      The Adventures of Tom Sawyer
  
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THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER
  BY
  MARK TWAIN
  (Samuel Langhorne Clemens)
  P R E F A C E
  MOST of the adventures recorded in this book
really occurred; one or two were experiences of my
own, the rest those of boys who were schoolmates of
mine. Huck Finn is drawn from life; Tom
Sawyer also, but not from an individual -- he is a
combina- tion of the characteristics of three boys whom I
knew, and therefore belongs to the composite order of
archi- tecture.
  The odd superstitions touched upon were all preva-
lent among children and slaves in the West at the period
of this story -- that is to say, thirty or forty years
ago.
  Although my book is intended mainly for the en-
tertainment of boys and girls, I hope it will not be
shunned by men and women on that account, for part of my
plan has been to try to pleasantly remind
adults of what they once were themselves, and of how they
felt and thought and talked, and what queer enterprises
they sometimes engaged in.
  THE AUTHOR.
HARTFORD, 1876.
  T O M S A W Y E R
  CHAPTER I
  "TOM!"
  No answer.
  "TOM!"
  No answer.
  "What's gone with that boy, I wonder? You
TOM!"
  No answer.
  The old lady pulled her spectacles down and
looked over them about the room; then she put them up
and looked out under them. She seldom or never looked
THROUGH them for so small a thing as a boy; they were her
state pair, the pride of her heart, and were built
for "style," not service -- she could have seen through a
pair of stove-lids just as well. She looked
perplexed for a moment, and then said, not fiercely, but still
loud enough for the furniture to hear:
  "Well, I lay if I get hold of you
I'll --"
  She did not finish, for by this time she was bending down
and punching under the bed with the broom, and so she needed
breath to punctuate the punches with. She
resurrected nothing but the cat.
"I never did see the beat of that boy!"
  She went to the open door and stood in it and looked
out among the tomato vines and "jimpson" weeds that
constituted the garden. No Tom. So she lifted up
her voice at an angle calculated for distance and
shouted:
  "Y-o-u-u TOM!"
  There was a slight noise behind her and she turned just
in time to seize a small boy by the slack of his
roundabout and arrest his flight.
  "There! I might 'a' thought of that closet.
What you been doing in there?"
  "Nothing."
  "Nothing! Look at your hands. And look at your
mouth. What IS that truck?"
  "I don't know, aunt."
  "Well, I know. It's jam -- that's what it
is. Forty times I've said if you didn't let that
jam alone I'd skin you. Hand me that switch."
  The switch hovered in the air -- the peril was
des- perate --
  "My! Look behind you, aunt!"
  The old lady whirled round, and snatched her
skirts out of danger. The lad fled on the instant,
scrambled up the high board-fence, and disappeared over
it.
  his aunt Polly stood surprised a moment, and
then broke into a gentle laugh.
  "Hang the boy, can't I never learn anything?
Ain't he played me tricks enough like that for me to be
look- ing out for him by this time? But old fools is the
big- gest fools there is. Can't learn an old
dog new tricks, as the saying is. But my goodness,
he never plays them alike, two days, and how is
a body to know what's coming? He 'pears to know just how
long he can torment me before I get my dander up, and
he knows if he can make out to put me off for a
minute or make me laugh, it's all down again and
I can't hit him a lick. I ain't doing my
duty by that boy, and that's the Lord's truth, goodness
knows. Spare the rod and spile the child, as the Good
Book says. I'm a laying up sin and suffering for
us both, I know. He's full of the Old
Scratch, but laws-a-me! he's my own dead
sister's boy, poor thing, and I ain't got the
heart to lash him, some- how. Every time I let him
off, my conscience does hurt me so, and every time I
hit him my old heart most breaks.
Well-a-well, man that is born of woman is of
few days and full of trouble, as the Scripture
says, and I reckon it's so. He'll
play hookey this evening, * and [* Southwestern
for "afternoon"]
  I'll just be obleeged to make him work, tomorrow,
to punish him. It's mighty hard to make him work
Saturdays, when all the boys is having holiday,
but he hates work more than he hates anything else,
and I've GOT to do some of my duty by him, or
I'll be the ruination of the child."
  Tom did play hookey, and he had a very good
time. He got back home barely in season
to help Jim, the small colored boy, saw
next-day's wood and split the kindlings before supper
-- at least he was there in time to tell his adventures
to Jim while Jim did three-fourths of the work.
Tom's younger brother (or rather half-brother) Sid
was already through with his part of the work (picking up chips), for
he was a quiet boy, and had no adventurous,
trouble- some ways.
  While Tom was eating his supper, and stealing sugar
as opportunity offered, Aunt Polly asked him
questions that were full of guile, and very deep -- for she
wanted to trap him into damaging revealments. Like many
other simple-hearted souls, it was her pet vanity
to believe she was endowed with a talent for dark and
mysterious diplomacy, and she loved to con-
template her most transparent devices as
marvels of low cunning. Said she:
  "Tom, it was middling warm in school, warn't
it?"
  "Yes'm."
  "Powerful warm, warn't it?"
  "Yes'm."
  "Didn't you want to go in a-swimming, Tom?"
  A bit of a scare shot through Tom -- a touch of
uncomfortable suspicion. He searched Aunt
Polly's face, but it told him nothing. So he
said:
  "No'm -- well, not very much."
  The old lady reached out her hand and felt Tom's
shirt, and said:
  "But you ain't too warm now, though." And it
flattered her to reflect that she had discovered that the
shirt was dry without anybody knowing that that was what she
had in her mind. But in spite of her, Tom knew
where the wind lay, now. So he forestalled what might
be the next move:
  "Some of us pumped on our heads -- mine's
damp yet. See?"
  Aunt Polly was vexed to think she had
overlooked that bit of circumstantial
evidence, and missed a trick. Then she had a new
inspiration:
  "Tom, you didn't have to undo your shirt collar
where I sewed it, to pump on your head, did you?
Unbutton your jacket!"
  The trouble vanished out of Tom's face. He
opened his jacket. his shirt collar was securely
sewed.
  "Bother! Well, go 'long with you. I'd made
sure you'd played hookey and been a-swimming. But
I forgive ye, Tom. I reckon you're a kind
of a singed cat, as the saying is -- better'n you
look. THIS time."
  She was half sorry her sagacity had
miscarried, and half glad that Tom had stumbled
into obedient con- duct for once.
  But Sidney said:
  "Well, now, if I didn't think you sewed his
collar with white thread, but it's black."
  "Why, I did sew it with white! Tom!"
  But Tom did not wait for the rest. As he went out
at the door he said:
  "Siddy, I'll lick you for that."
  In a safe place Tom examined two large
needles which were thrust into the lapels of his
jacket, and had thread bound about them -- one needle
carried white thread and the other black. He said:
  "She'd never noticed if it hadn't been for
Sid. Confound it! sometimes she sews it with white, and
sometimes she sews it with black. I wish to gee-
miny she'd stick to one or t'other -- I can't
keep the run of 'em. But I bet you I'll lam
Sid for that. I'll learn him!"
  He was not the Model Boy of the village. He
knew the model boy very well though -- and loathed
him.
  Within two minutes, or even less, he had
forgotten all his troubles. Not because his troubles were one
whit less heavy and bitter to him than a man's are
to a man, but because a new and powerful interest bore them
down and drove them out of his mind for the time -- just as
men's misfortunes are forgotten in the excite- ment
of new enterprises. This new interest was a valued
novelty in whistling, which he had just acquired from a
negro, and he was suffering to practise it un-
disturbed. It consisted in a peculiar bird-like
turn, a sort of liquid warble, produced by touching
the tongue to the roof of the mouth at short intervals in
the midst of the music -- the reader probably
remembers how to do it, if he has ever been
a boy. Diligence and attention soon gave him the
knack of it, and he strode down the street with his
mouth full of harmony and his soul full of
gratitude. He felt much as an astronomer
feels who has discovered a new planet -- no
doubt, as far as strong, deep, unalloyed
pleasure is concerned, the advantage was with the boy,
not the astronomer.
  The summer evenings were long. It was not dark, yet.
Presently Tom checked his whistle. A stranger
was before him -- a boy a shade larger than himself. A
new-comer of any age or either sex was an im-
pressive curiosity in the poor little shabby
village of St. Petersburg. This boy was well
dressed, too -- well dressed on a week-day.
This was simply as- tounding. his cap was a dainty
thing, his close- buttoned blue cloth roundabout was
new and natty, and so were his pantaloons. He had
shoes on -- and it was only Friday. He even
wore a necktie, a bright bit of ribbon. He
had a citified air about him that ate into Tom's
vitals. The more Tom stared at the splendid
marvel, the higher he turned up his nose at his
finery and the shabbier and shabbier his own outfit seemed
to him to grow. Neither boy spoke. If one
moved, the other moved -- but only sidewise, in a
circle; they kept face to face and eye to eye
all the time. Finally Tom said:
  "I can lick you!"
  "I'd like to see you try it."
  "Well, I can do it."
  "No you can't, either."
  "Yes I can."
  "No you can't."
  "I can."
  "You can't."
  "Can!"
  "Can't!"
  An uncomfortable pause. Then Tom said:
  "What's your name?"
  "'Tisn't any of your business, maybe."
  "Well I 'low I'll MAKE it my
business."
  "Well why don't you?"
  "If you say much, I will."
  "Much -- much -- MUCH. There now."
  "Oh, you think you're mighty smart, DON'T
you? I could lick you with one hand tied behind me, if I
wanted to."
"Well why don't you DO it? You
SAY you can do it."
  "Well I WILL, if you fool with me."
  "Oh yes -- I've seen whole families in
the same fix."
  "Smarty! You think you're SOME, now, DON'T
you? Oh, what a hat!"
  "You can lump that hat if you don't like it. I
dare you to knock it off -- and anybody that'll take
a dare will suck eggs."
  "You're a liar!"
  "You're another."
  "You're a fighting liar and dasn't take it
up."
  "Aw -- take a walk!"
  "Say -- if you give me much more of your sass
I'll take and bounce a rock off'n your head."
  "Oh, of COURSE you will."
  "Well I WILL."
  "Well why don't you DO it then? What do you
keep SAYING you will for? Why don't you DO it?
It's because you're afraid."
  "I AIN'T afraid."
  "You are."
  "I ain't."
"You are."
  Another pause, and more eying and sidling around each
other. Presently they were shoulder to shoulder. Tom
said:
  "Get away from here!"
  "Go away yourself!"
  "I won't."
  "I won't either."
  So they stood, each with a foot placed at an
angle as a brace, and both shoving with might and
main, and glowering at each other with hate. But neither
could get an advantage. After struggling till both
were hot and flushed, each relaxed his strain with
watchful caution, and Tom said:
  "You're a coward and a pup. I'll tell my
big brother on you, and he can thrash you with his little
finger, and I'll make him do it, too."
  "What do I care for your big brother? I've
got a brother that's bigger than he is -- and
what's more, he can throw him over that fence, too."
[Both brothers were imaginary.]
  "That's a lie."
  "YOUR saying so don't make it so."
  Tom drew a line in the dust with his big toe, and
said:
"I dare you to step over that, and I'll
lick you till you can't stand up. Anybody that'll
take a dare will steal sheep."
  The new boy stepped over promptly, and said:
  "Now you said you'd do it, now let's see you do
it."
  "Don't you crowd me now; you better look out."
  "Well, you SAID you'd do it -- why don't you do
it?"
  "Byjingo! for two cents I WILL do it."
  The new boy took two broad coppers out of his
pocket and held them out with derision. Tom struck
them to the ground. In an instant both boys were rolling
and tumbling in the dirt, gripped together like cats;
and forthe space of a minute they tugged and tore at each
other's hair and clothes, punched and scratched each
other's nose, and covered themselves with dust and glory.
Presently the confusion took form, and through the fog of
battle Tom appeared, seated astride the new
boy, and pounding him with his fists. "Holler 'nuff!"
said he.
  The boy only struggled to free himself. He was
crying -- mainly from rage.
  "Holler 'nuff!" -- and the pounding went on.
  At last the stranger got out a smothered
"'ationuff!" and Tom let him up and said:
  "Now that'll learn you. Better look out who
you're fooling with next time."
  The new boy went off brushing the dust from his
clothes, sobbing, snuffling, and occasionally looking
back and shaking his head and threatening what he would do
to Tom the "next time he caught him out."
  To which Tom responded with jeers, and started off in
high feather, and as soon as his back was turned the
new boy snatched up a stone, threw it and hit him
be- tween the shoulders and then turned tail and ran
like an antelope. Tom chased the traitor home,
and thus found out where he lived. He then held a
position at the gate for some time, daring the enemy to come
out- side, but the enemy only made faces at him
through the window and declined. At last the enemy's mother
appeared, and called Tom a bad, vicious,
vulgar child, and ordered him away. So he went
away; but he said he "'lowed" to "lay" for that
boy.
  He got home pretty late that night, and when
he climbed cautiously in at the window, he
uncovered an ambuscade, in the person of his
aunt; and when she saw the state his clothes were in her
resolution to turn his Saturday holiday
into captivity at hard labor became
adamantine in its firmness.
  CHAPTER II
  SATURDAY morning was come, and all
  the summer world was bright and fresh,
  and brimming with life. There was a
  song in every heart; and if the heart was young the music
issued at the lips. There was cheer in every face and a
spring in
  every step. The locust-trees were in bloom and the
fragrance of the blossoms filled the air. Cardiff
Hill, beyond the village and above it, was green with
vegetation and it lay just far enough away to seem a
Delectable Land, dreamy, reposeful, and inviting.
  Tom appeared on the sidewalk with a bucket of
whitewash and a long-handled brush. He surveyed the
fence, and all gladness left him and a deep mel-
ancholy settled down upon his spirit. Thirty yards of
board fence nine feet high. Life to him seemed
hollow, and existence but a burden. Sighing, he
dipped his brush and passed it along the topmost
plank; repeated the operation; did it again; compared the
in- significant whitewashed streak with the far-reaching
continent of unwhitewashed fence, and sat down on a
tree-box discouraged. Jim came skipping out at
the gate with a tin pail, and singing Buffalo
Gals. Bringing water from the town pump had always
been hateful work in Tom's eyes, before, but now it
did not strike him so. He remembered that there was
company at the pump. White, mulatto, and negro
boys and girls were always there waiting their turns,
resting, trading playthings, quarrelling, fighting,
skylarking. And he remembered that although the pump was
only a hundred and fifty yards off, Jim never
got back with a bucket of water under an hour -- and
even then some- body generally had to go after him. Tom
said:
  "Say, Jim, I'll fetch the water if you'll
whitewash some."
  Jim shook his head and said:
  "Can't, Mars Tom. Ole missis, she tole
me I got to go an' git dis water an' not stop
foolin' roun' wid anybody. She say she
spec' Mars Tom gwine to ax me to whitewash,
an' so she tole me go 'long an' 'tend to my
own business -- she 'lowed SHE'D 'tend to de
whitewashin'."
  "Oh, never you mind what she said, Jim. That's
the way she always talks. Gimme the bucket --
I won't be gone only a a minute. SHE
won't ever know."
  "Oh, I dasn't, Mars Tom. Ole
missis she'd take an' tar de head off'n me.
'Deed she would."
  "SHE! She never licks anybody -- whacks
'em over the head with her thimble -- and who cares for
that, I'd like to know. She talks awful, but talk
don't hurt -- anyways it don't if she
don't cry. Jim, I'll give you a marvel.
I'll give you a white alley!"
  Jim began to waver.
  "White alley, Jim! And it's a bully
taw."
  "My! Dat's a mighty gay marvel, I
tell you! But Mars Tom I's powerful 'fraid
ole missis --"
  "And besides, if you will I'll show you my sore
toe."
  Jim was only human -- this attraction was too
much for him. He put down his pail, took the white
alley, and bent over the toe with absorbing interest
while the bandage was being unwound. In another moment
he was flying down the street with his pail and a tingling
rear, Tom was whitewashing with vigor, and Aunt
Polly was retiring from the field with a slipper in her
hand and triumph in her eye.
  But Tom's energy did not last. He began
to think of the fun he had planned for this day, and his
sorrows multiplied. Soon the free boys would
come tripping along on all sorts of delicious
expeditions, and they would make a world of fun of him for
having to work -- the very thought of it burnt him like fire.
He got out his worldly wealth and examined it -- bits
of toys, marbles, and trash; enough to buy an exchange
of WORK, maybe, but not half enough to buy so much as
half an hour of pure freedom. So he
returned his straitened means to his pocket, and
gave up the idea of trying to buy the boys. At this
dark and hopeless moment an inspiration burst upon him!
Nothing less than a great, magnificent
inspiration.
  He took up his brush and went tranquilly
to work. Ben Rogers hove in sight presently --
the very boy, of all boys, whose ridicule he had
been dreading. Ben's gait was the
hop-skip-and-jump -- proof enough that his heart was
light and his anticipations high. He was eating an
apple, and giving a long, melodious whoop, at
intervals, followed by a deep-toned ding-
dong-dong, ding-dong-dong, for he was personating a
steamboat. As he drew near, he
slackened speed, took the middle of the street,
leaned far over to star- board and rounded to ponderously
and with laborious pomp and circumstance -- for he was
personating the Big Missouri, and considered himself
to be drawing nine feet of water. He was boat and
captain and engine-bells combined, so he had
to imagine himself standing on his own hurricane-deck
giving the orders and executing them:
  "Stop her, sir! Ting-a-ling-ling!" The headway
ran almost out, and he drew up slowly toward the
sidewalk.
  "Ship up to back! Ting-a-ling-ling!" his arms
straightened and stiffened down his sides.
  "Set her back on the stabboard!
Ting-a-ling-ling! Chow! child-chow-wow! Chow!" his right
hand, mean- time, describing stately circles --
for it was representing a forty-foot wheel.
  "Let her go back on the labboard! Ting-a-ling-
ling! Chow-child-chow-chow!" The left hand began
to describe circles.
  "Stop the stabboard! Ting-a-ling-ling! Stop the
labboard! Come ahead on the stabboard! Stop her!
Let your outside turn over slow!
Ting-a-ling-ling! Chow--ow! Get out that head-line!
LIVELY now! Come -- out with your
spring-line -- what're you about there! Take a turn
round that stump with the bight of it! Stand by that stage, now
-- let her go! Done with the engines, sir!
Ting-a-ling-ling! SH'T! S'H'T! SH'T!"
(trying the gauge-cocks).
  Tom went on whitewashing -- paid no attention
to the steamboat. Ben stared a moment and then said:
"Hi-YI! YOU'RE up a stump, ain't you!"
  No answer. Tom surveyed his last touch with the
eye of an artist, then he gave his brush another
gentle sweep and surveyed the result, as before.
Ben ranged up alongside of him. Tom's mouth
watered for the apple, but he stuck to his work. Ben
said:
  "Hello, old chap, you got to work, hey?"
  Tom wheeled suddenly and said:
  "Why, it's you, Ben! I warn't noticing."
  "Say -- I'm going in a-swimming, I am.
Don't you wish you could? But of course you'd druther
WORK -- wouldn't you? Course you would!"
  Tom contemplated the boy a bit, and said:
  "What do you call work?"
  "Why, ain't THAT work?"
  Tom resumed his whitewashing, and answered care-
lessly:
  "Well, maybe it is, and maybe it ain't.
All I know, is, it suits Tom Sawyer."
  "Oh come, now, you don't mean to let on that you
LIKE it?"
  The brush continued to move.
  "Like it? Well, I don't see why I oughtn't
to like it. Does a boy get a chance to whitewash a
fence every day?"
  That put the thing in a new light. Ben stopped
nibbling his apple. Tom swept his brush daintily
back and forth -- stepped back to note the effect --
added a touch here and there -- criticised the effect
again -- Ben watching every move and getting more and more
interested, more and more absorbed. Pres- ently he
said:
  "Say, Tom, let ME whitewash a little."
  Tom considered, was about to consent; but he altered his
mind:
  "No -- no -- I reckon it wouldn't hardly
do, Ben. You see, Aunt Polly's awful
particular about this fence -- right here on the street, you
know -- but if it was the back fence I wouldn't mind and
SHE wouldn't. Yes, she's awful particular about this
fence; it's got to be done very careful; I reckon
there ain't one boy in a thousand, maybe two
thousand, that can do it the way it's got to be done."
  "No -- is that so? Oh come, now -- lemme just
try. Only just a little -- I'd let YOU, if you
was me, Tom."
  "Ben, I'd like to, honest injun; but Aunt
Polly -- well, Jim wanted to do it, but she
wouldn't let him; Sid wanted to do it, and she
wouldn't let Sid. Now don't you see how I'm
fixed? If you was to tackle this fence and anything was
to happen to it --"
  "Oh, shucks, I'll be just as careful. Now
lemme try. Say -- I'll give you the core of
my apple."
  "Well, here -- No, Ben, now don't. I'm
afeard --"
  "I'll give you ALL of it!"
  Tom gave up the brush with reluctance in his
face, but alacrity in his heart. And while the late
steamer Big Missouri worked and sweated in the sun,
the retired artist sat on a barrel in the shade
close by, dangled his legs, munched his apple,
and planned the slaughter of more innocents. There was no
lack of material; boys happened along every little
while; they came to jeer, but remained to whitewash.
By the time Ben was fagged out, Tom had traded
the next chance to Billy Fisher for a kite, in good
repair; and when he played out, Johnny Miller
bought in for a dead rat and a string to swing it with -- and so
on, and so on, hour after hour. And when the middle of the
afternoon came, from being a poor poverty-stricken boy
in the morning, Tom was literally rolling in wealth.
He had besides the things before mentioned, twelve marbles,
part of a jews-harp, a piece of blue
bottle-glass to look through, a spool cannon, a
key that wouldn't unlock anything, a fragment of
chalk, a glass stopper of a decanter, a tin
soldier, a couple of tadpoles, six
fire-crackers, a kitten with only one eye, a
brass door- knob, a dog-collar -- but no
dog -- the handle of a knife, four pieces of
orange-peel, and a dilapidated old window sash.
  He had had a nice, good, idle time all the
while -- plenty of company -- and the fence had three
coats of whitewash on it! If he hadn't run out
of whitewash he would have bankrupted every boy in the
village.
  Tom said to himself that it was not such a hollow world, after
all. He had discovered a great law of human
action, without knowing it -- namely, that in order to make
a man or a boy covet a thing, it is
only necessary to make the thing difficult to attain. If
he had been a great and wise philosopher, like the
writer of this book, he would now have comprehended that
Work consists of whatever a body is OBLIGED to do,
and that Play consists of whatever a body is not
obliged to do. And this would help him to understand why
constructing artificial flowers or performing on a
tread-mill is work, while rolling ten-pins or
climbing Mont Blanc is only amusement. There
are wealthy gentlemen in England who drive
four-horse passenger- coaches twenty or thirty
miles on a daily line, in the summer, because the
privilege costs them considerable money; but if they
were offered wages for the service, that would turn it into work
and then they would resign.
  The boy mused awhile over the substantial
change which had taken place in his worldly
circumstances, and then wended toward headquarters
to report.
  CHAPTER III
  TOM presented himself before Aunt Polly,
  who was sitting by an open window in a
  pleasant rearward apartment, which was
  bedroom, breakfast-room, dining-room,
and library, combined. The balmy sum-
  mer air, the restful quiet, the odor of the
flowers, and the drowsing murmur of the bees had had their
effect, and she was nodding over her knit- ting -- for
she had no company but the cat, and it was asleep in
her lap. Her spectacles were propped up on her
gray head for safety. She had thought that of course
Tom had deserted long ago, and she wondered at
seeing him place himself in her power again in this
intrepid way. He said: "Mayn't I go and
play now, aunt?"
  "What, a'ready? How much have you done?"
  "It's all done, aunt."
  "Tom, don't lie to me -- I can't bear it."
  "I ain't, aunt; it IS all done."
  Aunt Polly placed small trust in such
evidence. She went out to see for herself; and she would have
been content to find twenty per cent. of Tom's
state- ment true. When she found the entire fence
white- washed, and not only whitewashed but
elaborately coated and recoated, and even a
streak added to the ground, her astonishment was almost
unspeakable. She said:
  "Well, I never! There's no getting round it,
you can work when you're a mind to, Tom." And then she
diluted the compliment by adding, "But it's power-
ful seldom you're a mind to, I'm bound to say.
Well, go 'long and play; but mind you get back
some time in a week, or I'll tan you."
  She was so overcome by the splendor of his achieve-
ment that she took him into the closet and selected a
choice apple and delivered it to him, along with an
improving lecture upon the added value and flavor
a treat took to itself when it came without sin through
virtuous effort. And while she closed with a happy
Scriptural flourish, he "hooked" a doughnut.
  Then he skipped out, and saw Sid just starting up
the outside stairway that led to the back rooms on the
second floor. Clods were handy and the air was full
of them in a twinkling. They raged around Sid like a
hail-storm; and before Aunt Polly could collect
her surprised faculties and sally to the rescue,
six or seven clods had taken personal effect,
and Tom was over the fence and gone. There was a gate,
but as a general thing he was too crowded for time to make
use of it. his soul was at peace, now that he had
settled with Sid for calling attention to his black
thread and getting him into trouble.
  Tom skirted the block, and came round into a
muddy alley that led by the back of his aunt's cow-
stable. He presently got safely beyond the
reach of capture and punishment, and hastened toward the
public square of the village, where two
"military" companies of boys had met for
conflict, according to previous appointment. Tom was
General of one of these armies, Joe Harper (a
bosom friend) General of the other. These two great
commanders did not condescend to fight in person -- that
being better suited to the still smaller fry -- but sat
together on an eminence and conducted the field operations
by orders delivered through aides-de-camp. Tom's
army won a great victory, after a long and
hard-fought battle. Then the dead were counted,
prisoners exchanged, the terms of the next
disagreement agreed upon, and the day for the necessary battle
appointed; after which the armies fell into line and marched
away, and Tom turned homeward alone.
  As he was passing by the house where Jeff Thatcher
lived, he saw a new girl in the garden -- a
lovely little blue-eyed creature with yellow hair
plaited into two long-tails, white summer frock
and embroidered pan- talettes. The fresh-crowned
hero fell without firing a shot. A certain Amy
Lawrence vanished out of his heart and left not even a
memory of herself behind. He had thought he loved her
to distraction; he had regarded his passion as
adoration; and behold it was only a poor little
evanescent partiality. He had been months winning
her; she had confessed hardly a week ago; he had
been the happiest and the proudest boy in the world only
seven short days, and here in one instant of time she
had gone out of his heart like a casual stranger whose
visit is done.
  He worshipped this new angel with furtive
eye, till he saw that she had discovered him; then
he pre- tended he did not know she was present, and
began to "show off" in all sorts of absurd
boyish ways, in order to win her admiration. He
kept up this grotesque foolishness for some time; but
by-and-by, while he was in the midst of some dangerous
gymnastic performances, he glanced aside and saw that
the little girl was wending her way toward the house.
Tom came up to the fence and leaned on it, grieving,
and hoping she would tarry yet awhile longer. She
halted a moment on the steps and then moved toward the
door. Tom heaved a great sigh as she put her
foot on the threshold. But his face lit up, right
away, for she tossed a pansy over the fence a
moment before she disappeared.
  The boy ran around and stopped within a foot or
two of the flower, and then shaded his eyes with his
hand and began to look down street as if he had
dis- covered something of interest going on in that
direction. Presently he picked up a straw and
began trying to balance it on his nose, with his head
tilted far back; and as he moved from side to side,
in his efforts, he edged nearer and nearer toward the
pansy; finally his bare foot rested upon it, his
pliant toes closed upon it, and he hopped away
with the treasure and disappeared round the corner. But
only for a minute -- only while he could button
the flower inside his jacket, next his heart -- or
next his stomach, possibly, for he was not much posted
in anatomy, and not hypercritical, any- way.
  He returned, now, and hung about the fence till
nightfall, "showing off," as before; but the girl never
exhibited herself again, though Tom comforted him- self
a little with the hope that she had been near some window,
meantime, and been aware of his attentions. Finally he
strode home reluctantly, with his poor head
full of visions.
  All through supper his spirits were so high that his aunt
wondered "what had got into the child." He took a good
scolding about clodding Sid, and did not seem to mind
it in the least. He tried to steal sugar under his
aunt's very nose, and got his knuckles
rapped for it. He said:
  "Aunt, you don't whack Sid when he takes
it."
  "Well, Sid don't torment a body the way
you do. You'd be always into that sugar if I warn't
watching you."
  Presently she stepped into the kitchen, and Sid,
happy in his immunity, reached for the sugar-bowl -- a
sort of glorying over Tom which was wellnigh un-
bearable. But Sid's fingers slipped and the bowl
dropped and broke. Tom was in ecstasies. In such
ecstasies that he even controlled his tongue and was
silent. He said to himself that he would not speak a word,
even when his aunt came in, but would sit per-
fectly still till she asked who did the mischief;
and then he would tell, and there would be nothing so good in the
world as to see that pet model "catch it." He was so
brimful of exultation that he could hardly hold him-
self when the old lady came back and stood above
the wreck discharging lightnings of wrath from over her
spectacles. He said to himself, "Now it's coming!"
And the next instant he was sprawling on the floor!
The potent palm was uplifted to strike again when
Tom cried out:
"Hold on, now, what 'er you belting
ME for? -- Sid broke it!"
  Aunt Polly paused, perplexed, and Tom
looked for healing pity. But when she got her tongue
again, she only said:
  "Umf! Well, you didn't get a lick
amiss, I reckon. You been into some other
audacious mischief when I wasn't around, like
enough."
  Then her conscience reproached her, and she yearned
to say something kind and loving; but she judged that this would
be construed into a confession that she had been in the wrong,
and discipline forbade that. So she kept silence, and
went about her affairs with a troubled heart. Tom
sulked in a corner and exalted his woes. He
knew that in her heart his aunt was on her knees
to him, and he was morosely gratified by the
consciousness of it. He would hang out no signals,
he would take notice of none. He knew that a
yearning glance fell upon him, now and then, through a
film of tears, but he refused recognition of it.
He pictured him- self lying sick unto death and
his aunt bending over him besideeeching one little for giving
word, but he would turn his face to the wall, and die with
that word unsaid. Ah, how would she feel then? And he
pictured himself brought home from the river,
dead, with his curls all wet, and his sore heart at
rest. How she would throw herself upon him, and how her
tears would fall like rain, and her lips pray God
to give her back her boy and she would never, never
abuse him any more! But he would lie there cold and
white and make no sign -- a poor little sufferer,
whose griefs were at an end. He so worked upon his
feelings with the pathos of these dreams, that he had
to keep swallowing, he was so like to choke; and his eyes
swam in a blur of water, which overflowed when he
winked, and ran down and trickled from the end of his
nose. And such a luxury to him was this petting of his
sorrows, that he could not bear to have any worldly cheeriness
or any grating delight intrude upon it; it was too
sacred for such contact; and so, presently, when his
cousin Mary danced in, all alive with the joy of
seeing home again after an age-long visit of one
week to the country, he got up and moved in clouds
and darkness out at one door as she brought song and
sunshine in at the other.
  He wandered far from the accustomed haunts of boys,
and sought desolate places that were in har- mony with his
spirit. A log raft in the river invited him, and he
seated himself on its outer edge and contemplated the
dreary vastness of the stream, wish- ing, the
while, that he could only be drowned, all at once
and unconsciously, without undergoing the un- comfortable
routine devised by nature. Then he thought of his
flower. He got it out, rumpled and wilted, and it
mightily increased his dismal felicity. He
wondered if she would pity him if she knew? Would
she cry, and wish that she had a right to put her arms
around his neck and comfort him? Or would she turn
coldly away like all the hollow world? This picture
brought such an agony of pleasurable suf- fering that
he worked it over and over again in his mind and set it up
in new and varied lights, till he wore it
threadbare. At last he rose up sighing and departed
in the darkness.
  About half-past nine or ten o'clock he came
along the deserted street to where the Adored Unknown
lived; he paused a moment; no sound fell upon his
listening ear; a candle was casting a dull glow upon the
curtain of a second-story window. Was the sacred
presence there? He climbed the fence, threaded his
stealthy way through the plants, till he stood under that
window; he looked up at it long, and with emotion; then
he laid him down on the ground under it, dis- posing
himself upon his back, with his hands clasped upon his breast
and holding his poor wilted flower. And thus
he would die -- out in the cold world, with no shelter
over his homeless head, no friendly hand to wipe the
death-damps from his brow, no loving face to bend
pityingly over him when the great agony came. And
thus SHE would see him when she looked out upon the
glad morning, and oh! would she drop one little tear
upon his poor, lifeless form, would she heave one little
sigh to see a bright young life so rudely blight-
ed, so untimely cut down?
  The window went up, a maid-servant's
discordant voice profaned the holy calm, and a
deluge of water drenched the prone martyr's
remains!
  The strangling hero sprang up with a relieving
snort. There was a whiz as of a missile in the air,
mingled with the murmur of a curse, a sound as of shivering
glass followed, and a small, vague form went over
the fence and shot away in the gloom.
  Not long after, as Tom, all undressed for bed,
was surveying his drenched garments by the light of a tallow
dip, Sid woke up; but if he had any dim
idea of making any "references to allusions," he
thought better of it and held his peace, for there was
danger in Tom's eye.
Tom turned in without the added vexation of
prayers, and Sid made mental note of the
omission.
  CHAPTER IV
  THE sun rose upon a tranquil world, and
  beamed down upon the peaceful village
  like a benediction. Breakfast over, Aunt
  Polly had family worship: it began with a
prayer built from the ground up of solid
  courses of Scriptural quotations, welded
  together with a thin mortar of originality; and from the
summit of this she delivered a grim chapter of the
Mosaic Law, as from Sinai.
  Then Tom girded up his loins, so to speak, and
went to work to "get his verses." Sid had learned
his lesson days before. Tom bent all his energies
to the memorizing of five verses, and he chose part
of the Sermon on the Mount, because he could find no
verses that were shorter. At the end of half an hour
Tom had a vague general idea of his lesson, but
no more, for his mind was traversing the whole field of
human thought, and his hands were busy with dis- tracting
recreations. Mary took his book to hear him
recite, and he tried to find his way through the fog:
  "Blessed are the -- a -- a --"
"Poor" --
  "Yes -- poor; blessed are the poor -- a --
a --"
  "In spirit --"
  "In spirit; blessed are the poor in spirit, for they --
they --"
  "THEIRS --"
  "For THEIRS. Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs
is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they that mourn, for
they -- they --"
  "Sh --"
  "For they -- a --"
  "S, H, A --"
  "For they S, H -- Oh, I don't know
what it is!"
  "SHALL!"
  "Oh, SHALL! for they shall -- for they shall -- a -- a
-- shall mourn -- a-- a -- blessed are they that shall --
they that -- a -- they that shall mourn, for they shall -- a --
shall WHAT? WHY don't you tell me, Mary? --
what do you want to be so mean for?"
  "Oh, Tom, you poor thick-headed thing, I'm
not teasing you. I wouldn't do that. You must go and learn it
again. Don't you be discouraged, Tom, you'll
manage it -- and if you do, I'll give you something
ever so nice. There, now, that's a good boy."
  "All right! What is it, Mary, tell me what
it is."
  "Never you mind, Tom. You know if I say it's
nice, it is nice."
  "You bet you that's so, Mary. All right, I'll
tackle it again."
  And he did "tackle it again" -- and under the double
pressure of curiosity and prospective gain he
did it with such spirit that he accomplished a shining
success. Mary gave him a brand-new "Barlow"
knife worth twelve and a half cents; and the
convulsion of delight that swept his system shook him
to his foundations. True, the knife would not cut
anything, but it was a "sure-enough" Barlow, and there was
inconceivable grandeur in that -- though where the Western
boys ever got the idea that such a weapon could
possibly be counterfeited to its injury is an
imposing mystery and will always remain so, perhaps. Tom
contrived to scarify the cupboard with it, and was arranging
to begin on the bureau, when he was called off to dress
for Sunday-school.
  Mary gave him a tin basin of water and a piece
of soap, and he went outside the door and set the
basin on a little bench there; then he dipped the soap
in the water and laid it down; turned up his
sleeves; poured out the water on the ground, gently,
and then entered the kitchen and began to wipe his face
diligently on the towel behind the door. But Mary
removed the towel and said:
  "Now ain't you ashamed, Tom. You mustn't be so
bad. Water won't hurt you."
  Tom was a trifle disconcerted. The basin was
refilled, and this time he stood over it a little while,
gathering resolution; took in a big breath and
began. When he entered the kitchen presently, with
both eyes shut and groping for the towel with his hands, an
honorable testimony of suds and water was dripping
from his face. But when he emerged from the towel, he was
not yet satisfactory, for the clean territory
stopped short at his chin and his jaws, like a mask;
below and beyond this line there was a dark expanse of
unirrigated soil that spread downward in front and
backward around his neck. Mary took him in hand, and
when she was done with him he was a man and a brother,
without distinction of color, and his saturated hair was
neatly brushed, and its short curls wrought into a
dainty and symmetrical general effect. [He
privately smoothed out the curls, with labor and
dif- ficulty, and plastered his hair close down
to his head; for he held curls to be
effeminate, and his own filled his life with
bitterness.] Then Mary got out a suit of his
clothing that had been used only on Sundays during
two years -- they were simply called his "other
clothes" -- and so by that we know the size of his
wardrobe. The girl "put him to rights" after he had
dressed him- self; she buttoned his neat roundabout
up to his chin, turned his vast shirt collar down
over his shoulders, brushed him off and crowned him with his
speckled straw hat. He now looked exceedingly
improved and uncomfortable. He was fully as
uncomfortable as he looked; for there was a restraint
about whole clothes and cleanliness that galled him. He
hoped that Mary would forget his shoes, but the hope was
blighted; she coated them thoroughly with tallow, as was
the custom, and brought them out. He lost his temper and
said he was always being made to do everything he didn't
want to do. But Mary said, persuasively:
  "Please, Tom -- that's a good boy."
  So he got into the shoes snarling. Mary was soon
ready, and the three children set out for Sunday-school --
a place that Tom hated with his whole heart; but
Sid and Mary were fond of it.
  Sabbath-school hours were from nine to half-past
ten; and then church service. Two of the children
always remained for the sermon voluntarily, and the other
always remained too -- for stronger reasons. The
church's high-backed, uncushioned pews would seat
about three hundred persons; the edifice was but a
small, plain affair, with a sort of pine board
tree-box on top of it for a steeple. At the
door Tom dropped back a step and accosted a
Sunday-dressed comrade:
  "Say, Billy, got a yaller ticket?"
  "Yes."
  "What'll you take for her?"
  "What'll you give?"
  "Piece of lickrish and a fish-hook."
  "Less see 'em."
  Tom exhibited. They were satisfactory, and the
property changed hands. Then Tom traded a
couple of white alleys for three red tickets, and
some small trifle or other for a couple of blue
ones. He waylaid other boys as they came, and
went on buying tickets of various colors ten or
fifteen minutes longer. He entered the church, now,
with a swarm of clean and noisy boys and girls,
proceeded to his seat and started a quarrel with the first
boy that came handy. The teacher, a grave, elderly
man, interfered; then turned his back a
moment and Tom pulled a boy's hair in the next
bench, and was absorbed in his book when the boy turned
around; stuck a pin in another boy, presently, in
order to hear him say "Ouch!" and got a new
reprimand from his teacher. Tom's whole class were of a
pattern -- restless, noisy, and troublesome. When they
came to recite their lessons, not one of them knew
his verses perfectly, but had to be prompted all
along. However, they worried through, and each got his
reward -- in small blue tickets, each with a
passage of Scripture on it; each blue
ticket was pay for two verses of the recitation. Ten
blue tickets equalled a red one, and could be
exchanged for it; ten red tickets equalled a
yellow one; for ten yellow tickets the
superintendent gave a very plainly bound Bible
(worth forty cents in those easy times) to the pupil.
How many of my readers would have the industry and
application to memorize two thousand verses, even
for a Dore Bible? And yet Mary had acquired
two Bibles in this way -- it was the patient work of
two years -- and a boy of Ger- man parentage had
won four or five. He once recited three
thousand verses without stopping; but the strain upon his
mental faculties was too great, and he was
little better than an idiot from that day forth -- a
grievous misfortune for the school, for on great occa-
sions, before company, the superintendent (as Tom
expressed it) had always made this boy come out and
"spread himself." Only the older pupils managed
to keep their tickets and stick to their tedious work long
enough to get a Bible, and so the delivery of one of these
prizes was a rare and noteworthy circumstance; the
successful pupil was so great and conspicuous for that day
that on the spot every scholar's heart was fired with a
fresh ambition that often lasted a couple of weeks.
It is possible that Tom's mental stomach had never
really hungered for one of those prizes, but unques-
tionably his entire being had for many a day longed for the
glory and the eclat that came with it.
  In due course the superintendent stood up in
front of the pulpit, with a closed hymn-book in his
hand and his forefinger inserted between its leaves, and commanded
attention. When a Sunday-school superin- tendent
makes his customary little speech, a hymn-book in
the hand is as necessary as is the inevitable sheet of
music in the hand of a singer who stands forward on the
platform and sings a solo at a concert -- though why,
is a mystery: for neither the hymn-book nor the sheet
of music is ever referred to bythe sufferer. This
superintendent was a slim creature of
thirty-five, with a sandy goatee and short sandy
hair; he wore a stiff standing-collar whose upper
edge almost reached his ears and whose sharp points curved
forward abreast the corners of his mouth -- a fence that
compelled a straight lookout ahead, and a turning of the
whole body when a side view was required; his chin
was propped on a spreading cravat which was as broad
and as long as a bank-note, and had fringed ends; his
boot toes were turned sharply up, in the fashion
of the day, like sleigh- runners -- an effect
patiently and laboriously produced by the young men
by sitting with their toes pressed against a wall for
hours together. Mr. Walters was very earnest of mien,
and very sincere and honest at heart; and he held
sacred things and places in such reverence, and so
separated them from worldly matters, that unconsciously
to himself his Sunday-school voice had acquired a
peculiar intonation which was wholly absent on
week-days. He began after this fashion:
  "Now, children, I want you all to sit up just as
straight and pretty as you can and give me all your
attention for a minute or two. There -- that is it.
That is the way good little boys and girls should do. I
see one little girl who is looking out of the
window -- I am afraid she thinks I am out there
somewhere -- perhaps up in one of the trees making a
speech to the little birds. [Applausive
titter.] I want to tell you how good it makes
me feel to see so many bright, clean little faces
assembled in a place like this, learning to do right and be
good." And so forth and so on. It is not necessary to set
down the rest of the oration. It was of a pattern which does
not vary, and so it is familiar to us all.
  The latter third of the speech was marred by the
resumption of fights and other recreations among
certain of the bad boys, and by fidgetings and whis-
perings that extended far and wide, washing even to the
bases of isolated and incorruptible rocks like
Sid and Mary. But now every sound ceased suddenly, with the
subsidence of Mr. Walters' voice, and the con-
clusion of the speech was received with a burst of silent
gratitude.
  A good part of the whispering had been occasioned by an
event which was more or less rare -- the entrance of
visitors: lawyer Thatcher, accompanied by a very
feeble and aged man; a fine, portly, middle-aged
gentle- man with iron-gray hair; and a dignified
lady who was doubtless the latter's wife. The lady
was leading a child. Tom had been restless and
full of chafings and repinings; conscience-smitten,
too -- he could not meet Amy Lawrence's eye,
he could not brook her loving gaze. But when he saw
this small new-comer his soul was all ablaze with
bliss in a moment. The next moment he was "showing
off" with all his might -- cuffing boys, pulling
hair, making faces -- in a word, using every art that
seemed likely to fascinate a girl and win her
applause. his exaltation had but one alloy -- the
memory of his humiliation in this angel's garden --
and that record in sand was fast washing out, under the waves
of happiness that were sweeping over it now.
  The visitors were given the highest seat of
honor, and as soon as Mr. Walters' speech was
finished, he introduced them to the school. The
middle-aged man turned out to be a prodigious
personage -- no less a one than the county
judge -- altogether the most august creation these children had
ever looked upon -- and they wondered what kind of
material he was made of -- and they half wanted
to hear him roar, and were half afraid he might,
too. He was from Constantinople, twelve miles
away -- so he had travelled, and seen the world --
these very eyes had looked upon the county court-house
-- which was said to have a tin roof. The awe which these
reflections inspired was attested by the impressive
silence and the ranks of staring eyes. This was the great
Judge Thatcher, brother of their own lawyer.
Jeff Thatcher immediately went forward, to be familiar
with the great man and be envied by the school. It would have
been music to his soul to hear the whisperings:
  "Look at him, Jim! He's a going up there.
Say -- look! he's a going to shake hands with him
-- he IS shaking hands with him! By jings, don't you
wish you was Jeff?"
  Mr. Walters fell to "showing off," with all
sorts of official bustlings and activities,
giving orders, de- livering judgments, discharging
directions here, there, everywhere that he could find a
target. The librarian "showed off" -- running
hither and thither with his arms full of books and making
a deal of the splutter and fuss that insect authority
delights in. The young lady teachers "showed off" --
bending sweetly over pupils that were lately being
boxed, lifting pretty warning fingers at bad little
boys and patting good ones lovingly. The young
gentlemen teachers "showed off" with small scoldings and
other little displays of authority and fine attention
to discipline -- and most of the teachers, of both sexes,
found business up at the library, by the
pulpit; and it was business that frequently had to be
done over again two or three times (with much seeming
vexation). The little girls "showed off" in various
ways, and the little boys "showed off" with such diligence that
the air was thick with paper wads and the murmur of
scufflings. And above it all the great man sat and
beamed a majestic judicial smile upon all the
house, and warmed himself in the sun of his own grandeur
-- for he was "showing off," too.
  There was only one thing wanting to make Mr.
Walters' ecstasy complete, and that was a chance
to deliver a Bible-prize and exhibit a
prodigy. Several pupils had a few yellow
tickets, but none had enough -- he had been around
among the star pupils inquiring. He would have given
worlds, now, to have that German lad back again with a sound
mind.
  And now at this moment, when hope was dead, Tom
Sawyer came forward with nine yellow tickets,
nine red tickets, and ten blue ones, and demanded a
Bible. This was a thunderbolt out of a clear sky.
Walters was not expecting an application from this
source for the next ten years. But there was no getting
around it -- here were the certified checks, and they were good
for their face. Tom was there- fore elevated
to a place with the Judge and the other elect, and the great
news was announced from head- quarters. It was the most
stunning surprise of the decade, and so profound was the
sensation that it lifted the new hero up to the judicial
one's altitude, and the school had two marvels
to gaze upon in place of one. The boys were all
eaten up with envy -- but those that suffered the bitterest
pangs were those who perceived too late that they themselves
had contributed to this hated splendor by trading
tickets to Tom for the wealth he had amassed in
selling whitewashing privileges. These despised
themselves, as being the dupes of a wily fraud, a
guileful snake in the grass.
  The prize was delivered to Tom with as much effusion
as the superintendent could pump up under the
circumstances; but it lacked somewhat of the true gush,
for the poor fellow's instinct taught him that there was a
mystery here that could not well bear the light, perhaps; it
was simply preposterous that this boy had warehoused
two thousand sheaves of Scriptural wisdom on his
premises -- a dozen would strain his capacity,
without a doubt.
  Amy Lawrence was proud and glad, and she tried
to make Tom see it in her face -- but he wouldn't
look. She wondered; then she was just a grain
troubled; next a dim suspicion came and went
-- came again; she watched; a furtive glance
told her worlds -- and then her heart broke, and she
was jealous, and angry, and the tears came and she hated
everybody. Tom most of all (she thought).
  Tom was introduced to the Judge; but his tongue was
tied, his breath would hardly come, his heart quaked --
partly because of the awful greatness of the man, but mainly because
he was her parent. He would have liked to fall down and
worship him, if it were in the dark. The Judge put
his hand on Tom's head and called him a fine little
man, and asked him what his name was. The boy
stammered, gasped, and got it out:
  "Tom."
  "Oh, no, not Tom -- it is --"
  "Thomas."
  "Ah, that's it. I thought there was more to it, maybe.
That's very well. But you've another one I daresay,
and you'll tell it to me, won't you?"
  "Tell the gentleman your other name, Thomas,"
said Walters, "and say sir. You mustn't forget your
manners."
  "Thomas Sawyer -- sir."
  "That's it! That's a good boy. Fine boy.
Fine, manly little fellow. Two thousand
verses is a great many -- very, very great many. And you
never can be sorry for the trouble you took to learn them; for
knowl- edge is worth more than anything there is in the
world; it's what makes great men and good men; you'll be
a great man and a good man yourself, some day, Thomas,
and then you'll look back and say, It's all owing
to the precious Sunday-school privileges of my
boyhood -- it's all owing to my dear teachers that
taught me to learn -- it's all owing to the good
superintendent, who en- couraged me, and watched
over me, and gave me a beautiful Bible -- a
splendid elegant Bible -- to keep and have it all
for my own, always -- it's all owing to right bringing up!
That is what you will say, Thomas -- and you wouldn't
take any money for those two thousand verses -- no
indeed you wouldn't. And now you wouldn't mind telling me
and this lady some of the things you've learned -- no, I
know you wouldn't -- for we are proud of little boys that
learn. Now, no doubt you know the names of all the
twelve disciples. Won't you tell us the names of the
first two that were appointed?"
  Tom was tugging at a button-hole and looking
sheepish. He blushed, now, and his eyes fell.
Mr. Walters' heart sank within him. He said
to himself, it is not possible that the boy can
answer the simplest question -- why DID the Judge
ask him? Yet he felt obliged to speak up and
say:
  "Answer the gentleman, Thomas -- don't be
afraid."
  Tom still hung fire.
  "Now I know you'll tell me," said the lady.
"The names of the first two disciples were --"
  "DAVID AND GOLIAH!"
  Let us draw the curtain of charity over the rest
of the scene.
  CHAPTER V
  ABOUT half-past ten the cracked bell of
  the small church began to ring, and pres- ently the
people began to gather for the
  morning sermon. The Sunday-school
  children distributed themselves about the house and occupied
pews with their par-
  ents, so as to be under supervision. Aunt Polly
came, and Tom and Sid and Mary sat with her --
Tom being placed next the aisle, in order that he
might be as far away from the open window and the
seductive outside summer scenes as possible.
The crowd filed up the aisles: the aged and needy
postmaster, who had seen better days; the
mayor and his wife -- for they had a mayor there,
among other unnecessaries; the justice of the peace;
the widow Douglass, fair, smart, and forty, a
generous, good-hearted soul and well-to-do, her hill
mansion the only palace in the town, and the most
hospitable and much the most lavish in the matter of
festivities that St. Petersburg could boast; the
bent and venerable Major and Mrs. Ward; lawyer
Riverson, the new notable from a dis- tance; next
the belle of the village, followed by a troop of
lawn-clad and ribbon-decked young heart-breakers;
then all the young clerks in town in a body -- for they
had stood in the vestibule sucking their cane-heads,
a circling wall of oiled and simpering admirers,
till the last girl had run their gantlet; and last
of all came the Model Boy, Willie
Mufferson, taking as heedful care of his mother as if
she were cut glass. He always brought his mother to church,
and was the pride of all the matrons. The boys all
hated him, he was so good. And besides, he had been
"thrown up to them" so much. his white handkerchief was
hanging out of his pocket behind, as usual on
Sundays -- accidentally. Tom had no
handkerchief, and he looked upon boys who had as
snobs.
  The congregation being fully assembled, now, the
bell rang once more, to warn laggards and stragglers,
and then a solemn hush fell upon the church which was
only broken by the tittering and whispering of the choir in
the gallery. The choir always tittered and whispered
all through service. There was once a church choir that
was not ill-bred, but I have for - gotten where it was,
now. It was a great many years ago, and I can
scarcely remember anything about it, but I think it was
in some foreign country.
  The minister gave out the hymn, and read it through with a
relish, in a peculiar style which was much ad- mired
in that part of the country. his voice began on a
medium key and climbed steadily up till it reached
a certain point, where it bore with strong emphasis
upon the topmost word and then plunged down as if from a
spring-board:
  Shall I be car-ri-ed toe the skies, on flow'ry
BEDS of ease,
  Whilst others fight to win the prize, and sail
thro' BLOOD- y seas?
  He was regarded as a wonderful reader. At
church "sociables" he was always called upon to read
poetry; and when he was through, the ladies would lift
up their hands and let them fall helplessly in
their laps, and "wall" their eyes, and shake their
heads, as much as to say, "Words cannot express it; it
is too beautiful, TOO beautiful for this mortal
earth."
  After the hymn had been sung, the Rev. Mr.
Sprague turned himself into a bulletin-board, and
read off "notices" of meetings and societies and
things till it seemed that the list would stretch out to the
crack of doom -- a queer custom which is still kept
up in America, even in cities, away here in this
age of abundant news- papers. Often, the less
there is to justify a traditional custom, the harder
it is to get rid of it.
  And now the minister prayed. A good, generous
prayer it was, and went into details: it pleaded for the
church, and the little children of the church; for the other churches of the
village; for the village itself; for the county; for the
State; for the State officers; for the United
States; for the churches of the United States; for
Congress; for the President; for the officers of the
Government; for poor sailors, tossed by stormy
seas; for the oppressed millions groaning under the
heel of European monarchies and Oriental
despotisms; for such as have the light and the good tidings,
and yet have not eyes to see nor ears to hear
with also; for the heathen in the far islands of the sea; and
closed with a supplication that the words he was about to speak
might find grace and favor, and be as seed sown in
fertile ground, yielding in time a grateful harvest
of good. Amen.
  There was a rustling of dresses, and the standing
congregation sat down. The boy whose history this book
relates did not enjoy the prayer, he only en-
dured it -- if he even did that much. He was
restive all through it; he kept tally of the details
of the prayer, unconsciously -- for he was not
listening, but he knew the ground of old, and the
clergyman's regular route over it -- and when a
little trifle of new matter was in- terlarded, his ear
detected it and his whole nature re- sented it; he
considered additions unfair, and scoun- drelly. In
the midst of the prayer a fly had lit on the back
of the pew in front of him and tortured his spirit
by calmly rubbing its hands together, embracing its head
with its arms, and polishing it so vigorously that it
seemed to almost part company with the body, and the slender
thread of a neck was exposed to view; scraping its
wings with its hind legs and smoothing them to its body as
if they had been coat-tails; going through its whole
toilet as tranquilly as if it knew it
was perfectly safe. As indeed it was; for as
sorely as Tom's hands itched to grab for it they
did not dare -- he believed his soul would be
instantly destroyed if he did such a thing while the
prayer was going on. But with the closing sentence his hand
began to curve and steal forward; and the instant the
"Amen" was out the fly was a prisoner of war. his
aunt detected the act and made him let it go.
  The minister gave out his text and droned along
monotonously through an argument that was so prosy that many
a head by and by began to nod -- and yet it was an
argument that dealt in limitless fire and brimstone and
thinned the predestined elect down to a company so
small as to be hardly worth the saving. Tom counted
the pages of the sermon; after church he always knew how
many pages there had been, but he seldom knew
anything else about the discourse. How- ever, this time he
was really interested for a little while. The minister made
a grand and moving picture of the assembling together of the
world's hosts at the millen- nium when the lion and the
lamb should lie down to- gether and a little child should lead
them. But the pathos, the lesson, the moral of the great
spectacle were lost upon the boy; he only thought of the
conspicuous- ness of the principal character before the
on-looking nations; his face lit with the thought,
and he said to himself that he wished he could be that child, if it
was a tame lion.
  Now he lapsed into suffering again, as the dry argu-
ment was resumed. Presently he bethought him of a
treasure he had and got it out. It was a large
black beetle with formidable jaws -- a
"pinchbug," he called it. It was in a
percussion-cap box. The first thing the beetle did was
to take him by the finger. A natural fillip
followed, the beetle went floundering into the aisle and
lit on its back, and the hurt finger went into the
boy's mouth. The beetle lay there working its
helpless legs, unable to turn over. Tom eyed it,
and longed for it; but it was safe out of his reach. Other people
uninterested in the sermon found relief in the
beetle, and they eyed it too. Presently a
vagrant poodle dog came idling along, sad
at heart, lazy with the summer softness and the quiet,
weary of captivity, sigh- ing for change. He
spied the beetle; the drooping tail lifted and
wagged. He surveyed the prize; walked around it;
smelt at it from a safe distance; walked around it
again; grew bolder, and took a closer smell; then
lifted his lip and made a gingerly snatch at it, just
missing it; made another, and another; began
to enjoy the diversion; subsided to his stomach with the
beetle between his paws, and continued his experiments;
grew weary at last, and then indifferent and
absent-minded. his head nodded, and little by little his chin
descended and touched the enemy, who seized it. There was
a sharp yelp, a flirt of the poodle's head, and the
beetle fell a couple of yards away, and lit
on its back once more. The neighboring
spectators shook with a gentle inward joy, several
faces went behind fans and hand- kerchiefs, and Tom
was entirely happy. The dog looked foolish, and
probably felt so; but there was resentment in his
heart, too, and a craving for revenge. So he went
to the beetle and began a wary attack on it again;
jumping at it from every point of a circle, light- ing
with his fore-paws within an inch of the creature, making
even closer snatches at it with his teeth, and jerking
his head till his ears flapped again. But he grew
tired once more, after a while; tried to amuse him-
self with a fly but found no relief; followed an
ant around, with his nose close to the floor, and quickly
wearied of that; yawned, sighed, forgot the beetle
entirely, and sat down on it. Then there was a wild
yelp of agony and the poodle went sailing up the
aisle; the yelps continued, and so did the
dog; he crossed the house in front of the altar;
he flew down the other aisle; he crossed before the
doors; he clamored up the home-stretch; his
anguish grew with his progress, till presently
he was but a woolly comet moving in its orbit with the
gleam and the speed of light. At last the frantic
sufferer sheered from its course, and sprang into its
master's lap; he flung it out of the window, and the
voice of distress quickly thinned away and died in the
dis- tance.
  By this time the whole church was red-faced and
suffocating with suppressed laughter, and the sermon had
come to a dead standstill. The discourse was resumed
presently, but it went lame and halting, all
possibility of impressiveness being at an end; for
even the gravest sentiments were constantly being received
with a smothered burst of unholy mirth, under cover of some
remote pew-back, as if the poor parson had said
a rarely facetious thing. It was a genuine relief
to the whole congregation when the ordeal was over and the
benediction pronounced.
  Tom Sawyer went home quite cheerful, thinking
to himself that there was some satisfaction about divine
service when there was a bit of variety in it. He
had but one marring thought; he was willing that the
dog should play with his pinchbug, but he did not think it
was upright in him to carry it off.
  CHAPTER VI
  MONDAY morning found Tom Sawyer
  miserable. Monday morning always
  found him so -- because it began another
  week's slow suffering in school. He gen-
  erally began that day with wishing he had had no
intervening holiday, it made the go- ing into captivity
and fetters again so much more odious.
  Tom lay thinking. Presently it occurred to him
that he wished he was sick; then he could stay home from
school. Here was a vague possibility. He can-
vassed his system. No ailment was found, and he
investigated again. This time he thought he could detect
colicky symptoms, and he began to encourage them
with considerable hope. But they soon grew feeble, and
presently died wholly away. He reflected
further. Suddenly he discovered something. One of his
upper front teeth was loose. This was lucky; he
was about to begin to groan, as a "starter," as he called
it, when it occurred to him that if he came into court with
that argument, his aunt would pull it out, and that would
hurt. So he thought he would hold the tooth in
reserve for the present, and seek further.
Nothing of- fered for some little time, and then he
remembered hearing the doctor tell about a certain
thing that laid up a patient for two or three
weeks and threatened to make him lose a finger. So the
boy eagerly drew his sore toe from under the sheet and
held it up for in- spection. But now he did not
know the necessary symptoms. However, it seemed well
worth while to chance it, so he fell to groaning with
considerable spirit.
  But Sid slept on unconscious.
  Tom groaned louder, and fancied that he began
to feel pain in the toe.
  No result from Sid.
  Tom was panting with his exertions by this time. He
took a rest and then swelled himself up and fetched a
succession of admirable groans.
  Sid snored on.
  Tom was aggravated. He said, "Sid, Sid!"
and shook him. This course worked well, and Tom
began to groan again. Sid yawned, stretched, then
brought himself up on his elbow with a snort, and began
to stare at Tom. Tom went on groaning. Sid
said:
  "Tom! Say, Tom!" [No response.]
"Here, Tom! TOM! What is the
matter, Tom?" And he shook him and looked in his
face anxiously.
  Tom moaned out:
  "Oh, don't, Sid. Don't joggle me."
  "Why, what's the matter, Tom? I must call
auntie."
  "No -- never mind. It'll be over by and by,
maybe. Don't call anybody."
  "But I must! DON'T groan so, Tom, it's
awful. How long you been this way?"
  "Hours. Ouch! Oh, don't stir so, Sid,
you'll kill me."
  "Tom, why didn't you wake me sooner his
Oh, Tom, DON'T! It makes my flesh
crawl to hear you. Tom, what is the matter?"
  "I forgive you everything, Sid. [Groan.]
Every- thing you've ever done to me. When I'm gone --"
  "Oh, Tom, you ain't dying, are you? Don't,
Tom -- oh, don't. Maybe --"
  "I forgive everybody, Sid. [Groan.]
Tell 'em so, Sid. And Sid, you give my
window-sash and my cat with one eye to that new girl
that's come to town, and tell her --"
  But Sid had snatched his clothes and gone. Tom
was suffering in reality, now, so handsomely was his
imagination working, and so his groans had gathered quite a
genuine tone.
  Sid flew down-stairs and said:
  "Oh, Aunt Polly, come! Tom's dying!"
  "Dying!"
  "Yes'm. Don't wait -- come quick!"
  "Rubbage! I don't believe it!"
  But she fled up-stairs, nevertheless, with Sid and
Mary at her heels. And her face grew white,
too, and her lip trembled. When she reached the bed-
side she gasped out:
  "You, Tom! Tom, what's the matter with you?"
  "Oh, auntie, I'm --"
  "What's the matter with you -- what is the matter
with you, child?"
  "Oh, auntie, my sore toe's mortified!"
  The old lady sank down into a chair and laughed
a little, then cried a little, then did both together. This
restored her and she said:
  "Tom, what a turn you did give me. Now you
shut up that nonsense and climb out of this."
  The groans ceased and the pain vanished from the toe.
The boy felt a little foolish, and he said:
  "Aunt Polly, it SEEMED mortified, and it
hurt so I never minded my tooth at
all."
  "Your tooth, indeed! What's the matter with your
tooth?"
  "One of them's loose, and it aches perfectly
awful."
  "There, there, now, don't begin that groaning again.
Open your mouth. Well -- your tooth IS
loose, but you're not going to die about that. Mary, get
me a silk thread, and a chunk of fire out of the
kitchen."
  Tom said:
  "Oh, please, auntie, don't pull it out.
It don't hurt any more. I wish I may never
stir if it does. Please don't, auntie. I
don't want to stay home from school."
  "Oh, you don't, don't you? So all this row was
because you thought you'd get to stay home from school and go
a-fishing? Tom, Tom, I love you so, and you
seem to try every way you can to break my old heart with
your outrageousness." By this time the dental instruments were
ready. The old lady made one end of the silk
thread fast to Tom's tooth with a loop and tied the
other to the bedpost. Then she seized the chunk of fire
and suddenly thrust it almost into the boy's face. The
tooth hung dangling by the bedpost, now.
  But all trials bring their compensations. As Tom
wended to school after breakfast, he was the envy of every
boy he met because the gap in his upper row of teeth
enabled him to expectorate in a new and admirable
way. He gathered quite a following of lads interested
in the exhibition; and one that had cut his finger and had
been a centre of fascination and homage up to this time,
now found himself sud- denly without an adherent, and
shorn of his glory. his heart was heavy, and he said
with a disdain which he did not feel that it wasn't anything
to spit like Tom Sawyer; but another boy said,
"Sour grapes!" and he wandered away a dismantled
hero.
  Shortly Tom came upon the juvenile pariah
of the village, Huckleberry Finn, son of the town
drunkard. Huckleberry was cordially hated and
dreaded by all the mothers of the town, because he was idle and
law- less and vulgar and bad -- and because all their
children admired him so, and delighted in his forbidden
society, and wished they dared to be like him. Tom was
like the rest of the respectable boys, in that he envied
Huckleberry his gaudy outcast condition, and was un-
der strict orders not to play with him. So he played
with him every time he got a chance. Huckleberry was
always dressed in the cast-off clothes of
full-grown men, and they were in perennial bloom and
fluttering with rags. his hat was a vast ruin with a
wide crescent lopped out of its brim; his coat,
when he wore one, hung nearly to his heels and
had the rearward buttons far down the back; but one
suspender supported his trousers; the seat of the
trousers bagged low and con- tained nothing, the fringed
legs dragged in the dirt when not rolled up.
  Huckleberry came and went, at his own free
will. He slept on doorsteps in fine weather and in
empty hogsheads in wet; he did not have to go
to school or to church, or call any being master or
obey anybody; he could go fishing or swimming when
and where he chose, and stay as long as it suited him;
nobody forbade him to fight; he could sit up as
late as he pleased; he was always the first boy that went
barefoot in the spring and the last to resume leather in the
fall; he never had to wash, nor put on clean
clothes; he could swear wonderfully. In a word,
everything that goes to make life precious that boy
had. So thought every harassed, hampered, respectable
boy in St. Petersburg.
  Tom hailed the romantic outcast:
  "Hello, Huckleberry!"
"Hello yourself, and see how you like it."
  "What's that you got?"
  "Dead cat."
  "Lemme see him, Huck. My, he's
pretty stiff. Where'd you get him ?"
  "Bought him off'n a boy."
  "What did you give?"
  "I give a blue ticket and a bladder that I
got at the slaughter-house."
  "Where'd you get the blue ticket?"
  "Bought it off'n Ben Rogers two weeks ago
for a hoop-stick."
  "Say -- what is dead cats good for , Huck?"
  "Good for? Cure warts with."
  "No! Is that so? I know something that's better."
  "I bet you don't. What is it?"
  "Why, spunk-water."
  "Spunk-water! I wouldn't give a dern for
spunk- water."
  "You wouldn't, wouldn't you? D'you ever try it?"
  "No, I hain't. But Bob Tanner did."
  "Who told you so!"
  "Why, he told Jeff Thatcher, and Jeff
told Johnny Baker, and Johnny told Jim
Hollis, and Jim told Ben Rogers, and Ben
told a nigger, and the nigger told me. There
now!"
  "Well, what of it? They'll all lie.
Leastways all but the nigger. I don't know HIM.
But I never see a nigger that WOULDN'T lie.
Shucks! Now you tell me how Bob Tanner done
it, Huck."
  "Why, he took and dipped his hand in a rotten
stump where the rain-water was."
  "In the daytime?"
  "Certainly."
  "With his face to the stump?"
  "Yes. Least I reckon so."
  "Did he say anything?"
  "I don't reckon he did. I don't know."
  "Aha! Talk about trying to cure warts with
spunk- water such a blame fool way as that!
Why, that ain't a-going to do any good. You got to go
all by yourself, to the middle of the woods, where you know
there's a spunk-water stump, and just as it's
midnight you back up against the stump and jam your hand
in and say:
  'Barley-corn, barley-corn, injun-meal
shorts, Spunk-water, spunk-water, swaller
these warts,'
and then walk away quick, eleven steps, with
your eyes shut, and then turn around three times and
walk home without speaking to anybody. Because if you
speak the charm's busted."
  "Well, that sounds like a good way; but that ain't the
way Bob Tanner done."
  "No, sir, you can bet he didn't, becuz
he's the wartiest boy in this town; and he wouldn't have
a wart on him if he'd knowed how to work spunk-
water. I've took off thousands of warts off of my
hands that way, Huck. I play with frogs so much that
I've always got considerable many warts. Some- times
I take 'em off with a bean."
  "Yes, bean's good. I've done that."
  "Have you? What's your way?"
  "You take and split the bean, and cut the wart so
as to get some blood, and then you put the blood on
one piece of the bean and take and dig a hole and
bury it 'bout midnight at the crossroads in the
dark of the moon, and then you burn up the rest of the
bean. You see that piece that's got the blood on it
will keep drawing and drawing, trying to fetch the other
piece to it, and so that helps the blood to draw the
wart, and pretty soon off she comes."
  "Yes, that's it, Huck -- that's it; though when
you're burying it if you say 'Down bean;
off wart; come no more to bother me!' it's better.
That's the way Joe Harper does, and he's been
nearly to Coonville and most everywheres. But say
-- how do you cure 'em with dead cats?"
  "Why, you take your cat and go and get in the
grave- yard 'long about midnight when somebody that was
wicked has been buried; and when it's midnight a
devil will come, or maybe two or three, but you
can't see 'em, you can only hear something like the wind,
or maybe hear 'em talk; and when they're taking that
feller away, you heave your cat after 'em and say,
'Devil follow corpse, cat follow devil,
warts follow cat, I'm done with ye!' That'll
fetch ANY wart."
  "Sounds right. D'you ever try it, Huck?"
  "No, but old Mother Hopkins told me."
  "Well, I reckon it's so, then. Becuz they
say she's a witch."
  "Say! Why, Tom, I KNOW she is. She
witched pap. Pap says so his own self. He come
along one day, and he see she was a-witching him, so
he took up a rock, and if she hadn't dodged,
he'd a got her. Well, that very night he rolled
off'n a shed wher' he was a layin drunk, and broke
his arm."
  "Why, that's awful. How did he know she was
a-witching him?"
  "Lord, pap can tell, easy. Pap says when
they keep looking at you right stiddy, they're
a-witching you. Specially if they mumble. Becuz when
they mumble they're saying the Lord's Prayer
backards."
  "Say, Hucky, when you going to try the cat?"
  "Tonight. I reckon they'll come after old Hoss
Williams tonight."
  "But they buried him Saturday. Didn't they
get him Saturday night?"
  "Why, how you talk! How could their charms work
till midnight? -- and THEN it's Sunday.
Dev- ils don't slosh around much of a Sunday,
I don't reckon."
  "I never thought of that. That's so. Lemme go with
you?"
  "Of course -- if you ain't afeard."
  "Afeard! 'Tain't likely. Will you meow?"
  "Yes -- and you meow back, if you get a chance.
Last time, you kep' me a-meowing around till old
Hays went to throwing rocks at me and says
'Dern that cat!' and so I hove a brick through his
window -- but don't you tell."
  "I won't. I couldn't meow that night, becuz
auntie was watching me, but I'll meow this time.
Say -- what's that?"
  "Nothing but a tick."
  "Where'd you get him?"
  "Out in the woods."
  "What'll you take for him?"
  "I don't know. I don't want to sell him."
  "All right. It's a mighty small tick,
anyway."
  "Oh, anybody can run a tick down that don't
belong to them. I'm satisfied with it. It's a good enough
tick for me."
  "Sho, there's ticks a plenty. I could have a
thou- sand of 'em if I wanted to."
  "Well, why don't you? Becuz you know mighty
well you can't. This is a pretty early tick, I
reckon. It's the first one I've seen this year."
  "Say, Huck -- I'll give you my tooth for
him."
  "Less see it."
  Tom got out a bit of paper and carefully
unrolled it. Huckleberry viewed it wistfully.
The tempta- tion was very strong. At last he said:
"Is it genuwyne?"
  Tom lifted his lip and showed the vacancy.
  "Well, all right," said Huckleberry, "it's
a trade."
  Tom enclosed the tick in the percussion-cap box
that had lately been the pinchbug's prison, and the
boys separated, each feeling wealthier than before.
  When Tom reached the little isolated frame
school- house, he strode in briskly, with the
manner of one who had come with all honest speed. He
hung his hat on a peg and flung himself into his
seat with busi- ness-like alacrity. The master,
throned on high in his great splint-bottom
arm-chair, was dozing, lulled by the drowsy hum of
study. The interruption roused him.
  "Thomas Sawyer!"
  Tom knew that when his name was pronounced in full,
it meant trouble.
  "Sir!"
  "Come up here. Now, sir, why are you late again,
as usual?"
  Tom was about to take refuge in a lie, when he
saw two long tails of yellow hair hanging down
a back that he recognized by the electric
sympathy of love; and by that form was THE ONLY
VACANT PLACE on the girls' side
of the school-house. He instantly said:
  "I STOPPED TO TALK WITH HUCKLEBERRY
FINN!"
  The master's pulse stood still, and he stared help-
lessly. The buzz of study ceased. The pupils
won- dered if this foolhardy boy had lost his mind.
The master said:
  "You -- you did what?"
  "Stopped to talk with Huckleberry Finn."
  There was no mistaking the words.
  "Thomas Sawyer, this is the most astounding con-
fession I have ever listened to. No mere ferule will
answer for this offence. Take off your jacket."
  The master's arm performed until it was tired and the
stock of switches notably diminished. Then the
order followed:
  "Now, sir, go and sit with the girls! And let this
be a warning to you."
  The titter that rippled around the room appeared
to abash the boy, but in reality that result was caused
rather more by his worshipful awe of his unknown idol and the
dread pleasure that lay in his high good fortune. He
sat down upon the end of the pine bench and the girl hitched
herself away from him with a toss of her head. Nudges
and winks and whispers traversed the room, but
Tom sat still, with his arms upon the long, low desk before
him, and seemed to study his book.
  By and by attention ceased from him, and the ac- customed
school murmur rose upon the dull air once more.
Presently the boy began to steal furtive glances
at the girl. She observed it, "made a mouth" at
him and gave him the back of her head for the space of a
minute. When she cautiously faced around again, a
peach lay before her. She thrust it away. Tom
gently put it back. She thrust it away again, but
with less animosity. Tom patiently returned it
to its place. Then she let it remain. Tom
scrawled on his slate, "Please take it -- I
got more." The girl glanced at the words, but made
no sign. Now the boy began to draw something on the
slate, hiding his work with his left hand. For a time the
girl refused to notice; but her human curiosity
presently began to manifest itself by hardly
perceptible signs. The boy worked on, ap-
parently unconscious. The girl made a sort of
non- committal attempt to see, but the boy did not
betray that he was aware of it. At last she gave in
and hesi- tatingly whispered:
  "Let me see it."
Tom partly uncovered a dismal
caricature of a house with two gable ends to it and a
corkscrew of smoke issuing from the chimney. Then
the girl's interest began to fasten itself upon the work and
she forgot everything else. When it was finished, she
gazed a moment, then whispered:
  "It's nice -- make a man."
  The artist erected a man in the front yard, that
resembled a derrick. He could have stepped over the
house; but the girl was not hypercritical; she was
satisfied with the monster, and whispered:
  "It's a beautiful man -- now make me coming
along."
  Tom drew an hour-glass with a full moon and
straw limbs to it and armed the spreading fingers with a
portentous fan. The girl said:
  "It's ever so nice -- I wish I could draw."
  "It's easy," whispered Tom, "I'll learn
you."
  "Oh, will you? When?"
  "At noon. Do you go home to dinner?"
  "I'll stay if you will."
  "Good -- that's a whack. What's your name?"
  "Becky Thatcher. What's yours? Oh, I
know. It's Thomas Sawyer."
"That's the name they lick me by. I'm
Tom when I'm good. You call me Tom, will you?"
  "Yes."
  Now Tom began to scrawl something on the slate,
hiding the words from the girl. But she was not backward this
time. She begged to see. Tom said:
  "Oh, it ain't anything."
  "Yes it is."
  "No it ain't. You don't want to see."
  "Yes I do, indeed I do. Please let me."
  "You'll tell."
  "No I won't -- deed and deed and double deed
won't."
  "You won't tell anybody at all? Ever, as
long as you live?"
  "No, I won't ever tell ANY-BODY. Now
let me."
  "Oh, YOU don't want to see!"
  "Now that you treat me so, I WILL see." And she
put her small hand upon his and a little scuffle ensued,
Tom pretending to resist in earnest but letting his hand
slip by degrees till these words were revealed: "I
LOVE YOU."
  "Oh, you bad thing!" And she hit his hand a smart
rap, but reddened and looked pleased, never- theless.
Just at this juncture the boy felt a
slow, fateful grip closing on his ear, and a steady
lifting impulse. In that vise he was borne across
the house and de- posited in his own seat, under a
peppering fire of giggles from the whole school. Then
the master stood over him during a few awful
moments, and finally moved away to his throne without
saying a word. But although Tom's ear tingled, his heart
was jubilant.
  As the school quieted down Tom made an
honest effort to study, but the turmoil within him was too
great. In turn he took his place in the reading
class and made a botch of it; then in the
geography class and turned lakes into mountains,
mountains into rivers, and rivers into continents, till
chaos was come again; then in the spelling class, and got
"turned down," by a succession of mere baby words,
till he brought up at the foot and yielded up the
pewter medal which he had worn with ostentation for
months.
  CHAPTER VII
  THE harder Tom tried to fasten his mind
  on his book, the more his ideas wandered. So at last,
with a sigh and a yawn, he gave it up. It seemed
to him that the noon
recess would never come. The air was
  utterly dead. There was not a breath
  stirring. It was the sleepiest of sleepy days.
The drowsing murmur of the five and twenty studying
scholars soothed the soul like the spell that is in the
murmur of bees. Away off in the flaming
sunshine, Cardiff Hill lifted its soft green
sides through a shim- mering veil of heat, tinted with the
purple of distance; a few birds floated on
lazy wing high in the air; no other living thing was
visible but some cows, and they were asleep. Tom's
heart ached to be free, or else to have something of
interest to do to pass the dreary time. his hand wandered
into his pocket and his face lit up with a glow of
gratitude that was prayer, though he did not know it.
Then furtively the percussion-cap box came out.
He released the tick and put him on the long flat
desk. The creature probably glowed with a
gratitude that amounted to prayer, too, at this
moment, but it was premature: for when he started
thankfully to travel off, Tom turned him aside
with a pin and made him take a new direction.
  Tom's bosom friend sat next him, suffering just as
Tom had been, and now he was deeply and grate-
fully interested in this entertainment in an instant. This
bosom friend was Joe Harper. The two boys
were sworn friends all the week, and embattled
enemies on Saturdays. Joe took a pin out of
his lapel and began to assist in exercising the
prisoner. The sport grew in interest momently.
Soon Tom said that they were interfering with each other, and
neither getting the fullest benefit of the tick. So he
put Joe's slate on the desk and drew a line
down the middle of it from top to bottom.
  "Now," said he, "as long as he is on your
side you can stir him up and I'll let him alone;
but if you let him get away and get on my side,
you're to leave him alone as long as I can keep him
from crossing over."
  "All right, go ahead; start him up."
  The tick escaped from Tom, presently, and
crossed the equator. Joe harassed him awhile,
and then he got away and crossed back again. This
change of base occurred often. While one boy was
worrying the tick with absorbing interest, the other would
look on with interest as strong, the two heads bowed
together over the slate, and the two souls dead to all
things else. At last luck seemed to settle and
abide with Joe. The tick tried this, that, and the other
course, and got as excited and as anxious as the
boys themselves, but time and again just as he would have
victory in his very grasp, so to speak, and Tom's
fingers would be twitching to begin, Joe's pin would
deftly head him off, and keep possession. At
last Tom could stand it no longer. The temptation was
too strong. So he reached out and lent a hand with his
pin. Joe was angry in a moment. Said he:
  "Tom, you let him alone."
  "I only just want to stir him up a little,
Joe."
  "No, sir, it ain't fair; you just let him
alone."
  "Blame it, I ain't going to stir him much."
  "Let him alone, I tell you."
  "I won't!"
  "You shall -- he's on my side of the line."
  "Look here, Joe Harper, whose is that tick?"
  "I don't care whose tick he is -- he's on
my side of the line, and you sha'n't touch him."
  "Well, I'll just bet I will, though. He's
my tick and I'll do what I blame please with
him, or die!"
  A tremendous whack came down on Tom's
shoul- ders, and its duplicate on Joe's; and forthe
space of two minutes the dust continued to fly from the
two jackets and the whole school to enjoy it.
The boys had been too absorbed to notice the hush
that had stolen upon the school awhile before when the master
came tiptoeing down the room and stood over them.
He had contemplated a good part of the performance before he
contributed his bit of variety to it.
  When school broke up at noon, Tom flew
to Becky Thatcher, and whispered in her ear:
  "Put on your bonnet and let on you're going
home; and when you get to the corner, give the rest of
'em the slip, and turn down through the lane and come
back. I'll go the other way and come it over 'em the
same way."
  So the one went off with one group of scholars, and the
other with another. In a little while the two met at the
bottom of the lane, and when they reached the school they
had it all to themselves. Then they sat together, with a slate
before them, and Tom gave Becky the pencil and held
her hand in his, guiding it, and so created another
surprising house. When the interest in art began
to wane, the two fell to talking. Tom was swimming
in bliss. He said:
  "Do you love rats?"
  "No! I hate them!"
  "Well, I do, too -- LIVE ones. But I
mean dead ones, to swing round your head with a
string."
  "No, I don't care for rats much, anyway.
What I like is chewing-gum."
  "Oh, I should say so! I wish I had some
now."
  "Do you? I've got some. I'll let you chew it
awhile, but you must give it back to me."
  That was agreeable, so they chewed it turn about, and
dangled their legs against the bench in excess of
contentment.
  "Was you ever at a circus?" said Tom.
  "Yes, and my pa's going to take me again some
time, if I'm good."
  "I been to the circus three or four times --
lots of times. Church ain't shucks to a circus.
There's things going on at a circus all the time.
I'm going to be a clown in a circus when I grow
up."
  "Oh, are you! That will be nice. They're so
lovely, all spotted up."
  "Yes, that's so. And they get slathers of money
-- most a dollar a day, Ben Rogers says.
Say, Becky, was you ever engaged?"
  "What's that?"
"Why, engaged to be married."
  "No."
  "Would you like to?"
  "I reckon so. I don't know. What is it
like?"
  "Like? Why it ain't like anything. You only just
tell a boy you won't ever have anybody but him, ever
ever ever, and then you kiss and that's all. Any- body
can do it."
  "Kiss? What do you kiss for?"
  "Why, that, you know, is to -- well, they always do
that."
  "Everybody?"
  "Why, yes, everybody that's in love with each
other. Do you remember what I wrote on the
slate?"
  "Ye -- yes."
  "What was it?"
  "I sha'n't tell you."
  "Shall I tell YOU?"
  "Ye -- yes -- but some other time."
  "No, now."
  "No, not now -- tomorrow."
  "Oh, no, NOW. Please, Becky --
I'll whisper it, I'll whisper it ever so easy."
Becky hesitating, Tom took silence
for consent, and passed his arm about her waist and whispered
the tale ever so softly, with his mouth close to her ear.
And then he added:
  "Now you whisper it to me -- just the same."
  She resisted, for a while, and then said:
  "You turn your face away so you can't see, and
then I will. But you mustn't ever tell anybody --
WILL you, Tom? Now you won't, WILL you?"
  "No, indeed, indeed I won't. Now,
Becky."
  He turned his face away. She bent timidly
around till her breath stirred his curls and whispered,
"I -- love -- you!"
  Then she sprang away and ran around and around the
desks and benches, with Tom after her, and took
refuge in a corner at last, with her little white
apron to her face. Tom clasped her about her
neck and pleaded:
  "Now, Becky, it's all done -- all over but
the kiss. Don't you be afraid of that -- it ain't
anything at all. Please, Becky." And he
tugged at her apron and the hands.
  By and by she gave up, and let her hands drop; her
face, all glowing with the struggle, came up and
submitted. Tom kissed the red lips and
said:
  "Now it's all done, Becky. And always after this,
you know, you ain't ever to love anybody but me, and you
ain't ever to marry anybody but me, ever never and
forever. Will you?"
  "No, I'll never love anybody but you,
Tom, and I'll never marry anybody but you -- and
you ain't to ever marry anybody but me, either."
  "Certainly. Of course. That's PART of it. And
always coming to school or when we're going home, you're
to walk with me, when there ain't anybody looking --
and you choose me and I choose you at parties, because
that's the way you do when you're engaged."
  "It's so nice. I never heard of it before."
  "Oh, it's ever so gay! Why, me and Amy
  Lawrence --"
  The big eyes told Tom his blunder and he
stopped, confused.
  "Oh, Tom! Then I ain't the first you've ever
been engaged to!"
  The child began to cry. Tom said:
  "Oh, don't cry, Becky, I don't care
for her any more."
  "Yes, you do, Tom -- you know you do."
Tom tried to put his arm about her neck,
but she pushed him away and turned her face to the
wall, and went on crying. Tom tried again, with
sooth- ing words in his mouth, and was repulsed again.
Then his pride was up, and he strode away and went
outside. He stood about, restless and uneasy, for a
while, glancing at the door, every now and then, hoping
she would repent and come to find him. But she did not.
Then he began to feel badly and fear that he was in the
wrong. It was a hard struggle with him to make new
advances, now, but he nerved himself to it and entered. She
was still standing back there in the corner, sobbing, with her
face to the wall. Tom's heart smote him. He
went to her and stood a moment, not knowing exactly how
to proceed. Then he said hesitatingly:
  "Becky, I -- I don't care for anybody
but you."
  No reply -- but sobs.
  "Becky" -- pleadingly. "Becky, won't you
say some- thing?"
  More sobs.
  Tom got out his chiefest jewel, a brass
knob from the top of an andiron, and passed it around
her so that she could see it, and said:
  "Please, Becky, won't you take it?"
She struck it to the floor. Then Tom
marched out of the house and over the hills and far away,
to return to school no more that day. Presently
Becky began to suspect. She ran to the door;
he was not in sight; she flew around to the play-yard;
he was not there. Then she called:
  "Tom! Come back, Tom!"
  She listened intently, but there was no answer. She
had no companions but silence and loneliness. So she
sat down to cry again and upbraid herself; and by this time the
scholars began to gather again, and she had to hide her
griefs and still her broken heart and take up the
cross of a long, dreary, aching afternoon, with none among
the strangers about her to exchange sorrows with.
  CHAPTER VIII
  TOM dodged hither and thither through
  lanes until he was well out of the track
  of returning scholars, and then fell into a moody
jog. He crossed a small "branch"
  two or three times, because of a prevailing
juvenile superstition that to cross water baffled
pursuit. Half an hour later he was disappear-
ing behind the Douglas mansion on the summit of
Cardiff Hill, and the school-house was hardly
dis- tinguishable away off in the valley behind him.
He entered a dense wood, picked his
pathless way to the centre of it, and sat down on a
mossy spot under a spreading oak. There was not even
a zephyr stirring; the dead noonday heat had even
stilled the songs of the birds; nature lay in a
trance that was broken by no sound but the occasional far-off
hammering of a wood- pecker, and this seemed to render the
pervading silence and sense of loneliness the more
profound. The boy's soul was steeped in
melancholy; his feelings were in happy accord with his
surroundings. He sat long with his elbows on his
knees and his chin in his hands, meditating. It seemed
to him that life was but a trouble, at best, and he more
than half envied Jimmy Hodges, so lately
released; it must be very peaceful, he thought, to lie and
slumber and dream forever and ever, with the wind whispering through
the trees and caressing the grass and the flowers over the
grave, and nothing to bother and grieve about, ever any
more. If he only had a clean Sunday-school
record he could be willing to go, and be done with it
all. Now as to this girl. What had he done?
Nothing. He had meant the best in the world, and been
treated like a dog -- like a very dog. She would be
sorry some day -- maybe when it was too late.
Ah, if he could only die TEMPORARILY!
But the elastic heart of youth cannot be
compressed into one constrained shape long at a time.
Tom presently began to drift insensibly back
into the con- cerns of this life again. What if he
turned his back, now, and disappeared mysteriously?
What if he went away -- ever so far away,
into unknown countries beyond the seas -- and never came
back any more! How would she feel then! The idea of
being a clown recurred to him now, only to fill him
with disgust. For frivolity and jokes and spotted
tights were an offense, when they intruded themselves upon a
spirit that was exalted into the vague august realm of the
romantic. No, he would be a soldier, and
return after long years, all war-worn and
illustrious. No -- better still, he would join the
Indians, and hunt buffaloes and go on the warpath
in the mountain ranges and the trackless great plains of the
Far West, and away in the future come back a
great chief, bristling with feathers, hideous with paint,
and prance into Sunday- school, some drowsy summer
morning, with a blood- curdling war-whoop, and sear the
eyeballs of all his companions with unappeasable
envy. But no, there was something gaudier even than this.
He would be a pirate! That was it! NOW his future
lay plain before him, and glowing with unimaginable
splendor. How his name would fill the world, and
make people shudder! How gloriously he would go plowing
the dancing seas, in his long, low, black-hulled
racer, the Spirit of the Storm, with his grisly flag
flying at the fore! And at the zenith of his fame, how
he would suddenly appear at the old village and
stalk into church, brown and weather-beaten, in his black
velvet doublet and trunks, his great jack-boots,
his crimson sash, his belt bristling with
horse-pistols, his crime-rusted cut- lass at
his side, his slouch hat with waving plumes, his
black flag unfurled, with the skull and crossbones
on it, and hear with swelling ecstasy the whisperings,
"It's Tom Sawyer the Pirate! -- the Black
Avenger of the Spanish Mainto"
  Yes, it was settled; his career was determined.
He would run away from home and enter upon it. He
would start the very next morning. Therefore he must now
begin to get ready. He would collect his resources
together. He went to a rotten log near at hand and
began to dig under one end of it with his Barlow knife.
He soon struck wood that sounded hollow. He
put his hand there and uttered this in- cantation
impressively:
  "What hasn't come here, come! What's here, stay
here!"
  Then he scraped away the dirt, and exposed a
pine shingle. He took it up and disclosed a
shapely little treasure-house whose bottom and sides
were of shingles. In it lay a marble. Tom's
astonishment was bound- less! He scratched his head
with a perplexed air, and said:
  "Well, that beats anything!"
  Then he tossed the marble away pettishly, and
stood cogitating. The truth was, that a superstition
of his had failed, here, which he and all his comrades had
always looked upon as infallible. If you buried a
marble with certain necessary incantations, and left it alone
a fortnight, and then opened the place with the incantation
he had just used, you would find that all the marbles you had
ever lost had gathered themselves together there, meantime, no
matter how widely they had been separated. But
now, this thing had actually and unquestionably failed.
Tom's whole structure of faith was shaken to its
foundations. He had many a time heard of this thing
succeeding but never of its failing before. It did not
occur to him that he had tried it several times before,
himself, but could never find the hiding-places afterward. He
puzzled over the matter some time, and finally decided
that some witch had interfered and broken the charm. He
thought he would satisfy himself on that point; so
he searched around till he found a small sandy
spot with a little funnel-shaped depression in it. He
laid himself down and put his mouth close to this de-
pression and called --
  "Doodle-bug, doodle-bug, tell me what
I want to know! Doodle-bug, doodle-bug,
tell me what I want to know!"
  The sand began to work, and presently a small
black bug appeared for a second and then darted under
again in a fright.
  "He dasn't tell! So it WAS A witch that
done it. I just knowed it."
  He well knew the futility of trying to contend
against witches, so he gave up discouraged. But it
occurred to him that he might as well have the marble he
had just thrown away, and therefore he went and made a
patient search for it. But he could not find it. Now
he went back to his treasure-house and carefully
placed himself just as he had been standing when he tossed
the marble away; then he took another marble from his
pocket and tossed it in the same way, saying:
  "Brother, go find your brother!"
  He watched where it stopped, and went there and
looked. But it must have fallen short or gone too
far; so he tried twice more. The last
repetition was successful. The two marbles lay within
a foot of each other.
  Just here the blast of a toy tin trumpet came
faintly down the green aisles of the forest. Tom
flung off his jacket and trousers, turned a
suspender into a belt, raked away some brush behind the
rotten log, dis- closing a rude bow and arrow, a
lath sword and a tin trumpet, and in a moment had
seized these things and bounded away, barelegged, with
fluttering shirt. He presently halted under a
great elm, blew an answer- ing blast, and then
began to tiptoe and look warily out, this way and that.
He said cautiously -- to an imag- inary company:
  "Hold, my merry men! Keep hid till I
blow."
  Now appeared Joe Harper, as airily clad and
elab- orately armed as Tom. Tom called:
  "Hold! Who comes here into Sherwood Forest without
my pass?"
  "Guy of Guisborne wants no man's
pass. Who art thou that -- that --"
  "Dares to hold such language," said Tom,
prompt- ing -- for they talked ?"the book," from
memory.
"Who art thou that dares to hold such
language?"
  "I, indeed! I am Robin Hood, as thy
caitiff carcase soon shall know."
  "Then art thou indeed that famous outlaw? Right
gladly will I dispute with thee the passes of the merry
wood. Have at thee!"
  They took their lath swords, dumped their other
traps on the ground, struck a fencing attitude,
foot to foot, and began a grave, careful combat,
"two up and two down." Presently Tom said:
  "Now, if you've got the hang, go it lively!"
  So they "went it lively," panting and perspiring
with the work. By and by Tom shouted:
  "Fall! fall! Why don't you fall?"
  "I sha'n't! Why don't you fall yourself?
You're getting the worst of it."
  "Why, that ain't anything. I can't fall; that
ain't the way it is in the book. The book says,
'Then with one back-handed stroke he slew poor
Guy of Guis- borne.' You're to turn around and
let me hit you in the back."
  There was no getting around the authorities, so
Joe turned, received the whack and fell.
  "Now," said Joe, getting up, "you got to let
me kill YOU. That's fair."
  "Why, I can't do that, it ain't in the book."
  "Well, it's blamed mean -- that's all."
  "Well, say, Joe, you can be Friar Tuck
or Much the miller's son, and lam me with a
quarter-staff; or I'll be the Sheriff of
Nottingham and you be Robin Hood a little while and
kill me."
  This was satisfactory, and so these adventures were
carried out. Then Tom became Robin Hood again,
and was allowed by the treacherous nun to bleed his strength
away through his neglected wound. And at last Joe,
representing a whole tribe of weeping outlaws,
dragged him sadly forth, gave his bow into his feeble
hands, and Tom said, "Where this arrow falls, there
bury poor Robin Hood under the green- wood
tree." Then he shot the arrow and fell back and would
have died, but he lit on a nettle and sprang up
too gaily for a corpse.
  The boys dressed themselves, hid their accoutre-
ments, and went off grieving that there were no out- laws
any more, and wondering what modern civiliza- tion
could claim to have done to compensate for their loss. They
said they would rather be outlaws a year in Sherwood Forest
than President of the United States forever.
CHAPTER IX
  AT half-past nine, that night, Tom and
  Sid were sent to bed, as usual. They
  said their prayers, and Sid was soon
  asleep. Tom lay awake and waited, in
  restless impatience. When it seemed to
  him that it must be nearly daylight, he
  heard the clock strike ten! This was despair.
He would have tossed and fidgeted, as his nerves
demanded, but he was afraid he might wake Sid.
So he lay still, and stared up into the dark. Everything was
dismally st. By and by, out of the stillness, little, scarcely
preceptible noises began to emphasize them-
selves. The ticking of the clock began to bring it-
self into notice. Old beams began to crack
mysteri- ously. The stairs creaked faintly.
Evidently spirits were abroad. A measured, muffled
snore issued from Aunt Polly's chamber. And
now the tiresome chirping of a cricket that no human
ingenuity could locate, began. Next the ghastly
ticking of a death- watch in the wall at the bed's
head made Tom shudder -- it meant that somebody's
days were numbered. Then the howl of a far-off dog
rose on the night air, and was answered by a fainter
howl from a remoter distance. Tom was in an agony.
At last he was satisfied that time had
ceased and eternity begun; he began to doze, in
spite of himself; the clock chimed eleven, but he
did not hear it. And then there came, mingling with his
half-formed dreams, a most mel- ancholy
caterwauling. The raising of a neighboring window
disturbed him. A cry of "Scat! you devil!" and the
crash of an empty bottle against the back of his
aunt's woodshed brought him wide awake, and a
single minute later he was dressed and out of the win-
dow and creeping along the roof of the "ell" on all
fours. He "meow'd" with caution once or twice,
as he went; then jumped to the roof of the woodshed and
thence to the ground. Huckleberry Finn was there, with his
dead cat. The boys moved off and disap- peared in the
gloom. At the end of half an hour they were wading
through the tall grass of the graveyard.
  It was a graveyard of the old-fashioned Western
kind. It was on a hill, about a mile and a half from
the village. It had a crazy board fence around it,
which leaned inward in places, and outward the rest of the
time, but stood upright nowhere. Grass and weeds grew
rank over the whole cemetery. All the old
graves were sunken in, there was not a tombstone on the
place; round-topped, worm-eaten boards stag-
gered over the graves, leaning for support
and finding none. "Sacred to the memory of was So-and-So
had been painted on them once, but it could no longer
have been read, on the most of them, now, even if there
had been light.
  A faint wind moaned through the trees, and Tom
feared it might be the spirits of the dead, complain- ing at
being disturbed. The boys talked little, and only under
their breath, for the time and the place and the pervading
solemnity and silence oppressed their spirits. They
found the sharp new heap they were seeking, and ensconced
themselves within the protection of three great elms that
grew in a bunch within a few feet of the grave.
  Then they waited in silence for what seemed a long
time. The hooting of a distant owl was all the sound that
troubled the dead stillness. Tom's reflections
grew oppressive. He must force some talk. So
he said in a whisper:
  "Hucky, do you believe the dead people like it for us
to be here?"
  Huckleberry whispered:
  "I wisht I knowed. It's awful solemn like,
AIN'T it?"
  "I bet it is."
  There was a considerable pause, while the boys
canvassed this matter inwardly. Then Tom
whis- pered:
  "Say, Hucky -- do you reckon Hoss
Williams hears us talking?"
  "O' course he does. Least his sperrit
does."
  Tom, after a pause:
  "I wish I'd said Mister Williams. But I
never meant any harm. Everybody calls him
Hoss."
  "A body can't be too partic'lar how they talk
'bout these-yer dead people, Tom."
  This was a damper, and conversation died again.
  Presently Tom seized his comrade's arm and
said:
  "Sh!"
  "What is it, Tom?" And the two clung together with
beating hearts.
  "Sh! There 'tis again! Didn't you hear it?"
  "I --"
  "There! Now you hear it."
  "Lord, Tom, they're coming! They're coming, sure.
What'll we do?"
  "I dono. Think they'll see us?"
  "Oh, Tom, they can see in the dark, same as
cats. I wisht I hadn't come."
  "Oh, don't be afeard. I don't believe
they'll bother us. We ain't doing any harm. If
we keep perfectly still, maybe they won't
notice us at all."
  "I'll try to, Tom, but, Lord, I'm all
of a shiver."
  "Listen!"
  The boys bent their heads together and scarcely
breathed. A muffled sound of voices floated up from
the far end of the graveyard.
  "Look! See there!" whispered Tom. "What
is it?"
  "It's devil-fire. Oh, Tom, this is
awful."
  Some vague figures approached through the gloom,
swinging an old-fashioned tin lantern that freckled
the ground with innumerable little spangles of light.
Presently Huckleberry whispered with a shudder:
  "It's the devils sure enough. Three of 'em!
Lordy, Tom, we're goners! Can you pray?"
  "I'll try, but don't you be afeard. They
ain't going to hurt us. 'ationow I lay me down
to sleep, I --'"
  "Sh!"
"What is it, Huck?"
  "They're HUMANS! One of 'em is,
anyway. One of 'em's old Muff Potter's
voice."
  "No -- 'tain't so, is it?"
  "I bet I know it. Don't you stir nor
budge. He ain't sharp enough to notice us. Drunk,
the same as usual, likely -- blamed old
rip!"
  "All right, I'll keep st. Now they're
stuck. Can't find it. Here they come again. Now
they're hot. Cold again. Hot again. Red hot!
They're p'inted right, this time. Say, Huck, I
know another o' them voices; it's Injun
Joe."
  "That's so -- that murderin' half-breed! I'd
druther they was devils a dern sight. What kin they
be up to?"
  The whisper died wholly out, now, for the three men
had reached the grave and stood within a few feet of the
boys' hiding-place.
  "Here it is," said the third voice; and the owner of
it held the lantern up and revealed the face of young
Doctor Robinson.
  Potter and Injun Joe were carrying a handbarrow
with a rope and a couple of shovels on it.
They cast down their load and began to open the grave.
The doctor put the lantern at the head of the grave
and came and sat down with his back against one of the elm
trees. He was so close the boys could have touched
him.
  "Hurry, men!" he said, in a low voice; "the
moon might come out at any moment."
  They growled a response and went on digging. For
some time there was no noise but the grating sound of the
spades discharging their freight of mould and gravel.
It was very monotonous. Finally a spade struck upon
the coffin with a dull woody accent, and within another
minute or two the men had hoisted it out on the
ground. They pried off the lid with their shovels, got
out the body and dumped it rudely on the ground. The
moon drifted from behind the clouds and exposed the
pallid face. The barrow was got ready and the
corpse placed on it, covered with a blanket, and
bound to its place with the rope. Potter took out a
large spring-knife and cut off the dangling end of the
rope and then said:
  "Now the cussed thing's ready, Sawbones, and
you'll just out with another five, or here she stays."
  "That's the talk!" said Injun Joe.
"Look here, what does this mean?" said
the doctor. "You required your pay in advance, and
I've paid you."
  "Yes, and you done more than that," said Injun
Joe, approaching the doctor, who was now standing.
"Five years ago you drove me away from your
father's kitchen one night, when I come to ask for something
to eat, and you said I warn't there for any good; and when
I swore I'd get even with you if it took a
hundred years, your father had me jailed for a
vagrant. Did you think I'd forget? The Injun
blood ain't in me for nothing. And now I've
GOT you, and you got to SETTLE, you know!"
  He was threatening the doctor, with his fist in his
face, by this time. The doctor struck out suddenly and
stretched the ruffian on the ground. Potter dropped
his knife, and exclaimed:
  "Here, now, don't you hit my pard!" and the next
moment he had grappled with the doctor and the two were
struggling with might and main, trampling the grass and
tearing the ground with their heels. Injun Joe
sprang to his feet, his eyes flaming with passion,
snatched up Potter's knife, and went creeping,
catlike and stooping, round and round about the
combatants, seeking an opportunity. All at
once the doctor flung himself free,
seized the heavy headboard of Williams' grave
and felled Potter to the earth with it -- and in the same
instant the half-breed saw his chance and drove the
knife to the hilt in the young man's breast. He
reeled and fell partly upon Potter, flooding him with
his blood, and in the same moment the clouds blotted
out the dreadful spectacle and the two frightened boys
went speeding away in the dark.
  Presently, when the moon emerged again, Injun
Joe was standing over the two forms, contemplating them.
The doctor murmured inarticulately, gave a
long gasp or two and was st. The half-breed mut-
tered:
  "THAT score is settled -- damn you."
  Then he robbed the body. After which he put the
fatal knife in Potter's open right hand, and sat
down on the dismantled coffin. Three -- four --
five minutes passed, and then Potter began to stir
and moan. his hand closed upon the knife; he raised
it, glanced at it, and let it fall, with a shu.er.
Then he sat up, pushing the body from him, and gazed
at it, and then around him, confusedly. his eyes met
Joe's.
  "Lord, how is this, Joe?" he said.
"It's a dirty business," said Joe,
without moving.
  "What did you do it for?"
  "I! I never done it!"
  "Look here! That kind of talk won't wash."
  Potter trembled and grew white.
  "I thought I'd got sober. I'd no business
to drink tonight. But it's in my head yet -- worse'n
when we started here. I'm all in a muddle; can't
recollect any- thing of it, hardly. Tell me,
Joe -- HONEST, now, old feller -- did I
do it? Joe, I never meant to -- 'pon my
soul and honor, I never meant to, Joe. Tell
me how it was, Joe. Oh, it's awful -- and him
so young and promising."
  "Why, you two was scuffling, and he fetched you one
with the headboard and you fell flat; and then up you come,
all reeling and staggering like, and snatched the knife and
jammed it into him, just as he fetched you another awful
clip -- and here you've laid, as dead as a wedge
til now."
  "Oh, I didn't know what I was a-doing. I
wish I may die this minute if I did. It was
all on account of the whiskey and the excitement, I
reckon. I never used a weepon in my life
before, Joe. I've fought, but never with
weepons. They'll all say that. Joe, don't
tell! Say you won't tell, Joe -- that's a
good feller. I always liked you, Joe, and stood up
for you, too. Don't you remember? You WON'T
tell, WILL you, Joe?" And the poor creature
dropped on his knees before the stolid murderer, and
clasped his appealing hands.
  "No, you've always been fair and square with me,
Muff Potter, and I won't go back on you.
There, now, that's as fair as a man can say."
  "Oh, Joe, you're an angel. I'll bless you
for this the longest day I live." And Potter began
to cry.
  "Come, now, that's enough of that. This ain't any time for
blubbering. You be off yonder way and I'll go this.
Move, now, and don't leave any tracks be-
hind you."
  Potter started on a trot that quickly increased to a
run. The half-breed stood looking after him. He
muttered:
  "If he's as much stunned with the lick and fud-
dled with the rum as he had the look of being, he won't
think of the knife till he's gone so far he'll be
afraid to come back after it to such a place by him-
self -- chicken-heart!"
  Two or three minutes later the murdered man,
the blanketed corpse, the lidless coffin, and the open
grave were under no inspection but the moon's. The still-
ness was complete again, too.
  CHAPTER X
  THE two boys flew on and on, toward the
  village, speechless with horror. They
  glanced backward over their shoulders
  from time to time, apprehensively, as
  if they feared they might be followed.
  Every stump that started up in their path seemed a man
and an enemy, and made them catch their breath; and as
they sped by some outlying cot- tages that lay near the
village, the barking of the aroused watch-dogs seemed
to give wings to their feet.
  "If we can only get to the old tannery before we
break down!" whispered Tom, in short catches
be- tween breaths. "I can't stand it much longer."
  Huckleberry's hard pantings were his only
reply, and the boys fixed their eyes on the goal of
their hopes and bent to their work to win it. They gained
steadily on it, and at last, breast to breast, they
burst through the open door and fell grateful and
exhausted in the sheltering shadows beyond. By and by their
pulses slowed down, and Tom whispered:
  "Huckleberry, what do you reckon'll come of
this?"
  "If Doctor Robinson dies, I reckon
hanging'll come of it."
  "Do you though?"
  "Why, I KNOW it, Tom."
  Tom thought a while, then he said:
  "Who'll tell? We?"
  "What are you talking about? S'pose something
happened and Injun Joe DIDN'T hang? Why,
he'd kill us some time or other, just as dead sure as
we're a laying here."
  "That's just what I was thinking to myself, Huck."
  "If anybody tells, let Muff Potter do
it, if he's fool enough. He's generally drunk
enough."
  Tom said nothing -- went on thinking. Presently
he whispered:
  "Huck, Muff Potter don't know it. How can
he tell?"
  "What's the reason he don't know it?"
  "Because he'd just got that whack when Injun Joe
done it. D'you reckon he could see anything?
D'you reckon he knowed anything?"
"Byhokey, that's so, Tom!"
  "And besides, look-a-here -- maybe that whack done
for HIM!"
  "No, 'taint likely, Tom. He had
liquor in him; I could see that; and besides, he always
has. Well, when pap's full, you might take and
belt him over the head with a church and you couldn't
phase him. He says so, his own self. So it's
the same with Muff Potter, of course. But if a
man was dead sober, I reckon maybe that whack
might fetch him; I dono."
  After another reflective silence, Tom said:
  "Hucky, you sure you can keep mum?"
  "Tom, we GOT to keep mum. You know that.
  That Injun devil wouldn't make any more of
drownd- ing us than a couple of cats, if we was
to squeak 'bout this and they didn't hang him. Now,
look-a-here, Tom, less take and swear to one
another -- that's what we got to do -- swear to keep
mum."
  "I'm agreed. It's the best thing. Would you just
hold hands and swear that we --"
  "Oh no, that wouldn't do for this. That's good enough for little
rubbishy common things -- specially with gals, cuz
THEY go back on you anyway, and blab if they
get in a huff -- but there orter be writing
'bout a big thing like this. And blood."
  Tom's whole being applauded this idea. It was
deep, and dark, and awful; the hour, the circum-
stances, the surroundings, were in keeping with it. He
picked up a clean pine shingle that lay in the moon-
light, took a little fragment of "red keel" out of his
pocket, got the moon on his work, and painfully
scrawl- ed these lines, emphasizing each slow
down-stroke by clamping his tongue between his teeth, and
letting up the pressure on the up-strokes.
[See next page.]
  "Huck Finn and
  Tom Sawyer swears
  they will keep mum
  about This and They
  wish They may Drop
  down dead in Their
  Tracks if They ever
  Tell and Rot.
  Huckleberry was filled with admiration of Tom's
facility in writing, and the sublimity of his
language. He at once took a pin from his
lapel and was going to prick his flesh, but Tom said:
  "Hold on! Don't do that. A pin's brass.
It might have verdigrease on it."
  "What's verdigrease?"
  "It's p'ison. That's what it is. You just
swaller some of it once -- you'll see."
  So Tom unwound the thread from one of his needles,
and each boy pricked the ball of his thumb and
squeezed out a drop of blood. In time, after many
squeezes, Tom managed to sign his initials,
using the ball of his little finger for a pen. Then he showed
Huckleberry how to make an H and an F, and the
oath was com- plete. They buried the shingle close
to the wall, with some dismal ceremonies and incantations,
and the fetters that bound their tongues were considered to be
locked and the key thrown away.
  A figure crept stealthily through a break in the
other end of the ruined building, now, but they did not
notice it.
  "Tom," whispered Huckleberry, "does this
keep us from EVER telling -- ALWAYS?"
  "Of course it does. It don't make any
difference WHAT happens, we got to keep mum.
We'd drop down dead -- don't YOU know that?"
  "Yes, I reckon that's so."
  They continued to whisper for some little time. Presently
a dog set up a long, lugubrious howl just
outside -- within ten feet of them. The
boys clasped each other suddenly, in an agony of
fright.
  "Which of us does he mean?" gasped Huckle-
berry.
  "I dono -- peep through the crack. Quick!"
  "No, YOU, Tom!"
  "I can't -- I can't DO it, Huck!"
  "Please, Tom. There 'tis again!"
  "Oh, lordy, I'm thankful!" whispered Tom.
"I know his voice. It's Bull Harbison." *
  [* If Mr. Harbison owned a slave named
Bull, Tom would have spoken of him as
"Harbison's Bull," but a son or a dog of that
name was "Bull Harbison."]
  "Oh, that's good -- I tell you, Tom, I was
most scared to death; I'd a bet anything it was a
STRAY dog."
  The dog howled again. The boys' hearts sank
once more.
  "Oh, my! that ain't no Bull Harbison!"
whispered Huckleberry. "DO, Tom!"
  Tom, quaking with fear, yielded, and put his eye
to the crack. his whisper was hardly audible when he
said:
"Oh, Huck, IT S A STRAY
DOG!"
  "Quick, Tom, quick! Who does he mean?"
  "Huck, he must mean us both -- we're right
to- gether."
  "Oh, Tom, I reckon we're goners. I
reckon there ain't no mistake 'bout where
I'LL go to. I been so wicked."
  "Dad fetch it! This comes of playing hookey and
doing everything a feller's told NOT to do. I might
a been good, like Sid, if I'd a tried -- but
no, I wouldn't, of course. But if ever I get
off this time, I lay I'll just WALLER in
Sunday-schools!" And Tom began to snuffle a
little.
  "YOU bad!" and Huckleberry began to snuffle
too. "Consound it, Tom Sawyer, you're just old
pie, 'long- side o' what I am. Oh,
LORDY, lordy, lordy, I wisht I only had half
your chance."
  Tom choked off and whispered:
  "Look, Hucky, look! He's got his
BACK to us!"
  Hucky looked, with joy in his heart.
  "Well, he has, by jingoes! Did he before?"
"Yes, he did. But I, like a fool,
never thought. Oh, this is bully, you know. NOW who
can he mean?"
  The howling stopped. Tom pricked up his ears.
  "Sh! What's that?" he whispered.
  "Sounds like -- like hogs grunting. No -- it's
some- body snoring, Tom."
  "That IS it! Where 'bouts is it, Huck?"
  "I bleeve it's down at 'tother end. Sounds
so, anyway. Pap used to sleep there, sometimes,
'long with the hogs, but laws bless you, he just lifts
things when HE snores. Besides, I reckon he
ain't ever com- ing back to this town any more."
  The spirit of adventure rose in the boys' souls
once more.
  "Hucky, do you das't to go if I lead?"
  "I don't like to, much. Tom, s'pose it's
Injun Joe!"
  Tom quailed. But presently the temptation
rose up strong again and the boys agreed to try, with the
understanding that they would take to their heels if the snoring
stopped. So they went tiptoeing stealth- ily down,
the one behind the other. When they had got to within five
steps of the snorer, Tom stepped on a stick, and it
broke with a sharp snap. The man moaned, writhed a
little, and his face came into the moonlight.
It was Muff Potter. The boys' hearts had
stood still, and their hopes too, when the man moved, but
their fears passed away now. They tip- toed out,
through the broken weather-boarding, and stopped at a little
distance to exchange a parting word. That long,
lugubrious howl rose on the night air again! They
turned and saw the strange dog standing within a few
feet of where Potter was lying, and FACING Potter,
with his nose pointing heavenward.
  "Oh, geeminy, it's HIM!" exclaimed both
boys, in a breath.
  "Say, Tom -- they say a stray dog come
howling around Johnny Miller's house, 'bout
midnight, as much as two weeks ago; and a
whippoorwill come in and lit on the banisters and
sung, the very same evening; and there ain't anybody
dead there yet."
  "Well, I know that. And suppose there ain't.
Didn't Gracie Miller fall in the kitchen
fire and burn herself terrible the very next
Saturday?"
  "Yes, but she ain't DEAD. And what's more,
she's getting better, too."
  "All right, you wait and see. She's a goner,
just as dead sure as Muff Potter's a
goner. That's what the niggers say, and they know all
about these kind of things, Huck."
  Then they separated, cogitating. When Tom
crept in at his bedroom window the night was almost
spent. He undressed with excessive caution, and
fell asleep congratulating himself that nobody knew
of his esca- pade. He was not aware that the
gently-snoring Sid was awake, and had been so for
an hour.
  When Tom awoke, Sid was dressed and gone.
There was a late look in the light, a late sense
in the atmosphere. He was startled. Why had he not
been called -- persecuted till he was up, as
usual? The thought filled him with bodings. Within five
minutes he was dressed and down-stairs, feeling
sore and drowsy. The family were still at table, but they
had finished breakfast. There was no voice of
rebuke; but there were averted eyes; there was a silence
and an air of solemnity that struck a chill to the
culprit's heart. He sat down and tried to seem
gay, but it was up-hill work; it roused no smile,
no response, and he lapsed into silence and let his
heart sink down to the depths.
  After breakfast his aunt took him aside, and
Tom almost brightened in the hope that he was
going to be flogged; but it was not so. his aunt wept
over him and asked him how he could go and break her
old heart so; and finally told him to go on, and ruin
himself and bring her gray hairs with sorrow to the
grave, for it was no use for her to try any more. This
was worse than a thousand whippings, and Tom's heart
was sorer now than his body. He cried, he pleaded
for forgiveness, promised to reform over and over again, and
then received his dismissal, feeling that he had won but
an imperfect forgiveness and established but a feeble
confidence.
  He left the presence too miserable to even feel
re- vengeful toward Sid; and so the latter's
prompt retreat through the back gate was unnecessary.
He moped to school gloomy and sad, and took his
flogging, along with Joe Harper, for playing hookey
the day before, with the air of one whose heart was busy with
heavier woes and wholly dead to trifles. Then he
betook him- self to his seat, rested his elbows on
his desk and his jaws in his hands, and stared at the wall
with the stony stare of suffering that has reached the limit and
can no further go. his elbow was pressing against some
hard substance. After a long time he slowly and
sadly changed his position, and took up this object
with a sigh. It was in a paper. He
unrolled it. A long, lingering, colossal sigh
followed, and his heart broke. It was his brass
andiron knob!
  This final feather broke the camel's back.
  CHAPTER XI
  CLOSE upon the hour of noon the whole
  village was suddenly electrified with the ghastly
news. No need of the as yet un-
  dreamed-of telegraph; the tale flew from
  man to man, from group to group, from
  house to house, with little less than tele-
graphic speed. Of course the schoolmaster gave
holi- day for that afternoon; the town would have thought
strangely of him if he had not.
  A gory knife had been found close to the
murdered man, and it had been recognized by somebody
as be- longing to Muff Potter -- so the story
ran. And it was said that a belated citizen had come upon
Potter wash- ing himself in the "branch" about one or
two o'clock in the morning, and that Potter had at once
sneaked off -- suspicious circumstances,
especially the washing which was not a habit with Potter.
It was also said that the town had been ransacked for this
"murderer" (the public are not slow in the matter of
sifting evidence and arriving at a
verdict), but that he could not be found. Horsemen had
departed down all the roads in every direction, and the
Sheriff "was confident" that he would be captured before
night.
  All the town was drifting toward the graveyard.
Tom's heartbreak vanished and he joined the pro-
cession, not because he would not a thousand times rather go anywhere
else, but because an awful, un- accountable fascination
drew him on. Arrived at the dreadful place, he
wormed his small body through the crowd and saw the
dismal spectacle. It seemed to him an age since
he was there before. Somebody pinched his arm. He
turned, and his eyes met Huckle- berry's. Then
both looked elsewhere at once, and wondered if
anybody had noticed anything in their mutual
glance. But everybody was talking, and intent upon the
grisly spectacle before them.
  "Poor fellow!" "Poor young fellow!" "This
ought to be a lesson to grave robbers!" "Muff
Potter'll hang for this if they catch him!" This was
the drift of re- mark; and the minister said, "It was a
judgment; his hand is here."
  Now Tom shivered from head to heel; for his eye
fell upon the stolid face of Injun Joe. At this
moment the crowd began to sway and struggle,
and voices shouted, "It's him! it's him! he's coming
himself!"
  "Who? Who?" from twenty voices.
  "Muff Potter!"
  "Hallo, he's stopped! -- Look out, he's
turning! Don't let him get away!"
  People in the branches of the trees over Tom's head
said he wasn't trying to get away -- he only
looked doubtful and perplexed.
  "Infernal impudence!" said a bystander; "wanted
to come and take a quiet look at his work, I
reckon -- didn't expect any company."
  The crowd fell apart, now, and the Sheriff came
through, ostentatiously leading Potter by the arm. The
poor fellow's face was haggard, and his eyes showed
the fear that was upon him. When he stood before the murdered
man, he shook as with a palsy, and he put his face
in his hands and burst into tears.
  "I didn't do it, friends," he sobbed; "'pon
my word and honor I never done it."
  "Who's accused you?" shouted a voice.
  This shot seemed to carry home. Potter lifted
his face and looked around him with a pathetic hope-
lessness in his eyes. He saw Injun Joe, and
exclaimed:
  "Oh, Injun Joe, you promised me you'd never
--"
  "Is that your knife?" and it was thrust before him by the
Sheriff.
  Potter would have fallen if they had not caught him
and eased him to the ground. Then he said:
  "Something told me 't if I didn't come back
and get --" He shuddered; then waved his nerveless hand
with a vanquished gesture and said, "Tell 'em,
Joe, tell 'em -- it ain't any use any more."
  Then Huckleberry and Tom stood dumb and star-
ing, and heard the stony-hearted liar reel off his
se- rene statement, they expecting every moment that the
clear sky would deliver God's lightnings upon his
head, and wondering to see how long the stroke was
delayed. And when he had finished and still stood alive
and whole, their wavering impulse to break their oath and
save the poor betrayed prisoner's life faded and
vanished away, for plainly this miscreant had sold
himself to Satan and it would be fatal to meddle with the
property of such a power as that.
  "Why didn't you leave? What did you want
to come here for?" somebody said.
  "I couldn't help it -- I couldn't help it,"
Potter moaned. "I wanted to run
away, but I couldn't seem to come anywhere but here."
And he fell to sobbing again.
  Injun Joe repeated his statement, just as
calmly, a few minutes afterward on the inquest, under
oath; and the boys, seeing that the lightnings were still
withheld, were confirmed in their belief that Joe had
sold himself to the devil. He was now become, to them,
the most balefully interesting object they had ever
looked upon, and they could not take their fas- cinated
eyes from his face.
  They inwardly resolved to watch him nights, when
opportunity should offer, in the hope of getting a
glimpse of his dread master.
  Injun Joe helped to raise the body of the
murdered man and put it in a wagon for removal;
and it was whispered through the shuddering crowd that the wound bled
a little! The boys thought that this happy circumstance would
turn suspicion in the right direction; but they were
disappointed, for more than one villager remarked:
  "It was within three feet of Muff Potter when it
done it."
  Tom's fearful secret and gnawing conscience
dis- turbed his sleep for as much as a week after this;
and at breakfast one morning Sid said:
"Tom, you pitch around and talk in your
sleep so much that you keep me awake half the time."
  Tom blanched and dropped his eyes.
  "It's a bad sign," said Aunt Polly,
gravely. "What you got on your mind, Tom?"
  "Nothing. Nothing 't I know of." But the boy's
hand shook so that he spilled his coffee.
  "And you do talk such stuff," Sid said. "Last
night you said, 'It's blood, it's blood, that's
what it is!' You said that over and over. And you said,
'Don't torment me so -- I'll tell!'
Tell WHAT? WHAT is it you'll tell?"
  Everything was swimming before Tom. There is no
telling what might have happened, now, but luckily the
concern passed out of Aunt Polly's face and she
came to Tom's relief without knowing it. She said:
  "Sho! It's that dreadful murder. I dream about
it most every night myself. Sometimes I dream it's me
that done it."
  Mary said she had been affected much the same
way. Sid seemed satisfied. Tom got out of the
presence as quick as he plausibly could, and after that he
complained of toothache for a week, and tied up his
jaws every night. He never knew that Sid lay
nightly watching, and frequently slipped the bandage
free and then leaned on his elbow listening a
good while at a time, and afterward slipped the bandage
back to its place again. Tom's distress of mind
wore off gradually and the toothache grew irksome and
was discarded. If Sid really managed to make
anything out of Tom's disjointed mutterings, he kept
it to him- self.
  It seemed to Tom that his schoolmates never would
get done holding inquests on dead cats, and thus
keeping his trouble present to his mind. Sid
noticed that Tom never was coroner at one of these
inquiries, though it had been his habit to take the
lead in all new enterprises; he noticed, too,
that Tom never acted as a witness -- and that was
strange; and Sid did not overlook the fact that
Tom even showed a marked aversion to these inquests, and
always avoided them when he could. Sid marvelled, but
said nothing. How- ever, even inquests went out of
vogue at last, and ceased to torture Tom's
conscience.
  Every day or two, during this time of sorrow, Tom
watched his opportunity and went to the little grated
jail-window and smuggled such small comforts through to the
"murderer" as he could get hold of. The jail was a
trifling little brick den that stood in a marsh at the
edge of the village, and no guards were
afforded for it; indeed, it was seldom occupied. These
offerings greatly helped to ease Tom's conscience.
  The villagers had a strong desire
to tar-and-feather Injun Joe and ride him on a
rail, for body-snatching, but so formidable was his character that
nobody could be found who was willing to take the lead in
the matter, so it was dropped. He had been careful
to begin both of his inquest-statements with the fight, without
con- fessing the grave-robbery that preceded it;
therefore it was deemed wisest not to try the case in the
courts at present.
  CHAPTER XII
  ONE of the reasons why Tom's mind had
  drifted away from its secret troubles was, that it
had found a new and weighty
  matter to interest itself about. Becky
  Thatcher had stopped coming to school.
  Tom had struggled with his pride a few
  days, and tried to "whistle her down the wind," but
failed. He began to find himself hanging around her
father's house, nights, and feeling very miserable. She
was ill. What if she should die! There was dis-
traction in the thought. He no longer took an
interest in war, nor even in piracy. The charm of
life was gone; there was nothing but dreariness
left. He put his hoop away, and his bat; there was
no joy in them any more. his aunt was concerned. She
began to try all manner of remedies on him. She
was one of those people who are infatuated with patent
medicines and all new-fangled methods of
producing health or mending it. She was an
inveterate experimenter in these things. When something
fresh in this line came out she was in a fever, right
away, to try it; not on herself, for she was never ailing,
but on anybody else that came handy. She was a
subscriber for all the "Health" periodicals and
phrenological frauds; and the solemn ignorance
they were inflated with was breath to her nostrils. All the
"rot" they contained about ventilation, and how to go to bed,
and how to get up, and what to eat, and what to drink, and
how much exercise to take, and what frame of mind
to keep one's self in, and what sort of clothing
to wear, was all gospel to her, and she never observed
that her health-journals of the current month
customarily upset everything they had recommended the
month before. She was as simple-hearted and honest as the
day was long, and so she was an easy victim. She
gathered together her quack periodicals and her quack
medicines, and thus armed with death, went about on her
pale horse, metaphorically speaking, with
"hell following after."
  But she never suspected that she was not an angel of
healing and the balm of Gilead in disguise, to the suffering
neighbors.
  The water treatment was new, now, and Tom's low
condition was a windfall to her. She had him out at
daylight every morning, stood him up in the wood- shed
and drowned him with a deluge of cold water; then she
scrubbed him down with a towel like a file, and so brought
him to; then she rolled him up in a wet sheet and
put him away under blank- ets till she sweated
his soul clean and "the yel- low stains of it came through
his pores" -- as Tom said.
  Yet notwithstanding all this, the boy grew more and more
melancholy and pale and dejected. She added hot
baths, sitz baths, shower baths, and plunges. The
boy remained as dismal as a hearse. She began
to assist the water with a slim oatmeal diet and
blister- plasters. She calculated his capacity as
she would a jug's, and filled him up every day with
quack cure-alls.
  Tom had become indifferent to persecution by this time.
This phase filled the old lady's heart with
consternation. This indifference must be broken up at any
cost. Now she heard of Pain-killer for the
first time. She ordered a lot at once. She tasted
it and was filled with gratitude. It was simply
fire in a liquid form. She dropped the water
treatment and everything else, and pinned her faith
to Pain-killer. She gave Tom a teaspoonful and
watched with the deepest anxiety for the result. Her
troubles were in- stantly at rest, her soul at
peace again; for the "in- difference" was broken up. The
boy could not have shown a wilder, heartier interest, if
she had built a fire under him.
  Tom felt that it was time to wake up; this sort of
life might be romantic enough, in his blighted
con- dition, but it was getting to have too little sentiment
and too much distracting variety about it. So he thought
over various plans for relief, and finally hit pon
that of professing to be fond of Pain-killer. He
asked for it so often that he became a nuisance, and his
aunt ended by telling him to help himself and quit
bothering her. If it had been Sid, she would have had
no misgivings to alloy her delight; but since it was
Tom, she watched the bottle clandestinely. She
found that the medicine did really diminish, but it did
not occur to her that the boy was mending the health of a
crack in the sitting-room floor with it.
One day Tom was in the act of dosing the
crack when his aunt's yellow cat came along,
purring, ey- ing the teaspoon avariciously, and
begging for a taste. Tom said:
  "Don't ask for it unless you want it, Peter."
  But Peter signified that he did want it.
  "You better make sure."
  Peter was sure.
  "Now you've asked for it, and I'll give it to you,
because there ain't anything mean about me; but if you find you
don't like it, you mustn't blame any- body but your
own self."
  Peter was agreeable. So Tom pried his mouth
open and poured down the Pain-killer. Peter
sprang a couple of yards in the air, and then
delivered a war-whoop and set off round and round the
room, banging against furniture, upsetting
flower-pots, and making general havoc. Next he
rose on his hind feet and pranced around, in a
frenzy of enjoyment, with his head over his shoulder and his
voice pro- claiming his unappeasable happiness.
Then he went tearing around the house again spreading
chaos and destruction in his path. Aunt Polly
entered in time to see him throw a few double
summersets, deliver a final mighty hurrah, and
sail through the open window, carrying the rest
of the flower-pots with him. The old lady stood
petrified with astonishment, peering over her
glasses; Tom lay on the floor expiring with
laughter.
  "Tom, what on earth ails that cat?"
  "I don't know, aunt," gasped the boy.
  "Why, I never see anything like it. What did
make him act so?"
  "Deed I don't know, Aunt Polly; cats
always act so when they're having a good time."
  "They do, do they?" There was something in the tone that
made Tom apprehensive.
  "Yes'm. That is, I believe they do."
  "You DO?"
  "Yes'm."
  The old lady was bending down, Tom watching, with
interest emphasized by anxiety. Too late he
divined her "drift." The handle of the telltale
tea- spoon was visible under the bed-valance. Aunt
Polly took it, held it up. Tom winced, and
dropped his eyes. Aunt Polly raised him by the
usual handle -- his ear -- and cracked his head
soundly with her thimble.
  "Now, sir, what did you want to treat that poor
dumb beast so, for?"
  "I done it out of pity for him -- because he hadn't
any aunt."
  "Hadn't any aunt! -- you numskull. What
has that got to do with it?"
  "Heaps. Because if he'd had one she'd a burnt
him out herself! She'd a roasted his bowels out of him
'thout any more feeling than if he was a human!"
  Aunt Polly felt a sudden pang of
remorse. This was putting the thing in a new light;
what was cruelty to a cat MIGHT be cruelty to a
boy, too. She began to soften; she felt sorry.
Her eyes watered a little, and she put her hand on
Tom's head and said gently:
  "I was meaning for the best, Tom. And, Tom, it
DID do you good."
  Tom looked up in her face with just a perceptible
twinkle peeping through his gravity.
  "I know you was meaning for the best, aunty, and so was
I with Peter. It done HIM good, too. I never
see him get around so since --"
  "Oh, go 'long with you, Tom, before you aggravate
me again. And you try and see if you can't be a good
boy, for once, and you needn't take any more
medicine."
Tom reached school ahead of time. It was
noticed that this strange thing had been occurring every day
latterly. And now, as usual of late, he hung
about the gate of the schoolyard instead of playing with his
comrades. He was sick, he said, and he looked it.
He tried to seem to be looking everywhere but whither he
really was looking -- down the road. Presently
Jeff Thatcher hove in sight, and Tom's face
lighted; he gazed a moment, and then turned
sorrowfully away. When Jeff arrived, Tom
accosted him; and "led up" warily to opportunities
for remark about Becky, but the giddy lad never could
see the bait. Tom watched and watched, hoping
whenever a frisking frock came in sight, and hating
the owner of it as soon as he saw she was not the right
one. At last frocks ceased to appear, and he
dropped hopelessly into the dumps; he entered the
empty schoolhouse and sat down to suffer. Then one
more frock passed in at the gate, and Tom's heart
gave a great bound. The next instant he was out, and
"going on" like an Indian; yelling, laughing, chasing
boys, jumping over the fence at risk of life and
limb, throwing handsprings, standing on his head -- doing
all the heroic things he could conceive of, and keeping a
furtive eye out, all the while, to see if
Becky Thatcher was noticing. But she
seemed to be un- conscious of it all; she never
looked. Could it be possible that she was not aware that he
was there? He carried his exploits to her immediate
vicinity; came war-whooping around, snatched a
boy's cap, hurled it to the roof of the schoolhouse,
broke through a group of boys, tumbling them in every
direction, and fell sprawling, himself, under
Becky's nose, almost upsetting her -- and she
turned, with her nose in the air, and he heard her
say: "Mf! some people think they're mighty smart --
always showing off!"
  Tom's cheeks burned. He gathered himself up and
sneaked off, crushed and crestfallen.
  CHAPTER XIII
  TOM'S mind was made up now. He was
  gloomy and desperate. He was a for -
  saken, friendless boy, he said; nobody
  loved him; when they found out what they
  had driven him to, perhaps they would
  be sorry; he had tried to do right and get along,
but they would not let him; since nothing would do them but
to be rid of him, let it be so; and let them blame
HIM for the consequences -- why shouldn't they? What right
had the friendless to complain? Yes, they had forced him to it
at last: he would lead a life of crime.
There was no choice.
  By this time he was far down Meadow Lane, and the
bell for school to "take up" tinkled faintly
upon his ear. He sobbed, now, to think he should never,
never hear that old familiar sound any more -- it was very
hard, but it was forced on him; since he was driven out
into the cold world, he must submit -- but he for gave
them. Then the sobs came thick and fast.
  Just at this point he met his soul's sworn
comrade, Joe Harper -- hard-eyed, and with
evidently a great and dismal purpose in his heart.
Plainly here were "two souls with but a single thought."
Tom, wiping his eyes with his sleeve, began
to blubber out something about a resolution to escape from
hard usage and lack of sympathy at home
by roaming abroad into the great world never to return; and
ended by hoping that Joe would not forget him.
  But it transpired that this was a request which Joe
had just been going to make of Tom, and had come to hunt
him up for that purpose. his mother had whipped him for
drinking some cream which he had never tasted and knew
nothing about; it was plain that she was tired of him and
wished him to go; if she felt that way, there was nothing
for him to do but succumb; he hoped she would be happy,
and never regret having driven her poor
boy out into the unfeeling world to suffer and die.
  As the two boys walked sorrowing along, they
made a new compact to stand by each other and be brothers
and never separate till death relieved them of their
troubles. Then they began to lay their plans. Joe was
for being a hermit, and living on crusts in a remote
cave, and dying, some time, of cold and want and
grief; but after listening to Tom, he conceded that there were
some conspicuous advantages about a life of
crime, and so he consented to be a pirate.
  Three miles below St. Petersburg, at a
point where the Mississippi River was a trifle
over a mile wide, there was a long, narrow, wooded
island, with a shallow bar at the head of it, and this offered
well as a ren- dezvous. It was not inhabited; it
lay far over toward the further shore, abreast a
dense and almost wholly unpeopled forest. So
Jackson's Island was chosen. Who were to be the
subjects of their piracies was a matter that did not
occur to them. Then they hunted up Huckleberry
Finn, and he joined them promptly, for all careers
were one to him; he was indifferent. They presently
separated to meet at a lonely spot on the
river-bank two miles above the village at the
favorite hour -- which was midnight. There
was a small log raft there which they meant
to capture. Each would bring hooks and lines, and such
provision as he could steal in the most dark and
mysterious way -- as became outlaws. And before the
afternoon was done, they had all managed to enjoy the
sweet glory of spreading the fact that pretty
soon the town would "hear some- thing." All who got
this vague hint were cautioned to "be mum and wait."
  About midnight Tom arrived with a boiled ham and a
few trifles, and stopped in a dense undergrowth on
a small bluff overlooking the meeting-place. It
was starlight, and very st. The mighty river lay like an
ocean at rest. Tom listened a moment, but no sound
disturbed the quiet. Then he gave a low, distinct
whistle. It was answered from under the bluff. Tom
whistled twice more; these signals were answered in the
same way. Then a guarded voice said:
  "Who goes there?"
  "Tom Sawyer, the Black Avenger of the
Spanish Main. Name your names."
  "Huck Finn the Red-Handed, and Joe Harper the
Terror of the Seas." Tom had furnished these
titles, from his favorite literature.
  "'Tis well. Give the countersign."
Two hoarse whispers delivered the
same awful word simultaneously to the brooding
night:
  "BLOOD!"
  Then Tom tumbled his ham over the bluff and let
himself down after it, tearing both skin and clothes to some
extent in the effort. There was an easy, com- for table
path along the shore under the bluff, but it lacked the
advantages of difficulty and danger so val- ued
by a pirate.
  The Terror of the Seas had brought a side of
bacon, and had about worn himself out with getting it there.
Finn the Red-Handed had stolen a skillet and a
quan- tity of half-cured leaf tobacco, and had
also brought a few corn-cobs to make pipes with.
But none of the pirates smoked or "chewed" but himself.
The Black Avenger of the Spanish Main said it would
never do to start without some fire. That was a wise thought;
matches were hardly known there in that day. They saw a
fire smouldering upon a great raft a hundred yards
above, and they went stealthily thither and helped themselves
to a chunk. They made an imposing ad- venture of
it, saying, "Hist!" every now and then, and suddenly
halting with finger on lip; moving with hands on
imaginary dagger-hilts; and giving orders in dismal
whispers that if "the foe" stirred, to
"let him have it to the hilt," because "dead men tell no
tales." They knew well enough that the raftsmen were
all down at the village laying in stores or
having a spree, but still that was no excuse for their
conducting this thing in an unpiratical way.
  They shoved off, presently, Tom in command,
Huck at the after oar and Joe at the forward. Tom
stood amidships, gloomy-browed, and with folded
arms, and gave his orders in a low, stern whisper:
  "Luff, and bring her to the wind!"
  "Aye-aye, sir!"
  "Steady, steady-y-y-y!"
  "Steady it is, sir!"
  "Let her go off a point!"
  "Point it is, sir!"
  As the boys steadily and monotonously drove the
raft toward mid-stream it was no doubt under- stood
that these orders were given only for "style," and were not
intended to mean anything in par- ticular.
  "What sail's she carrying?"
  "Courses, tops'ls, and flying-jib, sir."
  "Send the r'yals up! Lay out aloft, there,
half a dozen of ye -- foretopmaststuns'l!
Lively, now!"
"Aye-aye, sir!"
  "Shake out that maintogalans'l! Sheets and
braces! NOW my hearties!"
  "Aye-aye, sir!"
  "Hellum-a-lee -- hard a port! Stand
by tomeet her when she comes! Port, port! NOW,
men! With a will! Stead-y-y-y!"
  "Steady it is, sir!"
  The raft drew beyond the middle of the river; the
boys pointed her head right, and then lay on their
oars. The river was not high, so there was not more than a
two or three mile current. Hardly a word was
said during the next three-quarters of an hour. Now
the raft was passing before the distant town. Two or
three glimmering lights showed where it lay,
peacefully sleeping, beyond the vague vast sweep of
star-gemmed water, unconscious of the tremendous
event that was happening. The Black Avenger stood still
with folded arms, "looking his last" upon the scene of his
former joys and his later sufferings, and wishing "she" could
see him now, abroad on the wild sea, facing
peril and death with dauntless heart, going to his doom
with a grim smile on his lips. It was but a small
strain on his imagination to remove Jackson's
Island beyond eye- shot of the village, and so he
"looked his last" with a broken and satisfied
heart. The other pirates were looking their last,
too; and they all looked so long that they came near
letting the current drift them out of the range of the
island. But they discovered the danger in time, and made
shift to avert it. About two o'clock in the morning the
raft grounded on the bar two hundred yards above the
head of the island, and they waded back and forth until
they had landed their freight. Part of the little raft's
belongings consisted of an old sail, and this they spread
over a nook in the bushes for a tent to shelter their
provisions; but they themselves would sleep in the open air
in good weather, as became outlaws.
  They built a fire against the side of a great log
twenty or thirty steps within the sombre depths of the
forest, and then cooked some bacon in the frying-pan for
sup- per, and used up half of the corn "pone"
stock they had brought. It seemed glorious sport
to be feasting in that wild, free way in the virgin
forest of an unex- plored and uninhabited island,
far from the haunts of men, and they said they never would
return to civiliza- tion. The climbing fire
lit up their faces and threw its ruddy glare upon the
pillared tree-trunks of their forest temple, and upon
the varnished foliage and festooning vines.
When the last crisp slice of bacon was
gone, and the last allowance of corn pone devoured, the
boys stretched themselves out on the grass, filled with
contentment. They could have found a cooler place, but they
would not deny themselves such a romantic feature as the
roasting camp-fire.
  "AIN'T it gay?" said Joe.
  "It's NUTS!" said Tom. "What would the
boys say if they could see us?"
  "Say? Well, they'd just die to be here --
hey, Hucky!"
  "I reckon so," said Huckleberry;
"anyways, I'm suited. I don't want nothing
better'n this. I don't ever get enough to eat, gen'ally
-- and here they can't come and pick at a feller and
bullyrag him so."
  "It's just the life for me," said Tom. "You
don't have to get up, mornings, and you don't have to go
to school, and wash, and all that blame foolishness.
You see a pirate don't have to do ANYTHING,
Joe, when he's ashore, but a hermit HE has
to be praying considerable, and then he don't have any
fun, anyway, all by himself that way."
  "Oh yes, that's so," said Joe, "but I hadn't
thought much about it, you know. I'd a good deal rather be a
pirate, now that I've tried it."
  "You see," said Tom, "people don't go much on
hermits, nowadays, like they used to in old times, but
a pirate's always respected. And a hermit's got
to sleep on the hardest place he can find, and put
sackcloth and ashes on his head, and stand out in the
rain, and --"
  "What does he put sackcloth and ashes on his
head for?" inquired Huck.
  "I dono. But they've GOT to do it. Hermits
always do. You'd have to do that if you was a hermit."
  "Dern'd if I would," said Huck.
  "Well, what would you do?"
  "I dono. But I wouldn't do that."
  "Why, Huck, you'd HAVE to. How'd you get
around it?"
  "Why, I just wouldn't stand it. I'd run away."
  "Run away! Well, you WOULD be a nice old
slouch of a hermit. You'd be a disgrace."
  The Red-Handed made no response, being better
employed. He had finished gouging out a cob, and now
he fitted a weed stem to it, loaded it with tobacco,
and was pressing a coal to the charge and blowing a cloud
of fragrant smoke -- he was in the full bloom
of luxurious contentment. The other pirates envied
him this majestic vice, and secretly
resolved to acquire it shortly. Presently
Huck said:
  "What does pirates have to do?"
  Tom said:
  "Oh, they have just a bully time -- take ships and
burn them, and get the money and bury it in awful
places in their island where there's ghosts and things
to watch it, and kill everybody in the ships -- make
'em walk a plank."
  "And they carry the women to the island," said Joe;
"they don't kill the women."
  "No," assented Tom, "they don't kill the
women -- they're too noble. And the women's always
beautiful, too.
  "And don't they wear the bulliest clothes! Oh
no! All gold and silver and di'monds," said
Joe, with enthusiasm.
  "Who?" said Huck.
  "Why, the pirates."
  Huck scanned his own clothing forlornly.
  "I reckon I ain't dressed fitten for a
pirate," said he, with a regretful pathos in his
voice; "but I ain't got none but these."
  But the other boys told him the fine clothes would
come fast enough, after they should have begun their
adventures. They made him understand that his poor
rags would do to begin with, though it was customary for
wealthy pirates to start with a proper wardrobe.
  Gradually their talk died out and drowsiness began
to steal upon the eyelids of the little waifs. The pipe
dropped from the fingers of the Red-Handed, and he slept
the sleep of the conscience-free and the weary. The
Terror of the Seas and the Black Avenger of the
Spanish Main had more difficulty in getting
to sleep. They said their prayers inwardly, and lying
down, since there was nobody there with authority to make
them kneel and recite aloud; in truth, they had a
mind not to say them at all, but they were afraid
to proceed to such lengths as that, lest they might call
down a sudden and special thunderbolt from heaven. Then
at once they reached and hovered upon the imminent verge
of sleep -- but an intruder came, now, that would not
"down." It was conscience. They began to feel a
vague fear that they had been doing wrong to run
away; and next they thought of the stolen meat, and then the
real torture came. They tried to argue it away
by reminding conscience that they had purloined sweetmeats
and apples scores of times; but conscience was not to be
appeased by such thin plausibilities; it seemed
to them, in the end, that there was no getting around
the stubborn fact that taking sweetmeats was only
"hooking," while taking bacon and hams and such
valuables was plain simple stealing -- and there was a
command against that in the Bible. So they inwardly resolved
that so long as they remained in the business, their
piracies should not again be sullied with the crime of
stealing. Then conscience granted a truce, and these
curiously inconsistent pirates fell peacefully
to sleep.
  CHAPTER XIV
  WHEN Tom awoke in the morning, he
  wondered where he was. He sat up and
  rubbed his eyes and looked around. Then
  he comprehended. It was the cool gray
  dawn, and there was a delicious sense of
  repose and peace in the deep pervading
  calm and silence of the woods. Not a leaf stirred;
not a sound obtruded upon great Nature's meditation.
Bead- ed dewdrops stood upon the leaves and
grasses. A white layer of ashes covered the
fire, and a thin blue breath of smoke rose
straight into the air. Joe and Huck still slept.
  Now, far away in the woods a bird called;
another answered; presently the hammering of a
woodpecker was heard. Gradually the cool
dim gray of the morn- ing whitened, and as gradually
sounds multiplied and life manifested itself. The
marvel of Nature shaking off sleep and going to work
unfolded itself to the musing boy. A little green worm
came crawling over a dewy leaf, lifting
two-thirds of his body into the air from time to time and
"sniffing around," then proceeding again -- for he was
measuring, Tom said; and when the worm approached
him, of its own accord, he sat as still as a stone, with
his hopes rising and falling, by turns, as the
creature still came toward him or seemed inclined to go
elsewhere; and when at last it considered a painful
moment with its curved body in the air and then came
decisively down upon Tom's leg and began a
journey over him, his whole heart was glad -- for that
meant that he was going to have a new suit of clothes --
without the shadow of a doubt a gaudy piratical
uniform. Now a procession of ants appeared, from
nowhere in par- ticular, and went about their labors;
one struggled man- fully by witha dead spider five
times as big as itself in its arms, and lugged it straight
up a tree-trunk. A brown spotted lady-bug
climbed the dizzy height of a grass blade, and
Tom bent down close to it and said, "Lady-bug,
lady-bug, fly away home, your house
is on fire, your children's alone," and she took wing
and went off to see about it -- which did not surprise the
boy, for he knew of old that this insect was credulous
about conflagrations, and he had practised upon its
simplicity more than once. A tumblebug came
next, heaving sturdily at its ball, and Tom
touched the creature, to see it shut its legs against
its body and pretend to be dead. The birds were
fairly rioting by this time. A catbird, the
Northern mocker, lit in a tree over Tom's
head, and trilled out her imitations of her neighbors
in a rapture of enjoyment; then a shrill jay
swept down, a flash of blue flame, and stopped
on a twig almost within the boy's reach, cocked his
head to one side and eyed the strangers with a consuming
curiosity; a gray squirrel and a big fellow
of the "fox" kind came skurrying along, sitting up
at intervals to inspect and chatter at the boys, for the
wild things had probably never seen a human being
before and scarcely knew whether to be afraid or not.
All Nature was wide awake and stirring, now;
long lances of sunlight pierced down through the dense
foliage far and near, and a few butterflies came
fluttering upon the scene.
Tom stirred up the other pirates and
they all clattered away with a shout, and in a minute
or two were stripped and chasing after and tumbling over
each other in the shallow limpid water of the white
sandbar. They felt no longing for the little village
sleeping in the distance beyond the majestic waste of
water. A vagrant cur- rent or a slight
rise in the river had carried off their raft, but this
only gratified them, since its going was something like
burning the bridge between them and civilization.
  They came back to camp wonderfully refreshed,
glad-hearted, and ravenous; and they soon had the
camp-fire blazing up again. Huck found a spring
of clear cold water close by, and the boys made
cups of broad oak or hickory leaves, and
felt that water, sweet- ened with such a wildwood
charm as that, would be a good enough substitute for coffee.
While Joe was slicing bacon for breakfast, Tom
and Huck asked him to hold on a minute; they
stepped to a promising nook in the river-bank and
threw in their lines; almost im- mediately they had
reward. Joe had not had time to get impatient before
they were back again with some handsome bass, a couple of
sun-perch and a small catfish -- provisions enough for
quite a family. They fried the fish with the bacon, and were
astonished; for no fish had ever seemed so
delicious before. They did not know that the quicker a
fresh-water fish is on the fire after he is
caught the better he is; and they reflected little upon
what a sauce open-air sleeping, open-air
exercise, bathing, and a large ingredient of hunger
make, too.
  They lay around in the shade, after breakfast, while
Huck had a smoke, and then went off through the woods
on an exploring expedition. They tramped gayly
along, over decaying logs, through tangled underbrush,
among solemn monarchs of the forest, hung from their
crowns to the ground with a drooping regalia of
grape-vines. Now and then they came upon snug
nooks carpeted with grass and jeweled with flowers.
  They found plenty of things to be delighted with, but
nothing to be astonished at. They discovered that the island
was about three miles long and a quarter of a mile
wide, and that the shore it lay closest to was only
separated from it by a narrow channel hardly two
hun- dred yards wide. They took a swim about every
hour, so it was close upon the middle of the afternoon when they
got back to camp. They were too hungry to stop
to fish, but they fared sumptuously upon cold ham, and
then threw themselves down in the shade to talk. But the
talk soon began to drag, and then died.
The stillness, the solemnity that brooded in the
woods, and the sense of loneliness, began to tell upon
the spirits of the boys. They fell to thinking. A sort of
unde- fined longing crept upon them. This took dim
shape, presently -- it was budding homesickness.
Even Finn the Red-Handed was dreaming of his
doorsteps and empty hogsheads. But they were all
ashamed of their weakness, and none was brave enough to speak
his thought.
  For some time, now, the boys had been dully con-
scious of a peculiar sound in the distance, just as one
sometimes is of the ticking of a clock which he takes no
distinct note of. But now this mysterious sound be-
came more pronounced, and forced a recognition. The
boys started, glanced at each other, and then each as-
sumed a listening attitude. There was a long
silence, profound and unbroken; then a deep,
sullen boom came floating down out of the distance.
  "What is it!" exclaimed Joe, under his breath.
  "I wonder," said Tom in a whisper.
  "'Tain't thunder," said Huckleberry, in an
awed tone, "becuz thunder --"
  "Hark!" said Tom. "Listen -- don't
talk."
They waited a time that seemed an age,
and then the same muffled boom troubled the solemn
hush.
  "Let's go and see."
  They sprang to their feet and hurried to the shore
toward the town. They parted the bushes on the bank and
peered out over the water. The little steam ferry- boat
was about a mile below the village, drifting with the
current. Her broad deck seemed crowded with people.
There were a great many skiffs rowing about or floating with the
stream in the neighborhood of the ferryboat, but the
boys could not determine what the men in them were doing.
Presently a great jet of white smoke burst from
the ferryboat's side, and as it expanded and rose in
a lazy cloud, that same dull throb of sound was
borne to the listeners again.
  "I know now!" exclaimed Tom; "somebody's
  drownded!"
  "That's it!" said Huck; "they done that last
summer, when Bill Turner got drownded; they
shoot a cannon over the water, and that makes him
come up to the top. Yes, and they take loaves of
bread and put quicksilver in 'em and set 'em
afloat, and wherever there's anybody that's drownded,
they'll float right there and stop."
"Yes, I've heard about that," said
Joe. "I wonder what makes the bread do that."
  "Oh, it ain't the bread, so much," said Tom;
"I reckon it's mostly what they SAY over it
before they start it out."
  "But they don't say anything over it," said
Huck. "I've seen 'em and they don't."
  "Well, that's funny," said Tom. "But maybe
they say it to themselves. Of COURSE they do. Any-
body might know that."
  The other boys agreed that there was reason in what
Tom said, because an ignorant lump of bread, un-
instructed by an incantation, could not be expected to act
very intelligently when set upon an errand of such
gravity.
  "Byjings, I wish I was over there, now," said
Joe.
  "I do too" said Huck "I'd give heaps
to know who it is."
  The boys still listened and watched. Presently a
revealing thought flashed through Tom's mind, and he
exclaimed:
  "Boys, I know who's drownded -- it's us!"
  They felt like heroes in an instant. Here was a
gorgeous triumph; they were missed; they were mourned;
hearts were breaking on their account; tears were
being shed; accusing memories of unkindness to these poor
lost lads were rising up, and unavailing regrets and
re- morse were being indulged; and best of all, the
depart- ed were the talk of the whole town, and the envy of
all the boys, as far as this dazzling notoriety was
con- cerned. This was fine. It was worth while to be
a pirate, after all.
  As twilight drew on, the ferryboat went
back to her accustomed business and the skiffs
disappeared. The pirates returned to camp. They were
jubilant with vanity over their new grandeur and the
illustrious trouble they were making. They caught fish,
cooked supper and ate it, and then fell to guessing
at what the village was thinking and saying about them; and the
pictures they drew of the public distress on their
ac- count were gratifying to look upon -- from their
point of view. But when the shadows of night closed
them in, they gradually ceased to talk, and sat gazing
into the fire, with their minds evidently wandering
elsewhere. The excitement was gone, now, and Tom and
Joe could not keep back thoughts of certain persons
at home who were not enjoying this fine frolic as much as
they were. Misgivings came; they grew troubled and
unhappy; a sigh or two escaped, unawares.
By and by Joe timidly ventured upon a
roundabout "feeler" as to how the others might look upon
a return to civilization -- not right now, but --
  Tom withered him with derision! Huck, being un-
committed as yet, joined in with Tom, and the waverer
quickly "explained," and was glad to get out of the
scrape with as little taint of chicken-hearted home-
sickness clinging to his garments as he could. Mutiny was
effectually laid to rest for the moment.
  As the night deepened, Huck began to nod, and
presently to snore. Joe followed next. Tom
lay upon his elbow motionless, for some time, watching the
two intently. At last he got up cautiously,
on his knees, and went searching among the grass and the
flickering reflections flung by the camp-fire.
He picked up and inspected several large
semi-cylinders of the thin white bark of a sycamore,
and finally chose two which seemed to suit him. Then he
knelt by the fire and painfully wrote something upon
each of these with his "red keel"; one he rolled up and
put in his jacket pocket, and the other he put in
Joe's hat and removed it to a little distance from the
owner. And he also put into the hat certain schoolboy
treasures of almost inestimable value -- among them
a lump of chalk, an India-rubber ball, three
fishhooks, and one of that kind of marbles known
as a "sure 'nough crystal."
  Then he tiptoed his way cautiously among the
trees till he felt that he was out of hearing, and
straightway broke into a keen run in the direction
of the sandbar.
  CHAPTER XV
  A FEW minutes later Tom was in the shoal
  water of the bar, wading toward the
  Illinois shore. Before the depth reached
  his middle he was half-way over; the cur- rent
would permit no more wading, now,
  so he struck out confidently to swim the
  remaining hundred yards. He swam quartering
up- stream, but still was swept downward rather faster than
he had expected. However, he reached the shore
finally, and drifted along till he found a low
place and drew himself out. He put his hand on his
jacket pocket, found his piece of bark safe, and
then struck through the woods, following the shore, with
streaming garments. Shortly before ten o'clock he came out
into an open place opposite the village, and saw
the ferryboat lying in the shadow of the trees and the high
bank. Every- thing was quiet under the blinking stars. He
crept down the bank, watching with all his eyes,
slipped into the water, swam three or four
strokes and climbed into the skiff that did "yawl"
duty at the boat's stern. He laid himself down
under the thwarts and waited, panting.
  Presently the cracked bell tapped and a voice
gave the order to "cast off." A minute or two
later the skiff's head was standing high up, against the
boat's swell, and the voyage was begun. Tom
felt happy in his success, for he knew it was the
boat's last trip for the night. At the end of a long
twelve or fifteen minutes the wheels stopped, and
Tom slipped overboard and swam ashore in the
dusk, landing fifty yards down- stream, out of
danger of possible stragglers.
  He flew along unfrequented alleys, and
shortly found himself at his aunt's back fence. He
climbed over, approached the "ell," and looked in
at the sitting-room window, for a light was burning
there. There sat Aunt Polly, Sid, Mary, and
Joe Harper's mother, grouped together, talking. They were
by the bed, and the bed was between them and the door. Tom went
to the door and began to softly lift the latch; then he
pressed gently and the door yielded a crack; he
con- tinued pushing cautiously, and quaking every time it
creaked, till he judged he might squeeze through
on his knees; so he put his head through and
began, warily.
  "What makes the candle blow so?" said Aunt
Polly. Tom hurried up. "Why, that door's
open, I believe. Why, of course it is. No
end of strange things now. Go 'long and shut it,
Sid."
  Tom disappeared under the bed just in time. He lay and
"breathed" himself for a time, and then crept to where he could
almost touch his aunt's foot.
  "But as I was saying," said Aunt Polly, "he
warn't BAD, so to say -- only
mischEE-VOUS. Only just giddy, and
harum-scarum, you know. He warn't any more
responsible than a colt. HE never meant any
harm, and he was the best-hearted boy that ever was" --
and she began to cry.
  "It was just so with my Joe -- always full of his
devilment, and up to every kind of mischief, but he was just
as unselfish and kind as he could be -- and laws bless
me, to think I went and whipped him for taking that
cream, never once recollecting that I throwed it out
myself because it was sour, and I never to see him again in this
world, never, never, never, poor abused boy!" And
Mrs. Harper sobbed as if her heart would break.
"I hope Tom's better off where he
is," said Sid, "but if he'd been better in some
ways --"
  "SID!" Tom felt the glare of the old
lady's eye, though he could not see it. "Not a word
against my Tom, now that he's gone! God'll take
care of HIM -- never you trouble YOUR-SELF,
sir! Oh, Mrs. Harper, I don't know how
to give him up! I don't know how to give him up!
He was such a comfort to me, although he tormented my old
heart out of me, 'most."
  "The Lord giveth and the Lord hath taken away --
Blessed be the name of the Lord! But it's so hard --
Oh, it's so hard! Only last Saturday my
Joe busted a firecracker right under my nose and
I knocked him sprawling. Little did I know then,
how soon -- Oh, if it was to do over again I'd
hug him and bless him for it."
  "Yes, yes, yes, I know just how you feel,
Mrs. Harper, I know just exactly how you feel.
No longer ago than yesterday noon, my Tom
took and filled the cat full of Pain-killer, and
I did think the cretur would tear the house down.
And God forgive me, I cracked Tom's head with
my thimble, poor boy, poor dead boy. But he's
out of all his troubles now. And the last words
I ever heard him say was to reproach --"
  But this memory was too much for the old lady, and she
broke entirely down. Tom was snuffling, now,
himself -- and more in pity of himself than anybody else.
He could hear Mary crying, and putting in a kindly
word for him from time to time. He began to have a nobler
opinion of himself than ever before. Still, he was
sufficiently touched by his aunt's grief to long
to rush out from under the bed and overwhelm her with joy --
and the theatrical gorgeousness of the thing appealed
strongly to his nature, too, but he re- sisted and
lay st.
  He went on listening, and gathered by odds and ends that
it was conjectured at first that the boys had got drowned
while taking a swim; then the small raft had been
missed; next, certain boys said the missing lads
had promised that the village should "hear some- thing"
soon; the wise-heads had "put this and that together" and
decided that the lads had gone off on that raft and would
turn up at the next town below, presently; but
toward noon the raft had been found, lodged against the
Missouri shore some five or six miles below the
village -- and then hope perished; they must be
drowned, else hunger would have driven them home
by nightfall if not sooner. It was believed
that the search for the bodies had been a fruitless effort
merely because the drowning must have occurred in mid-
channel, since the boys, being good swimmers, would
otherwise have escaped to shore. This was Wednesday
night. If the bodies continued missing until
Sunday, all hope would be given over, and the
funerals would be preached on that morning. Tom
shu.ered.
  Mrs. Harper gave a sobbing good-night and
turned to go. Then with a mutual impulse the two
bereaved women flung themselves into each other's arms and
had a good, consoling cry, and then parted. Aunt
Polly was tender far beyond her wont, in her
good-night to Sid and Mary. Sid snuffled a bit
and Mary went off crying with all her heart.
  Aunt Polly knelt down and prayed for Tom
so touch- ingly, so appealingly, and with such measureless
love in her words and her old trembling voice, that
he was weltering in tears again, long before she was through.
  He had to keep still long after she went to bed, for she
kept making broken-hearted ejaculations from time
to time, tossing unrestfully, and turning over. But at
last she was still, only moaning a little in her sleep.
Now the boy stole out, rose gradually by the
bedside, shaded the candle-light with his hand,
and stood re- garding her. his heart was full of pity
for her. He took out his sycamore scroll and
placed it by the candle. But something occurred to him, and
he lingered con- sidering. his face lighted with a
happy solution of his thought; he put the bark
hastily in his pocket. Then he bent over and
kissed the faded lips, and straightway made his
stealthy exit, latching the door behind him.
  He threaded his way back to the ferry landing, found
nobody at large there, and walked boldly on
board the boat, for he knew she was tenantless
except that there was a watchman, who always turned in
and slept like a graven image. He untied the
skiff at the stern, slipped into it, and was soon rowing
cautiously up- stream. When he had pulled a
mile above the village, he started quartering across and
bent himself stoutly to his work. He hit the landing on
the other side neatly, for this was a familiar bit of
work to him. He was moved to capture the skiff,
arguing that it might be considered a ship and therefore
legitimate prey for a pirate, but he knew a
thorough search would be made for it and that might end in
revelations. So he stepped ashore and entered the
woods.
He sat down and took a long rest,
torturing him- self meanwhile to keep awake, and
then started warily down the home-stretch. The night
was far spent. It was broad daylight before he found
himself fairly abreast the island bar. He rested again
until the sun was well up and gilding the great river
with its splendor, and then he plunged into the stream.
A little later he paused, dripping, upon the
threshold of the camp, and heard Joe say:
  "No, Tom's true-blue, Huck, and he'll
come back. He won't desert. He knows that would be
a disgrace to a pirate, and Tom's too proud for
that sort of thing. He's up to something or other. Now
I wonder what?"
  "Well, the things is ours, anyway, ain't
they?"
  Pretty near, but not yet, Huck. The writing
says they are if he ain't back here to breakfast."
  "Which he is!" exclaimed Tom, with fine
dramatic effect, stepping grandly into camp.
  A sumptuous breakfast of bacon and fish was
shortly provided, and as the boys set to work upon it,
Tom recounted (and adorned) his adventures. They
were a vain and boastful company of heroes when the tale
was done. Then Tom hid himself away in a shady
nook to sleep till noon, and the other
pirates got ready to fish and explore.
  CHAPTER XVI
  AFTER dinner all the gang turned out to
  hunt for turtle eggs on the bar. They
  went about poking sticks into the sand,
  and when they found a soft place they
  went down on their knees and dug with
  their hands. Sometimes they would take
  fifty or sixty eggs out of one hole. They were
perfectly round white things a trifle smaller
than an English walnut. They had a famous
fried-egg feast that night, and another on Friday
morning.
  After breakfast they went whooping and prancing out on
the bar, and chased each other round and round, shedding
clothes as they went, until they were naked, and then
continued the frolic far away up the shoal water of the
bar, against the stiff current, which latter tripped their
legs from under them from time to time and greatly increased the
fun. And now and then they stooped in a group and
splashed water in each other's faces with their
palms, gradually approach- ing each other, with
averted faces to avoid the stran- gling sprays, and
finally gripping and struggling till the best man
ducked his neighbor, and then they all went
under in a tangle of white legs and arms and came
up blowing, sputtering, laughing, and gasping for breath
at one and the same time.
  When they were well exhausted, they would run out and
sprawl on the dry, hot sand, and lie there and cover
themselves up with it, and by and by break for the water again and go
through the original perform- ance once more. Finally it
occurred to them that their naked skin represented
flesh-colored "tights" very fairly; so they drew
a ring in the sand and had a circus -- with three
clowns in it, for none would yield this proudest post
to his neighbor.
  Next they got their marbles and played "knucks"
and "ring-taw" and "keeps" till that amusement grew
stale. Then Joe and Huck had another swim, but
Tom would not venture, because he found that in kicking off
his trousers he had kicked his string of rattlesnake
rattles off his ankle, and he wondered how he had
escaped cramp so long without the pro- tection of this
mysterious charm. He did not vent- ure again until
he had found it, and by that time the other boys were tired and
ready to rest. They gradually wandered apart, dropped
into the "dumps," and fell to gazing longingly across the
wide river to where the village lay drowsing in the
sun. Tom found himself writing "BECKY"
in the sand with his big toe; he scratched it out, and was
angry with himself for his weakness. But he wrote it again,
nevertheless; he could not help it. He erased it once
more and then took himself out of temptation by driving the other
boys together and joining them.
  But Joe's spirits had gone down almost beyond
resurrection. He was so homesick that he could
hardly endure the misery of it. The tears lay very
near the surface. Huck was melancholy, too.
Tom was down- hearted, but tried hard not to show it.
He had a secret which he was not ready to tell,
yet, but if this mutinous depression was not broken up
soon, he would have to bring it out. He said, with a great
show of cheerfulness:
  "I bet there's been pirates on this island before,
boys. We'll explore it again. They've hid
treasures here somewhere. How'd you feel to light on
a rotten chest full of gold and silver -- hey?"
  But it roused only faint enthusiasm, which faded
out, with no reply. Tom tried one or two other
seductions; but they failed, too. It was discouraging
work. Joe sat poking up the sand with a stick and
looking very gloomy. Finally he said:
  "Oh, boys, let's give it up. I want
to go home. It's so lonesome."
  "Oh no, Joe, you'll feel better by and by,"
said Tom. "Just think of the fishing that's here."
  "I don't care for fishing. I want to go
home."
  "But, Joe, there ain't such another
swimming-place anywhere."
  "Swimming's no good. I don't seem to care for
it, somehow, when there ain't anybody to say I
sha'n't go in. I mean to go home."
  "Oh, shucks! Baby! You want to see your
mother, I reckon."
  "Yes, I DO want to see my mother -- and you
would, too, if you had one. I ain't any more baby
than you are." And Joe snuffled a little.
  "Well, we'll let the cry-baby go home
to his mother, won't we, Huck? Poor thing --
does it want to see its mother? And so it shall. You like it
here, don't you, Huck? We'll stay, won't
we?"
  Huck said, "Y-e-s -- without any heart
in it.
  "I'll never speak to you again as long as I
live," said Joe, rising. "There now!" And he
moved moodily away and began to dress himself.
"Who cares!" said Tom. "Nobody
wants you to. Go 'long home and get laughed at.
Oh, you're a nice pirate. Huck and me ain't
cry-babies. We'll stay, won't we, Huck?
Let him go if he wants to. I reckon we can
get along without him, per'aps."
  But Tom was uneasy, nevertheless, and was alarmed
to see Joe go sullenly on with his dressing. And then
it was discomforting to see Huck eying Joe's
prepara- tions so wistfully, and keeping up such
an ominous silence. Presently, without a parting word,
Joe began to wade off toward the Illinois shore.
Tom's heart began to sink. He glanced at
Huck. Huck could not bear the look, and dropped his
eyes. Then he said:
  "I want to go, too, Tom. It was getting so
lone- some anyway, and now it'll be worse.
Let's us go, too, Tom."
  "I won't! You can all go, if you want to.
I mean to stay."
  "Tom, I better go."
  "Well, go 'long -- who's hendering you."
  Huck began to pick up his scattered clothes.
He said:
  "Tom, I wisht you'd come, too. Now you think
it over. We'll wait for you when we get
to shore."
  "Well, you'll wait a blame long time, that's
all."
  Huck started sorrowfully away, and Tom stood
looking after him, with a strong desire tugging at his
heart to yield his pride and go along too. He
hoped the boys would stop, but they still waded slowly
on. It suddenly dawned on Tom that it was become
very lonely and st. He made one final struggle with his
pride, and then darted after his comrades, yelling:
  "Wait! Wait! I want to tell you something!"
  They presently stopped and turned around. When he
got to where they were, he began unfolding his
secret, and they listened moodily till at last
they saw the "point" he was driving at, and then they
set up a war-whoop of applause and said it was
"splen- did!" and said if he had told them at
first, they wouldn't have started away. He made a
plausible excuse; but his real reason had been the
fear that not even the secret would keep them with him any
very great length of time, and so he had meant to hold it
in reserve as a last seduction.
  The lads came gayly back and went at their
sports again with a will, chattering all the time about
Tom's stupendous plan and admiring the
genius of it. After a dainty egg and fish dinner,
Tom said he wanted to learn to smoke, now. Joe
caught at the idea and said he would like to try, too.
So Huck made pipes and filled them. These
novices had never smoked anything before but cigars
made of grape-vine, and they "bit" the tongue, and
were not considered manly anyway.
  Now they stretched themselves out on their elbows and
began to puff, charily, and with slender confi- dence.
The smoke had an unpleasant taste, and they gagged
a little, but Tom said:
  "Why, it's just as easy! If I'd a knowed this was
all, I'd a learnt long ago."
  "So would I," said Joe. "It's just nothing."
  "Why, many a time I've looked at people smoking,
and thought well I wish I could do that; but I never
thought I could," said Tom.
  "That's just the way with me, hain't it, Huck?
You've heard me talk just that way -- haven't you,
Huck? I'll leave it to Huck if I
haven't."
  "Yes -- heaps of times," said Huck.
  "Well, I have too," said Tom; "oh,
hundreds of times. Once down by the
slaughter-house. Don't you remember,
Huck? Bob Tanner was there, and Johnny
Miller, and Jeff Thatcher, when I said it.
Don't you remember, Huck, 'bout me saying
that?"
  "Yes, that's so," said Huck. "That was the day after
I lost a white alley. No, 'twas the day
before."
  "There -- I told you so," said Tom. "Huck
rec- ollects it."
  "I bleeve I could smoke this pipe all day,"
said Joe. "I don't feel sick."
  "Neither do I," said Tom. "I could smoke it
all day. But I bet you Jeff Thatcher couldn't."
  "Jeff Thatcher! Why, he'd keel over just with
two draws. Just let him try it once. HE'D
see!"
  "I bet he would. And Johnny Miller -- I
wish could see Johnny Miller tackle it
once."
  "Oh, don't I!" said Joe. "Why, I bet
you Johnny Miller couldn't any more do this than
nothing. Just one little snifter would fetch HIM."
  "'Deed it would, Joe. Say -- I wish the
boys could see us now."
"So do I."
  "Say -- boys, don't say anything about it, and
some time when they're around, I'll come up to you and
say, 'Joe, got a pipe? I want a
smoke.' And you'll say, kind of careless like, as
if it warn't anything, you'll say, 'Yes, I
got my OLD pipe, and another one, but my
tobacker ain't very good.' And I'll say,
'Oh, that's all right, if it's STRONG enough.'
And then you'll out with the pipes, and we'll light up just
as ca'm, and then just see 'em look!"
  "Byjings, that'll be gay, Tom! I wish it was
NOW!"
  "So do I! And when we tell 'em we learned
when we was off pirating, won't they wish they'd been
along?"
  "Oh, I reckon not! I'll just BET they
will!"
  So the talk ran on. But presently it began
to flag a trifle, and grow disjointed. The silences
widened; the expectoration marvellously increased.
Every pore inside the boys' cheeks became a
spouting fountain; they could scarcely bail out the
cellars under their tongues fast enough to prevent an
inundation; little overflowings down their throats occurred
in spite of all they could do, and sudden
retchings followed every time. Both boys were looking very
pale and miserable, now. Joe's pipe dropped from
his nerveless fingers. Tom's followed. Both
fountains were going furiously and both pumps bailing
with might and main. Joe said feebly:
  "I've lost my knife. I reckon I
better go and find it."
  Tom said, with quivering lips and halting utterance:
  "I'll help you. You go over that way and I'll
hunt around by the spring. No, you needn't come,
Huck -- we can find it."
  So Huck sat down again, and waited an hour.
Then he found it lonesome, and went to find his comrades.
They were wide apart in the woods, both very pale,
both fast asleep. But something informed him that if they
had had any trouble they had got rid of it.
  They were not talkative at supper that night. They
had a humble look, and when Huck prepared his pipe
after the meal and was going to prepare theirs, they said no,
they were not feeling very well -- something they ate at
dinner had disagreed with them.
  About midnight Joe awoke, and called the
boys. There was a brooding oppressiveness in the
air that seemed to bode something. The boys huddled
them- selves together and sought the friendly
companionship of the fire, though the dull dead heat
of the breathless atmosphere was stifling. They sat still,
intent and waiting. The solemn hush continued. Beyond the
light of the fire everything was swallowed up in the
blackness of darkness. Presently there came a
quiver- ing glow that vaguely revealed the foliage
for a moment and then vanished. By and by another came, a
little stronger. Then another. Then a faint moan
came sighing through the branches of the forest and the boys
felt a fleeting breath upon their cheeks, and shuddered
with the fancy that the Spirit of the Night had gone by. There
was a pause. Now a weird flash turned night
into day and showed every little grass-blade, separate and
distinct, that grew about their feet. And it showed three
white, startled faces, too. A deep peal of
thunder went rolling and tumbling down the heavens and lost
itself in sullen rumblings in the distance. A sweep of
chilly air passed by, rustling all the leaves and
snow- ing the flaky ashes broadcast about the fire.
Another fierce glare lit up the forest and an
instant crash followed that seemed to rend the
tree-tops right over the boys' heads. They clung
together in terror, in the thick gloom that followed. A
few big rain-drops fell patter- ing upon the
leaves.
  "Quick! boys, go for the tent!" exclaimed Tom.
  They sprang away, stumbling over roots and
among vines in the dark, no two plunging in the
same direction. A furious blast roared through the
trees, making every- thing sing as it went. One blinding
flash after another came, and peal on peal of deafening
thunder. And now a drenching rain poured down and the rising
hurricane drove it in sheets along the ground.
The boys cried out to each other, but the roaring wind and the
boom- ing thunder-blasts drowned their voices
utterly. How- ever, one by one they straggled in at
last and took shelter under the tent, cold, scared, and
streaming with water; but to have company in misery seemed
something to be grateful for . They could not talk, the old
sail flapped so furiously, even if the other
noises would have allowed them. The tempest rose
higher and higher, and presently the sail tore
loose from its fastenings and went winging away on the
blast. The boys seized each others' hands and fled,
with many tumblings and bruises, to the shelter of a great
oak that stood upon the river-bank. Now the battle
was at its highest. Under the ceaseless conflagration of
lightning that flamed in the skies, everything below stood
out in clean-cut and shadowless distinctness: the bending
trees, the billowy river, white with
foam, the driving spray of spume-flakes, the
dim outlines of the high bluffs on the other side,
glimpsed through the drifting cloud-rack and the slanting
veil of rain. Every little while some giant tree
yielded the fight and fell crashing through the younger
growth; and the unflagging thunder- peals came now in
ear-splitting explosive bursts, keen and sharp, and
unspeakably appalling. The storm culminated in
one matchless effort that seemed likely to tear the
island to pieces, burn it up, drown it to the
tree-tops, blow it away, and deafen every creature
in it, all at one and the same moment. It was a wild
night for homeless young heads to be out in.
  But at last the battle was done, and the forces re-
tired with weaker and weaker threatenings and grum- blings,
and peace resumed her sway. The boys went back
to camp, a good deal awed; but they found there was still
something to be thankful for , because the great sycamore, the
shelter of their beds, was a ruin, now, blasted by the
lightnings, and they were not under it when the catastrophe
happened.
  Everything in camp was drenched, the camp-fire as
well; for they were but heedless lads, like their generation, and
had made no provision against rain. Here was matter
for dismay, for they were soaked through and chilled.
They were eloquent in their dis- tress; but they
presently discovered that the fire had eaten so far up
under the great log it had been built against (where it
curved upward and separated itself from the ground), that a
handbreadth or so of it had escaped wetting; so they
patiently wrought until, with shreds and bark gathered
from the under sides of shel- tered logs, they coaxed the
fire to burn again. Then they piled on great dead
boughs till they had a roar- ing furnace, and were
glad-hearted once more. They dried their boiled ham
and had a feast, and after that they sat by the fire and
expanded and glorified their midnight adventure
until morning, for there was not a dry spot to sleep
on, anywhere around.
  As the sun began to steal in upon the boys,
drowsiness came over them, and they went out on the
sandbar and lay down to sleep. They got scorched out
by and by, and drearily set about getting breakfast.
After the meal they felt rusty, and stiff-jointed, and a
little home- sick once more. Tom saw the signs,
and fell to cheer- ing up the pirates as well as he
could. But they cared nothing for marbles, or circus, or
swimming, or any- thing. He reminded them of the
imposing secret, and raised a ray of cheer.
While it lasted, he got them in- terested
in a new device. This was to knock off being
pirates, for a while, and be Indians for a change.
They were attracted by this idea; so it was not long before
they were stripped, and striped from head to heel with black
mud, like so many zebras -- all of them chiefs, of
course -- and then they went tearing through the woods
to attack an English settlement.
  By and by they separated into three hostile tribes,
and darted upon each other from ambush with dread- ful
war-whoops, and killed and scalped each other
by thousands. It was a gory day. Consequently it was
an extremely satisfactory one.
  They assembled in camp toward supper-time,
hungry and happy; but now a difficulty arose --
hostile Indians could not break the bread of
hospitality together with- out first making peace, and this was
a simple im- possibility without smoking a pipe
of peace. There was no other process that ever they had
heard of. Two of the savages almost wished they had
remained pirates. However, there was no other way;
so with such show of cheerfulness as they could muster they
called for the pipe and took their whiff as it passed,
in due form.
  And behold, they were glad they had gone
into savagery, for they had gained something; they
found that they could now smoke a little without having to go and
hunt for a lost knife; they did not get sick enough
to be seriously uncomfortable. They were not likely
to fool away this high promise for lack of effort.
No, they practised cautiously, after supper, with
right fair success, and so they spent a jubilant
evening. They were prouder and happier in their new
acquirement than they would have been in the scalping and
skinning of the Six Nations. We will leave them
to smoke and chat- ter and brag, since we have no
further use for them at present.
  CHAPTER XVII
  BUT there was no hilarity in the little town that same
tranquil Saturday afternoon.
  The Harpers, and Aunt Polly's family,
  were being put into mourning, with great
  grief and many tears. An unusual quiet
  possessed the village, although it was or- dinarily
quiet enough, in all conscience. The villagers
conducted their concerns with an absent air, and talked
little; but they sighed often. The Saturday holiday
seemed a burden to the children. They had no heart in their
sports, and gradually gave them up.
  In the afternoon Becky Thatcher found herself moping about
the deserted schoolhouse yard, and feeling very
melancholy. But she found nothing there to comfort her.
She soliloquized:
  "Oh, if I only had a brass andiron-knob
again! But I haven't got anything now to remember
him by."
  And she choked back a little sob.
  Presently she stopped, and said to herself:
  "It was right here. Oh, if it was to do over again, I
wouldn't say that -- I wouldn't say it for the whole
world. But he's gone now; I'll never, never, never
see him any more."
  This thought broke her down, and she wandered away, with
tears rolling down her cheeks. Then quite a group of
boys and girls -- playmates of Tom's and
Joe's -- came by, and stood looking over the
paling fence and talking in reverent tones of how Tom
did so-and-so the last time they saw him, and how Joe
said this and that small trifle (pregnant with awful
prophecy, as they could easily see now!) -- and
each speaker pointed out the exact spot where the lost
lads stood at the time, and then added something like "and I
was a-standing just so -- just as I am now, and as if you was
him -- I was as close as that -- and he smiled, just
this way -- and then something seemed to go all over me,
like -- awful, you know -- and I never thought
what it meant, of course, but I can see now!"
  Then there was a dispute about who saw the dead boys
last in life, and many claimed that dismal dis-
tinction, and offered evidences, more or less tampered
with by the witness; and when it was ultimately decided
who DID see the departed last, and exchanged the
last words with them, the lucky parties took upon them-
selves a sort of sacred importance, and were gaped
at and envied by all the rest. One poor chap, who
had no other grandeur to offer, said with tolerably
manifest pride in the remembrance:
  "Well, Tom Sawyer he licked me once."
  But that bid for glory was a failure. Most of the
boys could say that, and so that cheapened the dis- tinction
too much. The group loitered away, still re- calling
memories of the lost heroes, in awed voices.
  When the Sunday-school hour was finished, the next
morning, the bell began to toll, instead of ringing in the
usual way. It was a very still Sabbath, and the mournful
sound seemed in keeping with the musing hush that lay upon
nature. The villagers began to gather, loitering a
moment in the vestibule to converse in whispers about the
sad event. But there was no whispering in the house;
only the funereal rustling of dresses as the women
gathered to their seats disturbed the silence there.
None could remember when the little church had been so
full before. There was finally a waiting pause, an
expectant dumbness, and then Aunt Polly
entered, followed by Sid and Mary, and they by the Harper
family, all in deep black, and the whole
congregation, the old minister as well, rose
reverently and stood until the mourners were seated in the
front pew. There was another communing silence,
broken at intervals by muffled sobs, and then the
minister spread his hands abroad and prayed. A
moving hymn was sung, and the text followed: "I am
the Resurrection and the Life."
  As the service proceeded, the clergyman drew
such pictures of the graces, the winning ways, and the
rare promise of the lost lads that every soul there, thinking
he recognized these pictures, felt a pang in
remembering that he had persistently blinded himself to them
always before, and had as persistently seen only faults
and flaws in the poor boys. The minister related
many a touching incident in the lives of the departed,
too, which illustrated their sweet, generous
natures, and the people could easily see, now, how noble
and beautiful those episodes were, and remembered with
grief that at the time they occurred they had seemed
rank rascalities, well deserving of the
cowhide. The congregation be- came more and more moved,
as the pathetic tale went on, till at last the
whole company broke down and joined the weeping
mourners in a chorus of anguished sobs, the preacher
himself giving way to his feelings, and crying in the
pulpit.
  There was a rustle in the gallery, which nobody
noticed; a moment later the church door creaked; the
minister raised his streaming eyes above his hand-
kerchief, and stood transfixed! First one and then
another pair of eyes followed the minister's, and then
almost with one impulse the congregation rose and stared
while the three dead boys came marching up the
aisle, Tom in the lead, Joe next, and Huck,
a ruin of drooping rags, sneaking sheepishly in the
rear! They had been hid in the unused gallery
listening to their own funeral sermon!
  Aunt Polly, Mary, and the Harpers threw
themselves upon their restored ones, smothered them with kisses
and poured out thanksgivings, while poor Huck
stood abashed and uncomfortable, not knowing exactly
what to do or where to hide from so many unwelcoming
eyes. He wavered, and started to slink away, but
Tom seized him and said:
"Aunt Polly, it ain't fair.
Somebody's got to be glad to see Huck."
  "And so they shall. I'm glad to see him, poor
motherless thing!" And the loving attentions Aunt Polly
lavished upon him were the one thing capable of making him more
uncomfortable than he was before.
  Suddenly the minister shouted at the top of his
voice: "Praise God from whom all blessings flow
-- SING! -- and put your hearts in it!"
  And they did. Old Hundred swelled up with a
triumphant burst, and while it shook the rafters
Tom Sawyer the Pirate looked around upon the
envying juveniles about him and confessed in his heart that
this was the proudest moment of his life.
  As the "sold" congregation trooped out they said they
would almost be willing to be made ridiculous again
to hear Old Hundred sung like that once more.
  Tom got more cuffs and kisses that day -- according
to Aunt Polly's varying moods -- than he had
earned before in a year; and he hardly knew which
expressed the most gratefulness to God and affection
for himself.
  CHAPTER XVIII
  THAT was Tom's great secret -- the scheme
to return home with his brother pirates
and attend their own funerals. They had
  paddled over to the Missouri shore on
  a log, at dusk on Saturday, landing five
  or six miles below the village; they had
  slept in the woods at the edge of the town till
nearly day- light, and had then crept through back
lanes and alleys and finished their sleep in the
gallery of the church among a chaos of invalided
benches.
  At breakfast, Monday morning, Aunt
Polly and Mary were very loving to Tom, and very
attentive to his wants. There was an unusual
amount of talk. In the course of it Aunt Polly
said:
  "Well, I don't say it wasn't a fine
joke, Tom, to keep everybody suffering 'most a
week so you boys had a good time, but it is a pity you
could be so hard-hearted as to let me suffer so. If you
could come over on a log to go to your funeral, you could have
come over and give me a hint some way that you warn't
dead, but only run off."
  "Yes, you could have done that, Tom," said Mary;
"and I believe you would if you had thought of it."
  "Would you, Tom?" said Aunt Polly, her
face light- ing wistfully. "Say, now, would you,
if you'd thought of it?"
  "I -- well, I don't know. 'Twd 'a'
spoiled every- thing."
  "Tom, I hoped you loved me that much," said
Aunt Polly, with a grieved tone that discomforted the
boy. "It would have been something if you'd cared enough
to THINK of it, even if you didn't DO it."
  "Now, auntie, that ain't any harm," pleaded
Mary; "it's only Tom's giddy way -- he is
always in such a rush that he never thinks of anything."
  "More's the pity. Sid would have thought. And Sid
would have come and DONE it, too. Tom, you'll look
back, some day, when it's too late, and wish you'd
cared a little more for me when it would have cost you so little."
  "Now, auntie, you know I do care for you," said
Tom.
  "I'd know it better if you acted more like it."
  "I wish now I'd thought," said Tom, with a re-
pentant tone; "but I dreamt about you, anyway.
That's something, ain't it?"
  "It ain't much -- a cat does that much -- but
it's bet- ter than nothing. What did you dream?"
  "Why, Wednesday night I dreamt that you was
sitting over there by the bed, and Sid was sitting by the
woodbox, and Mary next to him."
"Well, so we did. So we always do.
I'm glad your dreams could take even that much trouble
about us."
  "And I dreamt that Joe Harper's mother was here."
  "Why, she was here! Did you dream any more?"
  "Oh, lots. But it's so dim, now."
  "Well, try to recollect -- can't you?"
  "Somehow it seems to me that the wind -- the wind
blowed the -- the --"
  "Try harder, Tom! The wind did blow something.
Come!"
  Tom pressed his fingers on his forehead an
anxious minute, and then said:
  "I've got it now! I've got it now! It
blowed the candle!"
  "Mercy on us! Go on, Tom -- go on!"
  "And it seems to me that you said, 'Why, I
believe that that door --'"
  "Go ON, Tom!"
  "Just let me study a moment -- just a moment.
Oh, yes -- you said you believed the door was open."
  "As I'm sitting here, I did! Didn't I,
Mary! Go on!"
  "And then -- and then -- well I won't be
certain, but it seems like as if you made Sid go and
-- and --"
  "Well? Well? What did I make him do,
Tom? What did I make him do?"
  "You made him -- you -- Oh, you made him shut
it."
  "Well, for the land's sake! I never heard the
beat of that in all my days! Don't tell ME
there ain't anything in dreams, any more. Sereny
Harper shall know of this before I'm an hour older. I'd
like to see her get around THIS with her rubbage 'bout
superstition. Go on, Tom!"
  "Oh, it's all getting just as bright as day, now.
Next you said I warn't BAD, only
mischeevous and harum-scarum, and not any more
responsible than -- than -- I think it was a
colt, or something."
  "And so it was! Well, goodness gracious! Go
on, Tom!"
  "And then you began to cry."
  "So I did. So I did. Not the first time,
neither. And then --"
  "Then Mrs. Harper she began to cry, and said
Joe was just the same, and she wished she hadn't
whipped him for taking cream when she'd throwed it out her
own self --"
"Tom! The sperrit was upon you! You was a
prophesying -- that's what you was doing! Land alive,
go on, Tom!"
  "Then Sid he said -- he said --"
  "I don't think I said anything," said Sid.
  "Yes you did, Sid," said Mary.
  "Shut your heads and let Tom go on! What
did he say, Tom?"
  "He said -- I THINK he said he hoped I was
better off where I was gone to, but if I'd been
better some- times --"
  "THERE, d'you hear that! It was his very words!"
  "And you shut him up sharp."
  "I lay I did! There must 'a' been an
angel there. There WAS AN angel there, somewheres!"
  "And Mrs. Harper told about Joe scaring her
with a firecracker, and you told about Peter and the
Pain- killer --"
  "Just as true as I live!"
  "And then there was a whole lot of talk 'bout
drag- ging the river for us, and 'bout having the
funeral Sunday, and then you and old Miss Harper
hugged and cried, and she went."
  "It happened just so! It happened just so, as sure
as I'm a-sitting in these very tracks. Tom, you
couldn't told it more like if you'd 'a' seen
it! And then what? Go on, Tom!"
  "Then I thought you prayed for me -- and I could
see you and hear every word you said. And you went to bed, and
I was so sorry that I took and wrote on a
piece of sycamore bark, 'We ain't dead --
we are only off being pirates,' and put it on the
table by the candle; and then you looked so good, laying there
asleep, that I thought I went and leaned over and
kissed you on the lips."
  "Did you, Tom, DID you! I just forgive you
every- thing for that!" And she seized the boy in a crushing
embrace that made him feel like the guiltiest of
villains.
  "It was very kind, even though it was only a --
dream," Sid soliloquized just audibly.
  "Shut up, Sid! A body does just the same
in a dream as he'd do if he was awake. Here's a
big Milum apple I've been saving for you,
Tom, if you was ever found again -- now go 'long
to school. I'm thankful to the good God and Father of us
all I've got you back, that's long-suffering and
merciful to them that believe on Him and keep his word,
though good- ness knows I'm unworthy of it, but if
only the worthy ones got his blessings and had his hand
to help them over the rough places, there's
few enough would smile here or ever enter into His rest
when the long night comes. Go 'long Sid, Mary,
Tom -- take yourselves off -- you've hendered me
long enough."
  The children left for school, and the old lady to call
on Mrs. Harper and vanquish her realism with
Tom's marvellous dream. Sid had better
judgment than to utter the thought that was in his mind as he
left the house. It was this: "Pretty thin -- as
long a dream as that, without any mistakes in it!"
  What a hero Tom was become, now! He did not
go skipping and prancing, but moved with a dignified
swagger as became a pirate who felt that the
public eye was on him. And indeed it was; he
tried not to seem to see the looks or hear the
remarks as he passed along, but they were food and
drink to him. Smaller boys than himself flocked at
his heels, as proud to be seen with him, and tolerated
by him, as if he had been the drummer at the head of a
procession or the elephant leading a menagerie
into town. Boys of his own size pretended not to know
he had been away at all; but they were consuming with
envy, nevertheless. They would have given anything to have that
swarthy sun- tanned skin of his, and his glittering
notoriety; and Tom would not have parted with either
for a circus.
  At school the children made so much of him and of Joe,
and delivered such eloquent admiration from their eyes,
that the two heroes were not long in becoming in-
sufferably "stuck-up." They began to tell their
ad- ventures to hungry listeners -- but they only
began; it was not a thing likely to have an end, with
imaginations like theirs to furnish material. And finally,
when they got out their pipes and went serenely puffing
around, the very summit of glory was reached.
  Tom decided that he could be independent of
Becky Thatcher now. Glory was sufficient. He
would live for glory. Now that he was distinguished,
maybe she would be wanting to "make up." Well,
let her -- she should see that he could be as indifferent
as some other people. Presently she arrived. Tom
pretended not to see her. He moved away and joined
a group of boys and girls and began to talk.
Soon he observed that she was tripping gayly back
and forth with flushed face and dancing eyes, pretending
to be busy chasing school- mates, and screaming with
laughter when she made a capture; but he noticed
that she always made her capt- ures in his vicinity,
and that she seemed to cast a con- scious eye in his
direction at such times, too. It grati-
fied all the vicious vanity that was in him; and so,
instead of winning him, it only "set him up" the more and
made him the more diligent to avoid betraying that he
knew she was about. Presently she gave over sky-
larking, and moved irresolutely about, sighing once
or twice and glancing furtively and wistfully
toward Tom. Then she observed that now Tom was
talking more particularly to Amy Lawrence than to any
one else. She felt a sharp pang and grew
disturbed and uneasy at once. She tried to go
away, but her feet were treacherous, and carried her to the
group instead. She said to a girl almost at Tom's
elbow -- with sham vivacity:
  "Why, Mary Austinto you bad girl, why
didn't you come to Sunday-school?"
  "I did come -- didn't you see me?"
  "Why, no! Did you? Where did you sit?"
  "I was in Miss Peters' class, where I
always go. I saw YOU."
  "Did you? Why, it's funny I didn't see
you. I wanted to tell you about the picnic."
  "Oh, that's jolly. Who's going to give it?"
  "My ma's going to let me have one."
  "Oh, goody; I hope she'll let ME come."
"Well, she will. The picnic's for me.
She'll let any- body come that I want, and I
want you."
  "That's ever so nice. When is it going to be?"
  "Byand by. Maybe about vacation."
  "Oh, won't it be fun! You going to have all the
girls and boys?"
  "Yes, every one that's friends to me -- or wants
to be"; and she glanced ever so furtively at Tom,
but he talked right along to Amy Lawrence about the
terrible storm on the island, and how the lightning tore
the great sycamore tree "all to flinders" while
he was "standing within three feet of it."
  "Oh, may I come?" said Grace Miller.
  "Yes."
  "And me?" said Sally Rogers.
  "Yes."
  "And me, too?" said Susy Harper. "And
Joe?"
  "Yes."
  And so on, with clapping of joyful hands till all
the group had begged for invitations but Tom and Amy.
Then Tom turned coolly away, still talking, and
took Amy with him. Becky's lips trembled and the
tears came to her eyes; she hid these signs with a
forced gayety and went on chattering, but the
life had gone out of the picnic, now, and out of everything
else; she got away as soon as she could and hid
herself and had what her sex call "a good cry." Then
she sat moody, with wounded pride, till the bell
rang. She roused up, now, with a vindictive cast
in her eye, and gave her plaited tails a shake
and said she knew what SHE'D do.
  At recess Tom continued his flirtation with Amy
with jubilant self-satisfaction. And he kept
drifting about to find Becky and lacerate her with the
per- formance. At last he spied her, but there was a
sudden falling of his mercury. She was sitting
cosily on a little bench behind the schoolhouse looking
at a picture-book with Alfred Temple -- and
so absorbed were they, and their heads so close together
over the book, that they did not seem to be conscious of
anything in the world besides. Jealousy ran red-hot through
Tom's veins. He began to hate himself for throwing
away the chance Becky had offered for a
reconciliation. He called himself a fool, and all
the hard names he could think of. He wanted to cry with
vexation. Amy chatted happily along, as they
walked, for her heart was singing, but Tom's tongue
had lost its function. He did not hear what Amy
was saying, and whenever she paused
expectantly he could only stammer an awkward
assent, which was as often misplaced as otherwise. He
kept drifting to the rear of the school- house, again and
again, to sear his eyeballs with the hateful spectacle
there. He could not help it. And it maddened him to see,
as he thought he saw, that Becky Thatcher never
once suspected that he was even in the land of the living.
But she did see, nevertheless; and she knew she was
winning her fight, too, and was glad to see him suffer
as she had suffered.
  Amy's happy prattle became intolerable.
Tom hint- ed at things he had to attend to; things
that must be done; and time was fleeting. But in vain -- the
girl chirped on. Tom thought, "Oh, hang her,
ain't I ever going to get rid of her?" At last
he must be attending to those things -- and she said artlessly
that she would be "around" when school let out. And he
hastened away, hating her for it.
  "Any other boy!" Tom thought, grating his
teeth. "Any boy in the whole town but that Saint
Louis smarty that thinks he dresses so fine and is
aristocracy! Oh, all right, I licked you the first
day you ever saw this town, mister, and I'll lick you
again! You just wait till I catch you out! I'll just
take and --"
  And he went through the motions of thrashing an
imaginary boy -- pummelling the air, and kicking and
gouging. "Oh, you do, do you? You holler 'nough, do
you? Now, then, let that learn you!" And so the
imaginary flogging was finished to his satisfaction.
  Tom fled home at noon. his conscience could not
endure any more of Amy's grateful happiness, and
his jealousy could bear no more of the other distress.
Becky resumed her picture inspections with
Alfred, but as the minutes dragged along and no
Tom came to suffer, her triumph began to cloud and
she lost inter- est; gravity and absent-mindedness
followed, and then melancholy; two or three times
she pricked up her ear at a footstep, but it was a
false hope; no Tom came. At last she
grew entirely miserable and wished she hadn't
carried it so far. When poor Alfred, seeing that he
was losing her, he did not know how, kept ex-
claiming: "Oh, here's a jolly one! look at
this!" she lost patience at last, and said, "Oh,
don't bother me! I don't care for them!" and
burst into tears, and got up and walked away.
  Alfred dropped alongside and was going to try
to comfort her, but she said:
"Go away and leave me alone, can't you!
I hate you!"
  So the boy halted, wondering what he could have done
-- for she had said she would look at pictures all
through the nooning -- and she walked on, crying. Then
Alfred went musing into the deserted school- house.
He was humiliated and angry. He easily
guessed his way to the truth -- the girl had simply
made a convenience of him to vent her spite upon Tom
Sawyer. He was far from hating Tom the less when this
thought occurred to him. He wished there was some way
to get that boy into trouble without much risk to himself.
Tom's spelling-book fell under his eye. Here was
his opportunity. He gratefully opened to the
lesson for the afternoon and poured ink upon the page.
  Becky, glancing in at a window behind him at the
moment, saw the act, and moved on, without discover-
ing herself. She started homeward, now, intending to find
Tom and tell him; Tom would be thankful and their
troubles would be healed. Before she was half way home,
however, she had changed her mind. The thought of
Tom's treatment of her when she was talking about her
picnic came scorching back and filled her with
shame. She resolved to let him get whipped on the
damaged spelling-book's account, and to hate him
forever, into the bargain.
  CHAPTER XIX
  TOM arrived at home in a dreary mood,
  and the first thing his aunt said to him
  showed him that he had brought his
  sorrows to an unpromising market:
  "Tom, I've a notion to skin you alive!"
  "Auntie, what have I done?"
  "Well, you've done enough. Here I go over
to Se- reny Harper, like an old softy, expecting
I'm going to make her believe all that rubbage about
that dream, when lo and behold you she'd found out from
Joe that you was over here and heard all the talk we
had that night. Tom, I don't know what is
to become of a boy that will act like that. It makes me
feel so bad to think you could let me go to Sereny
Harper and make such a fool of myself and never say a
word."
  This was a new aspect of the thing. his smartness of the
morning had seemed to Tom a good joke be- fore, and
very ingenious. It merely looked mean and shabby now.
He hung his head and could not think of anything to say
for a moment. Then he said:
  "Auntie, I wish I hadn't done it -- but
I didn't think."
"Oh, child, you never think. You never think
of anything but your own selfishness. You could think to come
all the way over here from Jackson's Island in the
night to laugh at our troubles, and you could think to fool
me with a lie about a dream; but you couldn't ever think
to pity us and save us from sorrow."
  "Auntie, I know now it was mean, but I
didn't mean to be mean. I didn't, honest. And
besides, I didn't come over here to laugh at you that
night."
  "What did you come for , then?"
  "It was to tell you not to be uneasy about us, be-
cause we hadn't got drownded."
  "Tom, Tom, I would be the thankfullest soul in
this world if I could believe you ever had as good a thought
as that, but you know you never did -- and I know it,
Tom."
  "Indeed and 'deed I did, auntie -- I wish
I may never stir if I didn't."
  "Oh, Tom, don't lie -- don't do it. It
only makes things a hundred times worse."
  "It ain't a lie, auntie; it's the truth. I
wanted to keep you from grieving -- that was all that made
me come."
  "I'd give the whole world to believe that -- it would
cover up a power of sins, Tom. I'd
'most be glad you'd run off and acted so bad. But
it ain't reasonable; be- cause, why didn't you
tell me, child?"
  "Why, you see, when you got to talking about the
funeral, I just got all full of the idea of our
coming and hiding in the church, and I couldn't somehow bear
to spoil it. So I just put the bark back in my
pocket and kept mum."
  "What bark?"
  "The bark I had wrote on to tell you we'd
gone pirating. I wish, now, you'd waked up when
I kissed you -- I do, honest."
  The hard lines in his aunt's face relaxed and a
sud- den tenderness dawned in her eyes.
  "DID you kiss me, Tom?"
  "Why, yes, I did."
  "Are you sure you did, Tom?"
  "Why, yes, I did, auntie -- certain
sure."
  "What did you kiss me for , Tom?"
  "Because I loved you so, and you laid there moaning and
I was so sorry."
  The words sounded like truth. The old lady could not
hide a tremor in her voice when she said:
"Kiss me again, Tom! -- and be off with
you to school, now, and don't bother me any more."
  The moment he was gone, she ran to a closet and
got out the ruin of a jacket which Tom had gone
pirating in. Then she stopped, with it in her hand, and
said to herself:
  "No, I don't dare. Poor boy, I
reckon he's lied about it -- but it's a blessed,
blessed lie, there's such a comfort come from it. I hope
the Lord -- I KNOW the Lord will forgive him, because it
was such good- heartedness in him to tell it. But I
don't want to find out it's a lie. I won't
look."
  She put the jacket away, and stood by musing a
minute. Twice she put out her hand to take the
garment again, and twice she refrained. Once more she
ventured, and this time she fortified herself with the thought:
"It's a good lie -- it's a good lie -- I
won't let it grieve me." So she sought the
jacket pocket. A moment later she was reading
Tom's piece of bark through flowing tears and saying:
"I could forgive the boy, now, if he'd committed a
million sins!"
  CHAPTER XX
  THERE was something about Aunt Polly's
manner, when she kissed Tom, that
swept
  away his low spirits and made him light-
  hearted and happy again. He started to
  school and had the luck of coming upon
  Becky Thatcher at the head of Meadow
  Lane. his mood always determined his manner.
Without a moment's hesitation he ran to her and said:
  "I acted mighty mean today, Becky, and I'm
so sorry. I won't ever, ever do that way again, as
long as ever I live -- please make up, won't
you?"
  The girl stopped and looked him scornfully in the
face:
  "I'll thank you to keep yourself TO YOURSELF, Mr.
Thomas Sawyer. I'll never speak to you again."
  She tossed her head and passed on. Tom was so
stunned that he had not even presence of mind enough to say
"Who cares, Miss Smarty?" until the right time
to say it had gone by. So he said nothing. But he was
in a fine rage, nevertheless. He moped into the
schoolyard wishing she were a boy, and imagining how he
would trounce her if she were. He presently
encountered her and delivered a stinging remark as he
passed. She hurled one in return, and the angry
breach was complete. It seemed to Becky,
in her hot resentment, that she could hardly wait for
school to "take in," she was so impatient to see
Tom flogged for the injured spelling-book. If she
had had any linger- ing notion of exposing Alfred
Temple, Tom's offensive fling had driven it
entirely away.
  Poor girl, she did not know how fast she was
near- ing trouble herself. The master, Mr. Dobbins,
had reached middle age with an unsatisfied
ambition. The darling of his desires was, to be a
doctor, but poverty had decreed that he should be
nothing higher than a village schoolmaster. Every day
he took a mysterious book out of his desk and
absorbed himself in it at times when no classes were
reciting. He kept that book un- der lock and
key. There was not an urchin in school but was perishing
to have a glimpse of it, but the chance never came. Every
boy and girl had a theory about the nature of that
book; but no two theories were alike, and there was no
way of getting at the facts in the case. Now, as
Becky was passing by the desk, which stood near the
door, she noticed that the key was in the lock! It was
a precious moment. She glanced around; found herself
alone, and the next instant she had the book in her
hands. The title-page -- Professor
Some- body's ANATOMY -- carried no information
to her mind; so she began to turn the leaves. She
came at once upon a handsomely engraved and colored
frontispiece -- a hu- man figure, stark
naked. At that moment a shadow fell on the page and
Tom Sawyer stepped in at the door and caught a
glimpse of the picture. Becky snatched at the
book to close it, and had the hard luck to tear the
pictured page half down the mi.le. She thrust
the volume into the desk, turned the key, and burst out
crying with shame and vexation.
  "Tom Sawyer, you are just as mean as you can be,
to sneak up on a person and look at what they're
looking at."
  "How could I know you was looking at anything?"
  "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Tom Sawyer; you
know you're going to tell on me, and oh, what shall I
do, what shall I do! I'll be whipped, and I never was
whipped in school."
  Then she stamped her little foot and said:
  "BE so mean if you want to! I know something
that's going to happen. You just wait and you'll see!
Hateful, hateful, hateful!" -- and she flung
out of the house with a new explosion of crying.
Tom stood still, rather flustered by this
onslaught. Presently he said to himself:
  "What a curious kind of a fool a girl is!
Never been licked in school! Shucks! What's a
licking! That's just like a girl -- they're so
thin-skinned and chicken-hearted. Well, of course
I ain't going to tell old Dobbins on this little
fool, because there's other ways of getting even on
her, that ain't so mean; but what of it? Old Dobbins
will ask who it was tore his book. Nobody'll
answer. Then he'll do just the way he always does
-- ask first one and then t'other, and when he comes to the
right girl he'll know it, without any telling.
Girls' faces always tell on them. They ain't
got any backbone. She'll get licked.
Well, it's a kind of a tight place for Becky
Thatcher, because there ain't any way out of it." Tom
conned the thing a moment longer, and then added: "All
right, though; she'd like to see me in just such a fix --
let her sweat it out!"
  Tom joined the mob of skylarking scholars
outside. In a few moments the master arrived and
school "took in." Tom did not feel a strong
interest in his studies. Every time he stole a glance
at the girls' side of the room Becky's face
troubled him. Considering all things, he did
not want to pity her, and yet it was all he could do
to help it. He could get up no exultation that was
really worthy the name. Presently the spell-
ing-book discovery was made, and Tom's mind was
en- tirely full of his own matters for a while after
that. Becky roused up from her lethargy of distress and
showed good interest in the proceedings. She did not
expect that Tom could get out of his trouble by denying that
he spilt the ink on the book himself; and she was right.
The denial only seemed to make the thing worse for
Tom. Becky supposed she would be glad of that, and
she tried to believe she was glad of it, but she found
she was not certain. When the worst came to the worst,
she had an impulse to get up and tell on
Alfred Temple, but she made an effort and forced
herself to keep still -- because, said she to herself, "he'll
tell about me tearing the picture sure. I wouldn't
say a word, not to save his life!"
  Tom took his whipping and went back to his seat
not at all broken-hearted, for he thought it was
possible that he had unknowingly upset the ink on the
spelling- book himself, in some skylarking bout -- he
had denied it for form's sake and because it was custom, and
had stuck to the denial from principle.
A whole hour drifted by, the master
sat nodding in his throne, the air was drowsy with the hum
of study. By and by, Mr. Dobbins straightened himself
up, yawn- ed, then unlocked his desk, and reached for
his book, but seemed undecided whether to take it out
or leave it. Most of the pupils glanced up
languidly, but there were two among them that watched his
movements with in- tent eyes. Mr. Dobbins fingered
his book absently for a while, then took it out and
settled himself in his chair to read! Tom shot a
glance at Becky. He had seen a hunted and
helpless rabbit look as she did, with a gun
levelled at its head. Instantly he forgot his
quarrel with her. Quick -- something must be done! done in
a flash, too! But the very imminence of the emergency
paralyzed his invention. Good! -- he had an
inspira- tion! He would run and snatch the book,
spring through the door and fly. But his resolution shook
for one little instant, and the chance was lost -- the master
opened the volume. If Tom only had the wasted
opportunity back again! Too late. There was no
help for Becky now, he said. The next moment the
master faced the school. Every eye sank under his
gaze. There was that in it which smote even the innocent with
fear. There was silence while one might count ten --
the master was gathering his wrath. Then he
spoke: "Who tore this book?"
  There was not a sound. One could have heard a pin
drop. The stillness continued; the master searched face
after face for signs of guilt.
  "Benjamin Rogers, did you tear this book?"
  A denial. Another pause.
  "Joseph Harper, did you?"
  Another denial. Tom's uneasiness grew more and
more intense under the slow torture of these proceedings.
The master scanned the ranks of boys -- considered
a while, then turned to the girls:
  "Amy Lawrence?"
  A shake of the head.
  "Gracie Miller?"
  The same sign.
  "Susan Harper, did you do this?"
  Another negative. The next girl was Becky
Thatcher. Tom was trembling from head to foot with
excitement and a sense of the hopelessness of the situation.
  "Rebecca Thatcher" [Tom glanced at her
face -- it was white with terror] -- "did you tear
-- no, look me in the face" [her hands rose in
appeal] -- "did you tear this book?"
  A thought shot like lightning through Tom's brain.
He sprang to his feet and shouted --
"I done it!"
  The school stared in perplexity at this incredible
folly. Tom stood a moment, to gather his dismem-
bered faculties; and when he stepped forward to go
to his punishment the surprise, the gratitude, the
adoration that shone upon him out of poor Becky's
eyes seemed pay enough for a hundred floggings.
Inspired by the splendor of his own act, he took
without an outcry the most merciless flaying that even
Mr. Dobbins had ever administered; and also received with
indifference the added cruelty of a command to remain two
hours after school should be dismissed -- for he knew
who would wait for him outside till his captivity was
done, and not count the tedious time as loss, either.
  Tom went to bed that night planning vengeance against
Alfred Temple; for with shame and repentance Becky
had told him all, not forgetting her own treachery; but
even the longing for vengeance had to give way, soon,
to pleasanter musings, and he fell asleep at last
with Becky's latest words lingering dreamily in his ear
  
  "Tom, how COULD you be so noble!"
  CHAPTER XXI
  VACATION was approaching. The school-
master, always severe, grew severer and
  more exacting than ever, for he wanted
  the school to make a good showing on
  "Examination" day. his rod and his
  ferule were seldom idle now -- at least
  among the smaller pupils. Only the biggest
boys, and young ladies of eighteen and twenty,
escaped lashing. Mr. Dobbins' lashings were very
vigorous ones, too; for although he carried, under his
wig, a perfectly bald and shiny head, he had
only reached middle age, and there was no sign of
feebleness in his muscle. As the great day approached,
all the tyranny that was in him came to the surface;
he seemed to take a vin- dictive pleasure in
punishing the least shortcomings. The consequence was,
that the smaller boys spent their days in terror and
suffering and their nights in plotting revenge. They
threw away no opportunity to do the master a
mischief. But he kept ahead all the time. The
retribution that followed every vengeful success was so
sweeping and majestic that the boys always retired from the
field badly worsted. At last they con- spired
together and hit upon a plan that promised a dazzling
victory. They swore in the sign-painter's boy,
told him the scheme, and asked his help. He had his
own reasons for being delighted, for the master
boarded in his father's family and had given the boy
ample cause to hate him. The master's wife would
go on a visit to the country in a few days, and there
would be nothing to interfere with the plan; the master always
pre- pared himself for great occasions by getting pretty
well fuddled, and the sign-painter's boy said that when
the dominie had reached the proper condition on
Examina- tion Evening he would "manage the thing"
while he napped in his chair; then he would have him
awakened at the right time and hurried away to school.
  In the fulness of time the interesting occasion >-
rived. At eight in the evening the schoolhouse was
brilliantly lighted, and adorned with wreaths and
fes- toons of foliage and flowers. The master
sat throned in his great chair upon a raised
platform, with his blackboard behind him. He was looking
tolerably mellow. Three rows of benches on each
side and six rows in front of him were occupied by the
dignitaries of the town and by the parents of the pupils.
To his left, back of the rows of citizens, was a
spacious temporary platform upon which were seated the
scholars who were to take part in the exercises of the
evening; rows of small boys, washed and dressed
to an intolerable state of discomfort; rows of gawky
big boys; snowbanks of girls and young
ladies clad in lawn and muslin and conspicuously
conscious of their bare arms, their grand- mothers' ancient
trinkets, their bits of pink and blue ribbon and the
flowers in their hair. All the rest of the house was
filled with non-participating scholars.
  The exercises began. A very little boy stood up
and sheepishly recited, "You'd scarce expect one
of my age to speak in public on the stage," etc.
-- accompany- ing himself with the painfully exact and
spasmodic gestures which a machine might have used
-- supposing the machine to be a trifle out of
order. But he got through safely, though cruelly
scared, and got a fine round of applause when he
made his manufactured bow and retired.
  A little shamefaced girl lisped, "Mary had a
little lamb," etc., performed a compassion-inspiring
curtsy, got her meed of applause, and sat down
flushed and happy.
  Tom Sawyer stepped forward with conceited con-
fidence and soared into the unquenchable and inde- structible
"Give me liberty or give me death" speech,
with fine fury and frantic gesticulation, and broke
down in the middle of it. A ghastly stage-fright
seized him, his legs quaked under him and he was like
to choke. True, he had the manifest
sympathy of the house but he had the house's silence,
too, which was even worse than its sympathy. The
master frowned, and this com- pleted the disaster. Tom
struggled awhile and then retired, utterly defeated.
There was a weak attempt at applause, but it died
early.
  "The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck"
followed; also "The Assyrian Came Down," and
other declama- tory gems. Then there were reading
exercises, and a spelling fight. The meagre Latin
class recited with honor. The prime feature of the
evening was in order, now -- original "compositions"
by the young ladies. Each in her turn stepped forward
to the edge of the platform, cleared her throat, held
up her manuscript (tied with dainty ribbon), and
proceeded to read, with labored attention to
"expression" and punctuation. The themes were the same
that had been illuminated upon similar occasions by their
mothers before them, their grandmothers, and doubtless all their
ancestors in the female line clear back to the
Crusades. "Friend- ship" was one; "Memories of
Other Days"; "Religion in History";
"Dream Land"; "The Advantages of
Culture"; "Forms of Political Government
Compared and Contrasted"; "Melancholy";
"Filial Love"; "Heart Longings," etc.,
etc.
  A prevalent feature in these compositions was a
nursed and petted melancholy; another was a
wasteful and opulent gush of "fine language";
another was a tendency to lug in by the ears particularly
prized words and phrases until they were worn
entirely out; and a peculiarity that conspicuously
marked and marred them was the inveterate and intolerable
sermon that wagged its crippled tail at the end of
each and every one of them. No matter what the subject
might be, a brain-racking effort was made
to squirm it into some aspect or other that the moral and
religious mind could contemplate with edification. The
glaring insincerity of these sermons was not sufficient
to compass the banishment of the fashion from the schools, and
it is not sufficient today; it never will be sufficient
while the world stands, perhaps. There is no school in
all our land where the young ladies do not feel obliged
to close their compositions with a sermon; and you will find that
the sermon of the most frivolous and the least religious
girl in the school is always the longest and the most
relentlessly pious. But enough of this. Homely truth
is unpalatable.
Let us return to the "Examination." The
first composition that was read was one entitled "Is this,
then, Life?" Perhaps the reader can endure an ex-
tract from it:
  "In the common walks of life, with what
delightful emotions does the youthful mind look
forward to some anticipated scene of festivity!
Imagination is busy sketching rose-tinted
pictures of joy. In fancy, the voluptuous
votary of fashion sees herself amid the festive
throng, 'the observed of all observers.' Her
graceful form, arrayed in snowy robes, is whirling
through the mazes of the joyous dance; her eye is
brightest, her step is lightest in the gay
assembly.
  "In such delicious fancies time quickly
glides by, and the welcome hour arrives for her
entrance into the Elysian world, of which she has had such
bright dreams. How fairy-like does everything appear
to her enchanted vision! Each new scene is more charming
than the last. But after a while she finds that beneath this
goodly exterior, all is vanity, the flattery which
once charmed her soul, now grates harshly upon her
ear; the ball-room has lost its charms; and with wasted
health and imbittered heart, she turns away with the
conviction that earthly pleasures cannot
satisfy the longings of the soul!"
  And so forth and so on. There was a buzz of grati-
fication from time to time during the reading, accom- panied
by whispered ejaculations of "How sweet!" "How
eloquent!" "So true!" etc., and after the thing had
closed with a peculiarly afflicting sermon the
applause was enthusiastic.
  Then arose a slim, melancholy girl, whose
face had the "interesting" paleness that comes of pills
and indi- gestion, and read a "poem." Two
stanzas of it will do:
  "A MISSOURI MAIDEN'S FAREWELL
TO ALABAMA
  "Alabama, good-bye! I love thee well!
  But yet for a while do I leave thee now! Sad,
yes, sad thoughts of thee my heart doth swell, And
burning recollections throng my brow! For I have
wandered through thy flowery woods; Have roamed and read
near Tallapoosa's stream; Have listened
to Tallassee's warring floods, And wooed on
Coosa's side Aurora's beam.
  "Yet shame I not to bear an o'er-full heart,
Nor blush to turn behind my tearful eyes; 'Tis
from no stranger land I now must part, 'Tis to no
strangers left I yield these sighs.
Welcome and home were mine within this State, Whose
vales I leave -- whose spires fade fast from me
And cold must be mine eyes, and heart, and tete,
When, dear Alabama! they turn cold on thee!"
  There were very few there who knew what "tete"
meant, but the poem was very satisfactory, nevertheless.
  Next appeared a dark-complexioned,
black-eyed, black-haired young lady, who paused
an impressive moment, assumed a tragic
expression, and began to read in a measured, solemn
tone:
  "A VISION
  "Dark and tempestuous was night. Around the throne
on high not a single star quivered; but the deep
intonations of the heavy thunder constantly vibrated upon the
ear; whilst the terrific lightning revelled in
angry mood through the cloudy chambers of heaven,
seeming to scorn the power exerted over its terror by the
illustrious Franklinto Even the boisterous winds
unanimously came forth from their mystic homes, and
blustered about as if to enhance by their aid the wildness of the
scene.
  "At such a timeeas darkeas dreary, for human
sympathy my very spirit sighed; but instead thereof,
"'My dearest friend, my counsellor,
my comforter and guide -- My joy in grief, my
second bliss in joy,' came to my side. She
moved like one of those bright beings pictured in the sunny
walks of fancy's Eden by the romantic and young, a
queen of beauty unadorned save by her own
transcendent loveliness. So soft was her step, it
failed to make even a sound, and but for the magical
thrill imparted by her genial touch, as other
unobtrusive beauties, she would have glided away
un-perceived -- unsought. A strange sadness rested
upon her features, like icy tears upon the robe of
December, as she pointed to the contending elements
without, and bade me contemplate the two beings
presented."
  This nightmare occupied some ten pages of manu-
script and wound up with a sermon so destructive of
all hope to non-Presbyterians that it took the
first prize. This composition was considered to be the very
finest effort of the evening. The mayor of the village,
in delivering the prize to the author of it, made a
warm speech in which he said that it was by far the most
"eloquent" thing he had ever listened to, and that
Daniel Webster himself might well be proud of it.
  It may be remarked, in passing, that the number of
compositions in which the word "beauteous" was
over-fondled, and human experience referred to as
"life's page," was up to the usual average.
  Now the master, mellow almost to the verge of
geniality, put his chair aside, turned his back
to the audience, and began to draw a map of America
on the blackboard, to exercise the geography
class upon. But he made a sad business of it with
his unsteady hand, and a smothered titter rippled over the
house. He knew what the matter was, and set
himself to right it. He sponged out lines and remade them;
but he only distorted them more than ever, and the tittering
was more pronounced. He threw his entire attention upon
his work, now, as if determined not to be put down by the
mirth. He felt that all eyes were fastened upon him;
he imagined he was succeeding, and yet the titter- ing
continued; it even manifestly increased. And well it
might. There was a garret above, pierced with a
scuttle over his head; and down through this scuttle
came a cat, suspended around the haunches by a
string; she had a rag tied about her head and jaws
to keep her from mewing; as she slowly descended she
curved upward and clawed at the string, she swung
downward and clawed at the intangible air. The
tittering rose higher and higher -- the cat was within
six inches of the absorbed teacher's head --
down, down, a little lower, and she grabbed his wig with
her desperate claws, clung to it, and was snatched
up into the garret in an instant with her trophy still in
her possession! And how the light did blaze
abroad from the master's bald pate -- for the
sign-painter's boy had GILDED it!
  That broke up the meeting. The boys were avenged.
Vacation had come.
  NOTE:-- The pretended "compositions" quoted
in this chapter are taken without alteration from a volume
entitled "Prose and Poetry, by a Western
Lady" -- but they are exactly and precisely after
the schoolgirl pattern, and hence are much happier
than any mere imitations could be.
  CHAPTER XXII
  TOM joined the new order of Cadets of
  Temperance, being attracted by the showy
  character of their "regalia." He promised to abstain
from smoking, chewing, and
  profanity as long as he remained a mem-
  ber. Now he found out a new thing --
  namely, that to promise not to do a thing is the surest
way in the world to make a body want to go and do that very
thing. Tom soon found himself tormented with a desire
to drink and swear; the desire grew to be so
intense that nothing but the hope of a chance to dis- play
himself in his red sash kept him from with drawing from the
order. Fourth of July was coming; but he soon gave
that up -- gave it up before he had worn his
shackles over forty-eight hours -- and fixed his
hopes upon old Judge Frazer, justice of the
peace, who was apparently on his deathbed and would have a
big public funeral, since he was so high an
official. Dur- ing three days Tom was deeply
concerned about the Judge's condition and hungry for
news of it. Some- times his hopes ran high -- so
high that he would venture to get out his regalia and
practise before the looking- glass. But the Judge
had a most discouraging way of fluctuating. At
last he was pronounced upon the mend -- and then
convalescent. Tom was disgusted; and felt a sense of
injury, too. He handed in his res- ignation at
once -- and that night the Judge suffered a
relapse and died. Tom resolved that he would never
trust a man like that again.
  The funeral was a fine thing. The Cadets paraded
in a style calculated to kill the late member with
envy. Tom was a free boy again, however -- there was
some- thing in that. He could drink and swear, now -- but
found to his surprise that he did not want
to. The simple fact that he could, took the
desire away, and the charm of it.
  Tom presently wondered to find that his coveted
vacation was beginning to hang a little heavily on his
hands.
  He attempted a diary -- but nothing happened
dur- ing three days, and so he abandoned it.
  The first of all the negro minstrel shows came
to town, and made a sensation. Tom and Joe Harper
got up a band of performers and were happy for two
days.
  Even the Glorious Fourth was in some sense a
failure, for it rained hard, there was no procession
in con- sequence, and the greatest man in the world (as
Tom supposed), Mr. Benton, an actual
United States Senator, proved an overwhelming
disappointment -- for he was not twenty-five feet
high, nor even anywhere in the neighborhood of it.
  A circus came. The boys played circus for
three days afterward in tents made of rag carpeting --
ad- mission, three pins for boys, two for girls
-- and then circusing was abandoned.
  A phrenologist and a mesmerizer came -- and
went again and left the village duller and drearier
than ever.
  There were some boys-and-girls' parties, but they were so
few and so delightful that they only made the aching
voids between ache the harder.
  Becky Thatcher was gone to her Constantinople
home to stay with her parents during vacation -- so there
was no bright side to life anywhere.
  The dreadful secret of the murder was a chronic
misery. It was a very cancer for permanency and pain.
  Then came the measles.
  During two long weeks Tom lay a
prisoner, dead to the world and its happenings. He was very
ill, he was interested in nothing. When he got upon his
feet at last and moved feebly down-town, a
melancholy change had come over everything and every
creature. There had been a "revival," and
everybody had "got religion," not only the
adults, but even the boys and girls. Tom went
about, hoping against hope for the sight of one blessed sinful
face, but disappointment crossed him everywhere. He
found Joe Harper study- ing a Testament, and
turned sadly away from the de- pressing
spectacle. He sought Ben Rogers, and found him
visiting the poor with a basket of tracts. He
hunted up Jim Hollis, who called his attention
to the precious blessing of his late measles as
a warning. Every boy he encountered added another ton
to his depression; and when, in desperation, he flew
for refuge at last to the bosom of Huckleberry
Finn and was received with a Scriptural quotation, his
heart broke and he crept home and to bed realizing
that he alone of all the town was lost, forever and forever.
  And that night there came on a terrific storm, with
driving rain, awful claps of thunder and blinding
sheets of lightning. He covered his head with the
bedclothes and waited in a horror of suspense for his
doom; for he had not the shadow of a doubt that all this
hubbub was about him. He believed he had taxed the
forbearance of the powers above to the extremity of endurance
and that this was the result. It might have seemed to him a
waste of pomp and ammunition to kill a bug with a
battery of artillery, but there seemed nothing incon-
gruous about the getting up such an expensive thunder-
storm as this to knock the turf from under an insect like
himself.
  By and by the tempest spent itself and died without
accomplishing its object. The boy's first impulse
was to be grateful, and reform. his second was to wait
-- for there might not be any more storms.
  The next day the doctors were back; Tom had
re- lapsed. The three weeks he spent
on his back this time seemed an entire age. When
he got abroad at last he was hardly grateful
that he had been spared, remem- bering how lonely was
his estate, how companionless and forlorn he was.
He drifted listlessly down the street and found
Jim Hollis acting as judge in a juvenile
court that was trying a cat for murder, in the presence
of her victim, a bird. He found Joe Harper
and Huck Finn up an alley eating a stolen
melon. Poor lads! they -- like Tom -- had
suffered a relapse.
  CHAPTER XXIII
  AT last the sleepy atmosphere was stirred --
and vigorously: the murder trial came on
  in the court. It became the absorbing
  topic of village talk immediately. Tom
  could not get away from it. Every ref-
  erence to the murder sent a shudder to
  his heart, for his troubled conscience and fears almost
persuaded him that these remarks were put forth in his hearing
as "feelers"; he did not see how he could be
suspected of knowing anything about the murder, but still he
could not be comfortable in the midst of this gossip. It
kept him in a cold shiver all the time. He took
Huck to a lonely place to have a talk with
him. It would be some relief to unseal his tongue for a
little while; to divide his burden of distress with
another suf- ferer. Moreover, he wanted
to assure himself that Huck had remained discreet.
  "Huck, have you ever told anybody about -- that?"
  "'Bout what?"
  "You know what."
  "Oh -- 'course I haven't."
  "Never a word?"
  "Never a solitary word, so help me. What
makes you ask?"
  "Well, I was afeard."
  "Why, Tom Sawyer, we wouldn't be alive
two days if that got found out. YOU know that."
  Tom felt more comfortable. After a pause:
  "Huck, they couldn't anybody get you to tell,
could they?"
  "Get me to tell? Why, if I wanted that
half-breed devil to drownd me they could get me
to tell. They ain't no different way."
  "Well, that's all right, then. I reckon
we're safe as long as we keep mum. But let's
swear again, any- way. It's more surer."
  "I'm agreed."
So they swore again with dread
solemnities.
  "What is the talk around, Huck? I've heard
a power of it."
  "Talk? Well, it's just Muff Potter,
Muff Potter, Muff Potter all the time. It
keeps me in a sweat, con- stant, s's I
want to hide som'ers."
  "That's just the same way they go on round me. I
reckon he's a goner. Don't you feel sorry
for him, sometimes?"
  "Most always -- most always. He ain't no
account; but then he hain't ever done anything to hurt
anybody. Just fishes a little, to get money to get
drunk on -- and loafs around considerable; but lord,
we all do that -- leastways most of us -- preachers
and such like. But he's kind of good -- he give me
half a fish, once, when there warn't enough for two; and
lots of times he's kind of stood by me when I was out
of luck."
  "Well, he's mended kites for me, Huck, and
knitted hooks on to my line. I wish we could
get him out of there."
  "My! we couldn't get him out, Tom. And besides,
'twdn't do any good; they'd ketch him again."
"Yes -- so they would. But I hate
to hear 'em abuse him so like the dickens when he never
done -- that."
  "I do too, Tom. Lord, I hear 'em say
he's the bloodiest looking villain in this country,
and they won- der he wasn't ever hung before."
  "Yes, they talk like that, all the time. I've
heard 'em say that if he was to get free they'd
lynch him."
  "And they'd do it, too."
  The boys had a long talk, but it brought them little
comfort. As the twilight drew on, they found them-
selves hanging about the neighborhood of the little
isolated jail, perhaps with an undefined hope that
something would happen that might clear away their
difficulties. But nothing happened; there seemed
to be no angels or fairies interested in this
luckless captive.
  The boys did as they had often done before -- went
to the cell grating and gave Potter some tobacco and
matches. He was on the ground floor and there were no
guards.
  his gratitude for their gifts had always smote
their consciences before -- it cut deeper than ever, this
time. They felt cowardly and treacherous to the last
degree when Potter said:
  "You've been mighty good to me, boys --
better'n any- body else in this town. And I
don't forget it, I don't. Often I says
to myself, says I, 'I used to mend all the boys'
kites and things, and show 'em where the good fishin'
places was, and befriend 'em what I could, and now
they've all forgot old Muff when he's in trouble;
but Tom don't, and Huck don't -- THEY
don't forget him, says I, 'and I don't forget
them.' Well, boys, I done an awful thing --
drunk and crazy at the time -- that's the only way
I account for it -- and now I got to swing for it, and
it's right. Right, and BEST, too, I reckon --
hope so, anyway. Well, we won't talk about
that. I don't want to make YOU feel bad;
you've befriendiended me. But what I want to say,
is, don't YOU ever get drunk -- then you won't
ever get here. Stand a litter furder west -- so --
that's it; it's a prime comfort to see faces that's
friendly when a body's in such a muck of trouble, and
there don't none come here but yourn. Good friendly
faces -- good friendly faces. Git up on one
another's backs and let me touch 'em. That's it.
Shake hands -- yourn'll come through the bars, but
mine's too big. Little hands, and weak --
but they've helped Muff Potter a power, and they'd
help him more if they could."
  Tom went home miserable, and his dreams that night
were full of horrors. The next day and the day after,
he hung about the court-room, drawn by an al-
most irresistible impulse to go in, but forcing himself
to stay out. Huck was having the same experience. They
studiously avoided each other. Each wandered away,
from time to time, but the same dismal fascina- tion always
brought them back presently. Tom kept his ears
open when idlers sauntered out of the court- room, but
invariably heard distressing news -- the toils were
closing more and more relentlessly around poor Potter.
At the end of the second day the village talk was
to the effect that Injun Joe's evidence stood firm
and unshaken, and that there was not the slightest ques-
tion as to what the jury's verdict would be.
  Tom was out late, that night, and came to bed through the
window. He was in a tremendous state of excite-
ment. It was hours before he got to sleep. All the
village flocked to the court-house the next
morning, for this was to be the great day. Both sexes were
about equally represented in the packed audience. After
a long wait the jury filed in and took their
places; shortly afterward, Potter, pale
and haggard, timid and hopeless, was brought in, with
chains upon him, and seated where all the curious eyes
could stare at him; no less con- spicuous was
Injun Joe, stolid as ever. There was an- other
pause, and then the judge arrived and the sheriff
proclaimed the opening of the court. The usual whis-
perings among the lawyers and gathering together of papers
followed. These details and accompanying delays
worked up an atmosphere of preparation that was as
impressive as it was fascinating.
  Now a witness was called who testified that he
found Muff Potter washing in the brook, at an
early hour of the morning that the murder was discovered, and
that he immediately sneaked away. After some further
ques- tioning, counsel for the prosecution said:
  "Take the witness."
  The prisoner raised his eyes for a moment, but
dropped them again when his own counsel said:
  "I have no questions to ask him."
  The next witness proved the finding of the knife
near the corpse. Counsel for the prosecution said:
  "Take the witness."
  "I have no questions to ask him," Potter's lawyer
replied.
A third witness swore he had often
seen the knife in Potter's possession.
  "Take the witness."
  Counsel for Potter declined to question him. The
faces of the audience began to betray annoyance.
Did this attorney mean to throw away his client's
life without an effort?
  Several witnesses deposed concerning Potter's
guilty behavior when brought to the scene of the murder.
They were allowed to leave the stand without being cross-questioned.
  Every detail of the damaging circumstances that
occurred in the graveyard upon that morning which all
present remembered so well was brought out by credible
witnesses, but none of them were cross- examined
by Potter's lawyer. The perplexity and
dissatisfaction of the house expressed itself in mur-
murs and provoked a reproof from the bench. Counsel
for the prosecution now said:
  "Bythe oaths of citizens whose simple word is
above suspicion, we have fastened this awful crime,
beyond all possibility of question, upon the unhappy
prisoner at the bar. We rest our case here."
  A groan escaped from poor Potter, and he
put his face in his hands and rocked his body softly
to and fro, while a painful silence reigned in the
court-room. Many men were moved, and many
women's com- passion testified itself in tears.
Counsel for the de- fence rose and said:
  "Your honor, in our remarks at the opening of this
trial, we foreshadowed our purpose to prove that our
client did this fearful deed while under the influence
of a blind and irresponsible delirium produced
by drink. We have changed our mind. We shall not offer that
plea." [Then to the clerk:] "Call Thomas
Sawyer!"
  A puzzled amazement awoke in every face in the
house, not even excepting Potter's. Every eye
fast- ened itself with wondering interest upon Tom as he
rose and took his place upon the stand. The boy
looked wild enough, for he was badly scared. The
oath was administered.
  "Thomas Sawyer, where were you on the seventeenth of
June, about the hour of midnight?"
  Tom glanced at Injun Joe's iron face and
his tongue failed him. The audience listened
breathless, but the words refused to come. After a few
moments, however, the boy got a little of his strength
back, and managed to put enough of it into his voice
to make part of the house hear:
  "In the graveyard!"
"A little bit louder, please. Don't
be afraid. You were --"
  "In the graveyard."
  A contemptuous smile flitted across Injun
Joe's face.
  "Were you anywhere near Horse Williams'
grave?"
  "Yes, sir."
  "Speak up -- just a trifle louder. How near
were you?"
  "Near as I am to you."
  "Were you hidden, or not?"
  "I was hid."
  "Where?"
  "Behind the elms that's on the edge of the grave."
  Injun Joe gave a barely perceptible start.
  "Any one with you?"
  "Yes, sir. I went there with --"
  "Wait -- wait a moment. Never mind mentioning
your companion's name. We will produce him at the
proper time. Did you carry anything there with you."
  Tom hesitated and looked confused.
  "Speak out, my boy -- don't be diffident.
The truth is always respectable. What did you
take there?"
"Only a -- a -- dead cat."
  There was a ripple of mirth, which the court checked.
  "We will produce the skeleton of that cat.
Now, my boy, tell us everything that occurred --
tell it in your own way -- don't skip anything,
and don't be afraid."
  Tom began -- hesitatingly at first, but as he
warmed to his subject his words flowed more and more
easily; in a little while every sound ceased but his own
voice; every eye fixed itself upon him; with parted lips and
bated breath the audience hung upon his words, taking
no note of time, rapt in the ghastly fascinations of the
tale. The strain upon pent emotion reached its
climax when the boy said:
  "-- and as the doctor fetched the board around and
Muff Potter fell, Injun Joe jumped with the
knife and --"
  Crash! Quick as lightning the half-breed sprang
for a window, tore his way through all opposers, and was
gone!
  CHAPTER XXIV
  TOM was a glittering hero once more -- the pet
of the old, the envy of the young.
  his name even went into immortal print,
  for the village paper magnified him.
There were some that believed he would
  be President, yet, if he escaped hanging.
  As usual, the fickle, unreasoning world took
Muff Potter to its bosom and fondled him as
lavishly as it had abused him before. But that sort of
conduct is to the world's credit; therefore it is not well
to find fault with it.
  Tom's days were days of splendor and exultation
to him, but his nights were seasons of horror. Injun
Joe infested all his dreams, and always with doom in his
eye. Hardly any temptation could persuade the boy
to stir abroad after nightfall. Poor Huck was in
the same state of wretchedness and terror, for Tom
had told the whole story to the lawyer the night before the
great day of the trial, and Huck was sore afraid that
his share in the business might leak out, yet,
notwithstanding Injun Joe's flight had saved him the
suffering of testifying in court. The poor fellow had
got the attorney to promise secrecy, but what of
that? Since Tom's harassed conscience had managed
to drive him to the lawyer's house by night and wring a
dread tale from lips that had been sealed with the dismalest
and most formidable of oaths, Huck's confidence in the
human race was well-nigh obliterated.
  Daily Muff Potter's gratitude made
Tom glad he had spoken; but nightly
he wished he had sealed up his tongue.
  Half the time Tom was afraid Injun Joe would
never be captured; the other half he was afraid he
would be. He felt sure he never could draw a
safe breath again until that man was dead and he had
seen the corpse.
  Rewards had been offered, the country had been
scoured, but no Injun Joe was found. One of those
omniscient and awe-inspiring marvels, a
detective, came up from St. Louis, moused
around, shook his head, looked wise, and made that
sort of astounding success which members of that craft
usually achieve. That is to say, he "found a
clew." But you can't hang a "clew" for murder, and
so after that detec- tive had got through and gone home,
Tom felt just as insecure as he was before.
  The slow days drifted on, and each left behind it
a slightly lightened weight of apprehension.
  CHAPTER XXV
  THERE comes a time in every rightly-
  constructed boy's life when he has a
  raging desire to go somewhere and dig
  for hidden treasure. This desire sud-
  denly came upon Tom one day. He sal-
lied out to find Joe Harper, but failed
  of success. Next he sought Ben Rogers; he
had gone fishing. Presently he stumbled upon Huck
Finn the Red-Handed. Huck would answer. Tom
took him to a private place and opened the matter
to him confi- dentially. Huck was willing. Huck was
always willing to take a hand in any enterprise that
offered enter- tainment and required no capital, for
he had a troub- lesome superabundance of that sort
of time which is not money. "Where'full we dig?" said
Huck.
  "Oh, most anywhere."
  "Why, is it hid all around?"
  "No, indeed it ain't. It's hid in mighty
particular places, Huck -- sometimes on islands,
sometimes in rot- ten chests under the end of a limb of
an old dead tree, just where the shadow falls at
midnight; but mostly under the floor in ha'nted
houses."
  "Who hides it?"
  "Why, robbers, of course -- who'd you reckon?
Sun- day-school sup'rintendents?"
  "I don't know. If 'twas mine I wouldn't
hide it; I'd spend it and have a good time."
  "So would I. But robbers don't do that way. They
always hide it and leave it there."
  "Don't they come after it any more?"
  "No, they think they will, but they generally forget the
marks, or else they die. Anyway, it lays there
a long time and gets rusty; and by and by somebody finds
an old yellow paper that tells how to find the marks
-- a paper that's got to be ciphered over about a
week because it's mostly signs and
hy'roglyphics."
  "HyroQwhich?"
  "Hy'roglyphics -- pictures and things, you
know, that don't seem to mean anything."
  "Have you got one of them papers, Tom?"
  "No."
  "Well then, how you going to find the marks?"
  "I don't want any marks. They always bury
it under a ha'nted house or on an island, or under
a dead tree that's got one limb sticking out.
Well, we've tried Jackson's Island a little,
and we can try it again some time; and there's the old
ha'nted house up the Still-House branch, and there's
lots of dead- limb trees -- dead loads of
'em."
  "Is it under all of them?"
  "How you talk! No!"
"Then how you going to know which one to go for?"
  "Go for all of 'em!"
  "Why, Tom, it'll take all summer."
  "Well, what of that? Suppose you find a
brass pot with a hundred dollars in it, all rusty
and gray, or rotten chest full of di'monds.
How's that?"
  Huck's eyes glowed.
  "That's bully. Plenty bully enough for me. Just you
gimme the hundred dollars and I don't want no
di'monds."
  "All right. But I bet you I ain't going to throw
off on di'monds. Some of 'em's worth twenty
dol- lars apiece -- there ain't any, hardly,
but's worth six bits or a dollar."
  "No! Is that so?"
  "Cert'nly -- anybody'll tell you so.
Hain't you ever seen one, Huck?"
  "Not as I remember."
  "Oh, kings have slathers of them."
  "Well, I don' know no kings, Tom."
  "I reckon you don't. But if you was to go
to Europe you'd see a raft of 'em hopping
around."
  "Do they hop?"
"Hop? -- your granny! No!"
  "Well, what did you say they did, for?"
  "Shucks, I only meant you'd SEE 'em --
not hopping, of course -- what do they want to hop
for? -- but I mean you'd just see 'em -- scattered
around, you know, in a kind of a general way. Like that
old humpbacked Richard."
  "Richard? What's his other name?"
  "He didn't have any other name. Kings don't have
any but a given name."
  "No?"
  "But they don't."
  "Well, if they like it, Tom, all right; but I
don't want to be a king and have only just a given
name, like a nigger. But say -- where you going to dig
first?"
  "Well, I don't know. S'pose we tackle
that old dead-limb tree on the hill t'other side
of Still-House branch?"
  "I'm agreed."
  So they got a crippled pick and a shovel, and
set out on their three-mile tramp. They arrived
hot and panting, and threw themselves down in the shade of a
neighboring elm to rest and have a smoke.
  "I like this," said Tom.
"So do I."
  "Say, Huck, if we find a treasure here,
what you going to do with your share?"
  "Well, I'll have pie and a glass of soda every
day, and I'll go to every circus that comes along. I
bet I'll have a gay time."
  "Well, ain't you going to save any of it?"
  "Save it? What for?"
  "Why, so as to have something to live on, by and by."
  "Oh, that ain't any use. Pap would come back
to thish-yer town some day and get his claws on it if
I didn't hurry up, and I tell you he'd
clean it out pretty quick. What you going to do with
yourn, Tom?"
  "I'm going to buy a new drum, and a
sure-'nough sword, and a red necktie and a bull
pup, and get mar- ried."
  "Married!"
  "That's it."
  "Tom, you -- why, you ain't in your right mind."
  "Wait -- you'll see."
  "Well, that's the foolishest thing you could do.
Look at pap and my mother. Fight! Why, they used
to fight all the time. I remember, mighty well."
  "That ain't anything. The girl I'm going to marry
won't fight."
  "Tom, I reckon they're all alike.
They'll all comb a body. Now you better think
'bout this awhile. I tell you you better. What's
the name of the gal?"
  "It ain't a gal at all -- it's a girl."
  "It's all the same, I reckon; some says
gal, some says girl -- both's right, like enough.
Anyway, what's her name, Tom?"
  "I'll tell you some time -- not now."
  "All right -- that'll do. Only if you get
married I'll be more lonesomer than ever."
  "No you won't. You'll come and live with me.
Now stir out of this and we'll go to digging."
  They worked and sweated for half an hour. No
result. They toiled another half-hour. Still no
result. Huck said:
  "Do they always bury it as deep as this?"
  "Sometimes -- not always. Not generally. I reckon
we haven't got the right place."
  So they chose a new spot and began again. The
labor dragged a little, but still they made progress.
They pegged away in silence for some time. Finally
Huck leaned on his shovel, swabbed the beaded
drops from his brow with his sleeve, and said:
"Where you going to dig next, after we get
this one?"
  "I reckon maybe we'll tackle the old
tree that's over yonder on Cardiff Hill back
of the widow's."
  "I reckon that'll be a good one. But won't the
widow take it away from us, Tom? It's on her
land."
  "SHE take it away! Maybe she'd like to try
it once. Whoever finds one of these hid treasures,
it belongs to him. It don't make any difference whose
land it's on."
  That was satisfactory. The work went on. By and
by Huck said:
  "Blame it, we must be in the wrong place again.
What do you think?"
  "It is mighty curious, Huck. I don't
understand it. Sometimes witches interfere. I reckon
maybe that's what's the trouble now."
  "Shucks! Witches ain't got no power in the
day- time."
  "Well, that's so. I didn't think of that. Oh,
I know what the matter is! What a blamed lot of
fools we are! You got to find out where the shadow of the
limb falls at midnight, and that's where you dig!"
"Then consound it, we've fooled away
all this work for nothing. Now hang it all, we got
to come back in the night. It's an awful long way.
Can you get out?"
  "I bet I will. We've got to do it tonight, too,
be- cause if somebody sees these holes they'll
know in a minute what's here and they'll go for it."
  "Well, I'll come around and maow tonight."
  "All right. Let's hide the tools in the
bushes."
  The boys were there that night, about the appoint- ed
time. They sat in the shadow waiting. It was a lonely
place, and an hour made solemn by old
traditions. Spirits whispered in the rustling leaves,
ghosts lurked in the murky nooks, the deep baying
of a hound floated up out of the distance, an owl answered
with his sepulchral note. The boys were subdued by these
solemnities, and talked little. By and by they judged that
twelve had come; they marked where the shadow fell, and
began to dig. Their hopes commenced to rise. Their
interest grew stronger, and their industry kept pace
with it. The hole deepened and still deepened, but every time
their hearts jumped to hear the pick strike upon
something, they only suffered a new disap- pointment.
It was only a stone or a chunk. At last Tom
said:
  "It ain't any use, Huck, we're wrong
again."
  "Well, but we CAN'T be wrong. We spotted
the shadder to a dot."
  "I know it, but then there's another thing."
  "What's that?".
  "Why, we only guessed at the time. Like enough it was
too late or too early."
  Huck dropped his shovel.
  "That's it," said he. "That's the very trouble. We
got to give this one up. We can't ever tell the right
time, and besides this kind of thing's too awful, here this time
of night with witches and ghosts a-flut- tering around
so. I feel as if something's behind me all the time; and
I'm afeard to turn around, becuz maybe there's
others in front a-waiting for a chance. I been
creeping all over, ever since I got here."
  "Well, I've been pretty much so, too,
Huck. They most always put in a dead man when they
bury a treasure under a tree, to look out for it."
  "Lordy!"
  "Yes, they do. I've always heard that."
  "Tom, I don't like to fool around much where there's
dead people. A body's bound to get into trouble with 'em,
sure."
  "I don't like to stir 'em up, either. S'pose this
one here was to stick his skull out and say something!"
  "Don't Tom! It's awful."
  "Well, it just is. Huck, I don't feel
comfortable a bit."
  "Say, Tom, let's give this place up, and
try some- wheres else."
  "All right, I reckon we better."
  "What'll it be?"
  Tom considered awhile; and then said:
  "The ha'nted house. That's it!"
  "Blame it, I don't like ha'nted houses,
Tom. Why, they're a dern sight worse'n dead
people. Dead people might talk, maybe, but they don't
come sliding around in a shroud, when you ain't noticing,
and peep over your shoulder all of a sudden and grit
their teeth, the way a ghost does. I couldn't stand
such a thing as that, Tom -- nobody could."
  "Yes, but, Huck, ghosts don't travel around
only at night. They won't hender us from digging there
in the daytime."
  "Well, that's so. But you know mighty well people
don't go about that ha'nted house in the day nor the
night."
"Well, that's mostly because they don't like
to go where a man's been murdered, anyway -- but
nothing's ever been seen around that house except in the
night -- just some blue lights slipping by the windows
-- no regular ghosts."
  "Well, where you see one of them blue lights
flicker- ing around, Tom, you can bet there's a ghost
mighty close behind it. It stands to reason. Becuz you
know that they don't anybody but ghosts use 'em."
  "Yes, that's so. But anyway they don't come
around in the daytime, so what's the use of our being
afeard?"
  "Well, all right. We'll tackle the ha'nted
house if you say so -- but I reckon it's taking
chances."
  They had started down the hill by this time. There in the
middle of the moonlit valley below them stood the
"ha'nted" house, utterly isolated, its fences
gone long ago, rank weeds smothering the very
doorsteps, the chimney crumbled to ruin, the
window-sashes vacant, a corner of the roof caved
in. The boys gazed awhile, half expecting
to see a blue light flit past a window; then
talking in a low tone, as befitted the time and the
circumstances, they struck far off to the right, to give
the haunted house a wide berth, and took
their way homeward through the woods that adorned the
rearward side of Cardiff Hill.
  CHAPTER XXVI
  ABOUT noon the next day the boys >-
  rived at the dead tree; they had come
  for their tools. Tom was impatient
  to go to the haunted house; Huck
  was measurably so, also -- but suddenly
  said:
  "Lookyhere, Tom, do you know what day it is?"
  Tom mentally ran over the days of the week, and then
quickly lifted his eyes with a startled look in them --
  "My! I never once thought of it, Huck!"
  "Well, I didn't neither, but all at once it
popped onto me that it was Friday."
  "Blame it, a body can't be too careful,
Huck. We might 'a' got into an awful
scrape, tackling such a thing on a Friday."
  "MIGHT! Better say we WOULD! There's some
lucky days, maybe, but Friday ain't."
  "Any fool knows that. I don't reckon YOU
was the first that found it out, Huck."
  "Well, I never said I was, did I? And
Friday ain't all, neither. I had a rotten bad
dream last night -- dreampt about rats."
  "No! Sure sign of trouble. Did they
fight?"
  "No."
  "Well, that's good, Huck. When they don't
fight it's only a sign that there's trouble around, you
know. All we got to do is to look mighty sharp and
keep out of it. We'll drop this thing for today, and
play. Do you know Robin Hood, Huck?"
  "No. Who's Robin Hood?"
  "Why, he was one of the greatest men that was ever in
England -- and the best. He was a rob- ber."
  "Cracky, I wisht I was. Who did he
rob?"
  "Only sheriffs and bishops and rich people and kings, and
such like. But he never bothered the poor. He loved
'em. He always divided up with 'em perfectly
square."
  "Well, he must 'a' been a brick."
  "I bet you he was, Huck. Oh, he was the
noblest man that ever was. They ain't any such men
now, I can tell you. He could lick any man in
England, with one hand tied behind him; and he could take his
yew bow and plug a ten-cent piece every time, a
mile and a half."
"What's a YEW bow?"
  "I don't know. It's some kind of a bow, of
course. And if he hit that dime only on the edge
he would set down and cry -- and curse. But we'll
play Robin Hood -- it's nobby fun. I'll
learn you."
  "I'm agreed."
  So they played Robin Hood all the afternoon, now
and then casting a yearning eye down upon the haunted
house and passing a remark about the morrow's pros-
pects and possibilities there. As the sun began
to sink into the west they took their way homeward
athwart the long shadows of the trees and soon were
buried from sight in the forests of Cardiff Hill.
  On Saturday, shortly after noon, the boys were
at the dead tree again. They had a smoke and a chat
in the shade, and then dug a little in their last hole, not
with great hope, but merely because Tom said there were so many
cases where people had given up a treasure after getting
down within six inches of it, and then somebody else had
come along and turned it up with a single thrust of a
shovel. The thing failed this time, however, so the boys
shouldered their tools and went away feeling that they had
not trifled with fortune, but had fulfilled all the
requirements that be- long to the business of
treasure-hunting.
  When they reached the haunted house there was something so
weird and grisly about the dead silence that reigned
there under the baking sun, and some- thing so depressing about
the loneliness and desola- tion of the place, that they
were afraid, for a mo- ment, to venture in. Then they
crept to the door and took a trembling peep. They
saw a weed-grown, floorless room, unplastered,
an ancient fireplace, va- cant windows, a
ruinous staircase; and here, there, and everywhere hung
ragged and abandoned cobwebs. They presently
entered, softly, with quickened pulses, talking in
whispers, ears alert to catch the slightest sound, and
muscles tense and ready for instant retreat.
  In a little while familiarity modified their fears
and they gave the place a critical and interested
exam- ination, rather admiring their own boldness, and won-
dering at it, too. Next they wanted to look
up-stairs. This was something like cutting off retreat, but
they got to daring each other, and of course there could be but
one result -- they threw their tools into a corner
and made the ascent. Up there were the same signs of
decay. In one corner they found a closet that
promised mystery, but the promise was a fraud --
there was nothing in it. Their courage was up now and well
in hand. They were about to go down and begin work when
  
  "Sh!" said Tom.
  "What is it?" whispered Huck, blanching with
fright.
  "Sh! ''' There! ''' Hear it?"
  "Yes! ''' Oh, my! Let's run!"
  "Keep still! Don't you budge! They're coming right
toward the door."
  The boys stretched themselves upon the floor with their
eyes to knot-holes in the planking, and lay wait-
ing, in a misery of fear.
  "They've stopped'''. No -- coming'''. Here they
are. Don't whisper another word, Huck. My
good- ness, I wish I was out of this!"
  Two men entered. Each boy said to himself: "There's
the old deaf and dumb Spaniard that's been about town
once or twice lately -- never saw t'other
man before."
  "T'other" was a ragged, unkempt creature, with
nothing very pleasant in his face. The Spaniard was
wrapped in a serape; he had bushy white
whiskers; long white hair flowed from under his
sombrero, and he wore green goggles. When they
came in, "t'other" was talking in a low voice;
they sat down on the ground, facing the
door, with their backs to the wall, and the speaker continued
his remarks. his manner became less guarded and his
words more distinct as he proceeded:
  "No," said he, "I've thought it all over, and
I don't like it. It's dangerous."
  "Dangerous!" grunted the "deaf and dumb"
Span- iard -- to the vast surprise of the boys.
"Milksop!"
  This voice made the boys gasp and quake. It
was Injun Joe's! There was silence for some time. Then
Joe said:
  "What's any more dangerous than that job up
yon- der -- but nothing's come of it."
  "That's different. Away up the river so, and not
another house about. 'Twon't ever be known that we
tried, anyway, long as we didn't succeed."
  "Well, what's more dangerous than coming here in the
daytime! -- anybody would suspicion us that saw
us."
  "I know that. But there warn't any other place as
handy after that fool of a job. I want to quit this
shanty. I wanted to yesterday, only it warn't
any use trying to stir out of here, with those infernal
boys play- ing over there on the hill right in full
view."
  "Those infernal boys" quaked again under the in-
spiration of this remark, and thought how lucky it was that
they had remembered it was Friday and concluded to wait
a day. They wished in their hearts they had waited a
year.
  The two men got out some food and made a
luncheon. After a long and thoughtful silence, Injun
Joe said:
  "Look here, lad -- you go back up the river
where you belong. Wait there till you hear from me.
I'll take the chances on dropping into this town just
once more, for a look. We'll do that 'dangerous'
job after I've spied around a little and think things
look well for it. Then for Texas! We'll leg
it together!"
  This was satisfactory. Both men presently
fell to yawning, and Injun Joe said:
  "I'm dead for sleep! It's your turn
to watch."
  He curled down in the weeds and soon began
to snore. his comrade stirred him once or twice
and he became quiet. Presently the watcher began
to nod; his head drooped lower and lower, both men
began to snore now.
The boys drew a long, grateful
breath. Tom whis- pered:
  "Now's our chance -- come!"
  Huck said:
  "I can't -- I'd die if they was to wake."
  Tom urged -- Huck held back. At last
Tom rose slowly and softly, and started alone. But
the first step he made wrung such a hideous creak
from the crazy floor that he sank down almost dead with
fright. He never made a second attempt. The
boys lay there counting the dragging moments till it
seemed to them that time must be done and eternity growing
gray; and then they were grateful to note that at last the
sun was setting.
  Now one snore ceased. Injun Joe sat up,
stared around -- smiled grimly upon his comrade, whose
head was drooping upon his knees -- stirred him up with
his foot and said:
  "Here! YOU'RE a watchman, ain't you! All
right, though -- nothing's happened."
  "My! have I been asleep?"
  "Oh, partly, partly. Nearly time for us to be
mov- ing, pard. What'll we do with what little swag
we've got left?"
  "I don't know -- leave it here as we've always
done, I reckon. No use to take it
away till we start south. Six hundred and
fifty in silver's something to carry."
  "Well -- all right -- it won't matter to come
here once more."
  "No -- but I'd say come in the night as we
used to do -- it's better."
  "Yes: but look here; it may be a good while before
I get the right chance at that job; accidents might
hap- pen; 'tain't in such a very good place;
we'll just regularly bury it -- and bury it
deep."
  "Good idea," said the comrade, who walked across the
room, knelt down, raised one of the rearward
hearth- stones and took out a bag that jingled
pleasantly. He subtracted from it twenty or
thirty dollars for himself and as much for Injun Joe,
and passed the bag to the latter, who was on his knees
in the corner, now, digging with his bowie-knife.
  The boys forgot all their fears, all their
miseries in an instant. With gloating eyes they
watched every movement. Luck! -- the splendor of it
was beyond all imagination! Six hundred dollars was
money enough to make half a dozen boys rich! Here was
treasure- hunting under the happiest auspices --
there would not be any bothersome uncertainty as
to where to dig. They nudged each other every moment --
eloquent nudges and easily understood, for they
simply meant -- "Oh, but ain't you glad NOW
we're here!"
  Joe's knife struck upon something.
  "Hello!" said he.
  "What is it?" said his comrade.
  "Half-rotten plank -- no, it's a box,
I believe. Here -- bear a hand and we'll see
what it's here for . Never mind, I've broke a
hole."
  He reached his hand in and drew it out --
  "Man, it's money!"
  The two men examined the handful of coins. They were
gold. The boys above were as excited as them-
selves, and as delighted.
  Joe's comrade said:
  "We'll make quick work of this. There's an old
rusty pick over amongst the weeds in the corner the
other side of the fireplace -- I saw it a
minute ago."
  He ran and brought the boys' pick and shovel.
Injun Joe took the pick, looked it over
critically, shook his head, muttered something to himself,
and then began to use it. The box was soon
unearthed. It was not very large; it was iron bound and had
been very strong before the slow years had injured it. The
men con- templated the treasure awhile in
blissful silence.
  "Pard, there's thousands of dollars here," said
Injun Joe.
  "'Twas always said that Murrel's gang used
to be around here one summer," the stranger observed.
  "I know it," said Injun Joe; "and this looks like
it, I should say."
  "Now you won't need to do that job."
  The half-breed frowned. Said he:
  "You don't know me. Least you don't know all
about that thing. 'Tain't robbery altogether -- it's
REVENGE!" and a wicked light flamed in his eyes.
"I'll need your help in it. When it's finished --
then Texas. Go home to your Nance and your kids, and
stand by till you hear from me."
  "Well -- if you say so; what'll we do with this
-- bury it again?"
  "Yes. [Ravishing delight overhead.]
NO! by the great Sachem, no! [Profound
distress overhead.] I'd nearly forgot. That
pick had fresh earth on it! [The boys were sick
with terror in a moment.] What busi-
ness has a pick and a shovel here? What business
with fresh earth on them? Who brought them here -- and where
are they gone? Have you heard anybody? -- seen
anybody? What! bury it again and leave them to come and
see the ground disturbed? Not exactly -- not
exactly. We'll take it to my den."
  "Why, of course! Might have thought of that be- fore.
You mean Number One?"
  "No -- Number Two -- under the cross. The
other place is bad -- too common."
  "All right. It's nearly dark enough to start."
  Injun Joe got up and went about from window
to window cautiously peeping out. Presently he
said:
  "Who could have brought those tools here? Do you
reckon they can be up-stairs?"
  The boys' breath forsook them. Injun Joe
put his hand on his knife, halted a moment,
undecided, and then turned toward the stairway. The
boys thought of the closet, but their strength was gone. The
steps came creaking up the stairs -- the intolerable
distress of the situation woke the stricken resolution
of the lads -- they were about to spring for the closet, when
there was a crash of rotten timbers and Injun Joe
landed on the ground amid the debris of the
ruined stairway. He gathered himself up cursing, and
his comrade said:
  "Now what's the use of all that? If it's
anybody, and they're up there, let them STAY there
-- who cares? If they want to jump down, now, and
get into trouble, who objects? It will be dark in
fifteen minutes -- and then let them follow us if
they want to. I'm willing. In my opinion,
whoever hove those things in here caught a sight of us and
took us for ghosts or devils or some- thing. I'll
bet they're running yet."
  Joe grumbled awhile; then he agreed with his friend
that what daylight was left ought to be economized in
getting things ready for leaving. Shortly afterward they
slipped out of the house in the deepening twilight, and
moved toward the river with their precious box.
  Tom and Huck rose up, weak but vastly
relieved, and stared after them through the chinks between the logs
of the house. Follow? Not they. They were content to reach
ground again without broken necks, and take the townward
track over the hill. They did not talk much. They
were too much absorbed in hating themselves -- hating the
ill luck that made them take the spade and the pick
there. But for that, Injun Joe never would have
suspected. He would have hidden the silver
with the gold to wait there till his "revenge" was
satisfied, and then he would have had the mis- fortune
to find that money turn up missing. Bitter, bitter
luck that the tools were ever brought there!
  They resolved to keep a lookout for that
Spaniard when he should come to town spying out for chances
to do his revengeful job, and follow him to "Number
Two," wherever that might be. Then a ghastly thought
occurred to Tom.
  "Revenge? What if he means US,
Huck!"
  "Oh, don't!" said Huck, nearly fainting.
  They talked it all over, and as they entered town
they agreed to believe that he might possibly mean
somebody else -- at least that he might at least
mean nobody but Tom, since only Tom had
testified.
  Very, very small comfort it was to Tom to be alone in
danger! Company would be a palpable improve-
ment, he thought.
  CHAPTER XXVII
  THE adventure of the day mightily tor-
  mented Tom's dreams that night. Four
  times he had his hands on that rich
treasure and four times it wasted to
  nothingness in his fingers as sleep for -
  sook him and wakefulness brought back
  the hard reality of his misfortune. As he lay in
the early morning recalling the incidents of his great
ad- venture, he noticed that they seemed
curiously subdued and far away -- somewhat as if
they had happened in another world, or in a time long
gone by. Then it oc- curred to him that the great
adventure itself must be a dream! There was one very strong
argument in favor of this idea -- namely, that the
quantity of coin he had seen was too vast to be
real. He had never seen as much as fifty dollars
in one mass before, and he was like all boys of his age
and station in life, in that he imagined that all
references to "hundreds" and "thou- sands" were mere
fanciful forms of speech, and that no such sums really
existed in the world. He never had supposed for a moment
that so large a sum as a hun- dred dollars was to be
found in actual money in any one's possession.
If his notions of hidden treasure had been
analyzed, they would have been found to consist of a handful of
real dimes and a bushel of vague, splen- did,
ungraspable dollars.
  But the incidents of his adventure grew sensibly
sharper and clearer under the attrition of thinking
them over, and so he presently found himself leaning to the
impression that the thing might not have been a dream, after
all. This uncertainty must be swept away. He
would snatch a hurried breakfast and go and find
Huck. Huck was sitting on the gunwale of a
flatboat, list- lessly dangling his feet in the
water and looking very melancholy. Tom concluded
to let Huck lead up to the subject. If he did
not do it, then the adventure would be proved to have been
only a dream.
  "Hello, Huck!"
  "Hello, yourself."
  Silence, for a minute.
  "Tom, if we'd 'a' left the blame
tools at the dead tree, we'd 'a' got the
money. Oh, ain't it awful!"
  "'Tain't a dream, then, 'tain't a dream!
Somehow I most wish it was. Dog'd if I
don't, Huck."
  "What ain't a dream?"
  "Oh, that thing yesterday. I been half thinking it
was."
  "Dream! If them stairs hadn't broke down
you'd 'a' seen how much dream it was! I've had
dreams enough all night -- with that patch-eyed
Spanish devil going for me all through 'em --
rot him!"
  "No, not rot him. FIND him! Track the
money!"
  "Tom, we'll never find him. A feller
don't have only one chance for such a pile -- and that
one's lost. I'd feel mighty shaky if I was
to see him, anyway."
  "Well, so'd I; but I'd like to see him,
anyway -- and track him out -- to his Number
Two."
  "Number Two -- yes, that's it. I been
thinking 'bout that. But I can't make nothing out of it.
What do you reckon it is?"
  "I dono. It's too deep. Say, Huck
-- maybe it's the number of a house!"
  "Goody! ''' No, Tom, that ain't it. If it
is, it ain't in this one-horse town. They ain't no
numbers here."
  "Well, that's so. Lemme think a minute. Here
-- it's the number of a room -- in a tavern, you
know!"
  "Oh, that's the trick! They ain't only two
taverns. We can find out quick."
"You stay here, Huck, till I come."
  Tom was off at once. He did not care to have
Huck's company in public places. He was gone
half an hour. He found that in the best tavern,
No. 2 had long been occupied by a young lawyer, and
was still so occupied. In the less ostentatious house,
No. 2 was a mystery. The tavern-keeper's young
son said it was kept locked all the time, and he never
saw any- body go into it or come out of it except
at night; he did not know any particular reason for
this state of things; had had some little curiosity, but it
was rather feeble; had made the most of the mystery by enter-
taining himself with the idea that that room was "ha'nted"; had
noticed that there was a light in there the night before.
  "That's what I've found out, Huck. I
reckon that's the very No. 2 we're after."
  "I reckon it is, Tom. Now what you going
to do?"
  "Lemme think."
  Tom thought a long time. Then he said:
  "I'll tell you. The back door of that No.
2 is the door that comes out into that little close alley
between the tavern and the old rattle trap of a brick
store. Now you get hold of all the door-keys you
can find, and I'll nip all of auntie's, and the first
dark night we'll go there and try 'em. And
mind you, keep a lookout for Injun Joe, because he
said he was going to drop into town and spy around once more
for a chance to get his revenge. If you see him, you just
follow him; and if he don't go to that No. 2, that
ain't the place."
  "Lordy, I don't want to foller him by myself!"
  "Why, it'll be night, sure. He mightn't
ever see you -- and if he did, maybe he'd never
think anything."
  "Well, if it's pretty dark I reckon
I'll track him. I dono -- I dono.
I'll try."
  "You bet I'll follow him, if it's dark,
Huck. Why, he might 'a' found out he couldn't
get his revenge, and be going right after that money."
  "It's so, Tom, it's so. I'll foller him;
I will, by jingoes!"
  "Now you're TALKING! Don't you ever weaken,
Huck, and I won't."
  CHAPTER XXVIII
  THAT night Tom and Huck were ready
  for their adventure. They hung about
  the neighborhood of the tavern until
  after nine, one watching the alley at a
distance and the other the tavern door.
  Nobody entered the alley or left it; no-
  body resembling the Spaniard entered or left
the tavern door. The night promised to be a fair
one; so Tom went home with the understanding that if a
consider- able degree of darkness came on, Huck
was to come and "maow," whereupon he would slip out and try the
keys. But the night remained clear, and Huck
closed his watch and retired to bed in an empty
sugar hogshead about twelve.
  Tuesday the boys had the same ill luck. Also
Wednesday. But Thursday night promised better.
Tom slipped out in good season with his aunt's old
tin lantern, and a large towel to blindfold it with. He
hid the lantern in Huck's sugar hogshead and the
watch began. An hour before midnight the tavern
closed up and its lights (the only ones thereabouts) were
put out. No Spaniard had been seen. Nobody
had entered or left the alley. Everything was auspi-
cious. The blackness of darkness reigned, the
perfect stillness was interrupted only by occasional
mutterings of distant thunder.
  Tom got his lantern, lit it in the hogshead,
wrapped it closely in the towel, and the two
adventurers crept in the gloom toward the tavern.
Huck stood sentry and Tom felt his
way into the alley. Then there was a season of waiting
anxiety that weighed upon Huck's spirits like a
mountain. He began to wish he could see a flash from
the lantern -- it would frighten him, but it would at least
tell him that Tom was alive yet. It seemed
hours since Tom had disappeared. Surely he must
have fainted; maybe he was dead; maybe his heart had
burst under terror and excitement. In his uneasiness
Huck found himself drawing closer and closer to the
alley; fearing all sorts of dreadful things, and
momentarily expecting some catastrophe to happen that
would take away his breath. There was not much to take
away, for he seemed only able to inhale it
by thimblefuls, and his heart would soon wear itself out, the
way it was beating. Suddenly there was a flash of light
and Tom came tearing by him:
  .
  "Run!" said he; "run, for your life!"
  He needn't have repeated it; once was enough;
Huck was making thirty or forty miles an hour
before the repetition was uttered. The boys never stopped
till they reached the shed of a deserted slaughter-
house at the lower end of the village. Just as they got
within its shelter the storm burst and the rain poured down.
As soon as Tom got his breath he said:
  "Huck, it was awful! I tried two of the keys,
just as soft as I could; but they seemed to make such a
power of racket that I couldn't hardly get my
breath I was so scared. They wouldn't turn in the
lock, either. Well, without noticing what I was
doing, I took hold of the knob, and open comes the
door! It warn't locked! I hopped in, and
shook off the towel, and, GREAT CAESAR'S
GHOST!"
  "What! -- what'd you see, Tom?"
  "Huck, I most stepped onto Injun Joe's
hand!"
  "No!"
  "Yes! He was lying there, sound asleep on the
floor, with his old patch on his eye and his arms
spread out."
  "Lordy, what did you do? Did he wake up?"
  "No, never budged. Drunk, I reckon. I
just grabbed that towel and started!"
  "I'd never 'a' thought of the towel, I bet!"
  "Well, I would. My aunt would make me
mighty sick if I lost it."
  "Say, Tom, did you see that box?"
  "Huck, I didn't wait to look around. I
didn't see the box, I didn't see the
cross. I didn't see anything but a bottle and a
tin cup on the floor by Injun Joe; yes, I
saw two barrels and lots more bottles in the
room. Don't you see, now, what's the matter with
that ha'nted room?"
  "How?"
  "Why, it's ha'nted with whiskey! Maybe
ALL the Temperance Taverns have got a ha'nted
room, hey, Huck?"
  "Well, I reckon maybe that's so. Who'd
'a' thought such a thing? But say, Tom, now's a
mighty good time to get that box, if Injun Joe's
drunk."
  "It is, that! You try it!"
  Huck shu.ered.
  "Well, no -- I reckon not."
  "And I reckon not, Huck. Only one
bottle along- side of Injun Joe ain't enough.
If there'd been three, he'd be drunk enough and I'd
do it."
  There was a long pause for reflection, and then
Tom said:
  "Lookyhere, Huck, less not try that thing any
more till we know Injun Joe's not in there. It's
too scary. Now, if we watch every night,
we'll be dead sure to see him go out, some time or
other, and then we'll snatch that box quicker'n
lightning."
  "Well, I'm agreed. I'll watch the whole
night long, and I'll do it every night, too, if
you'll do the other part of the job."
  "All right, I will. All you got to do is to trot
up Hooper Street a block and maow -- and if
I'm asleep, you throw some gravel at the window and
that'll fetch me."
  "Agreed, and good as wheat!"
  "Now, Huck, the storm's over, and I'll go
home. It'll begin to be daylight in a couple of
hours. You go back and watch that long, will you?"
  "I said I would, Tom, and I will. I'll
ha'nt that tavern every night for a year! I'll sleep
all day and I'll stand watch all night."
  "That's all right. Now, where you going to sleep?"
  "In Ben Rogers' hayloft. He lets me,
and so does his pap's nigger man, Uncle Jake.
I tote water for Uncle Jake whenever he
wants me to, and any time I ask him he gives
me a little something to eat if he can spare it. That's a
mighty good nigger, Tom. He likes me, becuz
I don't ever act as if I was above him.
Sometime I've set right down and eat WITH HIM. But
you needn't tell that. A body's got to do things when
he's awful hungry he wouldn't want to do as a
steady thing."
  "Well, if I don't want you in the daytime,
I'll let you sleep. I won't come bothering
around. Any time you see something's up, in the night,
just skip right around and maow."
  CHAPTER XXIX
  THE first thing Tom heard on Friday
  morning was a glad piece of news --
  Judge Thatcher's family had come back
  to town the night before. Both Injun
  Joe and the treasure sunk into second-
  ary importance for a moment, and Becky
  took the chief place in the boy's interest. He
saw her and they had an exhausting good time playing
"hi- spy" and "gully-keeper" with a crowd of their
school- mates. The day was completed and crowned in a
pe- culiarly satisfactory way: Becky
teased her mother to appoint the next day for the
long-promised and long- delayed picnic, and she
consented. The child's delight was boundless; and Tom's not
more moderate. The invitations were sent out before sunset,
and straightway the young folks of the village
were thrown into a fever of preparation and pleasurable
anticipation. Tom's excitement enabled him to keep
awake until a pretty late hour, and he had
good hopes of hearing Huck's "maow," and of having his
treasure to astonish Becky and the picnickers with,
next day; but he was dis- appointed. No signal
came that night.
  Morning came, eventually, and by ten or eleven
o'clock a giddy and rollicking company were gathered at
Judge Thatcher's, and everything was ready for a start.
It was not the custom for elderly people to mar the picnics
with their presence. The children were considered safe enough under the
wings of a few young ladies of eighteen and a few young
gentlemen of twenty-three or thereabouts. The old
steam ferry- boat was chartered for the occasion;
presently the gay throng filed up the main street
laden with provision- baskets. Sid was sick and
had to miss the fun; Mary remained at home
to entertain him. The last thing Mrs. Thatcher said
to Becky, was:
  "You'll not get back till late. Perhaps you'd
better stay all night with some of the girls that live
near the ferry-landing, child."
  "Then I'll stay with Susy Harper, mamma."
"Very well. And mind and behave yourself and
don't be any trouble."
  Presently, as they tripped along, Tom said
to Becky:
  "Say -- I'll tell you what we'll do.
'Stead of going to Joe Harper's we'll climb
right up the hill and stop at the Widow Douglas'.
She'll have ice-cream! She has it most every day --
dead loads of it. And she'll be awful glad to have
us."
  "Oh, that will be fun!"
  Then Becky reflected a moment and said:
  "But what will mamma say?"
  "How'll she ever know?"
  The girl turned the idea over in her mind, and
said reluctantly:
  "I reckon it's wrong -- but --"
  "But shucks! Your mother won't know, and so what's
the harm? All she wants is that you'll be safe; and
I bet you she'd 'a' said go there if she'd
'a' thought of it. I know she would!"
  The Widow Douglas' splendid hospitality was
a tempting bait. It and Tom's persuasions
presently carried the day. So it was decided to say
nothing anybody about the night's programme.
Presently it occurred to Tom that maybe
Huck might come this very night and give the signal.
The thought took a deal of the spirit out of his
anticipations. Still he could not bear to give up the
fun at Widow Douglas'. And why should he give
it up, he reasoned -- the signal did not come the
night before, so why should it be any more likely to come
tonight? The sure fun of the evening outweighed the
uncertain treasure; and, boy- like, he determined
to yield to the stronger inclination and not allow himself to think
of the box of money another time that day.
  Three miles below town the ferryboat stopped at
the mouth of a woody hollow and tied up. The crowd
swarmed ashore and soon the forest distances and craggy
heights echoed far and near with shoutings and laughter.
All the different ways of getting hot and tired were
gone through with, and by-and-by the rovers straggled back
to camp fortified with responsible appetites, and then
the destruction of the good things began. After the feast there
was a refreshing season of rest and chat in the shade of
spreading oaks. By- and comby somebody shouted:
  "Who's ready for the cave?"
  Everybody was. Bundles of candles were
procured, and straightway there was a general scamper
up the hill. The mouth of the cave was up the
hillside -- an opening shaped like a letter
A. Its massive oaken door stood unbarred.
Within was a small chamber, chilly as an
ice-house, and walled by Nature with solid
limestone that was dewy with a cold sweat. It was
romantic and mysterious to stand here in the deep gloom
and look out upon the green valley shining in the sun.
But the impressiveness of the situation quickly wore
off, and the romping began again. The moment a candle was
lighted there was a general rush upon the owner of it; a
struggle and a gallant defence followed, but the candle
was soon knocked down or blown out, and then there was a
glad clamor of laughter and a new chase. But all
things have an end. By-and- by the procession went filing
down the steep descent of the main avenue, the
flickering rank of lights dimly revealing the lofty
walls of rock almost to their point of junction sixty
feet overhead. This main avenue was not more than eight
or ten feet wide. Every few steps other lofty and
still narrower crevices branched from it on either hand --
for McDougal's cave was but a vast labyrinth of
crooked aisles that ran into each other and out again and
led nowhere. It was said that one might wander days and
nights together through its intricate tangle of rifts
and chasms, and never find the end of the cave; and that he
might go down, and down, and still down, into the
earth, and it was just the same -- labyrinth under
labyrinth, and no end to any of them. No man
"knew" the cave. That was an impossible thing. Most
of the young men knew a portion of it, and it was not
customary to venture much beyond this known portion. Tom
Sawyer knew as much of the cave as any one.
  The procession moved along the main avenue some
three-quarters of a mile, and then groups and couples
began to slip aside into branch avenues, fly
along the dismal corridors, and take each other
by surprise at points where the corridors joined
again. Parties were able to elude each other for the space
of half an hour without going beyond the "known" ground.
  By-and-by, one group after another came straggling
back to the mouth of the cave, panting, hilarious,
smeared from head to foot with tallow drippings, daubed
with clay, and entirely delighted with the success of the
day. Then they were astonished to find that they had been
taking no note of time and that night was about at hand.
The clanging bell had been calling for half an
hour. However, this sort of close to the day's
adventures was romantic and there- fore
satisfactory. When the ferryboat with her wild
freight pushed into the stream, nobody cared sixpence
for the wasted time but the captain of the craft.
  Huck was already upon his watch when the ferry-
boat's lights went glinting past the wharf. He
heard no noise on board, for the young people were as sub-
dued and still as people usually are who are nearly tired
to death. He wondered what boat it was, and why she
did not stop at the wharf -- and then he dropped her
out of his mind and put his attention upon his business. The
night was growing cloudy and dark. Ten o'clock came,
and the noise of vehicles ceased, scattered lights
began to wink out, all straggling foot- passengers
disappeared, the village betook itself to its slumbers
and left the small watcher alone with the silence and the
ghosts. Eleven o'clock came, and the tavern lights were
put out; darkness everywhere, now. Huck waited what
seemed a weary long time, but noth- ing happened.
his faith was weakening. Was there any use? Was there
really any use? Why not give it up and turn in?
  A noise fell upon his ear. He was all
attention in an instant. The alley door closed
softly. He sprang to the corner of the brick
store. The next moment two men brushed by him, and
one seemed to have something under his arm. It must be that box!
So they were going to remove the treasure. Why call
Tom now? It would be absurd -- the men would get
away with the box and never be found again. No,
he would stick to their wake and follow them; he would
trust to the darkness for security from discovery. So
communing with himself, Huck stepped out and glided along
behind the men, cat-like, with bare feet, allowing them
to keep just far enough ahead not to be invisible.
  They moved up the river street three blocks,
then turned to the left up a cross-street. They
went straight ahead, then, until they came to the
path that led up Cardiff Hill; this they took.
They passed by the old Welshman's house,
half-way up the hill, without hesi- tating, and still
climbed upward. Good, thought Huck, they will bury
it in the old quarry. But they never stopped at the
quarry. They passed on, up the sum- mit. They
plunged into the narrow path between the tall sumach
bushes, and were at once hidden in the gloom. Huck
closed up and shortened his distance, now, for they would
never be able to see him. He trotted along awhile;
then slackened his pace, fearing he was gaining too
fast; moved on a piece, then stopped altogether;
listened; no sound; none, save that he seemed to hear
the beating of his own heart. The hooting of an owl
came over the hill -- ominous sound! But no
footsteps. Heavens, was everything lost! He was about
to spring with winged feet, when a man cleared
his throat not four feet from him! Huck's heart
shot into his throat, but he swallowed it again; and then
he stood there shaking as if a dozen agues had
taken charge of him at once, and so weak that he thought
he must surely fall to the ground. He knew where
he was. He knew he was within five steps of the
stile leading into Widow Douglas' grounds. Very
well, he thought, let them bury it there; it won't
be hard to find.
  Now there was a voice -- a very low voice --
Injun Joe's:
  "Damn her, maybe she's got company --
there's lights, late as it is."
  "I can't see any."
  This was that stranger's voice -- the stranger of the
haunted house. A deadly chill went to Huck's
heart -- this, then, was the "revenge" job! his thought
was, to fly. Then he remembered that the Widow
Douglas had been kind to him more than once, and
maybe these men were going to murder her. He wished he
dared venture to warn her; but he knew he didn't
dare -- they might come and catch him. He thought all
this and more in the moment that elapsed between the stranger's
remark and Injun Joe's next -- which was --
"Because the bush is in your way. Now --
this way -- now you see, don't you?"
  "Yes. Well, there IS company there, I
reckon. Better give it up."
  "Give it up, and I just leaving this country forever!
Give it up and maybe never have another chance. I
tell you again, as I've told you before, I don't
care for her swag -- you may have it. But her husband
was rough on me -- many times he was rough on me --
and mainly he was the justice of the peace that jugged me
for a vagrant. And that ain't all. It ain't a
millionth part of it! He had me HORSEWHIPPED!
-- horsewhipped in front of the jail, like a nigger!
-- with all the town looking on! HORSEWHIPPED!
-- do you understand? He took advantage of me and
died. But I'll take it out of HER."
  "Oh, don't kill her! Don't do that!"
  "Kill? Who said anything about killing? I would
kill HIM if he was here; but not her. When you want
to get revenge on a woman you don't kill her
-- bosh! you go for her looks. You slit her
nostrils -- you notch her ears like a sow!"
  "ByGod, that's --"
  "Keep your opinion to yourself! It will be safest for
you. I'll tie her to the bed. If she bleeds
to death, is that my fault? I'll not cry,
if she does. My friend, you'll help me in this thing
-- for MY sake -- that's why you're here -- I
mightn't be able alone. If you flinch, I'll
kill you. Do you understand that? And if I have to kill you,
I'll kill her -- and then I reckon
nobody'll ever know much about who done this business."
  "Well, if it's got to be done, let's get
at it. The quicker the better -- I'm all in a
shiver."
  "Do it NOW? AND COMPANY there? Look here --
I'll get suspicious of you, first thing you know. No
-- we'll wait till the lights are out -- there's
no hurry."
  Huck felt that a silence was going to ensue -- a
thing still more awful than any amount of murderous talk;
so he held his breath and stepped gingerly back;
planted his foot carefully and firmly, after
balancing, one-legged, in a precarious way and almost
toppling over, first on one side and then on the other.
He took another step back, with the same
elaboration and the same risks; then another and
another, and -- a twig snapped under his foot! his
breath stopped and he listened. There was no sound -- the
stillness was perfect. his gratitude was
measureless. Now he turned in his
tracks, between the walls of sumach bushes --
turned himself as carefully as if he were a ship -- and
then stepped quickly but cautiously along. When he
emerged at the quarry he felt secure, and so he
picked up his nimble heels and flew. Down, down
he sped, till he reached the Welshman's. He
banged at the door, and presently the heads of the
old man and his two stalwart sons were thrust from
windows.
  "What's the row there? Who's banging? What do you
want?"
  "Let me in -- quick! I'll tell everything."
  "Why, who are you?"
  "Huckleberry Finn -- quick, let me in!"
  "Huckleberry Finn, indeed! It ain't a name
to open many doors, I judge! But let him in,
lads, and let's see what's the trouble."
  "Please don't ever tell I told you," were
Huck's first words when he got in. "Please
don't -- I'd be killed, sure -- but the
widow's been good friends to me sometimes, and I want
to tell -- I WILL tell if you'll promise you
won't ever say it was me."
  "ByGeorge, he HAS got something to tell,
or he wouldn't act so!" exclaimed the
old man; "out with it and nobody here'full ever tell,
lad."
  Three minutes later the old man and his sons,
well armed, were up the hill, and just entering the sumach
path on tiptoe, their weapons in their hands. Huck
accompanied them no further. He hid behind a great
bowlder and fell to listening. There was a lagging,
anxious silence, and then all of a sudden there was an
explosion of firearms and a cry.
  Huck waited for no particulars. He sprang
away and sped down the hill as fast as his legs could
carry him.
  CHAPTER XXX
  AS the earliest suspicion of dawn appeared
on Sunday morning, Huck came groping
  up the hill and rapped gently at the old
  Welshman's door. The inmates were
  asleep, but it was a sleep that was set on a
hair-trigger, on account of the exciting episode of the
night. A call came from a window:
  "Who's there!"
  Huck's scared voice answered in a low tone:
  "Please let me in! It's only Huck
Finn!"
"It's a name that can open this door night
or day, lad! -- and welcome!"
  These were strange words to the vagabond boy's
ears, and the pleasantest he had ever heard. He could
not recollect that the closing word had ever been
applied in his case before. The door was quickly
unlocked, and he entered. Huck was given a seat
and the old man and his brace of tall sons speedily
dressed themselves.
  "Now, my boy, I hope you're good and
hungry, because breakfast will be ready as soon as the
sun's up, and we'll have a piping hot one, too
-- make your- self easy about that! I and the boys
hoped you'd turn up and stop here last night."
  "I was awful scared," said Huck, "and I run.
I took out when the pistols went off, and I
didn't stop for three mile. I've come now becuz
I wanted to know about it, you know; and I come before
daylight becuz I didn't want to run across them
devils, even if they was dead."
  "Well, poor chap, you do look as if you'd had
a hard night of it -- but there's a bed here for you when
you've had your breakfast. No, they ain't dead,
lad -- we are sorry enough for that. You see we knew
right where to put our hands on them, by your de-
scription; so we crept along on
tiptoe till we got within fifteen feet of them
-- dark as a cellar that sumach path was -- and just then
I found I was going to sneeze. It was the meanest
kind of luck! I tried to keep it back, but no
use -- 'twas bound to come, and it did come! I was in
the lead with my pistol raised, and when the sneeze
started those scoundrels a-rustling to get out of the path,
I sung out, 'Fire boys!' and blazed away
at the place where the rustling was. So did the
boys. But they were off in a jiffy, those villains, and
we after them, down through the woods. I judge we
never touched them. They fired a shot apiece as they
started, but their bullets whizzed by and didn't do us
any harm. As soon as we lost the sound of their
feet we quit chasing, and went down and stirred up
the constables. They got a posse together, and went off
to guard the river bank, and as soon as it is light
the sheriff and a gang are going to beat up the woods.
My boys will be with them presently. I wish we had
some sort of description of those rascals --
'twd help a good deal. But you couldn't see what
they were like, in the dark, lad, I suppose?"
  "Oh yes; I saw them down-town and follered
them."
"Splendid! Describe them --
describe them, my boy!"
  "One's the old deaf and dumb Spaniard that's
ben around here once or twice, and t'other's a
mean-looking, ragged --"
  "That's enough, lad, we know the men! Hap- pened
on them in the woods back of the widow's one day, and
they slunk away. Off with you, boys, and tell the
sheriff -- get your breakfast tomorrow morning!"
  The Welshman's sons departed at once. As
they were leaving the room Huck sprang up and
exclaimed:
  "Oh, please don't tell ANY-BODY it was
me that blowed on them! Oh, please!"
  "All right if you say it, Huck, but you ought to have
the credit of what you did."
  "Oh no, no! Please don't tell!"
  When the young men were gone, the old Welshman said:
  "They won't tell -- and I won't. But why
don't you want it known?"
  Huck would not explain, further than to say that he
already knew too much about one of those men and would not have the
man know that he knew any- thing against him for the whole
world -- he would be killed for knowing it, sure.
  The old man promised secrecy once more, and
said:
  "How did you come to follow these fellows, lad?
were they looking suspicious?"
  Huck was silent while he framed a duly
cautious reply. Then he said:
  "Well, you see, I'm a kind of a hard lot,
-- least everybody says so, and I don't see
nothing agin it -- and sometimes I can't sleep much,
on account of think- ing about it and sort of trying
to strike out a new way of doing. That was the way of it
last night. I couldn't sleep, and so I come along
up-street 'bout midnight, a-turning it all
over, and when I got to that old shackly brick
store by the Temperance Tavern, I backed up agin
the wall to have another think. Well, just then along
comes these two chaps slipping along close by me, with
something under their arm, and I reckoned they'd stole it.
One was a-smoking, and t'other one wanted a light;
so they stopped right before me and the cigars lit up their
faces and I see that the big one was the deaf and dumb
Spaniard, by his white whiskers and the patch on his
eye, and t'other one was a rusty, ragged-looking
devil."
  "Could you see the rags by the light of the cigars?"
  This staggered Huck for a moment. Then he said:
"Well, I don't know -- but somehow it
seems as if I did."
  "Then they went on, and you --"
  "Follered 'em -- yes. That was it. I wanted
to see what was up -- they sneaked along so. I
dogged 'em to the widder's stile, and stood in the dark
and heard the ragged one beg for the widder, and the
Spaniard swear he'd spile her looks just as I
told you and your two --"
  "What! The DEAF AND DUMB man said all
that!"
  Huck had made another terrible mistake! He
was trying his best to keep the old man from getting the
faintest hint of who the Spaniard might be, and
yet his tongue seemed determined to get him into trouble
in spite of all he could do. He made several
efforts to creep out of his scrape, but the old man's
eye was upon him and he made blunder after blunder.
Pres- ently the Welshman said:
  "My boy, don't be afraid of me. I
wouldn't hurt a hair of your head for all the world.
No -- I'd pro- tect you -- I'd protect
you. This Spaniard is not deaf and dumb; you've let
that slip without intending it; you can't cover that up now.
You know something about that Spaniard that you want to keep
dark. Now trust me -- tell me what it
is, and trust me -- I won't betray you."
  Huck looked into the old man's honest eyes a
moment, then bent over and whispered in his ear:
  "'Tain't a Spaniard -- it's Injun
Joe!"
  The Welshman almost jumped out of his chair. In a
moment he said:
  "It's all plain enough, now. When you talked about
notching ears and slitting noses I judged that that was
your own embellishment, because white men don't take
that sort of revenge. But an Injun! That's a
different matter altogether."
  During breakfast the talk went on, and in the
course of it the old man said that the last thing which he and
his sons had done, before going to bed, was to get a
lantern and examine the stile and its vicinity for
marks of blood. They found none, but captured a
bulky bundle of --
  "Of WHAT?"
  If the words had been lightning they could not have leaped
with a more stunning suddenness from Huck's blanched lips.
his eyes were staring wide, now, and his breath suspended
-- waiting for the answer. The Welshman started --
stared in return -- three seconds -- five
seconds -- ten -- then replied:
  "Of burglar's tools. Why, what's the
MATTER with you?"
  Huck sank back, panting gently, but
deeply, un- utterably grateful. The
Welshman eyed him gravely, curiously -- and
presently said:
  "Yes, burglar's tools. That appears
to relieve you a good deal. But what did give you that
turn? What were YOU expecting we'd found?"
  Huck was in a close place -- the inquiring
eye was upon him -- he would have given anything for
material for a plausible answer -- nothing suggested
itself -- the inquiring eye was boring deeper and deeper
-- a sense- less reply offered -- there was no time
to weigh it, so at a venture he uttered it --
feebly:
  "Sunday-school books, maybe."
  Poor Huck was too distressed to smile, but the
old man laughed loud and joyously, shook up the
details of his anatomy from head to foot, and ended
by saying that such a laugh was money in a-man's
pocket, be- cause it cut down the doctor's
bill like everything. Then he added:
  "Poor old chap, you're white and jaded -- you
ain't well a bit -- no wonder you're
a little flighty and off your balance. But you'll come out
of it. Rest and sleep will fetch you out all right, I
hope."
  Huck was irritated to think he had been such a
goose and betrayed such a suspicious excitement,
for he had dropped the idea that the parcel brought from the
tavern was the treasure, as soon as he had heard the
talk at the widow's stile. He had only thought it
was not the treasure, however -- he had not known that it
wasn't -- and so the suggestion of a captured
bundle was too much for his self-possession. But on
the whole he felt glad the little episode had
happened, for now he knew beyond all question that that
bundle was not THE bundle, and so his mind was at
rest and exceedingly comfortable. In fact, everything
seemed to be drifting just in the right direction, now; the
treasure must be still in No. 2, the men would be
captured and jailed that day, and he and Tom could
seize the gold that night without any trouble or any
fear of interruption.
  Just as breakfast was completed there was a knock at
the door. Huck jumped for a hiding-place, for he
had no mind to be connected even remotely with the
late event. The Welshman admitted several
ladies and gentlemen, among them the Widow
Douglas, and noticed that groups of citizens were
climbing up the hill -- to stare at the stile. So the
news had spread. The Welshman had to tell the
story of the night to the visitors. The widow's
gratitude for her preser- vation was outspoken.
  "Don't say a word about it, madam. There's
another that you're more beholden to than you are to me and my
boys, maybe, but he don't allow me to tell his
name. We wouldn't have been there but for him."
  Of course this excited a curiosity so vast that it
almost belittled the main matter -- but the Welshman
allowed it to eat into the vitals of his visitors, and
through them be transmitted to the whole town, for he
refused to part with his secret. When all else had
been learned, the widow said:
  "I went to sleep reading in bed and slept
straight through all that noise. Why didn't you come and
wake me?"
  "We judged it warn't worth while. Those
fellows warn't likely to come again -- they hadn't
any tools left to work with, and what was the use of
waking you up and scaring you to death? My three negro
men stood guard at your house all the rest of the
night. They've just come back."
More visitors came, and the story had
to be told and retold for a couple of hours more.
  There was no Sabbath-school during day-school
vacation, but everybody was early at church. The
stirring event was well canvassed. News came that
not a sign of the two villains had been yet
discovered. When the sermon was finished, Judge
Thatcher's wife dropped alongside of Mrs.
Harper as she moved down the aisle with the crowd and
said:
  "Is my Becky going to sleep all day? I just
ex- pected she would be tired to death."
  "Your Becky?"
  "Yes," with a startled look -- "didn't she
stay with you last night?"
  "Why, no."
  Mrs. Thatcher turned pale, and sank into a
pew, just as Aunt Polly, talking briskly with a
friend, passed by. Aunt Polly said:
  "Good-morning, Mrs. Thatcher. Good-morning,
Mrs. Harper. I've got a boy that's turned
up missing. I reckon my Tom stayed at your
house last night -- one of you. And now he's
afraid to come to church. I've got to settle with
him."
Mrs. Thatcher shook her head feebly
and turned paler than ever.
  "He didn't stay with us," said Mrs. Harper,
be- ginning to look uneasy. A marked anxiety
came into Aunt Polly's face.
  "Joe Harper, have you seen my Tom this morning?"
  "No'm."
  "When did you see him last?"
  Joe tried to remember, but was not sure he could
say. The people had stopped moving out of church.
Whispers passed along, and a boding uneasiness
took possession of every countenance. Children were anx-
iously questioned, and young teachers. They all said they had
not noticed whether Tom and Becky were on board the
ferryboat on the homeward trip; it was dark; no
one thought of inquiring if any one was missing. One
young man finally blurted out his fear that they were still in the
cave! Mrs. Thatcher swooned away. Aunt
Polly fell to crying and wringing her hands.
  The alarm swept from lip to lip, from group
to group, from street to street, and within five minutes
the bells were wildly clanging and the whole town was
up! The Cardiff Hill episode sank
into instant in- significance, the burglars were
forgotten, horses were saddled, skiffs were manned, the
ferryboat ordered out, and before the horror was
half an hour old, two hundred men were pouring
down highroad and river toward the cave.
  All the long afternoon the village seemed empty and
dead. Many women visited Aunt Polly and
Mrs. Thatcher and tried to comfort them. They cried with
them, too, and that was still better than words. All the
tedious night the town waited for news; but when the
morning dawned at last, all the word that came was,
"Send more candles -- and send food." Mrs.
Thatcher was almost crazed; and Aunt Polly, also.
Judge Thatcher sent messages of hope and
encourage- ment from the cave, but they conveyed no real
cheer.
  The old Welshman came home toward daylight,
spattered with candle-grease, smeared with clay, and
almost worn out. He found Huck still in the bed that had
been provided for him, and delirious with fever. The
physicians were all at the cave, so the Widow
Douglas came and took charge of the patient. She
said she would do her best by him, because, whether he was good,
bad, or indifferent, he was the Lord's, and nothing that
was the Lord's was a thing to be neglected. The
Welshman said Huck had good spots in him, and the
widow said:
"You can depend on it. That's the Lord's
mark. He don't leave it off. He never does.
Puts it some- where on every creature that comes from his
hands."
  Early in the forenoon parties of jaded men began
to straggle into the village, but the strongest of the
citizens continued searching. All the news that could be
gained was that remotenesses of the cavern were being
ransacked that had never been visited before; that every
corner and crevice was going to be thoroughly searched;
that wherever one wandered through the maze of passages,
lights were to be seen flitting hither and thither in the
distance, and shoutings and pistol- shots sent their hollow
reverberations to the ear down the sombre aisles. In
one place, far from the section usually traversed
by tourists, the names "BECKY and TOM" had been
found traced upon the rocky wall with candle-smoke,
and near at hand a grease-soiled bit of ribbon.
Mrs. Thatcher recognized the ribbon and cried
over it. She said it was the last relic she should ever have
of her child; and that no other memorial of her could ever be
so precious, because this one parted latest from the living
body before the awful death came. Some said that now and
then, in the cave, a far-away speck of light would
glimmer, and then a glorious shout would burst forth and a
score of men go trooping down the echoing
aisle -- and then a sickening disappointment always
followed; the children were not there; it was only a searcher's
light.
  Three dreadful days and nights dragged their
tedious hours along, and the village sank into a
hopeless stupor. No one had heart for anything. The
acci- dental discovery, just made, that the
proprietor of the Temperance Tavern kept
liquor on his premises, scarcely fluttered the
public pulse, tremendous as the fact was. In
a lucid interval, Huck feebly led up to the
subject of taverns, and finally asked -- dimly
dreading the worst -- if anything had been discovered
at the Temperance Tavern since he had been ill.
  "Yes," said the widow.
  Huck started up in bed, wild-eyed:
  "What? What was it?"
  "Liquor! -- and the place has been shut up.
Lie down, child -- what a turn you did give
me!"
  "Only tell me just one thing -- only just one --
please! Was it Tom Sawyer that found it?"
  The widow burst into tears. "Hush, hush, child,
hush! I've told you before, you must NOT talk. You
are very, very sick!"
  Then nothing but liquor had been found; there would have
been a great powwow if it had been the gold. So the
treasure was gone forever -- gone forever! But what could
she be crying about? Curious that she should cry.
  These thoughts worked their dim way through Huck's
mind, and under the weariness they gave him he fell
asleep. The widow said to herself:
  "There -- he's asleep, poor wreck. Tom
Sawyer find it! Pity but somebody could find Tom
Sawyer! Ah, there ain't many left, now, that's
got hope enough, or strength enough, either, to go on
searching."
  CHAPTER XXXI
  NOW to return to Tom and Becky's share
  in the picnic. They tripped along the
  murky aisles with the rest of the com-
  pany, visiting the familiar wonders of the cave
-- wonders dubbed with rather over-
  descriptive names, such as "The Draw-
  ing-Room," "The Cathedral," "Aladdin's
Palace," and so on. Presently the
hide-and-seek frolicking began, and Tom and
Becky engaged in it with zeal until the exertion
began to grow a trifle wearisome; then they wandered
down a sinuous avenue holding their candles
aloft and reading the tangled web-work of names,
dates, post-office addresses, and mottoes with which
the rocky walls had been frescoed (in
candle-smoke). Still drifting along and talking, they
scarcely noticed that they were now in a part of the cave
whose walls were not frescoed. They smoked their own
names under an overhanging shelf and moved on.
Presently they came to a place where a little stream
of water, trickling over a ledge and carrying a
limestone sediment with it, had, in the slow-dragging
ages, formed a laced and ruffled Niagara in gleaming
and imperishable stone. Tom squeezed his small
body behind it in order to illuminate it for Becky's
gratification. He found that it curtained a sort of
steep natural stairway which was enclosed between narrow
walls, and at once the ambi- tion to be a
discoverer seized him. Becky responded to his
call, and they made a smoke-mark for future
guidance, and started upon their quest. They wound this way
and that, far down into the secret depths of the cave,
made another mark, and branched off in search of
novelties to tell the upper world about. In one
place they found a spacious cavern, from whose ceiling
depended a multitude of shining stalactites of the
length and circumference of a man's leg;
they walked all about it, wondering and admiring, and
presently left it by one of the numerous passages that
opened into it. This shortly brought them to a be- witching
spring, whose basin was incrusted with a frostwork of
glittering crystals; it was in the midst of a cavern
whose walls were supported by many fan- tastic
pillars which had been formed by the joining of great
stalactites and stalagmites together, the result of the
ceaseless water-drip of centuries. Under the roof
vast knots of bats had packed themselves together,
thousands in a bunch; the lights disturbed the creat-
ures and they came flocking down by hundreds,
squeaking and darting furiously at the candles. Tom
knew their ways and the danger of this sort of conduct.
He seized Becky's hand and hurried her into the first
corridor that offered; and none too soon, for a bat
struck Becky's light out with its wing while she was
passing out of the cavern. The bats chased the children a good
distance; but the fugitives plunged into every new
passage that offered, and at last got rid of the
perilous things. Tom found a subterranean lake,
shortly, which stretched its dim length away until
its shape was lost in the shadows. He wanted
to explore its borders, but concluded that it would be
best to sit down and rest awhile, first.
Now, for the first time, the deep stillness of the place
laid a clammy hand upon the spirits of the children. Becky
said:
  "Why, I didn't notice, but it seems ever so
long since I heard any of the others."
  "Come to think, Becky, we are away down below
them -- and I don't know how far away north, or
south, or east, or whichever it is. We couldn't
hear them here."
  Becky grew apprehensive.
  "I wonder how long we've been down here,
Tom? We better start back."
  "Yes, I reckon we better. P'raps we
better."
  "Can you find the way, Tom? It's all a
mixed-up crookedness to me."
  "I reckon I could find it -- but then the bats.
If they put our candles out it will be an awful fix.
Let's try some other way, so as not to go through there."
  "Well. But I hope we won't get lost.
It would be so awful!" and the girl shuddered at the thought
of the dreadful possibilities.
  They started through a corridor, and traversed it in
silence a long way, glancing at each new opening,
to see if there was anything familiar about the
look of it; but they were all strange. Every time Tom
made an examination, Becky would watch his face for
an encouraging sign, and he would say cheerily:
  "Oh, it's all right. This ain't the one, but
we'll come to it right away!"
  But he felt less and less hopeful with each
failure, and presently began to turn off
into diverging avenues at sheer random, in desperate
hope of finding the one that was wanted. He still said it was
"all right," but there was such a leaden dread at his
heart that the words had lost their ring and sounded just as if
he had said, "All is lost!" Becky clung
to his side in an anguish of fear, and tried hard
to keep back the tears, but they would come. At last
she said:
  "Oh, Tom, never mind the bats, let's go
back that way! We seem to get worse and worse
off all the time."
  "Listen!" said he.
  Profound silence; silence so deep that even their
breathings were conspicuous in the hush. Tom shout- ed.
The call went echoing down the empty aisles and
died out in the distance in a faint sound that resembled a
ripple of mocking laughter.
"Oh, don't do it again, Tom, it is
too horrid," said Becky.
  "It is horrid, but I better, Becky; they
might hear us, you know," and he shouted again.
  The "might" was even a chillier horror than the
ghostly laughter, it so confessed a perishing hope.
The children stood still and listened; but there was no result.
Tom turned upon the back track at once, and
hurried his steps. It was but a little while be- fore a
certain indecision in his manner revealed an- other
fearful fact to Becky -- he could not find his way
back!
  "Oh, Tom, you didn't make any marks!"
  "Becky, I was such a fool! Such a fool!
I never thought we might want to come back! No --
I can't find the way. It's all mixed up."
  "Tom, Tom, we're lost! we're lost! We
never can get out of this awful place! Oh, why
DID we ever leave the others!"
  She sank to the ground and burst into such a frenzy of
crying that Tom was appalled with the idea that she might
die, or lose her reason. He sat down by her and
put his arms around her; she buried her face in his
bosom, she clung to him, she poured out her
terrors, her unavailing regrets, and the far echoes
turned them all to jeering laughter. Tom
begged her to pluck up hope again, and she said she could
not. He fell to blaming and abusing himself for getting
her into this miserable situation; this had a better
effect. She said she would try to hope again, she would
get up and follow wherever he might lead if only
he would not talk like that any more. For he was no more
to blame than she, she said.
  So they moved on again -- aimlessly -- simply
at random -- all they could do was to move, keep
moving. For a little while, hope made a show of
reviving -- not with any reason to back it, but only
because it is its nature to revive when the spring has
not been taken out of it by age and familiarity with
failure.
  By-and-by Tom took Becky's candle and
blew it out. This economy meant so much! Words were not
needed. Becky understood, and her hope died again.
She knew that Tom had a whole candle and three or
four pieces in his pockets -- yet he must
econ- omize.
  By-and-by, fatigue began to assert its
claims; the children tried to pay attention, for it was
dreadful to think of sitting down when time was grown to be
so precious, moving, in some direction, in any
direction, was at least progress and might
bear fruit; but to sit down was to invite death and
shorten its pursuit.
  At last Becky's frail limbs refused
to carry her farther. She sat down. Tom rested with
her, and they talked of home, and the friends there, and the
comfortable beds and, above all, the light! Becky
cried, and Tom tried to think of some way of comfort-
ing her, but all his encouragements were grown thread-
bare with use, and sounded like sarcasms. Fatigue
bore so heavily upon Becky that she drowsed off
to sleep. Tom was grateful. He sat looking
into her drawn face and saw it grow smooth and
natural under the influence of pleasant dreams; and
by-and-by a smile dawned and rested there. The
peaceful face reflected somewhat of peace and healing
into his own spirit, and his thoughts wandered away to bygone
times and dreamy memories. While he was deep in
his musings, Becky woke up with a breezy little
laugh -- but it was stricken dead upon her lips, and a
groan followed it.
  "Oh, how COULD I sleep! I wish I never,
never had waked! No! No, I don't, Tom!
Don't look so! I won't say it again."
  "I'm glad you've slept, Becky; you'll
feel rested, now, and we'll find the way
out."
  "We can try, Tom; but I've seen such a
beautiful country in my dream. I reckon we are
going there."
  "Maybe not, maybe not. Cheer up, Becky, and
let's go on trying."
  They rose up and wandered along, hand in hand and
hopeless. They tried to estimate how long they had
been in the cave, but all they knew was that it seemed
days and weeks, and yet it was plain that this could not be,
for their candles were not gone yet. A long time after this
-- they could not tell how long -- Tom said they must
go softly and listen for dripping water -- they must
find a spring. They found one presently, and Tom
said it was time to rest again. Both were cruelly tired,
yet Becky said she thought she could go a little farther.
She was surprised to hear Tom dissent. She could not
understand it. They sat down, and Tom fastened his candle
to the wall in front of them with some clay. Thought was
soon busy; nothing was said for some time. Then Becky
broke the silence:
  "Tom, I am so hungry!"
  Tom took something out of his pocket.
  "Do you remember this?" said he.
Becky almost smiled.
  "It's our wedding-cake, Tom."
  "Yes -- I wish it was as big as a barrel, for
it's all we've got."
  "I saved it from the picnic for us to dream on,
Tom, the way grown-up people do with wedding- cake --
but it'll be our --"
  She dropped the sentence where it was. Tom
divided the cake and Becky ate with good
appetite, while Tom nibbled at his moiety.
There was abun- dance of cold water to finish the feast
with. By-and-by Becky suggested that they move on
again. Tom was silent a moment. Then he said:
  "Becky, can you bear it if I tell you something?"
  Becky's face paled, but she thought she could.
  "Well, then, Becky, we must stay here, where
there's water to drink. That little piece is our last
candle!"
  Becky gave loose to tears and wailings. Tom
did what he could to comfort her, but with little effect. At
length Becky said:
  "Tom!"
  "Well, Becky?"
  "They'll miss us and hunt for us!"
  "Yes, they will! Certainly they will!"
"Maybe they're hunting for us now,
Tom."
  "Why, I reckon maybe they are. I hope
they are."
  "When would they miss us, Tom?"
  "When they get back to the boat, I reckon."
  "Tom, it might be dark then -- would they notice
we hadn't come?"
  "I don't know. But anyway, your mother would miss
you as soon as they got home."
  A frightened look in Becky's face brought
Tom to his senses and he saw that he had made a
blunder. Becky was not to have gone home that night! The
children became silent and thoughtful. In a moment a new
burst of grief from Becky showed Tom that the thing in
his mind had struck hers also -- that the Sabbath
morning might be half spent before Mrs. Thatcher
discovered that Becky was not at Mrs. Harper's.
  The children fastened their eyes upon their bit of candle and
watched it melt slowly and pitilessly away; saw
the half inch of wick stand alone at last; saw the
feeble flame rise and fall, climb the thin
column of smoke, linger at its top a moment, and
then -- the horror of utter darkness reigned!
  How long afterward it was that Becky came to a slow
consciousness that she was crying in Tom's
arms, neither could tell. All that they knew was, that
after what seemed a mighty stretch of time, both
awoke out of a dead stupor of sleep and resumed their
miseries once more. Tom said it might be Sunday,
now -- maybe Monday. He tried to get Becky
to talk, but her sorrows were too oppressive, all
her hopes were gone. Tom said that they must have been
missed long ago, and no doubt the search was going
on. He would shout and maybe some one would come. He
tried it; but in the darkness the distant echoes sounded so
hideously that he tried it no more.
  The hours wasted away, and hunger came to tor-
ment the captives again. A portion of Tom's
half of the cake was left; they divided and ate it.
But they seemed hungrier than before. The poor
morsel of food only whetted desire.
  By-and-by Tom said:
  "SH! Did you hear that?"
  Both held their breath and listened. There was a sound
like the faintest, far-off shout. Instantly Tom
answered it, and leading Becky by the hand, started
groping down the corridor in its direction.
Presently he listened again; again the sound was heard,
and apparently a little nearer.
"It's them!" said Tom; "they're coming!
Come along, Becky -- we're all right now!"
  The joy of the prisoners was almost overwhelming. Their
speed was slow, however, because pitfalls were somewhat
common, and had to be guarded against. They shortly
came to one and had to stop. It might be three feet
deep, it might be a hundred -- there was no passing
it at any rate. Tom got down on his breast and
reached as far down as he could. No bottom. They
must stay there and wait until the searchers came.
They listened; evidently the distant shoutings were growing
more distant! a moment or two more and they had gone
altogether. The heart-sinking misery of it! Tom whooped
until he was hoarse, but it was of no use. He
talked hopefully to Becky; but an age of
anxious waiting passed and no sounds came again.
  The children groped their way back to the spring. The
weary time dragged on; they slept again, and awoke
famished and woe-stricken. Tom believed it must be
Tuesday by this time.
  Now an idea struck him. There were some side
passages near at hand. It would be better
to explore some of these than bear the weight of the heavy
time in idleness. He took a kite-line from his
pocket, tied it to a projection, and he and Becky
started, Tom in the lead, unwinding the line
as he groped along. At the end of twenty steps the
corridor ended in a "jumping- off place." Tom
got down on his knees and felt below, and then as far
around the corner as he could reach with his hands
conveniently; he made an effort to stretch yet a
little farther to the right, and at that moment, not twenty yards
away, a human hand, holding a candle, appeared from
behind a rock! Tom lifted up a glorious shout,
and instantly that hand was followed by the body it belonged
to -- Injun Joe's! Tom was paralyzed; he
could not move. He was vastly gratified the next
moment, to see the "Spaniard" take to his heels
and get himself out of sight. Tom wondered that Joe
had not recognized his voice and come over and killed
him for testifying in court. But the echoes must have
disguised the voice. Without doubt, that was it, he
reasoned. Tom's fright weak- ened every muscle in his
body. He said to himself that if he had strength enough
to get back to the spring he would stay there, and nothing
should tempt him to run the risk of meeting Injun
Joe again. He was careful to keep from Becky what
it was he had seen. He told her he had only
shouted "for luck."
  But hunger and wretchedness rise superior to fears
in the long run. Another tedious wait at
the spring and another long sleep brought changes. The
chil- dren awoke tortured with a raging hunger.
Tom believed that it must be Wednesday or Thursday
or even Friday or Saturday, now, and that the
search had been given over. He proposed
to explore another passage. He felt willing
to risk Injun Joe and all other terrors. But
Becky was very weak. She had sunk into a dreary
apathy and would not be roused. She said she would wait,
now, where she was, and die -- it would not be long.
She told Tom to go with the kite-line and explore
if he chose; but she implored him to come back every
little while and speak to her; and she made him promise
that when the awful time came, he would stay by her and
hold her hand until all was over.
  Tom kissed her, with a choking sensation in his
throat, and made a show of being confident of finding the
searchers or an escape from the cave; then he took
the kite-line in his hand and went groping down one of the
passages on his hands and knees, distressed with
hunger and sick with bodings of coming doom.
  CHAPTER XXXII
  TUESDAY afternoon came, and waned to
  the twilight. The village of St. Peters-
burg still mourned. The lost children
  had not been found. Public prayers
  had been offered up for them, and many
  and many a private prayer that had the
  petitioner's whole heart in it; but still no good
news came from the cave. The majority of the searchers
had given up the quest and gone back to their daily
avocations, saying that it was plain the children could never be
found. Mrs. Thatcher was very ill, and a great part of the
time delirious. People said it was heartbreaking to hear her
call her child, and raise her head and listen a whole
minute at a time, then lay it wearily down again with a
moan. Aunt Polly had drooped into a settled
melancholy, and her gray hair had grown almost
white. The village went to its rest on Tuesday
night, sad and forlorn.
  Away in the middle of the night a wild peal
burst from the village bells, and in a moment the
streets were swarming with frantic half-clad people, who
shouted, "Turn out! turn out! they're found! they're
found!" Tin pans and horns were added to the din, the
popula- tion massed itself and moved toward the
river, met the children coming in an open carriage drawn
by shouting citizens, thronged around it, joined its
home- ward march, and swept magnificently up the
main street roaring huzzah after huzzah!
  The village was illuminated; nobody went to bed
again; it was the greatest night the little town had ever seen.
During the first half-hour a procession of
villagers filed through Judge Thatcher's house,
seized the saved ones and kissed them, squeezed
Mrs. Thatch- er's hand, tried to speak but couldn't
-- and drifted out raining tears all over the place.
  Aunt Polly's happiness was complete, and
Mrs. Thatcher's nearly so. It would be complete,
how- ever, as soon as the messenger dispatched with the great
news to the cave should get the word to her husband. Tom
lay upon a sofa with an eager audi- tory about him
and told the history of the wonderful adventure,
putting in many striking additions to adorn it with also; and
closed with a description of how he left Becky and
went on an exploring expedition; how he followed
two avenues as far as his kite-line would reach; how
he followed a third to the fullest stretch of the
kite-line, and was about to turn back when he
glimpsed a far-off speck that looked like daylight;
dropped the line and groped toward it, pushed his head
and shoulders through a small hole, and saw the broad
Mississippi rolling by! And if it had only
hap- pened to be night he would not have seen that speck
of daylight and would not have explored that
passage any more! He told how he went back for
Becky and broke the good news and she told him not
to fret her with such stuff, for she was tired, and knew
she was going to die, and wanted to. He described
how he labored with her and convinced her; and how she
almost died for joy when she had groped to where she
actually saw the blue speck of daylight; how he
pushed his way out at the hole and then helped her out;
how they sat there and cried for gladness; how some men
came along in a skiff and Tom hailed them and
told them their situation and their famished condition; how
the men didn't believe the wild tale at first,
"because," said they, "you are five miles down the river
below the valley the cave is in" -- then took them
aboard, rowed to a house, gave them supper, made
them rest till two or three hours after dark and then
brought them home.
  Before day-dawn, Judge Thatcher and the handful of
searchers with him were tracked out, in the cave, by the
twine clews they had strung behind them, and informed of the
great news.
  Three days and nights of toil and hunger in the
cave were not to be shaken off at once, as Tom and
Becky soon discovered. They were bedridden all of
Wednesday and Thursday, and seemed to grow
more and more tired and worn, all the time. Tom got
about, a little, on Thursday, was down-town Friday,
and nearly as whole as ever Saturday; but Becky
did not leave her room until Sunday, and then she
looked as if she had passed through a wasting illness.
  Tom learned of Huck's sickness and went to see
him on Friday, but could not be admitted to the
bedroom; neither could he on Saturday or Sunday.
He was admitted daily after that, but was warned to keep
still about his adventure and introduce no ex- citing
topic. The Widow Douglas stayed by tosee that he
obeyed. At home Tom learned of the Cardiff
Hill event; also that the "ragged man's" body had
eventually been found in the river near the ferry-
landing; he had been drowned while trying to escape,
perhaps.
  About a fortnight after Tom's rescue from the
cave, he started off to visit Huck, who had
grown plenty strong enough, now, to hear exciting
talk, and Tom had some that would interest him, he
thought. Judge Thatcher's house was on Tom's
way, and he stopped to see Becky. The Judge and
some friends set Tom to talking, and some one asked him
ironically if he wouldn't like to go to the cave again.
Tom said he thought he wouldn't mind it. The
Judge said:
  "Well, there are others just like you, Tom, I've
not the least doubt. But we have taken care of that.
Nobody will get lost in that cave any more."
  "Why?"
  "Because I had its big door sheathed with boiler
iron two weeks ago, and triple-locked -- and
I've got the keys."
  Tom turned as white as a sheet.
  "What's the matter, boy! Here, run,
somebody! Fetch a glass of water!"
  The water was brought and thrown into Tom's face.
  "Ah, now you're all right. What was the matter with
you, Tom?"
  "Oh, Judge, Injun Joe's in the cave!"
  CHAPTER XXXIII
  WITHIN a few minutes the news had
  spread, and a dozen skiff-loads of men
  were on their way to McDougal's cave,
  and the ferryboat, well filled with pas-
  sengers, soon followed. Tom Sawyer was
  in the skiff that bore Judge Thatcher.
  When the cave door was unlocked, a sorrowful
sight presented itself in the dim twilight of the
place. Injun Joe lay stretched upon the
ground, dead, with his face close to the crack of the
door, as if his longing eyes had been fixed, to the
latest moment, upon the light and the cheer of the free world
outside. Tom was touched, for he knew by his own
experience how this wretch had suffered. his pity was
moved, but nevertheless he felt an abounding sense of
relief and security, now, which revealed to him in a
degree which he had not fully appreciated before how
vast a weight of dread had been lying upon him since
the day he lifted his voice against this bloody-minded
outcast.
  Injun Joe's bowie-knife lay close by,
its blade broken in two. The great foundation-beam
of the door had been chipped and hacked through, with tedious
labor; useless labor, too, it was, for the
native rock formed a sill outside it, and upon that
stubborn material the knife had wrought no effect;
the only damage done was to the knife itself. But if
there had been no stony obstruction there the labor would
have been useless still, for if the beam had been wholly
cut away Injun Joe could not have squeezed his
body under the door, and he knew it. So he had
only hacked that place in order to be doing something
-- in order to pass the weary time -- in order
to employ his tortured faculties.
Ordinarily one could find half a dozen bits of
candle stuck around in the crevices of this vestibule,
left there by tourists; but there were none now. The
prisoner had searched them out and eaten them. He had
also contrived to catch a few bats, and these, also, he
had eaten, leaving only their claws. The poor
unfortunate had starved to death. In one place, near
at hand, a stalagmite had been slowly growing up
from the ground for ages, builded by the water-drip from a
stalactite overhead. The captive had broken off
the stalagmite, and upon the stump had placed a stone,
wherein he had scooped a shallow hollow to catch the
precious drop that fell once in every three minutes
with the dreary regularity of a clock-tick -- a
dessertspoonful once in four and twenty hours.
That drop was falling when the Pyramids were new; when
Troy fell; when the foundations of Rome were laid
when Christ was crucified; when the Conqueror created
the British empire; when Columbus sailed; when
the massacre at Lexington was "news." It is
falling now; it will still be falling when all these things shall
have sunk down the afternoon of history, and the twilight of
tradition, and been swallowed up in the thick night
of oblivion. Has everything a purpose and a
mission? Did this drop fall patiently
during five thousand years to be ready for this flitting
human insect's need? and has it another
important object to accomplish ten thousand years
to come? No matter. It is many and many a year since
the hapless half-breed scooped out the stone to catch the
priceless drops, but to this day the tourist stares
longest at that pathetic stone and that slow-dropping
water when he comes to see the wonders of
McDougal's cave. Injun Joe's cup stands
first in the list of the cavern's marvels; even
"Aladdin's Palace" cannot rival it.
  Injun Joe was buried near the mouth of the cave;
and people flocked there in boats and wagons from the towns
and from all the farms and hamlets for seven miles
around; they brought their children, and all sorts of
provisions, and confessed that they had had almost as
satisfactory a time at the funeral as they could have
had at the hanging.
  This funeral stopped the further growth of one thing
-- the petition to the governor for Injun Joe's
pardon. The petition had been largely signed; many
tearful and eloquent meetings had been held, and a
committee of sappy women been appointed to go in
deep mourning and wail around the governor, and
implore him to be a merciful ass and
trample his duty under foot. Injun Joe was
believed to have killed five citizens of the village,
but what of that? If he had been Satan himself there
would have been plenty of weak- lings ready to scribble
their names to a pardon-petition, and drip a tear on
it from their permanently impaired and leaky
water-works.
  The morning after the funeral Tom took Huck
to a private place to have an important talk.
Huck had learned all about Tom's adventure from
the Welsh- man and the Widow Douglas, by this time, but
Tom said he reckoned there was one thing they had not
told him; that thing was what he wanted to talk about
now. Huck's face saddened. He said:
  "I know what it is. You got into No. 2 and
never found anything but whiskey. Nobody told me
it was you; but I just knowed it must 'a' ben you, soon as
I heard 'bout that whiskey business; and I knowed
you hadn't got the money becuz you'd 'a' got at
me some way or other and told me even if you was
mum to everybody else. Tom, something's always told
me we'd never get holt of that swag."
  "Why, Huck, I never told on that
tavern-keeper. YOU know his tavern was all right the
Saturday I went to the picnic. Don't
you remember you was to watch there that night?"
  "Oh yes! Why, it seems 'bout a year
ago. It was that very night that I follered Injun
Joe to the wi.er's."
  "YOU followed him?"
  "Yes -- but you keep mum. I reckon Injun
Joe's left friends behind him, and I don't want
'em souring on me and doing me mean tricks. If
it hadn't ben for me he'd be down in Texas now,
all right."
  Then Huck told his entire adventure in
confidence to Tom, who had only heard of the
Welshman's part of it before.
  "Well," said Huck, presently, coming back
to the main question, "whoever nipped the whiskey in No.
2, nipped the money, too, I reckon --
anyways it's a goner for us, Tom."
  "Huck, that money wasn't ever in No. 2!"
  "What!" Huck searched his comrade's face
keenly. "Tom, have you got on the track of that
money again?"
  "Huck, it's in the cave!"
  Huck's eyes blazed.
  "Say it again, Tom."
"The money's in the cave!"
  "Tom -- honest injun, now -- is it fun, or
earnest?"
  "Earnest, Huck -- just as earnest as ever I was
in my life. Will you go in there with me and help get it
out?"
  "I bet I will! I will if it's where we can
blaze our way to it and not get lost."
  "Huck, we can do that without the least little bit of
trouble in the world."
  "Good as wheat! What makes you think the
  money's --"
  "Huck, you just wait till we get in there. If
we don't find it I'll agree to give you my
drum and every thing I've got in the world. I will,
by jings."
  "All right -- it's a whiz. When do you say?"
  "Right now, if you say it. Are you strong enough?"
  "Is it far in the cave? I ben on my pins a
little, three or four days, now, but I can't walk
more'n a mile, Tom -- least I don't think
I could."
  "It's about five mile into there the way anybody
but me would go, Huck, but there's a mighty short
cut that they don't anybody but me know about.
Huck, I'll take you right to it in a
skiff. I'll float the skiff down there, and
I'll pull it back again all by myself. You needn't
ever turn your hand over."
  "Less start right off, Tom."
  "All right. We want some bread and meat, and our
pipes, and a little bag or two, and two or three
kite-strings, and some of these new-fangled things they
call lucifer matches. I tell you, many's the time
I wished I had some when I was in there before."
  A trifle after noon the boys borrowed a
small skiff from a citizen who was absent, and got
under way at once. When they were several miles below
"Cave Hollow," Tom said:
  "Now you see this bluff here looks all alike
all the way down from the cave hollow -- no
houses, no wood- yards, bushes all alike.
But do you see that white place up yonder where there's
been a landslide? Well, that's one of my marks.
We'll get ashore, now."
  They landed.
  "Now, Huck, where we're a-standing you could touch that
hole I got out of witha fishing-pole. See if you can
find it."
  Huck searched all the place about, and found
nothing. Tom proudly marched into a thick
clump of sumach bushes and said:
  "Here you are! Look at it, Huck; it's the
snuggest hole in this country. You just keep mum about
it. All along I've been wanting to be a robber,
but I knew I'd got to have a thing like this, and where
to run across it was the bother. We've got it now, and
we'll keep it quiet, only we'll let Joe
Harper and Ben Rogers in -- because of course there's
got to be a Gang, or else there wouldn't be any
style about it. Tom Sawyer's Gang -- it sounds
splendid, don't it, Huck?"
  "Well, it just does, Tom. And who'll we
rob?"
  "Oh, most anybody. Waylay people -- that's
mostly the way."
  "And kill them?"
  "No, not always. Hive them in the cave till they
raise a ransom."
  "What's a ransom?"
  "Money. You make them raise all they can,
off'n their friends; and after you've kept them a year, if
it ain't raised then you kill them. That's the general
way. Only you don't kill the women. You shut
up the women, but you don't kill them. They're always
beautiful and rich, and awfully scared. You
take their watches and things, but you always take your
hat off and talk polite. They ain't anybody as
polite as robbers -- you'll see that in any book.
Well, the women get to loving you, and after they've
been in the cave a week or two weeks they stop
crying and after that you couldn't get them to leave. If you
drove them out they'd turn right around and come back.
It's so in all the books."
  "Why, it's real bully, Tom. I believe
it's better'n to be a pirate."
  "Yes, it's better in some ways, because it's
close to home and circuses and all that."
  By this time everything was ready and the boys entered the
hole, Tom in the lead. They toiled their way to the
farther end of the tunnel, then made their spliced
kite-strings fast and moved on. A few steps
brought them to the spring, and Tom felt a shudder
quiver all through him. He showed Huck the frag-
ment of candle-wick perched on a lump of clay
against the wall, and described how he and Becky had
watched the flame struggle and expire.
  The boys began to quiet down to whispers, now,
for the stillness and gloom of the place oppressed their
spirits. They went on, and presently entered and
followed Tom's other corridor until
they reached the "jumping-off place." The candles
revealed the fact that it was not really a precipice,
but only a steep clay hill twenty or thirty
feet high. Tom whis- pered:
  "Now I'll show you something, Huck."
  He held his candle aloft and said:
  "Look as far around the corner as you can. Do you
see that? There -- on the big rock over yonder --
done with candle-smoke."
  "Tom, it's a CROSS!"
  "NOW where's your Number Two? 'UNDER THE
  CROSS,' HEY? RIGHT yonder's where I saw
Injun Joe poke up his candle, Huck!"
  Huck stared at the mystic sign awhile, and then
said with a shaky voice:
  "Tom, less git out of here!"
  "What! and leave the treasure?"
  "Yes -- leave it. Injun Joe's ghost is
round about there, certain."
  "No it ain't, Huck, no it ain't. It would
ha'nt the place where he died -- away out at the
mouth of the cave -- five mile from here."
  "No, Tom, it wouldn't. It would hang round the
money. I know the ways of ghosts, and so do you."
Tom began to fear that Huck was right.
Mis- givings gathered in his mind. But presently
an idea occurred to him --
  "Lookyhere, Huck, what fools we're making
of ourselves! Injun Joe's ghost ain't a going to come
around where there's a cross!"
  The point was well taken. It had its effect.
  "Tom, I didn't think of that. But that's so.
It's luck for us, that cross is. I reckon
we'll climb down there and have a hunt for that box."
  Tom went first, cutting rude steps in the clay
hill as he descended. Huck followed. Four
avenues opened out of the small cavern which the great
rock stood in. The boys examined three of them with
no result. They found a small recess in the one
nearest the base of the rock, with a pallet of
blankets spread down in it; also an old
suspender, some bacon rind, and the well-gnawed
bones of two or three fowls. But there was no
money-box. The lads searched and re- searched this
place, but in vain. Tom said:
  "He said UNDER the cross. Well, this comes
nearest to being under the cross. It can't be under the rock
itself, because that sets solid on the ground."
  They searched everywhere once more, and then sat down
discouraged. Huck could suggest nothing.
By-and-by Tom said:
  "Lookyhere, Huck, there's footprints and some
can- dle-grease on the clay about one side of this
rock, but not on the other sides. Now, what's that
for? I bet you the money IS under the rock. I'm
going to dig in the clay."
  "That ain't no bad notion, Tom!" said Huck
with animation.
  Tom's "real Barlow" was out at once, and he
had not dug four inches before he struck wood.
  "Hey, Huck! -- you hear that?"
  Huck began to dig and scratch now. Some boards
were soon uncovered and removed. They had con-
cealed a natural chasm which led under the rock. Tom
got into this and held his candle as far under the rock as
he could, but said he could not see to the end of the rift.
He proposed to explore. He stooped and passed
under; the narrow way descended gradually. He
followed its winding course, first to the right, then to the
left, Huck at his heels. Tom turned a
short curve, by-and-by, and exclaimed:
  "My goodness, Huck, lookyhere!"
  It was the treasure-box, sure enough, occupying a
snug little cavern, along with an empty powder-keg,
a couple of guns in leather cases, two
or three pairs of old moccasins, a leather
belt, and some other rubbish well soaked with the
water-drip.
  "Got it at last!" said Huck, ploughing among
the tar- nished coins with his hand. "My, but we're
rich, Tom!"
  "Huck, I always reckoned we'd get it.
It's just too good to believe, but we HAVE got it,
sure! Say -- let's not fool around here.
Let's snake it out. Lemme see if I can
lift the box."
  It weighed about fifty pounds. Tom could lift
it, after an awkward fashion, but could not carry it
conveniently.
  "I thought so," he said; "THEY carried it like it was
heavy, that day at the ha'nted house. I noticed
that. I reckon I was right to think of fetching the little
bags along."
  The money was soon in the bags and the boys took it
up to the cross rock.
  "Now less fetch the guns and things," said
Huck.
  "No, Huck -- leave them there. They're just the
tricks to have when we go to robbing. We'll keep them
there all the time, and we'll hold our
orgies there, too. It's an awful snug place
for orgies."
  "What orgies?"
  "I dono. But robbers always have orgies, and of
course we've got to have them, too. Come along,
Huck, we've been in here a long time. It's
getting late, I reckon. I'm hungry, too.
We'll eat and smoke when we get to the skiff."
  They presently emerged into the clump of sumach
bushes, looked warily out, found the coast clear, and
were soon lunching and smoking in the skiff. As the sun
dipped toward the horizon they pushed out and got under
way. Tom skimmed up the shore through the long
twilight, chatting cheerily with Huck, and landed
shortly after dark.
  "Now, Huck," said Tom, "we'll hide the
money in the loft of the widow's woodshed, and I'll
come up in the morning and we'll count it and divide,
and then we'll hunt up a place out in the woods for
it where it will be safe. Just you lay quiet here and
watch the stuff till I run and hook Benny
Taylor's little wagon; I won't be gone a
minute."
  He disappeared, and presently returned with the
wagon, put the two small sacks into it,
threw some old rags on top of them, and started off,
dragging his cargo behind him. When the boys reached the
Welsh- man's house, they stopped to rest. Just as
they were about to move on, the Welshman stepped out and
said:
  "Hallo, who's that?"
  "Huck and Tom Sawyer."
  "Good! Come along with me, boys, you are keep-
ing everybody waiting. Here -- hurry up, trot
ahead -- I'll haul the wagon for you. Why, it's
not as light as it might be. Got bricks in it?
-- or old metal?"
  "Old metal," said Tom.
  "I judged so; the boys in this town will take more
trouble and fool away more time hunting up six bits'
worth of old iron to sell to the foundry than they would
to make twice the money at regular work. But that's
human nature -- hurry along, hurry along!"
  The boys wanted to know what the hurry was about.
  "Never mind; you'll see, when we get to the
Widow Douglas'."
  Huck said with some apprehension -- for he was long
used to being falsely accused:
  "Mr. Jones, we haven't been doing nothing."
The Welshman laughed.
  "Well, I don't know, Huck, my boy. I
don't know about that. Ain't you and the widow good friends?"
  "Yes. Well, she's ben good friends to me,
anyway."
  "All right, then. What do you want to be afraid
for?"
  This question was not entirely answered in Huck's slow
mind before he found himself pushed, along with Tom,
into Mrs. Douglas' drawing-room. Mr. Jones
left the wagon near the door and followed.
  The place was grandly lighted, and everybody that was
of any consequence in the village was there. The
Thatchers were there, the Harpers, the Rogerses,
Aunt Polly, Sid, Mary, the minister, the
editor, and a great many more, and all dressed in their
best. The widow received the boys as heartily as any
one could well receive two such looking beings. They were
covered with clay and candle-grease. Aunt Polly
blushed crimson with humiliation, and frowned and shook
her head at Tom. Nobody suffered half as much
as the two boys did, however. Mr. Jones said:
  "Tom wasn't at home, yet, so I gave
him up; but I stumbled on him and Huck right at my
door, and so I just brought them along in a hurry."
"And you did just right," said the widow.
"Come with me, boys."
  She took them to a bedchamber and said:
  "Now wash and dress yourselves. Here are two new
suits of clothes -- shirts, socks, everything
complete. They're Huck's -- no, no thanks,
Huck -- Mr. Jones bought one and I the other.
But they'll fit both of you. Get into them. We'll
wait -- come down when you are slicked up enough."
  Then she left.
  CHAPTER XXXIV
  HUCK said: "Tom, we can slope, if we
  can find a rope. The window ain't high
  from the ground."
  "Shucks! what do you want to slope
  for?"
  "Well, I ain't used to that kind of a
  crowd. I can't stand it. I ain't going down there,
Tom."
  "Oh, bother! It ain't anything. I don't
mind it a bit. I'll take care of you."
  Sid appeared.
  "Tom," said he, "auntie has been waiting for
you all the afternoon. Mary got your Sunday clothes
ready, and everybody's been fretting about you. Say
-- ain't this grease and clay, on your
clothes?"
  "Now, Mr. Siddy, you jist 'tend to your own
business. What's all this blow-out about, anyway?"
  "It's one of the widow's parties that she's always
having. This time it's for the Welshman and his sons, on
account of that scrape they helped her out of the other
night. And say -- I can tell you something, if you
want to know."
  "Well, what?"
  "Why, old Mr. Jones is going to try to spring
some- thing on the people here tonight, but I overheard him
tell auntie today about it, as a secret, but I
reckon it's not much of a secret now. Everybody
knows -- the widow, too, for all she tries to let
on she don't. Mr. Jones was bound Huck should be
here -- couldn't get along with his grand secret without
Huck, you know!"
  "Secret about what, Sid?"
  "About Huck tracking the robbers to the widow's.
I reckon Mr. Jones was going to make a grand
time over his surprise, but I bet you it will drop
pretty flat."
  Sid chuckled in a very contented and satisfied
way.
"Sid, was it you that told?"
  "Oh, never mind who it was. SOMEBODY told
-- that's enough."
  "Sid, there's only one person in this town mean
enough to do that, and that's you. If you had been in Huck's
place you'd 'a' sneaked down the hill and never
told anybody on the robbers. You can't do any but
mean things, and you can't bear to see anybody praised
for doing good ones. There -- no thanks, as the widow
says" -- and Tom cuffed Sid's ears and helped
him to the door with several kicks. "Now go and tell
auntie if you dare -- and tomorrow you'll catch it!"
  Some minutes later the widow's guests were at the
supper-table, and a dozen children were propped up at little
side-tables in the same room, after the fashion of that
country and that day. At the proper time Mr. Jones
made his little speech, in which he thanked the widow for the
honor she was doing himself and his sons, but said that there was
another person whose modesty --
  And so forth and so on. He sprung his secret about
Huck's share in the adventure in the finest
dramatic manner he was master of, but the surprise
it occasioned was largely counterfeit and not as
clamorous and effusive as it might have been under
happier circumstances. However, the widow made a
pretty fair show of astonishment, and heaped
so many com- pliments and so much gratitude upon
Huck that he almost forgot the nearly intolerable
discomfort of his new clothes in the entirely intolerable
discomfort of being set up as a target for everybody's
gaze and everybody's laudations.
  The widow said she meant to give Huck a home
under her roof and have him educated; and that when she could
spare the money she would start him in business in a
modest way. Tom's chance was come. He said:
  "Huck don't need it. Huck's rich."
  Nothing but a heavy strain upon the good manners of the
company kept back the due and proper com-
plimentary laugh at this pleasant joke. But the
silence was a little awkward. Tom broke it:
  "Huck's got money. Maybe you don't
believe it, but he's got lots of it. Oh, you
needn't smile -- I reckon I can show you. You
just wait a minute."
  Tom ran out of doors. The company looked at
each other with a perplexed interest -- and inquiringly
at Huck, who was tongue-tied.
  "Sid, what ails Tom?" said Aunt
Polly. "He -- well, there ain't ever any
making of that boy out. I never --"
Tom entered, struggling with the weight of his
sacks, and Aunt Polly did not finish her
sentence. Tom poured the mass of yellow coin upon the
table and said:
  "There -- what did I tell you? Half of it's
Huck's and half of it's mine!"
  The spectacle took the general breath away.
All gazed, nobody spoke for a moment. Then there
was a unanimous call for an explanation. Tom said
he could furnish it, and he did. The tale was long,
but brimful of interest. There was scarcely an
interruption from any one to break the charm of its flow.
When he had finished, Mr. Jones said:
  "I thought I had fixed up a little surprise for
this occasion, but it don't amount to anything now. This one
makes it sing mighty small, I'm willing
to allow."
  The money was counted. The sum amounted to a little over
twelve thousand dollars. It was more than any one
present had ever seen at one time before, though several
persons were there who were worth considerably more than that
in property.
  CHAPTER XXXV
  THE reader may rest satisfied that Tom's
  and Huck's windfall made a mighty stir
in the poor little village of St.
Petersburg. So vast a sum, all in actual
cash, seemed next to incredible. It was talked about,
  gloated over, glorified, until the reason of
many of the citizens tottered under the strain of the
unhealthy excitement. Every "haunted" house in St.
Petersburg and the neighboring villages was
dissected, plank by plank, and its foundations dug up
and ran- sacked for hidden treasure -- and not
by boys, but men -- pretty grave, unromantic
men, too, some of them. Wherever Tom and Huck
appeared they were courted, admired, stared at. The
boys were not able to remem- ber that their remarks had
possessed weight before; but now their sayings were
treasured and repeated; everything they did seemed
somehow to be regarded as remarkable; they had
evidently lost the power of doing and saying
commonplace things; moreover, their past history was
raked up and discovered to bear marks of conspicuous
originality. The village paper published
biographical sketches of the boys.
  The Widow Douglas put Huck's money out at
six per cent., and Judge Thatcher did the same
with Tom's at Aunt Polly's request. Each
lad had an in- come, now, that was simply
prodigious -- a dollar for every week-day
in the year and half of the Sundays. It was just what the
minister got -- no, it was what he was promised --
he generally couldn't collect it. A dollar and a
quarter a week would board, lodge, and school a
boy in those old simple days -- and clothe him and
wash him, too, for that matter.
  Judge Thatcher had conceived a great opinion of
Tom. He said that no commonplace boy would ever have
got his daughter out of the cave. When Becky told
her father, in strict confidence, how Tom had taken
her whipping at school, the Judge was visibly
moved; and when she pleaded grace for the mighty lie which
Tom had told in order to shift that whipping from her
shoulders to his own, the Judge said with a fine
outburst that it was a noble, a generous, a mag-
nanimous lie -- a lie that was worthy to hold up
its head and march down through history breast to breast with
George Washington's lauded Truth about the
hatchet! Becky thought her father had never looked so
tall and so superb as when he walked the floor and
stamped his foot and said that. She went straight off and
told Tom about it.
  Judge Thatcher hoped to see Tom a great
lawyer or a great soldier some day. He said he
meant to look to it that Tom should be admitted
to the National Military Academy and afterward trained
in the best law school in the country, in order that he
might be ready for either career or both.
  Huck Finn's wealth and the fact that he was now under
the Widow Douglas' protection introduced him
into society -- no, dragged him into it, hurled him
into it -- and his sufferings were almost more than he could bear.
The widow's servants kept him clean and neat,
combed and brushed, and they bedded him nightly in
unsympathetic sheets that had not one little spot or
stain which he could press to his heart and know for a friend.
He had to eat with a knife and fork; he had to use
napkin, cup, and plate; he had to learn his book,
he had to go to church; he had to talk so properly that
speech was become insipid in his mouth; whitherso- ever
he turned, the bars and shackles of civilization
shut him in and bound him hand and foot.
  He bravely bore his miseries three weeks,
and then one day turned up missing. For forty-eight
hours the widow hunted for him everywhere in great
distress. The public were profoundly concerned; they
searched high and low, they dragged the river for his
body. Early the third morning Tom Sawyer
wisely went poking among some old empty
hogsheads down behind the abandoned
slaughter-house, and in one of them he found the
refugee. Huck had slept there; he had just
breakfasted upon some stolen odds and ends of food, and
was lying off, now, in comfort, with his pipe. He was
unkempt, uncombed, and clad in the same old
ruin of rags that had made him picturesque in the
days when he was free and happy. Tom routed him
out, told him the trouble he had been causing, and
urged him to go home. Huck's face lost its
tranquil content, and took a melancholy cast.
He said:
  "Don't talk about it, Tom. I've tried it,
and it don't work; it don't work, Tom. It ain't
for me; I ain't used to it. The widder's good to me,
and friendly; but I can't stand them ways. She makes
me get up just at the same time every morning; she
makes me wash, they comb me all to thunder; she
won't let me sleep in the woodshed; I got
to wear them blamed clothes that just smothers me, Tom;
they don't seem to any air git through 'em,
somehow; and they're so rotten nice that I can't set
down, nor lay down, nor roll around anywher's;
I hain't slid on a cellar-door for -- well,
it 'pears to be years; I got to go to church and sweat
and sweat -- I hate them ornery
sermons! I can't ketch a fly in there, I can't
chaw. I got to wear shoes all Sunday. The
widder eats by a bell; she goes to bed by a bell;
she gits up by a bell -- everything's so awful
reg'lar a body can't stand it."
  "Well, everybody does that way, Huck."
  "Tom, it don't make no difference. I ain't
every- body, and I can't STAND it. It's awful to be
tied up so. And grub comes too easy -- I
don't take no interest in vittles, that way. I
got to ask to go a-fishing; I got to ask to go in
a-swimming -- dern'd if I hain't got to ask
to do everything. Well, I'd got to talk so nice it
wasn't no comfort -- I'd got to go up in the
attic and rip out awhile, every day, to git a taste in
my mouth, or I'd a died, Tom. The widder
wouldn't let me smoke; she wouldn't let me
yell, she wouldn't let me gape, nor stretch,
nor scratch, before folks --" [Then with a spasm
of special irritation and injury] -- "And dad
fetch it, she prayed all the time! I never see such
a woman! I HAD to shove, Tom -- I just had
to. And besides, that school's going to open, and I'd a
had to go to it -- well, I wouldn't stand THAT, Tom.
Looky- here, Tom, being rich ain't what
it's cracked up to be. It's just worry and worry,
and sweat and sweat, and a-wishing you was dead all the
time. Now these clothes suits me, and this bar'l
suits me, and I ain't ever going to shake 'em any
more. Tom, I wouldn't ever got into all this trouble if
it hadn't 'a' ben for that money; now you just take my
sheer of it along with your'n, and gimme a ten-center
sometimes -- not many times, becuz I don't give a
dern for a thing 'thout it's tollable hard to git -- and
you go and beg off for me with the wi.er."
  "Oh, Huck, you know I can't do that. 'Tain't
fair; and besides if you'll try this thing just a while
longer you'll come to like it."
  "Like it! Yes -- the way I'd like a hot stove
if I was to set on it long enough. No, Tom, I
won't be rich, and I won't live in them cussed
smothery houses. I like the woods, and the river, and
hogsheads, and I'll stick to 'em, too.
Blame it all! just as we'd got guns, and a
cave, and all just fixed to rob, here this dern
foolishness has got to come up and spile it all!"
  Tom saw his opportunity --
  "Lookyhere, Huck, being rich ain't going
to keep me back from turning robber."
"No! Oh, good-licks; are you in real
dead-wood earnest, Tom?"
  "Just as dead earnest as I'm sitting here. But
Huck, we can't let you into the gang if you ain't
re- spectable, you know."
  Huck's joy was quenched.
  "Can't let me in, Tom? Didn't you let
me go for a pirate?"
  "Yes, but that's different. A robber is more high-
toned than what a pirate is -- as a general
thing. In most countries they're awful high up in the
nobility -- dukes and such."
  "Now, Tom, hain't you always ben friendly to me?
You wouldn't shet me out, would you, Tom? You wouldn't
do that, now, WOULD you, Tom?"
  "Huck, I wouldn't want to, and I DON'T
want to -- but what would people say? Why, they'd
say, 'Mph! Tom Sawyer's Gang! pretty
low characters in it!' They'd mean you, Huck. You
wouldn't like that, and I wouldn't."
  Huck was silent for some time, engaged in a mental
struggle. Finally he said:
  "Well, I'll go back to the widder for a month and
tackle it and see if I can come to stand it, if you'll
let me b'long to the gang, Tom."
"All right, Huck, it's a whiz! Come
along, old chap, and I'll ask the widow to let
up on you a little, Huck."
  "Will you, Tom -- now will you? That's good. If
she'll let up on some of the roughest things, I'll
smoke private and cuss private, and crowd through
or bust. When you going to start the gang and turn
robbers?"
  "Oh, right off. We'll get the boys together and have
the initiation tonight, maybe."
  "Have the which?"
  "Have the initiation."
  "What's that?"
  "It's to swear to stand by one another, and never tell
the gang's secrets, even if you're chopped all
to flinders, and kill anybody and all his family that
hurts one of the gang."
  "That's gay -- that's mighty gay, Tom, I
tell you."
  "Well, I bet it is. And all that swearing's
got to be done at midnight, in the lonesomest,
awfulest place you can find -- a ha'nted house
is the best, but they're all ripped up now."
  "Well, midnight's good, anyway, Tom."
  "Yes, so it is. And you've got to swear on a
coffin, and sign it with blood."
  "Now, that's something LIKE! Why, it's a million
times bullier than pirating. I'll stick to the
widder till I rot, Tom; and if I git to be
a reg'lar ripper of a robber, and everybody talking
'bout it, I reckon she'll be proud she snaked
me in out of the wet."
  CONCLUSION
  SO endeth this chronicle. It being strictly a
history of a BOY, it must stop here; the story could
not go much further without
  becoming the history of a MAN. When
  one writes a novel about grown people, he knows
exactly where to stop -- that is,
  with a marriage; but when he writes of juveniles,
he must stop where he best can.
  Most of the characters that perform in this book still live, and
are prosperous and happy. Some day it may seem
worth while to take up the story of the younger ones again
and see what sort of men and women they turned out
to be; therefore it will be wisest not to reveal any of that
part of their lives at present.
