get up and deliver. every now and then one of these got a piece of paper out of his vest pocket and privately glanced at it to refresh his memory. of course there was a buzz of conversation going on--there always is; but at last, when the rev. mr. burgess rose and laid his hand on the sack, he could hear his microbes gnaw, the place was so still. he related the curious history of the sack, then went on to speak in warm terms of hadleyburg's old and well-earned reputation for spotless honesty, and of the town's just pride in this reputation. he said that this reputation was a treasure of priceless value; that under providence its value had now become inestimably enhanced, for the recent episode had spread this fame far and wide, and thus had focussed the eyes of the american world upon this village, and made its name for all time, as he hoped and believed, a synonym for commercial incorruptibility. [applause.] "and who is to be the guardian of this noble fame--the community as a whole? no! the responsibility is individual, not communal. from this day forth each and every one of you is in his own person its special guardian, and individually responsible that no harm shall come to it. do you--does each of you--accept this great trust? [tumultuous assent.] then all is well. transmit it to your children and to your children's children. to- day your purity is beyond reproach--see to it that it shall remain so. to- day there is not a person in your community who could be beguiled to touch a penny not his own--see to it that you abide in this grace. ["we will! we will!"] this is not the place to make comparisons between ourselves and other communities--some of them ungracious towards us; they have their ways, we have ours; let us be content. [applause.] i am done. under my hand, my friends, rests a stranger's eloquent recognition of what we are; through him the world will always henceforth know what we are. we do not know who he is, but in your name i utter your gratitude, and ask you to raise your voices in indorsement." the house rose in a body and made the walls quake with the thunders of its thankfulness for the space of a long minute. then it sat down, and mr. burgess took an envelope out of his pocket. the house held its breath while he slit the envelope open and took from it a slip of paper. he read its contents--slowly and impressively--the audience listening with tranced attention to this magic document, each of whose words stood for an ingot of gold: "'the remark which i made to the distressed stranger was this: "you are very far from being a bad man; go, and reform."'" then he continued:--"we shall know in a moment now whether the remark here quoted corresponds with the one concealed in the sack; and if that shall prove to be so--and it undoubtedly will--this sack of gold belongs to a fellow-citizen who will henceforth stand before the nation as the symbol of the special virtue which has made our town famous throughout the land--mr. billson!" the house had gotten itself all ready to burst into the proper tornado of applause; but instead of doing it, it seemed stricken with a paralysis; there was a deep hush for a moment or two, then a wave of whispered murmurs swept the place--of about this tenor: "_billson_! oh, come, this is _too_ thin! twenty dollars to a stranger--or _anybody_--_billson_! tell it to the marines!" and now at this point the house caught its breath all of a sudden in a new access of astonishment, for it discovered that whereas in one part of the hall deacon billson was standing up with his head weekly bowed, in another part of it lawyer wilson was doing the same. there was a wondering silence now for a while. everybody was puzzled, and nineteen couples were surprised and indignant. billson and wilson turned and stared at each other. billson asked, bitingly: "why do _you_ rise, mr. wilson?" "because i have a right to. perhaps you will be good enough to explain to the house why _you_ rise." "with great pleasure. because i wrote that paper." "it is an impudent falsity! i wrote it myself." it was burgess's turn to be paralysed. he stood looking vacantly at first one of the men and then the other, and did not seem to know what to do. the house was stupefied. lawyer wilson spoke up now, and said: "i ask the chair to read the name signed to that paper." that brought the chair to itself, and it read out the name: "john wharton _billson_." "there!" shouted billson, "what have you got to say for yourself now? and what kind of apology are you going to make to me and to this insulted house for the imposture which you have attempted to play here?" "no apologies are due, sir; and as for the rest of it, i publicly charge you with pilfering my note from mr. burgess and substituting a copy of it signed with your own name. there is no other way by which you could have gotten hold of the test-remark; i alone, of living men, possessed the secret of its wording." there was likely to be a scandalous state of things if this went on; everybody noticed with distress that the shorthand scribes were scribbling like mad; many people were crying "chair, chair! order! order!" burgess rapped with his gavel, and said: "let us not forget the proprieties due. there has evidently been a mistake somewhere, but surely that is all. if mr. wilson gave me an envelope--and i remember now that he did--i still have it." he took one out of his pocket, opened it, glanced at it, looked surprised and worried, and stood silent a few moments. then he waved his hand in a wandering and mechanical way, and made an effort or two to say something, then gave it up, despondently. several voices cried out: "read it! read it! what is it?" so he began, in a dazed and sleep-walker fashion: "'the remark which i made to the unhappy stranger was this: "you are far from being a bad man. [the house gazed at him marvelling.] go, and reform."' [murmurs: "amazing! what can this mean?"] this one," said the chair, "is signed thurlow g. wilson." "there!" cried wilson, "i reckon that settles it! i knew perfectly well my note was purloined." "purloined!" retorted billson. "i'll let you know that neither you nor any man of your kidney must venture to--" the chair: "order, gentlemen, order! take your seats, both of you, please." they obeyed, shaking their heads and grumbling angrily. the house was profoundly puzzled; it did not know what to do with this curious emergency. presently thompson got up. thompson was the hatter. he would have liked to be a nineteener; but such was not for him; his stock of hats was not considerable enough for the position. he said: "mr. chairman, if i may be permitted to make a suggestion, can both of these gentlemen be right? i put it to you, sir, can both have happened to say the very same words to the stranger? it seems to me--" the tanner got up and interrupted him. the tanner was a disgruntled man; he believed himself entitled to be a nineteener, but he couldn't get recognition. it made him a little unpleasant in his ways and speech. said he: "sho, _that's_ not the point! _that_ could happen--twice in a hundred years--but not the other thing. _neither_ of them gave the twenty dollars!" [a ripple of applause.] billson. "i did!" wilson. "i did!" then each accused the other of pilfering. the chair. "order! sit down, if you please--both of you. neither of the notes has been out of my possession at any moment." a voice. "good--that settles _that_!" the tanner. "mr. chairman, one thing is now plain: one of these men has been eavesdropping under the other one's bed, and filching family secrets. if it is not unparliamentary to suggest it, i will remark that both are equal to it. [the chair. "order! order!"] i withdraw the remark, sir, and will confine myself to suggesting that _if_ one of them has overheard the other reveal the test-remark to his wife, we shall catch him now." a voice. "how?" the tanner. "easily. the two have not quoted the remark in exactly the same words. you would have noticed that, if there hadn't been a considerable stretch of time and an exciting quarrel inserted between the two readings." a voice. "name the difference." the tanner. "the word _very_ is in billson's note, and not in the other." many voices. "that's so--he's right!" the tanner. "and so, if the chair will examine the test-remark in the sack, we shall know which of these two frauds--[the chair. "order!"]--which of these two adventurers--[the chair. "order! order!"]--which of these two gentlemen--[laughter and applause]--is entitled to wear the belt as being the first dishonest blatherskite ever bred in this town--which he has dishonoured, and which will be a sultry place for him from now out!" [vigorous applause.] many voices. "open it!--open the sack!" mr. burgess made a slit in the sack, slid his hand in, and brought out an envelope. in it were a couple of folded notes. he said: "one of these is marked, 'not to be examined until all written communications which have been addressed to the chair--if any--shall have been read.' the other is marked '_the test_.' allow me. it is worded--to wit: "'i do not require that the first half of the remark which was made to me by my benefactor shall be quoted with exactness, for it was not striking, and could be forgotten; but its closing fifteen words are quite striking, and i think easily rememberable; unless _these_ shall be accurately reproduced, let the applicant be regarded as an impostor. my benefactor began by saying he seldom gave advice to anyone, but that it always bore the hall-mark of high value when he did give it. then he said this--and it has never faded from my memory: '_you are far from being a bad man_--''" fifty voices. "that settles it--the money's wilson's! wilson! wilson! speech! speech!" people jumped up and crowded around wilson, wringing his hand and congratulating fervently--meantime the chair was hammering with the gavel and shouting: "order, gentlemen! order! order! let me finish reading, please." when quiet was restored, the reading was resumed--as follows: "'_go, and reform--or, mark my words--some day, for your sins you will die and go to hell or hadleyburg_--try and make it the former.'" a ghastly silence followed. first an angry cloud began to settle darkly upon the faces of the citizenship; after a pause the cloud began to rise, and a tickled expression tried to take its place; tried so hard that it was only kept under with great and painful difficulty; the reporters, the brixtonites, and other strangers bent their heads down and shielded their faces with their hands, and managed to hold in by main strength and heroic courtesy. at this most inopportune time burst upon the stillness the roar of a solitary voice--jack halliday's: "_that's_ got the hall-mark on it!" then the house let go, strangers and all. even mr. burgess's gravity broke down presently, then the audience considered itself officially absolved from all restraint, and it made the most of its privilege. it was a good long laugh, and a tempestuously wholehearted one, but it ceased at last--long enough for mr. burgess to try to resume, and for the people to get their eyes partially wiped; then it broke out again, and afterward yet again; then at last burgess was able to get out these serious words: "it is useless to try to disguise the fact--we find ourselves in the presence of a matter of grave import. it involves the honour of your town--it strikes at the town's good name. the difference of a single word between the test-remarks offered by mr. wilson and mr. billson was itself a serious thing, since it indicated that one or the other of these gentlemen had committed a theft--" the two men were sitting limp, nerveless, crushed; but at these words both were electrified into movement, and started to get up. "sit down!" said the chair, sharply, and they obeyed. "that, as i have said, was a serious thing. and it was--but for only one of them. but the matter has become graver; for the honour of _both_ is now in formidable peril. shall i go even further, and say in inextricable peril? _both_ left out the crucial fifteen words." he paused. during several moments he allowed the pervading stillness to gather and deepen its impressive effects, then added: "there would seem to be but one way whereby this could happen. i ask these gentlemen--was there _collusion_?--_agreement_?" a low murmur sifted through the house; its import was, "he's got them both." billson was not used to emergencies; he sat in a helpless collapse. but wilson was a lawyer. he struggled to his feet, pale and worried, and said: "i ask the indulgence of the house while i explain this most painful matter. i am sorry to say what i am about to say, since it must inflict irreparable injury upon mr. billson, whom i have always esteemed and respected until now, and in whose invulnerability to temptation i entirely believed--as did you all. but for the preservation of my own honour i must speak--and with frankness. i confess with shame--and i now beseech your pardon for it--that i said to the ruined stranger all of the words contained in the test-remark, including the disparaging fifteen. [sensation.] when the late publication was made i recalled them, and i resolved to claim the sack of coin, for by every right i was entitled to it. now i will ask you to consider this point, and weigh it well; that stranger's gratitude to me that night knew no bounds; he said himself that he could find no words for it that were adequate, and that if he should ever be able he would repay me a thousandfold. now, then, i ask you this; could i expect--could i believe--could i even remotely imagine--that, feeling as he did, he would do so ungrateful a thing as to add those quite unnecessary fifteen words to his test?--set a trap for me?--expose me as a slanderer of my own town before my own people assembled in a public hall? it was preposterous; it was impossible. his test would contain only the kindly opening clause of my remark. of that i had no shadow of doubt. you would have thought as i did. you would not have expected a base betrayal from one whom you had befriended and against whom you had committed no offence. and so with perfect confidence, perfect trust, i wrote on a piece of paper the opening words--ending with "go, and reform,"--and signed it. when i was about to put it in an envelope i was called into my back office, and without thinking i left the paper lying open on my desk." he stopped, turned his head slowly toward billson, waited a moment, then added: "i ask you to note this; when i returned, a little latter, mr. billson was retiring by my street door." [sensation.] in a moment billson was on his feet and shouting: "it's a lie! it's an infamous lie!" the chair. "be seated, sir! mr. wilson has the floor." billson's friends pulled him into his seat and quieted him, and wilson went on: "those are the simple facts. my note was now lying in a different place on the table from where i had left it. i noticed that, but attached no importance to it, thinking a draught had blown it there. that mr. billson would read a private paper was a thing which could not occur to me; he was an honourable man, and he would be above that. if you will allow me to say it, i think his extra word '_very_' stands explained: it is attributable to a defect of memory. i was the only man in the world who could furnish here any detail of the test-mark--by _honourable_ means. i have finished." there is nothing in the world like a persuasive speech to fuddle the mental apparatus and upset the convictions and debauch the emotions of an audience not practised in the tricks and delusions of oratory. wilson sat down victorious. the house submerged him in tides of approving applause; friends swarmed to him and shook him by the hand and congratulated him, and billson was shouted down and not allowed to say a word. the chair hammered and hammered with its gavel, and kept shouting: "but let us proceed, gentlemen, let us proceed!" at last there was a measurable degree of quiet, and the hatter said: "but what is there to proceed with, sir, but to deliver the money?" voices. "that's it! that's it! come forward, wilson!" the hatter. "i move three cheers for mr. wilson, symbol of the special virtue which--" the cheers burst forth before he could finish; and in the midst of them--and in the midst of the clamour of the gavel also--some enthusiasts mounted wilson on a big friend's shoulder and were going to fetch him in triumph to the platform. the chair's voice now rose above the noise: "order! to your places! you forget that there is still a document to be read." when quiet had been restored he took up the document, and was going to read it, but laid it down again saying "i forgot; this is not to be read until all written communications received by me have first been read." he took an envelope out of his pocket, removed its enclosure, glanced at it--seemed astonished--held it out and gazed at it--stared at it. twenty or thirty voices cried out "what is it? read it! read it!" and he did--slowly, and wondering: "'the remark which i made to the stranger--[voices. "hello! how's this?"]--was this: 'you are far from being a bad man. [voices. "great scott!"] go, and reform.'" [voice. "oh, saw my leg off!"] signed by mr. pinkerton the banker." the pandemonium of delight which turned itself loose now was of a sort to make the judicious weep. those whose withers were unwrung laughed till the tears ran down; the reporters, in throes of laughter, set down disordered pot-hooks which would never in the world be decipherable; and a sleeping dog jumped up scared out of its wits, and barked itself crazy at the turmoil. all manner of cries were scattered through the din: "we're getting rich--_two_ symbols of incorruptibility!--without counting billson!" "_three_!--count shadbelly in--we can't have too many!" "all right--billson's elected!" "alas, poor wilson! victim of _two_ thieves!" a powerful voice. "silence! the chair's fished up something more out of its pocket." voices. "hurrah! is it something fresh? read it! read! read!" the chair [reading]. "'the remark which i made,' etc. 'you are far from being a bad man. go,' etc. signed, 'gregory yates.'" tornado of voices. "four symbols!" "'rah for yates!" "fish again!" the house was in a roaring humour now, and ready to get all the fun out of the occasion that might be in it. several nineteeners, looking pale and distressed, got up and began to work their way towards the aisles, but a score of shouts went up: "the doors, the doors--close the doors; no incorruptible shall leave this place! sit down, everybody!" the mandate was obeyed. "fish again! read! read!" the chair fished again, and once more the familiar words began to fall from its lips--"'you are far from being a bad man--'" "name! name! what's his name?" "'l. ingoldsby sargent.'" "five elected! pile up the symbols! go on, go on!" "'you are far from being a bad--'" "name! name!" "'nicholas whitworth.'" "hooray! hooray! it's a symbolical day!" somebody wailed in, and began to sing this rhyme (leaving out "it's") to the lovely "mikado" tune of "when a man's afraid of a beautiful maid;" the audience joined in, with joy; then, just in time, somebody contributed another line-- "and don't you this forget--" the house roared it out. a third line was at once furnished-- "corruptibles far from hadleyburg are--" the house roared that one too. as the last note died, jack halliday's voice rose high and clear, freighted with a final line-- "but the symbols are here, you bet!" that was sung, with booming enthusiasm. then the happy house started in at the beginning and sang the four lines through twice, with immense swing and dash, and finished up with a crashing three-times-three and a tiger for "hadleyburg the incorruptible and all symbols of it which we shall find worthy to receive the hall-mark to-night." then the shoutings at the chair began again, all over the place: "go on! go on! read! read some more! read all you've got!" "that's it--go on! we are winning eternal celebrity!" a dozen men got up now and began to protest. they said that this farce was the work of some abandoned joker, and was an insult to the whole community. without a doubt these signatures were all forgeries-- "sit down! sit down! shut up! you are confessing. we'll find your names in the lot." "mr. chairman, how many of those envelopes have you got?" the chair counted. "together with those that have been already examined, there are nineteen." a storm of derisive applause broke out. "perhaps they all contain the secret. i move that you open them all and read every signature that is attached to a note of that sort--and read also the first eight words of the note." "second the motion!" it was put and carried--uproariously. then poor old richards got up, and his wife rose and stood at his side. her head was bent down, so that none might see that she was crying. her husband gave her his arm, and so supporting her, he began to speak in a quavering voice: "my friends, you have known us two--mary and me--all our lives, and i think you have liked us and respected us--" the chair interrupted him: "allow me. it is quite true--that which you are saying, mr. richards; this town _does_ know you two; it _does_ like you; it _does_ respect you; more--it honours you and _loves_ you--" halliday's voice rang out: "that's the hall-marked truth, too! if the chair is right, let the house speak up and say it. rise! now, then--hip! hip! hip!--all together!" the house rose in mass, faced toward the old couple eagerly, filled the air with a snow-storm of waving handkerchiefs, and delivered the cheers with all its affectionate heart. the chair then continued: "what i was going to say is this: we know your good heart, mr. richards, but this is not a time for the exercise of charity toward offenders. [shouts of "right! right!"] i see your generous purpose in your face, but i cannot allow you to plead for these men--" "but i was going to--" "please take your seat, mr. richards. we must examine the rest of these notes--simple fairness to the men who have already been exposed requires this. as soon as that has been done--i give you my word for this--you shall he heard." many voices. "right!--the chair is right--no interruption can be permitted at this stage! go on!--the names! the names!--according to the terms of the motion!" the old couple sat reluctantly down, and the husband whispered to the wife, "it is pitifully hard to have to wait; the shame will be greater than ever when they find we were only going to plead for _ourselves_." straightway the jollity broke loose again with the reading of the names. "'you are far from being a bad man--' signature, 'robert j. titmarsh.'" '"you are far from being a bad man--' signature, 'eliphalet weeks.'" "'you are far from being a bad man--' signature, 'oscar b. wilder.'" at this point the house lit upon the idea of taking the eight words out of the chairman's hands. he was not unthankful for that. thenceforward he held up each note in its turn and waited. the house droned out the eight words in a massed and measured and musical deep volume of sound (with a daringly close resemblance to a well-known church chant)--"you are f-a-r from being a b-a-a-a-d man." then the chair said, "signature, 'archibald wilcox.'" and so on, and so on, name after name, and everybody had an increasingly and gloriously good time except the wretched nineteen. now and then, when a particularly shining name was called, the house made the chair wait while it chanted the whole of the test-remark from the beginning to the closing words, "and go to hell or hadleyburg--try and make it the for-or-m-e-r!" and in these special cases they added a grand and agonised and imposing "a-a-a-a-_men_!" the list dwindled, dwindled, dwindled, poor old richards keeping tally of the count, wincing when a name resembling his own was pronounced, and waiting in miserable suspense for the time to come when it would be his humiliating privilege to rise with mary and finish his plea, which he was intending to word thus: ". . . for until now we have never done any wrong thing, but have gone our humble way unreproached. we are very poor, we are old, and, have no chick nor child to help us; we were sorely tempted, and we fell. it was my purpose when i got up before to make confession and beg that my name might not be read out in this public place, for it seemed to us that we could not bear it; but i was prevented. it was just; it was our place to suffer with the rest. it has been hard for us. it is the first time we have ever heard our name fall from any one's lips--sullied. be merciful--for the sake or the better days; make our shame as light to bear as in your charity you can." at this point in his reverie mary nudged him, perceiving that his mind was absent. the house was chanting, "you are f-a-r," etc. "be ready," mary whispered. "your name comes now; he has read eighteen." the chant ended. "next! next! next!" came volleying from all over the house. burgess put his hand into his pocket. the old couple, trembling, began to rise. burgess fumbled a moment, then said: "i find i have read them all." faint with joy and surprise, the couple sank into their seats, and mary whispered: "oh, bless god, we are saved!--he has lost ours--i wouldn't give this for a hundred of those sacks!" the house burst out with its "mikado" travesty, and sang it three times with ever-increasing enthusiasm, rising to its feet when it reached for the third time the closing line-- "but the symbols are here, you bet!" and finishing up with cheers and a tiger for "hadleyburg purity and our eighteen immortal representatives of it." then wingate, the saddler, got up and proposed cheers "for the cleanest man in town, the one solitary important citizen in it who didn't try to steal that money--edward richards." they were given with great and moving heartiness; then somebody proposed that "richards be elected sole guardian and symbol of the now sacred hadleyburg tradition, with power and right to stand up and look the whole sarcastic world in the face." passed, by acclamation; then they sang the "mikado" again, and ended it with-- "and there's _one_ symbol left, you bet!" there was a pause; then-- a voice. "now, then, who's to get the sack?" the tanner (with bitter sarcasm). "that's easy. the money has to be divided among the eighteen incorruptibles. they gave the suffering stranger twenty dollars apiece--and that remark--each in his turn--it took twenty-two minutes for the procession to move past. staked the stranger--total contribution, $ . all they want is just the loan back--and interest--forty thousand dollars altogether." many voices [derisively.] "that's it! divvy! divvy! be kind to the poor--don't keep them waiting!" the chair. "order! i now offer the stranger's remaining document. it says: 'if no claimant shall appear [grand chorus of groans], i desire that you open the sack and count out the money to the principal citizens of your town, they to take it in trust [cries of "oh! oh! oh!"], and use it in such ways as to them shall seem best for the propagation and preservation of your community's noble reputation for incorruptible honesty [more cries]--a reputation to which their names and their efforts will add a new and far-reaching lustre." [enthusiastic outburst of sarcastic applause.] that seems to be all. no--here is a postscript: "'p.s.--citizens of hadleyburg: there _is_ no test-remark--nobody made one. [great sensation.] there wasn't any pauper stranger, nor any twenty-dollar contribution, nor any accompanying benediction and compliment--these are all inventions. [general buzz and hum of astonishment and delight.] allow me to tell my story--it will take but a word or two. i passed through your town at a certain time, and received a deep offence which i had not earned. any other man would have been content to kill one or two of you and call it square, but to me that would have been a trivial revenge, and inadequate; for the dead do not _suffer_. besides i could not kill you all--and, anyway, made as i am, even that would not have satisfied me. i wanted to damage every man in the place, and every woman--and not in their bodies or in their estate, but in their vanity--the place where feeble and foolish people are most vulnerable. so i disguised myself and came back and studied you. you were easy game. you had an old and lofty reputation for honesty, and naturally you were proud of it--it was your treasure of treasures, the very apple of your eye. as soon as i found out that you carefully and vigilantly kept yourselves and your children _out of temptation_, i knew how to proceed. why, you simple creatures, the weakest of all weak things is a virtue which has not been tested in the fire. i laid a plan, and gathered a list of names. my project was to corrupt hadleyburg the incorruptible. my idea was to make liars and thieves of nearly half a hundred smirchless men and women who had never in their lives uttered a lie or stolen a penny. i was afraid of goodson. he was neither born nor reared in hadleyburg. i was afraid that if i started to operate my scheme by getting my letter laid before you, you would say to yourselves, 'goodson is the only man among us who would give away twenty dollars to a poor devil'--and then you might not bite at my bait. but heaven took goodson; then i knew i was safe, and i set my trap and baited it. it may be that i shall not catch all the men to whom i mailed the pretended test- secret, but i shall catch the most of them, if i know hadleyburg nature. [voices. "right--he got every last one of them."] i believe they will even steal ostensible _gamble_-money, rather than miss, poor, tempted, and mistrained fellows. i am hoping to eternally and everlastingly squelch your vanity and give hadleyburg a new renown--one that will _stick_--and spread far. if i have succeeded, open the sack and summon the committee on propagation and preservation of the hadleyburg reputation.'" a cyclone of voices. "open it! open it! the eighteen to the front! committee on propagation of the tradition! forward--the incorruptibles!" the chair ripped the sack wide, and gathered up a handful of bright, broad, yellow coins, shook them together, then examined them. "friends, they are only gilded disks of lead!" there was a crashing outbreak of delight over this news, and when the noise had subsided, the tanner called out: "by right of apparent seniority in this business, mr. wilson is chairman of the committee on propagation of the tradition. i suggest that he step forward on behalf of his pals, and receive in trust the money." a hundred voices. "wilson! wilson! wilson! speech! speech!" wilson [in a voice trembling with anger]. "you will allow me to say, and without apologies for my language, _damn_ the money!" a voice. "oh, and him a baptist!" a voice. "seventeen symbols left! step up, gentlemen, and assume your trust!" there was a pause--no response. the saddler. "mr. chairman, we've got _one_ clean man left, anyway, out of the late aristocracy; and he needs money, and deserves it. i move that you appoint jack halliday to get up there and auction off that sack of gilt twenty-dollar pieces, and give the result to the right man--the man whom hadleyburg delights to honour--edward richards." this was received with great enthusiasm, the dog taking a hand again; the saddler started the bids at a dollar, the brixton folk and barnum's representative fought hard for it, the people cheered every jump that the bids made, the excitement climbed moment by moment higher and higher, the bidders got on their mettle and grew steadily more and more daring, more and more determined, the jumps went from a dollar up to five, then to ten, then to twenty, then fifty, then to a hundred, then-- at the beginning of the auction richards whispered in distress to his wife: "oh, mary, can we allow it? it--it--you see, it is an honour--reward, a testimonial to purity of character, and--and--can we allow it? hadn't i better get up and--oh, mary, what ought we to do?--what do you think we--" [halliday's voice. "fifteen i'm bid!--fifteen for the sack!--twenty!--ah, thanks!--thirty--thanks again! thirty, thirty, thirty!--do i hear forty?--forty it is! keep the ball rolling, gentlemen, keep it rolling!--fifty!--thanks, noble roman!--going at fifty, fifty, fifty!--seventy!--ninety!--splendid!--a hundred!--pile it up, pile it up!--hundred and twenty--forty!--just in time!--hundred and fifty!--two hundred!--superb! do i hear two h--thanks!--two hundred and fifty!--"] "it is another temptation, edward--i'm all in a tremble--but, oh, we've escaped one temptation, and that ought to warn us, to--["six did i hear?--thanks!--six fifty, six f--seven hundred!"] and yet, edward, when you think--nobody susp--["eight hundred dollars!--hurrah!--make it nine!--mr. parsons, did i hear you say--thanks!--nine!--this noble sack of virgin lead going at only nine hundred dollars, gilding and all--come! do i hear--a thousand!--gratefully yours!--did some one say eleven?--a sack which is going to be the most celebrated in the whole uni--"] "oh, edward" (beginning to sob), "we are so poor!--but--but--do as you think best--do as you think best." edward fell--that is, he sat still; sat with a conscience which was not satisfied, but which was overpowered by circumstances. meantime a stranger, who looked like an amateur detective gotten up as an impossible english earl, had been watching the evening's proceedings with manifest interest, and with a contented expression in his face; and he had been privately commenting to himself. he was now soliloquising somewhat like this: "none of the eighteen are bidding; that is not satisfactory; i must change that--the dramatic unities require it; they must buy the sack they tried to steal; they must pay a heavy price, too--some of them are rich. and another thing, when i make a mistake in hadleyburg nature the man that puts that error upon me is entitled to a high honorarium, and some one must pay. this poor old richards has brought my judgment to shame; he is an honest man:--i don't understand it, but i acknowledge it. yes, he saw my deuces--_and_ with a straight flush, and by rights the pot is his. and it shall be a jack-pot, too, if i can manage it. he disappointed me, but let that pass." he was watching the bidding. at a thousand, the market broke: the prices tumbled swiftly. he waited--and still watched. one competitor dropped out; then another, and another. he put in a bid or two now. when the bids had sunk to ten dollars, he added a five; some one raised him a three; he waited a moment, then flung in a fifty-dollar jump, and the sack was his--at $ , . the house broke out in cheers--then stopped; for he was on his feet, and had lifted his hand. he began to speak. "i desire to say a word, and ask a favour. i am a speculator in rarities, and i have dealings with persons interested in numismatics all over the world. i can make a profit on this purchase, just as it stands; but there is a way, if i can get your approval, whereby i can make every one of these leaden twenty-dollar pieces worth its face in gold, and perhaps more. grant me that approval, and i will give part of my gains to your mr. richards, whose invulnerable probity you have so justly and so cordially recognised to-night; his share shall be ten thousand dollars, and i will hand him the money to-morrow. [great applause from the house. but the "invulnerable probity" made the richardses blush prettily; however, it went for modesty, and did no harm.] if you will pass my proposition by a good majority--i would like a two-thirds vote--i will regard that as the town's consent, and that is all i ask. rarities are always helped by any device which will rouse curiosity and compel remark. now if i may have your permission to stamp upon the faces of each of these ostensible coins the names of the eighteen gentlemen who--" nine-tenths of the audience were on their feet in a moment--dog and all--and the proposition was carried with a whirlwind of approving applause and laughter. they sat down, and all the symbols except "dr." clay harkness got up, violently protesting against the proposed outrage, and threatening to-- "i beg you not to threaten me," said the stranger calmly. "i know my legal rights, and am not accustomed to being frightened at bluster." [applause.] he sat down. "dr." harkness saw an opportunity here. he was one of the two very rich men of the place, and pinkerton was the other. harkness was proprietor of a mint; that is to say, a popular patent medicine. he was running for the legislature on one ticket, and pinkerton on the other. it was a close race and a hot one, and getting hotter every day. both had strong appetites for money; each had bought a great tract of land, with a purpose; there was going to be a new railway, and each wanted to be in the legislature and help locate the route to his own advantage; a single vote might make the decision, and with it two or three fortunes. the stake was large, and harkness was a daring speculator. he was sitting close to the stranger. he leaned over while one or another of the other symbols was entertaining the house with protests and appeals, and asked, in a whisper, "what is your price for the sack?" "forty thousand dollars." "i'll give you twenty." "no." "twenty-five." "no." "say thirty." "the price is forty thousand dollars; not a penny less." "all right, i'll give it. i will come to the hotel at ten in the morning. i don't want it known; will see you privately." "very good." then the stranger got up and said to the house: "i find it late. the speeches of these gentlemen are not without merit, not without interest, not without grace; yet if i may he excused i will take my leave. i thank you for the great favour which you have shown me in granting my petition. i ask the chair to keep the sack for me until to-morrow, and to hand these three five-hundred-dollar notes to mr. richards." they were passed up to the chair. "at nine i will call for the sack, and at eleven will deliver the rest of the ten thousand to mr. richards in person at his home. good-night." then he slipped out, and left the audience making a vast noise, which was composed of a mixture of cheers, the "mikado" song, dog-disapproval, and the chant, "you are f-a-r from being a b-a-a-d man--a-a-a a-men!" iv. at home the richardses had to endure congratulations and compliments until midnight. then they were left to themselves. they looked a little sad, and they sat silent and thinking. finally mary sighed and said: "do you think we are to blame, edward--_much_ to blame?" and her eyes wandered to the accusing triplet of big bank-notes lying on the table, where the congratulators had been gloating over them and reverently fingering them. edward did not answer at once; then he brought out a sigh and said, hesitatingly: "we--we couldn't help it, mary. it--well it was ordered. _all_ things are." mary glanced up and looked at him steadily, but he didn't return the look. presently she said: "i thought congratulations and praises always tasted good. but--it seems to me, now--edward?" "well?" "are you going to stay in the bank?" "n--no." "resign?" "in the morning--by note." "it does seem best." richards bowed his head in his hands and muttered: "before i was not afraid to let oceans of people's money pour through my hands, but--mary, i am so tired, so tired--" "we will go to bed." at nine in the morning the stranger called for the sack and took it to the hotel in a cab. at ten harkness had a talk with him privately. the stranger asked for and got five cheques on a metropolitan bank--drawn to "bearer,"--four for $ , each, and one for $ , . he put one of the former in his pocket-book, and the remainder, representing $ , , he put in an envelope, and with these he added a note which he wrote after harkness was gone. at eleven he called at the richards' house and knocked. mrs. richards peeped through the shutters, then went and received the envelope, and the stranger disappeared without a word. she came back flushed and a little unsteady on her legs, and gasped out: "i am sure i recognised him! last night it seemed to me that maybe i had seen him somewhere before." "he is the man that brought the sack here?" "i am almost sure of it." "then he is the ostensible stephenson too, and sold every important citizen in this town with his bogus secret. now if he has sent cheques instead of money, we are sold too, after we thought we had escaped. i was beginning to feel fairly comfortable once more, after my night's rest, but the look of that envelope makes me sick. it isn't fat enough; $ , in even the largest bank-notes makes more bulk than that." "edward, why do you object to cheques?" "cheques signed by stephenson! i am resigned to take the $ , if it could come in bank-notes--for it does seem that it was so ordered, mary--but i have never had much courage, and i have not the pluck to try to market a cheque signed with that disastrous name. it would be a trap. that man tried to catch me; we escaped somehow or other; and now he is trying a new way. if it is cheques--" "oh, edward, it is _too_ bad!" and she held up the cheques and began to cry. "put them in the fire! quick! we mustn't be tempted. it is a trick to make the world laugh at _us_, along with the rest, and--give them to _me_, since you can't do it!" he snatched them and tried to hold his grip till he could get to the stove; but he was human, he was a cashier, and he stopped a moment to make sure of the signature. then he came near to fainting. "fan me, mary, fan me! they are the same as gold!" "oh, how lovely, edward! why?" "signed by harkness. what can the mystery of that be, mary?" "edward, do you think--" "look here--look at this! fifteen--fifteen--fifteen--thirty-four. thirty- eight thousand five hundred! mary, the sack isn't worth twelve dollars, and harkness--apparently--has paid about par for it." "and does it all come to us, do you think--instead of the ten thousand?" "why, it looks like it. and the cheques are made to 'bearer,' too." "is that good, edward? what is it for?" "a hint to collect them at some distant bank, i reckon. perhaps harkness doesn't want the matter known. what is that--a note?" "yes. it was with the cheques." it was in the "stephenson" handwriting, but there was no signature. it said: "i am a disappointed man. your honesty is beyond the reach of temptation. i had a different idea about it, but i wronged you in that, and i beg pardon, and do it sincerely. i honour you--and that is sincere too. this town is not worthy to kiss the hem of your garment. dear sir, i made a square bet with myself that there were nineteen debauchable men in your self-righteous community. i have lost. take the whole pot, you are entitled to it." richards drew a deep sigh, and said: "it seems written with fire--it burns so. mary--i am miserable again." "i, too. ah, dear, i wish--" "to think, mary--he _believes_ in me." "oh, don't, edward--i can't bear it." "if those beautiful words were deserved, mary--and god knows i believed i deserved them once--i think i could give the forty thousand dollars for them. and i would put that paper away, as representing more than gold and jewels, and keep it always. but now--we could not live in the shadow of its accusing presence, mary." he put it in the fire. a messenger arrived and delivered an envelope. richards took from it a note and read it; it was from burgess: "you saved me, in a difficult time. i saved you last night. it was at cost of a lie, but i made the sacrifice freely, and out of a grateful heart. none in this village knows so well as i know how brave and good and noble you are. at bottom you cannot respect me, knowing as you do of that matter of which i am accused, and by the general voice condemned; but i beg that you will at least believe that i am a grateful man; it will help me to bear my burden. [signed] 'burgess.'" "saved, once more. and on such terms!" he put the note in the lire. "i--i wish i were dead, mary, i wish i were out of it all!" "oh, these are bitter, bitter days, edward. the stabs, through their very generosity, are so deep--and they come so fast!" three days before the election each of two thousand voters suddenly found himself in possession of a prized memento--one of the renowned bogus double-eagles. around one of its faces was stamped these words: "the remark i made to the poor stranger was--" around the other face was stamped these: "go, and reform. [signed] pinkerton." thus the entire remaining refuse of the renowned joke was emptied upon a single head, and with calamitous effect. it revived the recent vast laugh and concentrated it upon pinkerton; and harkness's election was a walk-over. within twenty-four hours after the richardses had received their cheques their consciences were quieting down, discouraged; the old couple were learning to reconcile themselves to the sin which they had committed. but they were to learn, now, that a sin takes on new and real terrors when there seems a chance that it is going to be found out. this gives it a fresh and most substantial and important aspect. at church the morning sermon was of the usual pattern; it was the same old things said in the same old way; they had heard them a thousand times and found them innocuous, next to meaningless, and easy to sleep under; but now it was different: the sermon seemed to bristle with accusations; it seemed aimed straight and specially at people who were concealing deadly sins. after church they got away from the mob of congratulators as soon as they could, and hurried homeward, chilled to the bone at they did not know what--vague, shadowy, indefinite fears. and by chance they caught a glimpse of mr. burgess as he turned a corner. he paid no attention to their nod of recognition! he hadn't seen it; but they did not know that. what could his conduct mean? it might mean--it might--mean--oh, a dozen dreadful things. was it possible that he knew that richards could have cleared him of guilt in that bygone time, and had been silently waiting for a chance to even up accounts? at home, in their distress they got to imagining that their servant might have been in the next room listening when richards revealed the secret to his wife that he knew of burgess's innocence; next richards began to imagine that he had heard the swish of a gown in there at that time; next, he was sure he _had_ heard it. they would call sarah in, on a pretext, and watch her face; if she had been betraying them to mr. burgess, it would show in her manner. they asked her some questions--questions which were so random and incoherent and seemingly purposeless that the girl felt sure that the old people's minds had been affected by their sudden good fortune; the sharp and watchful gaze which they bent upon her frightened her, and that completed the business. she blushed, she became nervous and confused, and to the old people these were plain signs of guilt--guilt of some fearful sort or other--without doubt she was a spy and a traitor. when they were alone again they began to piece many unrelated things together and get horrible results out of the combination. when things had got about to the worst richards was delivered of a sudden gasp and his wife asked: "oh, what is it?--what is it?" "the note--burgess's note! its language was sarcastic, i see it now." he quoted: "'at bottom you cannot respect me, _knowing_, as you do, of _that matter of_ which i am accused'--oh, it is perfectly plain, now, god help me! he knows that i know! you see the ingenuity of the phrasing. it was a trap--and like a fool, i walked into it. and mary--!" "oh, it is dreadful--i know what you are going to say--he didn't return your transcript of the pretended test-remark." "no--kept it to destroy us with. mary, he has exposed us to some already. i know it--i know it well. i saw it in a dozen faces after church. ah, he wouldn't answer our nod of recognition--he knew what he had been doing!" in the night the doctor was called. the news went around in the morning that the old couple were rather seriously ill--prostrated by the exhausting excitement growing out of their great windfall, the congratulations, and the late hours, the doctor said. the town was sincerely distressed; for these old people were about all it had left to be proud of, now. two days later the news was worse. the old couple were delirious, and were doing strange things. by witness of the nurses, richards had exhibited cheques--for $ , ? no--for an amazing sum--$ , ! what could be the explanation of this gigantic piece of luck? the following day the nurses had more news--and wonderful. they had concluded to hide the cheques, lest harm come to them; but when they searched they were gone from under the patient's pillow--vanished away. the patient said: "let the pillow alone; what do you want?" "we thought it best that the cheques--" "you will never see them again--they are destroyed. they came from satan. i saw the hell-brand on them, and i knew they were sent to betray me to sin." then he fell to gabbling strange and dreadful things which were not clearly understandable, and which the doctor admonished them to keep to themselves. richards was right; the cheques were never seen again. a nurse must have talked in her sleep, for within two days the forbidden gabblings were the property of the town; and they were of a surprising sort. they seemed to indicate that richards had been a claimant for the sack himself, and that burgess had concealed that fact and then maliciously betrayed it. burgess was taxed with this and stoutly denied it. and he said it was not fair to attach weight to the chatter of a sick old man who was out of his mind. still, suspicion was in the air, and there was much talk. after a day or two it was reported that mrs. richards's delirious deliveries were getting to be duplicates of her husband's. suspicion flamed up into conviction, now, and the town's pride in the purity of its one undiscredited important citizen began to dim down and flicker toward extinction. six days passed, then came more news. the old couple were dying. richards's mind cleared in his latest hour, and he sent for burgess. burgess said: "let the room be cleared. i think he wishes to say something in privacy." "no!" said richards; "i want witnesses. i want you all to hear my confession, so that i may die a man, and not a dog. i was clean--artificially--like the rest; and like the rest i fell when temptation came. i signed a lie, and claimed the miserable sack. mr. burgess remembered that i had done him a service, and in gratitude (and ignorance) he suppressed my claim and saved me. you know the thing that was charged against burgess years ago. my testimony, and mine alone, could have cleared him, and i was a coward and left him to suffer disgrace--" "no--no--mr. richards, you--" "my servant betrayed my secret to him--" "no one has betrayed anything to me--" --"and then he did a natural and justifiable thing; he repented of the saving kindness which he had done me, and he _exposed_ me--as i deserved--" "never!--i make oath--" "out of my heart i forgive him." burgess's impassioned protestations fell upon deaf ears; the dying man passed away without knowing that once more he had done poor burgess a wrong. the old wife died that night. the last of the sacred nineteen had fallen a prey to the fiendish sack; the town was stripped of the last rag of its ancient glory. its mourning was not showy, but it was deep. by act of the legislature--upon prayer and petition--hadleyburg was allowed to change its name to (never mind what--i will not give it away), and leave one word out of the motto that for many generations had graced the town's official seal. it is an honest town once more, and the man will have to rise early that catches it napping again. quotes and images from mark twain quotations from mark twain some of the editor's favorites aim and object of the law and lawyers was to defeat justice all life seems to be sacred except human life always trying to build a house by beginning at the top believed it; because she desired to believe it best intentions and the frailest resolution but it is an ill-wind that blows nobody good but there are liars everywhere this year cayote is a living, breathing allegory of want children were clothed in nothing but sunshine contempt of court on the part of a horse fertile in invention and elastic in conscience fun--but of a mild type grief that is too deep to find help in moan or groan or outcry haughty humility i was not scared, but i was considerably agitated i had a delicacy about going home and getting thrashed if the man doesn't believe as we do, we say he is a crank imagination to help his memory invariably allowed a half for shrinkage in his statements it used to be a good hotel, but that proves nothing it is easier to stay out than get out it had cost something to upholster these women keg of these nails--of the true cross let me take your grief and help you carry it life a vanity and a burden, and the future but a way to death man is the only animal that blushes--or needs to man was not a liar he only missed it by the skin of his teeth money is most difficult to get when people need it most native canoe is an irresponsible looking contrivance no people who are quite so vulgar as the over-refined ones no nation occupies a foot of land that was not stolen nothing that glitters is gold notion that he is less savage than the other savages nursed his woe and exalted it ostentatious of his modesty otherwise they would have thought i was afraid, which i was people talk so glibly of "feeling," "expression," "tone," pity is for the living, envy is for the dead predominance of the imagination over the judgment profound respect for chastity--in other people prosperity is the best protector of principle received with a large silence that suggested doubt road, which did not seem to know its own mind exactly room to turn around in, but not to swing a cat scenery in california requires distance seventy is old enough--after that, there is too much risk sleep that heals all heart-aches and ends all sorrows slept, if one might call such a condition by so strong a name smell about them which is peculiar but not entertaining takes your enemy and your friend, working together, to hurt you the man with a new idea is a crank until the idea succeeds to a delicate stomach even imaginary smoke can convey damage tourists showing how things ought to be managed travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry and narrow-mindedness uncomplaining impoliteness very pleasant man if you were not in his way virtuous to the verge of eccentricity wasn't worth a cent two years ago, and now i owe two millions we ought never to do wrong when people are looking we must create, a public opinion, said senator dilworthy well provided with cigars and other necessaries of life what's a fair wind for us is a head wind to them whichever one they get is the one they want worth while to get tired out, because one so enjoys resting wrinkles should merely indicate where smiles have been your absence when you are present a few selected books following the equator against nature to take an interest in familiar things age after age, the barren and meaningless process all life seems to be sacred except human life but there are liars everywhere this year capacity must be shown (in other work); in the law, concealment of it will do christmas brings harassment and dread to many excellent people climate which nothing can stand except rocks creature which was everything in general and nothing in particular custom supersedes all other forms of law death in life; death without its privileges every one is a moon, and has a dark side exercise, for such as like that kind of work explain the inexplicable faith is believing what you know ain't so forbids betting on a sure thing forgotten fact is news when it comes again get your formalities right--never mind about the moralities give thanks that christmas comes but once a year good protections against temptations; but the surest is cowardice goody-goody puerilities and dreary moralities habit of assimilating incredibilities human pride is not worth while hunger is the handmaid of genius if the man doesn't believe as we do, we say he is a crank inherited prejudices in favor of hoary ignorances it is easier to stay out than get out man is the only animal that blushes--or needs to meddling philanthropists melt a brass door-knob and weather which will only make it mushy moral sense, and there is an immoral sense most satisfactory pet--never coming when he is called natural desire to have more of a good thing than he needs neglected her habits, and hadn't any never could tell a lie that anybody would doubt no nation occupies a foot of land that was not stolen no people who are quite so vulgar as the over-refined ones notion that he is less savage than the other savages only way to keep your health is to eat what you don't want ostentatious of his modesty otherwise they would have thought i was afraid, which i was pity is for the living, envy is for the dead prosperity is the best protector of principle received with a large silence that suggested doubt seventy is old enough--after that, there is too much risk silent lie and a spoken one sinking vessel, with no freight in her to throw over takes your enemy and your friend, working together, to hurt you thankfulness is not so general the man with a new idea is a crank until the idea succeeds this is a poor old ship, and ought to be insured and sunk to a delicate stomach even imaginary smoke can convey damage tourists showing how things ought to be managed wrinkles should merely indicate where smiles have been the innocents abroad ancient painters never succeeded in denationalizing themselves apocryphal new testament astonishing talent for seeing things that had already passed bade our party a kind good-bye, and proceeded to count spoons base flattery to call them immoral bones of st denis but it is an ill-wind that blows nobody good buy the man out, goodwill and all by dividing this statement up among eight carry soap with them chapel of the invention of the cross christopher colombo clustered thick with stony, mutilated saints commend me to fennimore cooper to find beauty in the indians conceived a sort of unwarrantable unfriendliness confer the rest of their disastrous patronage on some other firm creator made italy from designs by michael angelo! cringing spirit of those great men diffident young man, mild of moustache, affluent of hair expression felt that it was not right to steal grapes fenimore cooper indians filed away among the archives of russia--in the stove for dismal scenery, i think palestine must be the prince free from self-consciousness--which is at breakfast fumigation is cheaper than soap fun--but of a mild type getting rich very deliberately--very deliberately indeed guides have a prodigious quantity of mind he never bored but he struck water he ought to be dammed--or leveed holy family always lived in grottoes how tame a sight his country's flag is at home i am going to try to worry along without it i carried the sash along with me--i did not need the sash i had a delicacy about going home and getting thrashed i was not scared, but i was considerably agitated is, ah--is he dead? it is a hopeless, dreary, heart-broken land it is inferior--for coffee--but it is pretty fair tea it used to be a good hotel, but that proves nothing it was warm. it was the warmest place i ever was in joshua journals so voluminously begun keg of these nails--of the true cross lean and mean old age man peculiarly and insufferably self-conceited: not seasick marks the exact centre of the earth nauseous adulation of princely patrons never did succeed in making those idiots understand their own language never left any chance for newspaper controversies never uses a one-syllable word when he can think of a longer one no satisfaction in being a pope in those days not afraid of a million bedouins not bring ourselves to think st john had two sets of ashes old travelers one is apt to overestimate beauty when it is rare only solitary thing one does not smell in turkey oriental splendor! original first shoddy contract mentioned in history overflowing his banks people talk so glibly of "feeling," "expression," "tone," perdition catch all the guides picture which one ought to see once--not oftener polite hotel waiter who isn't an idiot relic matter a little overdone? room to turn around in, but not to swing a cat saviour, who seems to be of little importance any where in rome self-satisfied monarch, the railroad conductor of america sentimental praises of the arab's idolatry of his horse she assumes a crushing dignity shepherd's hotel, which is the worst on earth smell about them which is peculiar but not entertaining some people can not stand prosperity somewhat singular taste in the matter of relics st charles borromeo, bishop of milan st helena, the mother of constantine starving to death stirring times here for a while if the last trump should blow tahoe means grasshoppers. it means grasshopper soup the information the ancients didn't have was very voluminous the last supper there was a good deal of sameness about it they were like nearly all the frenchwomen i ever saw--homely they were seasick. and i was glad of it those delightful parrots who have "been here before" to give birth to an idea toll the signal for the st bartholomew's massacre travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry and narrow-mindedness uncomplaining impoliteness under the charitable moon used fine tooth combs--successfully venitian visiting young ladies wandering jew wasn't enough of it to make a pie we all like to see people seasick when we are not, ourselves well provided with cigars and other necessaries of life what's a fair wind for us is a head wind to them whichever one they get is the one they want who have actually forgotten their mother tongue in three months worth while to get tired out, because one so enjoys resting roughing it aim and object of the law and lawyers was to defeat justice american saddle cayote is a living, breathing allegory of want children were clothed in nothing but sunshine contempt of court on the part of a horse feared a great deal more than the almighty fertile in invention and elastic in conscience give one's watch a good long undisturbed spell he was nearly lightnin' on superintending he was one of the deadest men that ever lived hotel clerk who was crusty and disobliging i had never seen lightning go like that horse juries composed of fools and rascals list of things which we had seen and some other people had not man was not a liar he only missed it by the skin of his teeth most impossible reminiscences sound plausible native canoe is an irresponsible looking contrivance never knew there was a hell! nothing that glitters is gold profound respect for chastity--in other people scenery in california requires distance slept, if one might call such a condition by so strong a name useful information and entertaining nonsense virtuous to the verge of eccentricity the gilded age accidental murder resulting from justifiable insanity always trying to build a house by beginning at the top appropriation beautiful credit! the foundation of modern society believed it; because she desired to believe it best intentions and the frailest resolution big babies with beards cheap sentiment and high and mighty dialogue conscious superiority does your doctor know any thing enjoy icebergs--as scenery but not as company erie rr: causeway of cracked rails and cows, to the west fever of speculation final resort of the disappointed of her sex, the lecture platform geographical habits get away and find a place where he could despise himself gossips were soon at work grand old benevolent national asylum for the helpless grief that is too deep to find help in moan or groan or outcry haughty humility having no factitious weight of dignity to carry imagination to help his memory invariably advised to settle--no matter how, but settle invariably allowed a half for shrinkage in his statements is this your first visit? it had cost something to upholster these women large amount of money necessary to make a small hole later years brought their disenchanting wisdom let me take your grief and help you carry it life a vanity and a burden, and the future but a way to death mail train which has never run over a cow meant no harm they only wanted to know money is most difficult to get when people need it most never sewed when she could avoid it. bless her! nursed his woe and exalted it predominance of the imagination over the judgment question was asked and answered--in their eyes riches enough to be able to gratify reasonable desires road, which did not seem to know its own mind exactly sarcasms of fate sleep that heals all heart-aches and ends all sorrows small gossip stood a very poor chance sun bothers along over the atlantic think a congress of ours could convict the devil of anything titles never die in america too much grace and too little wine understood the virtues of "addition, division and silence" unlimited reliance upon human promises very pleasant man if you were not in his way wasn't worth a cent two years ago, and now i owe two millions "we must create, a public opinion," said senator dilworthy we'll make you think you never was at home before we've all got to come to it at last, anyway! widened, and deepened, and straightened--(public river project) wished that she could see his sufferings now your absence when you are present mark twain's speeches a little pride always goes along with a teaspoonful of brains ain't any real difference between triplets and an insurrection chastity, you can carry it too far classic: everybody wants to have read and nobody wants to read don't know anything and can't do anything dwell on the particulars with senile rapture future great historian is lying--and doubtless will continue to head is full of history, and some of it is true, too humor enlivens and enlightens his morality i shall never be as dead again as i was then if can't make seventy by any but an uncomfortable road: don't go kill a lot of poets for writing about "beautiful spring" live upon the property of their heirs so long morality is all the better for his humor morals: rather teach them than practice them any day never been in jail, and the other is, i don't know why never to smoke when asleep, and never to refrain when awake patriotism is usually the refuge of the scoundrel please state what figure you hold him at--and return the basket principles is another name for prejudices she bears our children--ours as a general thing some civilized women would lose half their charm without dress the essex band done the best it could time-expired man, to use kipling's military phrase to exaggerate is the only way i can approximate to the truth two kinds of christian morals, one private and the other public what, sir, would the people of the earth be without woman? when in doubt, tell the truth women always want to know what is going on sketches new and old a wood-fire is not a permanent thing accessory before the fact to his own murder aggregate to positive unhappiness always brought in 'not guilty' apocryphal was no slouch of a word, emanating from the source assertion is not proof early to bed and early to rise i am useless and a nuisance, a cumberer of the earth i never was so scared before and survived it if i had sprung a leak now i had been lost just about cats enough for three apiece all around looked a look of vicious happiness lucid and unintoxicated intervals no matter how absurd and unreasonable their demands no public can withstand magnanimity not because i was afraid, but because i wanted to (go out the window) permanent reliable enemy science only needed a spoonful of supposition to build a mountain state of mind bordering on impatience walking five miles to fish was a good deal annoyed when it appeared he was going to die twain's letters v - a mighty national menace to sham all talk and no cider condition my room is always in when you are not around deprived of the soothing consolation of swearing frankness is a jewel; only the young can afford it genius defies the laws of perspective hope deferred maketh the heart sick i never greatly envied anybody but the dead in the long analysis of the ages it is the truth that counts just about enough cats to go round moral bulwark reared against hypocrisy and superstition the coveted estate of silence, time's only absolute gift we went outside to keep from getting wet what a pleasure there is in revenge! when in doubt, tell the truth when it is my turn, i don't twain's letters v - and i have been an author for years and an ass for argument against suicide conversationally being yelled at dead people who go through the motions of life die in the promptest kind of a way and no fooling around heroic endurance that resembles contentment honest men must be pretty scarce i wonder how they can lie so. it comes of practice, no doubt if this is going to be too much trouble to you one should be gentle with the ignorant sunday is the only day that brings unbearable leisure symbol of the human race ought to be an ax what a pity it is that one's adventures never happen! if you wish to read the entire context of any of these quotations, select a short segment and copy it into your clipboard memory--then open the following ebook and paste the phrase into your computer's find or search operation. the complete project gutenberg works of mark twain http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/etext /mtent .txt archive: american libraries. [illustration: photo of the author with signature "s. l. clemens"] the adventures of huckleberry finn (tom sawyer's comrade) scene: the mississippi valley time: forty to fifty years ago by mark twain illustrated _new edition from new plates_ harper & brothers publishers new york and london ====== books by mark twain st. joan of arc the innocents abroad roughing it the gilded age a tramp abroad following the equator pudd'nhead wilson sketches new and old the american claimant christian science a connecticut yankee at the court of king arthur the adventures of huckleberry finn personal recollections of joan of arc life on the mississippi the man that corrupted hadleyburg the prince and the pauper the $ , bequest the adventures of tom sawyer tom sawyer abroad what is man? the mysterious stranger adam's diary a dog's tale a double-barreled detective story editorial wild oats eve's diary in defense of harriet shelly and other essays is shakespeare dead? capt. stormfield's visit to heaven a horse's tale the jumping frog the , , pound bank-note travels at home travels in history mark twain's letters mark twain's speeches ====== harper & brothers, new york [established ] the adventures of huckleberry finn ----- copyright, . by samuel l. clemens ----- copyright. and . by harper & brothers ----- copyright. , by clara gabrilowitsch ----- printed in the united states of america contents chap. notice explanatory i. i discover moses and the bulrushers. ii. our gang's dark oath iii. we ambuscade the a-rabs iv. the hair-ball oracle v. pap starts in on a new life vi. pap struggles with the death angel vii. i fool pap and get away viii. i spare miss watson's jim ix. the house of death floats by x. what comes of handlin' snake-skin xi. they're after us! xii. "better let blame well alone" xiii. honest loot from the "walter scott" xiv. was solomon wise? xv. fooling poor old jim xvi. the rattlesnake-skin does its work xvii. the grangerfords take me in xviii. why harney rode away for his hat xix. the duke and the dauphin come aboard xx. what royalty did to parkville xxi. an arkansaw difficulty xxii. why the lynching bee failed xxiii. the orneriness of kings xxiv. the king turns parson xxv. all full of tears and flapdoodle xxvi. i steal the king's plunder xxvii. dead peter has his gold xxviii. overreaching don't pay xxix. i light out in the storm xxx. the gold saves the thieves xxxi. you can't pray a lie xxxii. i have a new name xxxiii. the pitiful ending of royalty xxxiv. we cheer up jim xxxv. dark, deep-laid plans xxxvi. trying to help jim xxxvii. jim gets his witch-pie xxxviii. "here a captive heart busted" xxxix. tom writes nonnamous letters xl. a mixed-up and splendid rescue xli. "must 'a' been sperits" xlii. why they didn't hang jim chapter the last. nothing more to write illustrations portrait of the author huckleberry finn "'gimme a chaw'" tom advises a witch pie notice persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot. by order of the author, per g. g., chief of ordnance. explanatory in this book a number of dialects are used, to wit: the missouri negro dialect; the extremest form of the backwoods southwestern dialect; the ordinary "pike county" dialect; and four modified varieties of this last. the shadings have not been done in a haphazard fashion, or by guesswork; but painstakingly, and with the trustworthy guidance and support of personal familiarity with these several forms of speech. i make this explanation for the reason that without it many readers would suppose that all these characters were trying to talk alike and not succeeding. the author. huckleberry finn chapter i you don't know about me without you have read a book by the name of _the adventures of tom sawyer;_ but that ain't no matter. that book was made by mr. mark twain, and he told the truth, mainly. there was things which he stretched, but mainly he told the truth. that is nothing. i never seen anybody but lied one time or another, without it was aunt polly, or the widow, or maybe mary. aunt polly--tom's aunt polly, she is--and mary, and the widow douglas is all told about in that book, which is mostly a true book, with some stretchers, as i said before. now the way that the book winds up is this: tom and me found the money that the robbers hid in the cave, and it made us rich. we got six thousand dollars apiece--all gold. it was an awful sight of money when it was piled up. well, judge thatcher he took it and put it out at interest, and it fetched us a dollar a day apiece all the year round--more than a body could tell what to do with. the widow douglas she took me for her son, and allowed she would sivilize me; but it was rough living in the house all the time, considering how dismal regular and decent the widow was in all her ways; and so when i couldn't stand it no longer i lit out. i got into my old rags and my sugar-hogshead again, and was free and satisfied. but tom sawyer he hunted me up and said he was going to start a band of robbers, and i might join if i would go back to the widow and be respectable. so i went back. the widow she cried over me, and called me a poor lost lamb, and she called me a lot of other names, too, but she never meant no harm by it. she put me in them new clothes again, and i couldn't do nothing but sweat and sweat, and feel all cramped up. well, then, the old thing commenced again. the widow rung a bell for supper, and you had to come to time. when you got to the table you couldn't go right to eating, but you had to wait for the widow to tuck down her head and grumble a little over the victuals, though there warn't really anything the matter with them--that is, nothing only everything was cooked by itself. in a barrel of odds and ends it is different; things get mixed up, and the juice kind of swaps around, and the things go better. after supper she got out her book and learned me about moses and the bulrushers, and i was in a sweat to find out all about him; but by and by she let it out that moses had been dead a considerable long time; so then i didn't care no more about him, because i don't take no stock in dead people. pretty soon i wanted to smoke, and asked the widow to let me. but she wouldn't. she said it was a mean practice and wasn't clean, and i must try to not do it any more. that is just the way with some people. they get down on a thing when they don't know nothing about it. here she was a-bothering about moses, which was no kin to her, and no use to anybody, being gone, you see, yet finding a power of fault with me for doing a thing that had some good in it. and she took snuff, too; of course that was all right, because she done it herself. her sister, miss watson, a tolerable slim old maid, with goggles on, had just come to live with her, and took a set at me now with a spelling-book. she worked me middling hard for about an hour, and then the widow made her ease up. i couldn't stood it much longer. then for an hour it was deadly dull, and i was fidgety. miss watson would say, "don't put your feet up there, huckleberry"; and "don't scrunch up like that, huckleberry--set up straight"; and pretty soon she would say, "don't gap and stretch like that, huckleberry--why don't you try to behave?" then she told me all about the bad place, and i said i wished i was there. she got mad then, but i didn't mean no harm. all i wanted was to go somewheres; all i wanted was a change, i warn't particular. she said it was wicked to say what i said; said she wouldn't say it for the whole world; she was going to live so as to go to the good place. well, i couldn't see no advantage in going where she was going, so i made up my mind i wouldn't try for it. but i never said so, because it would only make trouble, and wouldn't do no good. now she had got a start, and she went on and told me all about the good place. she said all a body would have to do there was to go around all day long with a harp and sing, forever and ever. so i didn't think much of it. but i never said so. i asked her if she reckoned tom sawyer would go there, and she said not by a considerable sight. i was glad about that, because i wanted him and me to be together. miss watson she kept pecking at me, and it got tiresome and lonesome. by and by they fetched the niggers in and had prayers, and then everybody was off to bed. i went up to my room with a piece of candle, and put it on the table. then i set down in a chair by the window and tried to think of something cheerful, but it warn't no use. i felt so lonesome i most wished i was dead. the stars were shining, and the leaves rustled in the woods ever so mournful; and i heard an owl, away off, who-whooing about somebody that was dead, and a whippowill and a dog crying about somebody that was going to die; and the wind was trying to whisper something to me, and i couldn't make out what it was, and so it made the cold shivers run over me. then away out in the woods i heard that kind of a sound that a ghost makes when it wants to tell about something that's on its mind and can't make itself understood, and so can't rest easy in its grave, and has to go about that way every night grieving. i got so downhearted and scared i did wish i had some company. pretty soon a spider went crawling up my shoulder, and i flipped it off and it lit in the candle; and before i could budge it was all shriveled up. i didn't need anybody to tell me that that was an awful bad sign and would fetch me some bad luck, so i was scared and most shook the clothes off of me. i got up and turned around in my tracks three times and crossed my breast every time; and then i tied up a little lock of my hair with a thread to keep witches away. but i hadn't no confidence. you do that when you've lost a horseshoe that you've found, instead of nailing it up over the door, but i hadn't ever heard anybody say it was any way to keep off bad luck when you'd killed a spider. i set down again, a-shaking all over, and got out my pipe for a smoke; for the house was all as still as death now, and so the widow wouldn't know. well, after a long time i heard the clock away off in the town go boom--boom--boom--twelve licks; and all still again--stiller than ever. pretty soon i heard a twig snap down in the dark amongst the trees--something was a-stirring. i set still and listened. directly i could just barely hear a "me-yow! me-yow!" down there. that was good! says i, "me-yow! me-yow!" as soft as i could, and then i put out the light and scrambled out of the window on to the shed. then i slipped down to the ground and crawled in among the trees, and, sure enough, there was tom sawyer waiting for me. chapter ii we went tiptoeing along a path amongst the trees back toward the end of the widow's garden, stooping down so as the branches wouldn't scrape our heads. when we was passing by the kitchen i fell over a root and made a noise. we scrouched down and laid still. miss watson's big nigger, named jim, was setting in the kitchen door; we could see him pretty clear, because there was a light behind him. he got up and stretched his neck out about a minute, listening. then he says: "who dah?" he listened some more; then he came tiptoeing down and stood right between us; we could 'a' touched him, nearly. well, likely it was minutes and minutes that there warn't a sound, and we all there so close together. there was a place on my ankle that got to itching, but i dasn't scratch it; and then my ear begun to itch; and next my back, right between my shoulders. seemed like i'd die if i couldn't scratch. well, i've noticed that thing plenty times since. if you are with the quality, or at a funeral, or trying to go to sleep when you ain't sleepy--if you are anywheres where it won't do for you to scratch, why you will itch all over in upward of a thousand places. pretty soon jim says: "say, who is you? whar is you? dog my cats ef i didn' hear sumf'n. well, i know what i's gwyne to do: i's gwyne to set down here and listen tell i hears it ag'in." so he set down on the ground betwixt me and tom. he leaned his back up against a tree, and stretched his legs out till one of them most touched one of mine. my nose begun to itch. it itched till the tears come into my eyes. but i dasn't scratch. then it begun to itch on the inside. next i got to itching underneath. i didn't know how i was going to set still. this miserableness went on as much as six or seven minutes; but it seemed a sight longer than that. i was itching in eleven different places now. i reckoned i couldn't stand it more'n a minute longer, but i set my teeth hard and got ready to try. just then jim begun to breathe heavy; next he begun to snore--and then i was pretty soon comfortable again. tom he made a sign to me--kind of a little noise with his mouth--and we went creeping away on our hands and knees. when we was ten foot off tom whispered to me, and wanted to tie jim to the tree for fun. but i said no; he might wake and make a disturbance, and then they'd find out i warn't in. then tom said he hadn't got candles enough, and he would slip in the kitchen and get some more. i didn't want him to try. i said jim might wake up and come. but tom wanted to resk it; so we slid in there and got three candles, and tom laid five cents on the table for pay. then we got out, and i was in a sweat to get away; but nothing would do tom but he must crawl to where jim was, on his hands and knees, and play something on him. i waited, and it seemed a good while, everything was so still and lonesome. as soon as tom was back we cut along the path, around the garden fence, and by and by fetched up on the steep top of the hill the other side of the house. tom said he slipped jim's hat off of his head and hung it on a limb right over him, and jim stirred a little, but he didn't wake. afterward jim said the witches bewitched him and put him in a trance, and rode him all over the state, and then set him under the trees again, and hung his hat on a limb to show who done it. and next time jim told it he said they rode him down to new orleans; and, after that, every time he told it he spread it more and more, till by and by he said they rode him all over the world, and tired him most to death, and his back was all over saddle-boils. jim was monstrous proud about it, and he got so he wouldn't hardly notice the other niggers. niggers would come miles to hear jim tell about it, and he was more looked up to than any nigger in that country. strange niggers would stand with their mouths open and look him all over, same as if he was a wonder. niggers is always talking about witches in the dark by the kitchen fire; but whenever one was talking and letting on to know all about such things, jim would happen in and say, "hm! what you know 'bout witches?" and that nigger was corked up and had to take a back seat. jim always kept that five-center piece round his neck with a string, and said it was a charm the devil give to him with his own hands, and told him he could cure anybody with it and fetch witches whenever he wanted to just by saying something to it; but he never told what it was he said to it. niggers would come from all around there and give jim anything they had, just for a sight of that five-center piece; but they wouldn't touch it, because the devil had had his hands on it. jim was most ruined for a servant, because he got stuck up on account of having seen the devil and been rode by witches. well, when tom and me got to the edge of the hilltop we looked away down into the village and could see three or four lights twinkling, where there was sick folks, maybe; and the stars over us was sparkling ever so fine; and down by the village was the river, a whole mile broad, and awful still and grand. we went down the hill and found joe harper and ben rogers, and two or three more of the boys, hid in the old tanyard. so we unhitched a skiff and pulled down the river two mile and a half, to the big scar on the hillside, and went ashore. we went to a clump of bushes, and tom made everybody swear to keep the secret, and then showed them a hole in the hill, right in the thickest part of the bushes. then we lit the candles, and crawled in on our hands and knees. we went about two hundred yards, and then the cave opened up. tom poked about amongst the passages, and pretty soon ducked under a wall where you wouldn't 'a' noticed that there was a hole. we went along a narrow place and got into a kind of room, all damp and sweaty and cold, and there we stopped. tom says: "now, we'll start this band of robbers and call it tom sawyer's gang. everybody that wants to join has got to take an oath, and write his name in blood." everybody was willing. so tom got out a sheet of paper that he had wrote the oath on, and read it. it swore every boy to stick to the band, and never tell any of the secrets; and if anybody done anything to any boy in the band, whichever boy was ordered to kill that person and his family must do it, and he mustn't eat and he mustn't sleep till he had killed them and hacked a cross in their breasts, which was the sign of the band. and nobody that didn't belong to the band could use that mark, and if he did he must be sued; and if he done it again he must be killed. and if anybody that belonged to the band told the secrets, he must have his throat cut, and then have his carcass burnt up and the ashes scattered all around, and his name blotted off the list with blood and never mentioned again by the gang, but have a curse put on it and be forgot forever. everybody said it was a real beautiful oath, and asked tom if he got it out of his own head. he said some of it, but the rest was out of pirate-books and robber-books, and every gang that was high-toned had it. some thought it would be good to kill the _families_ of boys that told the secrets. tom said it was a good idea, so he took a pencil and wrote it in. then ben rogers says: "here's huck finn, he hain't got no family; what you going to do 'bout him?" "well, hain't he got a father?" says tom sawyer. "yes, he's got a father, but you can't never find him these days. he used to lay drunk with the hogs in the tanyard, but he hain't been seen in these parts for a year or more." they talked it over, and they was going to rule me out, because they said every boy must have a family or somebody to kill, or else it wouldn't be fair and square for the others. well, nobody could think of anything to do--everybody was stumped, and set still. i was most ready to cry; but all at once i thought of a way, and so i offered them miss watson--they could kill her. everybody said: "oh, she'll do. that's all right. huck can come in." then they all stuck a pin in their fingers to get blood to sign with, and i made my mark on the paper. "now," says ben rogers, "what's the line of business of this gang?" "nothing only robbery and murder," tom said. "but who are we going to rob?--houses, or cattle, or--" "stuff! stealing cattle and such things ain't robbery; it's burglary," says tom sawyer. "we ain't burglars. that ain't no sort of style. we are highwaymen. we stop stages and carriages on the road, with masks on, and kill the people and take their watches and money." "must we always kill the people?" "oh, certainly. it's best. some authorities think different, but mostly it's considered best to kill them--except some that you bring to the cave here, and keep them till they're ransomed." "ransomed? what's that?" "i don't know. but that's what they do. i've seen it in books; and so of course that's what we've got to do." "but how can we do it if we don't know what it is?" "why, blame it all, we've _got_ to do it. don't i tell you it's in the books? do you want to go to doing different from what's in the books, and get things all muddled up?" "oh, that's all very fine to _say,_ tom sawyer, but how in the nation are these fellows going to be ransomed if we don't know how to do it to them?--that's the thing i want to get at. now, what do you reckon it is?" "well, i don't know. but per'aps if we keep them till they're ransomed, it means that we keep them till they're dead." "now, that's something _like._ that'll answer. why couldn't you said that before? we'll keep them till they're ransomed to death; and a bothersome lot they'll be, too--eating up everything, and always trying to get loose." "how you talk, ben rogers. how can they get loose when there's a guard over them, ready to shoot them down if they move a peg?" "a guard! well, that _is_ good. so somebody's got to set up all night and never get any sleep, just so as to watch them. i think that's foolishness. why can't a body take a club and ransom them as soon as they get here?" "because it ain't in the books so--that's why. now, ben rogers, do you want to do things regular, or don't you?--that's the idea. don't you reckon that the people that made the books knows what's the correct thing to do? do you reckon _you_ can learn 'em anything? not by a good deal. no, sir, we'll just go on and ransom them in the regular way." "all right. i don't mind; but i say it's a fool way, anyhow. say, do we kill the women, too?" "well, ben rogers, if i was as ignorant as you i wouldn't let on. kill the women? no; nobody ever saw anything in the books like that. you fetch them to the cave, and you're always as polite as pie to them; and by and by they fall in love with you, and never want to go home any more." "well, if that's the way i'm agreed, but i don't take no stock in it. mighty soon we'll have the cave so cluttered up with women, and fellows waiting to be ransomed, that there won't be no place for the robbers. but go ahead, i ain't got nothing to say." little tommy barnes was asleep now, and when they waked him up he was scared, and cried, and said he wanted to go home to his ma, and didn't want to be a robber any more. so they all made fun of him, and called him cry-baby, and that made him mad, and he said he would go straight and tell all the secrets. but tom give him five cents to keep quiet, and said we would all go home and meet next week, and rob somebody and kill some people. ben rogers said he couldn't get out much, only sundays, and so he wanted to begin next sunday; but all the boys said it would be wicked to do it on sunday, and that settled the thing. they agreed to get together and fix a day as soon as they could, and then we elected tom sawyer first captain and joe harper second captain of the gang, and so started home. i clumb up the shed and crept into my window just before day was breaking. my new clothes was all greased up and clayey, and i was dog-tired. chapter iii well, i got a good going-over in the morning from old miss watson on account of my clothes; but the widow she didn't scold, but only cleaned off the grease and clay, and looked so sorry that i thought i would behave awhile if i could. then miss watson she took me in the closet and prayed, but nothing come of it. she told me to pray every day, and whatever i asked for i would get it. but it warn't so. i tried it. once i got a fish-line, but no hooks. it warn't any good to me without hooks. i tried for the hooks three or four times, but somehow i couldn't make it work. by and by, one day, i asked miss watson to try for me, but she said i was a fool. she never told me why, and i couldn't make it out no way. i set down one time back in the woods, and had a long think about it. i says to myself, if a body can get anything they pray for, why don't deacon winn get back the money he lost on pork? why can't the widow get back her silver snuff-box that was stole? why can't miss watson fat up? no, says i to myself, there ain't nothing in it. i went and told the widow about it, and she said the thing a body could get by praying for it was "spiritual gifts." this was too many for me, but she told me what she meant--i must help other people, and do everything i could for other people, and look out for them all the time, and never think about myself. this was including miss watson, as i took it. i went out in the woods and turned it over in my mind a long time, but i couldn't see no advantage about it--except for the other people; so at last i reckoned i wouldn't worry about it any more, but just let it go. sometimes the widow would take me one side and talk about providence in a way to make a body's mouth water; but maybe next day miss watson would take hold and knock it all down again. i judged i could see that there was two providences, and a poor chap would stand considerable show with the widow's providence, but if miss watson's got him there warn't no help for him any more. i thought it all out, and reckoned i would belong to the widow's if he wanted me, though i couldn't make out how he was a-going to be any better off then than what he was before, seeing i was so ignorant, and so kind of low-down and ornery. pap he hadn't been seen for more than a year, and that was comfortable for me; i didn't want to see him no more. he used to always whale me when he was sober and could get his hands on me; though i used to take to the woods most of the time when he was around. well, about this time he was found in the river drownded, about twelve mile above town, so people said. they judged it was him, anyway; said this drownded man was just his size, and was ragged, and had uncommon long hair, which was all like pap; but they couldn't make nothing out of the face, because it had been in the water so long it warn't much like a face at all. they said he was floating on his back in the water. they took him and buried him on the bank. but i warn't comfortable long, because i happened to think of something. i knowed mighty well that a drownded man don't float on his back, but on his face. so i knowed, then, that this warn't pap, but a woman dressed up in a man's clothes. so i was uncomfortable again. i judged the old man would turn up again by and by, though i wished he wouldn't. we played robber now and then about a month, and then i resigned. all the boys did. we hadn't robbed nobody, hadn't killed any people, but only just pretended. we used to hop out of the woods and go charging down on hog-drivers and women in carts taking garden stuff to market, but we never hived any of them. tom sawyer called the hogs "ingots," and he called the turnips and stuff "julery," and we would go to the cave and powwow over what we had done, and how many people we had killed and marked. but i couldn't see no profit in it. one time tom sent a boy to run about town with a blazing stick, which he called a slogan (which was the sign for the gang to get together), and then he said he had got secret news by his spies that next day a whole parcel of spanish merchants and rich a-rabs was going to camp in cave hollow with two hundred elephants, and six hundred camels, and over a thousand "sumter" mules, all loaded down with di'monds, and they didn't have only a guard of four hundred soldiers, and so we would lay in ambuscade, as he called it, and kill the lot and scoop the things. he said we must slick up our swords and guns, and get ready. he never could go after even a turnip-cart but he must have the swords and guns all scoured up for it, though they was only lath and broomsticks, and you might scour at them till you rotted, and then they warn't worth a mouthful of ashes more than what they was before. i didn't believe we could lick such a crowd of spaniards and a-rabs, but i wanted to see the camels and elephants, so i was on hand next day, saturday, in the ambuscade; and when we got the word we rushed out of the woods and down the hill. but there warn't no spaniards and a-rabs, and there warn't no camels nor no elephants. it warn't anything but a sunday-school picnic, and only a primer class at that. we busted it up, and chased the children up the hollow; but we never got anything but some doughnuts and jam, though ben rogers got a rag doll, and joe harper got a hymn-book and a tract; and then the teacher charged in, and made us drop everything and cut. i didn't see no di'monds, and i told tom sawyer so. he said there was loads of them there, anyway; and he said there was a-rabs there, too, and elephants and things. i said, why couldn't we see them, then? he said if i warn't so ignorant, but had read a book called don quixote, i would know without asking. he said it was all done by enchantment. he said there was hundreds of soldiers there, and elephants and treasure, and so on, but we had enemies which he called magicians, and they had turned the whole thing into an infant sunday-school, just out of spite. i said, all right; then the thing for us to do was to go for the magicians. tom sawyer said i was a numskull. "why," said he, "a magician could call up a lot of genies, and they would hash you up like nothing before you could say jack robinson. they are as tall as a tree and as big around as a church." "well," i says, "s'pose we got some genies to help _us_--can't we lick the other crowd then?" "how you going to get them?" "i don't know. how do _they_ get them?" "why, they rub an old tin lamp or an iron ring, and then the genies come tearing in, with the thunder and lightning a-ripping around and the smoke a-rolling, and everything they're told to do they up and do it. they don't think nothing of pulling a shot-tower up by the roots, and belting a sunday-school superintendent over the head with it--or any other man." "who makes them tear around so?" "why, whoever rubs the lamp or the ring. they belong to whoever rubs the lamp or the ring, and they've got to do whatever he says. if he tells them to build a palace forty miles long out of di'monds, and fill it full of chewing-gum, or whatever you want, and fetch an emperor's daughter from china for you to marry, they've got to do it--and they've got to do it before sun-up next morning, too. and more: they've got to waltz that palace around over the country wherever you want it, you understand." "well," says i, "i think they are a pack of flatheads for not keeping the palace themselves 'stead of fooling them away like that. and what's more--if i was one of them i would see a man in jericho before i would drop my business and come to him for the rubbing of an old tin lamp." "how you talk, huck finn. why, you'd _have_ to come when he rubbed it, whether you wanted to or not." "what! and i as high as a tree and as big as a church? all right, then; i _would_ come; but i lay i'd make that man climb the highest tree there was in the country." "shucks, it ain't no use to talk to you, huck finn. you don't seem to know anything, somehow--perfect saphead." i thought all this over for two or three days, and then i reckoned i would see if there was anything in it. i got an old tin lamp and an iron ring, and went out in the woods and rubbed and rubbed till i sweat like an injun, calculating to build a palace and sell it; but it warn't no use, none of the genies come. so then i judged that all that stuff was only just one of tom sawyer's lies. i reckoned he believed in the a-rabs and the elephants, but as for me i think different. it had all the marks of a sunday-school. chapter iv well, three or four months run along, and it was well into the winter now. i had been to school most all the time and could spell and read and write just a little, and could say the multiplication table up to six times seven is thirty-five, and i don't reckon i could ever get any further than that if i was to live forever. i don't take no stock in mathematics, anyway. at first i hated the school, but by and by i got so i could stand it. whenever i got uncommon tired i played hookey, and the hiding i got next day done me good and cheered me up. so the longer i went to school the easier it got to be. i was getting sort of used to the widow's ways, too, and they warn't so raspy on me. living in a house and sleeping in a bed pulled on me pretty tight mostly, but before the cold weather i used to slide out and sleep in the woods sometimes, and so that was a rest to me. i liked the old ways best, but i was getting so i liked the new ones, too, a little bit. the widow said i was coming along slow but sure, and doing very satisfactory. she said she warn't ashamed of me. one morning i happened to turn over the salt-cellar at breakfast. i reached for some of it as quick as i could to throw over my left shoulder and keep off the bad luck, but miss watson was in ahead of me, and crossed me off. she says, "take your hands away, huckleberry; what a mess you are always making!" the widow put in a good word for me, but that warn't going to keep off the bad luck, i knowed that well enough. i started out, after breakfast, feeling worried and shaky, and wondering where it was going to fall on me, and what it was going to be. there is ways to keep off some kinds of bad luck, but this wasn't one of them kind; so i never tried to do anything, but just poked along low-spirited and on the watch-out. i went down to the front garden and clumb over the stile where you go through the high board fence. there was an inch of new snow on the ground, and i seen somebody's tracks. they had come up from the quarry and stood around the stile awhile, and then went on around the garden fence. it was funny they hadn't come in, after standing around so. i couldn't make it out. it was very curious, somehow. i was going to follow around, but i stooped down to look at the tracks first. i didn't notice anything at first, but next i did. there was a cross in the left boot-heel made with big nails, to keep off the devil. i was up in a second and shinning down the hill. i looked over my shoulder every now and then, but i didn't see nobody. i was at judge thatcher's as quick as i could get there. he said: "why, my boy, you are all out of breath. did you come for your interest?" "no, sir," i says; "is there some for me?" "oh, yes, a half-yearly is in last night--over a hundred and fifty dollars. quite a fortune for you. you had better let me invest it along with your six thousand, because if you take it you'll spend it." "no, sir," i says, "i don't want to spend it. i don't want it at all--nor the six thousand, nuther. i want you to take it; i want to give it to you--the six thousand and all." he looked surprised. he couldn't seem to make it out. he says: "why, what can you mean, my boy?" i says, "don't you ask me no questions about it, please. you'll take it--won't you?" he says: "well, i'm puzzled. is something the matter?" "please take it," says i, "and don't ask me nothing--then i won't have to tell no lies." he studied awhile, and then he says: "oho-o! i think i see. you want to _sell_ all your property to me--not give it. that's the correct idea." then he wrote something on a paper and read it over, and says: "there; you see it says 'for a consideration.' that means i have bought it of you and paid you for it. here's a dollar for you. now you sign it." so i signed it, and left. miss watson's nigger, jim, had a hair-ball as big as your fist, which had been took out of the fourth stomach of an ox, and he used to do magic with it. he said there was a spirit inside of it, and it knowed everything. so i went to him that night and told him pap was here again, for i found his tracks in the snow. what i wanted to know was, what he was going to do, and was he going to stay? jim got out his hair-ball and said something over it, and then he held it up and dropped it on the floor. it fell pretty solid, and only rolled about an inch. jim tried it again, and then another time, and it acted just the same. jim got down on his knees, and put his ear against it and listened. but it warn't no use; he said it wouldn't talk. he said sometimes it wouldn't talk without money. i told him i had an old slick counterfeit quarter that warn't no good because the brass showed through the silver a little, and it wouldn't pass nohow, even if the brass didn't show, because it was so slick it felt greasy, and so that would tell on it every time. (i reckoned i wouldn't say nothing about the dollar i got from the judge.) i said it was pretty bad money, but maybe the hair-ball would take it, because maybe it wouldn't know the difference. jim smelt it and bit it and rubbed it, and said he would manage so the hair-ball would think it was good. he said he would split open a raw irish potato and stick the quarter in between and keep it there all night, and next morning you couldn't see no brass, and it wouldn't feel greasy no more, and so anybody in town would take it in a minute, let alone a hair-ball. well, i knowed a potato would do that before, but i had forgot it. jim put the quarter under the hair-ball, and got down and listened again. this time he said the hair-ball was all right. he said it would tell my whole fortune if i wanted it to. i says, go on. so the hair-ball talked to jim, and jim told it to me. he says: "yo' ole father doan' know yit what he's a-gwyne to do. sometimes he spec he'll go 'way, en den ag'in he spec he'll stay. de bes' way is to res' easy en let de ole man take his own way. dey's two angels hoverin' roun' 'bout him. one uv 'em is white en shiny, en t'other one is black. de white one gits him to go right a little while, den de black one sail in en bust it all up. a body can't tell yit which one gwyne to fetch him at de las'. but you is all right. you gwyne to have considable trouble in yo' life, en considable joy. sometimes you gwyne to git hurt, en sometimes you gwyne to git sick; but every time you's gwyne to git well ag'in. dey's two gals flyin' 'bout you in yo' life. one uv 'em's light en t'other one is dark. one is rich en t'other is po'. you's gwyne to marry de po' one fust en de rich one by en by. you wants to keep 'way fum de water as much as you kin, en don't run no resk, 'kase it's down in de bills dat you's gwyne to git hung." when i lit my candle and went up to my room that night there sat pap--his own self! chapter v i had shut the door to. then i turned around, and there he was. i used to be scared of him all the time, he tanned me so much. i reckoned i was scared now, too; but in a minute i see i was mistaken--that is, after the first jolt, as you may say, when my breath sort of hitched, he being so unexpected; but right away after i see i warn't scared of him worth bothring about. he was most fifty, and he looked it. his hair was long and tangled and greasy, and hung down, and you could see his eyes shining through like he was behind vines. it was all black, no gray; so was his long, mixed-up whiskers. there warn't no color in his face, where his face showed; it was white; not like another man's white, but a white to make a body sick, a white to make a body's flesh crawl--a tree-toad white, a fish-belly white. as for his clothes--just rags, that was all. he had one ankle resting on t'other knee; the boot on that foot was busted, and two of his toes stuck through, and he worked them now and then. his hat was laying on the floor--an old black slouch with the top caved in, like a lid. i stood a-looking at him; he set there a-looking at me, with his chair tilted back a little. i set the candle down. i noticed the window was up; so he had clumb in by the shed. he kept a-looking me all over. by and by he says: "starchy clothes--very. you think you're a good deal of a big-bug, _don't_ you?" "maybe i am, maybe i ain't," i says. "don't you give me none o' your lip," says he. "you've put on considerable many frills since i been away. i'll take you down a peg before i get done with you. you're educated, too, they say--can read and write. you think you're better'n your father, now, don't you, because he can't? _i'll_ take it out of you. who told you you might meddle with such hifalut'n foolishness, hey?--who told you you could?" "the widow. she told me." "the widow, hey?--and who told the widow she could put in her shovel about a thing that ain't none of her business?" "nobody never told her." "well, i'll learn her how to meddle. and looky here--you drop that school, you hear? i'll learn people to bring up a boy to put on airs over his own father and let on to be better'n what _he_ is. you lemme catch you fooling around that school again, you hear? your mother couldn't read, and she couldn't write, nuther, before she died. none of the family couldn't before _they_ died. i can't; and here you're a-swelling yourself up like this. i ain't the man to stand it--you hear? say, lemme hear you read." i took up a book and begun something about general washington and the wars. when i'd read about a half a minute, he fetched the book a whack with his hand and knocked it across the house. he says: "it's so. you can do it. i had my doubts when you told me. now looky here; you stop that putting on frills. i won't have it. i'll lay for you, my smarty; and if i catch you about that school i'll tan you good. first you know you'll get religion, too. i never see such a son." he took up a little blue and yaller picture of some cows and a boy, and says: "what's this?" "it's something they give me for learning my lessons good." he tore it up, and says: "i'll give you something better--i'll give you a cowhide." he set there a-mumbling and a-growling a minute, and then he says: "_ain't_ you a sweet-scented dandy, though? a bed; and bedclothes; and a look'n'-glass; and a piece of carpet on the floor--and your own father got to sleep with the hogs in the tanyard. i never see such a son. i bet i'll take some o' these frills out o' you before i'm done with you. why, there ain't no end to your airs--they say you're rich. hey?--how's that?" "they lie--that's how." "looky here--mind how you talk to me; i'm a-standing about all i can stand now--so don't gimme no sass. i've been in town two days, and i hain't heard nothing but about you bein' rich. i heard about it away down the river, too. that's why i come. you git me that money to-morrow--i want it." "i hain't got no money." "it's a lie. judge thatcher's got it. you git it. i want it." "i hain't got no money, i tell you. you ask judge thatcher; he'll tell you the same." "all right. i'll ask him; and i'll make him pungle, too, or i'll know the reason why. say, how much you got in your pocket? i want it." "i hain't got only a dollar, and i want that to--" "it don't make no difference what you want it for--you just shell it out." he took it and bit it to see if it was good, and then he said he was going down-town to get some whisky; said he hadn't had a drink all day. when he had got out on the shed he put his head in again, and cussed me for putting on frills and trying to be better than him; and when i reckoned he was gone he come back and put his head in again, and told me to mind about that school, because he was going to lay for me and lick me if i didn't drop that. next day he was drunk, and he went to judge thatcher's and bullyragged him, and tried to make him give up the money; but he couldn't, and then he swore he'd make the law force him. the judge and the widow went to law to get the court to take me away from him and let one of them be my guardian; but it was a new judge that had just come, and he didn't know the old man; so he said courts mustn't interfere and separate families if they could help it; said he'd druther not take a child away from its father. so judge thatcher and the widow had to quit on the business. that pleased the old man till he couldn't rest. he said he'd cowhide me till i was black and blue if i didn't raise some money for him. i borrowed three dollars from judge thatcher, and pap took it and got drunk, and went a-blowing around and cussing and whooping and carrying on; and he kept it up all over town, with a tin pan, till most midnight; then they jailed him, and next day they had him before court, and jailed him again for a week. but he said _he_ was satisfied; said he was boss of his son, and he'd make it warm for _him._ when he got out the new judge said he was a-going to make a man of him. so he took him to his own house, and dressed him up clean and nice, and had him to breakfast and dinner and supper with the family, and was just old pie to him, so to speak. and after supper he talked to him about temperance and such things till the old man cried, and said he'd been a fool, and fooled away his life; but now he was a-going to turn over a new leaf and be a man nobody wouldn't be ashamed of, and he hoped the judge would help him and not look down on him. the judge said he could hug him for them words; so he cried, and his wife she cried again; pap said he'd been a man that had always been misunderstood before, and the judge said he believed it. the old man said that what a man wanted that was down was sympathy, and the judge said it was so; so they cried again. and when it was bedtime the old man rose up and held out his hand, and says: "look at it, gentlemen and ladies all; take a-hold of it; shake it. there's a hand that was the hand of a hog; but it ain't so no more; it's the hand of a man that's started in on a new life, and'll die before he'll go back. you mark them words--don't forget i said them. it's a clean hand now; shake it--don't be afeard." so they shook it, one after the other, all around, and cried. the judge's wife she kissed it. then the old man he signed a pledge--made his mark. the judge said it was the holiest time on record, or something like that. then they tucked the old man into a beautiful room, which was the spare room, and in the night some time he got powerful thirsty and clumb out on to the porch-roof and slid down a stanchion and traded his new coat for a jug of forty-rod, and clumb back again and had a good old time; and toward daylight he crawled out again, drunk as a fiddler, and rolled off the porch and broke his left arm in two places, and was most froze to death when somebody found him after sun-up. and when they come to look at that spare room they had to take soundings before they could navigate it. the judge he felt kind of sore. he said he reckoned a body could reform the old man with a shotgun, maybe, but he didn't know no other way. chapter vi well, pretty soon the old man was up and around again, and then he went for judge thatcher in the courts to make him give up that money, and he went for me, too, for not stopping school. he catched me a couple of times and thrashed me, but i went to school just the same, and dodged him or outrun him most of the time. i didn't want to go to school much before, but i reckoned i'd go now to spite pap. that law trial was a slow business--appeared like they warn't ever going to get started on it; so every now and then i'd borrow two or three dollars off of the judge for him, to keep from getting a cowhiding. every time he got money he got drunk; and every time he got drunk he raised cain around town; and every time he raised cain he got jailed. he was just suited--this kind of thing was right in his line. he got to hanging around the widow's too much, and so she told him at last that if he didn't quit using around there she would make trouble for him. well, _wasn't_ he mad? he said he would show who was huck finn's boss. so he watched out for me one day in the spring, and catched me, and took me up the river about three mile in a skiff, and crossed over to the illinois shore where it was woody and there warn't no houses but an old log hut in a place where the timber was so thick you couldn't find it if you didn't know where it was. he kept me with him all the time, and i never got a chance to run off. we lived in that old cabin, and he always locked the door and put the key under his head nights. he had a gun which he had stole, i reckon, and we fished and hunted, and that was what we lived on. every little while he locked me in and went down to the store, three miles, to the ferry, and traded fish and game for whisky, and fetched it home and got drunk and had a good time, and licked me. the widow she found out where i was by and by, and she sent a man over to try to get hold of me; but pap drove him off with the gun, and it warn't long after that till i was used to being where i was, and liked it--all but the cowhide part. it was kind of lazy and jolly, laying off comfortable all day, smoking and fishing, and no books nor study. two months or more run along, and my clothes got to be all rags and dirt, and i didn't see how i'd ever got to like it so well at the widow's, where you had to wash, and eat on a plate, and comb up, and go to bed and get up regular, and be forever bothering over a book, and have old miss watson pecking at you all the time. i didn't want to go back no more. i had stopped cussing, because the widow didn't like it; but now i took to it again because pap hadn't no objections. it was pretty good times up in the woods there, take it all around. but by and by pap got too handy with his hick'ry, and i couldn't stand it. i was all over welts. he got to going away so much, too, and locking me in. once he locked me in and was gone three days. it was dreadful lonesome. i judged he had got drownded, and i wasn't ever going to get out any more. i was scared. i made up my mind i would fix up some way to leave there. i had tried to get out of that cabin many a time, but i couldn't find no way. there warn't a window to it big enough for a dog to get through. i couldn't get up the chimbly; it was too narrow. the door was thick, solid oak slabs. pap was pretty careful not to leave a knife or anything in the cabin when he was away; i reckon i had hunted the place over as much as a hundred times; well, i was most all the time at it, because it was about the only way to put in the time. but this time i found something at last; i found an old rusty wood-saw without any handle; it was laid in between a rafter and the clapboards of the roof. i greased it up and went to work. there was an old horse-blanket nailed against the logs at the far end of the cabin behind the table, to keep the wind from blowing through the chinks and putting the candle out. i got under the table and raised the blanket, and went to work to saw a section of the big bottom log out--big enough to let me through. well, it was a good long job, but i was getting toward the end of it when i heard pap's gun in the woods. i got rid of the signs of my work, and dropped the blanket and hid my saw, and pretty soon pap come in. pap warn't in a good humor--so he was his natural self. he said he was down-town, and everything was going wrong. his lawyer said he reckoned he would win his lawsuit and get the money if they ever got started on the trial; but then there was ways to put it off a long time, and judge thatcher knowed how to do it. and he said people allowed there'd be another trial to get me away from him and give me to the widow for my guardian, and they guessed it would win this time. this shook me up considerable, because i didn't want to go back to the widow's any more and be so cramped up and sivilized, as they called it. then the old man got to cussing, and cussed everything and everybody he could think of, and then cussed them all over again to make sure he hadn't skipped any, and after that he polished off with a kind of a general cuss all round, including a considerable parcel of people which he didn't know the names of, and so called them what's-his-name when he got to them, and went right along with his cussing. he said he would like to see the widow get me. he said he would watch out, and if they tried to come any such game on him he knowed of a place six or seven mile off to stow me in, where they might hunt till they dropped and they couldn't find me. that made me pretty uneasy again, but only for a minute; i reckoned i wouldn't stay on hand till he got that chance. the old man made me go to the skiff and fetch the things he had got. there was a fifty-pound sack of corn meal, and a side of bacon, ammunition, and a four-gallon jug of whisky, and an old book and two newspapers for wadding, besides some tow. i toted up a load, and went back and set down on the bow of the skiff to rest. i thought it all over, and i reckoned i would walk off with the gun and some lines, and take to the woods when i run away. i guessed i wouldn't stay in one place, but just tramp right across the country, mostly night-times, and hunt and fish to keep alive, and so get so far away that the old man nor the widow couldn't ever find me any more. i judged i would saw out and leave that night if pap got drunk enough, and i reckoned he would. i got so full of it i didn't notice how long i was staying till the old man hollered and asked me whether i was asleep or drownded. i got the things all up to the cabin, and then it was about dark. while i was cooking supper the old man took a swig or two and got sort of warmed up, and went to ripping again. he had been drunk over in town, and laid in the gutter all night, and he was a sight to look at. a body would 'a' thought he was adam--he was just all mud. whenever his liquor begun to work he most always went for the govment. this time he says: "call this a govment! why, just look at it and see what it's like. here's the law a-standing ready to take a man's son away from him--a man's own son, which he has had all the trouble and all the anxiety and all the expense of raising. yes, just as that man has got that son raised at last, and ready to go to work and begin to do suthin' for _him_ and give him a rest, the law up and goes for him. and they call _that_ govment! that ain't all, nuther. the law backs that old judge thatcher up and helps him to keep me out o' my property. here's what the law does: the law takes a man worth six thousand dollars and up'ards, and jams him into an old trap of a cabin like this, and lets him go round in clothes that ain't fitten for a hog. they call that govment! a man can't get his rights in a govment like this. sometimes i've a mighty notion to just leave the country for good and all. yes, and i _told_ 'em so; i told old thatcher so to his face. lots of 'em heard me, and can tell what i said. says i, for two cents i'd leave the blamed country and never come a-near it ag'in. them's the very words. i says, look at my hat--if you call it a hat--but the lid raises up and the rest of it goes down till it's below my chin, and then it ain't rightly a hat at all, but more like my head was shoved up through a jint o' stove-pipe. look at it, says i--such a hat for me to wear--one of the wealthiest men in this town if i could git my rights. "oh, yes, this is a wonderful govment, wonderful. why, looky here. there was a free nigger there from ohio--a mulatter, most as white as a white man. he had the whitest shirt on you ever see, too, and the shiniest hat; and there ain't a man in that town that's got as fine clothes as what he had; and he had a gold watch and chain, and a silver-headed cane--the awfulest old gray-headed nabob in the state. and what do you think? they said he was a p'fessor in a college, and could talk all kinds of languages, and knowed everything. and that ain't the wust. they said he could _vote_ when he was at home. well, that let me out. thinks i, what is the country a-coming to? it was 'lection day, and i was just about to go and vote myself if i warn't too drunk to get there; but when they told me there was a state in this country where they'd let that nigger vote, i drawed out. i says i'll never vote ag'in. them's the very words i said; they all heard me; and the country may rot for all me--i'll never vote ag'in as long as i live. and to see the cool way of that nigger--why, he wouldn't 'a' give me the road if i hadn't shoved him out o' the way. i says to the people, why ain't this nigger put up at auction and sold?--that's what i want to know. and what do you reckon they said? why, they said he couldn't be sold till he'd been in the state six months, and he hadn't been there that long yet. there, now--that's a specimen. they call that a govment that can't sell a free nigger till he's been in the state six months. here's a govment that calls itself a govment, and lets on to be a govment, and thinks it is a govment, and yet's got to set stock-still for six whole months before it can take a-hold of a prowling, thieving, infernal, white-shirted free nigger, and--" pap was a-going on so he never noticed where his old limber legs was taking him to, so he went head over heels over the tub of salt pork and barked both shins, and the rest of his speech was all the hottest kind of language--mostly hove at the nigger and the govment, though he give the tub some, too, all along, here and there. he hopped around the cabin considerable, first on one leg and then on the other, holding first one shin and then the other one, and at last he let out with his left foot all of a sudden and fetched the tub a rattling kick. but it warn't good judgment, because that was the boot that had a couple of his toes leaking out of the front end of it; so now he raised a howl that fairly made a body's hair raise, and down he went in the dirt, and rolled there, and held his toes; and the cussing he done then laid over anything he had ever done previous. he said so his own self afterwards. he had heard old sowberry hagan in his best days, and he said it laid over him, too; but i reckon that was sort of piling it on, maybe. after supper pap took the jug, and said he had enough whisky there for two drunks and one delirium tremens. that was always his word. i judged he would be blind drunk in about an hour, and then i would steal the key, or saw myself out, one or t'other. he drank and drank, and tumbled down on his blankets by and by; but luck didn't run my way. he didn't go sound asleep, but was uneasy. he groaned and moaned and thrashed around this way and that for a long time. at last i got so sleepy i couldn't keep my eyes open all i could do, and so before i knowed what i was about i was sound asleep, and the candle burning. i don't know how long i was asleep, but all of a sudden there was an awful scream and i was up. there was pap looking wild, and skipping around every which way and yelling about snakes. he said they was crawling up his legs; and then he would give a jump and scream, and say one had bit him on the cheek--but i couldn't see no snakes. he started and run round and round the cabin, hollering "take him off! take him off! he's biting me on the neck!" i never see a man look so wild in the eyes. pretty soon he was all fagged out, and fell down panting; then he rolled over and over wonderful fast, kicking things every which way, and striking and grabbing at the air with his hands, and screaming and saying there was devils a-hold of him. he wore out by and by, and laid still awhile, moaning. then he laid stiller, and didn't make a sound. i could hear the owls and the wolves away off in the woods, and it seemed terrible still. he was laying over by the corner. by and by he raised up part way and listened, with his head to one side. he says, very low: "tramp--tramp--tramp; that's the dead; tramp--tramp--tramp; they're coming after me; but i won't go. oh, they're here! don't touch me--don't! hands off--they're cold; let go. oh, let a poor devil alone!" then he went down on all fours and crawled off, begging them to let him alone, and he rolled himself up in his blanket and wallowed in under the old pine table, still a-begging; and then he went to crying. i could hear him through the blanket. by and by he rolled out and jumped up on his feet looking wild, and he see me and went for me. he chased me round and round the place with a clasp-knife, calling me the angel of death, and saying he would kill me, and then i couldn't come for him no more. i begged, and told him i was only huck; but he laughed _such_ a screechy laugh, and roared and cussed, and kept on chasing me up. once when i turned short and dodged under his arm he made a grab and got me by the jacket between my shoulders, and i thought i was gone; but i slid out of the jacket quick as lightning, and saved myself. pretty soon he was all tired out, and dropped down with his back against the door, and said he would rest a minute and then kill me. he put his knife under him, and said he would sleep and get strong, and then he would see who was who. so he dozed off pretty soon. by and by i got the old split-bottom chair and clumb up as easy as i could, not to make any noise, and got down the gun. i slipped the ramrod down it to make sure it was loaded, and then i laid it across the turnip-barrel, pointing towards pap, and set down behind it to wait for him to stir. and how slow and still the time did drag along. chapter vii "git up! what you 'bout?" i opened my eyes and looked around, trying to make out where i was. it was after sun-up, and i had been sound asleep. pap was standing over me looking sour--and sick, too. he says: "what you doin' with this gun?" i judged he didn't know nothing about what he had been doing, so i says: "somebody tried to get in, so i was laying for him." "why didn't you roust me out?" "well, i tried to, but i couldn't; i couldn't budge you." "well, all right. don't stand there palavering all day, but out with you and see if there's a fish on the lines for breakfast. i'll be along in a minute." he unlocked the door, and i cleared out up the river-bank. i noticed some pieces of limbs and such things floating down, and a sprinkling of bark; so i knowed the river had begun to rise. i reckoned i would have great times now if i was over at the town. the june rise used to be always luck for me; because as soon as that rise begins here comes cordwood floating down, and pieces of log rafts--sometimes a dozen logs together; so all you have to do is to catch them and sell them to the woodyards and the sawmill. i went along up the bank with one eye out for pap and t'other one out for what the rise might fetch along. well, all at once here comes a canoe; just a beauty, too, about thirteen or fourteen foot long, riding high like a duck. i shot head-first off of the bank like a frog, clothes and all on, and struck out for the canoe. i just expected there'd be somebody laying down in it, because people often done that to fool folks, and when a chap had pulled a skiff out most to it they'd raise up and laugh at him. but it warn't so this time. it was a drift-canoe sure enough, and i clumb in and paddled her ashore. thinks i, the old man will be glad when he sees this--she's worth ten dollars. but when i got to shore pap wasn't in sight yet, and as i was running her into a little creek like a gully, all hung over with vines and willows, i struck another idea: i judged i'd hide her good, and then, 'stead of taking to the woods when i run off, i'd go down the river about fifty mile and camp in one place for good, and not have such a rough time tramping on foot. it was pretty close to the shanty, and i thought i heard the old man coming all the time; but i got her hid; and then i out and looked around a bunch of willows, and there was the old man down the path a piece just drawing a bead on a bird with his gun. so he hadn't seen anything. when he got along i was hard at it taking up a "trot" line. he abused me a little for being so slow; but i told him i fell in the river, and that was what made me so long. i knowed he would see i was wet, and then he would be asking questions. we got five catfish off the lines and went home. while we laid off after breakfast to sleep up, both of us being about wore out, i got to thinking that if i could fix up some way to keep pap and the widow from trying to follow me, it would be a certainer thing than trusting to luck to get far enough off before they missed me; you see, all kinds of things might happen. well, i didn't see no way for a while, but by and by pap raised up a minute to drink another barrel of water, and he says: "another time a man comes a-prowling round here you roust me out, you hear? that man warn't here for no good. i'd a shot him. next time you roust me out, you hear?" then he dropped down and went to sleep again; what he had been saying give me the very idea i wanted. i says to myself, i can fix it now so nobody won't think of following me. about twelve o'clock we turned out and went along up the bank. the river was coming up pretty fast, and lots of driftwood going by on the rise. by and by along comes part of a log raft--nine logs fast together. we went out with the skiff and towed it ashore. then we had dinner. anybody but pap would 'a' waited and seen the day through, so as to catch more stuff; but that warn't pap's style. nine logs was enough for one time; he must shove right over to town and sell. so he locked me in and took the skiff, and started off towing the raft about half past three. i judged he wouldn't come back that night. i waited till i reckoned he had got a good start; then i out with my saw, and went to work on that log again. before he was t'other side of the river i was out of the hole; him and his raft was just a speck on the water away off yonder. [illustration: huckleberry finn] i took the sack of corn meal and took it to where the canoe was hid, and shoved the vines and branches apart and put it in; then i done the same with the side of bacon; then the whisky-jug. i took all the coffee and sugar there was, and all the ammunition; i took the wadding; i took the bucket and gourd; took a dipper and a tin cup, and my old saw and two blankets, and the skillet and the coffee-pot. i took fish-lines and matches and other things--everything that was worth a cent. i cleaned out the place. i wanted an ax, but there wasn't any, only the one out at the woodpile, and i knowed why i was going to leave that. i fetched out the gun, and now i was done. i had wore the ground a good deal crawling out of the hole and dragging out so many things. so i fixed that as good as i could from the outside by scattering dust on the place, which covered up the smoothness and the sawdust. then i fixed the piece of log back into its place, and put two rocks under it and one against it to hold it there, for it was bent up at that place and didn't quite touch ground. if you stood four or five foot away and didn't know it was sawed, you wouldn't never notice it; and besides, this was the back of the cabin, and it warn't likely anybody would go fooling around there. it was all grass clear to the canoe, so i hadn't left a track. i followed around to see. i stood on the bank and looked out over the river. all safe. so i took the gun and went up a piece into the woods, and was hunting around for some birds when i see a wild pig; hogs soon went wild in them bottoms after they had got away from the prairie-farms. i shot this fellow and took him into camp. i took the ax and smashed in the door. i beat it and hacked it considerable a-doing it. i fetched the pig in, and took him back nearly to the table and hacked into his throat with the ax, and laid him down on the ground to bleed; i say ground because it was ground--hard packed, and no boards. well, next i took an old sack and put a lot of big rocks in it--all i could drag--and i started it from the pig, and dragged it to the door and through the woods down to the river and dumped it in, and down it sunk, out of sight. you could easy see that something had been dragged over the ground. i did wish tom sawyer was there; i knowed he would take an interest in this kind of business, and throw in the fancy touches. nobody could spread himself like tom sawyer in such a thing as that. well, last i pulled out some of my hair, and blooded the ax good, and stuck it on the back side, and slung the ax in the corner. then i took up the pig and held him to my breast with my jacket (so he couldn't drip) till i got a good piece below the house and then dumped him into the river. now i thought of something else. so i went and got the bag of meal and my old saw out of the canoe, and fetched them to the house. i took the bag to where it used to stand, and ripped a hole in the bottom of it with the saw, for there warn't no knives and forks on the place--pap done everything with his clasp-knife about the cooking. then i carried the sack about a hundred yards across the grass and through the willows east of the house, to a shallow lake that was five mile wide and full of rushes--and ducks too, you might say, in the season. there was a slough or a creek leading out of it on the other side that went miles away, i don't know where, but it didn't go to the river. the meal sifted out and made a little track all the way to the lake. i dropped pap's whetstone there too, so as to look like it had been done by accident. then i tied up the rip in the meal-sack with a string, so it wouldn't leak no more, and took it and my saw to the canoe again. it was about dark now; so i dropped the canoe down the river under some willows that hung over the bank, and waited for the moon to rise. i made fast to a willow; then i took a bite to eat, and by and by laid down in the canoe to smoke a pipe and lay out a plan. i says to myself, they'll follow the track of that sackful of rocks to the shore and then drag the river for me. and they'll follow that meal track to the lake and go browsing down the creek that leads out of it to find the robbers that killed me and took the things. they won't ever hunt the river for anything but my dead carcass. they'll soon get tired of that, and won't bother no more about me. all right; i can stop anywhere i want to. jackson's island is good enough for me; i know that island pretty well, and nobody ever comes there. and then i can paddle over to town nights, and slink around and pick up things i want. jackson's island's the place. i was pretty tired, and the first thing i knowed i was asleep. when i woke up i didn't know where i was for a minute. i set up and looked around, a little scared. then i remembered. the river looked miles and miles across. the moon was so bright i could 'a' counted the drift-logs that went a-slipping along, black and still, hundreds of yards out from shore. everything was dead quiet, and it looked late, and _smelt_ late. you know what i mean--i don't know the words to put it in. i took a good gap and a stretch, and was just going to unhitch and start when i heard a sound away over the water. i listened. pretty soon i made it out. it was that dull kind of a regular sound that comes from oars working in rowlocks when it's a still night. i peeped out through the willow branches, and there it was--a skiff, away across the water. i couldn't tell how many was in it. it kept a-coming, and when it was abreast of me i see there warn't but one man in it. thinks i, maybe it's pap, though i warn't expecting him. he dropped below me with the current, and by and by he came a-swinging up shore in the easy water, and he went by so close i could 'a' reached out the gun and touched him. well, it _was_ pap, sure enough--and sober, too, by the way he laid his oars. i didn't lose no time. the next minute i was a-spinning down-stream soft, but quick, in the shade of the bank. i made two mile and a half, and then struck out a quarter of a mile or more toward the middle of the river, because pretty soon i would be passing the ferry-landing, and people might see me and hail me. i got out amongst the driftwood, and then laid down in the bottom of the canoe and let her float. i laid there, and had a good rest and a smoke out of my pipe, looking away into the sky; not a cloud in it. the sky looks ever so deep when you lay down on your back in the moonshine; i never knowed it before. and how far a body can hear on the water such nights! i heard people talking at the ferry-landing. i heard what they said, too--every word of it. one man said it was getting towards the long days and the short nights now. t'other one said _this_ warn't one of the short ones, he reckoned--and then they laughed, and he said it over again, and they laughed again; then they waked up another fellow and told him, and laughed, but he didn't laugh; he ripped out something brisk, and said let him alone. the first fellow said he 'lowed to tell it to his old woman--she would think it was pretty good; but he said that warn't nothing to some things he had said in his time. i heard one man say it was nearly three o'clock, and he hoped daylight wouldn't wait more than about a week longer. after that the talk got further and further away, and i couldn't make out the words any more; but i could hear the mumble, and now and then a laugh, too, but it seemed a long ways off. i was away below the ferry now. i rose up, and there was jackson's island, about two mile and a half down-stream, heavy-timbered and standing up out of the middle of the river, big and dark and solid, like a steamboat without any lights. there warn't any signs of the bar at the head--it was all under water now. it didn't take me long to get there. i shot past the head at a ripping rate, the current was so swift, and then i got into the dead water and landed on the side towards the illinois shore. i run the canoe into a deep dent in the bank that i knowed about; i had to part the willow branches to get in; and when i made fast nobody could 'a' seen the canoe from the outside. i went up and set down on a log at the head of the island, and looked out on the big river and the black driftwood and away over to the town, three mile away, where there was three or four lights twinkling. a monstrous big lumber-raft was about a mile upstream, coming along down, with a lantern in the middle of it. i watched it come creeping down, and when it was most abreast of where i stood i heard a man say, "stern oars, there! heave her head to stabboard!" i heard that just as plain as if the man was by my side. there was a little gray in the sky now; so i stepped into the woods, and laid down for a nap before breakfast. chapter viii the sun was up so high when i waked that i judged it was after eight o'clock. i laid there in the grass and the cool shade thinking about things, and feeling rested and ruther comfortable and satisfied. i could see the sun out at one or two holes, but mostly it was big trees all about, and gloomy in there amongst them. there was freckled places on the ground where the light sifted down through the leaves, and the freckled places swapped about a little, showing there was a little breeze up there. a couple of squirrels set on a limb and jabbered at me very friendly. i was powerful lazy and comfortable--didn't want to get up and cook breakfast. well, i was dozing off again when i thinks i hears a deep sound of "boom!" away up the river. i rouses up, and rests on my elbow and listens; pretty soon i hears it again. i hopped up, and went and looked out at a hole in the leaves, and i see a bunch of smoke laying on the water a long ways up--about abreast the ferry. and there was the ferryboat full of people floating along down. i knowed what was the matter now. "boom!" i see the white smoke squirt out of the ferryboat's side. you see, they was firing cannon over the water, trying to make my carcass come to the top. i was pretty hungry, but it warn't going to do for me to start a fire, because they might see the smoke. so i set there and watched the cannon-smoke and listened to the boom. the river was a mile wide there, and it always looks pretty on a summer morning--so i was having a good enough time seeing them hunt for my remainders if i only had a bite to eat. well, then i happened to think how they always put quicksilver in loaves of bread and float them off, because they always go right to the drownded carcass and stop there. so, says i, i'll keep a lookout, and if any of them's floating around after me i'll give them a show. i changed to the illinois edge of the island to see what luck i could have, and i warn't disappointed. a big double loaf come along, and i most got it with a long stick, but my foot slipped and she floated out further. of course i was where the current set in the closest to the shore--i knowed enough for that. but by and by along comes another one, and this time i won. i took out the plug and shook out the little dab of quicksilver, and set my teeth in. it was "baker's bread"--what the quality eat; none of your low-down corn-pone. i got a good place amongst the leaves, and set there on a log, munching the bread and watching the ferry-boat, and very well satisfied. and then something struck me. i says, now i reckon the widow or the parson or somebody prayed that this bread would find me, and here it has gone and done it. so there ain't no doubt but there is something in that thing--that is, there's something in it when a body like the widow or the parson prays, but it don't work for me, and i reckon it don't work for only just the right kind. i lit a pipe and had a good long smoke, and went on watching. the ferryboat was floating with the current, and i allowed i'd have a chance to see who was aboard when she come along, because she would come in close, where the bread did. when she'd got pretty well along down towards me, i put out my pipe and went to where i fished out the bread, and laid down behind a log on the bank in a little open place. where the log forked i could peep through. by and by she come along, and she drifted in so close that they could 'a' run out a plank and walked ashore. most everybody was on the boat. pap, and judge thatcher, and bessie thatcher, and joe harper, and tom sawyer, and his old aunt polly, and sid and mary, and plenty more. everybody was talking about the murder, but the captain broke in and says: "look sharp, now; the current sets in the closest here, and maybe he's washed ashore and got tangled amongst the brush at the water's edge. i hope so, anyway." i didn't hope so. they all crowded up and leaned over the rails, nearly in my face, and kept still, watching with all their might. i could see them first-rate, but they couldn't see me. then the captain sung out: "stand away!" and the cannon let off such a blast right before me that it made me deef with the noise and pretty near blind with the smoke, and i judged i was gone. if they'd 'a' had some bullets in, i reckon they'd 'a' got the corpse they was after. well, i see i warn't hurt, thanks to goodness. the boat floated on and went out of sight around the shoulder of the island. i could hear the booming now and then, further and further off, and by and by, after an hour, i didn't hear it no more. the island was three mile long. i judged they had got to the foot, and was giving it up. but they didn't yet awhile. they turned around the foot of the island and started up the channel on the missouri side, under steam, and booming once in a while as they went. i crossed over to that side and watched them. when they got abreast the head of the island they quit shooting and dropped over to the missouri shore and went home to the town. i knowed i was all right now. nobody else would come a-hunting after me. i got my traps out of the canoe and made me a nice camp in the thick woods. i made a kind of a tent out of my blankets to put my things under so the rain couldn't get at them. i catched a catfish and haggled him open with my saw, and towards sundown i started my camp-fire and had supper. then i set out a line to catch some fish for breakfast. when it was dark i set by my camp-fire smoking, and feeling pretty well satisfied; but by and by it got sort of lonesome, and so i went and set on the bank and listened to the current swashing along, and counted the stars and drift-logs and rafts that come down, and then went to bed; there ain't no better way to put in time when you are lonesome; you can't stay so, you soon get over it. and so for three days and nights. no difference--just the same thing. but the next day i went exploring around down through the island. i was boss of it; it all belonged to me, so to say, and i wanted to know all about it; but mainly i wanted to put in the time. i found plenty strawberries, ripe and prime; and green summer grapes, and green razberries; and the green blackberries was just beginning to show. they would all come handy by and by, i judged. well, i went fooling along in the deep woods till i judged i warn't far from the foot of the island. i had my gun along, but i hadn't shot nothing; it was for protection; thought i would kill some game nigh home. about this time i mighty near stepped on a good-sized snake, and it went sliding off through the grass and flowers, and i after it, trying to get a shot at it. i clipped along, and all of a sudden i bounded right on to the ashes of a camp-fire that was still smoking. my heart jumped up amongst my lungs. i never waited for to look further, but uncocked my gun and went sneaking back on my tiptoes as fast as ever i could. every now and then i stopped a second amongst the thick leaves and listened, but my breath come so hard i couldn't hear nothing else. i slunk along another piece further, then listened again; and so on, and so on. if i see a stump, i took it for a man; if i trod on a stick and broke it, it made me feel like a person had cut one of my breaths in two and i only got half, and the short half, too. when i got to camp i warn't feeling very brash, there warn't much sand in my craw; but i says, this ain't no time to be fooling around. so i got all my traps into my canoe again so as to have them out of sight, and i put out the fire and scattered the ashes around to look like an old last-year's camp, and then clumb a tree. i reckon i was up in the tree two hours; but i didn't see nothing, i didn't hear nothing--i only _thought_ i heard and seen as much as a thousand things. well, i couldn't stay up there forever; so at last i got down, but i kept in the thick woods and on the lookout all the time. all i could get to eat was berries and what was left over from breakfast. by the time it was night i was pretty hungry. so when it was good and dark i slid out from shore before moonrise and paddled over to the illinois bank--about a quarter of a mile. i went out in the woods and cooked a supper, and i had about made up my mind i would stay there all night when i hear a _plunkety-plunk_, _plunkety-plunk_, and says to myself, horses coming; and next i hear people's voices. i got everything into the canoe as quick as i could, and then went creeping through the woods to see what i could find out. i hadn't got far when i hear a man say: "we better camp here if we can find a good place; the horses is about beat out. let's look around." i didn't wait, but shoved out and paddled away easy. i tied up in the old place, and reckoned i would sleep in the canoe. i didn't sleep much. i couldn't, somehow, for thinking. and every time i waked up i thought somebody had me by the neck. so the sleep didn't do me no good. by and by i says to myself, i can't live this way; i'm a-going to find out who it is that's here on the island with me; i'll find it out or bust. well, i felt better right off. so i took my paddle and slid out from shore just a step or two, and then let the canoe drop along down amongst the shadows. the moon was shining, and outside of the shadows it made it most as light as day. i poked along well on to an hour, everything still as rocks and sound asleep. well, by this time i was most down to the foot of the island. a little ripply, cool breeze begun to blow, and that was as good as saying the night was about done. i give her a turn with the paddle and brung her nose to shore; then i got my gun and slipped out and into the edge of the woods. i sat down there on a log, and looked out through the leaves. i see the moon go off watch, and the darkness begin to blanket the river. but in a little while i see a pale streak over the treetops, and knowed the day was coming. so i took my gun and slipped off towards where i had run across that camp-fire, stopping every minute or two to listen. but i hadn't no luck somehow; i couldn't seem to find the place. but by and by, sure enough, i catched a glimpse of fire away through the trees. i went for it, cautious and slow. by and by i was close enough to have a look, and there laid a man on the ground. it most give me the fantods. he had a blanket around his head, and his head was nearly in the fire. i set there behind a clump of bushes in about six foot of him, and kept my eyes on him steady. it was getting gray daylight now. pretty soon he gapped and stretched himself and hove off the blanket, and it was miss watson's jim! i bet i was glad to see him. i says: "hello, jim!" and skipped out. he bounced up and stared at me wild. then he drops down on his knees, and puts his hands together and says: "doan' hurt me--don't! i hain't ever done no harm to a ghos'. i alwuz liked dead people, en done all i could for 'em. you go en git in de river ag'in, whah you b'longs, en doan' do nuffn to ole jim, 'at 'uz alwuz yo' fren'." well, i warn't long making him understand i warn't dead. i was ever so glad to see jim. i warn't lonesome now. i told him i warn't afraid of _him_ telling the people where i was. i talked along, but he only set there and looked at me; never said nothing. then i says: "it's good daylight. le's get breakfast. make up your camp-fire good." "what's de use er makin' up de camp-fire to cook strawbries en sich truck? but you got a gun, hain't you? den we kin git sumfn better den strawbries." "strawberries and such truck," i says. "is that what you live on?" "i couldn' git nuffn else," he says. "why, how long you been on the island, jim?" "i come heah de night arter you's killed." "what, all that time?" "yes-indeedy." "and ain't you had nothing but that kind of rubbage to eat?" "no, sah--nuffn else." "well, you must be most starved, ain't you?" "i reck'n i could eat a hoss. i think i could. how long you ben on de islan'?" "since the night i got killed." "no! w'y, what has you lived on? but you got a gun. oh, yes, you got a gun. dat's good. now you kill sumfn en i'll make up de fire." so we went over to where the canoe was, and while he built a fire in a grassy open place amongst the trees, i fetched meal and bacon and coffee, and coffee-pot and frying-pan, and sugar and tin cups, and the nigger was set back considerable, because he reckoned it was all done with witchcraft. i catched a good big catfish, too, and jim cleaned him with his knife, and fried him. when breakfast was ready we lolled on the grass and eat it smoking hot. jim laid it in with all his might, for he was most about starved. then when we had got pretty well stuffed, we laid off and lazied. by and by jim says: "but looky here, huck, who wuz it dat 'uz killed in dat shanty ef it warn't you?" then i told him the whole thing, and he said it was smart. he said tom sawyer couldn't get up no better plan than what i had. then i says: "how do you come to be here, jim, and how'd you get here?" he looked pretty uneasy, and didn't say nothing for a minute. then he says: "maybe i better not tell." "why, jim?" "well, dey's reasons. but you wouldn' tell on me ef i 'uz to tell you, would you, huck?" "blamed if i would, jim." "well, i b'lieve you, huck. i--i _run off_." "jim!" "but mind, you said you wouldn' tell--you know you said you wouldn' tell, huck." "well, i did. i said i wouldn't, and i'll stick to it. honest _injun_, i will. people would call me a low-down abolitionist and despise me for keeping mum--but that don't make no difference. i ain't a-going to tell, and i ain't a-going back there, anyways. so, now, le's know all about it." "well, you see, it 'uz dis way. ole missus--dat's miss watson--she pecks on me all de time, en treats me pooty rough, but she awluz said she wouldn' sell me down to orleans. but i noticed dey wuz a nigger trader roun' de place considable lately, en i begin to git oneasy. well, one night i creeps to de do' pooty late, en de do' warn't quite shet, en i hear old missus tell de widder she gwyne to sell me down to orleans, but she didn' want to, but she could git eight hund'd dollars for me, en it 'uz sich a big stack o' money she couldn' resis'. de widder she try to git her to say she wouldn't do it, but i never waited to hear de res'. i lit out mighty quick, i tell you. "i tuck out en shin down de hill, en 'spec to steal a skift 'long de sho' som'ers 'bove de town, but dey wuz people a-stirring yit, so i hid in de ole tumbledown cooper shop on de bank to wait for everybody to go 'way. well, i wuz dah all night. dey wuz somebody roun' all de time. 'long 'bout six in de mawnin' skifts begin to go by, en 'bout eight er nine every skift dat went 'long wuz talkin' 'bout how yo' pap come over to de town en say you's killed. dese las' skifts wuz full o' ladies en genlmen a-goin' over for to see de place. sometimes dey'd pull up at de sho' en take a res' b'fo' dey started acrost, so by de talk i got to know all 'bout de killin'. i 'uz powerful sorry you's killed, huck, but i ain't no mo' now. "i laid dah under de shavin's all day. i 'uz hungry, but i warn't afeard; bekase i knowed ole missus en de widder wuz goin' to start to de camp-meet'n' right arter breakfas' en be gone all day, en dey knows i goes off wid de cattle 'bout daylight, so dey wouldn' 'spec to see me roun' de place, en so dey wouldn' miss me tell arter dark in de evenin'. de yuther servants wouldn' miss me, kase dey'd shin out en take holiday soon as de ole folks 'uz out'n de way. "well, when it come dark i tuck out up de river road, en went 'bout two mile er more to whah dey warn't no houses. i'd made up my mine 'bout what i's a-gwyne to do. you see, ef i kep' on tryin' to git away afoot, de dogs 'ud track me; ef i stole a skift to cross over, dey'd miss dat skift, you see, en dey'd know 'bout whah i'd lan' on de yuther side, en whah to pick up my track. so i says, a raff is what i's arter; it doan' _make_ no track. "i see a light a-comin' roun' de p'int bymeby, so i wade' in en shove' a log ahead o' me en swum more'n half-way acrost de river, en got in 'mongst de drift-wood, en kep' my head down low, en kinder swum agin de current tell de raff come along. den i swum to de stern uv it en tuck a-holt. it clouded up en 'uz pooty dark for a little while. so i clumb up en laid down on de planks. de men 'uz all 'way yonder in de middle, whah de lantern wuz. de river wuz a-risin', en dey wuz a good current; so i reck'n'd 'at by fo' in de mawnin' i'd be twenty-five mile down de river, en den i'd slip in jis b'fo' daylight en swim asho', en take to de woods on de illinois side. "but i didn' have no luck. when we 'uz mos' down to de head er de islan' a man begin to come aft wid de lantern. i see it warn't no use fer to wait, so i slid overboard en struck out fer de islan'. well, i had a notion i could lan' mos' anywhers, but i couldn't--bank too bluff. i uz mos' to de foot er de islan' b'fo' i foun' a good place. i went into de woods en jedged i wouldn' fool wid raffs no mo', long as dey move de lantern roun' so. i had my pipe en a plug er dog-leg en some matches in my cap, en dey warn't wet, so i 'uz all right." "and so you ain't had no meat nor bread to eat all this time? why didn't you get mud-turkles?" "how you gwyne to git 'm? you can't slip up on um en grab um; en how's a body gwyne to hit um wid a rock? how could a body do it in de night? en i warn't gwyne to show mysef on de bank in de daytime." "well, that's so. you've had to keep in the woods all the time, of course. did you hear 'em shooting the cannon?" "oh, yes. i knowed dey was arter you. i see um go by heah--watched um thoo de bushes." some young birds come along, flying a yard or two at a time and lighting. jim said it was a sign it was going to rain. he said it was a sign when young chickens flew that way, and so he reckoned it was the same way when young birds done it. i was going to catch some of them, but jim wouldn't let me. he said it was death. he said his father laid mighty sick once, and some of them catched a bird, and his old granny said his father would die, and he did. and jim said you mustn't count the things you are going to cook for dinner, because that would bring bad luck. the same if you shook the tablecloth after sundown. and he said if a man owned a beehive and that man died, the bees must be told about it before sun-up next morning, or else the bees would all weaken down and quit work and die. jim said bees wouldn't sting idiots; but i didn't believe that, because i had tried them lots of times myself, and they wouldn't sting me. i had heard about some of these things before, but not all of them. jim knowed all kinds of signs. he said he knowed most everything. i said it looked to me like all the signs was about bad luck, and so i asked him if there warn't any good-luck signs. he says: "mighty few--an' _dey_ ain't no use to a body. what you want to know when good luck's a-comin' for? want to keep it off?" and he said: "ef you's got hairy arms en a hairy breas', it's a sign dat you's a-gwyne to be rich. well, dey's some use in a sign like dat, 'kase it's so fur ahead. you see, maybe you's got to be po' a long time fust, en so you might git discourage' en kill yo'sef 'f you didn' know by de sign dat you gwyne to be rich bymeby." "have you got hairy arms and a hairy breast, jim?" "what's de use to ax dat question? don't you see i has?" "well, are you rich?" "no, but i ben rich wunst, and gwyne to be rich ag'in. wunst i had foteen dollars, but i tuck to specalat'n', en got busted out." "what did you speculate in, jim?" "well, fust i tackled stock." "what kind of stock?" "why, live stock--cattle, you know. i put ten dollars in a cow. but i ain' gwyne to resk no mo' money in stock. de cow up 'n' died on my han's." "so you lost the ten dollars." "no, i didn't lose it all. i on'y los' 'bout nine of it. i sole de hide en taller for a dollar en ten cents." "you had five dollars and ten cents left. did you speculate any more?" "yes. you know that one-laigged nigger dat b'longs to old misto bradish? well, he sot up a bank, en say anybody dat put in a dollar would git fo' dollars mo' at de en' er de year. well, all de niggers went in, but dey didn't have much. i wuz de on'y one dat had much. so i stuck out for mo' dan fo' dollars, en i said 'f i didn' git it i'd start a bank mysef. well, o' course dat nigger want' to keep me out er de business, bekase he says dey warn't business 'nough for two banks, so he say i could put in my five dollars en he pay me thirty-five at de en' er de year. "so i done it. den i reck'n'd i'd inves' de thirty-five dollars right off en keep things a-movin'. dey wuz a nigger name' bob, dat had ketched a wood-flat, en his marster didn' know it; en i bought it off'n him en told him to take de thirty-five dollars when de en' er de year come; but somebody stole de wood-flat dat night, en nex' day de one-laigged nigger say de bank's busted. so dey didn' none uv us git no money." "what did you do with the ten cents, jim?" "well, i 'uz gwyne to spen' it, but i had a dream, en de dream tole me to give it to a nigger name' balum--balum's ass dey call him for short; he's one er dem chuckleheads, you know. but he's lucky, dey say, en i see i warn't lucky. de dream say let balum inves' de ten cents en he'd make a raise for me. well, balum he tuck de money, en when he wuz in church he hear de preacher say dat whoever give to de po' len' to de lord, en boun' to git his money back a hund'd times. so balum he tuck en give de ten cents to de po', en laid low to see what wuz gwyne to come of it." "well, what did come of it, jim?" "nuffn never come of it. i couldn' manage to k'leck dat money no way; en balum he couldn'. i ain' gwyne to len' no mo' money 'dout i see de security. boun' to git yo' money back a hund'd times, de preacher says! ef i could git de ten _cents_ back, i'd call it squah, en be glad er de chanst." "well, it's all right anyway, jim, long as you're going to be rich again some time or other." "yes; en i's rich now, come to look at it. i owns mysef, en i's wuth eight hund'd dollars. i wisht i had de money, i wouldn' want no mo'." chapter ix i wanted to go and look at a place right about the middle of the island that i'd found when i was exploring; so we started and soon got to it, because the island was only three miles long and a quarter of a mile wide. this place was a tolerable long, steep hill or ridge about forty foot high. we had a rough time getting to the top, the sides was so steep and the bushes so thick. we tramped and clumb around all over it, and by and by found a good big cavern in the rock, most up to the top on the side towards illinois. the cavern was as big as two or three rooms bunched together, and jim could stand up straight in it. it was cool in there. jim was for putting our traps in there right away, but i said we didn't want to be climbing up and down there all the time. jim said if we had the canoe hid in a good place, and had all the traps in the cavern, we could rush there if anybody was to come to the island, and they would never find us without dogs. and, besides, he said them little birds had said it was going to rain, and did i want the things to get wet? so we went back and got the canoe, and paddled up abreast the cavern, and lugged all the traps up there. then we hunted up a place close by to hide the canoe in, amongst the thick willows. we took some fish off of the lines and set them again, and begun to get ready for dinner. the door of the cavern was big enough to roll a hogshead in, and on one side of the door the floor stuck out a little bit, and was flat and a good place to build a fire on. so we built it there and cooked dinner. we spread the blankets inside for a carpet, and eat our dinner in there. we put all the other things handy at the back of the cavern. pretty soon it darkened up, and begun to thunder and lighten; so the birds was right about it. directly it begun to rain, and it rained like all fury, too, and i never see the wind blow so. it was one of these regular summer storms. it would get so dark that it looked all blue-black outside, and lovely; and the rain would thrash along by so thick that the trees off a little ways looked dim and spider-webby; and here would come a blast of wind that would bend the trees down and turn up the pale underside of the leaves; and then a perfect ripper of a gust would follow along and set the branches to tossing their arms as if they was just wild; and next, when it was just about the bluest and blackest--_fst!_ it was as bright as glory, and you'd have a little glimpse of tree-tops a-plunging about away off yonder in the storm, hundreds of yards further than you could see before; dark as sin again in a second, and now you'd hear the thunder let go with an awful crash, and then go rumbling, grumbling, tumbling, down the sky towards the under side of the world, like rolling empty barrels down-stairs--where it's long stairs and they bounce a good deal, you know. "jim, this is nice," i says. "i wouldn't want to be nowhere else but here. pass me along another hunk of fish and some hot corn-bread." "well, you wouldn't 'a' ben here 'f it hadn't 'a' ben for jim. you'd 'a' ben down dah in de woods widout any dinner, en gittin' mos' drownded, too; dat you would, honey. chickens knows when it's gwyne to rain, en so do de birds, chile." the river went on raising and raising for ten or twelve days, till at last it was over the banks. the water was three or four foot deep on the island in the low places and on the illinois bottom. on that side it was a good many miles wide, but on the missouri side it was the same old distance across--a half a mile--because the missouri shore was just a wall of high bluffs. daytimes we paddled all over the island in the canoe. it was mighty cool and shady in the deep woods, even if the sun was blazing outside. we went winding in and out amongst the trees, and sometimes the vines hung so thick we had to back away and go some other way. well, on every old broken-down tree you could see rabbits and snakes and such things; and when the island had been overflowed a day or two they got so tame, on account of being hungry, that you could paddle right up and put your hand on them if you wanted to; but not the snakes and turtles--they would slide off in the water. the ridge our cavern was in was full of them. we could 'a' had pets enough if we'd wanted them. one night we catched a little section of a lumber-raft--nice pine planks. it was twelve foot wide and about fifteen or sixteen foot long, and the top stood above water six or seven inches--a solid, level floor. we could see saw-logs go by in the daylight sometimes, but we let them go; we didn't show ourselves in daylight. another night when we was up at the head of the island, just before daylight, here comes a 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 up-stairs window. but it was too dark to see yet, so we made the canoe fast and set in her to wait for daylight. the light begun to come before we got to the foot of the island. then we looked in at the window. we could make out a bed, and a table, and two old chairs, and lots of things around about on the floor, and there was clothes hanging against the wall. there was something laying on the floor in the far corner that looked like a man. so jim says: "hello, you!" but it didn't budge. so i hollered again, and then jim says: "de man ain't asleep--he's dead. you hold still--i'll go en see." he went, and bent down and looked, and says: "it's a dead man. yes, indeedy; naked, too. he's ben shot in de back. i reck'n he's ben dead two er three days. come in, huck, but doan' look at his face--it's too gashly." i didn't look at him at all. jim throwed some old rags over him, but he needn't done it; i didn't want to see him. there was heaps of old greasy cards scattered around over the floor, and old whisky-bottles, and a couple of masks made out of black cloth; and all over the walls was the ignorantest kind of words and pictures made with charcoal. there was two old dirty calico dresses, and a sun-bonnet, and some women's underclothes hanging against the wall, and some men's clothing, too. we put the lot into the canoe--it might come good. there was a boy's old speckled straw hat on the floor; i took that, too. and there was a bottle that had had milk in it, and it had a rag stopper for a baby to suck. we would 'a' took the bottle, but it was broke. there was a seedy old chest, and an old hair trunk with the hinges broke. they stood open, but there warn't nothing left in them that was any account. the way things was scattered about we reckoned the people left in a hurry, and warn't fixed so as to carry off most of their stuff. we got an old tin lantern, and a butcher-knife without any handle, and a bran-new barlow knife worth two bits in any store, and a lot of tallow candles, and a tin candlestick, and a gourd, and a tin cup, and a ratty old bedquilt off the bed, and a reticule with needles and pins and beeswax and buttons and thread and all such truck in it, and a hatchet and some nails, and a fish-line as thick as my little finger with some monstrous hooks on it, and a roll of buckskin, and a leather dog-collar, and a horseshoe, and some vials of medicine that didn't have no label on them; and just as we was leaving i found a tolerable good currycomb, and jim he found a ratty old fiddle-bow, and a wooden leg. the straps was broke off of it, but, barring that, it was a good enough leg, though it was too long for me and not long enough for jim, and we couldn't find the other one, though we hunted all around. and so, take it all around, we made a good haul. when we was ready to shove off we was a quarter of a mile below the island, and it was pretty broad day; so i made jim lay down in the canoe and cover up with the quilt, because if he set up people could tell he was a nigger a good ways off. i paddled over to the illinois shore, and drifted down most a half a mile doing it. i crept up the dead water under the bank, and hadn't no accidents and didn't see nobody. we got home all safe. chapter x after breakfast i wanted to talk about the dead man and guess out how he come to be killed, but jim didn't want to. he said it would fetch bad luck; and besides, he said, he might come and ha'nt us; he said a man that warn't buried was more likely to go a-ha'nting around than one that was planted and comfortable. that sounded pretty reasonable, so i didn't say no more; but i couldn't keep from studying over it and wishing i knowed who shot the man, and what they done it for. we rummaged the clothes we'd got, and found eight dollars in silver sewed up in the lining of an old blanket overcoat. jim said he reckoned the people in that house stole the coat, because if they'd 'a' knowed the money was there they wouldn't 'a' left it. i said i reckoned they killed him, too; but jim didn't want to talk about that. i says: "now you think it's bad luck; but what did you say when i fetched in the snake-skin that i found on the top of the ridge day before yesterday? you said it was the worst bad luck in the world to touch a snake-skin with my hands. well, here's your bad luck! we've raked in all this truck and eight dollars besides. i wish we could have some bad luck like this every day, jim." "never you mind, honey, never you mind. don't you git too peart. it's a-comin'. mind i tell you, it's a-comin'." it did come, too. it was a tuesday that we had that talk. well, after dinner friday we was laying around in the grass at the upper end of the ridge, and got out of tobacco. i went to the cavern to get some, and found a rattlesnake in there. i killed him, and curled him up on the foot of jim's blanket, ever so natural, thinking there'd be some fun when jim found him there. well, by night i forgot all about the snake, and when jim flung himself down on the blanket while i struck a light the snake's mate was there, and bit him. he jumped up yelling, and the first thing the light showed was the varmint curled up and ready for another spring. i laid him out in a second with a stick, and jim grabbed pap's whisky-jug and begun to pour it down. he was barefooted, and the snake bit him right on the heel. that all comes of my being such a fool as to not remember that wherever you leave a dead snake its mate always comes there and curls around it. jim told me to chop off the snake's head and throw it away, and then skin the body and roast a piece of it. i done it, and he eat it and said it would help cure him. he made me take off the rattles and tie them around his wrist, too. he said that that would help. then i slid out quiet and throwed the snakes clear away amongst the bushes; for i warn't going to let jim find out it was all my fault, not if i could help it. jim sucked and sucked at the jug, and now and then he got out of his head and pitched around and yelled; but every time he come to himself he went to sucking at the jug again. his foot swelled up pretty big, and so did his leg; but by and by the drunk begun to come, and so i judged he was all right; but i'd druther been bit with a snake than pap's whisky. jim was laid up for four days and nights. then the swelling was all gone and he was around again. i made up my mind i wouldn't ever take a-holt of a snake-skin again with my hands, now that i see what had come of it. jim said he reckoned i would believe him next time. and he said that handling a snake-skin was such awful bad luck that maybe we hadn't got to the end of it yet. he said he druther see the new moon over his left shoulder as much as a thousand times than take up a snake-skin in his hand. well, i was getting to feel that way myself, though i've always reckoned that looking at the new moon over your left shoulder is one of the carelessest and foolishest things a body can do. old hank bunker done it once, and bragged about it; and in less than two years he got drunk and fell off of the shot-tower, and spread himself out so that he was just a kind of a layer, as you may say; and they slid him edgeways between two barn doors for a coffin, and buried him so, so they say, but i didn't see it. pap told me. but anyway it all come of looking at the moon that way, like a fool. well, the days went along, and the river went down between its banks again; and about the first thing we done was to bait one of the big hooks with a skinned rabbit and set it and catch a catfish that was as big as a man, being six foot two inches long, and weighed over two hundred pounds. we couldn't handle him, of course; he would 'a' flung us into illinois. we just set there and watched him rip and tear around till he drownded. we found a brass button in his stomach and a round ball, and lots of rubbage. we split the ball open with the hatchet, and there was a spool in it. jim said he'd had it there a long time, to coat it over so and make a ball of it. it was as big a fish as was ever catched in the mississippi, i reckon. jim said he hadn't ever seen a bigger one. he would 'a' been worth a good deal over at the village. they peddle out such a fish as that by the pound in the market-house there; everybody buys some of him; his meat's as white as snow and makes a good fry. next morning i said it was getting slow and dull, and i wanted to get a stirring-up some way. i said i reckoned i would slip over the river and find out what was going on. jim liked that notion; but he said i must go in the dark and look sharp. then he studied it over and said, couldn't i put on some of them old things and dress up like a girl? that was a good notion, too. so we shortened up one of the calico gowns, and i turned up my trouser-legs to my knees and got into it. jim hitched it behind with the hooks, and it was a fair fit. i put on the sun-bonnet and tied it under my chin, and then for a body to look in and see my face was like looking down a joint of stove-pipe. jim said nobody would know me, even in the daytime, hardly. i practised around all day to get the hang of the things, and by and by i could do pretty well in them, only jim said i didn't walk like a girl; and he said i must quit pulling up my gown to get at my britches-pocket. i took notice, and done better. i started up the illinois shore in the canoe just after dark. i started across to the town from a little below the ferry-landing, and the drift of the current fetched me in at the bottom of the town. i tied up and started along the bank. there was a light burning in a little shanty that hadn't been lived in for a long time, and i wondered who had took up quarters there. i slipped up and peeped in at the window. there was a woman about forty year old in there knitting by a candle that was on a pine table. i didn't know her face; she was a stranger, for you couldn't start a face in that town that i didn't know. now this was lucky, because i was weakening; i was getting afraid i had come; people might know my voice and find me out. but if this woman had been in such a little town two days she could tell me all i wanted to know; so i knocked at the door, and made up my mind i wouldn't forget i was a girl. chapter xi "come in," says the woman, and i did. she says: "take a cheer." i done it. she looked me all over with her little shiny eyes, and says: "what might your name be?" "sarah williams." "where'bouts do you live? in this neighborhood?" "no'm. in hookerville, seven mile below. i've walked all the way and i'm all tired out." "hungry, too, i reckon. i'll find you something." "no'm, i ain't hungry. i was so hungry i had to stop two miles below here at a farm; so i ain't hungry no more. it's what makes me so late. my mother's down sick, and out of money and everything, and i come to tell my uncle abner moore. he lives at the upper end of the town, she says. i hain't ever been here before. do you know him?" "no; but i don't know everybody yet. i haven't lived here quite two weeks. it's a considerable ways to the upper end of the town. you better stay here all night. take off your bonnet." "no," i says; "i'll rest awhile, i reckon, and go on. i ain't afeard of the dark." she said she wouldn't let me go by myself, but her husband would be in by and by, maybe in a hour and a half, and she'd send him along with me. then she got to talking about her husband, and about her relations up the river, and her relations down the river, and about how much better off they used to was, and how they didn't know but they'd made a mistake coming to our town, instead of letting well alone--and so on and so on, till i was afeard i had made a mistake coming to her to find out what was going on in the town; but by and by she dropped on to pap and the murder, and then i was pretty willing to let her clatter right along. she told about me and tom sawyer finding the twelve thousand dollars (only she got it twenty) and all about pap and what a hard lot he was, and what a hard lot i was, and at last she got down to where i was murdered. i says: "who done it? we've heard considerable about these goings-on down in hookerville, but we don't know who 'twas that killed huck finn." "well, i reckon there's a right smart chance of people _here_ that 'd like to know who killed him. some think old finn done it himself." "no--is that so?" "most everybody thought it at first. he'll never know how nigh he come to getting lynched. but before night they changed around and judged it was done by a runaway nigger named jim." "why _he_--" i stopped. i reckoned i better keep still. she run on, and never noticed i had put in at all: "the nigger run off the very night huck finn was killed. so there's a reward out for him--three hundred dollars. and there's a reward out for old finn, too--two hundred dollars. you see, he come to town the morning after the murder, and told about it, and was out with 'em on the ferryboat hunt, and right away after he up and left. before night they wanted to lynch him, but he was gone, you see. well, next day they found out the nigger was gone; they found out he hadn't ben seen sence ten o'clock the night the murder was done. so then they put it on him, you see; and while they was full of it, next day, back comes old finn, and went boo-hooing to judge thatcher to get money to hunt for the nigger all over illinois with. the judge gave him some, and that evening he got drunk, and was around till after midnight with a couple of mighty hard-looking strangers, and then went off with them. well, he hain't come back sence, and they ain't looking for him back till this thing blows over a little, for people thinks now that he killed his boy and fixed things so folks would think robbers done it, and then he'd get huck's money without having to bother a long time with a lawsuit. people do say he warn't any too good to do it. oh, he's sly, i reckon. if he don't come back for a year he'll be all right. you can't prove anything on him, you know; everything will be quieted down then, and he'll walk in huck's money as easy as nothing." "yes, i reckon so, 'm. i don't see nothing in the way of it. has everybody quit thinking the nigger done it?" "oh, no, not everybody. a good many thinks he done it. but they'll get the nigger pretty soon now, and maybe they can scare it out of him." "why, are they after him yet?" "well, you're innocent, ain't you! does three hundred dollars lay around every day for people to pick up? some folks think the nigger ain't far from here. i'm one of them--but i hain't talked it around. a few days ago i was talking with an old couple that lives next door in the log shanty, and they happened to say hardly anybody ever goes to that island over yonder that they call jackson's island. don't anybody live there? says i. no, nobody, says they. i didn't say any more, but i done some thinking. i was pretty near certain i'd seen smoke over there, about the head of the island, a day or two before that, so i says to myself, like as not that nigger's hiding over there; anyway, says i, it's worth the trouble to give the place a hunt. i hain't seen any smoke sence, so i reckon maybe he's gone, if it was him; but husband's going over to see--him and another man. he was gone up the river; but he got back to-day, and i told him as soon as he got here two hours ago." i had got so uneasy i couldn't set still. i had to do something with my hands; so i took up a needle off of the table and went to threading it. my hands shook, and i was making a bad job of it. when the woman stopped talking i looked up, and she was looking at me pretty curious and smiling a little. i put down the needle and thread, and let on to be interested--and i was, too--and says: "three hundred dollars is a power of money. i wish my mother could get it. is your husband going over there to-night?" "oh, yes. he went up-town with the man i was telling you of, to get a boat and see if they could borrow another gun. they'll go over after midnight." "couldn't they see better if they was to wait till daytime?" "yes. and couldn't the nigger see better, too? after midnight he'll likely be asleep, and they can slip around through the woods and hunt up his campfire all the better for the dark, if he's got one." "i didn't think of that." the woman kept looking at me pretty curious, and i didn't feel a bit comfortable. pretty soon she says: "what did you say your name was, honey?" "m--mary williams." somehow it didn't seem to me that i said it was mary before, so i didn't look up--seemed to me i said it was sarah; so i felt sort of cornered, and was afeard maybe i was looking it, too. i wished the woman would say something more; the longer she set still the uneasier i was. but now she says: "honey, i thought you said it was sarah when you first come in?" "oh, yes'm, i did. sarah mary williams. sarah's my first name. some calls me sarah, some calls me mary." "oh, that's the way of it?" "yes'm." i was feeling better then, but i wished i was out of there, anyway. i couldn't look up yet. well, the woman fell to talking about how hard times was, and how poor they had to live, and how the rats was as free as if they owned the place, and so forth and so on, and then i got easy again. she was right about the rats. you'd see one stick his nose out of a hole in the corner every little while. she said she had to have things handy to throw at them when she was alone, or they wouldn't give her no peace. she showed me a bar of lead twisted up into a knot, and said she was a good shot with it generly, but she'd wrenched her arm a day or two ago, and didn't know whether she could throw true now. but she watched for a chance, and directly banged away at a rat; but she missed him wide, and said, "ouch!" it hurt her arm so. then she told me to try for the next one. i wanted to be getting away before the old man got back, but of course i didn't let on. i got the thing, and the first rat that showed his nose i let drive, and if he'd 'a' stayed where he was he'd 'a' been a tolerable sick rat. she said that was first-rate, and she reckoned i would hive the next one. she went and got the lump of lead and fetched it back, and brought along a hank of yarn which she wanted me to help her with. i held up my two hands and she put the hank over them, and went on talking about her and her husband's matters. but she broke off to say: "keep your eye on the rats. you better have the lead in your lap, handy." so she dropped the lump into my lap just at that moment, and i clapped my legs together on it and she went on talking. but only about a minute. then she took off the hank and looked me straight in the face, and very pleasant, and says: "come, now, what's your real name?" "wh-hat, mum?" "what's your real name? is it bill, or tom, or bob?--or what is it?" i reckon i shook like a leaf, and i didn't know hardly what to do. but i says: "please to don't poke fun at a poor girl like me, mum. if i'm in the way here, i'll--" "no, you won't. set down and stay where you are. i ain't going to hurt you, and i ain't going to tell on you, nuther. you just tell me your secret, and trust me. i'll keep it; and, what's more, i'll help you. so'll my old man if you want him to. you see, you're a runaway 'prentice, that's all. it ain't anything. there ain't no harm in it. you've been treated bad, and you made up your mind to cut. bless you, child, i wouldn't tell on you. tell me all about it now, that's a good boy." so i said it wouldn't be no use to try to play it any longer, and i would just make a clean breast and tell her everything, but she mustn't go back on her promise. then i told her my father and mother was dead, and the law had bound me out to a mean old farmer in the country thirty mile back from the river, and he treated me so bad i couldn't stand it no longer; he went away to be gone a couple of days, and so i took my chance and stole some of his daughter's old clothes and cleared out, and i had been three nights coming the thirty miles. i traveled nights, and hid daytimes and slept, and the bag of bread and meat i carried from home lasted me all the way, and i had a-plenty. i said i believed my uncle abner moore would take care of me, and so that was why i struck out for this town of goshen. "goshen, child? this ain't goshen. this is st. petersburg. goshen's ten mile further up the river. who told you this was goshen?" "why, a man i met at daybreak this morning, just as i was going to turn into the woods for my regular sleep. he told me when the roads forked i must take the right hand, and five mile would fetch me to goshen." "he was drunk, i reckon. he told you just exactly wrong." "well, he did act like he was drunk, but it ain't no matter now. i got to be moving along. i'll fetch goshen before daylight." "hold on a minute. i'll put you up a snack to eat. you might want it." so she put me up a snack, and says: "say, when a cow's laying down, which end of her gets up first? answer up prompt now--don't stop to study over it. which end gets up first?" "the hind end, mum." "well, then, a horse?" "the for'rard end, mum." "which side of a tree does the moss grow on?" "north side." "if fifteen cows is browsing on a hillside, how many of them eats with their heads pointed the same direction?" "the whole fifteen, mum." "well, i reckon you _have_ lived in the country. i thought maybe you was trying to hocus me again. what's your real name, now?" "george peters, mum." "well, try to remember it, george. don't forget and tell me it's elexander before you go, and then get out by saying it's george elexander when i catch you. and don't go about women in that old calico. you do a girl tolerable poor, but you might fool men, maybe. bless you, child, when you set out to thread a needle don't hold the thread still and fetch the needle up to it; hold the needle still and poke the thread at it; that's the way a woman most always does, but a man always does t'other way. and when you throw at a rat or anything, hitch yourself up a-tiptoe and fetch your hand up over your head as awkward as you can, and miss your rat about six or seven foot. throw stiff-armed from the shoulder, like there was a pivot there for it to turn on, like a girl; not from the wrist and elbow, with your arm out to one side, like a boy. and, mind you, when a girl tries to catch anything in her lap she throws her knees apart; she don't clap them together, the way you did when you catched the lump of lead. why, i spotted you for a boy when you was threading the needle; and i contrived the other things just to make certain. now trot along to your uncle, sarah mary williams george elexander peters, and if you get into trouble you send word to mrs. judith loftus, which is me, and i'll do what i can to get you out of it. keep the river road all the way, and next time you tramp take shoes and socks with you. the river road's a rocky one, and your feet 'll be in a condition when you get to goshen, i reckon." i went up the bank about fifty yards, and then i doubled on my tracks and slipped back to where my canoe was, a good piece below the house. i jumped in, and was off in a hurry. i went up-stream far enough to make the head of the island, and then started across. i took off the sun-bonnet, for i didn't want no blinders on then. when i was about the middle i heard the clock begin to strike, so i stops and listens; the sound come faint over the water but clear--eleven. when i struck the head of the island i never waited to blow, though i was most winded, but i shoved right into the timber where my old camp used to be, and started a good fire there on a high and dry spot. then i jumped in the canoe and dug out for our place, a mile and a half below, as hard as i could go. i landed, and slopped through the timber and up the ridge and into the cavern. there jim laid, sound asleep on the ground. i roused him out and says: "git up and hump yourself, jim! there ain't a minute to lose. they're after us!" jim never asked no questions, he never said a word; but the way he worked for the next half an hour showed about how he was scared. by that time everything we had in the world was on our raft, and she was ready to be shoved out from the willow cove where she was hid. we put out the camp-fire at the cavern the first thing, and didn't show a candle outside after that. i took the canoe out from the shore a little piece, and took a look; but if there was a boat around i couldn't see it, for stars and shadows ain't good to see by. then we got out the raft and slipped along down in the shade, past the foot of the island dead still--never saying a word. chapter xii it must 'a' been close on to one o'clock when we got below the island at last, and the raft did seem to go mighty slow. if a boat was to come along we was going to take to the canoe and break for the illinois shore; and it was well a boat didn't come, for we hadn't ever thought to put the gun in the canoe, or a fishing-line, or anything to eat. we was in ruther too much of a sweat to think of so many things. it warn't good judgment to put _everything_ on the raft. if the men went to the island i just expect they found the camp-fire i built, and watched it all night for jim to come. anyways, they stayed away from us, and if my building the fire never fooled them it warn't no fault of mine. i played it as low down on them as i could. when the first streak of day began to show we tied up to a towhead in a big bend on the illinois side, and hacked off cottonwood branches with the hatchet, and covered up the raft with them so she looked like there had been a cave-in in the bank there. a towhead is a sand-bar that has cottonwoods on it as thick as harrow-teeth. we had mountains on the missouri shore and heavy timber on the illinois side, and the channel was down the missouri shore at that place, so we warn't afraid of anybody running across us. we laid there all day, and watched the rafts and steamboats spin down the missouri shore, and up-bound steamboats fight the big river in the middle. i told jim all about the time i had jabbering with that woman; and jim said she was a smart one, and if she was to start after us herself she wouldn't set down and watch a camp-fire--no, sir, she'd fetch a dog. well, then, i said, why couldn't she tell her husband to fetch a dog? jim said he bet she did think of it by the time the men was ready to start, and he believed they must 'a' gone up-town to get a dog and so they lost all that time, or else we wouldn't be here on a towhead sixteen or seventeen mile below the village--no, indeedy, we would be in that same old town again. so i said i didn't care what was the reason they didn't get us as long as they didn't. when it was beginning to come on dark we poked our heads out of the cottonwood thicket, and looked up and down and across; nothing in sight; so jim took up some of the top planks of the raft and built a snug wigwam to get under in blazing weather and rainy, and to keep the things dry. jim made a floor for the wigwam, and raised it a foot or more above the level of the raft, so now the blankets and all the traps was out of reach of steamboat waves. right in the middle of the wigwam we made a layer of dirt about five or six inches deep with a frame around it for to hold it to its place; this was to build a fire on in sloppy weather or chilly; the wigwam would keep it from being seen. we made an extra steering-oar, too, because one of the others might get broke on a snag or something. we fixed up a short forked stick to hang the old lantern on, because we must always light the lantern whenever we see a steamboat coming down-stream, to keep from getting run over; but we wouldn't have to light it for up-stream boats unless we see we was in what they call a "crossing"; for the river was pretty high yet, very low banks being still a little under water; so up-bound boats didn't always run the channel, but hunted easy water. this second night we run between seven and eight hours, with a current that was making over four mile an hour. we catched fish and talked, and we took a swim now and then to keep off sleepiness. it was kind of solemn, drifting down the big, still river, laying on our backs looking up at the stars, and we didn't ever feel like talking loud, and it warn't often that we laughed--only a little kind of a low chuckle. we had mighty good weather as a general thing, and nothing ever happened to us at all--that night, nor the next, nor the next. every night we passed towns, some of them away up on black hillsides, nothing but just a shiny bed of lights; not a house could you see. the fifth night we passed st. louis, and it was like the whole world lit up. in st. petersburg they used to say there was twenty or thirty thousand people in st. louis, but i never believed it till i see that wonderful spread of lights at two o'clock that still night. there warn't a sound there; everybody was asleep. every night now i used to slip ashore toward ten o'clock at some little village, and buy ten or fifteen cents' worth of meal or bacon or other stuff to eat; and sometimes i lifted a chicken that warn't roosting comfortable, and took him along. pap always said, take a chicken when you get a chance, because if you don't want him yourself you can easy find somebody that does, and a good deed ain't ever forgot. i never see pap when he didn't want the chicken himself, but that is what he used to say, anyway. mornings before daylight i slipped into corn-fields and borrowed a watermelon, or a mushmelon, or a punkin, or some new corn, or things of that kind. pap always said it warn't no harm to borrow things if you was meaning to pay them back some time; but the widow said it warn't anything but a soft name for stealing, and no decent body would do it. jim said he reckoned the widow was partly right and pap was partly right; so the best way would be for us to pick out two or three things from the list and say we wouldn't borrow them any more--then he reckoned it wouldn't be no harm to borrow the others. so we talked it over all one night, drifting along down the river, trying to make up our minds whether to drop the watermelons, or the cantelopes, or the mushmelons, or what. but toward daylight we got it all settled satisfactory, and concluded to drop crabapples and p'simmons. we warn't feeling just right before that, but it was all comfortable now. i was glad the way it come out, too, because crabapples ain't ever good, and the p'simmons wouldn't be ripe for two or three months yet. we shot a water-fowl now and then that got up too early in the morning or didn't go to bed early enough in the evening. take it all round, we lived pretty high. the fifth night below st. louis we had a big storm after midnight, with a power of thunder and lightning, and the rain poured down in a solid sheet. we stayed in the wigwam and let the raft take care of itself. when the lightning glared out we could see a big straight river ahead, and high, rocky bluffs on both sides. by and by says i, "hel-_lo_, jim, looky yonder!" it was a steamboat that had killed herself on a rock. we was drifting straight down for her. the lightning showed her very distinct. she was leaning over, with part of her upper deck above water, and you could see every little chimbly-guy clean and clear, and a chair by the big bell, with an old slouch hat hanging on the back of it, when the flashes come. well, it being away in the night and stormy, and all so mysterious-like, i felt just the way any other boy would 'a' felt when i seen that wreck laying there so mournful and lonesome in the middle of the river. i wanted to get aboard of her and slink around a little, and see what there was there. so i says: "le's land on her, jim." but jim was dead against it at first. he says: "i doan' want to go fool'n' 'long er no wrack. we's doin' blame' well, en we better let blame' well alone, as de good book says. like as not dey's a watchman on dat wrack." "watchman your grandmother," i says; "there ain't nothing to watch but the texas and the pilot-house; and do you reckon anybody's going to resk his life for a texas and a pilot-house such a night as this, when it's likely to break up and wash off down the river any minute?" jim couldn't say nothing to that, so he didn't try. "and besides," i says, "we might borrow something worth having out of the captain's stateroom. seegars, i bet you--and cost five cents apiece, solid cash. steamboat captains is always rich, and get sixty dollars a month, and _they_ don't care a cent what a thing costs, you know, long as they want it. stick a candle in your pocket; i can't rest, jim, till we give her a rummaging. do you reckon tom sawyer would ever go by this thing? not for pie, he wouldn't. he'd call it an adventure--that's what he'd call it; and he'd land on that wreck if it was his last act. and wouldn't he throw style into it?--wouldn't he spread himself, nor nothing? why, you'd think it was christopher c'lumbus discovering kingdom come. i wish tom sawyer _was_ here." jim he grumbled a little, but give in. he said we mustn't talk any more than we could help, and then talk mighty low. the lightning showed us the wreck again just in time, and we fetched the stabboard derrick, and made fast there. the deck was high out here. we went sneaking down the slope of it to labboard, in the dark, towards the texas, feeling our way slow with our feet, and spreading our hands out to fend off the guys, for it was so dark we couldn't see no sign of them. pretty soon we struck the forward end of the skylight, and clumb on to it; and the next step fetched us in front of the captain's door, which was open, and by jimminy, away down through the texas-hall we see a light! and all in the same second we seem to hear low voices in yonder! jim whispered and said he was feeling powerful sick, and told me to come along. i says, all right, and was going to start for the raft; but just then i heard a voice wail out and say: "oh, please don't, boys; i swear i won't ever tell!" another voice said, pretty loud: "it's a lie, jim turner. you've acted this way before. you always want more'n your share of the truck, and you've always got it, too, because you've swore 't if you didn't you'd tell. but this time you've said it jest one time too many. you're the meanest, treacherousest hound in this country." by this time jim was gone for the raft. i was just a-biling with curiosity; and i says to myself, tom sawyer wouldn't back out now, and so i won't either; i'm a-going to see what's going on here. so i dropped on my hands and knees in the little passage, and crept aft in the dark till there warn't but one stateroom betwixt me and the cross-hall of the texas. then in there i see a man stretched on the floor and tied hand and foot, and two men standing over him, and one of them had a dim lantern in his hand, and the other one had a pistol. this one kept pointing the pistol at the man's head on the floor, and saying: "i'd _like_ to! and i orter, too--a mean skunk!" the man on the floor would shrivel up and say, "oh, please don't, bill; i hain't ever goin' to tell." and every time he said that the man with the lantern would laugh and say: "'deed you _ain't!_ you never said no truer thing 'n that, you bet you." and once he said: "hear him beg! and yit if we hadn't got the best of him and tied him he'd 'a' killed us both. and what _for_? jist for noth'n'. jist because we stood on our _rights_--that's what for. but i lay you ain't a-goin' to threaten nobody any more, jim turner. put _up_ that pistol, bill." bill says: "i don't want to, jake packard. i'm for killin' him--and didn't he kill old hatfield jist the same way--and don't he deserve it?" "but i don't _want_ him killed, and i've got my reasons for it." "bless yo' heart for them words, jake packard! i'll never forgit you long's i live!" says the man on the floor, sort of blubbering. packard didn't take no notice of that, but hung up his lantern on a nail and started toward where i was, there in the dark, and motioned bill to come. i crawfished as fast as i could about two yards, but the boat slanted so that i couldn't make very good time; so to keep from getting run over and catched i crawled into a stateroom on the upper side. the man came a-pawing along in the dark, and when packard got to my stateroom, he says: "here--come in here." and in he come, and bill after him. but before they got in i was up in the upper berth, cornered, and sorry i come. then they stood there, with their hands on the ledge of the berth, and talked. i couldn't see them, but i could tell where they was by the whisky they'd been having. i was glad i didn't drink whisky; but it wouldn't made much difference anyway, because most of the time they couldn't 'a' treed me because i didn't breathe. i was too scared. and, besides, a body _couldn't_ breathe and hear such talk. they talked low and earnest. bill wanted to kill turner. he says: "he's said he'll tell, and he will. if we was to give both our shares to him _now_ it wouldn't make no difference after the row and the way we've served him. shore's you're born, he'll turn state's evidence; now you hear _me._ i'm for putting him out of his troubles." "so'm i," says packard, very quiet. "blame it, i'd sorter begun to think you wasn't. well, then, that's all right. le's go and do it." "hold on a minute; i hain't had my say yit. you listen to me. shooting's good, but there's quieter ways if the things _got_ to be done. but what _i_ say is this: it ain't good sense to go court'n' around after a halter if you can git at what you're up to in some way that's jist as good and at the same time don't bring you into no resks. ain't that so?" "you bet it is. but how you goin' to manage it this time?" "well, my idea is this: we'll rustle around and gather up whatever pickin's we've overlooked in the staterooms, and shove for shore and hide the truck. then we'll wait. now i say it ain't a-goin' to be more'n two hours befo' this wrack breaks up and washes off down the river. see? he'll be drownded, and won't have nobody to blame for it but his own self. i reckon that's a considerable sight better 'n killin' of him. i'm unfavorable to killin' a man as long as you can git aroun' it; it ain't good sense, it ain't good morals. ain't i right?" "yes, i reck'n you are. but s'pose she _don't_ break up and wash off?" "well, we can wait the two hours anyway and see, can't we?" "all right, then; come along." so they started, and i lit out, all in a cold sweat, and scrambled forward. it was dark as pitch there; but i said, in a kind of a coarse whisper, "jim!" and he answered up, right at my elbow, with a sort of a moan, and i says: "quick, jim, it ain't no time for fooling around and moaning; there's a gang of murderers in yonder, and if we don't hunt up their boat and set her drifting down the river so these fellows can't get away from the wreck there's one of 'em going to be in a bad fix. but if we find their boat we can put _all_ of 'em in a bad fix--for the sheriff 'll get 'em. quick--hurry! i'll hunt the labboard side, you hunt the stabboard. you start at the raft, and--" "oh, my lordy, lordy! _raf'?_ dey ain' no raf' no mo'; she done broke loose en gone!--en here we is!" chapter xiii well, i catched my breath and most fainted. shut up on a wreck with such a gang as that! but it warn't no time to be sentimentering. we'd _got_ to find that boat now--had to have it for ourselves. so we went a-quaking and shaking down the stabboard side, and slow work it was, too--seemed a week before we got to the stern. no sign of a boat. jim said he didn't believe he could go any farther--so scared he hadn't hardly any strength left, he said. but i said, come on, if we get left on this wreck we are in a fix, sure. so on we prowled again. we struck for the stern of the texas, and found it, and then scrabbled along forwards on the skylight, hanging on from shutter to shutter, for the edge of the skylight was in the water. when we got pretty close to the cross-hall door there was the skiff, sure enough! i could just barely see her. i felt ever so thankful. in another second i would 'a' been aboard of her, but just then the door opened. one of the men stuck his head out only about a couple of foot from me, and i thought i was gone; but he jerked it in again, and says: "heave that blame lantern out o' sight, bill!" he flung a bag of something into the boat, and then got in himself and set down. it was packard. then bill _he_ come out and got in. packard says, in a low voice: "all ready--shove off!" i couldn't hardly hang on to the shutters, i was so weak. but bill says: "hold on--'d you go through him?" "no. didn't you?" "no. so he's got his share o' the cash yet." "well, then, come along; no use to take truck and leave money." "say, won't he suspicion what we're up to?" "maybe he won't. but we got to have it anyway. come along." so they got out and went in. the door slammed to because it was on the careened side; and in a half second i was in the boat, and jim come tumbling after me. i out with my knife and cut the rope, and away we went! we didn't touch an oar, and we didn't speak nor whisper, nor hardly even breathe. we went gliding swift along, dead silent, past the tip of the paddle-box, and past the stern; then in a second or two more we was a hundred yards below the wreck, and the darkness soaked her up, every last sign of her, and we was safe, and knowed it. when we was three or four hundred yards down-stream we see the lantern show like a little spark at the texas door for a second, and we knowed by that that the rascals had missed their boat, and was beginning to understand that they was in just as much trouble now as jim turner was. then jim manned the oars, and we took out after our raft. now was the first time that i begun to worry about the men--i reckon i hadn't had time to before. i begun to think how dreadful it was, even for murderers, to be in such a fix. i says to myself, there ain't no telling but i might come to be a murderer myself yet, and then how would i like it? so says i to jim: "the first light we see we'll land a hundred yards below it or above it, in a place where it's a good hiding-place for you and the skiff, and then i'll go and fix up some kind of a yarn, and get somebody to go for that gang and get them out of their scrape, so they can be hung when their time comes." but that idea was a failure; for pretty soon it begun to storm again, and this time worse than ever. the rain poured down, and never a light showed; everybody in bed, i reckon. we boomed along down the river, watching for lights and watching for our raft. after a long time the rain let up, but the clouds stayed, and the lightning kept whimpering, and by and by a flash showed us a black thing ahead, floating, and we made for it. it was the raft, and mighty glad was we to get aboard of it again. we seen a light now away down to the right, on shore. so i said i would go for it. the skiff was half full of plunder which that gang had stole there on the wreck. we hustled it on to the raft in a pile, and i told jim to float along down, and show a light when he judged he had gone about two mile, and keep it burning till i come; then i manned my oars and shoved for the light. as i got down towards it three or four more showed--up on a hillside. it was a village. i closed in above the shore light, and laid on my oars and floated. as i went by i see it was a lantern hanging on the jackstaff of a double-hull ferryboat. i skimmed around for the watchman, a-wondering whereabouts he slept; and by and by i found him roosting on the bitts forward, with his head down between his knees. i gave his shoulder two or three little shoves, and begun to cry. he stirred up in a kind of a startlish way; but when he see it was only me he took a good gap and stretch, and then he says: "hello, what's up? don't cry, bub. what's the trouble?" i says: "pap, and mam, and sis, and--" then i broke down. he says: "oh, dang it now, _don't_ take on so; we all has to have our troubles, and this 'n 'll come out all right. what's the matter with 'em?" "they're--they're--are you the watchman of the boat?" "yes," he says, kind of pretty-well-satisfied like. "i'm the captain and the owner and the mate and the pilot and watchman and head deck-hand; and sometimes i'm the freight and passengers. i ain't as rich as old jim hornback, and i can't be so blame' generous and good to tom, dick, and harry as what he is, and slam around money the way he does; but i've told him a many a time 't i wouldn't trade places with him; for, says i, a sailor's life's the life for me, and i'm derned if _i'd_ live two mile out o' town, where there ain't nothing ever goin' on, not for all his spondulicks and as much more on top of it. says i--" i broke in and says: "they're in an awful peck of trouble, and--" "_who_ is?" "why, pap and mam and sis and miss hooker; and if you'd take your ferryboat and go up there--" "up where? where are they?" "on the wreck." "what wreck?" "why, there ain't but one." "what, you don't mean the _walter scott?"_ "yes." "good land! what are they doin' _there_, for gracious sakes?" "well, they didn't go there a-purpose." "i bet they didn't! why, great goodness, there ain't no chance for 'em if they don't git off mighty quick! why, how in the nation did they ever git into such a scrape?" "easy enough. miss hooker was a-visiting up there to the town--" "yes, booth's landing--go on." "she was a-visiting there at booth's landing, and just in the edge of the evening she started over with her nigger woman in the horse-ferry to stay all night at her friend's house, miss what-you-may-call-her--i disremember her name--and they lost their steering-oar, and swung around and went a-floating down, stern first, about two mile, and saddle-baggsed on the wreck, and the ferryman and the nigger woman and the horses was all lost, but miss hooker she made a grab and got aboard the wreck. well, about an hour after dark we come along down in our trading-scow, and it was so dark we didn't notice the wreck till we was right on it; and so _we_ saddle-baggsed; but all of us was saved but bill whipple--and oh, he _was_ the best cretur!--i most wish 't it had been me, i do." "my george! it's the beatenest thing i ever struck. and _then_ what did you all do?" "well, we hollered and took on, but it's so wide there we couldn't make nobody hear. so pap said somebody got to get ashore and get help somehow. i was the only one that could swim, so i made a dash for it, and miss hooker she said if i didn't strike help sooner, come here and hunt up her uncle, and he'd fix the thing. i made the land about a mile below, and been fooling along ever since, trying to get people to do something, but they said, 'what, in such a night and such a current? there ain't no sense in it; go for the steam-ferry.' now if you'll go and--" "by jackson, i'd _like_ to, and, blame it, i don't know but i will; but who in the dingnation's a-going to _pay_ for it? do you reckon your pap--" "why _that's_ all right. miss hooker she tole me, _particular_, that her uncle hornback--" "great guns! is _he_ her uncle? looky here, you break for that light over yonder-way, and turn out west when you git there, and about a quarter of a mile out you'll come to the tavern; tell 'em to dart you out to jim hornback's, and he'll foot the bill. and don't you fool around any, because he'll want to know the news. tell him i'll have his niece all safe before he can get to town. hump yourself, now; i'm a-going up around the corner here to roust out my engineer." i struck for the light, but as soon as he turned the corner i went back and got into my skiff and bailed her out, and then pulled up shore in the easy water about six hundred yards, and tucked myself in among some wood-boats; for i couldn't rest easy till i could see the ferryboat start. but take it all around, i was feeling ruther comfortable on accounts of taking all this trouble for that gang, for not many would 'a' done it. i wished the widow knowed about it. i judged she would be proud of me for helping these rapscallions, because rapscallions and dead-beats is the kind the widow and good people takes the most interest in. well, before long here comes the wreck, dim and dusky, sliding along down! a kind of cold shiver went through me, and then i struck out for her. she was very deep, and i see in a minute there warn't much chance for anybody being alive in her. i pulled all around her and hollered a little, but there wasn't any answer; all dead still. i felt a little bit heavy-hearted about the gang, but not much, for i reckoned if they could stand it i could. then here comes the ferryboat; so i shoved for the middle of the river on a long down-stream slant; and when i judged i was out of eye-reach i laid on my oars, and looked back and see her go and smell around the wreck for miss hooker's remainders, because the captain would know her uncle hornback would want them; and then pretty soon the ferryboat give it up and went for the shore, and i laid into my work and went a-booming down the river. it did seem a powerful long time before jim's light showed up; and when it did show it looked like it was a thousand mile off. by the time i got there the sky was beginning to get a little gray in the east; so we struck for an island, and hid the raft, and sunk the skiff, and turned in and slept like dead people. chapter xiv by and by, when we got up, we turned over the truck the gang had stole off of the wreck, and found boots, and blankets, and clothes, and all sorts of other things, and a lot of books, and a spy-glass, and three boxes of seegars. we hadn't ever been this rich before in neither of our lives. the seegars was prime. we laid off all the afternoon in the woods talking, and me reading the books, and having a general good time. i told jim all about what happened inside the wreck and at the ferryboat, and i said these kinds of things was adventures; but he said he didn't want no more adventures. he said that when i went in the texas and he crawled back to get on the raft and found her gone he nearly died, because he judged it was all up with _him_ anyway it could be fixed; for if he didn't get saved he would get drownded; and if he did get saved, whoever saved him would send him back home so as to get the reward, and then miss watson would sell him south, sure. well, he was right; he was most always right; he had an uncommon level head for a nigger. i read considerable to jim about kings and dukes and earls and such, and how gaudy they dressed, and how much style they put on, and called each other and so on, 'stead of mister; and jim's eyes bugged out, and he was interested. he says: "i didn' know dey was so many un um. i hain't hearn 'bout none un um, skasely, but ole king sollermun, onless you counts dem kings dat's in a pack er k'yards. how much do a king git?" "get?" i says; "why, they get a thousand dollars a month if they want it; they can have just as much as they want; everything belongs to them." "_ain'_ dat gay? en what dey got to do, huck?" "_they_ don't do nothing! why, how you talk! they just set around." "no; is dat so?" "of course it is. they just set around--except, maybe, when there's a war; then they go to the war. but other times they just lazy around; or go hawking--just hawking and sp--sh!--d'you hear a noise?" we skipped out and looked; but it warn't nothing but the flutter of a steamboat's wheel away down, coming around the point; so we come back. "yes," says i, "and other times, when things is dull, they fuss with the parlyment; and if everybody don't go just so he whacks their heads off. but mostly they hang round the harem." "roun' de which?" "harem." "what's de harem?" "the place where he keeps his wives. don't you know about the harem? solomon had one; he had about a million wives." "why, yes, dat's so; i--i'd done forgot it. a harem's a bo'd'n-house, i reck'n. mos' likely dey has rackety times in de nussery. en i reck'n de wives quarrels considable; en dat 'crease de racket. yit dey say sollermun de wises' man dat ever live'. i doan' take no stock in dat. bekase why: would a wise man want to live in de mids' er sich a blim-blammin' all de time? no--'deed he wouldn't. a wise man 'ud take en buil' a biler-factry; en den he could shet _down_ de biler-factry when he want to res'." "well, but he _was_ the wisest man, anyway; because the widow she told me so, her own self." "i doan' k'yer what de widder say, he _warn't_ no wise man nuther. he had some er de dad-fetchedes' ways i ever see. does you know 'bout dat chile dat he 'uz gwyne to chop in two?" "yes, the widow told me all about it." "_well_, den! warn' dat de beatenes' notion in de worl'? you jes' take en look at it a minute. dah's de stump, dah--dat's one er de women; heah's you--dat's de yuther one; i's sollermun; en dish yer dollar bill's de chile. bofe un you claims it. what does i do? does i shin aroun' mongs' de neighbors en fine out which un you de bill _do_ b'long to, en han' it over to de right one, all safe en soun', de way dat anybody dat had any gumption would? no; i take en whack de bill in _two_, en give half un it to you, en de yuther half to de yuther woman. dat's de way sollermun was gwyne to do wid de chile. now i want to ast you: what's de use er dat half a bill?--can't buy noth'n wid it. en what use is a half a chile? i wouldn' give a dern for a million un um." "but hang it, jim, you've clean missed the point--blame it, you've missed it a thousand mile." "who? me? go 'long. doan' talk to me 'bout yo' pints. i reck'n i knows sense when i sees it; en dey ain' no sense in sich doin's as dat. de 'spute warn't 'bout a half a chile, de 'spute was 'bout a whole chile; en de man dat think he kin settle a 'spute 'bout a whole chile wid a half a chile doan' know enough to come in out'n de rain. doan' talk to me 'bout sollermun, huck, i knows him by de back." "but i tell you you don't get the point." "blame de point! i reck'n i knows what i knows. en mine you, de _real_ pint furder--it's down deeper. it lays in de way sollermun was raised. you take a man dat's got on'y one or two chillen; is dat man gwyne to be waseful o' chillen? no, he ain't; he can't 'ford it. _he_ know how to value 'em. but you take a man dat's got 'bout five million chillen runnin' roun' de house, en it's diffunt. _he_ as soon chop a chile in two as a cat. dey's plenty mo'. a chile er two, mo' er less, warn't no consekens to sollermun, dad fetch him!" i never see such a nigger. if he got a notion in his head once, there warn't no getting it out again. he was the most down on solomon of any nigger i ever see. so i went to talking about other kings, and let solomon slide. i told about louis sixteenth that got his head cut off in france long time ago; and about his little boy the dolphin, that would 'a' been a king, but they took and shut him up in jail, and some say he died there. "po' little chap." "but some says he got out and got away, and come to america." "dat's good! but he'll be pooty lonesome--dey ain' no kings here, is dey, huck?" "no." "den he cain't git no situation. what he gwyne to do?" "well, i don't know. some of them gets on the police, and some of them learns people how to talk french." "why, huck, doan' de french people talk de same way we does?" "_no_, jim; you couldn't understand a word they said--not a single word." "well, now, i be ding-busted! how do dat come?" "_i_ don't know; but it's so. i got some of their jabber out of a book. s'pose a man was to come to you and say polly-voo-franzy--what would you think?" "i wouldn' think nuffn; i'd take en bust him over de head--dat is, if he warn't white. i wouldn't 'low no nigger to call me dat." "shucks, it ain't calling you anything. it's only saying, do you know how to talk french?" "well, den, why couldn't he _say_ it?" "why, he _is_ a-saying it. that's a frenchman's _way_ of saying it." "well, it's a blame ridicklous way, en i doan' want to hear no mo' 'bout it. dey ain' no sense in it." "looky here, jim; does a cat talk like we do?" "no, a cat don't." "well, does a cow?" "no, a cow don't, nuther." "does a cat talk like a cow, or a cow talk like a cat?" "no, dey don't." "it's natural and right for 'em to talk different from each other, ain't it?" "course." "and ain't it natural and right for a cat and a cow to talk different from _us_?" "why, mos' sholy it is." "well, then, why ain't it natural and right for a _frenchman_ to talk different from us? you answer me that." "is a cat a man, huck?" "no." "well, den, dey ain't no sense in a cat talkin' like a man. is a cow a man?--er is a cow a cat?" "no, she ain't either of them." "well, den, she ain't got no business to talk like either one er the yuther of 'em. is a frenchman a man?" "yes." "_well_, den! dad blame it, why doan' he _talk_ like a man? you answer me _dat!"_ i see it warn't no use wasting words--you can't learn a nigger to argue. so i quit. chapter xv we judged that three nights more would fetch us to cairo, at the bottom of illinois, where the ohio river comes in, and that was what we was after. we would sell the raft and get on a steamboat and go way up the ohio amongst the free states, and then be out of trouble. well, the second night a fog begun to come on, and we made for a towhead to tie to, for it wouldn't do to try to run in a fog; but when i paddled ahead in the canoe, with the line to make fast, there warn't anything but little saplings to tie to. i passed the line around one of them right on the edge of the cut bank, but there was a stiff current, and the raft come booming down so lively she tore it out by the roots and away she went. i see the fog closing down, and it made me so sick and scared i couldn't budge for most a half a minute it seemed to me--and then there warn't no raft in sight; you couldn't see twenty yards. i jumped into the canoe and run back to the stern, and grabbed the paddle and set her back a stroke. but she didn't come. i was in such a hurry i hadn't untied her. i got up and tried to untie her, but i was so excited my hands shook so i couldn't hardly do anything with them. as soon as i got started i took out after the raft, hot and heavy, right down the towhead. that was all right as far as it went, but the towhead warn't sixty yards long, and the minute i flew by the foot of it i shot out into the solid white fog, and hadn't no more idea which way i was going than a dead man. thinks i, it won't do to paddle; first i know i'll run into the bank or a towhead or something; i got to set still and float, and yet it's mighty fidgety business to have to hold your hands still at such a time. i whooped and listened. away down there somewheres i hears a small whoop, and up comes my spirits. i went tearing after it, listening sharp to hear it again. the next time it come i see i warn't heading for it, but heading away to the right of it. and the next time i was heading away to the left of it--and not gaining on it much either, for i was flying around, this way and that and t'other, but it was going straight ahead all the time. i did wish the fool would think to beat a tin pan, and beat it all the time, but he never did, and it was the still places between the whoops that was making the trouble for me. well, i fought along, and directly i hears the whoop _behind_ me. i was tangled good now. that was somebody else's whoop, or else i was turned around. i throwed the paddle down. i heard the whoop again; it was behind me yet, but in a different place; it kept coming, and kept changing its place, and i kept answering, till by and by it was in front of me again, and i knowed the current had swung the canoe's head down-stream, and i was all right if that was jim and not some other raftsman hollering. i couldn't tell nothing about voices in a fog, for nothing don't look natural nor sound natural in a fog. the whooping went on, and in about a minute i come a-booming down on a cut bank with smoky ghosts of big trees on it, and the current throwed me off to the left and shot by, amongst a lot of snags that fairly roared, the current was tearing by them so swift. in another second or two it was solid white and still again. i set perfectly still then, listening to my heart thump, and i reckon i didn't draw a breath while it thumped a hundred. i just give up then. i knowed what the matter was. that cut bank was an island, and jim had gone down t'other side of it. it warn't no towhead that you could float by in ten minutes. it had the big timber of a regular island; it might be five or six miles long and more than half a mile wide. i kept quiet, with my ears cocked, about fifteen minutes, i reckon. i was floating along, of course, four or five miles an hour; but you don't ever think of that. no, you _feel_ like you are laying dead still on the water; and if a little glimpse of a snag slips by you don't think to yourself how fast _you're_ going, but you catch your breath and think, my! how that snag's tearing along. if you think it ain't dismal and lonesome out in a fog that way by yourself in the night, you try it once--you'll see. next, for about a half an hour, i whoops now and then; at last i hears the answer a long ways off, and tries to follow it, but i couldn't do it, and directly i judged i'd got into a nest of towheads, for i had little dim glimpses of them on both sides of me--sometimes just a narrow channel between, and some that i couldn't see i knowed was there because i'd hear the wash of the current against the old dead brush and trash that hung over the banks. well, i warn't long loosing the whoops down amongst the towheads; and i only tried to chase them a little while, anyway, because it was worse than chasing a jack-o'-lantern. you never knowed a sound dodge around so, and swap places so quick and so much. i had to claw away from the bank pretty lively four or five times, to keep from knocking the islands out of the river; and so i judged the raft must be butting into the bank every now and then, or else it would get further ahead and clear out of hearing--it was floating a little faster than what i was. well, i seemed to be in the open river again by and by, but i couldn't hear no sign of a whoop nowheres. i reckoned jim had fetched up on a snag, maybe, and it was all up with him. i was good and tired, so i laid down in the canoe and said i wouldn't bother no more. i didn't want to go to sleep, of course; but i was so sleepy i couldn't help it; so i thought i would take jest one little cat-nap. but i reckon it was more than a cat-nap, for when i waked up the stars was shining bright, the fog was all gone, and i was spinning down a big bend stern first. first i didn't know where i was; i thought i was dreaming; and when things began to come back to me they seemed to come up dim out of last week. it was a monstrous big river here, with the tallest and the thickest kind of timber on both banks; just a solid wall, as well as i could see by the stars. i looked away down-stream, and seen a black speck on the water. i took after it; but when i got to it it warn't nothing but a couple of saw-logs made fast together. then i see another speck, and chased that; then another, and this time i was right. it was the raft. when i got to it jim was setting there with his head down between his knees, asleep, with his right arm hanging over the steering-oar. the other oar was smashed off, and the raft was littered up with leaves and branches and dirt. so she'd had a rough time. i made fast and laid down under jim's nose on the raft, and began to gap, and stretch my fists out against jim, and says: "hello, jim, have i been asleep? why didn't you stir me up?" "goodness gracious, is dat you, huck? en you ain' dead--you ain' drownded--you's back ag'in? it's too good for true, honey, it's too good for true. lemme look at you chile, lemme feel o' you. no, you ain' dead! you's back ag'in, 'live en soun', jis de same ole huck--de same ole huck, thanks to goodness!" "what's the matter with you, jim? you been a-drinking?" "drinkin'? has i ben a-drinkin'? has i had a chance to be a-drinkin'?" "well, then, what makes you talk so wild?" "how does i talk wild?" "_how?_ why, hain't you been talking about my coming back, and all that stuff, as if i'd been gone away?" "huck--huck finn, you look me in de eye; look me in de eye. _hain't_ you ben gone away?" "gone away? why, what in the nation do you mean? _i_ hain't been gone anywheres. where would i go to?" "well, looky here, boss, dey's sumfn wrong, dey is. is i _me_, or who _is_ i? is i heah, or whah _is_ i? now dat's what i wants to know." "well, i think you're here, plain enough, but i think you're a tangle-headed old fool, jim." "i is, is i? well, you answer me dis: didn't you tote out de line in de canoe fer to make fas' to de towhead?" "no, i didn't. what towhead? i hain't seen no towhead." "you hain't seen no towhead? looky here, didn't de line pull loose en de raf' go a-hummin' down de river, en leave you en de canoe behine in de fog?" "what fog?" "why, _de_ fog!--de fog dat's been aroun' all night. en didn't you whoop, en didn't i whoop, tell we got mix' up in de islands en one un us got los' en t'other one was jis' as good as los', 'kase he didn' know whah he wuz? en didn't i bust up agin a lot er dem islands en have a turrible time en mos' git drownded? now ain' dat so, boss--ain't it so? you answer me dat." "well, this is too many for me, jim. i hain't seen no fog, nor no islands, nor no troubles, nor nothing. i been setting here talking with you all night till you went to sleep about ten minutes ago, and i reckon i done the same. you couldn't 'a' got drunk in that time, so of course you've been dreaming." "dad fetch it, how is i gwyne to dream all dat in ten minutes?" "well, hang it all, you did dream it, because there didn't any of it happen." "but, huck, it's all jis' as plain to me as--" "it don't make no difference how plain it is; there ain't nothing in it. i know, because i've been here all the time." jim didn't say nothing for about five minutes, but set there studying over it. then he says: "well, den, i reck'n i did dream it, huck; but dog my cats ef it ain't de powerfulest dream i ever see. en i hain't ever had no dream b'fo' dat's tired me like dis one." "oh, well, that's all right, because a dream does tire a body like everything sometimes. but this one was a staving dream; tell me all about it, jim." so jim went to work and told me the whole thing right through, just as it happened, only he painted it up considerable. then he said he must start in and "'terpret" it, because it was sent for a warning. he said the first towhead stood for a man that would try to do us some good, but the current was another man that would get us away from him. the whoops was warnings that would come to us every now and then, and if we didn't try hard to make out to understand them they'd just take us into bad luck, 'stead of keeping us out of it. the lot of towheads was troubles we was going to get into with quarrelsome people and all kinds of mean folks, but if we minded our business and didn't talk back and aggravate them, we would pull through and get out of the fog and into the big clear river, which was the free states, and wouldn't have no more trouble. it had clouded up pretty dark just after i got on to the raft, but it was clearing up again now. "oh, well, that's all interpreted well enough as far as it goes, jim," i says; "but what does _these_ things stand for?" it was the leaves and rubbish on the raft and the smashed oar. you could see them first-rate now. jim looked at the trash, and then looked at me, and back at the trash again. he had got the dream fixed so strong in his head that he couldn't seem to shake it loose and get the facts back into its place again right away. but when he did get the thing straightened around he looked at me steady without ever smiling, and says: "what do dey stan' for? i's gwyne to tell you. when i got all wore out wid work, en wid de callin' for you, en went to sleep, my heart wuz mos' broke bekase you wuz los', en i didn' k'yer no' mo' what become er me en de raf'. en when i wake up en fine you back ag'in, all safe en soun', de tears come, en i could 'a' got down on my knees en kiss yo' foot, i's so thankful. en all you wuz thinkin' 'bout wuz how you could make a fool uv ole jim wid a lie. dat truck dah is _trash_; en trash is what people is dat puts dirt on de head er dey fren's en makes 'em ashamed." then he got up slow and walked to the wigwam, and went in there without saying anything but that. but that was enough. it made me feel so mean i could almost kissed _his_ foot to get him to take it back. it was fifteen minutes before i could work myself up to go and humble myself to a nigger; but i done it, and i warn't ever sorry for it afterward, neither. i didn't do him no more mean tricks, and i wouldn't done that one if i'd 'a' knowed it would make him feel that way. chapter xvi we slept most all day, and started out at night, a little ways behind a monstrous long raft that was as long going by as a procession. she had four long sweeps at each end, so we judged she carried as many as thirty men, likely. she had five big wigwams aboard, wide apart, and an open camp-fire in the middle, and a tall flag-pole at each end. there was a power of style about her. it _amounted_ to something being a raftsman on such a craft as that. we went drifting down into a big bend, and the night clouded up and got hot. the river was very wide, and was walled with solid timber on both sides; you couldn't see a break in it hardly ever, or a light. we talked about cairo, and wondered whether we would know it when we got to it. i said likely we wouldn't, because i had heard say there warn't but about a dozen houses there, and if they didn't happen to have them lit up, how was we going to know we was passing a town? jim said if the two big rivers joined together there, that would show. but i said maybe we might think we was passing the foot of an island and coming into the same old river again. that disturbed jim--and me too. so the question was, what to do? i said, paddle ashore the first time a light showed, and tell them pap was behind, coming along with a trading-scow, and was a green hand at the business, and wanted to know how far it was to cairo. jim thought it was a good idea, so we took a smoke on it and waited. there warn't nothing to do now but to look out sharp for the town, and not pass it without seeing it. he said he'd be mighty sure to see it, because he'd be a free man the minute he seen it, but if he missed it he'd be in a slave country again and no more show for freedom. every little while he jumps up and says: "dah she is?" but it warn't. it was jack-o'-lanterns, or lightning-bugs; so he set down again, and went to watching, same as before. jim said it made him all over trembly and feverish to be so close to freedom. well, i can tell you it made me all over trembly and feverish, too, to hear him, because i begun to get it through my head that he _was_ most free--and who was to blame for it? why, _me_. i couldn't get that out of my conscience, no how nor no way. it got to troubling me so i couldn't rest; i couldn't stay still in one place. it hadn't ever come home to me before, what this thing was that i was doing. but now it did; and it stayed with me, and scorched me more and more. i tried to make out to myself that _i_ warn't to blame, because _i_ didn't run jim off from his rightful owner; but it warn't no use, conscience up and says, every time, "but you knowed he was running for his freedom, and you could 'a' paddled ashore and told somebody." that was so--i couldn't get around that no way. that was where it pinched. conscience says to me, "what had poor miss watson done to you that you could see her nigger go off right under your eyes and never say one single word? what did that poor old woman do to you that you could treat her so mean? why, she tried to learn you your book, she tried to learn you your manners, she tried to be good to you every way she knowed how. _that's_ what she done." i got to feeling so mean and so miserable i most wished i was dead. i fidgeted up and down the raft, abusing myself to myself, and jim was fidgeting up and down past me. we neither of us could keep still. every time he danced around and says, "dah's cairo!" it went through me like a shot, and i thought if it _was_ cairo i reckoned i would die of miserableness. jim talked out loud all the time while i was talking to myself. he was saying how the first thing he would do when he got to a free state he would go to saving up money and never spend a single cent, and when he got enough he would buy his wife, which was owned on a farm close to where miss watson lived; and then they would both work to buy the two children, and if their master wouldn't sell them, they'd get an ab'litionist to go and steal them. it most froze me to hear such talk. he wouldn't ever dared to talk such talk in his life before. just see what a difference it made in him the minute he judged he was about free. it was according to the old saying, "give a nigger an inch and he'll take an ell." thinks i, this is what comes of my not thinking. here was this nigger, which i had as good as helped to run away, coming right out flat-footed and saying he would steal his children--children that belonged to a man i didn't even know; a man that hadn't ever done me no harm. i was sorry to hear jim say that, it was such a lowering of him. my conscience got to stirring me up hotter than ever, until at last i says to it, "let up on me--it ain't too late yet--i'll paddle ashore at the first light and tell." i felt easy and happy and light as a feather right off. all my troubles was gone. i went to looking out sharp for a light, and sort of singing to myself. by and by one showed. jim sings out: "we's safe, huck, we's safe! jump up and crack yo' heels! dat's de good ole cairo at las', i jis knows it!" i says: "i'll take the canoe and go and see, jim. it mightn't be, you know." he jumped and got the canoe ready, and put his old coat in the bottom for me to set on, and give me the paddle; and as i shoved off, he says: "pooty soon i'll be a-shout'n' for joy, en i'll say, it's all on accounts o' huck; i's a free man, en i couldn't ever ben free ef it hadn' ben for huck; huck done it. jim won't ever forgit you, huck; you's de bes' fren' jim's ever had; en you's de _only_ fren' ole jim's got now." i was paddling off, all in a sweat to tell on him; but when he says this, it seemed to kind of take the tuck all out of me. i went along slow then, and i warn't right down certain whether i was glad i started or whether i warn't. when i was fifty yards off, jim says: "dah you goes, de ole true huck; de on'y white genlman dat ever kep' his promise to ole jim." well, i just felt sick. but i says, i _got_ to do it--i can't get _out_ of it. right then along comes a skiff with two men in it with guns, and they stopped and i stopped. one of them says: "what's that yonder?" "a piece of a raft," i says. "do you belong on it?" "yes, sir." "any men on it?" "only one, sir." "well, there's five niggers run off to-night up yonder, above the head of the bend. is your man white or black?" i didn't answer up prompt. i tried to, but the words wouldn't come. i tried for a second or two to brace up and out with it, but i warn't man enough--hadn't the spunk of a rabbit. i see i was weakening; so i just give up trying, and up and says: "he's white." "i reckon we'll go and see for ourselves." "i wish you would," says i, "because it's pap that's there, and maybe you'd help me tow the raft ashore where the light is. he's sick--and so is mam and mary ann." "oh, the devil! we're in a hurry, boy. but i s'pose we've got to. come, buckle to your paddle, and let's get along." i buckled to my paddle and they laid to their oars. when we had made a stroke or two, i says: "pap 'll be mighty much obleeged to you, i can tell you. everybody goes away when i want them to help me tow the raft ashore, and i can't do it by myself." "well, that's infernal mean. odd, too. say, boy, what's the matter with your father?" "it's the--a--the--well, it ain't anything much." they stopped pulling. it warn't but a mighty little ways to the raft now. one says: "boy, that's a lie. what _is_ the matter with your pap? answer up square now, and it 'll be the better for you." "i will, sir, i will, honest--but don't leave us, please. it's the--the--gentlemen, if you'll only pull ahead, and let me heave you the headline, you won't have to come a-near the raft--please do." "set her back, john, set her back!" says one. they backed water. "keep away, boy--keep to looard. confound it, i just expect the wind has blowed it to us. your pap's got the smallpox, and you know it precious well. why didn't you come out and say so? do you want to spread it all over?" "well," says i, a-blubbering, "i've told everybody before, and they just went away and left us." "poor devil, there's something in that. we are right down sorry for you, but we--well, hang it, we don't want the smallpox, you see. look here, i'll tell you what to do. don't you try to land by yourself, or you'll smash everything to pieces. you float along down about twenty miles, and you'll come to a town on the left-hand side of the river. it will be long after sun-up then, and when you ask for help you tell them your folks are all down with chills and fever. don't be a fool again, and let people guess what is the matter. now we're trying to do you a kindness; so you just put twenty miles between us, that's a good boy. it wouldn't do any good to land yonder where the light is--it's only a wood-yard. say, i reckon your father's poor, and i'm bound to say he's in pretty hard luck. here, i'll put a twenty-dollar gold piece on this board, and you get it when it floats by. i feel mighty mean to leave you; but my kingdom! it won't do to fool with small-pox, don't you see?" "hold on, parker," says the man, "here's a twenty to put on the board for me. good-by, boy; you do as mr. parker told you, and you'll be all right." "that's so, my boy--good-by, good-bye. if you see any runaway niggers you get help and nab them, and you can make some money by it." "good-by, sir," says i; "i won't let no runaway niggers get by me if i can help it." they went off and i got aboard the raft, feeling bad and low, because i knowed very well i had done wrong, and i see it warn't no use for me to try to learn to do right; a body that don't get _started_ right when he's little ain't got no show--when the pinch comes there ain't nothing to back him up and keep him to his work, and so he gets beat. then i thought a minute, and says to myself, hold on; s'pose you'd 'a' done right and give jim up, would you felt better than what you do now? no, says i, i'd feel bad--i'd feel just the same way i do now. well, then, says i, what's the use you learning to do right when it's troublesome to do right and ain't no trouble to do wrong, and the wages is just the same? i was stuck. i couldn't answer that. so i reckoned i wouldn't bother no more about it, but after this always do whichever come handiest at the time. i went into the wigwam; jim warn't there. i looked all around; he warn't anywhere. i says: "jim!" "here i is, huck. is dey out o' sight yit? don't talk loud." he was in the river under the stern oar, with just his nose out. i told him they were out of sight, so he come aboard. he says: "i was a-listenin' to all de talk, en i slips into de river en was gwyne to shove for sho' if dey come aboard. den i was gwyne to swim to de raf' agin when dey was gone. but lawsy, how you did fool 'em, huck! dat _wuz_ de smartes' dodge! i tell you, chile, i 'spec it save' ole jim--ole jim ain't going to forgit you for dat, honey." then we talked about the money. it was a pretty good raise--twenty dollars apiece. jim said we could take deck passage on a steamboat now, and the money would last us as far as we wanted to go in the free states. he said twenty mile more warn't far for the raft to go, but he wished we was already there. towards daybreak we tied up, and jim was mighty particular about hiding the raft good. then he worked all day fixing things in bundles, and getting all ready to quit rafting. that night about ten we hove in sight of the lights of a town away down in a left-hand bend. i went off in the canoe to ask about it. pretty soon i found a man out in the river with a skiff, setting a trot-line. i ranged up and says: "mister, is that town cairo?" "cairo? no. you must be a blame' fool." "what town is it, mister?" "if you want to know, go and find out. if you stay here botherin' around me for about a half a minute longer you'll get something you won't want." i paddled to the raft. jim was awful disappointed, but i said never mind, cairo would be the next place, i reckoned. we passed another town before daylight, and i was going out again; but it was high ground, so i didn't go. no high ground about cairo, jim said. i had forgot it. we laid up for the day on a towhead tolerable close to the left-hand bank. i begun to suspicion something. so did jim. i says: "maybe we went by cairo in the fog that night." he says: "doan' le's talk about it, huck. po' niggers can't have no luck. i awluz 'spected dat rattlesnake-skin warn't done wid its work." "i wish i'd never seen that snake-skin, jim--i do wish i'd never laid eyes on it." "it ain't yo' fault, huck; you didn't know. don't you blame yo'self 'bout it." when it was daylight, here was the clear ohio water inshore, sure enough, and outside was the old regular muddy! so it was all up with cairo. we talked it all over. it wouldn't do to take to the shore; we couldn't take the raft up the stream, of course. there warn't no way but to wait for dark, and start back in the canoe and take the chances. so we slept all day amongst the cottonwood thicket, so as to be fresh for the work, and when we went back to the raft about dark the canoe was gone! we didn't say a word for a good while. there warn't anything to say. we both knowed well enough it was some more work of the rattlesnake-skin; so what was the use to talk about it? it would only look like we was finding fault, and that would be bound to fetch more bad luck--and keep on fetching it, too, till we knowed enough to keep still. by and by we talked about what we better do, and found there warn't no way but just to go along down with the raft till we got a chance to buy a canoe to go back in. we warn't going to borrow it when there warn't anybody around, the way pap would do, for that might set people after us. so we shoved out after dark on the raft. anybody that don't believe yet that it's foolishness to handle a snake-skin, after all that that snake-skin done for us, will believe it now if they read on and see what more it done for us. the place to buy canoes is off of rafts laying up at shore. but we didn't see no rafts laying up; so we went along during three hours and more. well, the night got gray and ruther thick, which is the next meanest thing to fog. you can't tell the shape of the river, and you can't see no distance. it got to be very late and still, and then along comes a steamboat up the river. we lit the lantern, and judged she would see it. up-stream boats didn't generly come close to us; they go out and follow the bars and hunt for easy water under the reefs; but nights like this they bull right up the channel against the whole river. we could hear her pounding along, but we didn't see her good till she was close. she aimed right for us. often they do that and try to see how close they can come without touching; sometimes the wheel bites off a sweep, and then the pilot sticks his head out and laughs, and thinks he's mighty smart. well, here she comes, and we said she was going to try and shave us; but she didn't seem to be sheering off a bit. she was a big one, and she was coming in a hurry, too, looking like a black cloud with rows of glow-worms around it; but all of a sudden she bulged out, big and scary, with a long row of wide-open furnace doors shining like red-hot teeth, and her monstrous bows and guards hanging right over us. there was a yell at us, and a jingling of bells to stop the engines, a powwow of cussing, and whistling of steam--and as jim went overboard on one side and i on the other, she come smashing straight through the raft. i dived--and i aimed to find the bottom, too, for a thirty-foot wheel had got to go over me, and i wanted it to have plenty of room. i could always stay under water a minute; this time i reckon i stayed under a minute and a half. then i bounced for the top in a hurry, for i was nearly busting. i popped out to my armpits and blowed the water out of my nose, and puffed a bit. of course there was a booming current; and of course that boat started her engines again ten seconds after she stopped them, for they never cared much for raftsmen; so now she was churning along up the river, out of sight in the thick weather, though i could hear her. i sung out for jim about a dozen times, but i didn't get any answer; so i grabbed a plank that touched me while i was "treading water," and struck out for shore, shoving it ahead of me. but i made out to see that the drift of the current was towards the left-hand shore, which meant that i was in a crossing; so i changed off and went that way. it was one of these long, slanting, two-mile crossings; so i was a good long time in getting over. i made a safe landing, and clumb up the bank. i couldn't see but a little ways, but i went poking along over rough ground for a quarter of a mile or more, and then i run across a big old-fashioned double log house before i noticed it. i was going to rush by and get away, but a lot of dogs jumped out and went to howling and barking at me, and i knowed better than to move another peg. chapter xvii in about a minute somebody spoke out of a window without putting his head out, and says: "be done, boys! who's there?" i says: "it's me." "who's me?" "george jackson, sir." "what do you want?" "i don't want nothing, sir. i only want to go along by, but the dogs won't let me." "what are you prowling around here this time of night for--hey?" "i warn't prowling around, sir; i fell overboard off of the steamboat." "oh, you did, did you? strike a light there, somebody. what did you say your name was?" "george jackson, sir. i'm only a boy." "look here, if you're telling the truth you needn't be afraid--nobody 'll hurt you. but don't try to budge; stand right where you are. rouse out bob and tom, some of you, and fetch the guns. george jackson, is there anybody with you?" "no, sir, nobody." i heard the people stirring around in the house now, and see a light. the man sung out: "snatch that light away, betsy, you old fool--ain't you got any sense? put it on the floor behind the front door. bob, if you and tom are ready, take your places." "all ready." "now, george jackson, do you know the shepherdsons?" "no, sir; i never heard of them." "well, that may be so, and it mayn't. now, all ready. step forward, george jackson. and mind, don't you hurry--come mighty slow. if there's anybody with you, let him keep back--if he shows himself he'll be shot. come along now. come slow; push the door open yourself--just enough to squeeze in, d'you hear?" i didn't hurry; i couldn't if i'd a-wanted to. i took one slow step at a time and there warn't a sound, only i thought i could hear my heart. the dogs were as still as the humans, but they followed a little behind me. when i got to the three log doorsteps i heard them unlocking and unbarring and unbolting. i put my hand on the door and pushed it a little and a little more till somebody said, "there, that's enough--put your head in." i done it, but i judged they would take it off. the candle was on the floor, and there they all was, looking at me, and me at them, for about a quarter of a minute: three big men with guns pointed at me, which made me wince, i tell you; the oldest, gray and about sixty, the other two thirty or more--all of them fine and handsome--and the sweetest old gray-headed lady, and back of her two young women which i couldn't see right well. the old gentleman says: "there; i reckon it's all right. come in." as soon as i was in the old gentleman he locked the door and barred it and bolted it, and told the young men to come in with their guns, and they all went in a big parlor that had a new rag carpet on the floor, and got together in a corner that was out of the range of the front windows--there warn't none on the side. they held the candle, and took a good look at me, and all said, "why, _he_ ain't a shepherdson--no, there ain't any shepherdson about him." then the old man said he hoped i wouldn't mind being searched for arms, because he didn't mean no harm by it--it was only to make sure. so he didn't pry into my pockets, but only felt outside with his hands, and said it was all right. he told me to make myself easy and at home, and tell all about myself; but the old lady says: "why, bless you, saul, the poor thing's as wet as he can be; and don't you reckon it may be he's hungry?" "true for you, rachel--i forgot." so the old lady says: "betsy" (this was a nigger woman), "you fly around and get him something to eat as quick as you can, poor thing; and one of you girls go and wake up buck and tell him--oh, here he is himself. buck, take this little stranger and get the wet clothes off from him and dress him up in some of yours that's dry." buck looked about as old as me--thirteen or fourteen or along there, though he was a little bigger than me. he hadn't on anything but a shirt, and he was very frowzy-headed. he came in gaping and digging one fist into his eyes, and he was dragging a gun along with the other one. he says: "ain't they no shepherdsons around?" they said, no, 'twas a false alarm. "well," he says, "if they'd 'a' ben some, i reckon i'd 'a' got one." they all laughed, and bob says: "why, buck, they might have scalped us all, you've been so slow in coming." "well, nobody come after me, and it ain't right. i'm always kept down; i don't get no show." "never mind, buck, my boy," says the old man, "you'll have show enough, all in good time, don't you fret about that. go 'long with you now, and do as your mother told you." when we got up-stairs to his room he got me a coarse shirt and a roundabout and pants of his, and i put them on. while i was at it he asked me what my name was, but before i could tell him he started to tell me about a bluejay and a young rabbit he had catched in the woods day before yesterday, and he asked me where moses was when the candle went out. i said i didn't know; i hadn't heard about it before, no way. "well, guess," he says. "how'm i going to guess," says i, "when i never heard tell of it before?" "but you can guess, can't you? it's just as easy." "_which_ candle?" i says. "why, any candle," he says. "i don't know where he was," says i; "where was he?" "why, he was in the _dark_! that's where he was!" "well, if you knowed where he was, what did you ask me for?" "why, blame it, it's a riddle, don't you see? say, how long are you going to stay here? you got to stay always. we can just have booming times--they don't have no school now. do you own a dog? i've got a dog--and he'll go in the river and bring out chips that you throw in. do you like to comb up sundays, and all that kind of foolishness? you bet i don't, but ma she makes me. confound these ole britches! i reckon i'd better put 'em on, but i'd ruther not, it's so warm. are you all ready? all right. come along, old hoss." cold corn-pone, cold corn-beef, butter and buttermilk--that is what they had for me down there, and there ain't nothing better that ever i've come across yet. buck and his ma and all of them smoked cob pipes, except the nigger woman, which was gone, and the two young women. they all smoked and talked, and i eat and talked. the young women had quilts around them, and their hair down their backs. they all asked me questions, and i told them how pap and me and all the family was living on a little farm down at the bottom of arkansaw, and my sister mary ann run off and got married and never was heard of no more, and bill went to hunt them and he warn't heard of no more, and tom and mort died, and then there warn't nobody but just me and pap left, and he was just trimmed down to nothing, on account of his troubles; so when he died i took what there was left, because the farm didn't belong to us, and started up the river, deck passage, and fell overboard; and that was how i come to be here. so they said i could have a home there as long as i wanted it. then it was most daylight and everybody went to bed, and i went to bed with buck, and when i waked up in the morning, drat it all, i had forgot what my name was. so i laid there about an hour trying to think, and when buck waked up i says: "can you spell, buck?" "yes," he says. "i bet you can't spell my name," says i. "i bet you what you dare i can," says he. "all right," says i, "go ahead." "g-e-o-r-g-e j-a-x-o-n--there now," he says. "well," says i, "you done it, but i didn't think you could. it ain't no slouch of a name to spell--right off without studying." i set it down, private, because somebody might want _me_ to spell it next, and so i wanted to be handy with it and rattle it off like i was used to it. it was a mighty nice family, and a mighty nice house, too. i hadn't seen no house out in the country before that was so nice and had so much style. it didn't have an iron latch on the front door, nor a wooden one with a buckskin string, but a brass knob to turn, the same as houses in town. there warn't no bed in the parlor, nor a sign of a bed; but heaps of parlors in towns has beds in them. there was a big fireplace that was bricked on the bottom, and the bricks was kept clean and red by pouring water on them and scrubbing them with another brick; sometimes they wash them over with red water-paint that they call spanish-brown, same as they do in town. they had big brass dog-irons that could hold up a saw-log. there was a clock on the middle of the mantelpiece, with a picture of a town painted on the bottom half of the glass front, and a round place in the middle of it for the sun, and you could see the pendulum swinging behind it. it was beautiful to hear that clock tick; and sometimes when one of these peddlers had been along and scoured her up and got her in good shape, she would start in and strike a hundred and fifty before she got tuckered out. they wouldn't took any money for her. well, there was a big outlandish parrot on each side of the clock, made out of something like chalk, and painted up gaudy. by one of the parrots was a cat made of crockery, and a crockery dog by the other; and when you pressed down on them they squeaked, but didn't open their mouths nor look different nor interested. they squeaked through underneath. there was a couple of big wild-turkey-wing fans spread out behind those things. on the table in the middle of the room was a kind of a lovely crockery basket that had apples and oranges and peaches and grapes piled up in it, which was much redder and yellower and prettier than real ones is, but they warn't real because you could see where pieces had got chipped off and showed the white chalk, or whatever it was, underneath. this table had a cover made out of beautiful oilcloth, with a red and blue spread-eagle painted on it, and a painted border all around. it come all the way from philadelphia, they said. there was some books, too, piled up perfectly exact, on each corner of the table. one was a big family bible full of pictures. one was pilgrim's progress, about a man that left his family, it didn't say why. i read considerable in it now and then. the statements was interesting, but tough. another was friendship's offering, full of beautiful stuff and poetry; but i didn't read the poetry. another was henry clay's speeches, and another was dr. gunn's family medicine, which told you all about what to do if a body was sick or dead. there was a hymn-book, and a lot of other books. and there was nice split-bottom chairs, and perfectly sound, too--not bagged down in the middle and busted, like an old basket. they had pictures hung on the walls--mainly washingtons and lafayettes, and battles, and highland marys, and one called "signing the declaration." there was some that they called crayons, which one of the daughters which was dead made her own self when she was only fifteen years old. they was different from any pictures i ever see before--blacker, mostly, than is common. one was a woman in a slim black dress, belted small under the armpits, with bulges like a cabbage in the middle of the sleeves, and a large black scoop-shovel bonnet with a black veil, and white slim ankles crossed about with black tape, and very wee black slippers, like a chisel, and she was leaning pensive on a tombstone on her right elbow, under a weeping willow, and her other hand hanging down her side holding a white handkerchief and a reticule, and underneath the picture it said "shall i never see thee more alas." another one was a young lady with her hair all combed up straight to the top of her head, and knotted there in front of a comb like a chair-back, and she was crying into a handkerchief and had a dead bird laying on its back in her other hand with its heels up, and underneath the picture it said "i shall never hear thy sweet chirrup more alas." there was one where a young lady was at a window looking up at the moon, and tears running down her cheeks; and she had an open letter in one hand with black sealing-wax showing on one edge of it, and she was mashing a locket with a chain to it against her mouth, and underneath the picture it said "and art thou gone yes thou art gone alas." these was all nice pictures, i reckon, but i didn't somehow seem to take to them, because if ever i was down a little they always give me the fan-tods. everybody was sorry she died, because she had laid out a lot more of these pictures to do, and a body could see by what she had done what they had lost. but i reckoned that with her disposition she was having a better time in the graveyard. she was at work on what they said was her greatest picture when she took sick, and every day and every night it was her prayer to be allowed to live till she got it done, but she never got the chance. it was a picture of a young woman in a long white gown, standing on the rail of a bridge all ready to jump off, with her hair all down her back, and looking up to the moon, with the tears running down her face, and she had two arms folded across her breast, and two arms stretched out in front, and two more reaching up toward the moon--and the idea was to see which pair would look best, and then scratch out all the other arms; but, as i was saying, she died before she got her mind made up, and now they kept this picture over the head of the bed in her room, and every time her birthday come they hung flowers on it. other times it was hid with a little curtain. the young woman in the picture had a kind of a nice sweet face, but there was so many arms it made her look too spidery, seemed to me. this young girl kept a scrap-book when she was alive, and used to paste obituaries and accidents and cases of patient suffering in it out of the presbyterian observer, and write poetry after them out of her own head. it was very good poetry. this is what she wrote about a boy by the name of stephen dowling bots that fell down a well and was drownded: ode to stephen dowling bots, dec'd and did young stephen sicken, and did young stephen die? and did the sad hearts thicken, and did the mourners cry? no; such was not the fate of young stephen dowling bots; though sad hearts round him thickened, 'twas not from sickness' shots. no whooping-cough did rack his frame, nor measles drear with spots; not these impaired the sacred name of stephen dowling bots. despised love struck not with woe that head of curly knots, nor stomach troubles laid him low, young stephen dowling bots. o no. then list with tearful eye, whilst i his fate do tell. his soul did from this cold world fly by falling down a well. they got him out and emptied him; alas it was too late; his spirit was gone for to sport aloft in the realms of the good and great. if emmeline grangerford could make poetry like that before she was fourteen, there ain't no telling what she could 'a' done by and by. buck said she could rattle off poetry like nothing. she didn't ever have to stop to think. he said she would slap down a line, and if she couldn't find anything to rhyme with it would just scratch it out and slap down another one, and go ahead. she warn't particular; she could write about anything you choose to give her to write about just so it was sadful. every time a man died, or a woman died, or a child died, she would be on hand with her "tribute" before he was cold. she called them tributes. the neighbors said it was the doctor first, then emmeline, then the undertaker--the undertaker never got in ahead of emmeline but once, and then she hung fire on a rhyme for the dead person's name, which was whistler. she warn't ever the same after that; she never complained, but she kinder pined away and did not live long. poor thing, many's the time i made myself go up to the little room that used to be hers and get out her poor old scrap-book and read in it when her pictures had been aggravating me and i had soured on her a little. i liked all that family, dead ones and all, and warn't going to let anything come between us. poor emmeline made poetry about all the dead people when she was alive, and it didn't seem right that there warn't nobody to make some about her now she was gone; so i tried to sweat out a verse or two myself, but i couldn't seem to make it go somehow. they kept emmeline's room trim and nice, and all the things fixed in it just the way she liked to have them when she was alive, and nobody ever slept there. the old lady took care of the room herself, though there was plenty of niggers, and she sewed there a good deal and read her bible there mostly. well, as i was saying about the parlor, there was beautiful curtains on the windows: white, with pictures painted on them of castles with vines all down the walls, and cattle coming down to drink. there was a little old piano, too, that had tin pans in it, i reckon, and nothing was ever so lovely as to hear the young ladies sing "the last link is broken" and play "the battle of prague" on it. the walls of all the rooms was plastered, and most had carpets on the floors, and the whole house was whitewashed on the outside. it was a double house, and the big open place betwixt them was roofed and floored, and sometimes the table was set there in the middle of the day, and it was a cool, comfortable place. nothing couldn't be better. and warn't the cooking good, and just bushels of it too! chapter xviii col. grangerford was a gentleman, you see. he was a gentleman all over; and so was his family. he was well born, as the saying is, and that's worth as much in a man as it is in a horse, so the widow douglas said, and nobody ever denied that she was of the first aristocracy in our town; and pap he always said it, too, though he warn't no more quality than a mudcat himself. col. grangerford was very tall and very slim, and had a darkish-paly complexion, not a sign of red in it anywheres; he was clean-shaved every morning all over his thin face, and he had the thinnest kind of lips, and the thinnest kind of nostrils, and a high nose, and heavy eyebrows, and the blackest kind of eyes, sunk so deep back that they seemed like they was looking out of caverns at you, as you may say. his forehead was high, and his hair was gray and straight and hung to his shoulders. his hands was long and thin, and every day of his life he put on a clean shirt and a full suit from head to foot made out of linen so white it hurt your eyes to look at it; and on sundays he wore a blue tail-coat with brass buttons on it. he carried a mahogany cane with a silver head to it. there warn't no frivolishness about him, not a bit, and he warn't ever loud. he was as kind as he could be--you could feel that, you know, and so you had confidence. sometimes he smiled, and it was good to see; but when he straightened himself up like a liberty-pole, and the lightning begun to flicker out from under his eyebrows, you wanted to climb a tree first, and find out what the matter was afterwards. he didn't ever have to tell anybody to mind their manners--everybody was always good-mannered where he was. everybody loved to have him around, too; he was sunshine most always--i mean he made it seem like good weather. when he turned into a cloud-bank it was awful dark for half a minute, and that was enough; there wouldn't nothing go wrong again for a week. when him and the old lady come down in the morning all the family got up out of their chairs and give them good day, and didn't set down again till they had set down. then tom and bob went to the sideboard where the decanter was, and mixed a glass of bitters and handed it to him, and he held it in his hand and waited till tom's and bob's was mixed, and then they bowed and said, "our duty to you, sir, and madam"; and _they_ bowed the least bit in the world and said thank you, and so they drank, all three, and bob and tom poured a spoonful of water on the sugar and the mite of whisky or apple-brandy in the bottom of their tumblers, and give it to me and buck, and we drank to the old people too. bob was the oldest and tom next--tall, beautiful men with very broad shoulders and brown faces, and long black hair and black eyes. they dressed in white linen from head to foot, like the old gentleman, and wore broad panama hats. then there was miss charlotte; she was twenty-five, and tall and proud and grand, but as good as she could be when she warn't stirred up; but when she was she had a look that would make you wilt in your tracks, like her father. she was beautiful. so was her sister, miss sophia, but it was a different kind. she was gentle and sweet like a dove, and she was only twenty. each person had their own nigger to wait on them--buck too. my nigger had a monstrous easy time, because i warn't used to having anybody do anything for me, but buck's was on the jump most of the time. this was all there was of the family now, but there used to be more--three sons; they got killed; and emmeline that died. the old gentleman owned a lot of farms and over a hundred niggers. sometimes a stack of people would come there, horseback, from ten or fifteen mile around, and stay five or six days, and have such junketings round about and on the river, and dances and picnics in the woods daytimes, and balls at the house nights. these people was mostly kinfolks of the family. the men brought their guns with them. it was a handsome lot of quality, i tell you. there was another clan of aristocracy around there--five or six families--mostly of the name of shepherdson. they was as high-toned and well born and rich and grand as the tribe of grangerfords. the shepherdsons and grangerfords used the same steamboat-landing, which was about two mile above our house; so sometimes when i went up there with a lot of our folks i used to see a lot of the shepherdsons there on their fine horses. one day buck and me was away out in the woods hunting, and heard a horse coming. we was crossing the road. buck says: "quick! jump for the woods!" we done it, and then peeped down the woods through the leaves. pretty soon a splendid young man came galloping down the road, setting his horse easy and looking like a soldier. he had his gun across his pommel. i had seen him before. it was young harney shepherdson. i heard buck's gun go off at my ear, and harney's hat tumbled off from his head. he grabbed his gun and rode straight to the place where we was hid. but we didn't wait. we started through the woods on a run. the woods warn't thick, so i looked over my shoulder to dodge the bullet, and twice i seen harney cover buck with his gun; and then he rode away the way he come--to get his hat, i reckon, but i couldn't see. we never stopped running till we got home. the old gentleman's eyes blazed a minute--'twas pleasure, mainly, i judged--then his face sort of smoothed down, and he says, kind of gentle: "i don't like that shooting from behind a bush. why didn't you step into the road, my boy?" "the shepherdsons don't, father. they always take advantage." miss charlotte she held her head up like a queen while buck was telling his tale, and her nostrils spread and her eyes snapped. the two young men looked dark, but never said nothing. miss sophia she turned pale, but the color come back when she found the man warn't hurt. soon as i could get buck down by the corn-cribs under the trees by ourselves, i says: "did you want to kill him, buck?" "well, i bet i did." "what did he do to you?" "him? he never done nothing to me." "well, then, what did you want to kill him for?" "why, nothing--only it's on account of the feud." "what's a feud?" "why, where was you raised? don't you know what a feud is?" "never heard of it before--tell me about it." "well," says buck, "a feud is this way: a man has a quarrel with another man, and kills him; then that other man's brother kills _him_; then the other brothers, on both sides, goes for one another; then the _cousins_ chip in--and by and by everybody's killed off, and there ain't no more feud. but it's kind of slow, and takes a long time." "has this one been going on long, buck?" "well, i should _reckon!_ it started thirty year ago, or som'ers along there. there was trouble 'bout something, and then a lawsuit to settle it; and the suit went agin one of the men, and so he up and shot the man that won the suit--which he would naturally do, of course. anybody would." "what was the trouble about. buck?--land?" "i reckon maybe--i don't know." "well, who done the shooting? was it a grangerford shepherdson?" "laws, how do i know? it was so long ago." "don't anybody know?" "oh, yes, pa knows, i reckon, and some of the other old people; but they don't know now what the row was about in the first place." "has there been many killed, buck?" "yes; right smart chance of funerals. but they don't always kill. pa's got a few buckshot in him; but he don't mind it 'cuz he don't weigh much, anyway. bob's been carved up some with a bowie, and tom's been hurt once or twice." "has anybody been killed this year, buck?" "yes; we got one and they got one. 'bout three months ago my cousin bud, fourteen year old, was riding through the woods on t'other side of the river, and didn't have no weapon with him, which was blame' foolishness, and in a lonesome place he hears a horse a-coming behind him, and sees old baldy shepherdson a-linkin' after him with his gun in his hand and his white hair a-flying in the wind; and 'stead of jumping off and taking to the brush, bud 'lowed he could outrun him; so they had it, nip and tuck, for five mile or more, the old man a-gaining all the time; so at last bud seen it warn't any use, so he stopped and faced around so as to have the bullet-holes in front, you know, and the old man he rode up and shot him down. but he didn't git much chance to enjoy his luck, for inside of a week our folks laid _him_ out." "i reckon that old man was a coward, buck." "i reckon he _warn't_ a coward. not by a blame' sight. there ain't a coward amongst them shepherdsons--not a one. and there ain't no cowards amongst the grangerfords either. why, that old man kep' up his end in a fight one day for half an hour against three grangerfords, and come out winner. they was all a-horseback; he lit off of his horse and got behind a little woodpile, and kep' his horse before him to stop the bullets; but the grangerfords stayed on their horses and capered around the old man, and peppered away at him, and he peppered away at them. him and his horse both went home pretty leaky and crippled, but the grangerfords had to be _fetched_ home--and one of 'em was dead, and another died the next day. no, sir; if a body's out hunting for cowards he don't want to fool away any time amongst them shepherdsons, becuz they don't breed any of that _kind_." next sunday we all went to church, about three mile, everybody a-horseback. the men took their guns along, so did buck, and kept them between their knees or stood them handy against the wall. the shepherdsons done the same. it was pretty ornery preaching--all about brotherly love, and such-like tiresomeness; but everybody said it was a good sermon, and they all talked it over going home, and had such a powerful lot to say about faith and good works and free grace and preforeordestination, and i don't know what all, that it did seem to me to be one of the roughest sundays i had run across yet. about an hour after dinner everybody was dozing around, some in their chairs and some in their rooms, and it got to be pretty dull. buck and a dog was stretched out on the grass in the sun sound asleep. i went up to our room, and judged i would take a nap myself. i found that sweet miss sophia standing in her door, which was next to ours, and she took me in her room and shut the door very soft, and asked me if i liked her, and i said i did; and she asked me if i would do something for her and not tell anybody, and i said i would. then she said she'd forgot her testament, and left it in the seat at church between two other books, and would i slip out quiet and go there and fetch it to her, and not say nothing to nobody. i said i would. so i slid out and slipped off up the road, and there warn't anybody at the church, except maybe a hog or two, for there warn't any lock on the door, and hogs likes a puncheon floor in summer-time because it's cool. if you notice, most folks don't go to church only when they've got to; but a hog is different. says i to myself, something's up; it ain't natural for a girl to be in such a sweat about a testament. so i give it a shake, and out drops a little piece of paper with "_half past two_" wrote on it with a pencil. i ransacked it, but couldn't find anything else. i couldn't make anything out of that, so i put the paper in the book again, and when i got home and upstairs there was miss sophia in her door waiting for me. she pulled me in and shut the door; then she looked in the testament till she found the paper, and as soon as she read it she looked glad; and before a body could think she grabbed me and give me a squeeze, and said i was the best boy in the world, and not to tell anybody. she was mighty red in the face for a minute, and her eyes lighted up, and it made her powerful pretty. i was a good deal astonished, but when i got my breath i asked her what the paper was about, and she asked me if i had read it, and i said no, and she asked me if i could read writing, and i told her "no, only coarse-hand," and then she said the paper warn't anything but a book-mark to keep her place, and i might go and play now. i went off down to the river, studying over this thing, and pretty soon i noticed that my nigger was following along behind. when we was out of sight of the house he looked back and around a second, and then comes a-running, and says: "mars jawge, if you'll come down into de swamp i'll show you a whole stack o' water-moccasins." thinks i, that's mighty curious; he said that yesterday. he oughter know a body don't love water-moccasins enough to go around hunting for them. what is he up to, anyway? so i says: "all right; trot ahead." i followed a half a mile; then he struck out over the swamp, and waded ankle-deep as much as another half-mile. we come to a little flat piece of land which was dry and very thick with trees and bushes and vines, and he says: "you shove right in dah jist a few steps, mars jawge; dah's whah dey is. i's seed 'm befo'; i don't k'yer to see 'em no mo'." then he slopped right along and went away, and pretty soon the trees hid him. i poked into the place a-ways and come to a little open patch as big as a bedroom all hung around with vines, and found a man laying there asleep--and, by jings, it was my old jim! i waked him up, and i reckoned it was going to be a grand surprise to him to see me again, but it warn't. he nearly cried he was so glad, but he warn't surprised. said he swum along behind me that night, and heard me yell every time, but dasn't answer, because he didn't want nobody to pick _him_ up and take him into slavery again. says he: "i got hurt a little, en couldn't swim fas', so i wuz a considerable ways behine you towards de las'; when you landed i reck'ned i could ketch up wid you on de lan' 'dout havin' to shout at you, but when i see dat house i begin to go slow. i 'uz off too fur to hear what dey say to you--i wuz 'fraid o' de dogs; but when it 'uz all quiet ag'in i knowed you's in de house, so i struck out for de woods to wait for day. early in de mawnin' some er de niggers come along, gwyne to de fields, en dey tuk me en showed me dis place, whah de dogs can't track me on accounts o' de water, en dey brings me truck to eat every night, en tells me how you's a-gittin' along." "why didn't you tell my jack to fetch me here sooner, jim?" "well, 'twarn't no use to 'sturb you, huck, tell we could do sumfn--but we's all right now. i ben a-buyin' pots en pans en vittles, as i got a chanst, en a-patchin' up de raf' nights when--" "_what_ raft, jim?" "our ole raf'." "you mean to say our old raft warn't smashed all to flinders?" "no, she warn't. she was tore up a good deal--one en' of her was; but dey warn't no great harm done, on'y our traps was mos' all los'. ef we hadn' dive' so deep en swum so fur under water, en de night hadn't ben so dark, en we warn't so sk'yerd, en ben sich punkin-heads, as de sayin' is, we'd a seed de raf'. but it's jis' as well we didn't, 'kase now she's all fixed up ag'in mos' as good as new, en we's got a new lot o' stuff, in de place o' what 'uz los'." "why, how did you get hold of the raft again, jim--did you catch her?" "how i gwyne to ketch her en i out in de woods? no; some er de niggers foun' her ketched on a snag along heah in de ben', en dey hid her in a crick 'mongst de willows, en dey wuz so much jawin' 'bout which un 'um she b'long to de mos' dat i come to heah 'bout it pooty soon, so i ups en settles de trouble by tellin' 'um she don't b'long to none uv 'um, but to you en me; en i ast 'm if dey gwyne to grab a young white genlman's propaty, en git a hid'n for it? den i gin 'm ten cents apiece, en dey 'uz mighty well satisfied, en wisht some mo' raf's 'ud come along en make 'm rich ag'in. dey's mighty good to me, dese niggers is, en whatever i wants 'm to do fur me i doan' have to ast 'm twice, honey. dat jack's a good nigger, en pooty smart." "yes, he is. he ain't ever told me you was here; told me to come, and he'd show me a lot of water-moccasins. if anything happens _he_ ain't mixed up in it. he can say he never seen us together, and it 'll be the truth." i don't want to talk much about the next day. i reckon i'll cut it pretty short. i waked up about dawn, and was a-going to turn over and go to sleep again when i noticed how still it was--didn't seem to be anybody stirring. that warn't usual. next i noticed that buck was up and gone. well, i gets up, a-wondering, and goes down-stairs--nobody around; everything as still as a mouse. just the same outside. thinks i, what does it mean? down by the woodpile i comes across my jack, and says: "what's it all about?" says he: "don't you know, mars jawge?" "no," says i, "i don't." "well, den, miss sophia's run off! 'deed she has. she run off in de night some time--nobody don't know jis' when; run off to get married to dat young harney shepherdson, you know--leastways, so dey 'spec. de fambly foun' it out 'bout half an hour ago--maybe a little mo'--en' i _tell_ you dey warn't no time los'. sich another hurryin' up guns en 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 de river road for to try to ketch dat young man en kill him 'fo' he kin git acrost de river wid miss sophia. i reck'n dey's gwyne to be mighty rough times." "buck went off 'thout waking me up." "well, i reck'n he _did!_ dey warn't gwyne to mix you up in it. mars buck he loaded up his gun en 'lowed he's gwyne to fetch home a shepherdson or bust. well, dey'll be plenty un 'm dah, i reck'n, en you bet you he'll fetch one ef he gits a chanst." i took up the river road as hard as i could put. by and by i begin to hear guns a good ways off. when i came in sight of the log store and the woodpile where the steamboats lands i worked along under the trees and brush till i got to a good place, and then i clumb up into the forks of a cottonwood that was out of reach, and watched. there was a wood-rank four foot high a little ways in front of the tree, and first i was going to hide behind that; but maybe it was luckier i didn't. there was four or five men cavorting around on their horses in the open place before the log store, cussing and yelling, and trying to get at a couple of young chaps that was behind the wood-rank alongside of the steamboat-landing; but they couldn't come it. every time one of them showed himself on the river side of the woodpile he got shot at. the two boys was squatting back to back behind the pile, so they could watch both ways. by and by the men stopped cavorting around and yelling. they started riding towards the store; then up gets one of the boys, draws a steady bead over the wood-rank, and drops one of them out of his saddle. all the men jumped off of their horses and grabbed the hurt one and started to carry him to the store; and that minute the two boys started on the run. they got half-way to the tree i was in before the men noticed. then the men see them, and jumped on their horses and took out after them. they gained on the boys, but it didn't do no good, the boys had too good a start; they got to the woodpile that was in front of my tree, and slipped in behind it, and so they had the bulge on the men again. one of the boys was buck, and the other was a slim young chap about nineteen years old. the men ripped around awhile, and then rode away. as soon as they was out of sight i sung out to buck and told him. he didn't know what to make of my voice coming out of the tree at first. he was awful surprised. he told me to watch out sharp and let him know when the men come in sight again; said they was up to some devilment or other--wouldn't be gone long. i wished i was out of that tree, but i dasn't come down. buck begun to cry and rip, and 'lowed that him and his cousin joe (that was the other young chap) would make up for this day yet. he said his father and his two brothers was killed, and two or three of the enemy. said the shepherdsons laid for them in ambush. buck said his father and brothers ought to waited for their relations--the shepherdsons was too strong for them. i asked him what was become of young harney and miss sophia. he said they'd got across the river and was safe. i was glad of that; but the way buck did take on because he didn't manage to kill harney that day he shot at him--i hain't ever heard anything like it. all of a sudden, bang! bang! bang! goes three or four guns--the men had slipped around through the woods and come in from behind without their horses! the boys jumped for the river--both of them hurt--and as they swum down the current the men run along the bank shooting at them and singing out, "kill them, kill them!" it made me so sick i most fell out of the tree. i ain't a-going to tell _all_ that happened--it would make me sick again if i was to do that. i wished i hadn't ever come ashore that night to see such things. i ain't ever going to get shut of them--lots of times i dream about them. i stayed in the tree till it begun to get dark, afraid to come down. sometimes i heard guns away off in the woods; and twice i seen little gangs of men gallop past the log store with guns; so i reckoned the trouble was still a-going on. i was mighty downhearted; so i made up my mind i wouldn't ever go anear that house again, because i reckoned i was to blame, somehow. i judged that that piece of paper meant that miss sophia was to meet harney somewheres at half past two and run off; and i judged i ought to told her father about that paper and the curious way she acted, and then maybe he would 'a' locked her up, and this awful mess wouldn't ever happened. when i got down out of the tree i crept along down the river-bank a piece, and found the two bodies laying in the edge of the water, and tugged at them till i got them ashore; then i covered up their faces, and got away as quick as i could. i cried a little when i was covering up buck's face, for he was mighty good to me. it was just dark now. i never went near the house, but struck through the woods and made for the swamp. jim warn't on his island, so i tramped off in a hurry for the crick, and crowded through the willows, red-hot to jump aboard and get out of that awful country. the raft was gone! my souls, but i was scared! i couldn't get my breath for most a minute. then i raised a yell. a voice not twenty-five foot from me says: "good lan'! is dat you, honey? doan' make no noise." it was jim's voice--nothing ever sounded so good before. i run along the bank a piece and got aboard, and jim he grabbed me and hugged me, he was so glad to see me. he says: "laws bless you, chile, i 'uz right down sho' you's dead ag'in. jack's been heah; he say he reck'n you's ben shot, kase you didn' come home no mo'; so i's jes' dis minute a-startin' startin' de raf' down towards de mouf er de crick, so's to be all ready for to shove out en leave soon as jack comes ag'in en tells me for certain you _is_ dead. lawsy, i's mighty glad to git you back ag'in, honey." i says: "all right--that's mighty good; they won't find me, and they'll think i've been killed, and floated down the river--there's something up there that 'll help them think so--so don't you lose no time, jim, but just shove off for the big water as fast as ever you can." i never felt easy till the raft was two mile below there and out in the middle of the mississippi. then we hung up our signal lantern, and judged that we was free and safe once more. i hadn't had a bite to eat since yesterday, so jim he got out some corn-dodgers and buttermilk, and pork and cabbage and greens--there ain't nothing in the world so good when it's cooked right--and whilst i eat my supper we talked and had a good time. i was powerful glad to get away from the feuds, and so was jim to get away from the swamp. we said there warn't no home like a raft, after all. other places do seem so cramped up and smothery, but a raft don't. you feel mighty free and easy and comfortable on a raft. chapter xix two or three days and nights went by; i reckon i might say they swum by, they slid along so quiet and smooth and lovely. here is the way we put in the time. it was a monstrous big river down there--sometimes a mile and a half wide; we run nights, and laid up and hid daytimes; soon as night was most gone we stopped navigating and tied up--nearly always in the dead water under a towhead; and then cut young cottonwoods and willows, and hid the raft with them. then we set out the lines. next we slid into the river and had a swim, so as to freshen up and cool off; then we set down on the sandy bottom where the water was about knee-deep, and watched the daylight come. not a sound anywheres--perfectly still--just like the whole world was asleep, only sometimes the bullfrogs a-cluttering, maybe. the first thing to see, looking away over the water, was a kind of dull line--that was the woods on t'other side; you couldn't make nothing else out; then a pale place in the sky; then more paleness spreading around; then the river softened up away off, and warn't black any more, but gray; you could see little dark spots drifting along ever so far away--trading-scows, and such things; and long black streaks--rafts; sometimes you could hear a sweep screaking; or jumbled-up voices, it was so still, and sounds come so far; and by and by you could see a streak on the water which you know by the look of the streak that there's a snag there in a swift current which breaks on it and makes that streak look that way; and you see the mist curl up off of the water, and the east reddens up, and the river, and you make out a log cabin in the edge of the woods, away on the bank on t'other side of the river, being a wood-yard, likely, and piled by them cheats so you can throw a dog through it anywheres; then the nice breeze springs up, and comes fanning you from over there, so cool and fresh and sweet to smell on account of the woods and the flowers; but sometimes not that way, because they've left dead fish laying around, gars and such, and they do get pretty rank; and next you've got the full day, and everything smiling in the sun, and the song-birds just going it! a little smoke couldn't be noticed now, so we would take some fish off of the lines and cook up a hot breakfast. and afterwards we would watch the lonesomeness of the river, and kind of lazy along, and by and by lazy off to sleep. wake up by and by, and look to see what done it, and maybe see a steamboat coughing along up-stream, so far off towards the other side you couldn't tell nothing about her only whether she was a stern-wheel or side-wheel; then for about an hour there wouldn't be nothing to hear nor nothing to see--just solid lonesomeness. next you'd see a raft sliding by, away off yonder, and maybe a galoot on it chopping, because they're most always doing it on a raft; you'd see the ax flash and come down--you don't hear nothing; you see that ax go up again, and by the time it's above the man's head then you hear the _k'chunk!_--it had took all that time to come over the water. so we would put in the day, lazying around, listening to the stillness. once there was a thick fog, and the rafts and things that went by was beating tin pans so the steamboats wouldn't run over them. a scow or a raft went by so close we could hear them talking and cussing and laughing--heard them plain; but we couldn't see no sign of them; it made you feel crawly; it was like spirits carrying on that way in the air. jim said he believed it was spirits; but i says: "no; spirits wouldn't say, 'dern the dern fog.'" soon as it was night out we shoved; when we got her out to about the middle we let her alone, and let her float wherever the current wanted her to; then we lit the pipes, and dangled our legs in the water, and talked about all kinds of things--we was always naked, day and night, whenever the mosquitoes would let us--the new clothes buck's folks made for me was too good to be comfortable, and besides i didn't go much on clothes, nohow. sometimes we'd have that whole river all to ourselves for the longest time. yonder was the banks and the islands, across the water; and maybe a spark--which was a candle in a cabin window; and sometimes on the water you could see a spark or two--on a raft or a scow, you know; and maybe you could hear a fiddle or a song coming over from one of them crafts. it's lovely to live on a raft. we had the sky up there, all speckled with stars, and we used to lay on our backs and look up at them, and discuss about whether they was made or only just happened. jim he allowed they was made, but i allowed they happened; i judged it would have took too long to _make_ so many. jim said the moon could 'a' _laid_ them; well, that looked kind of reasonable, so i didn't say nothing against it, because i've seen a frog lay most as many, so of course it could be done. we used to watch the stars that fell, too, and see them streak down. jim allowed they'd got spoiled and was hove out of the nest. once or twice of a night we would see a steamboat slipping along in the dark, and now and then she would belch a whole world of sparks up out of her chimbleys, and they would rain down in the river and look awful pretty; then she would turn a corner and her lights would wink out and her powwow shut off and leave the river still again; and by and by her waves would get to us, a long time after she was gone, and joggle the raft a bit, and after that you wouldn't hear nothing for you couldn't tell how long, except maybe frogs or something. after midnight the people on shore went to bed, and then for two or three hours the shores was black--no more sparks in the cabin windows. these sparks was our clock--the first one that showed again meant morning was coming, so we hunted a place to hide and tie up right away. one morning about daybreak i found a canoe and crossed over a chute to the main shore--it was only two hundred yards--and paddled about a mile up a crick amongst the cypress woods, to see if i couldn't get some berries. just as i was passing a place where a kind of a cowpath crossed the crick, here comes a couple of men tearing up the path as tight as they could foot it. i thought i was a goner, for whenever anybody was after anybody i judged it was _me_--or maybe jim. i was about to dig out from there in a hurry, but they was pretty close to me then, and sung out and begged me to save their lives--said they hadn't been doing nothing, and was being chased for it--said there was men and dogs a-coming. they wanted to jump right in, but i says: "don't you do it. i don't hear the dogs and horses yet; you've got time to crowd through the brush and get up the crick a little ways; then you take to the water and wade down to me and get in--that 'll throw the dogs off the scent." they done it, and soon as they was aboard i lit out for our towhead, and in about five or ten minutes we heard the dogs and the men away off, shouting. we heard them come along towards the crick, but couldn't see them; they seemed to stop and fool around awhile; then, as we got further and further away all the time, we couldn't hardly hear them at all; by the time we had left a mile of woods behind us and struck the river, everything was quiet, and we paddled over to the towhead and hid in the cottonwoods and was safe. one of these fellows was about seventy or upwards, and had a bald head and very gray whiskers. he had an old battered-up slouch hat on, and a greasy blue woolen shirt, and ragged old blue jeans britches stuffed into his boot-tops, and home-knit galluses--no, he only had one. he had an old long-tailed blue jeans coat with slick brass buttons flung over his arm, and both of them had big, fat, ratty-looking carpet-bags. the other fellow was about thirty, and dressed about as ornery. after breakfast we all laid off and talked, and the first thing that come out was that these chaps didn't know one another. "what got you into trouble?" says the baldhead to t'other chap. "well, i'd been selling an article to take the tartar off the teeth--and it does take it off, too, and generly the enamel along with it--but i stayed about one night longer than i ought to, and was just in the act of sliding out when i ran across you on the trail this side of town, and you told me they were coming, and begged me to help you to get off. so i told you i was expecting trouble myself, and would scatter out _with_ you. that's the whole yarn--what's yourn?" "well, i'd ben a-runnin' a little temperance revival thar 'bout a week, and was the pet of the women folks, big and little, for i was makin' it mighty warm for the rummies, i _tell_ you, and takin' as much as five or six dollars a night--ten cents a head, children and niggers free--and business a-growin' all the time, when somehow or another a little report got around last night that i had a way of puttin' in my time with a private jug on the sly. a nigger rousted me out this mornin', and told me the people was getherin' on the quiet with their dogs and horses, and they'd be along pretty soon and give me 'bout half an hour's start, and then run me down if they could; and if they got me they'd tar and feather me and ride me on a rail, sure. i didn't wait for no breakfast--i warn't hungry." "old man," said the young one, "i reckon we might double-team it together; what do you think?" "i ain't undisposed. what's your line--mainly?" "jour printer by trade; do a little in patent medicines; theater-actor--tragedy, you know; take a turn to mesmerism and phrenology when there's a chance; teach singing-geography school for a change; sling a lecture sometimes--oh, i do lots of things--most anything that comes handy, so it ain't work. what's your lay?" "i've done considerble in the doctoring way in my time. layin' on o' hands is my best holt--for cancer and paralysis, and sich things; and i k'n tell a fortune pretty good when i've got somebody along to find out the facts for me. preachin's my line, too, and workin' camp-meetin's, and missionaryin' around." nobody never said anything for a while; then the young man hove a sigh and says: "alas!" "what 're you alassin' about?" says the baldhead. "to think i should have lived to be leading such a life, and be degraded down into such company." and he begun to wipe the corner of his eye with a rag. "dern your skin, ain't the company good enough for you?" says the baldhead, pretty pert and uppish. "yes, it _is_ good enough for me; it's as good as i deserve; for who fetched me so low when i was so high? i did myself. i don't blame _you_, gentlemen--far from it; i don't blame anybody. i deserve it all. let the cold world do its worst; one thing i know--there's a grave somewhere for me. the world may go on just as it's always done, and take everything from me--loved ones, property, everything; but it can't take that. some day i'll lie down in it and forget it all, and my poor broken heart will be at rest." he went on a-wiping. "drot your pore broken heart," says the baldhead; "what are you heaving your pore broken heart at _us_ f'r? _we_ hain't done nothing." "no, i know you haven't. i ain't blaming you, gentlemen. i brought myself down--yes, i did it myself. it's right i should suffer--perfectly right--i don't make any moan." "brought you down from whar? whar was you brought down from?" "ah, you would not believe me; the world never believes--let it pass--'tis no matter. the secret of my birth--" "the secret of your birth! do you mean to say--" "gentlemen," says the young man, very solemn, "i will reveal it to you, for i feel i may have confidence in you. by rights i am a duke!" jim's eyes bugged out when he heard that; and i reckon mine did, too. then the baldhead says: "no! you can't mean it?" "yes. my great-grandfather, eldest son of the duke of bridgewater, fled to this country about the end of the last century, to breathe the pure air of freedom; married here, and died, leaving a son, his own father dying about the same time. the second son of the late duke seized the titles and estates--the infant real duke was ignored. i am the lineal descendant of that infant--i am the rightful duke of bridgewater; and here am i, forlorn, torn from my high estate, hunted of men, despised by the cold world, ragged, worn, heartbroken, and degraded to the companionship of felons on a raft!" jim pitied him ever so much, and so did i. we tried to comfort him, but he said it warn't much use, he couldn't be much comforted; said if we was a mind to acknowledge him, that would do him more good than most anything else; so we said we would, if he would tell us how. he said we ought to bow when we spoke to him, and say "your grace," or "my lord," or "your lordship"--and he wouldn't mind it if we called him plain "bridgewater," which, he said, was a title anyway, and not a name; and one of us ought to wait on him at dinner, and do any little thing for him he wanted done. well, that was all easy, so we done it. all through dinner jim stood around and waited on him, and says, "will yo' grace have some o' dis or some o' dat?" and so on, and a body could see it was mighty pleasing to him. but the old man got pretty silent by and by--didn't have much to say, and didn't look pretty comfortable over all that petting that was going on around that duke. he seemed to have something on his mind. so, along in the afternoon, he says: "looky here, bilgewater," he says, "i'm nation sorry for you, but you ain't the only person that's had troubles like that." "no?" "no, you ain't. you ain't the only person that's ben snaked down wrongfully out'n a high place." "alas!" "no, you ain't the only person that's had a secret of his birth." and, by jings, _he_ begins to cry. "hold! what do you mean?" "bilgewater, kin i trust you?" says the old man, still sort of sobbing. "to the bitter death!" he took the old man by the hand and squeezed it, and says, "that secret of your being: speak!" "bilgewater, i am the late dauphin!" you bet you, jim and me stared this time. then the duke says: "you are what?" "yes, my friend, it is too true--your eyes is lookin' at this very moment on the pore disappeared dauphin, looy the seventeen, son of looy the sixteen and marry antonette." "you! at your age! no! you mean you're the late charlemagne; you must be six or seven hundred years old, at the very least." "trouble has done it, bilgewater, trouble has done it; trouble has brung these gray hairs and this premature balditude. yes, gentlemen, you see before you, in blue jeans and misery, the wanderin', exiled, trampled-on, and sufferin' rightful king of france." well, he cried and took on so that me and jim didn't know hardly what to do, we was so sorry--and so glad and proud we'd got him with us, too. so we set in, like we done before with the duke, and tried to comfort _him._ but he said it warn't no use, nothing but to be dead and done with it all could do him any good; though he said it often made him feel easier and better for a while if people treated him according to his rights, and got down on one knee to speak to him, and always called him "your majesty," and waited on him first at meals, and didn't set down in his presence till he asked them. so jim and me set to majestying him, and doing this and that and t'other for him, and standing up till he told us we might set down. this done him heaps of good, and so he got cheerful and comfortable. but the duke kind of soured on him, and didn't look a bit satisfied with the way things was going; still, the king acted real friendly towards him, and said the duke's great-grandfather and all the other dukes of bilgewater was a good deal thought of by _his_ father, and was allowed to come to the palace considerable; but the duke stayed huffy a good while, till by and by the king says: "like as not we got to be together a blamed long time on this h-yer raft, bilgewater, and so what's the use o' your bein' sour? it 'll only make things oncomfortable. it ain't my fault i warn't born a duke, it ain't your fault you warn't born a king--so what's the use to worry? make the best o' things the way you find 'em, says i--that's my motto. this ain't no bad thing that we've struck here--plenty grub and an easy life--come, give us your hand, duke, and le's all be friends." the duke done it, and jim and me was pretty glad to see it. it took away all the uncomfortableness and we felt mighty good over it, because it would 'a' been a miserable business to have any unfriendliness on the raft; for what you want, above all things, on a raft, is for everybody to be satisfied, and feel right and kind towards the others. it didn't take me long to make up my mind that these liars warn't no kings nor dukes at all, but just low-down humbugs and frauds. but i never said nothing, never let on; kept it to myself; it's the best way; then you don't have no quarrels, and don't get into no trouble. if they wanted us to call them kings and dukes, i hadn't no objections, 'long as it would keep peace in the family; and it warn't no use to tell jim, so i didn't tell him. if i never learnt nothing else out of pap, i learnt that the best way to get along with his kind of people is to let them have their own way. chapter xx they asked us considerable many questions; wanted to know what we covered up the raft that way for, and laid by in the daytime instead of running--was jim a runaway nigger? says i: "goodness sakes! would a runaway nigger run _south?_" no, they allowed he wouldn't. i had to account for things some way, so i says: "my folks was living in pike county, in missouri, where i was born, and they all died off but me and pa and my brother ike. pa, he 'lowed he'd break up and go down and live with uncle ben, who's got a little one-horse place on the river forty-four mile below orleans. pa was pretty poor, and had some debts; so when he'd squared up there warn't nothing left but sixteen dollars and our nigger, jim. that warn't enough to take us fourteen hundred mile, deck passage nor no other way. well, when the river rose pa had a streak of luck one day; he ketched this piece of a raft; so we reckoned we'd go down to orleans on it. pa's luck didn't hold out; a steamboat run over the forrard corner of the raft one night, and we all went overboard and dove under the wheel; jim and me come up all right, but pa was drunk, and ike was only four years old, so they never come up no more. well, for the next day or two we had considerable trouble, because people was always coming out in skiffs and trying to take jim away from me, saying they believed he was a runaway nigger. we don't run daytimes no more now; nights they don't bother us." the duke says: "leave me alone to cipher out a way so we can run in the daytime if we want to. i'll think the thing over--i'll invent a plan that 'll fix it. we'll let it alone for to-day, because of course we don't want to go by that town yonder in daylight--it mightn't be healthy." towards night it begun to darken up and look like rain; the heat-lightning was squirting around low down in the sky, and the leaves was beginning to shiver--it was going to be pretty ugly, it was easy to see that. so the duke and the king went to overhauling our wigwam, to see what the beds was like. my bed was a straw tick--better than jim's, which was a corn-shuck tick; there's always cobs around about in a shuck tick, and they poke into you and hurt; and when you roll over the dry shucks sound like you was rolling over in a pile of dead leaves; it makes such a rustling that you wake up. well, the duke allowed he would take my bed; but the king allowed he wouldn't. he says: "i should 'a' reckoned the difference in rank would a sejested to you that a corn-shuck bed warn't just fitten for me to sleep on. your grace 'll take the shuck bed yourself." jim and me was in a sweat again for a minute, being afraid there was going to be some more trouble amongst them; so we was pretty glad when the duke says: "'tis my fate to be always ground into the mire under the iron heel of oppression. misfortune has broken my once haughty spirit; i yield, i submit; 'tis my fate. i am alone in the world--let me suffer; i can bear it." we got away as soon as it was good and dark. the king told us to stand well out towards the middle of the river, and not show a light till we got a long ways below the town. we come in sight of the little bunch of lights by and by--that was the town, you know--and slid by, about a half a mile out, all right. when we was three-quarters of a mile below we hoisted up our signal lantern; and about ten o'clock it come on to rain and blow and thunder and lighten like everything; so the king told us to both stay on watch till the weather got better; then him and the duke crawled into the wigwam and turned in for the night. it was my watch below till twelve, but i wouldn't 'a' turned in anyway if i'd had a bed, because a body don't see such a storm as that every day in the week, not by a long sight. my souls, how the wind did scream along! and every second or two there'd come a glare that lit up the white-caps for a half a mile around, and you'd see the islands looking dusty through the rain, and the trees thrashing around in the wind; then comes a _h-whack!_--bum! bum! bumble-umble-um-bum-bum-bum-bum--and the thunder would go rumbling and grumbling away, and quit--and then _rip_ comes another flash and another sock-dolager. the waves most washed me off the raft sometimes, but i hadn't any clothes on, and didn't mind. we didn't have no trouble about snags; the lightning was glaring and flittering around so constant that we could see them plenty soon enough to throw her head this way or that and miss them. i had the middle watch, you know, but i was pretty sleepy by that time, so jim he said he would stand the first half of it for me; he was always mighty good that way, jim was. i crawled into the wigwam, but the king and the duke had their legs sprawled around so there warn't no show for me; so i laid outside--i didn't mind the rain, because it was warm, and the waves warn't running so high now. about two they come up again, though, and jim was going to call me; but he changed his mind, because he reckoned they warn't high enough yet to do any harm; but he was mistaken about that, for pretty soon all of a sudden along comes a regular ripper and washed me overboard. it most killed jim a-laughing. he was the easiest nigger to laugh that ever was, anyway. i took the watch, and jim he laid down and snored away; and by and by the storm let up for good and all; and the first cabin-light that showed i rousted him out, and we slid the raft into hiding-quarters for the day. the king got out an old ratty deck of cards after breakfast, and him and the duke played seven-up awhile, five cents a game. then they got tired of it, and allowed they would "lay out a campaign," as they called it. the duke went down into his carpet-bag, and fetched up a lot of little printed bills and read them out loud. one bill said, "the celebrated dr. armand de montalban, of paris," would "lecture on the science of phrenology" at such and such a place, on the blank day of blank, at ten cents admission, and "furnish charts of character at twenty-five cents apiece." the duke said that was _him._ in another bill he was the "world-renowned shakespearian tragedian, garrick the younger, of drury lane, london." in other bills he had a lot of other names and done other wonderful things, like finding water and gold with a "divining-rod," "dissipating witch spells," and so on. by and by he says: "but the histrionic muse is the darling. have you ever trod the boards, royalty?" "no," says the king. "you shall, then, before you're three days older, fallen grandeur," says the duke. "the first good town we come to we'll hire a hall and do the swordfight in 'richard iii.' and the balcony scene in 'romeo and juliet.' how does that strike you?" "i'm in, up to the hub, for anything that will pay, bilgewater; but, you see, i don't know nothing about play-actin', and hain't ever seen much of it. i was too small when pap used to have 'em at the palace. do you reckon you can learn me?" "easy!" "all right. i'm jist a-freezin' for something fresh, anyway. le's commence right away." so the duke he told him all about who romeo was and who juliet was, and said he was used to being romeo, so the king could be juliet. "but if juliet's such a young gal, duke, my peeled head and my white whiskers is goin' to look oncommon odd on her, maybe." "no, don't you worry; these country jakes won't ever think of that. besides, you know, you'll be in costume, and that makes all the difference in the world; juliet's in a balcony, enjoying the moonlight before she goes to bed, and she's got on her nightgown and her ruffled nightcap. here are the costumes for the parts." he got out two or three curtain-calico suits, which he said was meedyevil armor for richard iii. and t'other chap, and a long white cotton nightshirt and a ruffled nightcap to match. the king was satisfied; so the duke got out his book and read the parts over in the most splendid spread-eagle way, prancing around and acting at the same time, to show how it had got to be done; then he give the book to the king and told him to get his part by heart. there was a little one-horse town about three mile down the bend, and after dinner the duke said he had ciphered out his idea about how to run in daylight without it being dangersome for jim; so he allowed he would go down to the town and fix that thing. the king allowed he would go, too, and see if he couldn't strike something. we was out of coffee, so jim said i better go along with them in the canoe and get some. when we got there there warn't nobody stirring; streets empty, and perfectly dead and still, like sunday. we found a sick nigger sunning himself in a back yard, and he said everybody that warn't too young or too sick or too old was gone to camp-meeting, about two mile back in the woods. the king got the directions, and allowed he'd go and work that camp-meeting for all it was worth, and i might go, too. the duke said what he was after was a printing-office. we found it; a little bit of a concern, up over a carpenter-shop--carpenters and printers all gone to the meeting, and no doors locked. it was a dirty, littered-up place, and had ink-marks, and handbills with pictures of horses and runaway niggers on them, all over the walls. the duke shed his coat and said he was all right now. so me and the king lit out for the camp-meeting. we got there in about a half an hour fairly dripping, for it was a most awful hot day. there was as much as a thousand people there from twenty mile around. the woods was full of teams and wagons, hitched everywheres, feeding out of the wagon-troughs and stomping to keep off the flies. there was sheds made out of poles and roofed over with branches, where they had lemonade and gingerbread to sell, and piles of watermelons and green corn and such-like truck. the preaching was going on under the same kinds of sheds, only they was bigger and held crowds of people. the benches was made out of outside slabs of logs, with holes bored in the round side to drive sticks into for legs. they didn't have no backs. the preachers had high platforms to stand on at one end of the sheds. the women had on sun-bonnets; and some had linsey-woolsey frocks, some gingham ones, and a few of the young ones had on calico. some of the young men was barefooted, and some of the children didn't have on any clothes but just a tow-linen shirt. some of the old women was knitting, and some of the young folks was courting on the sly. the first shed we come to the preacher was lining out a hymn. he lined out two lines, everybody sung it, and it was kind of grand to hear it, there was so many of them and they done it in such a rousing way; then he lined out two more for them to sing--and so on. the people woke up more and more, and sung louder and louder; and towards the end some begun to groan, and some begun to shout. then the preacher begun to preach, and begun in earnest, too; and went weaving first to one side of the platform and then the other, and then a-leaning down over the front of it, with his arms and his body going all the time, and shouting his words out with all his might; and every now and then he would hold up his bible and spread it open, and kind of pass it around this way and that, shouting, "it's the brazen serpent in the wilderness! look upon it and live!" and people would shout out, "glory!--a-a-_men_!" and so he went on, and the people groaning and crying and saying amen: "oh, come to the mourners' bench! come, black with sin! (_amen!_) come, sick and sore! (_amen!_) come, lame and halt and blind! (_amen!_) come, pore and needy, sunk in shame! (_a-a-men!_) come, all that's worn and soiled and suffering!--come with a broken spirit! come with a contrite heart! come in your rags and sin and dirt! the waters that cleanse is free, the door of heaven stands open--oh, enter in and be at rest!" (_a-a-men! glory, glory hallelujah!_) and so on. you couldn't make out what the preacher said any more, on account of the shouting and crying. folks got up everywheres in the crowd, and worked their way just by main strength to the mourners' bench, with the tears running down their faces; and when all the mourners had got up there to the front benches in a crowd, they sung and shouted and flung themselves down on the straw, just crazy and wild. well, the first i knowed the king got a-going, and you could hear him over everybody; and next he went a-charging up onto the platform, and the preacher he begged him to speak to the people, and he done it. he told them he was a pirate--been a pirate for thirty years out in the indian ocean--and his crew was thinned out considerable last spring in a fight, and he was home now to take out some fresh men, and thanks to goodness he'd been robbed last night and put ashore off of a steamboat without a cent, and he was glad of it; it was the blessedest thing that ever happened to him, because he was a changed man now, and happy for the first time in his life; and, poor as he was, he was going to start right off and work his way back to the indian ocean, and put in the rest of his life trying to turn the pirates into the true path; for he could do it better than anybody else, being acquainted with all pirate crews in that ocean; and though it would take him a long time to get there without money, he would get there anyway, and every time he convinced a pirate he would say to him, "don't you thank me, don't you give me no credit; it all belongs to them dear people in pokeville camp-meeting, natural brothers and benefactors of the race, and that dear preacher there, the truest friend a pirate ever had!" and then he busted into tears, and so did everybody. then somebody sings out, "take up a collection for him, take up a collection!" well, a half a dozen made a jump to do it, but somebody sings out, "let _him_ pass the hat around!" then everybody said it, the preacher too. so the king went all through the crowd with his hat, swabbing his eyes, and blessing the people and praising them and thanking them for being so good to the poor pirates away off there; and every little while the prettiest kind of girls, with the tears running down their cheeks, would up and ask him would he let them kiss him for to remember him by; and he always done it; and some of them he hugged and kissed as many as five or six times--and he was invited to stay a week; and everybody wanted him to live in their houses, and said they'd think it was an honor; but he said as this was the last day of the camp-meeting he couldn't do no good, and besides he was in a sweat to get to the indian ocean right off and go to work on the pirates. when we got back to the raft and he come to count up he found he had collected eighty-seven dollars and seventy-five cents. and then he had fetched away a three-gallon jug of whisky, too, that he found under a wagon when he was starting home through the woods. the king said, take it all around, it laid over any day he'd ever put in in the missionarying line. he said it warn't no use talking, heathens don't amount to shucks alongside of pirates to work a camp-meeting with. the duke was thinking _he'd_ been doing pretty well till the king come to show up, but after that he didn't think so so much. he had set up and printed off two little jobs for farmers in that printing-office--horse bills--and took the money, four dollars. and he had got in ten dollars' worth of advertisements for the paper, which he said he would put in for four dollars if they would pay in advance--so they done it. the price of the paper was two dollars a year, but he took in three subscriptions for half a dollar apiece on condition of them paying him in advance; they were going to pay in cordwood and onions as usual, but he said he had just bought the concern and knocked down the price as low as he could afford it, and was going to run it for cash. he set up a little piece of poetry, which he made, himself, out of his own head--three verses--kind of sweet and saddish--the name of it was, "yes, crush, cold world, this breaking heart"--and he left that all set up and ready to print in the paper, and didn't charge nothing for it. well, he took in nine dollars and a half, and said he'd done a pretty square day's work for it. then he showed us another little job he'd printed and hadn't charged for, because it was for us. it had a picture of a runaway nigger with a bundle on a stick over his shoulder, and "$ reward" under it. the reading was all about jim and just described him to a dot. it said he run away from st. jacques's plantation, forty mile below new orleans, last winter, and likely went north, and whoever would catch him and send him back he could have the reward and expenses. "now," says the duke, "after to-night we can run in the daytime if we want to. whenever we see anybody coming we can tie jim hand and foot with a rope, and lay him in the wigwam and show this handbill and say we captured him up the river, and were too poor to travel on a steamboat, so we got this little raft on credit from our friends and are going down to get the reward. handcuffs and chains would look still better on jim, but it wouldn't go well with the story of us being so poor. too much like jewelry. ropes are the correct thing--we must preserve the unities, as we say on the boards." we all said the duke was pretty smart, and there couldn't be no trouble about running daytimes. we judged we could make miles enough that night to get out of the reach of the powwow we reckoned the duke's work in the printing-office was going to make in that little town; then we could boom right along if we wanted to. we laid low and kept still, and never shoved out till nearly ten o'clock; then we slid by, pretty wide away from the town, and didn't hoist our lantern till we was clear out of sight of it. when jim called me to take the watch at four in the morning, he says: "huck, does you reck'n we gwyne to run acrost any mo' kings on dis trip?" "no," i says, "i reckon not." "well," says he, "dat's all right, den. i doan' mine one er two kings, but dat's enough. dis one's powerful drunk, en de duke ain' much better." i found jim had been trying to get him to talk french, so he could hear what it was like; but he said he had been in this country so long, and had so much trouble, he'd forgot it. chapter xxi it was after sun-up now, but we went right on and didn't tie up. the king and the duke turned out by and by looking pretty rusty; but after they'd jumped overboard and took a swim it chippered them up a good deal. after breakfast the king he took a seat on the corner of the raft, and pulled off his boots and rolled up his britches, and let his legs dangle in the water, so as to be comfortable, and lit his pipe, and went to getting his "romeo and juliet" by heart. when he had got it pretty good him and the duke begun to practise it together. the duke had to learn him over and over again how to say every speech; and he made him sigh, and put his hand on his heart, and after a while he said he done it pretty well; "only," he says, "you mustn't bellow out _romeo!_ that way, like a bull--you must say it soft and sick and languishy, so--r-o-o-meo! that is the idea; for juliet's a dear sweet mere child of a girl, you know, and she doesn't bray like a jackass." well, next they got out a couple of long swords that the duke made out of oak laths, and begun to practise the sword-fight--the duke called himself richard iii.; and the way they laid on and pranced around the raft was grand to see. but by and by the king tripped and fell overboard, and after that they took a rest, and had a talk about all kinds of adventures they'd had in other times along the river. after dinner the duke says: "well, capet, we'll want to make this a first-class show, you know, so i guess we'll add a little more to it. we want a little something to answer encores with, anyway." "what's onkores, bilgewater?" the duke told him, and then says: "i'll answer by doing the highland fling or the sailor's hornpipe; and you--well, let me see--oh, i've got it--you can do hamlet's soliloquy." "hamlet's which?" "hamlet's soliloquy, you know; the most celebrated thing in shakespeare. ah, it's sublime, sublime! always fetches the house. i haven't got it in the book--i've only got one volume--but i reckon i can piece it out from memory. i'll just walk up and down a minute, and see if i can call it back from recollection's vaults." so he went to marching up and down, thinking, and frowning horrible every now and then; then he would hoist up his eyebrows; next he would squeeze his hand on his forehead and stagger back and kind of moan; next he would sigh, and next he'd let on to drop a tear. it was beautiful to see him. by and by he got it. he told us to give attention. then he strikes a most noble attitude, with one leg shoved forwards, and his arms stretched away up, and his head tilted back, looking up at the sky; and then he begins to rip and rave and grit his teeth; and after that, all through his speech, he howled, and spread around, and swelled up his chest, and just knocked the spots out of any acting ever _i_ see before. this is the speech--i learned it, easy enough, while he was learning it to the king: to be, or not to be; that is the bare bodkin that makes calamity of so long life; for who would fardels bear, till birnam wood do come to dunsinane, but that the fear of something after death murders the innocent sleep, great nature's second course, and makes us rather sling the arrows of outrageous fortune than fly to others that we know not of. there's the respect must give us pause: wake duncan with thy knocking! i would thou couldst; for who would bear the whips and scorns of time, the oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, the law's delay, and the quietus which his pangs might take, in the dead waste and middle of the night, when churchyards yawn in customary suits of solemn black, but that the undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveler returns, breathes forth contagion on the world, and thus the native hue of resolution, like the poor cat i' the adage, is sicklied o'er with care, and all the clouds that lowered o'er our housetops, with this regard their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action. 'tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. but soft you, the fair ophelia: ope not thy ponderous and marble jaws, but get thee to a nunnery--go! well, the old man he liked that speech, and he mighty soon got it so he could do it first rate. it seemed like he was just born for it; and when he had his hand in and was excited, it was perfectly lovely the way he would rip and tear and rair up behind when he was getting it off. the first chance we got the duke he had some show-bills printed; and after that, for two or three days as we floated along, the raft was a most uncommon lively place, for there warn't nothing but sword-fighting and rehearsing--as the duke called it--going on all the time. one morning, when we was pretty well down the state of arkansaw, we come in sight of a little one-horse town in a big bend; so we tied up about three-quarters of a mile above it, in the mouth of a crick which was shut in like a tunnel by the cypress trees, and all of us but jim took the canoe and went down there to see if there was any chance in that place for our show. we struck it mighty lucky; there was going to be a circus there that afternoon, and the country-people was already beginning to come in, in all kinds of old shackly wagons, and on horses. the circus would leave before night, so our show would have a pretty good chance. the duke he hired the court-house, and we went around and stuck up our bills. they read like this: shaksperean revival ! ! ! wonderful attraction! for one night only! the world renowned tragedians, david garrick the younger, of drury lane theatre, london, and edmund kean the elder, of the royal haymarket theatre, whitechapel, pudding lane, piccadilly, london, and the royal continental theatres, in their sublime shaksperean spectacle entitled the balcony scene in romeo and juliet ! ! ! romeo...................mr. garrick 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 consecutive nights in paris! for one night only, on account of imperative european engagements! admission cents; children and servants, cents. then we went loafing around town. the stores and houses was most all old, shackly, dried-up frame concerns that hadn't ever been painted; they was set up three or four foot above ground on stilts, so as to be out of reach of the water when the river was overflowed. the houses had little gardens around them, but they didn't seem to raise hardly anything in them but jimpson-weeds, and sunflowers, and ash-piles, and old curled-up boots and shoes, and pieces of bottles, and rags, and played-out tinware. the fences was made of different kinds of boards, nailed on at different times; and they leaned every which way, and had gates that didn't generly have but one hinge--a leather one. some of the fences had been whitewashed some time or another, but the duke said it was in columbus's time, like enough. there was generly hogs in the garden, and people driving them out. all the stores was along one street. they had white domestic awnings in front, and the country-people hitched their horses to the awning-posts. there was empty dry-goods boxes under the awnings, and loafers roosting on them all day long, whittling them with their barlow knives; and chawing tobacco, and gaping and yawning and stretching--a mighty ornery lot. they generly had on yellow straw hats most as wide as an umbrella, but didn't wear no coats nor waistcoats; they called one another bill, and buck, and hank, and joe, and andy, and talked lazy and drawly, and used considerable many cuss-words. there was as many as one loafer leaning up against every awning-post, and he most always had his hands in his britches pockets, except when he fetched them out to lend a chaw of tobacco or scratch. what a body was hearing amongst them all the time was: "gimme a chaw 'v tobacker, hank." "cain't; i hain't got but one chaw left. ask bill." maybe bill he gives him a chaw; maybe he lies and says he ain't got none. some of them kinds of loafers never has a cent in the world, nor a chaw of tobacco of their own. they get all their chawing by borrowing; they say to a fellow, "i wisht you'd len' me a chaw, jack, i jist this minute give ben thompson the last chaw i had"--which is a lie pretty much every time; it don't fool nobody but a stranger; but jack ain't no stranger, so he says: "_you_ give him a chaw, did you? so did your sister's cat's grandmother. you pay me back the chaws you've awready borry'd off'n me, lafe buckner, then i'll loan you one or two ton of it, and won't charge you no back intrust, nuther." "well, i _did_ pay you back some of it wunst." "yes, you did--'bout six chaws. you borry'd store tobacker and paid back nigger-head." store tobacco is flat black plug, but these fellows mostly chaws the natural leaf twisted. when they borrow a chaw they don't generly cut it off with a knife, but set the plug in between their teeth, and gnaw with their teeth and tug at the plug with their hands till they get it in two; then sometimes the one that owns the tobacco looks mournful at it when it's handed back, and says, sarcastic: "here, gimme the _chaw_, and you take the _plug_." [illustration:"'gimme a chaw'"] all the streets and lanes was just mud; they warn't nothing else _but_ mud--mud as black as tar and nigh about a foot deep in some places, and two or three inches deep in _all_ the places. the hogs loafed and grunted around everywheres. you'd see a muddy sow and a litter of pigs come lazying along the street and whollop herself right down in the way, where folks had to walk around her, and she'd stretch out and shut her eyes and wave her ears whilst the pigs was milking her, and look as happy as if she was on salary. and pretty soon you'd hear a loafer sing out, "hi! _so_ boy! sick him, tige!" and away the sow would go, squealing most horrible, with a dog or two swinging to each ear, and three or four dozen more a-coming; and then you would see all the loafers get up and watch the thing out of sight, and laugh at the fun and look grateful for the noise. then they'd settle back again till there was a dog-fight. there couldn't anything wake them up all over, and make them happy all over, like a dog-fight--unless it might be putting turpentine on a stray dog and setting fire to him, or tying a tin pan to his tail and see him run himself to death. on the river-front some of the houses was sticking out over the bank, and they was bowed and bent, and about ready to tumble in. the people had moved out of them. the bank was caved away under one corner of some others, and that corner was hanging over. people lived in them yet, but it was dangersome, because sometimes a strip of land as wide as a house caves in at a time. sometimes a belt of land a quarter of a mile deep will start in and cave along and cave along till it all caves into the river in one summer. such a town as that has to be always moving back, and back, and back, because the river's always gnawing at it. the nearer it got to noon that day the thicker and thicker was the wagons and horses in the streets, and more coming all the time. families fetched their dinners with them from the country, and eat them in the wagons. there was considerable whisky-drinking going on, and i seen three fights. by and by somebody sings out: "here comes old boggs!--in from the country for his little old monthly drunk; here he comes, boys!" all the loafers looked glad; i reckoned they was used to having fun out of boggs. one of them says: "wonder who he's a-gwyne to chaw up this time. if he'd a-chawed up all the men he's ben a-gwyne to chaw up in the last twenty year he'd have considerable ruputation now." another one says, "i wisht old boggs 'd threaten me, 'cuz then i'd know i warn't gwyne to die for a thousan' year." boggs comes a-tearing along on his horse, whooping and yelling like an injun, and singing out: "cler the track, thar. i'm on the waw-path, and the price uv coffins is a-gwyne to raise." he was drunk, and weaving about in his saddle; he was over fifty year old, and had a very red face. everybody yelled at him and laughed at him and sassed him, and he sassed back, and said he'd attend to them and lay them out in their regular turns, but he couldn't wait now because he'd come to town to kill old colonel sherburn, and his motto was, "meat first, and spoon vittles to top off on." he see me, and rode up and says: "whar'd you come f'm, boy? you prepared to die?" then he rode on. i was scared, but a man says: "he don't mean nothing; he's always a-carryin' on like that when he's drunk. he's the best-naturedest old fool in arkansaw--never hurt nobody, drunk nor sober." boggs rode up before the biggest store in town, and bent his head down so he could see under the curtain of the awning and yells: "come out here, sherburn! come out and meet the man you've swindled. you're the houn' i'm after, and i'm a-gwyne to have you, too!" and so he went on, calling sherburn everything he could lay his tongue to, and the whole street packed with people listening and laughing and going on. by and by a proud-looking man about fifty-five--and he was a heap the best-dressed man in that town, too--steps out of the store, and the crowd drops back on each side to let him come. he says to boggs, mighty ca'm and slow--he says: "i'm tired of this, but i'll endure it till one o'clock. till one o'clock, mind--no longer. if you open your mouth against me only once after that time you can't travel so far but i will find you." then he turns and goes in. the crowd looked mighty sober; nobody stirred, and there warn't no more laughing. boggs rode off blackguarding sherburn as loud as he could yell, all down the street; and pretty soon back he comes and stops before the store, still keeping it up. some men crowded around him and tried to get him to shut up, but he wouldn't; they told him it would be one o'clock in about fifteen minutes, and so he _must_ go home--he must go right away. but it didn't do no good. he cussed away with all his might, and throwed his hat down in the mud and rode over it, and pretty soon away he went a-raging down the street again, with his gray hair a-flying. everybody that could get a chance at him tried their best to coax him off of his horse so they could lock him up and get him sober; but it warn't no use--up the street he would tear again, and give sherburn another cussing. by and by somebody says: "go for his daughter!--quick, go for his daughter; sometimes he'll listen to her. if anybody can persuade him, she can." so somebody started on a run. i walked down street a ways and stopped. in about five or ten minutes here comes boggs again, but not on his horse. he was a-reeling across the street towards me, bareheaded, with a friend on both sides of him a-holt of his arms and hurrying him along. he was quiet, and looked uneasy; and he warn't hanging back any, but was doing some of the hurrying himself. somebody sings out: "boggs!" i looked over there to see who said it, and it was that colonel sherburn. he was standing perfectly still in the street, and had a pistol raised in his right hand--not aiming it, but holding it out with the barrel tilted up towards the sky. the same second i see a young girl coming on the run, and two men with her. boggs and the men turned round to see who called him, and when they see the pistol the men jumped to one side, and the pistol-barrel come down slow and steady to a level--both barrels cocked. boggs throws up both of his hands and says, "o lord, don't shoot!" bang! goes the first shot, and he staggers back, clawing at the air--bang! goes the second one, and he tumbles backwards onto the ground, heavy and solid, with his arms spread out. that young girl screamed out and comes rushing, and down she throws herself on her father, crying, and saying, "oh, he's killed him, he's killed him!" the crowd closed up around them, and shouldered and jammed one another, with their necks stretched, trying to see, and people on the inside trying to shove them back and shouting, "back, back! give him air, give him air!" colonel sherburn he tossed his pistol onto the ground, and turned around on his heels and walked off. they took boggs to a little drug store, the crowd pressing around just the same, and the whole town following, and i rushed and got a good place at the window, where i was close to him and could see in. they laid him on the floor and put one large bible under his head, and opened another one and spread it on his breast; but they tore open his shirt first, and i seen where one of the bullets went in. he made about a dozen long gasps, his breast lifting the bible up when he drawed in his breath, and letting it down again when he breathed it out--and after that he laid still; he was dead. then they pulled his daughter away from him, screaming and crying, and took her off. she was about sixteen, and very sweet and gentle looking, but awful pale and scared. well, pretty soon the whole town was there, squirming and scrouging and pushing and shoving to get at the window and have a look, but people that had the places wouldn't give them up, and folks behind them was saying all the time, "say, now, you've looked enough, you fellows; 'tain't right and 'tain't fair for you to stay thar all the time, and never give nobody a chance; other folks has their rights as well as you." there was considerable jawing back, so i slid out, thinking maybe there was going to be trouble. the streets was full, and everybody was excited. everybody that seen the shooting was telling how it happened, and there was a big crowd packed around each one of these fellows, stretching their necks and listening. one long, lanky man, with long hair and a big white fur stovepipe hat on the back of his head, and a crooked-handled cane, marked out the places on the ground where boggs stood and where sherburn stood, and the people following him around from one place to t'other and watching everything he done, and bobbing their heads to show they understood, and stooping a little and resting their hands on their thighs to watch him mark the places on the ground with his cane; and then he stood up straight and stiff where sherburn had stood, frowning and having his hat-brim down over his eyes, and sung out, "boggs!" and then fetched his cane down slow to a level, and says "bang!" staggered backwards, says "bang!" again, and fell down flat on his back. the people that had seen the thing said he done it perfect; said it was just exactly the way it all happened. then as much as a dozen people got out their bottles and treated him. well, by and by somebody said sherburn ought to be lynched. in about a minute everybody was saying it; so away they went, mad and yelling, and snatching down every clothes-line they come to to do the hanging with. chapter xxii they swarmed up towards sherburn's house, a-whooping and raging like injuns, and everything had to clear the way or get run over and tromped to mush, and it was awful to see. children was heeling it ahead of the mob, screaming and trying to get out of the way; and every window along the road was full of women's heads, and there was nigger boys in every tree, and bucks and wenches looking over every fence; and as soon as the mob would get nearly to them they would break and skaddle back out of reach. lots of the women and girls was crying and taking on, scared most to death. they swarmed up in front of sherburn's palings as thick as they could jam together, and you couldn't hear yourself think for the noise. it was a little twenty-foot yard. some sung out "tear down the fence! tear down the fence!" then there was a racket of ripping and tearing and smashing, and down she goes, and the front wall of the crowd begins to roll in like a wave. just then sherburn steps out onto the roof of his little front porch, with a double-barrel gun in his hand, and takes his stand, perfectly ca'm and deliberate, not saying a word. the racket stopped, and the wave sucked back. sherburn never said a word--just stood there, looking down. the stillness was awful creepy and uncomfortable. sherburn run his eye slow along the crowd; and wherever it struck the people tried a little to outgaze him, but they couldn't; they dropped their eyes and looked sneaky. then pretty soon sherburn sort of laughed; not the pleasant kind, but the kind that makes you feel like when you are eating bread that's got sand in it. then he says, slow and scornful: "the idea of _you_ lynching anybody! it's amusing. the idea of you thinking you had pluck enough to lynch a _man!_ because you're brave enough to tar and feather poor friendless cast-out women that come along here, did that make you think you had grit enough to lay your hands on a _man?_ why, a _man's_ safe in the hands of ten thousand of your kind--as long as it's daytime and you're not behind him. "do i know you? i know you clear through. i was born and raised in the south, and i've lived in the north; so i know the average all around. the average man's a coward. in the north he lets anybody walk over him that wants to, and goes home and prays for a humble spirit to bear it. in the south one man, all by himself, has stopped a stage full of men in the daytime, and robbed the lot. your newspapers call you a brave people so much that you think you are braver than any other people--whereas you're just _as_ brave, and no braver. why don't your juries hang murderers? because they're afraid the man's friends will shoot them in the back, in the dark--and it's just what they _would_ do. "so they always acquit; and then a _man_ goes in the night, with a hundred masked cowards at his back, and lynches the rascal. your mistake is, that you didn't bring a man with you; that's one mistake, and the other is that you didn't come in the dark and fetch your masks. you brought _part_ of a man--buck harkness, there--and if you hadn't had him to start you, you'd 'a' taken it out in blowing. "you didn't want to come. the average man don't like trouble and danger. _you_ don't like trouble and danger. but if only _half_ a man--like buck harkness, there--shouts 'lynch him! lynch him!' you're afraid to back down--afraid you'll be found out to be what you are--_cowards_--and so you raise a yell, and hang yourselves onto that half-a-man's coat-tail, and come raging up here, swearing what big things you're going to do. the pitifulest thing out is a mob; that's what an army is--a mob; they don't fight with courage that's born in them, but with courage that's borrowed from their mass, and from their officers. but a mob without any _man_ at the head of it is _beneath_ pitifulness. now the thing for _you_ to do is to droop your tails and go home and crawl in a hole. if any real lynching's going to be done it will be done in the dark, southern fashion; and when they come they'll bring their masks, and fetch a _man_ along. now _leave_--and take your half-a-man with you"--tossing his gun up across his left arm and cocking it when he says this. the crowd washed back sudden, and then broke all apart, and went tearing off every which way, and buck harkness he heeled it after them, looking tolerable cheap. i could 'a' stayed if i wanted to, but i didn't want to. i went to the circus and loafed around the back side till the watchman went by, and then dived in under the tent. i had my twenty-dollar gold piece and some other money, but i reckoned i better save it, because there ain't no telling how soon you are going to need it, away from home and amongst strangers that way. you can't be too careful. i ain't opposed to spending money on circuses when there ain't no other way, but there ain't no use in _wasting_ it on them. it was a real bully circus. it was the splendidest sight that ever was when they all come riding in, two and two, and gentleman and lady, side by side, the men just in their drawers and undershirts, and no shoes nor stirrups, and resting their hands on their thighs easy and comfortable--there must 'a' been twenty of them--and every lady with a lovely complexion, and perfectly beautiful, and looking just like a gang of real sure-enough queens, and dressed in clothes that cost millions of dollars, and just littered with diamonds. it was a powerful fine sight; i never see anything so lovely. and then one by one they got up and stood, and went a-weaving around the ring so gentle and wavy and graceful, the men looking ever so tall and airy and straight, with their heads bobbing and skimming along, away up there under the tent-roof, and every lady's rose-leafy dress flapping soft and silky around her hips, and she looking like the most loveliest parasol. and then faster and faster they went, all of them dancing, first one foot out in the air and then the other, the horses leaning more and more, and the ringmaster going round and round the center pole, cracking his whip and shouting "hi!--hi!" and the clown cracking jokes behind him; and by and by all hands dropped the reins, and every lady put her knuckles on her hips and every gentleman folded his arms, and then how the horses did lean over and hump themselves! and so one after the other they all skipped off into the ring, and made the sweetest bow i ever see, and then scampered out, and everybody clapped their hands and went just about wild. well, all through the circus they done the most astonishing things; and all the time that clown carried on so it most killed the people. the ringmaster couldn't ever say a word to him but he was back at him quick as a wink with the funniest things a body ever said; and how he ever _could_ think of so many of them, and so sudden and so pat, was what i couldn't no way understand. why, i couldn't 'a' thought of them in a year. and by and by a drunken man tried to get into the ring--said he wanted to ride; said he could ride as well as anybody that ever was. they argued and tried to keep him out, but he wouldn't listen, and the whole show come to a standstill. then the people begun to holler at him and make fun of him, and that made him mad, and he begun to rip and tear; so that stirred up the people, and a lot of men begun to pile down off of the benches and swarm toward the ring, saying, "knock him down! throw him out!" and one or two women begun to scream. so, then, the ringmaster he made a little speech, and said he hoped there wouldn't be no disturbance, and if the man would promise he wouldn't make no more trouble he would let him ride if he thought he could stay on the horse. so everybody laughed and said all right, and the man got on. the minute he was on, the horse begun to rip and tear and jump and cavort around, with two circus men hanging on to his bridle trying to hold him, and the drunk man hanging on to his neck, and his heels flying in the air every jump, and the whole crowd of people standing up shouting and laughing till tears rolled down. and at last, sure enough, all the circus men could do, the horse broke loose, and away he went like the very nation, round and round the ring, with that sot laying down on him and hanging to his neck, with first one leg hanging most to the ground on one side, and then t'other one on t'other side, and the people just crazy. it warn't funny to me, though; i was all of a tremble to see his danger. but pretty soon he struggled up astraddle and grabbed the bridle, a-reeling this way and that; and the next minute he sprung up and dropped the bridle and stood! and the horse a-going like a house afire, too. he just stood up there, a-sailing around as easy and comfortable as if he warn't ever drunk in his life--and then he begun to pull off his clothes and sling them. he shed them so thick they kind of clogged up the air, and altogether he shed seventeen suits. and, then, there he was, slim and handsome, and dressed the gaudiest and prettiest you ever saw, and he lit into that horse with his whip and made him fairly hum--and finally skipped off, and made his bow and danced off to the dressing-room, and everybody just a-howling with pleasure and astonishment. then the ringmaster he see how he had been fooled, and he _was_ the sickest ringmaster you ever see, i reckon. why, it was one of his own men! he had got up that joke all out of his own head, and never let on to nobody. well, i felt sheepish enough to be took in so, but i wouldn't 'a' been in that ringmaster's place, not for a thousand dollars. i don't know; there may be bullier circuses than what that one was, but i never struck them yet. anyways, it was plenty good enough for _me_; and wherever i run across it, it can have all of _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 ruther worse than low comedy, he reckoned. he said he could size their style. so next morning he got some big sheets of wrapping-paper and some black paint, and drawed off some handbills, and stuck them up all over the village. the bills said: at the court house! for nights only! _the world-renowned tragedians_ david garrick the younger! and edmund kean the elder! of the london and continental theatres, in their thrilling tragedy of the king's cameleopard, or the royal nonesuch ! ! ! _admission cents._ then at the bottom was the biggest line of all, which said: ladies and children not admitted "there," says he, "if that line don't fetch them, i don't know arkansaw!" chapter xxiii i well, all day him and the king was hard at it, rigging up a stage and a curtain and a row of candles for footlights; and that night the house was jam full of men in no time. when the place couldn't hold no more, the duke he quit tending door and went around the back way and come onto the stage and stood up before the curtain and made a little speech, and praised up this tragedy, and said it was the most thrillingest one that ever was; and so he went on a-bragging about the tragedy, and about edmund kean the elder, which was to play the main principal part in it; and at last when he'd got everybody's expectations up high enough, he rolled up the curtain, and the next minute the king come a-prancing out on all fours, naked; and he was painted all over, ring-streaked-and-striped, all sorts of colors, as splendid as a rainbow. and--but never mind the rest of his outfit; it was just wild, but it was awful funny. the people most killed themselves laughing; and when the king got done capering and capered off behind the scenes, they roared and clapped and stormed and haw-hawed till he come back and done it over again, and after that they made him do it another time. well, it would make a cow laugh to see the shines that old idiot cut. then the duke he lets the curtain down, and bows to the people, and says the great tragedy will be performed only two nights more, on accounts of pressing london engagements, where the seats is all sold already for it in drury lane; and then he makes them another bow, and says if he has succeeded in pleasing them and instructing them, he will be deeply obleeged if they will mention it to their friends and get them to come and see it. twenty people sings out: "what, is it over? is that _all_?" the duke says yes. then there was a fine time. everybody sings out, "sold!" and rose up mad, and was a-going for that stage and them tragedians. but a big, fine-looking man jumps up on a bench and shouts: "hold on! just a word, gentlemen." they stopped to listen. "we are sold--mighty badly sold. but we don't want to be the laughing-stock of this whole town, i reckon, and never hear the last of this thing as long as we live. _no_. what we want is to go out of here quiet, and talk this show up, and sell the _rest_ of the town! then we'll all be in the same boat. ain't that sensible?" ("you bet it is!--the jedge is right!" everybody sings out.) "all right, then--not a word about any sell. go along home, and advise everybody to come and see the tragedy." next day you couldn't hear nothing around that town but how splendid that show was. house was jammed again that night, and we sold this crowd the same way. when me and the king and the duke got home to the raft we all had a supper; and by and by, about midnight, they made jim and me back her out and float her down the middle of the river, and fetch her in and hide her about two mile below town. the third night the house was crammed again--and they warn't new-comers this time, but people that was at the show the other two nights. i stood by the duke at the door, and i see that every man that went in had his pockets bulging, or something muffled up under his coat--and i see it warn't no perfumery, neither, not by a long sight. i smelt sickly eggs by the barrel, and rotten cabbages, and such things; and if i know the signs of a dead cat being around, and i bet i do, there was sixty-four of them went in. i shoved in there for a minute, but it was too various for me; i couldn't stand it. well, when the place couldn't hold no more people the duke he give a fellow a quarter and told him to tend door for him a minute, and then he started around for the stage door, i after him; but the minute we turned the corner and was in the dark he says: "walk fast now till you get away from the houses, and then shin for the raft like the dickens was after you!" i done it, and he done the same. we struck the raft at the same time, and in less than two seconds we was gliding down-stream, all dark and still, and edging towards the middle of the river, nobody saying a word. i reckoned the poor king was in for a gaudy time of it with the audience, but nothing of the sort; pretty soon he crawls out from under the wigwam, and says: "well, how'd the old thing pan out this time, duke?" he hadn't been up-town at all. we never showed a light till we was about ten mile below the village. then we lit up and had a supper, and the king and the duke fairly laughed their bones loose over the way they'd served them people. the duke says: "greenhorns, flatheads! i knew the first house would keep mum and let the rest of the town get roped in; and i knew they'd lay for us the third night, and consider it was _their_ turn now. well, it _is_ their turn, and i'd give something to know how much they'd take for it. i _would_ just like to know how they're putting in their opportunity. they can turn it into a picnic if they want to--they brought plenty provisions." them rapscallions took in four hundred and sixty-five dollars in that three nights. i never see money hauled in by the wagon-load like that before. by and by, when they was asleep and snoring, jim says: "don't it s'prise you de way dem kings carries on, huck?" "no," i says, "it don't." "why don't it, huck?" "well, it don't, because it's in the breed. i reckon they're all alike." "but, huck, dese kings o' ourn is reglar rapscallions; dat's jist what dey is; dey's reglar rapscallions." "well, that's what i'm a-saying; all kings is mostly rapscallions, as fur as i can make out." "is dat so?" "you read about them once--you'll see. look at henry the eight; this 'n' 's a sunday-school superintendent to _him_. and look at charles second, and louis fourteen, and louis fifteen, and james second, and edward second, and richard third, and forty more; besides all them saxon heptarchies that used to rip around so in old times and raise cain. my, you ought to seen old henry the eight when he was in bloom. he _was_ a blossom. he used to marry a new wife every day, and chop off her head next morning. and he would do it just as indifferent as if he was ordering up eggs. 'fetch up nell gwynn,' he says. they fetch her up. next morning, 'chop off her head!' and they chop it off. 'fetch up jane shore,' he says; and up she comes. next morning, 'chop off her head'--and they chop it off. 'ring up fair rosamun.' fair rosamun answers the bell. next morning, 'chop off her head.' and he made every one of them tell him a tale every night; and he kept that up till he had hogged a thousand and one tales that way, and then he put them all in a book, and called it domesday book--which was a good name and stated the case. you don't know kings, jim, but i know them; and this old rip of ourn is one of the cleanest i've struck in history. well, henry he takes a notion he wants to get up some trouble with this country. how does he go at it--give notice?--give the country a show? no. all of a sudden he heaves all the tea in boston harbor overboard, and whacks out a declaration of independence, and dares them to come on. that was _his_ style--he never give anybody a chance. he had suspicions of his father, the duke of wellington. well, what did he do? ask him to show up? no--drownded him in a butt of mamsey, like a cat. s'pose people left money laying around where he was--what did he do? he collared it. s'pose he contracted to do a thing, and you paid him, and didn't set down there and see that he done it--what did he do? he always done the other thing. s'pose he opened his mouth--what then? if he didn't shut it up powerful quick he'd lose a lie every time. that's the kind of a bug henry was; and if we'd 'a' had him along 'stead of our kings he'd 'a' fooled that town a heap worse than ourn done. i don't say that ourn is lambs, because they ain't, when you come right down to the cold facts; but they ain't nothing to _that_ old ram, anyway. all i say is, kings is kings, and you got to make allowances. take them all around, they're a mighty ornery lot. it's the way they're raised." "but dis one do _smell_ so like de nation, huck." "well, they all do, jim. we can't help the way a king smells; history don't tell no way." "now de duke, he's a tolerble likely man in some ways." "yes, a duke's different. but not very different. this one's a middling hard lot for a duke. when he's drunk there ain't no near-sighted man could tell him from a king." "well, anyways, i doan' hanker for no mo' un um, huck. dese is all i kin stan'." "it's the way i feel, too, jim. but we've got them on our hands, and we got to remember what they are, and make allowances. sometimes i wish we could hear of a country that's out of kings." what was the use to tell jim these warn't real kings and dukes? it wouldn't 'a' done no good; and, besides, it was just as i said: you couldn't tell them from the real kind. i went to sleep, and jim didn't call me when it was my turn. he often done that. when i waked up just at daybreak he was sitting there with his head down betwixt his knees, moaning and mourning to himself. i didn't take notice nor let on. i knowed what it was about. he was thinking about his wife and his children, away up yonder, and he was low and homesick; because he hadn't ever been away from home before in his life; and i do believe he cared just as much for his people as white folks does for their'n. it don't seem natural, but i reckon it's so. he was often moaning and mourning that way nights, when he judged i was asleep, and saying, "po' little 'lizabeth! po' little johnny! it's mighty hard; i spec' i ain't ever gwyne to see you no mo', no mo'!" he was a mighty good nigger, jim was. but this time i somehow got to talking to him about his wife and young ones; and by and by he says: "what makes me feel so bad dis time 'uz bekase i hear sumpn over yonder on de bank like a whack, er a slam, while ago, en it mine me er de time i treat my little 'lizabeth so ornery. she warn't on'y 'bout fo' year ole, en she tuck de sk'yarlet fever, en had a powful rough spell; but she got well, en one day she was a-stannin' aroun', en i says to her, i says: "'shet de do'.' "she never done it; jis' stood dah, kiner smilin' up at me. it make me mad; en i says ag'in, mighty loud, i says: "'doan' you hear me? shet de do'!" "she jis stood de same way, kiner smilin' up. i was a-bilin'! i says: "'i lay i _make_ you mine!' "en wid dat i fetch' her a slap side de head dat sont her a-sprawlin'. den i went into de yuther room, en 'uz gone 'bout ten minutes; en when i come back dah was dat do' a-stannin' open _yit_, en dat chile stannin' mos' right in it, a-lookin' down and mournin', en de tears runnin' down. my, but i _wuz_ mad! i was a-gwyne for de chile, but jis' den--it was a do' dat open innerds--jis' den, 'long come de wind en slam it to, behine de chile, ker-_blam!_--en my lan', de chile never move'! my breff mos' hop outer me; en i feel so--so--i doan' know _how_ i feel. i crope out, all a-tremblin', en crope aroun' en open de do' easy en slow, en poke my head in behine de chile, sof' en still, en all uv a sudden i says _pow!_ jis' as loud as i could yell. she _never budge!_ oh, huck, i bust out a-cryin' en grab her up in my arms, en say, 'oh, de po' little thing! de lord god amighty fogive po' ole jim, kaze he never gwyne to fogive hisself as long's he live!' oh, she was plumb deef en dumb, huck, plumb deef en dumb--en i'd ben a-treat'n her so!" chapter xxiv next day, towards night, we laid up under a little willow towhead out in the middle, where there was a village on each side of the river, and the duke and the king begun to lay out a plan for working them towns. jim he spoke to the duke, and said he hoped it wouldn't take but a few hours, because it got mighty heavy and tiresome to him when he had to lay all day in the wigwam tied with the rope. you see, when we left him all alone we had to tie him, because if anybody happened on to him all by himself and not tied it wouldn't look much like he was a runaway nigger, you know. so the duke said it _was_ kind of hard to have to lay roped all day, and he'd cipher out some way to get around it. he was uncommon bright, the duke was, and he soon struck it. he dressed jim up in king lear's outfit--it was a long curtain-calico gown, and a white horse-hair wig and whiskers; and then he took his theater paint and painted jim's face and hands and ears and neck all over a dead, dull solid blue, like a man that's been drownded nine days. blamed if he warn't the horriblest-looking outrage i ever see. then the duke took and wrote out a sign on a shingle so: _sick arab--but harmless when not out of his head._ and he nailed that shingle to a lath, and stood the lath up four or five foot in front of the wigwam. jim was satisfied. he said it was a sight better than lying tied a couple of years every day, and trembling all over every time there was a sound. the duke told him to make himself free and easy, and if anybody ever come meddling around, he must hop out of the wigwam, and carry on a little, and fetch a howl or two like a wild beast, and he reckoned they would light out and leave him alone. which was sound enough judgment; but you take the average man, and he wouldn't wait for him to howl. why, he didn't only look like he was dead, he looked considerable more than that. these rapscallions wanted to try the nonesuch again, because there was so much money in it, but they judged it wouldn't be safe, because maybe the news might 'a' worked along down by this time. they couldn't hit no project that suited exactly; so at last the duke said he reckoned he'd lay off and work his brains an hour or two and see if he couldn't put up something on the arkansaw village; and the king he allowed he would drop over to t'other village without any plan, but just trust in providence to lead him the profitable way--meaning the devil, i reckon. we had all bought store clothes where we stopped last; and now the king put his'n on, and he told me to put mine on. i done it, of course. the king's duds was all black, and he did look real swell and starchy. i never knowed how clothes could change a body before. why, before, he looked like the orneriest old rip that ever was; but now, when he'd take off his new white beaver and make a bow and do a smile, he looked that grand and good and pious that you'd say he had walked right out of the ark, and maybe was old leviticus himself. jim cleaned up the canoe, and i got my paddle ready. there was a big steamboat laying at the shore away up under the point, about three mile above the town--been there a couple of hours, taking on freight. says the king: "seein' how i'm dressed, i reckon maybe i better arrive down from st. louis or cincinnati, or some other big place. go for the steamboat, huckleberry; we'll come down to the village on her." i didn't have to be ordered twice to go and take a steamboat ride. i fetched the shore a half a mile above the village, and then went scooting along the bluff bank in the easy water. pretty soon we come to a nice innocent-looking young country jake setting on a log swabbing the sweat off of his face, for it was powerful warm weather; and he had a couple of big carpet-bags by him. "run her nose inshore," says the king. i done it. "wher' you bound for, young man?" "for the steamboat; going to orleans." "git aboard," says the king. "hold on a minute, my servant 'll he'p you with them bags. jump out and he'p the gentleman, adolphus"--meaning me, i see. i done so, and then we all three started on again. the young chap was mighty thankful; said it was tough work toting his baggage such weather. he asked the king where he was going, and the king told him he'd come down the river and landed at the other village this morning, and now he was going up a few mile to see an old friend on a farm up there. the young fellow says: "when i first see you i says to myself, 'it's mr. wilks, sure, and he come mighty near getting here in time.' but then i says again, 'no, i reckon it ain't him, or else he wouldn't be paddling up the river.' you _ain't_ him, are you?" "no, my name's blodgett--elexander blodgett--_reverend_ elexander blodgett, i s'pose i must say, as i'm one o' the lord's poor servants. but still i'm jist as able to be sorry for mr. wilks for not arriving in time, all the same, if he's missed anything by it--which i hope he hasn't." "well, he don't miss any property by it, because he'll get that all right; but he's missed seeing his brother peter die--which he mayn't mind, nobody can tell as to that--but his brother would 'a' give anything in this world to see _him_ before he died; never talked about nothing else all these three weeks; hadn't seen him since they was boys together--and hadn't ever seen his brother william at all--that's the deef and dumb one--william ain't more than thirty or thirty-five. peter and george were the only ones that come out here; george was the married brother; him and his wife both died last year. harvey and william's the only ones that's left now; and, as i was saying, they haven't got here in time." "did anybody send 'em word?" "oh, yes; a month or two ago, when peter was first took; because peter said then that he sorter felt like he warn't going to get well this time. you see, he was pretty old, and george's g'yirls was too young to be much company for him, except mary jane, the red-headed one; and so he was kinder lonesome after george and his wife died, and didn't seem to care much to live. he most desperately wanted to see harvey--and william, too, for that matter--because he was one of them kind that can't bear to make a will. he left a letter behind for harvey, and said he'd told in it where his money was hid, and how he wanted the rest of the property divided up so george's g'yirls would be all right--for george didn't leave nothing. and that letter was all they could get him to put a pen to." "why do you reckon harvey don't come? wher' does he live?" "oh, he lives in england--sheffield--preaches there--hasn't ever been in this country. he hasn't had any too much time--and besides he mightn't 'a' got the letter at all, you know." "too bad, too bad he couldn't 'a' lived to see his brothers, poor soul. you going to orleans, you say?" "yes, but that ain't only a part of it. i'm going in a ship, next wednesday, for ryo janeero, where my uncle lives." "it's a pretty long journey. but it'll be lovely; i wisht i was a-going. is mary jane the oldest? how old is the others?" "mary jane's nineteen, susan's fifteen, and joanna's about fourteen--that's the one that gives herself to good works and has a hare-lip." "poor things! to be left alone in the cold world so." "well, they could be worse off. old peter had friends, and they ain't going to let them come to no harm. there's hobson, the babtis' preacher; and deacon lot hovey, and ben rucker, and abner shackleford, and levi bell, the lawyer; and dr. robinson, and their wives, and the widow bartley, and--well, there's a lot of them; but these are the ones that peter was thickest with, and used to write about sometimes, when he wrote home; so harvey 'll know where to look for friends when he gets here." well, the old man went on asking questions till he just fairly emptied that young fellow. blamed if he didn't inquire about everybody and everything in that blessed town, and all about the wilkses; and about peter's business--which was a tanner; and about george's--which was a carpenter; and about harvey's--which was a dissentering minister; and so on, and so on. then he says: "what did you want to walk all the way up to the steamboat for?" "because she's a big orleans boat, and i was afeard she mightn't stop there. when they're deep they won't stop for a hail. a cincinnati boat will, but this is a st. louis one." "was peter wilks well off?" "oh, yes, pretty well off. he had houses and land, and it's reckoned he left three or four thousand in cash hid up som'ers." "when did you say he died?" "i didn't say, but it was last night." "funeral to-morrow, likely?" "yes, 'bout the middle of the day." "well, it's all terrible sad; but we've all got to go, one time or another. so what we want to do is to be prepared; then we're all right." "yes, sir, it's the best way. ma used to always say that." when we struck the boat she was about done loading, and pretty soon she got off. the king never said nothing about going aboard, so i lost my ride, after all. when the boat was gone the king made me paddle up another mile to a lonesome place, and then he got ashore and says: "now hustle back, right off, and fetch the duke up here, and the new carpet-bags. and if he's gone over to t'other side, go over there and git him. and tell him to git himself up regardless. shove along, now." i see what _he_ was up to; but i never said nothing, of course. when i got back with the duke we hid the canoe, and then they set down on a log, and the king told him everything, just like the young fellow had said it--every last word of it. and all the time he was a-doing it he tried to talk like an englishman; and he done it pretty well, too, for a slouch. i can't imitate him, and so i ain't a-going to try to; but he really done it pretty good. then he says: "how are you on the deef and dumb, bilgewater?" the duke said, leave him alone for that; said he had played a deef and dumb person on the histrionic boards. so then they waited for a steamboat. about the middle of the afternoon a couple of little boats come along, but they didn't come from high enough up the river; but at last there was a big one, and they hailed her. she sent out her yawl, and we went aboard, and she was from cincinnati; and when they found we only wanted to go four or five mile they was booming mad, and gave us a cussing, and said they wouldn't land us. but the king was ca'm. he says: "if gentlemen kin afford to pay a dollar a mile apiece to be took on and put off in a yawl, a steamboat kin afford to carry 'em, can't it?" so they softened down and said it was all right; and when we got to the village they yawled us ashore. about two dozen men flocked down when they see the yawl a-coming, and when the king says: "kin any of you gentlemen tell me wher' mr. peter wilks lives?" they give a glance at one another, and nodded their heads, as much as to say, "what 'd i tell you?" then one of them says, kind of soft and gentle: "i'm sorry, sir, but the best we can do is to tell you where he _did_ live yesterday evening." sudden as winking the ornery old cretur went all to smash, and fell up against the man, and put his chin on his shoulder, and cried down his back, and says: "alas, alas, our poor brother--gone, and we never got to see him; oh, it's too, too hard!" then he turns around, blubbering, and makes a lot of idiotic signs to the duke on his hands, and blamed if he didn't drop a carpet-bag and bust out a-crying. if they warn't the beatenest lot, them two frauds, that ever i struck. well, the men gathered around and sympathized with them, and said all sorts of kind things to them, and carried their carpet-bags up the hill for them, and let them lean on them and cry, and told the king all about his brother's last moments, and the king he told it all over again on his hands to the duke, and both of them took on about that dead tanner like they'd lost the twelve disciples. well, if ever i struck anything like it, i'm a nigger. it was enough to make a body ashamed of the human race. chapter xxv the news was all over town in two minutes, and you could see the people tearing down on the run from every which way, some of them putting on their coats as they come. pretty soon we was in the middle of a crowd, and the noise of the tramping was like a soldier march. the windows and dooryards was full; and every minute somebody would say, over a fence: "is it _them?_" and somebody trotting along with the gang would answer back and say: "you bet it is." when we got to the house the street in front of it was packed, and the three girls was standing in the door. mary jane _was_ red-headed, but that don't make no difference, she was most awful beautiful, and her face and her eyes was all lit up like glory, she was so glad her uncles was come. the king he spread his arms, and mary jane she jumped for them, and the hare-lip jumped for the duke, and there they _had_ it! everybody most, leastways women, cried for joy to see them meet again at last and have such good times. then the king he hunched the duke private--i see him do it--and then he looked around and see the coffin, over in the corner on two chairs; so then him and the duke, with a hand across each other's shoulder, and t'other hand to their eyes, walked slow and solemn over there, everybody dropping back to give them room, and all the talk and noise stopping, people saying "'sh!" and all the men taking their hats off and drooping their heads, so you could 'a' heard a pin fall. and when they got there they bent over and looked in the coffin, and took one sight, and then they bust out a-crying so you could 'a' heard them to orleans, most; and then they put their arms around each other's necks, and hung their chins over each other's shoulders; and then for three minutes, or maybe four, i never see two men leak the way they done. and, mind you, everybody was doing the same; and the place was that damp i never see anything like it. then one of them got on one side of the coffin, and t'other on t'other side, and they kneeled down and rested their foreheads on the coffin, and let on to pray all to themselves. well, when it come to that it worked the crowd like you never see anything like it, and everybody broke down and went to sobbing right out loud--the poor girls, too; and every woman, nearly, went up to the girls, without saying a word, and kissed them, solemn, on the forehead, and then put their hand on their head, and looked up towards the sky, with the tears running down, and then busted out and went off sobbing and swabbing, and give the next woman a show. i never see anything so disgusting. well, by and by the king he gets up and comes forward a little, and works himself up and slobbers out a speech, all full of tears and flapdoodle, about its being a sore trial for him and his poor brother to lose the diseased, and to miss seeing diseased alive after the long journey of four thousand mile, but it's a trial that's sweetened and sanctified to us by this dear sympathy and these holy tears, and so he thanks them out of his heart and out of his brother's heart, because out of their mouths they can't, words being too weak and cold, and all that kind of rot and slush, till it was just sickening; and then he blubbers out a pious goody-goody amen, and turns himself loose and goes to crying fit to bust. and the minute the words were out of his mouth somebody over in the crowd struck up the doxolojer, and everybody joined in with all their might, and it just warmed you up and made you feel as good as church letting out. music is a good thing; and after all that soul-butter and hogwash i never see it freshen up things so, and sound so honest and bully. then the king begins to work his jaw again, and says how him and his nieces would be glad if a few of the main principal friends of the family would take supper here with them this evening, and help set up with the ashes of the diseased; and says if his poor brother laying yonder could speak he knows who he would name, for they was names that was very dear to him, and mentioned often in his letters; and so he will name the same, to wit, as follows, viz.:--rev. mr. hobson, and deacon lot hovey, and mr. ben rucker, and abner shackleford, and levi bell, and dr. robinson, and their wives, and the widow bartley. rev. hobson and dr. robinson was down to the end of the town a-hunting together--that is, i mean the doctor was shipping a sick man to t'other world, and the preacher was pinting him right. lawyer bell was away up to louisville on business. but the rest was on hand, and so they all come and shook hands with the king and thanked him and talked to him; and then they shook hands with the duke and didn't say nothing, but just kept a-smiling and bobbing their heads like a passel of sapheads whilst he made all sorts of signs with his hands and said "goo-goo--goo-goo-goo" all the time, like a baby that can't talk. so the king he blattered along, and managed to inquire about pretty much everybody and dog in town, by his name, and mentioned all sorts of little things that happened one time or another in the town, or to george's family, or to peter. and he always let on that peter wrote him the things; but that was a lie: he got every blessed one of them out of that young flathead that we canoed up to the steamboat. then mary jane she fetched the letter her father left behind, and the king he read it out loud and cried over it. it give the dwelling-house and three thousand dollars, gold, to the girls; and it give the tanyard (which was doing a good business), along with some other houses and land (worth about seven thousand), and three thousand dollars in gold to harvey and william, and told where the six thousand cash was hid down cellar. so these two frauds said they'd go and fetch it up, and have everything square and above-board; and told me to come with a candle. we shut the cellar door behind us, and when they found the bag they spilt it out on the floor, and it was a lovely sight, all them yaller-boys. my, the way the king's eyes did shine! he slaps the duke on the shoulder and says: "oh, _this_ ain't bully nor noth'n! oh, no, i reckon not! why, biljy, it beats the nonesuch, _don't_ it?" the duke allowed it did. they pawed the yaller-boys, and sifted them through their fingers and let them jingle down on the floor; and the king says: "it ain't no use talkin'; bein' brothers to a rich dead man and representatives of furrin heirs that's got left is the line for you and me, bilge. thish yer comes of trust'n to providence. it's the best way, in the long run. i've tried 'em all, and ther' ain't no better way." most everybody would 'a' been satisfied with the pile, and took it on trust; but no, they must count it. so they counts it, and it comes out four hundred and fifteen dollars short. says the king: "dern him, i wonder what he done with that four hundred and fifteen dollars?" they worried over that awhile, and ransacked all around for it. then the duke says: "well, he was a pretty sick man, and likely he made a mistake--i reckon that's the way of it. the best way's to let it go, and keep still about it. we can spare it." "oh, shucks, yes, we can _spare_ it. i don't k'yer noth'n 'bout that--it's the _count_ i'm thinkin' about. we want to be awful square and open and above-board here, you know. we want to lug this h'yer money up-stairs and count it before everybody--then ther' ain't noth'n suspicious. but when the dead man says ther's six thous'n dollars, you know, we don't want to--" "hold on," says the duke. "le's make up the deffisit," and he begun to haul out yaller-boys out of his pocket. "it's a most amaz'n' good idea, duke--you _have_ got a rattlin' clever head on you," says the king. "blest if the old nonesuch ain't a heppin' us out ag'in," and _he_ begun to haul out yaller-jackets and stack them up. it most busted them, but they made up the six thousand clean and clear. "say," says the duke, "i got another idea. le's go up-stairs and count this money, and then take and _give it to the girls."_ "good land, duke, lemme hug you! it's the most dazzling idea 'at ever a man struck. you have cert'nly got the most astonishin' head i ever see. oh, this is the boss dodge, ther' ain't no mistake 'bout it. let 'em fetch along their suspicions now if they want to--this 'll lay 'em out." when we got up-stairs everybody gethered around the table, and the king he counted it and stacked it up, three hundred dollars in a pile--twenty elegant little piles. everybody looked hungry at it, and licked their chops. then they raked it into the bag again, and i see the king begin to swell himself up for another speech. he says: "friends all, my poor brother that lays yonder has done generous by them that's left behind in the vale of sorrers. he has done generous by these yer poor little lambs that he loved and sheltered, and that's left fatherless and motherless. yes, and we that knowed him knows that he would 'a' done _more_ generous by 'em if he hadn't ben afeard o' woundin' his dear william and me. now, _wouldn't_ he? ther' ain't no question 'bout it in _my_ mind. well, then, what kind o' brothers would it be that 'd stand in his way at sech a time? and what kind o' uncles would it be that 'd rob--yes, _rob_--sech poor sweet lambs as these 'at he loved so at sech a time? if i know william--and i _think_ i do--he--well, i'll jest ask him." he turns around and begins to make a lot of signs to the duke with his hands, and the duke he looks at him stupid and leather-headed awhile; then all of a sudden he seems to catch his meaning, and jumps for the king, goo-gooing with all his might for joy, and hugs him about fifteen times before he lets up. then the king says, "i knowed it; i reckon _that_ 'll convince anybody the way _he_ feels about it. here, mary jane, susan, joanner, take the money--take it _all._ it's the gift of him that lays yonder, cold but joyful." mary jane she went for him, susan and the hare-lip went for the duke, and then such another hugging and kissing i never see yet. and everybody crowded up with the tears in their eyes, and most shook the hands off of them frauds, saying all the time: "you _dear_ good souls!--how _lovely!_--how _could_ you!" well, then, pretty soon all hands got to talking about the diseased again, and how good he was, and what a loss he was, and all that; and before long a big iron-jawed man worked himself in there from outside, and stood a-listening and looking, and not saying anything; and nobody saying anything to him either, because the king was talking and they was all busy listening. the king was saying--in the middle of something he'd started in on-- "--they bein' partickler friends o' the diseased. that's why they're invited here this evenin'; but tomorrow we want _all_ to come--everybody; for he respected everybody, he liked everybody, and so it's fitten that his funeral orgies sh'd be public." and so he went a-mooning on and on, liking to hear himself talk, and every little while he fetched in his funeral orgies again, till the duke he couldn't stand it no more; so he writes on a little scrap of paper, "_obsequies_, you old fool," and folds it up, and goes to goo-gooing and reaching it over people's heads to him. the king he reads it and puts it in his pocket, and says: "poor william, afflicted as he is, his _heart's_ aluz right. asks me to invite everybody to come to the funeral--wants me to make 'em all welcome. but he needn't 'a' worried--it was jest what i was at." then he weaves along again, perfectly ca'm, and goes to dropping in his funeral orgies again every now and then, just like he done before. and when he done it the third time he says: "i say orgies, not because it's the common term, because it ain't--obsequies bein' the common term--but because orgies is the right term. obsequies ain't used in england no more now--it's gone out. we say orgies now in england. orgies is better, because it means the thing you're after more exact. it's a word that's made up out'n the greek _orgo_, outside, open, abroad; and the hebrew _jeesum_, to plant, cover up; hence in_ter_. so, you see, funeral orgies is an open er public funeral." he was the _worst_ i ever struck. well, the iron-jawed man he laughed right in his face. everybody was shocked. everybody says, "why, _doctor!_" and abner shackleford says: "why, robinson, hain't you heard the news? this is harvey wilks." the king he smiled eager, and shoved out his flapper, and says: "_is_ it my poor brother's dear good friend and physician? i--" "keep your hands off me!" says the doctor. "_you_ talk like an englishman, _don't_ you? it's the worst imitation i ever heard. _you_ peter wilks's brother! you're a fraud, that's what you are!" well, how they all took on! they crowded around the doctor and tried to quiet him down, and tried to explain to him and tell him how harvey's showed in forty ways that he _was_ harvey, and knowed everybody by name, and the names of the very dogs, and begged and _begged_ him not to hurt harvey's feelings and the poor girls' feelings, and all that. but it warn't no use; he stormed right along, and said any man that pretended to be an englishman and couldn't imitate the lingo no better than what he did was a fraud and a liar. the poor girls was hanging to the king and crying; and all of a sudden the doctor ups and turns on _them._ he says: "i was your father's friend, and i'm your friend; and i warn you as a friend, and an honest one that wants to protect you and keep you out of harm and trouble, to turn your backs on that scoundrel and have nothing to do with him, the ignorant tramp, with his idiotic greek and hebrew, as he calls it. he is the thinnest kind of an impostor--has come here with a lot of empty names and facts which he picked up somewheres; and you take them for _proofs_, and are helped to fool yourselves by these foolish friends here, who ought to know better. mary jane wilks, you know me for your friend, and for your unselfish friend, too. now listen to me; turn this pitiful rascal out--i _beg_ you to do it. will you?" mary jane straightened herself up, and my, but she was handsome! she says: "_here_ is my answer." she hove up the bag of money and put it in the king's hands, and says, "take this six thousand dollars, and invest for me and my sisters any way you want to, and don't give us no receipt for it." then she put her arm around the king on one side, and susan and the hare-lip done the same on the other. everybody clapped their hands and stomped on the floor like a perfect storm, whilst the king held up his head and smiled proud. the doctor says: "all right; i wash _my_ hands of the matter. but i warn you all that a time's coming when you're going to feel sick whenever you think of this day." and away he went. "all right, doctor," says the king, kinder mocking him; "we'll try and get 'em to send for you;" which made them all laugh, and they said it was a prime good hit. chapter xxvi well, when they was all gone the king he asks mary jane how they was off for spare rooms, and she said she had one spare room, which would do for uncle william, and she'd give her own room to uncle harvey, which was a little bigger, and she would turn into the room with her sisters and sleep on a cot; and up garret was a little cubby, with a pallet in it. the king said the cubby would do for his valley--meaning me. so mary jane took us up, and she showed them their rooms, which was plain but nice. she said she'd have her frocks and a lot of other traps took out of her room if they was in uncle harvey's way, but he said they warn't. the frocks was hung along the wall, and before them was a curtain made out of calico that hung down to the floor. there was an old hair trunk in one corner, and a guitar-box in another, and all sorts of little knickknacks and jimcracks around, like girls brisken up a room with. the king said it was all the more homely and more pleasanter for these fixings, and so don't disturb them. the duke's room was pretty small, but plenty good enough, and so was my cubby. that night they had a big supper, and all them men and women was there, and i stood behind the king and the duke's chairs and waited on them, and the niggers waited on the rest. mary jane she set at the head of the table, with susan alongside of her, and said how bad the biscuits was, and how mean the preserves was, and how ornery and tough the fried chickens was--and all that kind of rot, the way women always do for to force out compliments; and the people all knowed everything was tiptop, and said so--said "how _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, just the way people always does at a supper, you know. and when it was all done me and the hare-lip had supper in the kitchen off of the leavings, whilst the others was helping the niggers clean up the things. the hare-lip she got to pumping me about england, and blest if i didn't think the ice was getting mighty thin sometimes. she says: "did you ever see the king?" "who? william fourth? well, i bet i have--he goes to our church." i knowed he was dead years ago, but i never let on. so when i says he goes to our church, she says: "what--regular?" "yes--regular. his pew's right over opposite ourn--on t'other side the pulpit." "i thought he lived in london?" "well, he does. where _would_ he live?" "but i thought _you_ lived in sheffield?" i see i was up a stump. i had to let on to get choked with a chicken-bone, so as to get time to think how to get down again. then i says: "i mean he goes to our church regular when he's in sheffield. that's only in the summer-time, when he comes there to take the sea baths." "why, how you talk--sheffield ain't on the sea." "well, who said it was?" "why, you did." "i _didn't_, nuther." "you did!" "i didn't." "you did." "i never said nothing of the kind." "well, what _did_ you say, then?" "said he come to take the sea _baths_--that's what i said." "well, then, how's he going to take the sea baths if it ain't on the sea?" "looky here," i says; "did you ever see any congress-water?" "yes." "well, did you have to go to congress to get it?" "why, no." "well, neither does william fourth have to go to the sea to get a sea bath." "how does he get it, then?" "gets it the way people down here gets congress-water--in barrels. there in the palace at sheffield they've got furnaces, and he wants his water hot. they can't bile that amount of water away off there at the sea. they haven't got no conveniences for it." "oh, i see, now. you might 'a' said that in the first place and saved time." when she said that i see i was out of the woods again, and so i was comfortable and glad. next, she says: "do you go to church, too?" "yes--regular." "where do you set?" "why, in our pew." "_whose_ pew?" "why, _ourn_--your uncle harvey's." "his'n? what does _he_ want with a pew?" "wants it to set in. what did you _reckon_ he wanted with it?" "why, i thought he'd be in the pulpit." rot him, i forgot he was a preacher. i see i was up a stump again, so i played another chicken-bone and got another think. then i says: "blame it, do you suppose there ain't but one preacher to a church?" "why, what do they want with more?" "what!--to preach before a king? i never did see such a girl as you. they don't have no less than seventeen." "seventeen! my land! why, i wouldn't set out such a string as that, not if i _never_ got to glory. it must take 'em a week." "shucks, they don't _all_ of 'em preach the same day--only _one_ of 'em." "well, then, what does the rest of 'em do?" "oh, nothing much. loll around, pass the plate--and one thing or another. but mainly they don't do nothing." "well, then, what are they _for_?" "why, they're for _style_. don't you know nothing?" "well, i don't _want_ to know no such foolishness as that. how is servants treated in england? do they treat 'em better 'n we treat our niggers?" "_no!_ a servant ain't nobody there. they treat them worse than dogs." "don't they give 'em holidays, the way we do, christmas and new year's week, and fourth of july?" "oh, just listen! a body could tell _you_ hain't ever been to england by that. why, hare-l--why, joanna, 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 this book and say it." i see it warn't nothing but a dictionary, so i laid my hand on it and said it. so then she looked a little better satisfied, and says: "well, then, i'll believe some of it; but i hope to gracious if i'll believe the rest." "what is it you won't believe, jo?" says mary jane, stepping in with susan behind her. "it ain't right nor kind for you to talk so to him, and him a stranger and so far from his people. how would you like to be treated so?" "that's always your way, maim--always sailing in to help somebody before they're hurt. i hain't done nothing to him. he's told some stretchers, i reckon, and i said i wouldn't swallow it all; and that's every bit and grain i _did_ say. i reckon he can stand a little thing like that, can't he?" "i don't care whether 'twas little or whether 'twas big; he's here in our house and a stranger, and it wasn't good of you to say it. if you was in his place it would make you feel ashamed; and so you oughtn't to say a thing to another person that will make _them_ feel ashamed." "why, maim, he said--" "it don't make no difference what he _said_--that ain't the thing. the thing is for you to treat him _kind,_ and not be saying things to make him remember he ain't in his own country and amongst his own folks." i says to myself, _this_ is a girl that i'm letting that old reptile rob her of her money! then susan _she_ waltzed in; and if you'll believe me, she did give hare-lip hark from the tomb! says i to myself, and this is _another_ one that i'm letting him rob her of her money! then mary jane she took another inning, and went in sweet and lovely again--which was her way; but when she got done there warn't hardly anything left o' poor hare-lip. so she hollered. "all right, then," says the other girls; "you just ask his pardon." she done it, too; and she done it beautiful. she done it so beautiful it was good to hear; and i wished i could tell her a thousand lies, so she could do it again. i says to myself, this is _another_ one that i'm letting him rob her of her money. and when she got through they all jest laid theirselves out to make me feel at home and know i was amongst friends. i felt so ornery and low down and mean that i says to myself, my mind's made up; i'll hive that money for them or bust. so then i lit out--for bed, i said, meaning some time or another. when i got by myself i went to thinking the thing over. i says to myself, shall i go to that doctor, private, and blow on these frauds? no--that won't do. he might tell who told him; then the king and the duke would make it warm for me. shall i go, private, and tell mary jane? no--i dasn't do it. her face would give them a hint, sure; they've got the money, and they'd slide right out and get away with it. if she was to fetch in help i'd get mixed up in the business before it was done with, i judge. no; there ain't no good way but one. i got to steal that money, somehow; and i got to steal it some way that they won't suspicion that i done it. they've got a good thing here, and they ain't a-going to leave till they've played this family and this town for all they're worth, so i'll find a chance time enough. i'll steal it and hide it; and by and by, when i'm away down the river, i'll write a letter and tell mary jane where it's hid. but i better hive it to-night if i can, because the doctor maybe hasn't let up as much as he lets on he has; he might scare them out of here yet. so, thinks i, i'll go and search them rooms. upstairs the hall was dark, but i found the duke's room, and started to paw around it with my hands; but i recollected it wouldn't be much like the king to let anybody else take care of that money but his own self; so then i went to his room and begun to paw around there. but i see i couldn't do nothing without a candle, and i dasn't light one, of course. so i judged i'd got to do the other thing--lay for them and eavesdrop. about that time i hears their footsteps coming, and was going to skip under the bed; i reached for it, but it wasn't where i thought it would be; but i touched the curtain that hid mary jane's frocks, so i jumped in behind that and snuggled in amongst the gowns, and stood there perfectly still. they come in and shut the door; and the first thing the duke done was to get down and look under the bed. then i was glad i hadn't found the bed when i wanted it. and yet, you know, it's kind of natural to hide under the bed when you are up to anything private. they sets down then, and the king says: "well, what is it? and cut it middlin' short, because it's better for us to be down there a-whoopin' up the mournin' than up here givin' 'em a chance to talk us over." "well, this is it, capet. i ain't easy; i ain't comfortable. that doctor lays on my mind. i wanted to know your plans. i've got a notion, and i think it's a sound one." "what is it, duke?" "that we better glide out of this before three in the morning, and clip it down the river with what we've got. specially, seeing we got it so easy--_given_ back to us, flung at our heads, as you may say, when of course we allowed to have to steal it back. i'm for knocking off and lighting out." that made me feel pretty bad. about an hour or two ago it would 'a' been a little different, but now it made me feel bad and disappointed. the king rips out and says: "what! and not sell out the rest o' the property? march off like a passel of fools and leave eight or nine thous'n' dollars' worth o' property layin' around jest sufferin' to be scooped in?--and all good, salable stuff, too." the duke he grumbled; said the bag of gold was enough, and he didn't want to go no deeper--didn't want to rob a lot of orphans of _everything_ they had. "why, how you talk!" says the king. "we sha'n't rob 'em of nothing at all but jest this money. the people that _buys_ the property is the suff'rers; because as soon 's it's found out 'at we didn't own it--which won't be long after we've slid--the sale won't be valid, and it 'll all go back to the estate. these yer orphans 'll git their house back ag'in, and that's enough for _them;_ they're young and spry, and k'n easy earn a livin'. _they_ ain't a-goin' to suffer. why, jest think--there's thous'n's and thous'n's that ain't nigh so well off. bless you, _they_ ain't got noth'n' to complain of." well, the king he talked him blind; so at last he give in, and said all right, but said he believed it was blamed foolishness to stay, and that doctor hanging over them. but the king says: "cuss the doctor! what do we k'yer for _him?_ hain't we got all the fools in town on our side? and ain't that a big enough majority in any town?" so they got ready to go down-stairs again. the duke says: "i don't think we put that money in a good place." that cheered me up. i'd begun to think i warn't going to get a hint of no kind to help me. the king says: "why?" "because mary jane 'll be in mourning from this out; and first you know the nigger that does up the rooms will get an order to box these duds up and put 'em away; and do you reckon a nigger can run across money and not borrow some of it?" "your head's level ag'in, duke," says the king; and he comes a-fumbling under the curtain two or three foot from where i was. i stuck tight to the wall and kept mighty still, though quivery; and i wondered what them fellows would say to me if they catched me; and i tried to think what i'd better do if they did catch me. but the king he got the bag before i could think more than about a half a thought, and he never suspicioned i was around. they took and shoved the bag through a rip in the straw tick that was under the feather-bed, and crammed it in a foot or two amongst the straw and said it was all right now, because a nigger only makes up the feather-bed, and don't turn over the straw tick only about twice a year, and so it warn't in no danger of getting stole now. but i knowed better. i had it out of there before they was half-way down-stairs. i groped along up to my cubby, and hid it there till i could get a chance to do better. i judged i better hide it outside of the house somewheres, because if they missed it they would give the house a good ransacking: i knowed that very well. then i turned in, with my clothes all on; but i couldn't 'a' gone to sleep if i'd 'a' wanted to, i was in such a sweat to get through with the business. by and by i heard the king and the duke come up; so i rolled off my pallet and laid with my chin at the top of my ladder, and waited to see if anything was going to happen. but nothing did. so i held on till all the late sounds had quit and the early ones hadn't begun yet; and then i slipped down the ladder. chapter xxvii i crept to their doors and listened; they was snoring. so i tiptoed along, and got downstairs all right. there warn't a sound anywheres. i peeped through a crack of the dining-room door, and see the men that was watching the corpse all sound asleep on their chairs. the door was open into the parlor, where the corpse was laying, and there was a candle in both rooms. i passed along, and the parlor door was open; but i see there warn't nobody in there but the remainders of peter; so i shoved on by; but the front door was locked, and the key wasn't there. just then i heard somebody coming down the stairs, back behind me. i run in the parlor and took a swift look around, and the only place i see to hide the bag was in the coffin. the lid was shoved along about a foot, showing the dead man's face down in there, with a wet cloth over it, and his shroud on. i tucked the money-bag in under the lid, just down beyond where his hands was crossed, which made me creep, they was so cold, and then i run back across the room and in behind the door. the person coming was mary jane. she went to the coffin, very soft, and kneeled down and looked in; then she put up her handkerchief, and i see she begun to cry, though i couldn't hear her, and her back was to me. i slid out, and as i passed the dining-room i thought i'd make sure them watchers hadn't seen me; so i looked through the crack, and everything was all right. they hadn't stirred. i slipped up to bed, feeling ruther blue, on accounts of the thing playing out that way after i had took so much trouble and run so much resk about it. says i, if it could stay where it is, all right; because when we get down the river a hundred mile or two i could write back to mary jane, and she could dig him up again and get it; but that ain't the thing that's going to happen; the thing that's going to happen is, the money'll be found when they come to screw on the lid. then the king 'll get it again, and it 'll be a long day before he gives anybody another chance to smouch it from him. of course i _wanted_ to slide down and get it out of there, but i dasn't try it. every minute it was getting earlier now, and pretty soon some of them watchers would begin to stir, and i might get catched--catched with six thousand dollars in my hands that nobody hadn't hired me to take care of. i don't wish to be mixed up in no such business as that, i says to myself. when i got down-stairs in the morning the parlor was shut up, and the watchers was gone. there warn't nobody around but the family and the widow bartley and our tribe. i watched their faces to see if anything had been happening, but i couldn't tell. towards the middle of the day the undertaker come with his man, and they set the coffin in the middle of the room on a couple of chairs, and then set all our chairs in rows, and borrowed more from the neighbors till the hall and the parlor and the dining-room was full. i see the coffin lid was the way it was before, but i dasn't go to look in under it, with folks around. then the people begun to flock in, and the beats and the girls took seats in the front row at the head of the coffin, and for a half an hour the people filed around slow, in single rank, and looked down at the dead man's face a minute, and some dropped in a tear, and it was all very still and solemn, only the girls and the beats holding handkerchiefs to their eyes and keeping their heads bent, and sobbing a little. there warn't no other sound but the scraping of the feet on the floor and blowing noses--because people always blows them more at a funeral than they do at other places except church. when the place was packed full the undertaker he slid around in his black gloves with his softy soothering ways, putting on the last touches, and getting people and things all ship-shape and comfortable, and making no more sound than a cat. he never spoke; he moved people around, he squeezed in late ones, he opened up passageways, and done it with nods, and signs with his hands. then he took his place over against the wall. he was the softest, glidingest, stealthiest man i ever see; and there warn't no more smile to him than there is to a ham. they had borrowed a melodeum--a sick one; and when everything was ready a young woman set down and worked it, and it was pretty skreeky and colicky, and everybody joined in and sung, and peter was the only one that had a good thing, according to my notion. then the reverend hobson opened up, slow and solemn, and begun to talk; and straight off the most outrageous row busted out in the cellar a body ever heard; it was only one dog, but he made a most powerful racket, and he kept it up right along; the parson he had to stand there, over the coffin, and wait--you couldn't hear yourself think. it was right down awkward, and nobody didn't seem to know what to do. but pretty soon they see that long-legged undertaker make a sign to the preacher as much as to say, "don't you worry--just depend on me." then he stooped down and begun to glide along the wall, just his shoulders showing over the people's heads. so he glided along, and the powwow and racket getting more and more outrageous all the time; and at last, when he had gone around two sides of the room, he disappears down cellar. then in about two seconds we heard a whack, and the dog he finished up with a most amazing howl or two, and then everything was dead still, and the parson begun his solemn talk where he left off. in a minute or two here comes this undertaker's back and shoulders gliding along the wall again; and so he glided and glided around three sides of the room, and then rose up, and shaded his mouth with his hands, and stretched his neck out towards the preacher, over the people's heads, and says, in a kind of a coarse whisper, "_he had a rat!_" then he drooped down and glided along the wall again to his place. you could see it was a great satisfaction to the people, because naturally they wanted to know. a little thing like that don't cost nothing, and it's just the little things that makes a man to be looked up to and liked. there warn't no more popular man in town than what that undertaker was. well, the funeral sermon was very good, but pison long and tiresome; and then the king he shoved in and got off some of his usual rubbage, and at last the job was through, and the undertaker begun to sneak up on the coffin with his screw-driver. i was in a sweat then, and watched him pretty keen. but he never meddled at all; just slid the lid along as soft as mush, and screwed it down tight and fast. so there i was! i didn't know whether the money was in there or not. so, says i, s'pose somebody has hogged that bag on the sly?--now how do _i_ know whether to write to mary jane or not? s'pose she dug him up and didn't find nothing, what would she think of me? blame it, i says, i might get hunted up and jailed; i'd better lay low and keep dark, and not write at all; the thing's awful mixed now; trying to better it, i've worsened it a hundred times, and i wish to goodness i'd just let it alone, dad fetch the whole business! they buried him, and we come back home, and i went to watching faces again--i couldn't help it, and i couldn't rest easy. but nothing come of it; the faces didn't tell me nothing. the king he visited around in the evening, and sweetened everybody up, and made himself ever so friendly; and he give out the idea that his congregation over in england would be in a sweat about him, so he must hurry and settle up the estate right away and leave for home. he was very sorry he was so pushed, and so was everybody; they wished he could stay longer, but they said they could see it couldn't be done. and he said of course him and william would take the girls home with them; and that pleased everybody too, because then the girls would be well fixed and amongst their own relations; and it pleased the girls, too--tickled them so they clean forgot they ever had a trouble in the world; and told him to sell out as quick as he wanted to, they would be ready. them poor things was that glad and happy it made my heart ache to see them getting fooled and lied to so, but i didn't see no safe way for me to chip in and change the general tune. well, blamed if the king didn't bill the house and the niggers and all the property for auction straight off--sale two days after the funeral; but anybody could buy private beforehand if they wanted to. so the next day after the funeral, along about noon-time, the girls' joy got the first jolt. a couple of nigger-traders come along, and the king sold them the niggers reasonable, for three-day drafts as they called it, and away they went, the two sons up the river to memphis, and their mother down the river to orleans. i thought them poor girls and them niggers would break their hearts for grief; they cried around each other, and took on so it most made me down sick to see it. the girls said they hadn't ever dreamed of seeing the family separated or sold away from the town. i can't ever get it out of my memory, the sight of them poor miserable girls and niggers hanging around each other's necks and crying; and i reckon i couldn't 'a' stood it all, but would 'a' had to bust out and tell on our gang if i hadn't knowed the sale warn't no account and the niggers would be back home in a week or two. the thing made a big stir in the town, too, and a good many come out flatfooted and said it was scandalous to separate the mother and the children that way. it injured the frauds some; but the old fool he bulled right along, spite of all the duke could say or do, and i tell you the duke was powerful uneasy. next day was auction day. about broad day in the morning the king and the duke come up in the garret and woke me up, and i see by their look that there was trouble. the king says: "was you in my room night before last?" "no, your majesty"--which was the way i always called him when nobody but our gang warn't around. "was you in there yisterday er last night?" "no, your majesty." "honor bright, now--no lies." "honor bright, your majesty, i'm telling you the truth. i hain't been a-near your room since miss mary jane took you and the duke and showed it to you." the duke says: "have you seen anybody else go in there?" "no, your grace, not as i remember, i believe." "stop and think." i studied awhile and see my chance; then i says: "well, i see the niggers go in there several times." both of them gave a little jump, and looked like they hadn't ever expected it, and then like they _had_. then the duke says: "what, _all_ of them?" "no--leastways, not all at once--that is, i don't think i ever see them all come _out_ at once but just one time." "hello! when was that?" "it was the day we had the funeral. in the morning. it warn't early, because i overslept. i was just starting down the ladder, and i see them." "well, go on, _go_ on! what did they do? how'd they act?" "they didn't do nothing. and they didn't act anyway much, as fur as i see. they tiptoed away; so i seen, easy enough, that they'd shoved in there to do up your majesty's room, or something, s'posing you was up; and found you _warn't_ up, and so they was hoping to slide out of the way of trouble without waking you up, if they hadn't already waked you up." "great guns, _this_ is a go!" says the king; and both of them looked pretty sick and tolerable silly. they stood there a-thinking and scratching their heads a minute, and the duke he bust into a kind of a little raspy chuckle, and says: "it does beat all how neat the niggers played their hand. they let on to be _sorry_ they was going out of this region! and i believed they _was_ sorry, and so did you, and so did everybody. don't ever tell _me_ any more that a nigger ain't got any histrionic talent. why, the way they played that thing it would fool _anybody._ in my opinion, there's a fortune in 'em. if i had capital and a theater, i wouldn't want a better lay-out than that--and here we've gone and sold 'em for a song. yes, and ain't privileged to sing the song yet. say, where _is_ that song--that draft?" "in the bank for to be collected. where _would_ it be?" "well, that's all right then, thank goodness." says i, kind of timid-like: "is something gone wrong?" the king whirls on me and rips out: "none o' your business! you keep your head shet, and mind y'r own affairs--if you got any. long as you're in this town don't you forgit _that_--you hear?" then he says to the duke, "we got to jest swaller it and say noth'n': mum's the word for _us_." as they was starting down the ladder the duke he chuckles again, and says: "quick sales _and_ small profits! it's a good business--yes." the king snarls around on him and says: "i was trying to do for the best in sellin' 'em out so quick. if the profits has turned out to be none, lackin' considable, and none to carry, is it my fault any more'n it's yourn?" "well, _they'd_ be in this house yet and we _wouldn't_ if i could 'a' got my advice listened to." the king sassed back as much as was safe for him, and then swapped around and lit into _me_ again. he give me down the banks for not coming and _telling_ him i see the niggers come out of his room acting that way--said any fool would 'a' _knowed_ something was up. and then waltzed in and cussed _himself_ awhile, and said it all come of him not laying late and taking his natural rest that morning, and he'd be blamed if he'd ever do it again. so they went off a-jawing; and i felt dreadful glad i'd worked it all off onto the niggers, and yet hadn't done the niggers no harm by it. chapter xxviii by and by it was getting-up time. so i come down the ladder and started for down-stairs; but as i come to the girls' room the door was open, and i see mary jane setting by her old hair trunk, which was open and she'd been packing things in it--getting ready to go to england. but she had stopped now with a folded gown in her lap, and had her face in her hands, crying. i felt awful bad to see it; of course anybody would. i went in there and says: "miss mary jane, you can't a-bear to see people in trouble, and _i_ can't--most always. tell me about it." so she done it. and it was the niggers--i just expected it. she said the beautiful trip to england was most about spoiled for her; she didn't know _how_ she was ever going to be happy there, knowing the mother and the children warn't ever going to see each other no more--and then busted out bitterer than ever, and flung up her hands, and says: "oh, dear, dear, to think they ain't _ever_ going to see each other any more!" "but they _will_--and inside of two weeks--and i _know_ it!" says i. laws, it was out before i could think! and before i could budge she throws her arms around my neck and told me to say it _again_, say it _again_, say it _again!_ i see i had spoke too sudden and said too much, and was in a close place. i asked her to let me think a minute; and she set there, very impatient and excited and handsome, but looking kind of happy and eased-up, like a person that's had a tooth pulled out. so i went to studying it out. i says to myself, i reckon a body that ups and tells the truth when he is in a tight place is taking considerable many resks, though i ain't had no experience, and can't say for certain; but it looks so to me, anyway; and yet here's a case where i'm blest if it don't look to me like the truth is better and actuly _safer_ than a lie. i must lay it by in my mind, and think it over some time or other, it's so kind of strange and unregular. i never see nothing like it. well, i says to myself at last, i'm a-going to chance it; i'll up and tell the truth this time, though it does seem most _like_ setting down on a kag of powder and touching it off just to see where you'll go to. then i says: "miss mary jane, is there any place out of town a little ways where you could go and stay three or four days?" "yes; mr. lothrop's. why?" "never mind why yet. if i'll tell you how i know the niggers will see each other again--inside of two weeks--here in this house--and _prove_ how i know it--will you go to mr. lothrop's and stay four days?" "four days!" she says; "i'll stay a year!" "all right," i says, "i don't want nothing more out of _you_ than just your word--i druther have it than another man's kiss-the-bible." she smiled and reddened up very sweet, and i says, "if you don't mind it, i'll shut the door--and bolt it." then i come back and set down again, and says: "don't you holler. just set still and take it like a man. i got to tell the truth, and you want to brace up, miss mary, because it's a bad kind, and going to be hard to take, but there ain't no help for it. these uncles of yourn ain't no uncles at all; they're a couple of frauds--regular dead-beats. there, now we're over the worst of it, you can stand the rest middling easy." it jolted her up like everything, of course; but i was over the shoal water now, so i went right along, her eyes a-blazing higher and higher all the time, and told her every blame thing, from where we first struck that young fool going up to the steamboat, clear through to where she flung herself onto the king's breast at the front door and he kissed her sixteen or seventeen times--and then up she jumps, with her face afire like sunset, and says: "the brute! come, don't waste a minute--not a _second_--we'll have them tarred and feathered, and flung in the river!" says i: "cert'nly. but do you mean _before_ you go to mr. lothrop's, or--" "oh," she says, "what am i _thinking_ about!" she says, and set right down again. "don't mind what i said--please don't--you _won't_, now, _will_ you?" laying her silky hand on mine in that kind of a way that i said i would die first. "i never thought, i was so stirred up," she says; "now go on, and i won't do so any more. you tell me what to do, and whatever you say i'll do it." "well," i says, "it's a rough gang, them two frauds, and i'm fixed so i got to travel with them a while longer, whether i want to or not--i druther not tell you why; and if you was to blow on them this town would get me out of their claws, and i'd be all right; but there'd be another person that you don't know about who'd be in big trouble. well, we got to save _him_, hain't we? of course. well, then, we won't blow on them." saying them words put a good idea in my head. i see how maybe i could get me and jim rid of the frauds; get them jailed here, and then leave. but i didn't want to run the raft in the daytime without anybody aboard to answer questions but me; so i didn't want the plan to begin working till pretty late to-night. i says: "miss mary jane, i'll tell you what we'll do, and you won't have to stay at mr. lothrop's so long, nuther. how fur is it?" "a little short of four miles--right out in the country, back here." "well, that 'll answer. now you go along out there, and lay low till nine or half past to-night, and then get them to fetch you home again--tell them you've thought of something. if you get here before eleven put a candle in this window, and if i don't turn up wait _till_ eleven, and _then_ if i don't turn up it means i'm gone, and out of the way, and safe. then you come out and spread the news around, and get these beats jailed." "good," she says, "i'll do it." "and if it just happens so that i don't get away, but get took up along with them, you must up and say i told you the whole thing beforehand, and you must stand by me all you can." "stand by you! indeed i will. they sha'n't touch a hair of your head!" she says, and i see her nostrils spread and her eyes snap when she said it, too. "if i get away i sha'n't be here," i says, "to prove these rapscallions ain't your uncles, and i couldn't do it if i _was_ here. i could swear they was beats and bummers, that's all, though that's worth something. well, there's others can do that better than what i can, and they're people that ain't going to be doubted as quick as i'd be. i'll tell you how to find them. gimme a pencil and a piece of paper. there--'_royal nonesuch, bricksville._' put it away, and don't lose it. when the court wants to find out something about these two, let them send up to bricksville and say they've got the men that played the 'royal nonesuch,' and ask for some witnesses--why, you'll have that entire town down here before you can hardly wink, miss mary. and they'll come a-biling, too." i judged we had got everything fixed about right now. so i says: "just let the auction go right along, and don't worry. nobody don't have to pay for the things they buy till a whole day after the auction on accounts of the short notice, and they ain't going out of this till they get that money; and the way we've fixed it the sale ain't going to count, and they ain't going to get no money. it's just like the way it was with the niggers--it warn't no sale, and the niggers will be back before long. why, they can't collect the money for the _niggers_ yet--they're in the worst kind of a fix, miss mary." "well," she says, "i'll run down to breakfast now, and then i'll start straight for mr. lothrop's." "'deed, _that_ ain't the ticket, miss mary jane," i says, "by no manner of means; go _before_ breakfast." "why?" "what did you reckon i wanted you to go at all for, miss mary?" "well, i never thought--and come to think, i don't know. what was it?" "why, it's because you ain't one of these leather-face people. i don't want no better book than what your face is. a body can set down and read it off like coarse print. do you reckon you can go and face your uncles when they come to kiss you good-morning, and never--" "there, there, don't! yes, i'll go before breakfast--i'll be glad to. and leave my sisters with them?" "yes; never mind about them. they've got to stand it yet awhile. they might suspicion something if all of you was to go. i don't want you to see them, nor your sisters, nor nobody in this town; if a neighbor was to ask how is your uncles this morning your face would tell something. no, you go right along, miss mary jane, and i'll fix it with all of them. i'll tell miss susan to give your love to your uncles and say you've went away for a few hours for to get a little rest and change, or to see a friend, and you'll be back to-night or early in the morning." "gone to see a friend is all right, but i won't have my love given to them." "well, then, it sha'n't be." it was well enough to tell _her_ so--no harm in it. it was only a little thing to do, and no trouble; and it's the little things that smooths people's roads the most, down here below; it would make mary jane comfortable, and it wouldn't cost nothing. then i says: "there's one more thing--that bag of money." "well, they've got that; and it makes me feel pretty silly to think _how_ they got it." "no, you're out, there. they hain't got it." "why, who's got it?" "i wish i knowed, but i don't. i _had_ it, because i stole it from them; and i stole it to give to you; and i know where i hid it, but i'm afraid it ain't there no more. i'm awful sorry, miss mary jane, i'm just as sorry as i can be; but i done the best i could; i did honest. i come nigh getting caught, and i had to shove it into the first place i come to, and run--and it warn't a good place." "oh, stop blaming yourself--it's too bad to do it, and i won't allow it--you couldn't help it; it wasn't your fault. where did you hide it?" i didn't want to set her to thinking about her troubles again; and i couldn't seem to get my mouth to tell her what would make her see that corpse laying in the coffin with that bag of money on his stomach. so for a minute i didn't say nothing; then i says: "i'd ruther not _tell_ you where i put it, miss mary jane, if you don't mind letting me off; but i'll write it for you on a piece of paper, and you can read it along the road to mr. lothrop's, if you want to. do you reckon that 'll do?" "oh, yes." so i wrote: "i put it in the coffin. it was in there when you was crying there, away in the night. i was behind the door, and i was mighty sorry for you, miss mary jane." it made my eyes water a little to remember her crying there all by herself in the night, and them devils laying there right under her own roof, shaming her and robbing her; and when i folded it up and give it to her i see the water come into her eyes, too; and she shook me by the hand, hard, and says: "_good_-by. i'm going to do everything just as you've told me; and if i don't ever see you again, i sha'n't ever forget you, and i'll think of you a many and a many a time, and i'll _pray_ for you, too!"--and she was gone. pray for me! i reckoned if she knowed me she'd take a job that was more nearer her size. but i bet she done it, just the same--she was just that kind. she had the grit to pray for judus if she took the notion--there warn't no back-down to her, i judge. you may say what you want to, but in my opinion she had more sand in her than any girl i ever see; in my opinion she was just full of sand. it sounds like flattery, but it ain't no flattery. and when it comes to beauty--and goodness, too--she lays over them all. i hain't ever seen her since that time that i see her go out of that door; no, i hain't ever seen her since, but i reckon i've thought of her a many and a many a million times, and of her saying she would pray for me; and if ever i'd 'a' thought it would do any good for me to pray for _her_, blamed if i wouldn't 'a' done it or bust. well, mary jane she lit out the back way, i reckon; because nobody see her go. when i struck susan and the hare-lip, i says: "what's the name of them people over on t'other side of the river that you all goes to see sometimes?" they says: "there's several; but it's the proctors, mainly." "that's the name," i says; "i most forgot it. well, miss mary jane she told me to tell you she's gone over there in a dreadful hurry--one of them's sick." "which one?" "i don't know; leastways, i kinder forget; but i thinks it's--" "sakes alive, i hope it ain't _hanner?_" "i'm sorry to say it," i says, "but hanner's the very one." "my goodness, and she so well only last week! is she took bad?" "it ain't no name for it. they set up with her all night, miss mary jane said, and they don't think she'll last many hours." "only think of that, now! what's the matter with her?" i couldn't think of anything reasonable, right off that way, so i says: "mumps." "mumps your granny! they don't set up with people that's got the mumps." "they don't, don't they? you better bet they do with _these_ mumps. these mumps is different. it's a new kind, miss mary jane said." "how's it a new kind?" "because it's mixed up with other things." "what other things?" "well, measles, and whooping-cough, and erysiplas, and consumption, and yaller janders, and brain-fever, and i don't know what all." "my land! and they call it the _mumps?_" "that's what miss mary jane said." "well, what in the nation do they call it the _mumps_ for?" "why, because it _is_ the mumps. that's what it starts with." "well, ther' ain't no sense in it. a body might stump his toe, and take pison, and fall down the well, and break his neck, and bust his brains out, and somebody come along and ask what killed him, and some numskull up and say, 'why, he stumped his _toe_.' would ther' be any sense in that? _no_. and ther' ain't no sense in _this_, nuther. is it ketching?" "is it _ketching?_ why, how you talk. is a _harrow_ catching--in the dark? if you don't hitch on to one tooth, you're bound to on another, ain't you? and you can't get away with that tooth without fetching the whole harrow along, can you? well, these kind of mumps is a kind of a harrow, as you may say--and it ain't no slouch of a harrow, nuther, you come to get it hitched on good." "well, it's awful, i think," says the hare-lip. "i'll go to uncle harvey and--" "oh, yes," i says, "i _would._ of _course_ i would. i wouldn't lose no time." "well, why wouldn't you?" "just look at it a minute, and maybe you can see. hain't your uncles obleeged to get along home to england as fast as they can? and do you reckon they'd be mean enough to go off and leave you to go all that journey by yourselves? _you_ know they'll wait for you. so fur, so good. your uncle harvey's a preacher, ain't he? very well, then; is a _preacher_ going to deceive a steamboat clerk? is he going to deceive a _ship clerk?_--so as to get them to let miss mary jane go aboard? now _you_ know he ain't. what _will_ he do, then? why, he'll say, 'it's a great pity, but my church matters has got to get along the best way they can; for my niece has been exposed to the dreadful pluribus-unum mumps, and so it's my bounden duty to set down here and wait the three months it takes to show on her if she's got it.' but never mind, if you think it's best to tell your uncle harvey--" "shucks, and stay fooling around here when we could all be having good times in england whilst we was waiting to find out whether mary jane's got it or not? why, you talk like a muggins." "well, anyway, maybe you'd better tell some of the neighbors." "listen at that, now. you do beat all for natural stupidness. can't you _see_ that _they'd_ go and tell? ther' ain't no way but just to not tell anybody at _all_." "well, maybe you're right--yes, i judge you _are_ right." "but i reckon we ought to tell uncle harvey she's gone out awhile, anyway, so he won't be uneasy about her?" "yes, miss mary jane she wanted you to do that. she says, 'tell them to give uncle harvey and william my love and a kiss, and say i've run over the river to see mr.'--mr.--what _is_ the name of that rich family your uncle peter used to think so much of?--i mean the one that--" "why, you must mean the apthorps, ain't it?" "of course; bother them kind of names, a body can't ever seem to remember them, half the time, somehow. yes, she said, say she has run over for to ask the apthorps to be sure and come to the auction and buy this house, because she allowed her uncle peter would ruther they had it than anybody else; and she's going to stick to them till they say they'll come, and then, if she ain't too tired, she's coming home; and if she is, she'll be home in the morning anyway. she said, don't say nothing about the proctors, but only about the apthorps--which 'll be perfectly true, because she is going there to speak about their buying the house; i know it, because she told me so herself." "all right," they said, and cleared out to lay for their uncles, and give them the love and the kisses, and tell them the message. everything was all right now. the girls wouldn't say nothing because they wanted to go to england; and the king and the duke would ruther mary jane was off working for the auction than around in reach of doctor robinson. i felt very good; i judged i had done it pretty neat--i reckoned tom sawyer couldn't 'a' done it no neater himself. of course he would 'a' throwed more style into it, but i can't do that very handy, not being brung up to it. well, they held the auction in the public square, along towards the end of the afternoon, and it strung along, and strung along, and the old man he was on hand and looking his level pisonest, up there longside of the auctioneer, and chipping in a little scripture now and then, or a little goody-goody saying of some kind, and the duke he was around goo-gooing for sympathy all he knowed how, and just spreading himself generly. but by and by the thing dragged through, and everything was sold--everything but a little old trifling lot in the graveyard. so they'd got to work _that_ off--i never see such a girafft as the king was for wanting to swallow _everything_. well, whilst they was at it a steamboat landed, and in about two minutes up comes a crowd a-whooping and yelling and laughing and carrying on, and singing out: "_here's_ your opposition line! here's your two sets o' heirs to old peter wilks--and you pays your money and you takes your choice!" chapter xxix they was fetching a very nice-looking old gentleman along, and a nice-looking younger one, with his right arm in a sling. and, my souls, how the people yelled and laughed, and kept it up. but i didn't see no joke about it, and i judged it would strain the duke and the king some to see any. i reckoned they'd turn pale. but no, nary a pale did _they_ turn. the duke he never let on he suspicioned what was up, but just went a goo-gooing around, happy and satisfied, like a jug that's googling out buttermilk; and as for the king, he just gazed and gazed down sorrowful on them new-comers like it give him the stomach-ache in his very heart to think there could be such frauds and rascals in the world. oh, he done it admirable. lots of the principal people gethered around the king, to let him see they was on his side. that old gentleman that had just come looked all puzzled to death. pretty soon he begun to speak, and i see straight off he pronounced _like_ an englishman--not the king's way, though the king's _was_ pretty good for an imitation. i can't give the old gent's words, nor i can't imitate him; but he turned around to the crowd, and says, about like this: "this is a surprise to me which i wasn't looking for; and i'll acknowledge, candid and frank, i ain't very well fixed to meet it and answer it; for my brother and me has had misfortunes; he's broke his arm, and our baggage got put off at a town above here last night in the night by a mistake. i am peter wilks's brother harvey, and this is his brother william, which can't hear nor speak--and can't even make signs to amount to much, now't he's only got one hand to work them with. we are who we say we are; and in a day or two, when i get the baggage, i can prove it. but up till then i won't say nothing more, but go to the hotel and wait." so him and the new dummy started off; and the king he laughs, and blethers out: "broke his arm--_very_ likely, _ain't_ it?--and very convenient, too, for a fraud that's got to make signs, and ain't learnt how. lost their baggage! that's _mighty_ good!--and mighty ingenious--under the _circumstances!_" so he laughed again; and so did everybody else, except three or four, or maybe half a dozen. one of these was that doctor; another one was a sharp-looking gentleman, with a carpet-bag of the old-fashioned kind made out of carpet-stuff, that had just come off of the steamboat and was talking to him in a low voice, and glancing towards the king now and then and nodding their heads--it was levi bell, the lawyer that was gone up to louisville; and another one was a big rough husky that come along and listened to all the old gentlemen said, and was listening to the king now. and when the king got done this husky up and says: "say, looky here; if you are harvey wilks, when'd you come to this town?" "the day before the funeral, friend," says the king. "but what time o' day?" "in the evenin'--'bout an hour er two before sundown." "how'd you come?" "i come down on the _susan powell_ from cincinnati." "well, then, how'd you come to be up at the pint in the _mornin_'--in a canoe?" "i warn't up at the pint in the mornin'." "it's a lie." several of them jumped for him and begged him not to talk that way to an old man and a preacher. "preacher be hanged, he's a fraud and a liar. he was up at the pint that mornin'. i live up there, don't i? well, i was up there, and he was up there. i see him there. he come in a canoe, along with tim collins and a boy." the doctor he up and says: "would you know the boy again if you was to see him, hines?" "i reckon i would, but i don't know. why, yonder he is, now. i know him perfectly easy." it was me he pointed at. the doctor says: "neighbors, i don't know whether the new couple is frauds or not; but if _these_ two ain't frauds, i am an idiot, that's all. i think it's our duty to see that they don't get away from here till we've looked into this thing. come along, hines; come along, the rest of you. we'll take these fellows to the tavern and affront them with t'other couple, and i reckon we'll find out _something_ before we get through." it was nuts for the crowd, though maybe not for the king's friends; so we all started. it was about sundown. the doctor he led me along by the hand, and was plenty kind enough, but he never let go my hand. we all got in a big room in the hotel, and lit up some candles, and fetched in the new couple. first, the doctor says: "i don't wish to be too hard on these two men, but i think they're frauds, and they may have complices that we don't know nothing about. if they have, won't the complices get away with that bag of gold peter wilks left? it ain't unlikely. if these men ain't frauds, they won't object to sending for that money and letting us keep it till they prove they're all right--ain't that so?" everybody agreed to that. so i judged they had our gang in a pretty tight place right at the outstart. but the king he only looked sorrowful, and says: "gentlemen, i wish the money was there, for i ain't got no disposition to throw anything in the way of a fair, open, out-and-out investigation o' this misable business; but, alas, the money ain't there; you k'n send and see, if you want to." "where is it, then?" "well, when my niece give it to me to keep for her i took and hid it inside o' the straw tick o' my bed, not wishin' to bank it for the few days we'd be here, and considerin' the bed a safe place, we not bein' used to niggers, and suppos'n' 'em honest, like servants in england. the niggers stole it the very next mornin' after i had went down-stairs; and when i sold 'em i hadn't missed the money yit, so they got clean away with it. my servant here k'n tell you 'bout it, gentlemen." the doctor and several said "shucks!" and i see nobody didn't altogether believe him. one man asked me if i see the niggers steal it. i said no, but i see them sneaking out of the room and hustling away, and i never thought nothing, only i reckoned they was afraid they had waked up my master and was trying to get away before he made trouble with them. that was all they asked me. then the doctor whirls on me and says: "are _you_ english, too?" i says yes; and him and some others laughed, and said, "stuff!" well, then they sailed in on the general investigation, and there we had it, up and down, hour in, hour out, and nobody never said a word about supper, nor ever seemed to think about it--and so they kept it up, and kept it up; and it _was_ the worst mixed-up thing you ever see. they made the king tell his yarn, and they made the old gentleman tell his'n; and anybody but a lot of prejudiced chuckleheads would 'a' _seen_ that the old gentleman was spinning truth and t'other one lies. and by and by they had me up to tell what i knowed. the king he give me a left-handed look out of the corner of his eye, and so i knowed enough to talk on the right side. i begun to tell about sheffield, and how we lived there, and all about the english wilkses, and so on; but i didn't get pretty fur till the doctor begun to laugh; and levi bell, the lawyer, says: "set down, my boy; i wouldn't strain myself if i was you. i reckon you ain't used to lying, it don't seem to come handy; what you want is practice. you do it pretty awkward." i didn't care nothing for the compliment, but i was glad to be let off, anyway. the doctor he started to say something, and turns and says: "if you'd been in town at first, levi bell--" the king broke in and reached out his hand, and says: "why, is this my poor dead brother's old friend that he's wrote so often about?" the lawyer and him shook hands, and the lawyer smiled and looked pleased, and they talked right along awhile, and then got to one side and talked low; and at last the lawyer speaks up and says: "that 'll fix it. i'll take the order and send it, along with your brother's, and then they'll know it's all right." so they got some paper and a pen, and the king he set down and twisted his head to one side, and chawed his tongue, and scrawled off something; and then they give the pen to the duke--and then for the first time the duke looked sick. but he took the pen and wrote. so then the lawyer turns to the new old gentleman and says: "you and your brother please write a line or two and sign your names." the old gentleman wrote, but nobody couldn't read it. the lawyer looked powerful astonished, and says: "well, it beats _me_--and snaked a lot of old letters out of his pocket, and examined them, and then examined the old man's writing, and then _them_ again; and then says: "these old letters is from harvey wilks; and here's _these_ two handwritings, and anybody can see _they_ didn't write them" (the king and the duke looked sold and foolish, i tell you, to see how the lawyer had took them in), "and here's _this_ old gentleman's handwriting, and anybody can tell, easy enough, _he_ didn't write them--fact is, the scratches he makes ain't properly _writing_ at all. now, here's some letters from--" the new old gentleman says: "if you please, let me explain. nobody can read my hand but my brother there--so he copies for me. it's _his_ hand you've got there, not mine." "_well!_" says the lawyer, "this _is_ a state of things. i've got some of william's letters, too; so if you'll get him to write a line or so we can com--" "he _can't_ write with his left hand," says the old gentleman. "if he could use his right hand, you would see that he wrote his own letters and mine too. look at both, please--they're by the same hand." the lawyer done it, and says: "i believe it's so--and if it ain't so, there's a heap stronger resemblance than i'd noticed before, anyway. well, well, well! i thought we was right on the track of a slution, but it's gone to grass, partly. but anyway, _one_ thing is proved--_these_ two ain't either of 'em wilkses"--and he wagged his head towards the king and the duke. well, what do you think? that mule-headed old fool wouldn't give in _then!_ indeed he wouldn't. said it warn't no fair test. said his brother william was the cussedest joker in the world, and hadn't _tried_ to write--_he_ see william was going to play one of his jokes the minute he put the pen to paper. and so he warmed up and went warbling right along till he was actuly beginning to believe what he was saying _himself_; but pretty soon the new gentleman broke in, and says: "i've thought of something. is there anybody here that helped to lay out my br--helped to lay out the late peter wilks for burying?" "yes," says somebody, "me and ab turner done it. we're both here." then the old man turns toward the king, and says: "peraps this gentleman can tell me what was tattooed on his breast?" blamed if the king didn't have to brace up mighty quick, or he'd 'a' squshed down like a bluff bank that the river has cut under, it took him so sudden; and, mind you, it was a thing that was calculated to make most _anybody_ sqush to get fetched such a solid one as that without any notice, because how was _he_ going to know what was tattooed on the man? he whitened a little; he couldn't help it; and it was mighty still in there, and everybody bending a little forwards and gazing at him. says i to myself, _now_ he'll throw up the sponge--there ain't no more use. well, did he? a body can't hardly believe it, but he didn't. i reckon he thought he'd keep the thing up till he tired them people out, so they'd thin out, and him and the duke could break loose and get away. anyway, he set there, and pretty soon he begun to smile, and says: "mf! it's a _very_ tough question, _ain't_ it! _yes_, sir, i k'n tell you what's tattooed on his breast. it's jest a small, thin, blue arrow--that's what it is; and if you don't look clost, you can't see it. _now_ what do you say--hey?" well, _i_ never see anything like that old blister for clean out-and-out cheek. the new old gentleman turns brisk towards ab turner and his pard, and his eye lights up like he judged he'd got the king _this_ time, and says: "there--you've heard what he said! was there any such mark on peter wilks's breast?" both of them spoke up and says: "we didn't see no such mark." "good!" says the old gentleman. "now, what you _did_ see on his breast was a small dim p, and a b (which is an initial he dropped when he was young), and a w, and dashes between them, so: p--b--w"--and he marked them that way on a piece of paper. "come, ain't that what you saw?" both of them spoke up again, and says: "no, we _didn't_. we never seen any marks at all." well, everybody _was_ in a state of mind now, and they sings out: "the whole _bilin'_ of 'm 's frauds! le's duck 'em! le's drown 'em! le's ride 'em on a rail!" and everybody was whooping at once, and there was a rattling powwow. but the lawyer he jumps on the table and yells, and says: "gentlemen--gentle_men!_ hear me just a word--just a _single_ word--if you please! there's one way yet--let's go and dig up the corpse and look." that took them. "hooray!" they all shouted, and was starting right off; but the lawyer and the doctor sung out: "hold on, hold on! collar all these four men and the boy, and fetch _them_ along, too!" "we'll do it!" they all shouted; "and if we don't find them marks we'll lynch the whole gang!" i _was_ scared, now, i tell you. but there warn't no getting away, you know. they gripped us all, and marched us right along, straight for the graveyard, which was a mile and a half down the river, and the whole town at our heels, for we made noise enough, and it was only nine in the evening. as we went by our house i wished i hadn't sent mary jane out of town; because now if i could tip her the wink she'd light out and save me, and blow on our dead-beats. well, we swarmed along down the river road, just carrying on like wildcats; and to make it more scary the sky was darking up, and the lightning beginning to wink and flitter, and the wind to shiver amongst the leaves. this was the most awful trouble and most dangersome i ever was in; and i was kinder stunned; everything was going so different from what i had allowed for; stead of being fixed so i could take my own time if i wanted to, and see all the fun, and have mary jane at my back to save me and set me free when the close-fit come, here was nothing in the world betwixt me and sudden death but just them tattoo-marks. if they didn't find them-- i couldn't bear to think about it; and yet, somehow, i couldn't think about nothing else. it got darker and darker, and it was a beautiful time to give the crowd the slip; but that big husky had me by the wrist--hines--and a body might as well try to give goliar the slip. he dragged me right along, he was so excited, and i had to run to keep up. when they got there they swarmed into the graveyard and washed over it like an overflow. and when they got to the grave they found they had about a hundred times as many shovels as they wanted, but nobody hadn't thought to fetch a lantern. but they sailed into digging anyway by the flicker of the lightning, and sent a man to the nearest house, a half a mile off, to borrow one. so they dug and dug like everything; and it got awful dark, and the rain started, and the wind swished and swushed along, and the lightning come brisker and brisker, and the thunder boomed; but them people never took no notice of it, they was so full of this business; and one minute you could see everything and every face in that big crowd, and the shovelfuls of dirt sailing up out of the grave, and the next second the dark wiped it all out, and you couldn't see nothing at all. at last they got out the coffin and begun to unscrew the lid, and then such another crowding and shouldering and shoving as there was, to scrouge in and get a sight, you never see; and in the dark, that way, it was awful. hines he hurt my wrist dreadful pulling and tugging so, and i reckon he clean forgot i was in the world, he was so excited and panting. all of a sudden the lightning let go a perfect sluice of white glare, and somebody sings out: "by the living jingo, here's the bag of gold on his breast!" hines let out a whoop, like everybody else, and dropped my wrist and give a big surge to bust his way in and get a look, and the way i lit out and shinned for the road in the dark there ain't nobody can tell. i had the road all to myself, and i fairly flew--leastways, i had it all to myself except the solid dark, and the now-and-then glares, and the buzzing of the rain, and the thrashing of the wind, and the splitting of the thunder; and sure as you are born i did clip it along! when i struck the town i see there warn't nobody out in the storm, so i never hunted for no back streets, but humped it straight through the main one; and when i begun to get towards our house i aimed my eye and set it. no light there; the house all dark--which made me feel sorry and disappointed, i didn't know why. but at last, just as i was sailing by, _flash_ comes the light in mary jane's window! and my heart swelled up sudden, like to bust; and the same second the house and all was behind me in the dark, and wasn't ever going to be before me no more in this world. she _was_ the best girl i ever see, and had the most sand. the minute i was far enough above the town to see i could make the towhead, i begun to look sharp for a boat to borrow, and the first time the lightning showed me one that wasn't chained i snatched it and shoved. it was a canoe, and warn't fastened with nothing but a rope. the towhead was a rattling big distance off, away out there in the middle of the river, but i didn't lose no time; and when i struck the raft at last i was so fagged i would 'a' just laid down to blow and gasp if i could afforded it. but i didn't. as i sprung aboard i sung out: "out with you, jim, and set her loose! glory be to goodness, we're shut of them!" jim lit out, and was a-coming for me with both arms spread, he was so full of joy; but when i glimpsed him in the lightning my heart shot up in my mouth and i went overboard backwards; for i forgot he was old king lear and a drownded a-rab all in one, and it most scared the livers and lights out of me. but jim fished me out, and was going to hug me and bless me, and so on, he was so glad i was back and we was shut of the king and the duke, but i says: "not now; have it for breakfast, have it for breakfast! cut loose and let her slide!" so in two seconds away we went a-sliding down the river, and it _did_ seem so good to be free again and all by ourselves on the big river, and nobody to bother us. i had to skip around a bit, and jump up and crack my heels a few times--i couldn't help it; but about the third crack i noticed a sound that i knowed mighty well, and held my breath and listened and waited; and sure enough, when the next flash busted out over the water, here they come!--and just a-laying to their oars and making their skiff hum! it was the king and the duke. so i wilted right down onto the planks then, and give up; and it was all i could do to keep from crying. chapter xxx when they got aboard the king went for me, and shook me by the collar, and says: "tryin' to give us the slip, was ye, you pup! tired of our company, hey?" i says: "no, your majesty, we warn't--_please_ don't, your majesty!" "quick, then, and tell us what _was_ your idea, or i'll shake the insides out o' you!" "honest, i'll tell you everything just as it happened, your majesty. the man that had a-holt of me was very good to me, and kept saying he had a boy about as big as me that died last year, and he was sorry to see a boy in such a dangerous fix; and when they was all took by surprise by finding the gold, and made a rush for the coffin, he lets go of me and whispers, 'heel it now, or they'll hang ye, sure!' and i lit out. it didn't seem no good for _me_ to stay--i couldn't do nothing, and i didn't want to be _hung_ if i could get away. so i never stopped running till i found the canoe; and when i got here i told jim to hurry, or they'd catch me and hang me yet, and said i was afeard you and the duke wasn't alive now, and i was awful sorry, and so was jim, and was awful glad when we see you coming; you may ask jim if i didn't." jim said it was so; and the king told him to shut up, and said, "oh, yes, it's _mighty_ likely!" and shook me up again, and said he reckoned he'd drownd me. but the duke says: "leggo the boy, you old idiot! would _you_ 'a' done any different? did you inquire around for _him_ when you got loose? i don't remember it." so the king let go of me, and begun to cuss that town and everybody in it. but the duke says: "you better a blame' sight give _yourself_ a good cussing, for you're the one that's entitled to it most. you hain't done a thing from the start that had any sense in it, except coming out so cool and cheeky with that imaginary blue-arrow mark. that _was_ bright--it was right down bully; and it was the thing that saved us. for if it hadn't been for that they'd 'a' jailed us till them englishmen's baggage come--and then--the penitentiary, you bet! but that trick took 'em to the graveyard, and the gold done us a still bigger kindness; for if the excited fools hadn't let go all holts and made that rush to get a look we'd 'a' slept in our cravats to-night--cravats warranted to _wear_, too--longer than _we'd_ need 'em." they was still a minute--thinking; then the king says, kind of absent-minded like: "mf! and we reckoned the _niggers_ stole it!" that made me squirm! "yes," says the duke, kinder slow and deliberate and sarcastic, "_we_ did." after about a half a minute the king drawls out: "leastways, i did." the duke says, the same way: "on the contrary, _i_ did." the king kind of ruffles up, and says: "looky here, bilgewater, what'r you referrin' to?" the duke says, pretty brisk: "when it comes to that, maybe you'll let me ask what was _you_ referring to?" "shucks!" says the king, very sarcastic; "but _i_ don't know--maybe you was asleep, and didn't know what you was about." the duke bristles up now, and says: "oh, let _up_ on this cussed nonsense; do you take me for a blame' fool? don't you reckon i know who hid that money in that coffin?" "_yes_, sir! i know you _do_ know, because you done it yourself!" "it's a lie!"--and the duke went for him. the king sings out: "take y'r hands off!--leggo my throat!--i take it all back!" the duke says: "well, you just own up, first, that you _did_ hide that money there, intending to give me the slip one of these days, and come back and dig it up, and have it all to yourself." "wait jest a minute, duke--answer me this one question, honest and fair; if you didn't put the money there, say it, and i'll b'lieve you, and take back everything i said." "you old scoundrel, i didn't, and you know i didn't. there, now!" "well, then, i b'lieve you. but answer me only jest this one more--now _don't_ git mad; didn't you have it in your mind to hook the money and hide it?" the duke never said nothing for a little bit; then he says: "well, i don't care if i _did_, i didn't _do_ it, anyway. but you not only had it in mind to do it, but you _done_ it." "i wisht i never die if i done it, duke, and that's honest. i won't say i warn't goin' to do it, because i _was_; but you--i mean somebody--got in ahead o' me." "it's a lie! you done it, and you got to _say_ you done it, or--" the king began to gurgle, and then he gasps out: "'nough!--i _own up!_" i was very glad to hear him say that; it made me feel much more easier than what i was feeling before. so the duke took his hands off and says: "if you ever deny it again i'll drown you. it's _well_ for you to set there and blubber like a baby--it's fitten for you, after the way you've acted. i never see such an old ostrich for wanting to gobble everything--and i a-trusting you all the time, like you was my own father. you ought to been ashamed of yourself to stand by and hear it saddled on to a lot of poor niggers, and you never say a word for 'em. it makes me feel ridiculous to think i was soft enough to _believe_ that rubbage. cuss you, i can see now why you was so anxious to make up the deffisit--you wanted to get what money i'd got out of the 'none-such' and one thing or another, and scoop it _all!_" the king says, timid, and still a-snuffling: "why, duke, it was you that said make up the deffersit; it warn't me." "dry up! i don't want to hear no more out of you!" says the duke. "and _now_ you see what you _got_ by it. they've got all their own money back, and all of _ourn_ but a shekel or two _besides_. g'long to bed, and don't you deffersit _me_ no more deffersits, long 's _you_ live!" so the king sneaked into the wigwam and took to his bottle for comfort, and before long the duke tackled _his_ bottle; and so in about a half an hour they was as thick as thieves again, and the tighter they got the lovinger they got, and went off a-snoring in each other's arms. they both got powerful mellow, but i noticed the king didn't get mellow enough to forget to remember to not deny about hiding the money-bag again. that made me feel easy and satisfied. of course when they got to snoring we had a long gabble, and i told jim everything. chapter xxxi we dasn't stop again at any town for days and days; kept right along down the river. we was down south in the warm weather now, and a mighty long ways from home. we begun to come to trees with spanish moss on them, hanging down from the limbs like long, gray beards. it was the first i ever see it growing, and it made the woods look solemn and dismal. so now the frauds reckoned they was out of danger, and they begun to work the villages again. first they done a lecture on temperance; but they didn't make enough for them both to get drunk on. then in another village they started a dancing-school; but they didn't know no more how to dance than a kangaroo does; so the first prance they made the general public jumped in and pranced them out of town. another time they tried to go at yellocution; but they didn't yellocute long till the audience got up and give them a solid good cussing, and made them skip out. they tackled missionarying, and mesmerizing, and doctoring, and telling fortunes, and a little of everything; but they couldn't seem to have no luck. so at last they got just about dead broke, and laid around the raft as she floated along, thinking and thinking, and never saying nothing, by the half a day at a time, and dreadful blue and desperate. and at last they took a change and begun to lay their heads together in the wigwam and talk low and confidential two or three hours at a time. jim and me got uneasy. we didn't like the look of it. we judged they was studying up some kind of worse deviltry than ever. we turned it over and over, and at last we made up our minds they was going to break into somebody's house or store, or was going into the counterfeit-money business, or something. so then we was pretty scared, and made up an agreement that we wouldn't have nothing in the world to do with such actions, and if we ever got the least show we would give them the cold shake and clear out and leave them behind. well, early one morning we hid the raft in a good, safe place about two mile below a little bit of a shabby village named pikesville, and the king he went ashore and told us all to stay hid whilst he went up to town and smelt around to see if anybody had got any wind of the "royal nonesuch" there yet. ("house to rob, you _mean_," says i to myself; "and when you get through robbing it you'll come back here and wonder what has become of me and jim and the raft--and you'll have to take it out in wondering.") and he said if he warn't back by midday the duke and me would know it was all right, and we was to come along. so we stayed where we was. the duke he fretted and sweated around, and was in a mighty sour way. he scolded us for everything, and we couldn't seem to do nothing right; he found fault with every little thing. something was a-brewing, sure. i was good and glad when midday come and no king; we could have a change, anyway--and maybe a chance for _the_ chance on top of it. so me and the duke went up to the village, and hunted around there for the king, and by and by we found him in the back room of a little low doggery, very tight, and a lot of loafers bullyragging him for sport, and he a-cussing and a-threatening with all his might, and so tight he couldn't walk, and couldn't do nothing to them. the duke he begun to abuse him for an old fool, and the king begun to sass back, and the minute they was fairly at it i lit out and shook the reefs out of my hind legs, and spun down the river road like a deer, for i see our chance; and i made up my mind that it would be a long day before they ever see me and jim again. i got down there all out of breath but loaded up with joy, and sung out: "set her loose, jim; we're all right now!" but there warn't no answer, and nobody come out of the wigwam. jim was gone! i set up a shout--and then another--and then another one; and run this way and that in the woods, whooping and screeching; but it warn't no use--old jim was gone. then i set down and cried; i couldn't help it. but i couldn't set still long. pretty soon i went out on the road, trying to think what i better do, and i run across a boy walking, and asked him if he'd seen a strange nigger dressed so and so, and he says: "yes." "whereabouts?" says i. "down to silas phelps's place, two mile below here. he's a runaway nigger, and they've got him. was you looking for him?" "you bet i ain't! i run across him in the woods about an hour or two ago, and he said if i hollered he'd cut my livers out--and told me to lay down and stay where i was; and i done it. been there ever since; afeard to come out." "well," he says, "you needn't be afeard no more, becuz they've got him. he run off f'm down south som'ers." "it's a good job they got him." "well, i _reckon!_ there's two hundred dollars dollars' reward on him. it's like picking up money out'n the road." "yes, it is--and i could 'a' had it if i'd been big enough; i see him _first_. who nailed him?" "it was an old fellow--a stranger--and he sold out his chance in him for forty dollars, becuz he's got to go up the river and can't wait. think o' that, now! you bet _i'd_ wait, if it was seven year." "that's me, every time," says i. "but maybe his chance ain't worth no more than that, if he'll sell it so cheap. maybe there's something ain't straight about it." "but it _is_, though--straight as a string. i see the handbill myself. it tells all about him, to a dot--paints him like a picture, and tells the plantation he's frum, below newr_leans_. no-sirree-_bob_, they ain't no trouble 'bout _that_ speculation, you bet you. say, gimme a chaw tobacker, won't ye?" i didn't have none, so he left. i went to the raft, and set down in the wigwam to think. but i couldn't come to nothing. i thought till i wore my head sore, but i couldn't see no way out of the trouble. after all this long journey, and after all we'd done for them scoundrels, here it was all come to nothing, everything all busted up and ruined, because they could have the heart to serve jim such a trick as that, and make him a slave again all his life, and amongst strangers, too, for forty dirty dollars. once i said to myself it would be a thousand times better for jim to be a slave at home where his family was, as long as he'd _got_ to be a slave, and so i'd better write a letter to tom sawyer and tell him to tell miss watson where he was. but i soon give up that notion for two things: she'd be mad and disgusted at his rascality and ungratefulness for leaving her, and so she'd sell him straight down the river again; and if she didn't, everybody naturally despises an ungrateful nigger, and they'd make jim feel it all the time, and so he'd feel ornery and disgraced. and then think of _me!_ it would get all around that huck finn helped a nigger to get his freedom; and if i was ever to see anybody from that town again i'd be ready to get down and lick his boots for shame. that's just the way: a person does a low-down thing, and then he don't want to take no consequences of it. thinks as long as he can hide, it ain't no disgrace. that was my fix exactly. the more i studied about this the more my conscience went to grinding me, and the more wicked and low-down and ornery i got to feeling. and at last, when it hit me all of a sudden that here was the plain hand of providence slapping me in the face and letting me know my wickedness was being watched all the time from up there in heaven, whilst i was stealing a poor old woman's nigger that hadn't ever done me no harm, and now was showing me there's one that's always on the lookout, and ain't a-going to allow no such miserable doings to go only just so fur and no further, i most dropped in my tracks i was so scared. well, i tried the best i could to kinder soften it up somehow for myself by saying i was brung up wicked, and so i warn't so much to blame; but something inside of me kept saying, "there was the sunday-school, you could 'a' gone to it; and if you'd 'a' done it they'd 'a' learnt you there that people that acts as i'd been acting about that nigger goes to everlasting fire." it made me shiver. and i about made up my mind to pray, and see if i couldn't try to quit being the kind of a boy i was and be better. so i kneeled down. but the words wouldn't come. why wouldn't they? it warn't no use to try and hide it from him. nor from _me_, neither. i knowed very well why they wouldn't come. it was because my heart warn't right; it was because i warn't square; it was because i was playing double. i was letting _on_ to give up sin, but away inside of me i was holding on to the biggest one of all. i was trying to make my mouth _say_ i would do the right thing and the clean thing, and go and write to that nigger's owner and tell where he was; but deep down in me i knowed it was a lie, and he knowed it. you can't pray a lie--i found that out. so i was full of trouble, full as i could be; and didn't know what to do. at last i had an idea; and i says, i'll go and write the letter--and then see if i can pray. why, it was astonishing, the way i felt as light as a feather right straight off, and my troubles all gone. so i got a piece of paper and a pencil, all glad and excited, and set down and wrote: miss watson, your runaway nigger jim is down here two mile below pikesville, and mr. phelps has got him and he will give him up for the reward if you send. huck finn. i felt good and all washed clean of sin for the first time i had ever felt so in my life, and i knowed i could pray now. but i didn't do it straight off, but laid the paper down and set there thinking--thinking how good it was all this happened so, and how near i come to being lost and going to hell. and went on thinking. and got to thinking over our trip down the river; and i see jim before me all the time: in the day and in the night-time, sometimes moonlight, sometimes storms, and we a-floating along, talking and singing and laughing. but somehow i couldn't seem to strike no places to harden me against him, but only the other kind. i'd see him standing my watch on top of his'n, 'stead of calling me, so i could go on sleeping; and see him how glad he was when i come back out of the fog; and when i come to him again in the swamp, up there where the feud was; and such-like times; and would always call me honey, and pet me, and do everything he could think of for me, and how good he always was; and at last i struck the time i saved him by telling the men we had smallpox aboard, and he was so grateful, and said i was the best friend old jim ever had in the world, and the _only_ one he's got now; and then i happened to look around and see that paper. it was a close place. i took it up, and held it in my hand. i was a-trembling, because i'd got to decide, forever, betwixt two things, and i knowed it. i studied a minute, sort of holding my breath, and then says to myself: "all right, then, i'll _go_ to hell"--and tore it up. it was awful thoughts and awful words, but they was said. and i let them stay said; and never thought no more about reforming. i shoved the whole thing out of my head, and said i would take up wickedness again, which was in my line, being brung up to it, and the other warn't. and for a starter i would go to work and steal jim out of slavery again; and if i could think up anything worse, i would do that, too; because as long as i was in, and in for good, i might as well go the whole hog. then i set to thinking over how to get at it, and turned over some considerable many ways in my mind; and at last fixed up a plan that suited me. so then i took the bearings of a woody island that was down the river a piece, and as soon as it was fairly dark i crept out with my raft and went for it, and hid it there, and then turned in. i slept the night through, and got up before it was light, and had my breakfast, and put on my store clothes, and tied up some others and one thing or another in a bundle, and took the canoe and cleared for shore. i landed below where i judged was phelps's place, and hid my bundle in the woods, and then filled up the canoe with water, and loaded rocks into her and sunk her where i could find her again when i wanted her, about a quarter of a mile below a little steam-sawmill that was on the bank. then i struck up the road, and when i passed the mill i see a sign on it, "phelps's sawmill," and when i come to the farm-houses, two or three hundred yards further along, i kept my eyes peeled, but didn't see nobody around, though it was good daylight now. but i didn't mind, because i didn't want to see nobody just yet--i only wanted to get the lay of the land. according to my plan, i was going to turn up there from the village, not from below. so i just took a look, and shoved along, straight for town. well, the very first man i see when i got there was the duke. he was sticking up a bill for the "royal nonesuch--three-night performance--like that other time. they had the cheek, them frauds! i was right on him before i could shirk. he looked astonished, and says: "hel-_lo!_ where'd _you_ come from?" then he says, kind of glad and eager, "where's the raft?--got her in a good place?" i says: "why, that's just what i was going to ask your grace." then he didn't look so joyful, and says: "what was your idea for asking _me?_" he says. "well," i says, "when i see the king in that doggery yesterday i says to myself, we can't get him home for hours, till he's soberer; so i went a-loafing around town to put in the time and wait. a man up and offered me ten cents to help him pull a skiff over the river and back to fetch a sheep, and so i went along; but when we was dragging him to the boat, and the man left me a-holt of the rope and went behind him to shove him along, he was too strong for me and jerked loose and run, and we after him. we didn't have no dog, and so we had to chase him all over the country till we tired him out. we never got him till dark; then we fetched him over, and i started down for the raft. when i got there and see it was gone, i says to myself, 'they've got into trouble and had to leave; and they've took my nigger, which is the only nigger i've got in the world, and now i'm in a strange country, and ain't got no property no more, nor nothing, and no way to make my living'; so i set down and cried. i slept in the woods all night. but what _did_ become of the raft, then?--and jim--poor jim!" "blamed if i know--that is, what's become of the raft. that old fool had made a trade and got forty dollars, and when we found him in the doggery the loafers had matched half-dollars with him and got every cent but what he'd spent for whisky; and when i got him home late last night and found the raft gone, we said, 'that little rascal has stole our raft and shook us, and run off down the river.'" "i wouldn't shake my _nigger_, would i?--the only nigger i had in the world, and the only property." "we never thought of that. fact is, i reckon we'd come to consider him _our_ nigger; yes, we did consider him so--goodness knows we had trouble enough for him. so when we see the raft was gone and we flat broke, there warn't anything for it but to try the 'royal nonesuch' another shake. and i've pegged along ever since, dry as a powder-horn. where's that ten cents? give it here." i had considerable money, so i give him ten cents, but begged him to spend it for something to eat, and give me some, because it was all the money i had, and i hadn't had nothing to eat since yesterday. he never said nothing. the next minute he whirls on me and says: "do you reckon that nigger would blow on us? we'd skin him if he done that!" "how can he blow? hain't he run off?" "no! that old fool sold him, and never divided with me, and the money's gone." "_sold_ him?" i says, and begun to cry; "why, he was _my_ nigger, and that was my money. where is he?--i want my nigger." "well, you can't _get_ your nigger, that's all--so dry up your blubbering. looky here--do you think _you'd_ venture to blow on us? blamed if i think i'd trust you. why, if you _was_ to blow on us--" he stopped, but i never see the duke look so ugly out of his eyes before. i went on a-whimpering, and says: "i don't want to blow on nobody; and i ain't got no time to blow, nohow; i got to turn out and find my nigger." he looked kinder bothered, and stood there with his bills fluttering on his arm, thinking, and wrinkling up his forehead. at last he says: "i'll tell you something. we got to be here three days. if you'll promise you won't blow, and won't let the nigger blow, i'll tell you where to find him." so i promised, and he says: "a farmer by the name of silas ph--" and then he stopped. you see, he started to tell me the truth; but when he stopped that way, and begun to study and think again, i reckoned he was changing his mind. and so he was. he wouldn't trust me; he wanted to make sure of having me out of the way the whole three days. so pretty soon he says: "the man that bought him is named abram foster--abram g. foster--and he lives forty mile back here in the country, on the road to lafayette." "all right," i says, "i can walk it in three days. and i'll start this very afternoon." "no you won't, you'll start _now_; and don't you lose any time about it, neither, nor do any gabbling by the way. just keep a tight tongue in your head and move right along, and then you won't get into trouble with _us_, d'ye hear?" that was the order i wanted, and that was the one i played for. i wanted to be left free to work my plans. "so clear out," he says; "and you can tell mr. foster whatever you want to. maybe you can get him to believe that jim _is_ your nigger--some idiots don't require documents--leastways i've heard there's such down south here. and when you tell him the handbill and the reward's bogus, maybe he'll believe you when you explain to him what the idea was for getting 'em out. go 'long now, and tell him anything you want to; but mind you don't work your jaw any _between_ here and there." so i left, and struck for the back country. i didn't look around, but i kinder felt like he was watching me. but i knowed i could tire him out at that. i went straight out in the country as much as a mile before i stopped; then i doubled back through the woods towards phelps's. i reckoned i better start in on my plan straight off without fooling around, because i wanted to stop jim's mouth till these fellows could get away. i didn't want no trouble with their kind. i'd seen all i wanted to of them, and wanted to get entirely shut of them. chapter xxxii when i got there it was all still and sunday-like, and hot and sunshiny; the hands was gone to the fields; and there was them kind of faint dronings of bugs and flies in the air that makes it seem so lonesome and like everybody's dead and gone; and if a breeze fans along and quivers the leaves it makes you feel mournful, because you feel like it's spirits whispering--spirits that's been dead ever so many years--and you always think they're talking about _you._ as a general thing it makes a body wish _he_ was dead, too, and done with it all. phelps's was one of these little one-horse cotton plantations, and they all look alike. a rail fence round a two-acre yard; a stile made out of logs sawed off and up-ended in steps, like barrels of a different length, to climb over the fence with, and for the women to stand on when they are going to jump onto a horse; some sickly grass-patches in the big yard, but mostly it was bare and smooth, like an old hat with the nap rubbed off; big double log house for the white folks--hewed logs, with the chinks stopped up with mud or mortar, and these mud-stripes been whitewashed some time or another; round-log kitchen, with a big broad, open but roofed passage joining it to the house; log smokehouse back of the kitchen; three little nigger cabins in a row t'other side the smokehouse; one little hut all by itself away down against the back fence, and some outbuildings down a piece the other side; ash-hopper and big kettle to bile soap in by the little hut; bench by the kitchen door, with bucket of water and a gourd; hound asleep there in the sun; more hounds asleep round about; about three shade trees away off in a corner; some currant bushes and gooseberry bushes in one place by the fence; outside of the fence a garden and a watermelon patch; then the cotton-fields begins, and after the fields the woods. i went around and clumb over the back stile by the ash-hopper, and started for the kitchen. when i got a little ways i heard the dim hum of a spinning-wheel wailing along up and sinking along down again; and then i knowed for certain i wished i was dead--for that _is_ the lonesomest sound in the whole world. i went right along, not fixing up any particular plan, but just trusting to providence to put the right words in my mouth when the time come; for i'd noticed that providence always did put the right words in my mouth if i left it alone. when i got half-way, first one hound and then another got up and went for me, and of course i stopped and faced them, and kept still. and such another powwow as they made! in a quarter of a minute i was a kind of a hub of a wheel, as you may say--spokes made out of dogs--circle of fifteen of them packed together around me, with their necks and noses stretched up towards me, a-barking and howling; and more a-coming; you could see them sailing over fences and around corners from every-wheres. a nigger woman come tearing out of the kitchen with a rolling-pin in her hand, singing out, "begone! _you_ tige! you spot! begone sah!" and she fetched first one and then another of them a clip and sent them howling, and then the rest followed; and the next second half of them come back, wagging their tails around me, and making friends with me. there ain't no harm in a hound, nohow. and behind the woman comes a little nigger girl and two little nigger boys without anything on but tow-linen shirts, and they hung on to their mother's gown, and peeped out from behind her at me, bashful, the way they always do. and here comes the white woman running from the house, about forty-five or fifty year old, bareheaded, and her spinning-stick in her hand; and behind her comes her little white children, acting the same way the little niggers was going. she was smiling all over so she could hardly stand--and says: "it's _you_, at last!--_ain't_ it?" i out with a "yes'm" before i thought. she grabbed me and hugged me tight; and then gripped me by both hands and shook and shook; and the tears come in her eyes, and run down over; and she couldn't seem to hug and shake enough, and kept saying, "you don't look as much like your mother as i reckoned you would; but law sakes, i don't care for that, i'm so glad to see you! dear, dear, it does seem like i could eat you up! children, it's your cousin tom!--tell him howdy." but they ducked their heads, and put their fingers in their mouths, and hid behind her. so she run on: "lize, hurry up and get him a hot breakfast right away--or did you get your breakfast on the boat?" i said i had got it on the boat. so then she started for the house, leading me by the hand, and the children tagging after. when we got there she set me down in a split-bottomed chair, and set herself down on a little low stool in front of me, holding both of my hands, and says: "now i can have a _good_ look at you; and, laws-a-me, i've been hungry for it a many and a many a time, all these long years, and it's come at last! we been expecting you a couple of days and more. what kep' you?--boat get aground?" "yes'm--she--" "don't say yes'm--say aunt sally. where'd she get aground?" i didn't rightly know what to say, because i didn't know whether the boat would be coming up the river or down. but i go a good deal on instinct; and my instinct said she would be coming up--from down towards orleans. that didn't help me much, though; for i didn't know the names of bars down that way. i see i'd got to invent a bar, or forget the name of the one we got aground on--or--now i struck an idea, and fetched it out: "it warn't the grounding--that didn't keep us back but a little. we blowed out a cylinder-head." "good gracious! anybody hurt?" "no'm. killed a nigger." "well, it's lucky; because sometimes people do get hurt. two years ago last christmas your uncle silas was coming up from newrleans on the old lally rook, and she blowed out a cylinder-head and crippled a man. and i think he died afterwards. he was a baptist. your uncle silas knowed a family in baton rouge that knowed his people very well. yes, i remember now, he _did_ die. mortification set in, and they had to amputate him. but it didn't save him. yes, it was mortification--that was it. he turned blue all over, and died in the hope of a glorious resurrection. they say he was a sight to look at. your uncle's been up to the town every day to fetch you. and he's gone again, not more'n an hour ago; he'll be back any minute now. you must 'a' met him on the road, didn't you?--oldish man, with a--" "no, i didn't see nobody, aunt sally. the boat landed just at daylight, and i left my baggage on the wharf-boat and went looking around the town and out a piece in the country, to put in the time and not get here too soon; and so i come down the back way." "who'd you give the baggage to?" "nobody." "why, child, it 'll be stole!" "not where i hid it i reckon it won't," i says. "how'd you get your breakfast so early on the boat?" it was kinder thin ice, but i says: "the captain see me standing around, and told me i better have something to eat before i went ashore; so he took me in the texas to the officers' lunch, and give me all i wanted." i was getting so uneasy i couldn't listen good. i had my mind on the children all the time; i wanted to get them out to one side and pump them a little, and find out who i was. but i couldn't get no show, mrs. phelps kept it up and run on so. pretty soon she made the cold chills streak all down my back, because she says: "but here we're a-running on this way, and you hain't told me a word about sis, nor any of them. now i'll rest my works a little, and you start up yourn; just tell me _everything_--tell me all about 'm all--every one of 'm; and how they are, and what they're doing, and what they told you to tell me; and every last thing you can think of." well, i see i was up a stump--and up it good. providence had stood by me this fur all right, but i was hard and tight aground now. i see it warn't a bit of use to try to go ahead--i'd got to throw up my hand. so i says to myself, here's another place where i got to resk the truth. i opened my mouth to begin; but she grabbed me and hustled me in behind the bed, and says: "here he comes! stick your head down lower--there, that'll do; you can't be seen now. don't you let on you're here. i'll play a joke on him. children, don't you say a word." i see i was in a _fix_ now. but it warn't no use to worry; there warn't nothing to do but just hold still, and try and be ready to stand from under when the lightning struck. i had just one little glimpse of the old gentleman when he come in; then the bed hid him. mrs. phelps she jumps for him, and says: "has he come?" "no," says her husband. "good-_ness_ gracious!" she says, "what in the world _can_ have become of him?" "i can't imagine," says the old gentleman; "and i must say it makes me dreadful uneasy." "uneasy!" she says; "i'm ready to go distracted! he _must_ 'a' come; and you've missed him along the road. i _know_ it's so--something tells me so." "why, sally, i _couldn't_ miss him along the road--_you_ know that." "but oh, dear, dear, what _will_ sis say! he must 'a' come! you must 'a' missed him. he--" "oh, don't distress me any more'n i'm already distressed. i don't know what in the world to make of it. i'm at my wit's end, and i don't mind acknowledging 't i'm right down scared. but there's no hope that he's come; for he _couldn't_ come and me miss him. sally, it's terrible--just terrible--something's happened to the boat, sure!" "why, silas! look yonder!--up the road!--ain't that somebody coming?" he sprung to the window at the head of the bed, and that give mrs. phelps the chance she wanted. she stooped down quick at the foot of the bed and give me a pull, and out i come; and when he turned back from the window there she stood, a-beaming and a-smiling like a house afire, and i standing pretty meek and sweaty alongside. the old gentleman stared, and says: "why, who's that?" "who do you reckon 'tis?" "i hain't no idea. who _is_ it?" "it's _tom sawyer!_" by jings, i most slumped through the floor! but there warn't no time to swap knives; the old man grabbed me by the hand and shook, and kept on shaking; and all the time how the woman did dance around and laugh and cry; and then how they both did fire off questions about sid, and mary, and the rest of the tribe. but if they was joyful, it warn't nothing to what i was; for it was like being born again, i was so glad to find out who i was. well, they froze to me for two hours; and at last, when my chin was so tired it couldn't hardly go any more, i had told them more about my family--i mean the sawyer family--than ever happened to any six sawyer families. and i explained all about how we blowed out a cylinder-head at the mouth of white river, and it took us three days to fix it. which was all right, and worked first-rate; because _they_ didn't know but what it would take three days to fix it. if i'd 'a' called it a bolthead it would 'a' done just as well. now i was feeling pretty comfortable all down one side, and pretty uncomfortable all up the other. being tom sawyer was easy and comfortable, and it stayed easy and comfortable till by and by i hear a steamboat coughing along down the river. then i says to myself, s'pose tom sawyer comes down on that boat? and s'pose he steps in here any minute, and sings out my name before i can throw him a wink to keep quiet? well, i couldn't _have_ it that way; it wouldn't do at all. i must go up the road and waylay him. so i told the folks i reckoned i would go up to the town and fetch down my baggage. the old gentleman was for going along with me, but i said no, i could drive the horse myself, and i druther he wouldn't take no trouble about me. chapter xxxiii so i started for town in the wagon, and when i was half-way i see a wagon coming, and sure enough it was tom sawyer, and i stopped and waited till he come along. i says "hold on!" and it stopped alongside, and his mouth opened up like a trunk, and stayed so; and he swallowed two or three times like a person that's got a dry throat, and then says: "i hain't ever done you no harm. you know that. so, then, what you want to come back and ha'nt _me_ for?" i says: "i hain't come back--i hain't been _gone_." when he heard my voice it righted him up some, but he warn't quite satisfied yet. he says: "don't you play nothing on me, because i wouldn't on you. honest injun, you ain't a ghost?" "honest injun, i ain't," i says. "well--i--i--well, that ought to settle it, of course; but i can't somehow seem to understand it no way. looky here, warn't you ever murdered _at all?_" "no. i warn't ever murdered at all--i played it on them. you come in here and feel of me if you don't believe me." so he done it; and it satisfied him; and he was that glad to see me again he didn't know what to do. and he wanted to know all about it right off, because it was a grand adventure, and mysterious, and so it hit him where he lived. but i said, leave it alone till by and by; and told his driver to wait, and we drove off a little piece, and i told him the kind of a fix i was in, and what did he reckon we better do? he said, let him alone a minute, and don't disturb him. so he thought and thought, and pretty soon he says: "it's all right; i've got it. take my trunk in your wagon, and let on it's your'n; and you turn back and fool along slow, so as to get to the house about the time you ought to; and i'll go towards town a piece, and take a fresh start, and get there a quarter or a half an hour after you; and you needn't let on to know me at first." i says: "all right; but wait a minute. there's one more thing--a thing that _nobody_ don't know but me. and that is, there's a nigger here that i'm a-trying to steal out of slavery, and his name is _jim_--old miss watson's jim." he says: "what! why, jim is--" he stopped and went to studying. i says: "_i_ know what you'll say. you'll say it's dirty, low-down business; but what if it is? _i_'m low down; and i'm a-going to steal him, and i want you keep mum and not let on. will you?" his eye lit up, and he says: "i'll _help_ you steal him!" well, i let go all holts then, like i was shot. it was the most astonishing speech i ever heard--and i'm bound to say tom sawyer fell considerable in my estimation. only i couldn't believe it. tom sawyer a _nigger-stealer!_ "oh, shucks!" i says; "you're joking." "i ain't joking, either." "well, then," i says, "joking or no joking, if you hear anything said about a runaway nigger, don't forget to remember that _you_ don't know nothing about him, and i don't know nothing about him." then he took the trunk and put it in my wagon, and he drove off his way and i drove mine. but of course i forgot all about driving slow on accounts of being glad and full of thinking; so i got home a heap too quick for that length of a trip. the old gentleman was at the door, and he says: "why, this is wonderful! whoever would 'a' thought it was in that mare to do it? i wish we'd 'a' timed her. and she hain't sweated a hair--not a hair. it's wonderful. why, i wouldn't take a hundred dollars for that horse now--i wouldn't, honest; and yet i'd 'a' sold her for fifteen before, and thought 'twas all she was worth." that's all he said. he was the innocentest, best old soul i ever see. but it warn't surprising; because he warn't only just a farmer, he was a preacher, too, and had a little one-horse log church down back of the plantation, which he built it himself at his own expense, for a church and schoolhouse, and never charged nothing for his preaching, and it was worth it, too. there was plenty other farmer-preachers like that, and done the same way, down south. in about half an hour tom's wagon drove up to the front stile, and aunt sally she see it through the window, because it was only about fifty yards, and says: "why, there's somebody come! i wonder who 'tis? why, i do believe it's a stranger. jimmy" (that's one of the children), "run and tell lize to put on another plate for dinner." everybody made a rush for the front door, because, of course, a stranger don't come _every_ year, and so he lays over the yaller-fever, for interest, when he does come. tom was over the stile and starting for the house; the wagon was spinning up the road for the village, and we was all bunched in the front door. tom had his store clothes on, and an audience--and that was always nuts for tom sawyer. in them circumstances it warn't no trouble to him to throw in an amount of style that was suitable. he warn't a boy to meeky along up that yard like a sheep; no, he come ca'm and important, like the ram. when he got a-front of us he lifts his hat ever so gracious and dainty, like it was the lid of a box that had butterflies asleep in it and he didn't want to disturb them, and says: "mr. archibald nichols, i presume?" "no, my boy," says the old gentleman, "i'm sorry to say 't your driver has deceived you; nichols's place is down a matter of three mile more. come in, come in." tom he took a look back over his shoulder, and says, "too late--he's out of sight." "yes, he's gone, my son, and you must come in and eat your dinner with us; and then we'll hitch up and take you down to nichols's." "oh, i _can't_ make you so much trouble; i couldn't think of it. i'll walk--i don't mind the distance." "but we won't _let_ you walk--it wouldn't be southern hospitality to do it. come right in." "oh, _do_,"' says aunt sally; "it ain't a bit of trouble to us, not a bit in the world. you must stay. it's a long, dusty three mile, and we can't let you walk. and, besides, i've already told 'em to put on another plate when i see you coming; so you mustn't disappoint us. come right in and make yourself at home." so tom he thanked them very hearty and handsome, and let himself be persuaded, and come in; and when he was in he said he was a stranger from hicksville, ohio, and his name was william thompson--and he made another bow. well, he run on, and on, and on, making up stuff about hicksville and everybody in it he could invent, and i getting a little nervious, and wondering how this was going to help me out of my scrape; and at last, still talking along, he reached over and kissed aunt sally right on the mouth, and then settled back again in his chair comfortable, and was going on talking; but she jumped up and wiped it off with the back of her hand, and says: "you owdacious puppy!" he looked kind of hurt, and says: "i'm surprised at you, m'am." "you're s'rp--why, what do you reckon _i_ am? i've a good notion to take and--say, what do you mean by kissing me?" he looked kind of humble, and says: "i didn't mean nothing, m'am. i didn't mean no harm. i--i--thought you'd like it." "why, you born fool!" she took up the spinning-stick, and it looked like it was all she could do to keep from giving him a crack with it. "what made you think i'd like it?" "well, i don't know. only, they--they--told me you would." "_they_ told you i would. whoever told you's _another_ lunatic. i never heard the beat of it. who's _they?_" "why, everybody. they all said so, m'am." it was all she could do to hold in; and her eyes snapped, and her fingers worked like she wanted to scratch him; and she says: "who's 'everybody'? out with their names, or ther'll be an idiot short." he got up and looked distressed, and fumbled his hat, and says: "i'm sorry, and i warn't expecting it. they told me to. they all told me to. they all said, kiss her; and said she'd like it. they all said it--every one of them. but i'm sorry, m'am, and i won't do it no more--i won't, honest." "you won't, won't you? well, i sh'd _reckon_ you won't!" "no'm, i'm honest about it; i won't ever do it again--till you ask me." "till i _ask_ you! well, i never see the beat of it in my born days! i lay you'll be the methusalem-numskull of creation before ever _i_ ask you--or the likes of you." "well," he says, "it does surprise me so. i can't make it out, somehow. they said you would, and i thought you would. but--" he stopped and looked around slow, like he wished he could run across a friendly eye somewheres, and fetched up on the old gentleman's, and says, "didn't _you_ think she'd like me to kiss her, sir?" "why, no; i--i--well, no, i b'lieve i didn't." then he looks on around the same way to me, and says: "tom, didn't _you_ think aunt sally 'd open out her arms and say, 'sid sawyer--'" "my land!" she says, breaking in and jumping for him, "you impudent young rascal, to fool a body so--" and was going to hug him, but he fended her off, and says: "no, not till you've asked me first." so she didn't lose no time, but asked him; and hugged him and kissed him over and over again, and then turned him over to the old man, and he took what was left. and after they got a little quiet again she says: "why, dear me, i never see such a surprise. we warn't looking for _you_ at all, but only tom. sis never wrote to me about anybody coming but him." "it's because it warn't _intended_ for any of us to come but tom," he says; "but i begged and begged, and at the last minute she let me come, too; so, coming down the river, me and tom thought it would be a first-rate surprise for him to come here to the house first, and for me to by and by tag along and drop in, and let on to be a stranger. but it was a mistake, aunt sally. this ain't no healthy place for a stranger to come." "no--not impudent whelps, sid. you ought to had your jaws boxed; i hain't been so put out since i don't know when. but i don't care, i don't mind the terms--i'd be willing to stand a thousand such jokes to have you here. well, to think of that performance! i don't deny it, i was most putrified with astonishment when you give me that smack." we had dinner out in that broad open passage betwixt the house and the kitchen; and there was things enough on that table for seven families--and all hot, too; none of your flabby, tough meat that's laid in a cupboard in a damp cellar all night and tastes like a hunk of old cold cannibal in the morning. uncle silas he asked a pretty long blessing over it, but it was worth it; and it didn't cool it a bit, neither, the way i've seen them kind of interruptions do lots of times. there was a considerable good deal of talk all the afternoon, and me and tom was on the lookout all the time; but it warn't no use, they didn't happen to say nothing about any runaway nigger, and we was afraid to try to work up to it. but at supper, at night, one of the little boys says: "pa, mayn't tom and sid and me go to the show?" "no," says the old man, "i reckon there ain't going to be any; and you couldn't go if there was; because the runaway nigger told burton and me all about that scandalous show, and burton said he would tell the people; so i reckon they've drove the owdacious loafers out of town before this time." so there it was!--but _i_ couldn't help it. tom and me was to sleep in the same room and bed; so, being tired, we bid good night and went up to bed right after supper, and clumb out of the window and down the lightning-rod, and shoved for the town; for i didn't believe anybody was going to give the king and the duke a hint, and so if i didn't hurry up and give them one they'd get into trouble sure. on the road tom he told me all about how it was reckoned i was murdered, and how pap disappeared pretty soon, and didn't come back no more, and what a stir there was when jim run away; and i told tom all about our "royal nonesuch" rapscallions, and as much of the raft voyage as i had time to; and as we struck into the town and up through the middle of it--it was as much as half after eight then--here comes a raging rush of people with torches, and an awful whooping and yelling, and banging tin pans and blowing horns; and we jumped to one side to let them go by; and as they went by i see they had the king and the duke astraddle of a rail--that is, i knowed it _was_ the king and the duke, though they was all over tar and feathers, and didn't look like nothing in the world that was human--just looked like a couple of monstrous big soldier-plumes. well, it made me sick to see it; and i was sorry for them poor pitiful rascals, it seemed like i couldn't ever feel any hardness against them any more in the world. it was a dreadful thing to see. human beings _can_ be awful cruel to one another. we see we was too late--couldn't do no good. we asked some stragglers about it, and they said everybody went to the show looking very innocent; and laid low and kept dark till the poor old king was in the middle of his cavortings on the stage; then somebody give a signal, and the house rose up and went for them. so we poked along back home, and i warn't feeling so brash as i was before, but kind of ornery, and humble, and to blame, somehow--though i hadn't done nothing. but that's always the way; it don't make no difference whether you do right or wrong, a person's conscience ain't got no sense, and just goes for him _anyway._ if i had a yaller dog that didn't know no more than a person's conscience does i would pison him. it takes up more room than all the rest of a person's insides, and yet ain't no good, nohow. tom sawyer he says the same. chapter xxxiv we stopped talking, and got to thinking. by and by tom says: "looky here, huck, what fools we are to not think of it before! i bet i know where jim is." "no! where?" "in that hut down by the ash-hopper. why, looky here. when we was at dinner, didn't you see a nigger man go in there with some vittles?" "yes." "what did you think the vittles was for?" "for a dog." "so 'd i. well, it wasn't for a dog." "why?" "because part of it was watermelon." "so it was--i noticed it. well, it does beat all that i never thought about a dog not eating watermelon. it shows how a body can see and don't see at the same time." "well, the nigger unlocked the padlock when he went in, and he locked it again when he came out. he fetched uncle a key about the time we got up from table--same key, i bet. watermelon shows man, lock shows prisoner; and it ain't likely there's two prisoners on such a little plantation, and where the people's all so kind and good. jim's the prisoner. all right--i'm glad we found it out detective fashion; i wouldn't give shucks for any other way. now you work your mind, and study out a plan to steal jim, and i will study out one, too; and we'll take the one we like the best." what a head for just a boy to have! if i had tom sawyer's head i wouldn't trade it off to be a duke, nor mate of a steamboat, nor clown in a circus, nor nothing i can think of. i went to thinking out a plan, but only just to be doing something; i knowed very well where the right plan was going to come from. pretty soon tom says: "ready?" "yes," i says. "all right--bring it out." "my plan is this," i says. "we can easy find out if it's jim in there. then get up my canoe to-morrow night, and fetch my raft over from the island. then the first dark night that comes steal the key out of the old man's britches after he goes to bed, and shove off down the river on the raft with jim, hiding daytimes and running nights, the way me and jim used to do before. wouldn't that plan work?" "_work?_ why, cert'nly it would work, like rats a-fighting. but it's too blame' simple; there ain't nothing _to_ it. what's the good of a plan that ain't no more trouble than that? it's as mild as goose-milk. why, huck, it wouldn't make no more talk than breaking into a soap factory." i never said nothing, because i warn't expecting nothing different; but i knowed mighty well that whenever he got _his_ plan ready it wouldn't have none of them objections to it. and it didn't. he told me what it was, and i see in a minute it was worth fifteen of mine for style, and would make jim just as free a man as mine would, and maybe get us all killed besides. so i was satisfied, and said we would waltz in on it. i needn't tell what it was here, because i knowed it wouldn't stay the way it was. i knowed he would be changing it around every which way as we went along, and heaving in new bullinesses wherever he got a chance. and that is what he done. well, one thing was dead sure, and that was that tom sawyer was in earnest, and was actuly going to help steal that nigger out of slavery. that was the thing that was too many for me. here was a boy that was respectable and well brung up; and had a character to lose; and folks at home that had characters; and he was bright and not leather-headed; and knowing and not ignorant; and not mean, but kind; and yet here he was, without any more pride, or rightness, or feeling, than to stoop to this business, and make himself a shame, and his family a shame, before everybody. i _couldn't_ understand it no way at all. it was outrageous, and i knowed i ought to just up and tell him so; and so be his true friend, and let him quit the thing right where he was and save himself. and i _did_ start to tell him; but he shut me up, and says: "don't you reckon i know what i'm about? don't i generly know what i'm about?" "yes." "didn't i _say_ i was going to help steal the nigger?" "yes." "well, then." that's all he said, and that's all i said. it warn't no use to say any more; because when he said he'd do a thing, he always done it. but i couldn't make out how he was willing to go into this thing; so i just let it go, and never bothered no more about it. if he was bound to have it so, i couldn't help it. when we got home the house was all dark and still; so we went on down to the hut by the ash-hopper for to examine it. we went through the yard so as to see what the hounds would do. they knowed us, and didn't make no more noise than country dogs is always doing when anything comes by in the night. when we got to the cabin we took a look at the front and the two sides; and on the side i warn't acquainted with--which was the north side--we found a square window-hole, up tolerable high, with just one stout board nailed across it. i says: "here's the ticket. this hole's big enough for jim to get through if we wrench off the board." tom says: "it's as simple as tit-tat-toe, three-in-a-row, and as easy as playing hooky. i should _hope_ we can find a way that's a little more complicated than _that_, huck finn." "well, then," i says, "how'll it do to saw him out, the way i done before i was murdered that time?" "that's more _like_," he says. "it's real mysterious, and troublesome, and good," he says; "but i bet we can find a way that's twice as long. there ain't no hurry; le's keep on looking around." betwixt the hut and the fence, on the back side, was a lean-to that joined the hut at the eaves, and was made out of plank. it was as long as the hut, but narrow--only about six foot wide. the door to it was at the south end, and was padlocked. tom he went to the soap-kettle and searched around, and fetched back the iron thing they lift the lid with; so he took it and prized out one of the staples. the chain fell down, and we opened the door and went in, and shut it, and struck a match, and see the shed was only built against a cabin and hadn't no connection with it; and there warn't no floor to the shed, nor nothing in it but some old rusty played-out hoes and spades and picks and a crippled plow. the match went out, and so did we, and shoved in the staple again, and the door was locked as good as ever. tom was joyful. he says: "now we're all right. we'll _dig_ him out. it 'll take about a week!" then we started for the house, and i went in the back door--you only have to pull a buckskin latch-string, they don't fasten the doors--but that warn't romantical enough for tom sawyer; no way would do him but he must climb up the lightning-rod. but after he got up half-way about three times, and missed fire and fell every time, and the last time most busted his brains out, he thought he'd got to give it up; but after he was rested he allowed he would give her one more turn for luck, and this time he made the trip. in the morning we was up at break of day, and down to the nigger cabins to pet the dogs and make friends with the nigger that fed jim--if it _was_ jim that was being fed. the niggers was just getting through breakfast and starting for the fields; and jim's nigger was piling up a tin pan with bread and meat and things; and whilst the others was leaving, the key come from the house. this nigger had a good-natured, chuckle-headed face, and his wool was all tied up in little bunches with thread. that was to keep witches off. he said the witches was pestering him awful these nights, and making him see all kinds of strange things, and hear all kinds of strange words and noises, and he didn't believe he was ever witched so long before in his life. he got so worked up, and got to running on so about his troubles, he forgot all about what he'd been a-going to do. so tom says: "what's the vittles for? going to feed the dogs?" the nigger kind of smiled around graduly over his face, like when you heave a brickbat in a mud-puddle, and he says: "yes, mars sid, _a_ dog. cur'us dog, too. does you want to go en look at 'im?" "yes." i hunched tom, and whispers: "you going, right here in the daybreak? _that_ warn't the plan." "no, it warn't; but it's the plan _now._" so, drat him, we went along, but i didn't like it much. when we got in we couldn't hardly see anything, it was so dark; but jim was there, sure enough, and could see us; and he sings out: "why, _huck!_ en good _lan'!_ ain' dat misto tom?" i just knowed how it would be; i just expected it. i didn't know nothing to do; and if i had i couldn't 'a' done it, because that nigger busted in and says: "why, de gracious sakes! do he know you genlmen?" we could see pretty well now. tom he looked at the nigger, steady and kind of wondering, and says: "does _who_ know us?" "why, dis-yer runaway nigger." "i don't reckon he does; but what put that into your head?" "what _put_ it dar? didn' he jis' dis minute sing out like he knowed you?" tom says, in a puzzled-up kind of way: "well, that's mighty curious. _who_ sung out? _when_ did he sing out? _what_ did he sing out?" and turns to me, perfectly ca'm, and says, "did _you_ hear anybody sing out?" of course there warn't nothing to be said but the one thing; so i says: "no; _i_ ain't heard nobody say nothing." then he turns to jim, and looks him over like he never see him before, and says: "did you sing out?" "no, sah," says jim; "i hain't said nothing, sah." "not a word?" "no, sah, i hain't said a word." "did you ever see us before?" "no, sah; not as i knows on." so tom turns to the nigger, which was looking wild and distressed, and says, kind of severe: "what do you reckon's the matter with you, anyway? what made you think somebody sung out?" "oh, it's de dad-blame' witches, sah, en i wisht i was dead, i do. dey's awluz at it, sah, en dey do mos' kill me, dey sk'yers me so. please to don't tell nobody 'bout it sah, er ole mars silas he'll scole me; 'kase he say dey _ain't_ no witches. i jis' wish to goodness he was heah now--_den_ what would he say! i jis' bet he couldn' fine no way to git aroun' it _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_ fine it out en tell um 'bout it, dey doan' b'lieve you." tom give him a dime, and said we wouldn't tell nobody; and told him to buy some more thread to tie up his wool with; and then looks at jim, and says: "i wonder if uncle silas is going to hang this nigger. if i was to catch a nigger that was ungrateful enough to run away, i wouldn't give him up, i'd hang him." and whilst the nigger stepped to the door to look at the dime and bite it to see if it was good, he whispers to jim and says: "don't ever let on to know us. and if you hear any digging going on nights, it's us; we're going to set you free." jim only had time to grab us by the hand and squeeze it; then the nigger come back, and we said we'd come again some time if the nigger wanted us to; and he said he would, more particular if it was dark, because the witches went for him mostly in the dark, and it was good to have folks around then. chapter xxxv it would be most an hour yet till breakfast, so we left and struck down into the woods; because tom said we got to have _some_ light to see how to dig by, and a lantern makes too much, and might get us into trouble; what we must have was a lot of them rotten chunks that's called fox-fire, and just makes a soft kind of a glow when you lay them in a dark place. we fetched an armful and hid it in the weeds, and set down to rest, and tom says, kind of dissatisfied: "blame it, this whole thing is just as easy and awkward as it can be. and so it makes it so rotten difficult to get up a difficult plan. there ain't no watchman to be drugged--now there _ought_ to be a watchman. there ain't even a dog to give a sleeping-mixture to. and there's jim chained by one leg, with a ten-foot chain, to the leg of his bed: why, all you got to do is to lift up the bedstead and slip off the chain. and uncle silas he trusts everybody; sends the key to the punkin-headed nigger, and don't send nobody to watch the nigger. jim could 'a' got out of that window-hole before this, only there wouldn't be no use trying to travel with a ten-foot chain on his leg. why, drat it, huck, it's the stupidest arrangement i ever see. you got to invent _all_ the difficulties. well, we can't help it; we got to do the best we can with the materials we've got. anyhow, there's one thing--there's more honor in getting him out through a lot of difficulties and dangers, where there warn't one of them furnished to you by the people who it was their duty to furnish them, and you had to contrive them all out of your own head. now look at just that one thing of the lantern. when you come down to the cold facts, we simply got to _let on_ that a lantern's resky. why, we could work with a torchlight procession if we wanted to, _i_ believe. now, whilst i think of it, we got to hunt up something to make a saw out of the first chance we get." "what do we want of a saw?" "what do we _want_ of a saw? hain't we got to saw the leg of jim's bed off, so as to get the chain loose?" "why, you just said a body could lift up the bedstead and slip the chain off." "well, if that ain't just like you, huck finn. you _can_ get up the infant-schooliest ways of going at a thing. why, hain't you ever read any books at all?--baron trenck, nor casanova, nor benvenuto chelleeny, nor henri iv., nor none of them heroes? who ever heard of getting a prisoner loose in such an old-maidy way as that? no; the way all the best authorities does is to saw the bed-leg in two, and leave it just so, and swallow the sawdust, so it can't be found, and put some dirt and grease around the sawed place so the very keenest seneskal can't see no sign of its being sawed, and thinks the bed-leg is perfectly sound. then, the night you're ready, fetch the leg a kick, down she goes; slip off your chain, and there you are. nothing to do but hitch your rope ladder to the battlements, shin down it, break your leg in the moat--because a rope ladder is nineteen foot too short, you know--and there's your horses and your trusty vassles, and they scoop you up and fling you across a saddle, and away you go to your native langudoc, or navarre, or wherever it is. it's gaudy, huck. i wish there was a moat to this cabin. if we get time, the night of the escape, we'll dig one." i says: "what do we want of a moat when we're going to snake him out from under the cabin?" but he never heard me. he had forgot me and everything else. he had his chin in his hand, thinking. pretty soon he sighs and shakes his head; then sighs again, and says: "no, it wouldn't do--there ain't necessity enough for it." "for what?" i says. "why, to saw jim's leg off," he says. "good land!" i says; "why, there ain't _no_ necessity for it. and what would you want to saw his leg off for, anyway?" "well, some of the best authorities has done it. they couldn't get the chain off, so they just cut their hand off and shoved. and a leg would be better still. but we got to let that go. there ain't necessity enough in this case; and, besides, jim's a nigger, and wouldn't understand the reasons for it, and how it's the custom in europe; so we'll let it go. but there's one thing--he can have a rope ladder; we can tear up our sheets and make him a rope ladder easy enough. and we can send it to him in a pie; it's mostly done that way. and i've et worse pies." "why, tom sawyer, how you talk," i says; "jim ain't got no use for a rope ladder." "he _has_ got use for it. how _you_ talk, you better say; you don't know nothing about it. he's _got_ to have a rope ladder; they all do." "what in the nation can he _do_ with it?" "_do_ with it? he can hide it in his bed, can't he? that's what they all do; and _he's_ got to, too. huck, you don't ever seem to want to do anything that's regular; you want to be starting something fresh all the time. s'pose he _don't_ do nothing with it? ain't it there in his bed, for a clue, after he's gone? and don't you reckon they'll want clues? of course they will. and you wouldn't leave them any? that would be a _pretty_ howdy-do, _wouldn't_ it! i never heard of such a thing." "well," i says, "if it's in the regulations, and he's got to have it, all right, let him have it; because i don't wish to go back on no regulations; but there's one thing, tom sawyer--if we go to tearing up our sheets to make jim a rope ladder, we're going to get into trouble with aunt sally, just as sure as you're born. now, the way i look at it, a hickry-bark ladder don't cost nothing, and don't waste nothing, and is just as good to load up a pie with, and hide in a straw tick, as any rag ladder you can start; and as for jim, he ain't had no experience, and so he don't care what kind of a--" "oh, shucks, huck finn, if i was as ignorant as you i'd keep still--that's what i'd do. who ever heard of a state prisoner escaping by a hickry-bark ladder? why, it's perfectly ridiculous." "well, all right, tom, fix it your own way; but if you'll take my advice, you'll let me borrow a sheet off of the clothes-line." he said that would do. and that gave him another idea, and he says: "borrow a shirt, too." "what do we want of a shirt, tom?" "want it for jim to keep a journal on." "journal your granny--_jim_ can't write." "s'pose he _can't_ write--he can make marks on the shirt, can't he, if we make him a pen out of an old pewter spoon or a piece of an old iron barrel-hoop?" "why, tom, we can pull a feather out of a goose and make him a better one; and quicker, too." "_prisoners_ don't have geese running around the donjon-keep to pull pens out of, you muggins. they _always_ make their pens out of the hardest, toughest, troublesomest piece of old brass candlestick or something like that they can get their hands on; and it takes them weeks and weeks and months and months to file it out, too, because they've got to do it by rubbing it on the wall. _they_ wouldn't use a goose-quill if they had it. it ain't regular." "well, then, what 'll we make him the ink out of?" "many makes it out of iron-rust and tears; but that's the common sort and women; the best authorities uses their own blood. jim can do that; and when he wants to send any little common ordinary mysterious message to let the world know where he's captivated, he can write it on the bottom of a tin plate with a fork and throw it out of the window. the iron mask always done that, and it's a blame' good way, too." "jim ain't got no tin plates. they feed him in a pan." "that ain't nothing; we can get him some." "can't nobody _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, and we went down and got the fox-fire, and put that in too. i called it borrowing, because that was what pap always called it; but tom said it warn't borrowing, it was stealing. he said we was representing prisoners; and prisoners don't care how they get a thing so they get it, and nobody don't blame them for it, either. it ain't no crime in a prisoner to steal the thing he needs to get away with, tom said; it's his right; and so, as long as we was representing a prisoner, we had a perfect right to steal anything on this place we had the least use for to get ourselves out of prison with. he said if we warn't prisoners it would be a very different thing, and nobody but a mean, ornery person would steal when he warn't a prisoner. so we allowed we would steal everything there was that come handy. and yet he made a mighty fuss, one day, after that, when i stole a watermelon out of the nigger patch and eat it; and he made me go and give the niggers a dime without telling them what it was for. tom said that what he meant was, we could steal anything we _needed._ well, i says, i needed the watermelon. but he said i didn't need it to get out of prison with; there's where the difference was. he said if i'd 'a' wanted it to hide a knife in, and smuggle it to jim to kill the seneskal with, it would 'a' been all right. so i let it go at that, though i couldn't see no advantage in my representing a prisoner if i got to set down and chaw over a lot of gold-leaf distinctions like that every time i see a chance to hog a watermelon. well, as i was saying, we waited that morning till everybody was settled down to business, and nobody in sight around the yard; then tom he carried the sack into the lean-to whilst i stood off a piece to keep watch. by and by he come out, and we went and set down on the woodpile to talk. he says: "everything's all right now except tools; and that's easy fixed." "tools?" i says. "yes." "tools for what?" "why, to dig with. we ain't a-going to _gnaw_ him out, are we?" "ain't them old crippled picks and things in there good enough to dig a nigger out with?" i says. he turns on me, looking pitying enough to make a body cry, and says: "huck finn, did you _ever_ hear of a prisoner having picks and shovels, and all the modern conveniences in his wardrobe to dig himself out with? now i want to ask you--if you got any reasonableness in you at all--what kind of a show would _that_ give him to be a hero? why, they might as well lend him the key and done with it. picks and shovels--why, they wouldn't furnish 'em to a king." "well, then," i says, "if we don't want the picks and shovels, what do we want?" "a couple of case-knives." "to dig the foundations out from under that cabin with?" "yes." "confound it, it's foolish, tom." "it don't make no difference how foolish it is, it's the _right_ way--and it's the regular way. and there ain't no _other_ way, that ever i heard of, and i've read all the books that gives any information about these things. they always dig out with a case-knife--and not through dirt, mind you; generly it's through solid rock. and it takes them weeks and weeks and weeks, and for ever and ever. why, look at one of them prisoners in the bottom dungeon of the castle deef, in the harbor of marseilles, that dug himself out that way; how long was _he_ at it, you reckon?" "i don't know." "well, guess." "i don't know. a month and a half." "_thirty-seven year_--and he come out in china. _that's_ the kind. i wish the bottom of _this_ fortress was solid rock." "_jim_ don't know nobody in china." "what's _that_ got to do with it? neither did that other fellow. but you're always a-wandering off on a side issue. why can't you stick to the main point?" "all right--i don't care where he comes out, so he _comes_ out; and jim don't, either, i reckon. but there's one thing, anyway--jim's too old to be dug out with a case-knife. he won't last." "yes he will _last,_ too. you don't reckon it's going to take thirty-seven years to dig out through a _dirt_ foundation, do you?" "how long will it take, tom?" "well, we can't resk being as long as we ought to, because it mayn't take very long for uncle silas to hear from down there by new orleans. he'll hear jim ain't from there. then his next move will be to advertise jim, or something like that. so we can't resk being as long digging him out as we ought to. by rights i reckon we ought to be a couple of years; but we can't. things being so uncertain, what i recommend is this: that we really dig right in, as quick as we can; and after that, we can _let on_, to ourselves, that we was at it thirty-seven years. then we can snatch him out and rush him away the first time there's an alarm. yes, i reckon that 'll be the best way." "now, there's _sense_ in that," i says. "letting on don't cost nothing; letting on ain't no trouble; and if it's any object, i don't mind letting on we was at it a hundred and fifty year. it wouldn't strain me none, after i got my hand in. so i'll mosey along now, and smouch a couple of case-knives." "smouch three," he says; "we want one to make a saw out of." "tom, if it ain't unregular and irreligious to sejest it," i says, "there's an old rusty saw-blade around yonder sticking under the weather-boarding behind the smokehouse." he looked kind of weary and discouraged-like, and says: "it ain't no use to try to learn you nothing, huck. run along and smouch the knives--three of them." so i done it. chapter xxxvi as soon as we reckoned everybody was asleep that night we went down the lightning-rod, and shut ourselves up in the lean-to, and got out our pile of fox-fire, and went to work. we cleared everything out of the way, about four or five foot along the middle of the bottom log. tom said we was right behind jim's bed now, and we'd dig in under it, and when we got through there couldn't nobody in the cabin ever know there was any hole there, because jim's counterpin hung down most to the ground, and you'd have to raise it up and look under to see the hole. so we dug and dug with the case-knives till most midnight; and then we was dog-tired, and our hands was blistered, and yet you couldn't see we'd done anything hardly. at last i says: "this ain't no thirty-seven-year job; this is a thirty-eight-year job, tom sawyer." he never said nothing. but he sighed, and pretty soon he stopped digging, and then for a good little while i knowed that he was thinking. then he says: "it ain't no use, huck, it ain't a-going to work. if we was prisoners it would, because then we'd have as many years as we wanted, and no hurry; and we wouldn't get but a few minutes to dig, every day, while they was changing watches, and so our hands wouldn't get blistered, and we could keep it up right along, year in and year out, and do it right, and the way it ought to be done. but _we_ can't fool along; we got to rush; we ain't got no time to spare. if we was to put in another night this way we'd have to knock off for a week to let our hands get well--couldn't touch a case-knife with them sooner." "well, then, what we going to do, tom?" "i'll tell you. it ain't right, and it ain't moral, and i wouldn't like it to get out; but there ain't only just the one way: we got to dig him out with the picks, and _let on_ it's case-knives." "_now_ you're _talking!_" i says; "your head gets leveler and leveler all the time, tom sawyer," i says. "picks is the thing, moral or no moral; and as for me, i don't care shucks for the morality of it, nohow. when i start in to steal a nigger, or a watermelon, or a sunday-school book, i ain't no ways particular how it's done so it's done. what i want is my nigger; or what i want is my watermelon; or what i want is my sunday-school book; and if a pick's the handiest thing, that's the thing i'm a-going to dig that nigger or that watermelon or that sunday-school book out with; and i don't give a dead rat what the authorities thinks about it nuther." "well," he says, "there's excuse for picks and letting on in a case like this; if it warn't so, i wouldn't approve of it, nor i wouldn't stand by and see the rules broke--because right is right, and wrong is wrong, and a body ain't got no business doing wrong when he ain't ignorant and knows better. it might answer for _you_ to dig jim out with a pick, _without_ any letting on, because you don't know no better; but it wouldn't for me, because i do know better. gimme a case-knife." he had his own by him, but i handed him mine. he flung it down, and says: "gimme a _case-knife._" i didn't know just what to do--but then i thought. i scratched around amongst the old tools, and got a pickax and give it to him, and he took it and went to work, and never said a word. he was always just that particular. full of principle. so then i got a shovel, and then we picked and shoveled, turn about, and made the fur fly. we stuck to it about a half an hour, which was as long as we could stand up; but we had a good deal of a hole to show for it. when i got up-stairs i looked out at the window and see tom doing his level best with the lightning-rod, but he couldn't come it, his hands was so sore. at last he says: "it ain't no use, it can't be done. what you reckon i better do? can't you think of no way?" "yes," i says, "but i reckon it ain't regular. come up the stairs, and let on it's a lightning-rod." so he done it. next day tom stole a pewter spoon and a brass candlestick in the house, for to make some pens for jim out of, and six tallow candles; and i hung around the nigger cabins and laid for a chance, and stole three tin plates. tom says it wasn't enough; but i said nobody wouldn't ever see the plates that jim throwed out, because they'd fall in the dog-fennel and jimpson weeds under the window-hole--then we could tote them back and he could use them over again. so tom was satisfied. then he says: "now, the thing to study out is, how to get the things to jim." "take them in through the hole," i says, "when we get it done." he only just looked scornful, and said something about nobody ever heard of such an idiotic idea, and then he went to studying. by and by he said he had ciphered out two or three ways, but there warn't no need to decide on any of them yet. said we'd got to post jim first. that night we went down the lightning-rod a little after ten, and took one of the candles along, and listened under the window-hole, and heard jim snoring; so we pitched it in, and it didn't wake him. then we whirled in with the pick and shovel, and in about two hours and a half the job was done. we crept in under jim's bed and into the cabin, and pawed around and found the candle and lit it, and stood over jim awhile, and found him looking hearty and healthy, and then we woke him up gentle and gradual. he was so glad to see us he most cried; and called us honey, and all the pet names he could think of; and was for having us hunt up a cold-chisel to cut the chain off of his leg with right away, and clearing out without losing any time. but tom he showed him how unregular it would be, and set down and told him all about our plans, and how we could alter them in a minute any time there was an alarm; and not to be the least afraid, because we would see he got away, _sure_. so jim he said it was all right, and we set there and talked over old times awhile, and then tom asked a lot of questions, and when jim told him uncle silas come in every day or two to pray with him, and aunt sally come in to see if he was comfortable and had plenty to eat, and both of them was kind as they could be, tom says: "_now_ i know how to fix it. we'll send you some things by them." i said, "don't do nothing of the kind; it's one of the most jackass ideas i ever struck"; but he never paid no attention to me; went right on. it was his way when he'd got his plans set. so he told jim how we'd have to smuggle in the rope-ladder pie and other large things by nat, the nigger that fed him, and he must be on the lookout, and not be surprised, and not let nat see him open them; and we would put small things in uncle's coat pockets and he must steal them out; and we would tie things to aunt's apron-strings or put them in her apron pocket, if we got a chance; and told him what they would be and what they was for. and told him how to keep a journal on the shirt with his blood, and all that. he told him everything. jim he couldn't see no sense in the most of it, but he allowed we was white folks and knowed better than him; so he was satisfied, and said he would do it all just as tom said. jim had plenty corn-cob pipes and tobacco; so we had a right down good sociable time; then we crawled out through the hole, and so home to bed, with hands that looked like they'd been chawed. tom was in high spirits. he said it was the best fun he ever had in his life, and the most intellectural; and said if he only could see his way to it we would keep it up all the rest of our lives and leave jim to our children to get out; for he believed jim would come to like it better and better the more he got used to it. he said that in that way it could be strung out to as much as eighty year, and would be the best time on record. and he said it would make us all celebrated that had a hand in it. in the morning we went out to the woodpile and chopped up the brass candlestick into handy sizes, and tom put them and the pewter spoon in his pocket. then we went to the nigger cabins, and while i got nat's notice off, tom shoved a piece of candlestick into the middle of a corn-pone that was in jim's pan, and we went along with nat to see how it would work, and it just worked noble; when jim bit into it it most mashed all his teeth out; and there warn't ever anything could 'a' worked better. tom said so himself. jim he never let on but what it was only just a piece of rock or something like that that's always getting into bread, you know; but after that he never bit into nothing but what he jabbed his fork into it in three or four places first. and whilst we was a-standing there in the dimmish light, here comes a couple of the hounds bulging in from under jim's bed; and they kept on piling in till there was eleven of them, and there warn't hardly room in there to get your breath. by jings, we forgot to fasten that lean-to door! the nigger nat he only just hollered "witches" once, and keeled over onto the floor amongst the dogs, and begun to groan like he was dying. tom jerked the door open and flung out a slab of jim's meat, and the dogs went for it, and in two seconds he was out himself and back again and shut the door, and i knowed he'd fixed the other door too. then he went to work on the nigger, coaxing him and petting him, and asking him if he'd been imagining he saw something again. he raised up, and blinked his eyes around, and says: "mars sid, you'll say i's a fool, but if i didn't b'lieve i see most a million dogs, er devils, er some'n, i 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_ to do." "but my lan', mars sid, how's i gwyne to make 'm a witch pie? i doan' know how to make it. i hain't ever hearn er sich a thing b'fo'." "well, then, i'll have to make it myself." "will you do it, honey?--will you? i'll wusshup de groun' und' yo' foot, i will!" [illustration: tom advises a witch pie] "all right, i'll do it, seeing it's you, and you've been good to us and showed us the runaway nigger. but you got to be mighty careful. when we come around, you turn your back; and then whatever we've put in the pan, don't you let on you see it at all. and don't you look when jim unloads the pan--something might happen, i don't know what. and above all, don't you _handle_ the witch-things." "_hannel_ 'm, mars sid? what _is_ you a-talkin' 'bout? i wouldn' lay de weight er my finger on um, not f'r ten hund'd thous'n billion dollars, i wouldn't." chapter xxxvii _that_ was all fixed. so then we went away and went to the rubbage-pile in the back yard, where they keep the old boots, and rags, and pieces of bottles, and wore-out tin things, and all such truck, and scratched around and found an old tin washpan, and stopped up the holes as well as we could, to bake the pie in, and took it down cellar and stole it full of flour and started for breakfast, and found a couple of shingle-nails that tom said would be handy for a prisoner to scrabble his name and sorrows on the dungeon walls with, and dropped one of them in aunt sally's apron pocket which was hanging on a chair, and t'other we stuck in the band of uncle silas's hat, which was on the bureau, because we heard the children say their pa and ma was going to the runaway nigger's house this morning, and then went to breakfast, and tom dropped the pewter spoon in uncle silas's coat pocket, and aunt sally wasn't come yet, so we had to wait a little while. and when she come she was hot and red and cross, and couldn't hardly wait for the blessing; and then she went to sluicing out coffee with one hand and cracking the handiest child's head with her thimble with the other, and says: "i've hunted high and i've hunted low, and it does beat all what _has_ become of your other shirt." my heart fell down amongst my lungs and livers and things, and a hard piece of corn-crust started down my throat after it and got met on the road with a cough, and was shot across the table, and took one of the children in the eye and curled him up like a fishing-worm, and let a cry out of him the size of a war-whoop, and tom he turned kinder blue around the gills, and it all amounted to a considerable state of things for about a quarter of a minute or as much as that, and i would 'a' sold out for half price if there was a bidder. but after that we was all right again--it was the sudden surprise of it that knocked us so kind of cold. uncle silas he says: "it's most uncommon curious, i can't understand it. i know perfectly well i took it _off_, because--" "because you hain't got but one _on_. just _listen_ at the man! i know you took it off, and know it by a better way than your wool-gethering memory, too, because it was on the clo's-line yesterday--i see it there myself. but it's gone, that's the long and the short of it, and you'll just have to change to a red flann'l one till i can get time to make a new one. and it 'll be the third i've made in two years. it just keeps a body on the jump to keep you in shirts; and whatever you do manage to _do_ with 'm all is more'n i can make out. a body'd think you _would_ learn to take some sort of care of 'em at your time of life." "i know it, sally, and i do try all i can. but it oughtn't to be altogether my fault, because, you know, i don't see them nor have nothing to do with them except when they're on me; and i don't believe i've ever lost one of them _off_ of me." "well, it ain't _your_ fault if you haven't, silas; you'd 'a' done it if you could, i reckon. and the shirt ain't all that's gone, nuther. ther's a spoon gone; and _that_ ain't all. there was ten, and now ther' only nine. the calf got the shirt, i reckon, but the calf never took the spoon, _that's_ certain." "why, what else is gone, sally?" "ther's six _candles_ gone--that's what. the rats could 'a' got the candles, and i reckon they did; i wonder they don't walk off with the whole place, the way you're always going to stop their holes and don't do it; and if they warn't fools they'd sleep in your hair, silas--_you'd_ never find it out; but you can't lay the _spoon_ on the rats, and that i _know_." "well, sally, i'm in fault, and i acknowledge it; i've been remiss; but i won't let to-morrow go by without stopping up them holes." "oh, i wouldn't hurry; next year 'll do. matilda angelina araminta _phelps!_" whack comes the thimble, and the child snatches her claws out of the sugar-bowl without fooling around any. just then the nigger woman steps onto the passage, and says: "missus, dey's a sheet gone." "a _sheet_ gone! well, for the land's sake!" "i'll stop up them holes to-day," says uncle silas, looking sorrowful. "oh, _do_ shet up!--s'pose the rats took the _sheet?_ _where's_ it gone, lize?" "clah to goodness i hain't no notion, miss' sally. she wuz on de clo's-line yistiddy, but she done gone: she ain' dah no mo' now." "i reckon the world _is_ coming to an end. i _never_ see the beat of it in all my born days. a shirt, and a sheet, and a spoon, and six can--" "missus," comes a young yaller wench, "dey's a brass cannelstick miss'n." "cler out from here, you hussy, er i'll take a skillet to ye!" well, she was just a-biling. i begun to lay for a chance; i reckoned i would sneak out and go for the woods till the weather moderated. she kept a-raging right along, running her insurrection all by herself, and everybody else mighty meek and quiet; and at last uncle silas, looking kind of foolish, fishes up that spoon out of his pocket. she stopped, with her mouth open and her hands up; and as for me, i wished i was in jeruslem or somewheres. but not long, because she says: "it's _just_ as i expected. so you had it in your pocket all the time; and like as not you've got the other things there, too. how'd it get there?" "i reely don't know, sally," he says, kind of apologizing, "or you know i would tell. i was a-studying over my text in acts seventeen before breakfast, and i reckon i put it in there, not noticing, meaning to put my testament in, and it must be so, because my testament ain't in; but i'll go and see; and if the testament is where i had it, i'll know i didn't put it in, and that will show that i laid the testament down and took up the spoon, and--" "oh, for the land's sake! give a body a rest! go 'long now, the whole kit and biling of ye; and don't come nigh me again till i've got back my peace of mind." i'd 'a' heard her if she'd 'a' said it to herself, let alone speaking it out; and i'd 'a' got up and obeyed her if i'd 'a' been dead. as we was passing through the setting-room the old man he took up his hat, and the shingle-nail fell out on the floor, and he just merely picked it up and laid it on the mantel-shelf, and never said nothing, and went out. tom see him do it, and remembered about the spoon, and says: "well, it ain't no use to send things by _him_ no more, he ain't reliable." then he says: "but he done us a good turn with the spoon, anyway, without knowing it, and so we'll go and do him one without _him_ knowing it--stop up his rat-holes." there was a noble good lot of them down cellar, and it took us a whole hour, but we done the job tight and good and shipshape. then we heard steps on the stairs, and blowed out our light and hid; and here comes the old man, with a candle in one hand and a bundle of stuff in t'other, looking as absent-minded as year before last. he went a-mooning around, first to one rat-hole and then another, till he'd been to them all. then he stood about five minutes, picking tallow-drip off of his candle and thinking. then he turns off slow and dreamy towards the stairs, saying: "well, for the life of me i can't remember when i done it. i could show her now that i warn't to blame on account of the rats. but never mind--let it go. i reckon it wouldn't do no good." and so he went on a-mumbling up-stairs, and then we left. he was a mighty nice old man. and always is. tom was a good deal bothered about what to do for a spoon, but he said we'd got to have it; so he took a think. when he had ciphered it out he told me how we was to do; then we went and waited around the spoon-basket till we see aunt sally coming, and then tom went to counting the spoons and laying them out to one side, and i slid one of them up my sleeve, and tom says: "why, aunt sally, there ain't but nine spoons _yet_." she says: "go 'long to your play, and don't bother me. i know better, i counted 'm myself." "well, i've counted them twice, aunty, and _i_ can't make but nine." she looked out of all patience, but of course she come to count--anybody would. "i declare to gracious ther' _ain't_ but nine!" she says. "why, what in the world--plague _take_ the things, i'll count 'm again." so i slipped back the one i had, and when she got done counting, she says: "hang the troublesome rubbage, ther's _ten_ now!" and she looked huffy and bothered both. but tom says: "why, aunty, i don't think there's ten." "you numskull, didn't you see me _count_ 'm?" "i know, but--" "well, i'll count 'm again." so i smouched one, and they come out nine, same as the other time. well, she _was_ in a tearing way--just a-trembling all over, she was so mad. but she counted and counted till she got that addled she'd start to count in the basket for a spoon sometimes; and so, three times they come out right, and three times they come out wrong. then she grabbed up the basket and slammed it across the house and knocked the cat galley-west; and she said cler out and let her have some peace, and if we come bothering around her again betwixt that and dinner she'd skin us. so we had the odd spoon, and dropped it in her apron pocket whilst she was a-giving us our sailing orders, and jim got it all right, along with her shingle-nail, before noon. we was very well satisfied with this business, and tom allowed it was worth twice the trouble it took, because he said _now_ she couldn't ever count them spoons twice alike again to save her life; and wouldn't believe she'd counted them right if she _did_; and said that after she'd about counted her head off for the next three days he judged she'd give it up and offer to kill anybody that wanted her to ever count them any more. so we put the sheet back on the line that night, and stole one out of her closet; and kept on putting it back and stealing it again for a couple of days till she didn't know how many sheets she had any more, and she didn't _care_, and warn't a-going to bullyrag the rest of her soul out about it, and wouldn't count them again not to save her life; she druther die first. so we was all right now, as to the shirt and the sheet and the spoon and the candles, by the help of the calf and the rats and the mixed-up counting; and as to the candlestick, it warn't no consequence, it would blow over by and by. but that pie was a job; we had no end of trouble with that pie. we fixed it up away down in the woods, and cooked it there; and we got it done at last, and very satisfactory, too; but not all in one day; and we had to use up three wash-pans full of flour before we got through, and we got burnt pretty much all over, in places, and eyes put out with the smoke; because, you see, we didn't want nothing but a crust, and we couldn't prop it up right, and she would always cave in. but of course we thought of the right way at last--which was to cook the ladder, too, in the pie. so then we laid in with jim the second night, and tore up the sheet all in little strings and twisted them together, and long before daylight we had a lovely rope that you could 'a' hung a person with. we let on it took nine months to make it. and in the forenoon we took it down to the woods, but it wouldn't go into the pie. being made of a whole sheet, that way, there was rope enough for forty pies if we'd 'a' wanted them, and plenty left over for soup, or sausage, or anything you choose. we could 'a' had a whole dinner. but we didn't need it. all we needed was just enough for the pie, and so we throwed the rest away. we didn't cook none of the pies in the washpan--afraid the solder would melt; but uncle silas he had a noble brass warming-pan which he thought considerable of, because it belonged to one of his ancesters with a long wooden handle that come over from england with william the conqueror in the _mayflower_ or one of them early ships and was hid away up garret with a lot of other old pots and things that was valuable, not on account of being any account, because they warn't, but on account of them being relicts, you know, and we snaked her out, private, and took her down there, but she failed on the first pies, because we didn't know how, but she come up smiling on the last one. we took and lined her with dough, and set her in the coals, and loaded her up with rag rope, and put on a dough roof, and shut down the lid, and put hot embers on top, and stood off five foot, with the long handle, cool and comfortable, and in fifteen minutes she turned out a pie that was a satisfaction to look at. but the person that et it would want to fetch a couple of kags of toothpicks along, for if that rope ladder wouldn't cramp him down to business i don't know nothing what i'm talking about, and lay him in enough stomach-ache to last him till next time, too. nat didn't look when we put the witch pie in jim's pan; and we put the three tin plates in the bottom of the pan under the vittles; and so jim got everything all right, and as soon as he was by himself he busted into the pie and hid the rope ladder inside of his straw tick, and scratched some marks on a tin plate and throwed it out of the window-hole. chapter xxxviii making them pens was a distressid tough job, and so was the saw; and jim allowed the inscription was going to be the toughest of all. that's the one which the prisoner has to scrabble on the wall. but he had to have it; tom said he'd _got_ to; there warn't no case of a state prisoner not scrabbling his inscription to leave behind, and his coat of arms. "look at lady jane grey," he says; "look at gilford dudley; look at old northumberland! why, huck, s'pose it _is_ considerble trouble?--what you going to do?--how you going to get around it? jim's _got_ to do his inscription and coat of arms. they all do." jim says: "why, mars tom, i hain't got no coat o' arm; i hain't got nuffn but dish yer ole shirt, en you knows i got to keep de journal on dat." "oh, you don't understand, jim; a coat of arms is very different." "well," i says, "jim's right, anyway, when he says he ain't got no coat of arms, because he hain't." "i reckon i knowed that," tom says, "but you bet he'll have one before he goes out of this--because he's going out _right_, and there ain't going to be no flaws in his record." so whilst me and jim filed away at the pens on a brickbat apiece, jim a-making his'n out of the brass and i making mine out of the spoon, tom set to work to think out the coat of arms. by and by he said he'd struck so many good ones he didn't hardly know which to take, but there was one which he reckoned he'd decide on. he says: "on the scutcheon we'll have a bend _or_ in the dexter base, a saltire _murrey_ in the fess, with a dog, couchant, for common charge, and under his foot a chain embattled, for slavery, with a chevron _vert_ in a chief engrailed, and three invected lines on a field _azure_, with the nombril points rampant on a dancette indented; crest, a runaway nigger, _sable_, with his bundle over his shoulder on a bar sinister; and a couple of gules for supporters, which is you and me; motto, _maggiore fretta, minore atto_. got it out of a book--means the more haste the less speed." "geewhillikins," i says, "but what does the rest of it mean?" "we ain't got no time to bother over that," he says; "we got to dig in like all git-out." "well, anyway," i says, "what's _some_ of it? what's a fess?" "a fess--a fess is--_you_ don't need to know what a fess is. i'll show him how to make it when he gets to it." "shucks, tom," i says, "i think you might tell a person. what's a bar sinister?" "oh, i don't know. but he's got to have it. all the nobility does." that was just his way. if it didn't suit him to explain a thing to you, he wouldn't do it. you might pump at him a week, it wouldn't make no difference. he'd got all that coat-of-arms business fixed, so now he started in to finish up the rest of that part of the work, which was to plan out a mournful inscription--said jim got to have one, like they all done. he made up a lot, and wrote them out on a paper, and read them off, so: _ . here a captive heart busted. . here a poor prisoner, forsook by the world and friends, fretted his sorrowful life. . here a lonely heart broke, and a worn spirit went to its rest, after thirty-seven years of solitary captivity. . here, homeless and friendless, after thirty-seven years of bitter captivity, perished a noble stranger, natural son of louis xiv._ tom's voice trembled whilst he was reading them, and he most broke down. when he got done he couldn't no way make up his mind which one for jim to scrabble onto the wall, they was all so good; but at last he allowed he would let him scrabble them all on. jim said it would take him a year to scrabble such a lot of truck onto the logs with a nail, and he didn't know how to make letters, besides; but tom said he would block them out for him, and then he wouldn't have nothing to do but just follow the lines. then pretty soon he says: "come to think, the logs ain't a-going to do; they don't have log walls in a dungeon: we got to dig the inscriptions into a rock. we'll fetch a rock." jim said the rock was worse than the logs; he said it would take him such a pison long time to dig them into a rock he wouldn't ever get out. but tom said he would let me help him do it. then he took a look to see how me and jim was getting along with the pens. it was most pesky tedious hard work and slow, and didn't give my hands no show to get well of the sores, and we didn't seem to make no headway, hardly; so tom says: "i know how to fix it. we got to have a rock for the coat of arms and mournful inscriptions, and we can kill two birds with that same rock. there's a gaudy big grindstone down at the mill, and we'll smouch it, and carve the things on it, and file out the pens and the saw on it, too." it warn't no slouch of an idea; and it warn't no slouch of a grindstone nuther; but we allowed we'd tackle it. it warn't quite midnight yet, so we cleared out for the mill, leaving jim at work. we smouched the grindstone, and set out to roll her home, but it was a most nation tough job. sometimes, do what we could, we couldn't keep her from falling over, and she come mighty near mashing us every time. tom said she was going to get one of us, sure, before we got through. we got her halfway; and then we was plumb played out, and most drownded with sweat. we see it warn't no use; we got to go and fetch jim. so he raised up his bed and slid the chain off of the bed-leg, and wrapt it round and round his neck, and we crawled out through our hole and down there, and jim and me laid into that grindstone and walked her along like nothing; and tom superintended. he could out-superintend any boy i ever see. he knowed how to do everything. our hole was pretty big, but it warn't big enough to get the grindstone through; but jim he took the pick and soon made it big enough. then tom marked out them things on it with the nail, and set jim to work on them, with the nail for a chisel and an iron bolt from the rubbage in the lean-to for a hammer, and told him to work till the rest of his candle quit on him, and then he could go to bed, and hide the grindstone under his straw tick and sleep on it. then we helped him fix his chain back on the bed-leg, and was ready for bed ourselves. but tom thought of something, and says: "you got any spiders in here, jim?" "no, sah, thanks to goodness i hain't, mars tom." "all right, we'll get you some." "but bless you, honey, i doan' _want_ none. i's afeard un um. i jis' 's soon have rattlesnakes aroun'." tom thought a minute or two, and says: "it's a good idea. and i reckon it's been done. it _must_ 'a' been done; it stands to reason. yes, it's a prime good idea. where could you keep it?" "keep what, mars tom?" "why, a rattlesnake." "de goodness gracious alive, mars tom! why, if dey was a rattlesnake to come in heah i'd take en bust right out thoo dat log wall, i would, wid my head." "why, jim, you wouldn't be afraid of it after a little. you could tame it." "_tame_ it!" "yes--easy enough. every animal is grateful for kindness and petting, and they wouldn't _think_ of hurting a person that pets them. any book will tell you that. you try--that's all i ask; just try for two or three days. why, you can get him so in a little while that he'll love you; and sleep with you; and won't stay away from you a minute; and will let you wrap him round your neck and put his head in your mouth." "_please_, tom--_doan_' talk so! i can't _stan'_ it! he'd _let_ me shove his head in my mouf--fer a favor, hain't it? i lay he'd wait a pow'ful long time 'fo' i _ast_ him. en mo' en dat, i doan' _want_ him to sleep wid me." "jim, don't act so foolish. a prisoner's _got_ to have some kind of a dumb pet, and if a rattlesnake hain't ever been tried, why, there's more glory to be gained in your being the first to ever try it than any other way you could ever think of to save your life." "why, mars tom, i doan' _want_ no sich glory. snake take 'n bite jim's chin off, den _whah_ is de glory? no, sah, i doan' want no sich doin's." "blame it, can't you _try?_ i only _want_ you to try--you needn't keep it up if it don't work." "but de trouble all _done_ ef de snake bite me while i's a-tryin' him. mars tom, i's willin' to tackle mos' anything 'at ain't onreasonable, but ef you en huck fetches a rattlesnake in heah for me to tame, i's gwyne to _leave_, dat's _shore_." "well, then, let it go, let it go, if you're so bull-headed about it. we can get you some garter-snakes, and you can tie some buttons on their tails, and let on they're rattlesnakes, and i reckon that 'll have to do." "i k'n stan' _dem_, mars tom, but blame' 'f i couldn' get along widout um, i tell you dat. i never knowed b'fo' 'twas so much bother and trouble to be a prisoner." "well, it _always_ is when it's done right. you got any rats around here?" "no, sah, i hain't seed none." "well, we'll get you some rats." "why, mars tom, i doan' _want_ no rats. dey's de dadblamedest creturs to 'sturb a body, en rustle roun' over 'im, en bite his feet, when he's tryin' to sleep, i ever see. no, sah, gimme g'yarter-snakes, 'f i's got to have 'm, but doan' gimme no rats; i hain' got no use f'r um, skasely." "but, jim, you _got_ to have 'em--they all do. so don't make no more fuss about it. prisoners ain't ever without rats. there ain't no instance of it. and they train them, and pet them, and learn them tricks, and they get to be as sociable as flies. but you got to play music to them. you got anything to play music on?" "i ain' got nuffn but a coase comb en a piece o' paper, en a juice-harp; but i reck'n dey wouldn' take no stock in a juice-harp." "yes they would. _they_ don't care what kind of music 'tis. a jews-harp's plenty good enough for a rat. all animals like music--in a prison they dote on it. specially, painful music; and you can't get no other kind out of a jew's-harp. it always interests them; they come out to see what's the matter with you. yes, you're all right; you're fixed very well. you want to set on your bed nights before you go to sleep, and early in the mornings, and play your jew's-harp; play 'the last link is broken'--that's the thing that 'll scoop a rat quicker 'n anything else; and when you've played about two minutes you'll see all the rats, and the snakes, and spiders and things begin to feel worried about you, and come. and they'll just fairly swarm over you, and have a noble good time." "yes, _dey_ will, i reck'n, mars tom, but what kine er time is _jim_ havin'? blest if i kin see de pint. but i'll do it ef i got to. i reck'n i better keep de animals satisfied, en not have no trouble in de house." tom waited to think it over, and see if there wasn't nothing else; and pretty soon he says: "oh, there's one thing i forgot. could you raise a flower here, do you reckon?" "i doan' know but maybe i could, mars tom; but it's tolable dark in heah, en i ain' got no use f'r no flower, nohow, en she'd be a pow'ful sight o' trouble." "well, you try it, anyway. some other prisoners has done it." "one er dem big cat-tail-lookin' mullen-stalks would grow in heah, mars tom, i reck'n, but she wouldn't be wuth half de trouble she'd coss." "don't you believe it. we'll fetch you a little one and you plant it in the corner over there, and raise it. and don't call it mullen, call it pitchiola--that's its right name when it's in a prison. and you want to water it with your tears." "why, i got plenty spring water, mars tom." "you don't _want_ spring water; you want to water it with your tears. it's the way they always do." "why, mars tom, i lay i kin raise one er dem mullen-stalks twyste wid spring water whiles another man's a start'n one wid tears." "that ain't the idea. you _got_ to do it with tears." "she'll die on my han's, mars tom, she sholy will; kase i doan' skasely ever cry." so tom was stumped. but he studied it over, and then said jim would have to worry along the best he could with an onion. he promised he would go to the nigger cabins and drop one, private, in jim's coffee-pot, in the morning. jim said he would "jis' 's soon have tobacker in his coffee"; and found so much fault with it, and with the work and bother of raising the mullen, and jew's-harping the rats, and petting and flattering up the snakes and spiders and things, on top of all the other work he had to do on pens, and inscriptions, and journals, and things, which made it more trouble and worry and responsibility to be a prisoner than anything he ever undertook, that tom most lost all patience with him; and said he was just loadened down with more gaudier chances than a prisoner ever had in the world to make a name for himself, and yet he didn't know enough to appreciate them, and they was just about wasted on him. so jim he was sorry, and said he wouldn't behave so no more, and then me and tom shoved for bed. chapter xxxix in the morning we went up to the village and bought a wire rat-trap and fetched it down, and unstopped the best rat-hole, and in about an hour we had fifteen of the bulliest kind of ones; and then we took it and put it in a safe place under aunt sally's bed. but while we was gone for spiders little thomas franklin benjamin jefferson elexander phelps found it there, and opened the door of it to see if the rats would come out, and they did; and aunt sally she come in, and when we got back she was a-standing on top of the bed raising cain, and the rats was doing what they could to keep off the dull times for her. so she took and dusted us both with the hickry, and we was as much as two hours catching another fifteen or sixteen, drat that meddlesome cub, and they warn't the likeliest, nuther, because the first haul was the pick of the flock. i never see a likelier lot of rats than what that first haul was. we got a splendid stock of sorted spiders, and bugs, and frogs, and caterpillars, and one thing or another; and we like to got a hornet's nest, but we didn't. the family was at home. we didn't give it right up, but stayed with them as long as we could; because we allowed we'd tire them out or they'd got to tire us out, and they done it. then we got allycumpain and rubbed on the places, and was pretty near all right again, but couldn't set down convenient. and so we went for the snakes, and grabbed a couple of dozen garters and house-snakes, and put them in a bag, and put it in our room, and by that time it was supper-time, and a rattling good honest day's work: and hungry?--oh, no, i reckon not! and there warn't a blessed snake up there when we went back--we didn't half tie the sack, and they worked out somehow, and left. but it didn't matter much, because they was still on the premises somewheres. so we judged we could get some of them again. no, there warn't no real scarcity of snakes about the house for a considerable spell. you'd see them dripping from the rafters and places every now and then; and they generly landed in your plate, or down the back of your neck, and most of the time where you didn't want them. well, they was handsome and striped, and there warn't no harm in a million of them; but that never made no difference to aunt sally; she despised snakes, be the breed what they might, and she couldn't stand them no way you could fix it; and every time one of them flopped down on her, it didn't make no difference what she was doing, she would just lay that work down and light out. i never see such a woman. and you could hear her whoop to jericho. you couldn't get her to take a-holt of one of them with the tongs. and if she turned over and found one in bed she would scramble out and lift a howl that you would think the house was afire. she disturbed the old man so that he said he could most wish there hadn't ever been no snakes created. why, after every last snake had been gone clear out of the house for as much as a week aunt sally warn't over it yet; she warn't near over it; when she was setting thinking about something you could touch her on the back of her neck with a feather and she would jump right out of her stockings. it was very curious. but tom said all women was just so. he said they was made that way for some reason or other. we got a licking every time one of our snakes come in her way, and she allowed these lickings warn't nothing to what she would do if we ever loaded up the place again with them. i didn't mind the lickings, because they didn't amount to nothing; but i minded the trouble we had to lay in another lot. but we got them laid in, and all the other things; and you never see a cabin as blithesome as jim's was when they'd all swarm out for music and go for him. jim didn't like the spiders, and the spiders didn't like jim; and so they'd lay for him, and make it mighty warm for him. and he said that between the rats and the snakes and the grindstone there warn't no room in bed for him, skasely; and when there was, a body couldn't sleep, it was so lively, and it was always lively, he said, because _they_ never all slept at one time, but took turn about, so when the snakes was asleep the rats was on deck, and when the rats turned in the snakes come on watch, so he always had one gang under him, in his way, and t'other gang having a circus over him, and if he got up to hunt a new place the spiders would take a chance at him as he crossed over. he said if he ever got out this time he wouldn't ever be a prisoner again, not for a salary. well, by the end of three weeks everything was in pretty good shape. the shirt was sent in early, in a pie, and every time a rat bit jim he would get up and write a line in his journal whilst the ink was fresh; the pens was made, the inscriptions and so on was all carved on the grindstone; the bed-leg was sawed in two, and we had et up the sawdust, and it give us a most amazing stomach-ache. we reckoned we was all going to die, but didn't. it was the most undigestible sawdust i ever see; and tom said the same. but as i was saying, we'd got all the work done now, at last; and we was all pretty much fagged out, too, but mainly jim. the old man had wrote a couple of times to the plantation below orleans to come and get their runaway nigger, but hadn't got no answer, because there warn't no such plantation; so he allowed he would advertise jim in the st. louis and new orleans papers; and when he mentioned the st. louis ones it give me the cold shivers, and i see we hadn't no time to lose. so tom said, now for the nonnamous letters. "what's them?" i says. "warnings to the people that something is up. sometimes it's done one way, sometimes another. but there's always somebody spying around that gives notice to the governor of the castle. when louis xvi. was going to light out of the tooleries a servant-girl done it. it's a very good way, and so is the nonnamous letters. we'll use them both. and it's usual for the prisoner's mother to change clothes with him, and she stays in, and he slides out in her clothes. we'll do that, too." "but looky here, tom, what do we want to _warn_ anybody for that something's up? let them find it out for themselves--it's their lookout." "yes, i know; but you can't depend on them. it's the way they've acted from the very start--left us to do _everything_. they're so confiding and mullet-headed they don't take notice of nothing at all. so if we don't _give_ them notice there won't be nobody nor nothing to interfere with us, and so after all our hard work and trouble this escape 'll go off perfectly flat; won't amount to nothing--won't be nothing _to_ it." "well, as for me, tom, that's the way i'd like." "shucks!" he says, and looked disgusted. so i says: "but i ain't going to make no complaint. any way that suits you suits me. what you going to do about the servant-girl?" "you'll be her. you slide in, in the middle of the night, and hook that yaller girl's frock." "why, tom, that 'll make trouble next morning; because, of course, she prob'bly hain't got any but that one." "i know; but you don't want it but fifteen minutes, to carry the nonnamous letter and shove it under the front door." "all right, then, i'll do it; but i could carry it just as handy in my own togs." "you wouldn't look like a servant-girl _then_, would you?" "no, but there won't be nobody to see what i look like, _anyway_." "that ain't got nothing to do with it. the thing for us to do is just to do our _duty_, and not worry about whether anybody _sees_ us do it or not. hain't you got no principle at all?" "all right, i ain't saying nothing; i'm the servant-girl. who's jim's mother?" "i'm his mother. i'll hook a gown from aunt sally." "well, then, you'll have to stay in the cabin when me and jim leaves." "not much. i'll stuff jim's clothes full of straw and lay it on his bed to represent his mother in disguise, and jim 'll take the nigger woman's gown off of me and wear it, and we'll all evade together. when a prisoner of style escapes it's called an evasion. it's always called so when a king escapes, f'rinstance. and the same with a king's son; it don't make no difference whether he's a natural one or an unnatural one." so tom he wrote the nonnamous letter, and i smouched the yaller wench's frock that night, and put it on, and shoved it under the front door, the way tom told me to. it said: _beware. trouble is brewing. keep a sharp lookout. unknown friend._ next night we stuck a picture, which tom drawed in blood, of a skull and crossbones on the front door; and next night another one of a coffin on the back door. i never see a family in such a sweat. they couldn't 'a' been worse scared if the place had 'a' been full of ghosts laying for them behind everything and under the beds and shivering through the air. if a door banged, aunt sally she jumped and said "ouch!" if anything fell, she jumped and said "ouch!" if you happened to touch her, when she warn't noticing, she done the same; she couldn't face no way and be satisfied, because she allowed there was something behind her every time--so she was always a-whirling around sudden, and saying "ouch," and before she'd got two-thirds around she'd whirl back again, and say it again; and she was afraid to go to bed, but she dasn't set up. so the thing was working very well, tom said; he said he never see a thing work more satisfactory. he said it showed it was done right. so he said, now for the grand bulge! so the very next morning at the streak of dawn we got another letter ready, and was wondering what we better do with it, because we heard them say at supper they was going to have a nigger on watch at both doors all night. tom he went down the lightning-rod to spy around; and the nigger at the back door was asleep, and he stuck it in the back of his neck and come back. this letter said: _don't betray me, i wish to be your friend. there is a desprate gang of cutthroats from over in the indian territory going to steal your runaway nigger to-night, and they have been trying to scare you so as you will stay in the house and not bother them. i am one of the gang, but have got religgion and wish to quit it and lead an honest life again, and will betray the helish design. they will sneak down from northards, along the fence, at midnight exact, with a false key, and go in the nigger's cabin to get him. i am to be off a piece and blow a tin horn if i see any danger; but stead of that i will ba like a sheep soon as they get in and not blow at all; then whilst they are getting his chains loose, you slip there and lock them in, and can kill them at your leasure. don't do anything but just the way i am telling you; if you do they will suspicion something and raise whoop-jamboreehoo. i do not wish any reward but to know i have done the right thing. unknown friend._ chapter xl we was feeling pretty good after breakfast, and took my canoe and went over the river a-fishing, with a lunch, and had a good time, and took a look at the raft and found her all right, and got home late to supper, and found them in such a sweat and worry they didn't know which end they was standing on, and made us go right off to bed the minute we was done supper, and wouldn't tell us what the trouble was, and never let on a word about the new letter, but didn't need to, because we knowed as much about it as anybody did, and as soon as we was half up-stairs and her back was turned we slid for the cellar cubboard and loaded up a good lunch and took it up to our room and went to bed, and got up about half past eleven, and tom put on aunt sally's dress that he stole and was going to start with the lunch, but says: "where's the butter?" "i laid out a hunk of it," i says, "on a piece of a corn-pone." "well, you _left_ it laid out, then--it ain't here." "we can get along without it," i says. "we can get along _with_ it, too," he says; "just you slide down cellar and fetch it. and then mosey right down the lightning-rod and come along. i'll go and stuff the straw into jim's clothes to represent his mother in disguise, and be ready to _ba_ like a sheep and shove soon as you get there." so out he went, and down cellar went i. the hunk of butter, big as a person's fist, was where i had left it, so i took up the slab of corn-pone with it on, and blowed out my light, and started up-stairs very stealthy, and got up to the main floor all right, but here comes aunt sally with a candle, and i clapped the truck in my hat, and clapped my hat on my head, and the next second she see me; and she says: "you been down cellar?" "yes'm." "what you been doing down there?" "noth'n." "_noth'n!_" "no'm." "well, then, what possessed you to go down there this time of night?" "i don't know 'm." "you don't _know?_ don't answer me that way. tom, i want to know what you been _doing_ down there." "i hain't been doing a single thing, aunt sally, i hope to gracious if i have." i reckoned she'd let me go now, and as a generl thing she would; but i s'pose there was so many strange things going on she was just in a sweat about every little thing that warn't yard-stick straight; so she says, very decided: "you just march into that setting-room and stay there till i come. you been up to something you no business to, and i lay i'll find out what it is before _i'm_ done with you." so she went away as i opened the door and walked into the setting-room. my, but there was a crowd there! fifteen farmers, and every one of them had a gun. i was most powerful sick, and slunk to a chair and set down. they was setting around, some of them talking a little, in a low voice, and all of them fidgety and uneasy, but trying to look like they warn't; but i knowed they was, because they was always taking off their hats, and putting them on, and scratching their heads, and changing their seats, and fumbling with their buttons. i warn't easy myself, but i didn't take my hat off, all the same. i did wish aunt sally would come, and get done with me, and lick me, if she wanted to, and let me get away and tell tom how we'd overdone this thing, and what a thundering hornet's nest we'd got ourselves into, so we could stop fooling around straight off, and clear out with jim before these rips got out of patience and come for us. at last she come and begun to ask me questions, but i _couldn't_ answer them straight, i didn't know which end of me was up; because these men was in such a fidget now that some was wanting to start right _now_ and lay for them desperadoes, and saying it warn't but a few minutes to midnight; and others was trying to get them to hold on and wait for the sheep-signal; and here was aunty pegging away at the questions, and me a-shaking all over and ready to sink down in my tracks i was that scared; and the place getting hotter and hotter, and the butter beginning to melt and run down my neck and behind my ears; and pretty soon, when one of them says, "_i'm_ for going and getting in the cabin _first_ and right _now_, and catching them when they come," i most dropped; and a streak of butter come a-trickling down my forehead, and aunt sally she see it, and turns white as a sheet, and says: "for the land's sake, what _is_ the matter with the child? he's got the brain-fever as shore as you're born, and they're oozing out!" and everybody runs to see, and she snatches off my hat, and out comes the bread and what was left of the butter, and she grabbed me, and hugged me, and says: "oh, what a turn you did give me! and how glad and grateful i am it ain't no worse; for luck's against us, and it never rains but it pours, and when i see that truck i thought we'd lost you, for i knowed by the color and all it was just like your brains would be if--dear, dear, whyd'nt you _tell_ me that was what you'd been down there for, _i_ wouldn't 'a' cared. now cler out to bed, and don't lemme see no more of you till morning!" i was up-stairs in a second, and down the lightning-rod in another one, and shinning through the dark for the lean-to. i couldn't hardly get my words out, i was so anxious; but i told tom as quick as i could we must jump for it now, and not a minute to lose--the house full of men, yonder, with guns! his eyes just blazed; and he says: "no!--is that so? _ain't_ it bully! why, huck, if it was to do over again, i bet i could fetch two hundred! if we could put it off till--" "hurry! _hurry!_" i says. "where's jim?" "right at your elbow; if you reach out your arm you can touch him. he's dressed, and everything's ready. now we'll slide out and give the sheep-signal." but then we heard the tramp of men coming to the door, and heard them begin to fumble with the padlock, and heard a man say: "i _told_ you we'd be too soon; they haven't come--the door is locked. here, i'll lock some of you into the cabin, and you lay for 'em in the dark and kill 'em when they come; and the rest scatter around a piece, and listen if you can hear 'em coming." so in they come, but couldn't see us in the dark, and most trod on us whilst we was hustling to get under the bed. but we got under all right, and out through the hole, swift but soft--jim first, me next, and tom last, which was according to tom's orders. now we was in the lean-to, and heard trampings close by outside. so we crept to the door, and tom stopped us there and put his eye to the crack, but couldn't make out nothing, it was so dark; and whispered and said he would listen for the steps to get further, and when he nudged us jim must glide out first, and him last. so he set his ear to the crack and listened, and listened, and listened, and the steps a-scraping around out there all the time; and at last he nudged us, and we slid out, and stooped down, not breathing, and not making the least noise, and slipped stealthy towards the fence in injun file, and got to it all right, and me and jim over it; but tom's britches catched fast on a splinter on the top rail, and then he hear the steps coming, so he had to pull loose, which snapped the splinter and made a noise; and as he dropped in our tracks and started somebody sings out: "who's that? answer, or i'll shoot!" but we didn't answer; we just unfurled our heels and shoved. then there was a rush, and a _bang,_ _bang,_ _bang!_ and the bullets fairly whizzed around us! we heard them sing out: "here they are! they've broke for the river! after 'em, boys, and turn loose the dogs!" so here they come, full tilt. we could hear them because they wore boots and yelled, but we didn't wear no boots and didn't yell. we was in the path to the mill; and when they got pretty close onto us we dodged into the bush and let them go by, and then dropped in behind them. they'd had all the dogs shut up, so they wouldn't scare off the robbers; but by this time somebody had let them loose, and here they come, making powwow enough for a million; but they was our dogs; so we stopped in our tracks till they catched up; and when they see it warn't nobody but us, and no excitement to offer them, they only just said howdy, and tore right ahead towards the shouting and clattering; and then we up-steam again, and whizzed along after them till we was nearly to the mill, and then struck up through the bush to where my canoe was tied, and hopped in and pulled for dear life towards the middle of the river, but didn't make no more noise than we was obleeged to. then we struck out, easy and comfortable, for the island where my raft was; and we could hear them yelling and barking at each other all up and down the bank, till we was so far away the sounds got dim and died out. and when we stepped onto the raft i says: "now, old jim, you're a free man _again_, and i bet you won't ever be a slave no more." "en a mighty good job it wuz, too, huck. it 'uz planned beautiful, en it 'uz _done_ beautiful; en dey ain't _nobody_ kin git up a plan dat's mo' mixed up en splendid den what dat one wuz." we was all glad as we could be, but tom was the gladdest of all because he had a bullet in the calf of his leg. when me and jim heard that we didn't feel as brash as what we did before. it was hurting him considerable, and bleeding; so we laid him in the wigwam and tore up one of the duke's shirts for to bandage him, but he says: "gimme the rags; i can do it myself. don't stop now; don't fool around here, and the evasion booming along so handsome; man the sweeps, and set her loose! boys, we done it elegant!--'deed we did. i wish _we'd_ 'a' had the handling of louis xvi., there wouldn't 'a' been no 'son of saint louis, ascend to heaven!' wrote down in _his_ biography; no, sir, we'd 'a' whooped him over the _border_--that's what we'd 'a' done with _him_--and done it just as slick as nothing at all, too. man the sweeps--man the sweeps!" but me and jim was consulting--and thinking. and after we'd thought a minute, i says: "say it, jim." so he says: "well, den, dis is de way it look to me, huck. ef it wuz _him_ dat 'uz bein' sot free, en one er de boys wuz to git shot, would he say, 'go on en save me, nemmine 'bout a doctor f'r to save dis one'? is dat like mars tom sawyer? would he say dat? you _bet_ he wouldn't! _well_, den, is _jim_ gywne to say it? no, sah--i doan' budge a step out'n dis place 'dout a _doctor_; not if it's forty year!" i knowed he was white inside, and i reckoned he'd say what he did say--so it was all right now, and i told tom i was a-going for a doctor. he raised considerable row about it, but me and jim stuck to it and wouldn't budge; so he was for crawling out and setting the raft loose himself; but we wouldn't let him. then he give us a piece of his mind, but it didn't do no good. so when he sees me getting the canoe ready, he says: "well, then, if you're bound to go, i'll tell you the way to do when you get to the village. shut the door and blindfold the doctor tight and fast, and make him swear to be silent as the grave, and put a purse full of gold in his hand, and then take and lead him all around the back alleys and everywheres in the dark, and then fetch him here in the canoe, in a roundabout way amongst the islands, and search him and take his chalk away from him, and don't give it back to him till you get him back to the village, or else he will chalk this raft so he can find it again. it's the way they all do." so i said i would, and left, and jim was to hide in the woods when he see the doctor coming till he was gone again. chapter xli the doctor was an old man; a very nice, kind-looking old man when i got him up. i told him me and my brother was over on spanish island hunting yesterday afternoon, and camped on a piece of a raft we found, and about midnight he must 'a' kicked his gun in his dreams, for it went off and shot him in the leg, and we wanted him to go over there and fix it and not say nothing about it, nor let anybody know, because we wanted to come home this evening and surprise the folks. "who is your folks?" he says. "the phelpses, down yonder." "oh," he says. and after a minute, he says: "how'd you say he got shot?" "he had a dream," i says, "and it shot him." "singular dream," he says. so he lit up his lantern, and got his saddle-bags, and we started. but when he see the canoe he didn't like the look of her--said she was big enough for one, but didn't look pretty safe for two. i says: "oh, you needn't be afeard, sir, she carried the three of us easy enough." "what three?" "why, me and sid, and--and--and _the guns_; that's what i mean." "oh," he says. but he put his foot on the gunnel and rocked her, and shook his head, and said he reckoned he'd look around for a bigger one. but they was all locked and chained; so he took my canoe, and said for me to wait till he come back, or i could hunt around further, or maybe i better go down home and get them ready for the surprise if i wanted to. but i said i didn't; so i told him just how to find the raft, and then he started. i struck an idea pretty soon. i says to myself, spos'n he can't fix that leg just in three shakes of a sheep's tail, as the saying is? spos'n it takes him three or four days? what are we going to do?--lay around there till he lets the cat out of the bag? no, sir; i know what _i'll_ do. i'll wait, and when he comes back if he says he's got to go any more i'll get down there, too, if i swim; and we'll take and tie him, and keep him, and shove out down the river; and when tom's done with him we'll give him what it's worth, or all we got, and then let him get ashore. so then i crept into a lumber-pile to get some sleep; and next time i waked up the sun was away up over my head! i shot out and went for the doctor's house, but they told me he'd gone away in the night some time or other, and warn't back yet. well, thinks i, that looks powerful bad for tom, and i'll dig out for the island right off. so away i shoved, and turned the corner, and nearly rammed my head into uncle silas's stomach! he says: "why, _tom!_ where you been all this time, you rascal?" "_i_ hain't been nowheres," i says, "only just hunting for the runaway nigger--me and sid." "why, where ever did you go?" he says. "your aunt's been mighty uneasy." "she needn't," i says, "because we was all right. we followed the men and the dogs, but they outrun us, and we lost them; but we thought we heard them on the water, so we got a canoe and took out after them and crossed over, but couldn't find nothing of them; so we cruised along up-shore till we got kind of tired and beat out; and tied up the canoe and went to sleep, and never waked up till about an hour ago; then we paddled over here to hear the news, and sid's at the post-office to see what he can hear, and i'm a-branching out to get something to eat for us, and then we're going home." so then we went to the post-office to get "sid"; but just as i suspicioned, he warn't there; so the old man he got a letter out of the office, and we waited awhile longer, but sid didn't come; so the old man said, come along, let sid foot it home, or canoe it, when he got done fooling around--but we would ride. i couldn't get him to let me stay and wait for sid; and he said there warn't no use in it, and i must come along, and let aunt sally see we was all right. when we got home aunt sally was that glad to see me she laughed and cried both, and hugged me, and give me one of them lickings of hern that don't amount to shucks, and said she'd serve sid the same when he come. and the place was plum full of farmers and farmers' wives, to dinner; and such another clack a body never heard. old mrs. hotchkiss was the worst; her tongue was a-going all the time. she says: "well, sister phelps, i've ransacked that-air cabin over, an' i b'lieve the nigger was crazy. i says to sister damrell--didn't i, sister damrell?--s'i, he's crazy, s'i--them's the very words i said. you all hearn me: he's crazy, s'i; everything shows it, s'i. look at that-air grindstone, s'i; want to tell _me't_ any cretur 't's in his right mind 's a goin' to scrabble all them crazy things onto a grindstone? s'i. here sich 'n' sich a person busted his heart; 'n' here so 'n' so pegged along for thirty-seven year, 'n' all that--natcherl son o' louis somebody, 'n' sich everlast'n rubbage. he's plumb crazy, s'i; it's what i says in the fust place, it's what i says in the middle, 'n' it's what i says last 'n' all the time--the nigger's crazy--crazy 's nebokoodneezer, s'i." "an' look at that-air ladder made out'n rags, sister hotchkiss," says old mrs. damrell; "what in the name o' goodness _could_ he ever want of--" "the very words i was a-sayin' no longer ago th'n this minute to sister utterback, 'n' she'll tell you so herself. sh-she, look at that-air rag ladder, sh-she; 'n' s'i, yes, look at it, s'i--what _could_ he 'a' wanted of it, s'i. sh-she, sister hotchkiss, sh-she--" "but how in the nation'd they ever _git_ that grindstone _in_ there, _anyway?_ 'n' who dug that-air _hole?_ 'n' who--" "my very _words_, brer penrod! i was a-sayin'--pass that-air sasser o' m'lasses, won't ye?--i was a-sayin' to sister dunlap, jist this minute, how _did_ they git that grindstone in there? s'i. without _help,_ mind you--'thout _help! thar's_ where 'tis. don't tell _me,_ s'i; there _wuz_ help, s'i; 'n' ther' wuz a _plenty_ help, too, s'i; ther's ben a _dozen_ a-helpin' that nigger, 'n' i lay i'd skin every last nigger on this place but _i'd_ find out who done it, s'i; moreover, s'i--" "a _dozen_ says you!--_forty_ couldn't 'a' done everything that's been done. look at them case-knife saws and things, how tedious they've been made; look at that bed-leg sawed off with 'm, a week's work for six men: look at that nigger made out'n straw on the bed; and look at--" "you may _well_ say it, brer hightower! it's jist as i was a-sayin' to brer phelps, his own self. s'e, what do _you_ think of it, sister hotchkiss? s'e. think o' what, brer phelps? s'i. think o' that bed-leg sawed off that a way? s'e? _think_ of it? s'i. i lay it never sawed _itself_ off, s'i--somebody _sawed_ it, s'i; that's my opinion, take it or leave it, it mayn't be no 'count, s'i, but sich as 't is, it's my opinion, s'i, 'n' if anybody k'n start a better one, s'i, let him _do_ it, s'i, that's all. i says to sister dunlap, s'i--" "why, dog my cats, they must 'a' ben a house-full o' niggers in there every night for four weeks to 'a' done all that work, sister phelps. look at that shirt--every last inch of it kivered over with secret african writ'n done with blood! must 'a' ben a raft uv 'm at it right along, all the time, amost. why, i'd give two dollars to have it read to me; 'n' as for the niggers that wrote it, i 'low i'd take 'n' lash 'm t'll--" "people to _help_ him, brother marples! well, i reckon you'd _think_ so if you'd 'a' been in this house for a while back. why, they've stole everything they could lay their hands on--and we a-watching all the time, mind you. they stole that shirt right off o' the line! and as for that sheet they made the rag ladder out of, ther' ain't no telling how many times they _didn't_ steal that; and flour, and candles, and candlesticks, and spoons, and the old warming-pan, and most a thousand things that i disremember now, and my new calico dress; and me and silas and my sid and tom on the constant watch day _and_ night, as i was a-telling you, and not a one of us could catch hide nor hair nor sight nor sound of them; and here at the last minute, lo and behold you, they slides right in under our noses and fools us, and not only fools _us_ but the injun territory robbers too, and actuly gets _away_ with that nigger safe and sound, and that with sixteen men and twenty-two dogs right on their very heels at that very time! i tell you, it just bangs anything i ever _heard_ of. why, _sperits_ couldn't 'a' done better and been no smarter. and i reckon they must 'a' _been_ sperits--because, because, _you_ know our dogs, and ther' ain't no better; well, them dogs never even got on the _track_ of 'm once! you explain _that_ to me if you can!--_any_ of you!" "well, it does beat--" "laws alive, i never--" "so help me, i wouldn't 'a' be--" "_house_-thieves as well as--" "goodnessgracioussakes, i'd 'a' ben afeard to _live_ in sich a--" "fraid to _live!_--why, i was that scared i dasn't hardly go to bed, or get up, or lay down, or _set_ down, sister ridgeway. why, they'd steal the very--why, goodness sakes, you can guess what kind of a fluster i was in by the time midnight come last night. i hope to gracious if i warn't afraid they'd steal some o' the family! i was just to that pass i didn't have no reasoning faculties no more. it looks foolish enough _now_, in the daytime; but i says to myself, there's my two poor boys asleep, 'way upstairs in that lonesome room, and i declare to goodness i was that uneasy 't i crep' up there and locked 'em in! i _did_. and anybody would. because, you know, when you get scared that way, and it keeps running on, and getting worse and worse all the time, and your wits gets to addling, and you get to doing all sorts o' wild things, and by and by you think to yourself, spos'n i was a boy, and was away up there, and the door ain't locked, and you--" she stopped, looking kind of wondering, and then she turned her head around slow, and when her eye lit on me--i got up and took a walk. says i to myself, i can explain better how we come to not be in that room this morning if i go out to one side and study over it a little. so i done it. but i dasn't go fur, or she'd 'a' sent for me. and when it was late in the day the people all went, and then i come in and told her the noise and shooting waked up me and "sid," and the door was locked, and we wanted to see the fun, so we went down the lightning-rod, and both of us got hurt a little, and we didn't never want to try _that_ no more. and then i went on and told her all what i told uncle silas before; and then she said she'd forgive us, and maybe it was all right enough anyway, and about what a body might expect of boys, for all boys was a pretty harum-scarum lot as fur as she could see; and so, as long as no harm hadn't come of it, she judged she better put in her time being grateful we was alive and well and she had us still, stead of fretting over what was past and done. so then she kissed me, and patted me on the head, and dropped into a kind of a brown-study; and pretty soon jumps up, and says: "why, lawsamercy, it's most night, and sid not come yet! what _has_ become of that boy?" i see my chance; so i skips up and says: "i'll run right up to town and get him," i says. "no you won't," she says. "you'll stay right wher' you are; _one's_ enough to be lost at a time. if he ain't here to supper, your uncle 'll go." well, he warn't there to supper; so right after supper uncle went. he come back about ten a little bit uneasy; hadn't run across tom's track. aunt sally was a good _deal_ uneasy; but uncle silas he said there warn't no occasion to be--boys will be boys, he said, and you'll see this one turn up in the morning all sound and right. so she had to be satisfied. but she said she'd set up for him awhile anyway, and keep a light burning so he could see it. and then when i went up to bed she come up with me and fetched her candle, and tucked me in, and mothered me so good i felt mean, and like i couldn't look her in the face; and she set down on the bed and talked with me a long time, and said what a splendid boy sid was, and didn't seem to want to ever stop talking about him; and kept asking me every now and then if i reckoned he could 'a' got lost, or hurt, or maybe drownded, and might be laying at this minute somewheres suffering or dead, and she not by him to help him, and so the tears would drip down silent, and i would tell her that sid was all right, and would be home in the morning, sure; and she would squeeze my hand, or maybe kiss me, and tell me to say it again, and keep on saying it, because it done her good, and she was in so much trouble. and when she was going away she looked down in my eyes so steady and gentle, and says: "the door ain't going to be locked, tom, and there's the window and the rod; but you'll be good, _won't_ you? and you won't go? for _my_ sake." laws knows i _wanted_ to go bad enough to see about tom, and was all intending to go; but after that i wouldn't 'a' went, not for kingdoms. but she was on my mind and tom was on my mind, so i slept very restless. and twice i went down the rod away in the night, and slipped around front, and see her setting there by her candle in the window with her eyes towards the road and the tears in them; and i wished i could do something for her, but i couldn't, only to swear that i wouldn't never do nothing to grieve her any more. and the third time i waked up at dawn, and slid down, and she was there yet, and her candle was most out, and her old gray head was resting on her hand, and she was asleep. chapter xlii the old man was uptown again before breakfast, but couldn't get no track of tom; and both of them set at the table thinking, and not saying nothing, and looking mournful, and their coffee getting cold, and not eating anything. and by and by the old man says: "did i give you the letter?" "what letter?" "the one i got yesterday out of the post-office." "no, you didn't give me no letter." "well, i must 'a' forgot it." so he rummaged his pockets, and then went off somewheres where he had laid it down, and fetched it, and give it to her. she says: "why, it's from st. petersburg--it's from sis." i allowed another walk would do me good; but i couldn't stir. but before she could break it open she dropped it and run--for she see something. and so did i. it was tom sawyer on a mattress; and that old doctor; and jim, in _her_ calico dress, with his hands tied behind him; and a lot of people. i hid the letter behind the first thing that come handy, and rushed. she flung herself at tom, crying, and says: "oh, he's dead, he's dead, i know he's dead!" and tom he turned his head a little, and muttered something or other, which showed he warn't in his right mind; then she flung up her hands, and says: "he's alive, thank god! and that's enough!" and she snatched a kiss of him, and flew for the house to get the bed ready, and scattering orders right and left at the niggers and everybody else, as fast as her tongue could go, every jump of the way. i followed the men to see what they was going to do with jim; and the old doctor and uncle silas followed after tom into the house. the men was very huffy, and some of them wanted to hang jim for an example to all the other niggers around there, so they wouldn't be trying to run away like jim done, and making such a raft of trouble, and keeping a whole family scared most to death for days and nights. but the others said, don't do it, it wouldn't answer at all; he ain't our nigger, and his owner would turn up and make us pay for him, sure. so that cooled them down a little, because the people that's always the most anxious for to hang a nigger that hain't done just right is always the very ones that ain't the most anxious to pay for him when they've got their satisfaction out of him. they cussed jim considerble, though, and give him a cuff or two side the head once in a while, but jim never said nothing, and he never let on to know me, and they took him to the same cabin, and put his own clothes on him, and chained him again, and not to no bed-leg this time, but to a big staple drove into the bottom log, and chained his hands, too, and both legs, and said he warn't to have nothing but bread and water to eat after this till his owner come, or he was sold at auction because he didn't come in a certain length of time, and filled up our hole, and said a couple of farmers with guns must stand watch around about the cabin every night, and a bulldog tied to the door in the daytime; and about this time they was through with the job and was tapering off with a kind of generl good-by cussing, and then the old doctor comes and takes a look, and says: "don't be no rougher on him than you're obleeged to, because he ain't a bad nigger. when i got to where i found the boy i see i couldn't cut the bullet out without some help, and he warn't in no condition for me to leave to go and get help; and he got a little worse and a little worse, and after a long time he went out of his head, and wouldn't let me come a-nigh him any more, and said if i chalked his raft he'd kill me, and no end of wild foolishness like that, and i see i couldn't do anything at all with him; so i says, i got to have _help_ somehow; and the minute i says it out crawls this nigger from somewheres and says he'll help, and he done it, too, and done it very well. of course i judged he must be a runaway nigger, and there i _was!_ and there i had to stick right straight along all the rest of the day and all night. it was a fix, i tell you! i had a couple of patients with the chills, and of course i'd of liked to run up to town and see them, but i dasn't, because the nigger might get away, and then i'd be to blame; and yet never a skiff come close enough for me to hail. so there i had to stick plumb until daylight this morning; and i never see a nigger that was a better nuss or faithfuler, and yet he was risking his freedom to do it, and was all tired out, too, and i see plain enough he'd been worked main hard lately. i liked the nigger for that; i tell you, gentlemen, a nigger like that is worth a thousand dollars--and kind treatment, too. i had everything i needed, and the boy was doing as well there as he would 'a' done at home--better, maybe, because it was so quiet; but there i _was_, with both of 'm on my hands, and there i had to stick till about dawn this morning; then some men in a skiff come by, and as good luck would have it the nigger was setting by the pallet with his head propped on his knees sound asleep; so i motioned them in quiet, and they slipped up on him and grabbed him and tied him before he knowed what he was about, and we never had no trouble. and the boy being in a kind of a flighty sleep, too, we muffled the oars and hitched the raft on, and towed her over very nice and quiet, and the nigger never made the least row nor said a word from the start. he ain't no bad nigger, gentlemen; that's what i think about him." somebody says: "well, it sounds very good, doctor, i'm obleeged to say." then the others softened up a little, too, and i was mighty thankful to that old doctor for doing jim that good turn; and i was glad it was according to my judgment of him, too; because i thought he had a good heart in him and was a good man the first time i see him. then they all agreed that jim had acted very well, and was deserving to have some notice took of it, and reward. so every one of them promised, right out and hearty, that they wouldn't cuss him no more. then they come out and locked him up. i hoped they was going to say he could have one or two of the chains took off, because they was rotten heavy, or could have meat and greens with his bread and water; but they didn't think of it, and i reckoned it warn't best for me to mix in, but i judged i'd get the doctor's yarn to aunt sally somehow or other as soon as i'd got through the breakers that was laying just ahead of me--explanations, i mean, of how i forgot to mention about sid being shot when i was telling how him and me put in that dratted night paddling around hunting the runaway nigger. but i had plenty time. aunt sally she stuck to the sick-room all day and all night, and every time i see uncle silas mooning around i dodged him. next morning i heard tom was a good deal better, and they said aunt sally was gone to get a nap. so i slips to the sick-room, and if i found him awake i reckoned we could put up a yarn for the family that would wash. but he was sleeping, and sleeping very peaceful, too; and pale, not fire-faced the way he was when he come. so i set down and laid for him to wake. in about half an hour aunt sally comes gliding in, and there i was, up a stump again! she motioned me to be still, and set down by me, and begun to whisper, and said we could all be joyful now, because all the symptoms was first-rate, and he'd been sleeping like that for ever so long, and looking better and peacefuler all the time, and ten to one he'd wake up in his right mind. so we set there watching, and by and by he stirs a bit, and opened his eyes very natural, and takes a look, and says: "hello!--why, i'm at _home!_ how's that? where's the raft?" "it's all right," i says. "and _jim?_" "the same," i says, but couldn't say it pretty brash. but he never noticed, but says: "good! splendid! _now_ we're all right and safe! did you tell aunty?" i was going to say yes; but she chipped in and says: "about what, sid?" "why, about the way the whole thing was done." "what whole thing?" "why, _the_ whole thing. there ain't but one; how we set the runaway nigger free--me and tom." "good land! set the run--what _is_ the child talking about! dear, dear, out of his head again!" "_no_, i ain't out of my head; i know all what i'm talking about. we _did_ set him free--me and tom. we laid out to do it, and we _done_ it. and we done it elegant, too." he'd got a start, and she never checked him up, just set and stared and stared, and let him clip along, and i see it warn't no use for _me_ to put in. "why, aunty, it cost us a power of work--weeks of it--hours and hours, every night, whilst you was all asleep. and we had to steal candles, and the sheet, and the shirt, and your dress, and spoons, and tin plates, and case-knives, and the warming-pan, and the grindstone, and flour, and just no end of things, and you can't think what work it was to make the saws, and pens, and inscriptions, and one thing or another, and you can't think half the fun it was. and we had to make up the pictures of coffins and things, and nonnamous letters from the robbers, and get up and down the lightning-rod, and dig the hole into the cabin, and make the rope ladder and send it in cooked up in a pie, and send in spoons and things to work with in your apron pocket--" "mercy sakes!" "--and load up the cabin with rats and snake's and so on, for company for jim; and then you kept tom here so long with the butter in his hat that you come near spiling the whole business, because the men come before we was out of the cabin, and we had to rush, and they heard us and let drive at us, and i got my share, and we dodged out of the path and let them go by, and when the dogs come they warn't interested in us, but went for the most noise, and we got our canoe, and made for the raft, and was all safe, and jim was a free man, and we done it all by ourselves, and _wasn't_ it bully. aunty!" "well, i never heard the likes of it in all my born days! so it was _you_, you little rapscallions, that's been making all this trouble, and turned everybody's wits clean inside out and scared us all most to death. i've as good a notion as ever i had in my life to take it out o' you this very minute. to think, here i've been, night after night, a--_you_ just get well once, you young scamp, and i lay i'll tan the old harry out o' both o' ye!" but tom, he _was_ so proud and joyful, he just _couldn't_ hold in, and his tongue just _went_ it--she a-chipping in, and spitting fire all along, and both of them going it at once, like a cat convention; and she says: "_well_, you get all the enjoyment you can out of it _now_, for mind i tell you if i catch you meddling with him again--" "meddling with _who_ tom says, dropping his smile and looking surprised. "with _who?_ why, the runaway nigger, of course. who'd you reckon?" tom looks at me very grave, and says: "tom, didn't you just tell me he was all right? hasn't he got away?" "_him?_" says aunt sally; "the runaway nigger? 'deed he hasn't. they've got him back, safe and sound, and he's in that cabin again, on bread and water, and loaded down with chains, till he's claimed or sold!" tom rose square up in bed, with his eye hot, and his nostrils opening and shutting like gills, and sings out to me: "they hain't no _right_ to shut him up! _shove!_--and don't you lose a minute. turn him loose! he ain't no slave; he's as free as any cretur that walks this earth!" "what _does_ the child mean?" "i mean every word i _say_, aunt sally, and if somebody don't go, _i'll_ go. i've knowed him all his life, and so has tom, there. old miss watson died two months ago, and she was ashamed she ever was going to sell him down the river, and _said_ so; and she set him free in her will." "then what on earth did _you_ want to set him free for, seeing he was already free?" "well, that _is_ a question, i must say; and _just_ like women! why, i wanted the _adventure_ of it; and i'd 'a' waded neck-deep in blood to--goodness alive, _aunt polly!"_ if she warn't standing right there, just inside the door, looking as sweet and contented as an angel half full of pie, i wish i may never! aunt sally jumped for her, and most hugged the head off of her, and cried over her, and i found a good enough place for me under the bed, for it was getting pretty sultry for _us_, seemed to me. and i peeped out, and in a little while tom's aunt polly shook herself loose and stood there looking across at tom over her spectacles--kind of grinding him into the earth, you know. and then she says: "yes, you _better_ turn y'r head away--i would if i was you, tom." "oh, deary me!" says aunt sally; "_is_ he changed so? why, that ain't _tom_, it's sid; tom's--tom's--why, where is tom? he was here a minute ago." "you mean where's huck _finn_--that's what you mean! i reckon i hain't raised such a scamp as my tom all these years not to know him when i _see_ him. that _would_ be a pretty howdy-do. come out from under that bed, huck finn." so i done it. but not feeling brash. aunt sally she was one of the mixed-upest-looking persons i ever see--except one, and that was uncle silas, when he come in and they told it all to him. it kind of made him drunk, as you may say, and he didn't know nothing at all the rest of the day, and preached a prayer-meeting sermon that night that gave him a rattling ruputation, because the oldest man in the world couldn't 'a' understood it. so tom's aunt polly, she told all about who i was, and what; and i had to up and tell how i was in such a tight place that when mrs. phelps took me for tom sawyer--she chipped in and says, "oh, go on and call me aunt sally, i'm used to it now, and 'taint no need to change"--that when aunt sally took me for tom sawyer i had to stand it--there warn't no other way, and i knowed he wouldn't mind, because it would be nuts for him, being a mystery, and he'd make an adventure out of it, and be perfectly satisfied. and so it turned out, and he let on to be sid, and made things as soft as he could for me. and his aunt polly she said tom was right about old miss watson setting jim free in her will; and so, sure enough, tom sawyer had gone and took all that trouble and bother to set a free nigger free! and i couldn't ever understand before, until that minute and that talk, how he _could_ help a body set a nigger free with his bringing-up. well, aunt polly she said that when aunt sally wrote to her that tom and _sid_ had come all right and safe, she says to herself: "look at that, now! i might have expected it, letting him go off that way without anybody to watch him. so now i got to go and trapse all the way down the river, eleven hundred mile, and find out what that creetur's up to _this_ time, as long as i couldn't seem to get any answer out of you about it." "why, i never heard nothing from you," says aunt sally. "well, i wonder! why, i wrote you twice to ask you what you could mean by sid being here." "well, i never got 'em. sis." aunt polly she turns around slow and severe, and says: "you, tom!" "well--_what?_" he says, kind of pettish. "don't you what _me_, you impudent thing--hand out them letters." "what letters?" "_them_ letters. i be bound, if i have to take a-holt of you i'll--" "they're in the trunk. there, now. and they're just the same as they was when i got them out of the office. i hain't looked into them, i hain't touched them. but i knowed they'd make trouble, and i thought if you warn't in no hurry, i'd--" "well, you _do_ need skinning, there ain't no mistake about it. and i wrote another one to tell you i was coming; and i s'pose he--" "no, it come yesterday; i hain't read it yet, but _it's_ all right, i've got that one." i wanted to offer to bet two dollars she hadn't, but i reckoned maybe it was just as safe to not to. so i never said nothing. chapter the last the first time i catched tom private i asked him what was his idea, time of the evasion?--what it was he'd planned to do if the evasion worked all right and he managed to set a nigger free that was already free before? and he said, what he had planned in his head from the start, if we got jim out all safe, was for us to run him down the river on the raft, and have adventures plumb to the mouth of the river, and then tell him about his being free, and take him back up home on a steamboat, in style, and pay him for his lost time, and write word ahead and get out all the niggers around, and have them waltz him into town with a torchlight procession and a brass-band, and then he would be a hero, and so would we. but i reckoned it was about as well the way it was. we had jim out of the chains in no time, and when aunt polly and uncle silas and aunt sally found out how good he helped the doctor nurse tom, they made a heap of fuss over him, and fixed him up prime, and give him all he wanted to eat, and a good time, and nothing to do. and we had him up to the sick-room, and had a high talk; and tom give jim forty dollars for being prisoner for us so patient, and doing it up so good, and jim was pleased most to death and busted out, and says: "_dah_, now, huck, what i tell you?--what i tell you up dah on jackson islan'? i tole you i got a hairy breas', en what's de sign un it; en i _tole_ you i ben rich wunst, en gwineter to be rich _ag'in;_ en it's come true; en heah she _is! dah_, now! doan' talk to _me_--signs is _signs_, mine i tell you; en i knowed jis' 's well 'at i 'uz gwineter be rich ag'in as i's a-stannin' heah dis minute!" and then tom he talked along and talked along, and says, le's all three slide out of here one of these nights and get an outfit, and go for howling adventures amongst the injuns, over in the territory, for a couple of weeks or two; and i says, all right, that suits me, but i ain't got no money for to buy the outfit, and i reckon i couldn't get none from home, because it's likely pap's been back before now, and got it all away from judge thatcher and drunk it up. "no, he hain't," tom says; "it's all there yet--six thousand dollars and more; and your pap hain't ever been back since. hadn't when i come away, anyhow." jim says, kind of solemn: "he ain't a-comin' back no mo', huck." i says: "why, jim?" "nemmine why, huck--but he ain't comin' back no mo'." but i kept at him; so at last he says: "doan' you 'member de house dat was float'n down de river, en dey wuz a man in dah, kivered up, en i went in en unkivered him and didn' let you come in? well, den, you kin git yo' money when you wants it, kase dat wuz him." tom's most well now, and got his bullet around his neck on a watch-guard for a watch, and is always seeing what time it is, and so there ain't nothing more to write about, and i am rotten glad of it, because if i'd 'a' knowed what a trouble it was to make a book i wouldn't 'a' tackled it, and ain't a-going to no more. but i reckon i got to light out for the territory ahead of the rest, because aunt sally she's going to adopt me and sivilize me, and i can't stand it. i been there before. the end