TableofContents

FROM THE PAGES OFADVENTURES OFHUCKLEBERRYFINNTitlePageCopyrightPageMARKTWAINTHE WORLD OF MARKTWAIN AND ADVENTURESOFHUCKLEBERRYFINNIntroduction

CHAPTER1CHAPTER2CHAPTER3CHAPTER4CHAPTER5CHAPTER6CHAPTER7CHAPTER8CHAPTER9CHAPTER10CHAPTER11CHAPTER12CHAPTER13

CHAPTER14CHAPTER15CHAPTER16CHAPTER17CHAPTER18CHAPTER19CHAPTER20CHAPTER21CHAPTER22CHAPTER23CHAPTER24CHAPTER25CHAPTER26CHAPTER27

CHAPTER28CHAPTER29CHAPTER30CHAPTER31CHAPTER32CHAPTER33CHAPTER34CHAPTER35CHAPTER36CHAPTER37CHAPTER38CHAPTER39CHAPTER40CHAPTER41

CHAPTER42CHAPTERTHELAST

ENDNOTESINSPIRED BYADVENTURES OFHUCKLEBERRYFINNCOMMENTS&QUESTIONSFORFURTHERREADING

FROMTHEPAGESOFADVENTURESOFHUCKLEBERRY

FINNThat is just the way withsome people. They get downon a thing when they don’tknownothing about it. (page6)

Pap warn’t in a good humor—so hewas his natural self.(page26)

When I woke up I didn’tknow where I was, for aminute. I set up and lookedaround,alittlescared.ThenIremembered. The riverlooked miles and milesacross. The moon was sobright I could a counted thedriftlogsthatwentaslipping

along, black and still,hundreds of yards out fromshore. Everything was deadquiet, and it looked late, andsmelt late. You knowwhat Imean—I don’t know thewordstoputitin.(page34)

WhenitwasdarkIsetbymycamp fire smoking, andfeeling pretty satisfied; butby-and-by it got sort of

lonesome, and so Iwent andset on the bank and listenedtothecurrentswashingalong,and counted the stars anddrift-logsand rafts that comedown, and thenwent to bed;there ain’t no better way toput in time when you arelonesome; you can’t stay so,you soon get over it. (page38)

What’s the use you learning

to do right, when it’stroublesome to do right andain’t no trouble todowrong,and the wages is just thesame?(page85)

Wesaidtherewarn’tnohomelike a raft, after all. Otherplaces do seem so crampedup and smothery, but a raftdon’t. You feel mighty freeand easy and comfortable on

araft.(page107)It’s lovely to live on a raft.Wehad thesky,up there,allspeckled with stars, and weused to layonourbacksandlook up at them, and discussabout whether they wasmade, or only just happened—Jim he allowed they wasmade, but I allowed theyhappened; I judged it wouldhavetooktoolongtomakesomany.(pages109-110)

“All kings is mostlyrapscallions, as fur as I canmakeout.”(page140)

“Hain’twegotallthefoolsintown on our side? and ain’tthatabigenoughmajority inanytown?”(page162)

I reckon a body that ups andtellsthetruthwhenheisinatight place, is taking

considerable many resks.(page170)

“It’s the little things thatsmoothes people’s roads themost.”(page173)

Youcan’tprayalie—Ifoundthatout.(page194)

It don’t make no differencewhether you do right orwrong,aperson’sconscience

ain’t got no sense, and justgoes for him anyway. (page210)

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MARKTWAINMark Twain was bornSamuel Langhorne Clemenson November 30, 1835.When Sam was four yearsold, his family moved toHannibal, Missouri, a smalltown later immortalized inThe Adventures of TomSawyer and Adventures ofHuckleberry Finn. After thedeath of his father, twelve-

year-oldSamquitschoolandsupported his family byworking as a delivery boy, agrocer’s clerk, and anassistant blacksmith until hewasthirteen,whenhebecamean apprentice printer. Heworked for severalnewspapers, traveledthroughout the country, andestablishedhimselfasagiftedwriter of humorous sketches.Abandoning journalism atpoints towork as a riverboat

pilot,Clemensadventuredupand down the Mississippi,learning the 1,200 miles oftheriver.During the 1860s he spent

time in the West, innewspaperworkandpanningfor gold, and traveled toEurope and the Holy Land;TheInnocentsAbroad (1869)and Roughing It (1872),published some years later,are accounts of those

experiences. In 1863 SamuelClemensadoptedapenname,signing a sketch as “MarkTwain,” and in 1867 MarkTwain won fame withpublication of a collection ofhumorous writings, TheCelebrated Jumping Frog ofCalaveras County and OtherSketches.Aftermarrying andsettling in Connecticut,Twain wrote his best-lovedworks: thenovelsaboutTomSawyer and Huckleberry

Finn,andthenonfictionworkLife on the Mississippi.Meanwhile, he continued totravel and had a successfulcareerasapubliclecturer.In his later years, Twain

sawtheworldwithincreasingpessimism following thedeath of hiswife and two oftheir three daughters. Thetone of his later novels,including The Tragedy ofPudd‘nhead Wilson and A

Connecticut Yankee in KingArthur’s Court, becamecynical and dark. Havingfailed as a publisher andsuffering losses from ill-advised investments, Twainwas forced by financialnecessitytomaintainaheavyscheduleoflecturing.Thoughhehad leftschoolatanearlyage, his genius wasrecognized by YaleUniversity, the University ofMissouri, and Oxford

University in the form ofhonorary doctorate degrees.He died in his Connecticutmansion,Stormfield,onApril21,1910.

THEWORLDOFMARKTWAIN

ANDADVENTURESOFHUCKLEBERRY

FINN

1835

SamuelLanghorneClemensisborn

prematurelyinFlorida,Missouri,thefourthchildofJohnMarshall

ClemensandJaneLamptonClemens.

1839

ThefamilymovestoHannibal,thesmallMissouritownonthewestbankofthe

MississippiRiverthatwillbecomethemodelforthesettingofTom

SawyerandHuckleberryFinn.

Americannewspapersgainincreased

1840 readershipasurbanpopulationsswellandprintingtechnology

improves.

1847

JohnClemensdies,leavingthefamilyinfinancialdifficulty.

Samquitsschoolattheageoftwelve.

1848

Sambecomesafull-timeapprenticetoJosephAmentofthe

MissouriCourier.

1850

Sam’sbrotherOrion,tenyearshissenior,returnstoHannibalandestablishesthe

Journal;hehiresSamasacompositor.Steam

boatsbecometheprimarymeansoftransportontheMississippiRiver.

SameditsthefailingJournalwhileOrionis

1852

away.AfterhereadslocalhumorpublishedinnewspapersinNew

EnglandandtheSouthwest,Sambegins

printinghisownhumoroussketchesin

theJournal.Hesubmits“TheDandyFrighteningtheSquatter”totheCarpet-BagofBoston,which

publishesthesketchin

theMayissue.

1853

SamleavesHannibalandbeginsworkingasanitinerantprinter;hevisitsSt.Louis,New

York,andPhiladelphia.HisbrothersOrionandHenrymovetoIowawiththeirmother.

1854

TranscendentalismflourishesinAmericanliteraryculture;Henry

DavidThoreaupublishesWalden.

1855SamworksagainasaprinterwithOrioninKeokuk,Iowa.

1856

Samacquiresacommissionfrom

Keokuk’sDailyPosttowritehumorousletters;hedecidesto

traveltoSouthAmerica.

1857

SamtakesasteamertoNewOrleans,wherehehopestofindaship

boundforSouthAmerica.Instead,hesignsonasanap

prenticetoriverpilotHoraceBixbyandspendsthenexttwoyearslearninghowtonavigateasteamshipupanddowntheMississippi.His

experiencesbecome

materialforLifeontheMississippiandhistalesofTomSawyerandHuckFinn.

1858Sam’sbrotherHenrydiesinasteamboat

accident.

1859SamuelClemensbecomesafully

licensedriverpilot.TheAmericanCivilWarerupts,puttingan

1861

abruptstoptorivertradebetweenNorthandSouth.SamserveswithaConfederatemilitiafortwoweeksbeforeventuringtotheNevadaTerritorywithOrion,whohadbeenappointedbyPresidentAbrahamLincolnassecretaryofthenew

Territory.Afteranunsuccessful

1862

stintasaminerandprospectorforgoldandsilver,ClemensbeginsreportingfortheTerritorial

EnterpriseinVirginiaCity,Nevada.

1863

Clemenssignshisnameas“Mark

Twain”onahumoroustravelsketchprintedin

theTerritorialEnterprise.The

pseudonym,ariverboatterm

meaning“twofathomsdeep,”connotesbarely

navigablewater.

1864

Afterchallenginghiseditortoaduel,Twainisforcedtoleave

NevadaandlandsajobwithaSanFrancisconewspaper.HemeetsArtemusWard,apopularhumorist,

whosetechniquesgreatlyinfluenceTwain’swriting.

1865

RobertE.Lee’sarmysurrenders,endingtheCivilWar.While

prospectingforgoldinCalaverasCounty,California,Twain

hearsataleheusesforastorythatmakeshimfamous;originally

titled“JimSmileyand

HisJumpingFrog,”itispublishedinNewYork’sSaturday

Press.

1866

TwaintravelstoHawaiiasa

correspondentfortheSacramentoUnion;uponhisreturnto

California,hedelivershisfirstpubliclecture,beginningasuccessfulcareerasahumorous

speaker.

1867

TwaintravelstoNewYork,andthento

EuropeandtheHolyLandaboardthe

steamerQuakerCity;duringfivemonths

abroad,hecontributestoCalifornia’slargestpaper,Sacramento’sAltaCalifornia,andwritesseverallettersfortheNewYork

Tribune.

Hepublishesavolumeofstoriesand

sketches,TheCelebratedJumpingFrogofCalaverasCountyandOther

Sketches.

TwainmeetsandfallsinlovewithOlivia(Livy)Langdon.Hisoverseaswritingshave

1868

increasedhispopularity;hesignshisfirstbookcontractandbeginsTheInnocentsAbroad,sketches

basedonhistriptotheHolyLand.He

embarksonalecturetouroftheAmerican

Midwest.Twainbecomes

engagedtoLivy,whoactsashiseditorfrom

1869thattimeon.TheInnocentsAbroad,publishedasa

subscriptionbook,isaninstantsuccess,

sellingnearly100,000copiesinthefirstthree

years.

1870

TwainandLivymarry.Theirson,

Langdon,isborn;helivesonlytwoyears.

1871 TheClemensmoveto

Hartford,Connecticut.

1872

RoughingIt,anaccountofTwain’s

adventuresoutWest,ispublishedto

enormoussuccess.ThefirstofTwain’sthreedaughters,Susy,is

born.TwainstrikesupalifelongfriendshipwiththewriterWilliamDeanHowells.

1873

Evertheentrepreneur,TwainreceivesthepatentforMark

Twain’sSelf-PastingScrapbook,an

inventionthatisacommercialsuccess.HepublishesTheGildedAge,a

collaborationwithhisneighborCharlesDudleyWarnerthatsatirizesthepost-Civil

Warera.

1874

HisdaughterClaraisborn.Thefamily

movesintoamansioninHartfordinwhichtheywillliveforthenextseventeenyears.

1876 TheAdventuresofTomSawyerispublished.TwaincollaborateswithBretHarte—anauthorknownforhisuseoflocalcolorand

1877 humorandforhisparodiesofCooper,Dickens,andHugo—toproducetheplayAh

Sin.

1880

TwaininvestsinthePaigetypesetterandlosesthousandsofdollars.HepublishesATrampAbroad,anaccountofhistravelsinEuropethetwopreviousyears.His

daughterJeanisborn.

1881

ThePrinceandthePauper,Twain’sfirsthistoricalromance,is

published.

1882

TwainplanstowriteabouttheMississippiRiverandmakesthetripfromNewOrleanstoMinnesotatorefresh

hismemory.Thenonfictionwork

1883 LifeontheMississippiispublished.

1884Adventuresof

HuckleberryFinn,abookTwainworkedon

for

nearlytenyears,ispublishedinEngland;publicationintheUnitedStatesisdelayeduntilthe

followingyearbecauseanillustrationplateis

judgedtobeobscene.

1885

WhenAdventuresofHuckleberryFinnispublishedinAmerica—byTwain’sill-fatedpublishinghouse,runbyhisnephewCharlesWebster—controversyimmediatelysurroundsthebook.TwainalsopublishesthememoirsofhisfriendformerPresidentUlyssesS.

Grant.

1888Twainearnshis

MasterofArtsdegreefromYaleUniversity.

1889

HepublishesAConnecticutYankeeinKingArthur’sCourt,thefirstofhismajorworkstobeinformedbyadeeppessimism.HemeetsRudyardKipling,whohadcometoAmericato

meetTwain,inLivy’shometownofElmira,

NewYork.1890 Twain’smotherdies.

1891

FinancialdifficultiesforcetheClemensfamilytoclosetheirHartfordmansion;theymovetoBerlin,

Germany.

TheTragedyofPudd’nheadWilson,adarknovelaboutthe

1894aftermathofslavery,ispublishedandsellswell;nonetheless,Twain’spublishingcompanyfailsandleaveshimbankrupt.

1895

Twainembarksonanambitiousworldwidelecturetourtorestorehisfinancialposition.

1896HisdaughterSusydiesofspinal

meningitis.

1901TwainisawardedanhonorarydoctoratedegreefromYale.

1902

Livyfallsgravelyill.MarkTwain’s

HuckleberryFinn,astageadaptationofthe

novel,openstofavorablereviews.

Thoughheiscreditedwithcoauthorship,Twainhaslittletodo

withtheplayandneverseesitperformed.He

receivesanhonorarydoctoratedegreefromtheUniversityof

Missouri.

1903

HopingtorestoreLivy’shealth,TwaintakeshertoFlorence,

Italy.Livydies,leaving

Twaindevastated.He

1904 beginsdictatinganunevenautobiographythatheneverfinishes.

1905

TheodoreRooseveltinvitesTwaintotheWhiteHouse.Twain

enjoysagalacelebratinghis

seventiethbirthdayinNewYork.He

continuestolecture,andheaddresses

Congressoncopyright

issues.

1906

Twain’sbiographerAlbertBigelowPainemovesinwiththefam

ily.

1907

TwaintravelstoOxfordUniversitytoreceiveanhonoraryDoctorofLetters

degree.

TwainsettlesinRedding,Connecticut,

1908 atStormfield,themansionthatishisfinal

home.

1909

HisdaughterClaramarries;TwaindonshisOxfordrobeforthe

ceremony.HisdaughterJeandies.

1910

TwaintravelstoBermudaforhis

health.Hedevelopsheartproblemsand,uponhisreturnto

Stormfield,dies,leavingbehindacacheofunpublishedwork.

INTRODUCTIONBluesforHuckleberryImprovisation is theultimate human (i.e.,heroic) endowment ...flexibility or the abilityto swing (or to performwith grace underpressure) is the key tothat unique competencewhichgeneratestheself-

reliance and thus thecharismaofthehero.—Albert Murray, TheHeroandtheBlues

Without the presence ofblacks, [Huckleberry Finn]could not have been written.No Huck and Jim, noAmerican novel as we knowit. For not only is the blackman a co-creator of thelanguage that Mark Twainraised to the level of literary

eloquence, but Jim’scondition as American andHuck’s commitment tofreedom are at the moralcenterofthenovel.—Ralph Ellison, “WhatAmerica Would Be LikeWithout Blacks,” in TheCollected Essays of RalphEllison

When Huck opens thatwindow to take off from

home,thereaderhasthesamethrillofanticipationonefeelsafterhearingthefirstfewbarsofaMilesDavissolo.—Peter Watrous of the NewYork Times (personalconversation)

AsanAfrican-Americanwhocame of age in the 1960s, IfirstencounteredHuckleberryFinn in a fancy children’sedition with beautifully

printed words andillustrationson thickpages,avolume bought as part of amail-order series by myambitiousparents.WhileIdonot remember ever openingthat particular book—as ajunior high schooler I wasmoredrawntoreadingsaboutscienceormybaseballheroes—Idorecallasenseofpridethat Iowned it: thataclassicworkwaspartofthefurnitureof my bedroom and of my

life. Later I would discoverTwain’s ringing definition ofa classic as “somethingeveryone wants to have readbutnobodywantstoread.”Like many others of that

generation—and then Isuppose of every Americangeneration that has followed—Iwasassignedthebookaspart of a college course.Actually I was taught thebook twice, once in a course

in modern fiction classics(alongwithCervantes,Mann,Conrad, Wolfe, Faulkner),then inacourse tracinggreatthemes in Americanliterature, including those ofdemocracy and race. In boththese classes, Mark Twainand his Huckleberry Finnappeared as heroic andtimeless exemplars ofmodernism in terms of bothliterary form and progressivepoliticalthought.Herewasan

Americannoveltoldnotfromthe standpoint or in thelanguage ofEurope but fromthe position of the poor butdaring and brilliant river-ratHuck,whosetalewasspuninlingowecould tellwasplainAmericanese—why, anybodycould tell it, as the boyhimselfmightsay.His was a story of eager

flight from the rigidities ofdailyliving,particularlyfrom

those institutions that asyoungsters we love to hate:family, school, church, thehometown itself. That whiteHuckleberry’s flight fromcommonplace Americaincluded a deep, truefriendship with black Jim,who began the novel as aslave in Huck’s adoptedfamily, proved Huck’s trustof his own lived experienceand feelings: his integrityagainstaworldofslaveryand

prejudicebasedonskincolor.Huck’sdiscoverythathewaswilling to take the risksinvolved in assisting Jim inhis flight from slaveryconnected theyoungsterwiththefreedomstrugglenotonlyof blacks in America but ofallAmericansseeking to liveup to the standards of ourmost sacred nationaldocuments. Here wasdemocracy without thepuffery, e pluribus unum at

its most radical level of twofriends from different racial(but very similar cultural)backgrounds loving oneanother. Here too was apersonal declaration ofindependence in action, anAmerican revolution (andsome would say also a civilwar) fought first withinHuck’s own heart and thenalong the Mississippi River,the great brown god thatmanyhavesaidstandsalmost

as a third major character inthis novel of hard-boughtfreedom and fraternity, ofconsciousness andconscientiousness.I understood these themes

as supporting the civil rightsmovement of that era, and,further, as significantcorrectives to sixties blacknationalism, which too oftenleft too little space, in myview, for black-white

friendships and, alas, forhumor, without which norevolution I was fighting forwas worth the sacrifice. Inthosedays,HuckleberryFinnwasalsopartofmyarsenalofdefenses against those whoquestioned my decision tomajor in literature during theblack revolution; for me, itserved to justifyart itselfnotjust as entertainment but asequipmentforlivingandevenas a form of political action.

For here was a book whosemessageoffreedomhadbeensoforcefullyarticulatedthatitwas still sounding clearly allthese years later, all over theworld. What was I doing inthe1960s,1970s,andbeyondthat was as courageous andselfless (and yet asindividually self-defining)—as profoundly revolutionary—asHuck’sactofhelpingtorescueJim?

And yet I do have to saythat even in those studentdays of first discovering thisnovel, I was troubled by thefigure of Jim, with whom,from the very beginning, Ifound it impossible toidentify.Thoughasacollegesophomore or junior I wroteanearnestessayindefenseofJim as a wise man whose“superstitions” could be readas connections to a proud“African” system of

communalbeliefs andearnedadjustmentstoaturbulentanddangerous newworld, it wasdefinitely Huck whose pointof view I adopted,while Jimremained a shadowyconstruction whosebuffoonery and will tocooperate with white folks’foolishness embarrassed andinfuriated me. Then too thenovel’s casual uses of theword “nigger” always mademy stomach tighten. Years

later,whenIreadaboutblackstudents, parents, andteachers who objected to thenovel’s repeated use of thisinflammatory word, I knewjust what they meant. Lordknows,asa student Ihadsatin classes where “NiggerJim” (thatmuch-bandied titleneveronceusedbyTwainbutweirdly adopted byinnumerable teachers andscholars, including some ofthe best and brightest, as we

shall see) was discussed bymy well-intentioned whiteclassmates and professorswhose love of the novelevidently was unimpeded bythis brutal language. (Didsome of them delight in thelicense to use this otherwisetaboo term?Whatmight thathavemeant?)Using some of these ideas

about democracy and race(includingsomeofmydoubts

and questions), for fifteenyears I taught HuckleberryFinnatHoward,atWesleyan,andthenatBarnard.Andthensomehow my batteredpaperback, my severallectures,andmyfatfolderofarticles by some of thenovel’s great critics—Eliot,Hemingway,Ellison,Trilling,Robert Penn Warren, HenryNash Smith—all were setaside. I suppose that oneproblem was simply that the

bookwas taught toomuch—that students came to mehaving worn out their owncopiesalready.Andtoooftentheyseemedtorespondnottothebookitselfbuttobitsandpiecesoftheclassichymnsofcritical(anduncritical)praise,gristfortheterm-paper-writerand standardized-test-taker’smill. In recent years, when IwantedtoteachTwainagain,I turned to the novelPudd‘nhead Wilson, with its

own tangled problems ofracialandnationalmasksandmasquerades; to short fictionandessays(includingperhapshis funniest piece ofwriting,“Fenimore Cooper’s LiteraryOffenses”; see “For FurtherReading”), and to TheMysterious Stranger, inwhichwry,darklywiseSatandrops in on a hamlet verymuch like the ones ofTwain’s best-known fictions,including Huckleberry Finn.

One of Satan’s messages isclosetoHuck’s,too:thatitisbetter to be dead than toenduretheordinaryvillager’shumdrum (and very violent)life.To introduce the present

edition, I returned to findAdventures of HuckleberryFinn more deeply troublingthan ever but nonethelessmightily alluring—in somewaysmore alluring now that

its experiments and failuresweresoevident. In this freshreview of the novel, I havefound it helpful to invokecertain of Edward Said’sterms for contemporaryreading:Read receptively,headvises, but also readresistantly.a This criticalstrategy of armed visionpresumes that there are noperfect literary achievements,that one takes even the

biblical gospel, “wheneverit’s poss‘ble, with a grain ofsalt.” Such an attitude ofresistant receptivity isparticularly apt forHuckleberry Finn preciselybecause it has beenswallowedwholeasaperfectbook on the basis of whichMark Twain is “sole,incomparable, the Lincoln ofour literature.”b As JonathanArac has so eloquently

argued,c it has been idolizedand “hypercannonized”—included in every U.S.literary reading list andanthology as an unassailablemonument by some whoassume that those who raisequestionsaboutiteitherhavenot read the masterpiece, orcannot do so. One of theattractions of rereading thisbookis thatwiththeworkofArac and others, we as

readersarefreerthanevernotjust to worship Twain’screation but to explore itanew—receiving andresistingaswego.Iwillstart,then,withwhat

I found troubling inHuckleberry Finn, andafterward—at the risk ofadding to the frenzy ofhyperapproval—I willexplainwhyIhavedecidedtoteach it again, not just as a

problematic but teachablebook but as one that stillmovesmegreatlyasareaderwho loves words andsentences, characters andplotlines. And as a readerwholovestheblues—butI’mgetting ahead of my story.Trouble comes first: aspectsof thenovel towonderaboutas we wander through thebook,toresist.The first problem is one I

have mentioned already: thebook’s constant use of theword“nigger.”Notasstudentnowbutasteacher,Ifindthisoffense to be glaring: Whatwould I do about the use ofthe word in my classroom?What is there to tell eighth-grade readers and theirparents and teachers—thefirst wave of thoseconfronting the novel as aclassroom exercise? I hatecensorship, and would not

remove the book from anylibrary shelf or curriculum,even at the middle-schoollevel; nor would Irecommend deleting ortranslating the word inexpurgated editions just forkids. To readers young andold, I would point out that“nigger” was used as part ofcasual everyday speech bywhites and blacks in theSouth and also in the Westand the East and the North.

Sometimes it was willfullyhurled as an assault weapon,sometimes as merethoughtless prattle (and, ofcourse, ignorant assaults attimescanhurtasmuchasanyothers); sometimes it wastossed off by whites withwell-intentioned affection-cum-condescension;sometimes by whites wholived at the borders of blackcommunities and who felttheir proximity granted them

theinsiders’privilege(alwaysa precarious presumption) touse a term usually nottolerated from outsiders. Forblacks, then and now, theword has been used withinthegroup,justasanti-Semiticterms are used by Jewsthemselves, in part as astrategytodisarmtheenemy.Within the black circle,“nigger” could invokebravado and/or camaraderieand/or even flirtation: to be

calleda“prettynigger”intheblack Washington, D.C., ofmy youth could be thesweetest of compliments.(Though in the jujitsu worldof black language that termcouldbereversedintooneofdisdain: “pretty nigger” asweak,absurdpeacock.)But my point is that in

Twain’s world of the 1870sand 1880s (when he waswritingHuckleberryFinn), in

theworldofthenovelitself—roughly the 1840s—and,crucial to note, in our ownprecarious world, the word“nigger” is and was, amongthese other things, aword ofdeepestracialhatred,awillfulassault. In class discussionsof the novel and in writingabout it, let the students usethe termwarily, in quotationmarks, in recognition thatsomebody in the class couldtakeitasadeeplyhurtfulact

of indifference, ignorance, oroutrightviciousness; and thatatthenextturnofthescrewanasty racial term may behurledbackatthehurler!Formy part, as I teach the bookthis year at ColumbiaUniversity, I will be readywithmaterials on the word’shistory, in literary andcultural arenas beyondliterature. Two importantsources will be JonathanArac’s book, along with

Randall Kennedy’s studyNigger: The Strange Careerof a TroublesomeWordd—inwhich, among other things,Kennedylistsdozensofcourtcases in which a blackdefendant in an assault ormurdercasehasclaimedasadefense that thewhite victimof an attack had started thefight by spitting out this onenastyword.In defense of Twain’s

language, I would remindreaders that we are gettingTwain’s creation of Huck’staleinHuck’svoice,andthat,as many have argued, weshould read Huck’s uses of“nigger”notonlyasevidenceof authentic historical talk,however unpleasant, but asTwain’s relentless, well-turned irony. (With “irony”referring to an aside that isunderstood by reader andwriter, and perhaps at times

by a particularly knowingcharacter like Huck, but notby most of a work’scharacters.)Onecentralironyhere is that even a boy whostrikesusaspureinheartandthoroughly genuine in hislove for Jimuses the term insentence after sentence—that’s how deeply ingrainedthe language of Americanracismwas(and,sadly,is).Inone of the novel’s mostunforgettablescenes,Twain’s

irony is most effectivelypointed. Inchapter32,Huck,masquerading as TomSawyer,pretendstohavejustarrived on a riverboat thatwas delayed by an explosionon board. Aunt Sally asks,“Anybody hurt?” “No‘m,” isHuck’squickreply.“Killedanigger.” “Well, it’s lucky;”said Aunt Sally, “becausesometimes people do gethurt”(p.201).EvenmotherlyAunt Sally,who seemswell-

meaning enough, is at homenot only with this term“nigger” but also with thenews of the death of anAfricanAmerican,whoinherlanguage is neither a humanbeing nor worth a sigh ofremorse. Further,Huck’s useof “nigger” in this instanceadds detail to his cleverlyturnedlie,andassertsasenseof (white) community withAunt Sally to hide his realintention of freeing Jim. As

Huck suspected, Sally andfamily have bought Jim andkept him hidden as part oftheir own plan to sell himdown the river. Behind whatat first seems like herwonderful good mannerslurks the monster of racehatred,unabashed.Clearly,ifinthisscenewe

change the racial designationto “Negro” or “negro” (themore common nineteenth-

century usage), we wouldlose theviolenceof theword“nigger”; but it is also truethat with the emendation wewould sacrifice the deepest,most slashing irony thatTwain turnsagainst thewordand the world of prejudiceunderlyingit.ThesecondproblemIwant

to raise also involves race—the portrayal of Jim. Here awhole book-length essay

could follow. But for thisspacemycentralcomplaintisthatinthisrealisticnovel,Jimis just not real enough, nottrue enough either tohistorical type or to humandimensions that transcendhistorical type. I’ll start byobserving that the greatestcritic of his era on thisquestionofAfrican-Americanportraiture, Sterling A.Brown,disagreeswithmeonthis point, and in fact has

stronglycommendedTwain’sportrait of Jim. Like Huckand Tom, writes Brown, Jimis“drawnfromlife.He isnolonger the simple-minded,mysteriousguide in thewaysofdeadcats,doodle-bugsandsigns of The Adventures ofTom Sawyer. Running awayfromoldMissWatsonwho...‘pecks on’ him all the time,treats him ’pooty rough’ andwants a trader’s eighthundred dollars for him, Jim

joins Huck on the immortaljourney down theMississippi.”e Brown findsJim’s humor rich, not thestuff of minstrel buffooneryalone: “His talk enlivens thevoyage. He is at his comicbest in detailing hisexperience with high finance—he once owned fourteendollars.Butthefunisbroughtup sharp by Jim’s ‘Yes—enI’srichnow,cometolookat

it. Iownsmysef,en I’swutheighthund’ddollars.IwishtIhad de money, I wouldn’twantnomo’”(p.46).But as Brown observes,

“he did want more. Hewanted to get to a free stateandworkandsavemoneysohe could buy his wife, andtheywouldbothwork tobuytheir children, or get anabolitionisttogostealthem.”In Brown’s evaluation, “Jim

is the best example innineteenth century fiction ofthe averageNegro slave (notthetragicmulattoorthenoblesavage), illiterate,superstitious, yet clinging tohis hope for freedom, to hislove for his own. And he iscompletely believable,whether arguing thatFrenchmen should talk likepeople, or doingmost of theworkontheraft,orforgivingHuckwhosetrickcausedhim

to be bitten by a snake, orsympathizing with the poorlittle Dauphin, who, sinceAmericahasnokings,‘cain’tgit no situation.’” Here isparental tenderness andshame as Jim ”tells of hislittle daughter,whom he hadstruck, not knowing shedisobeyed because she hadbecome deaf from scarletfever.” Says Jim: ”Oh, shewas plumb deef en dumb,Huck, plum deef en dumb—

enI’dbeena-treatin’herso!“f

Likewise, in his firstwritings about HuckleberryFinn, the novelist RalphEllison strongly defendsTwain’s presentation of Jim(whom incredibly even he,Ellison, sometimes calls“Nigger Jim”) as “notonly aslave but a human being, aman who in some ways wasto be envied.” EchoingBrown, Ellison praises Jim’s

portraiture, particularly itsinclusion of faults thathumanize: “Twain, thoughguilty of the sentimentalitycommon to humorists, doesnot idealize the slave. Jim isdrawninallhisignoranceandsuperstition, with his goodtraitsandhisbad.He,likeallmen,isambiguous,limitedincircumstance but not inpossibility.” For Ellison,what’s most significant isJim’sroleasTwain’sshining

“symbol of humanity, and infreeing Jim, Huck makes abid to free himself of theconventionalized evil takenforcivilizationbythetown.”g

Yet Ellison, writing in the1950s, more than ten yearsafter his first defense of Jim,also began to find fault withJim’s portrayal. On secondthought, the figure was soclose,hesaid,tothetraditionof blackfaceminstrelsy—that

formofAmericantheaterbestknownforitsfeatureofwhitemenwearing burned cork ontheir faces to imitate,typically in grotesqueexaggerations, blackAmerican forms of song anddance—that black readerskeep their distance fromHuckleberry’s black friend.Recalling his reading thebook as a boy, Ellison says,“[I] could imaginemyself asHuck Finn (I so nicknamed

mybrother),butnot,thoughIracially identified with him,as Nigger Jim [sic; recallagain that this was neverMark Twain’s phrase], whostruck me as a white man’sinadequate portrait of aslave.”h Elsewhere, Ellisonsaid thatTwainevidentlydidnot calculate blacks amongthe readers of his novel: “Itwas a dialogue between... awhite American novelist of

good heart, of democraticvision, one dedicated tovalues... and white readers,primarily,” he said. AndTwain’sfailureasanartist,inthisview,isthathereliedtoomuch on the barroom jokeandminstrelshowforimagesof blacks rather than seekingtrue images, not only fromlived experience but fromprior forms of literature,depicting blacks and otherfigures from beneath the

social hierarchy. To thisdegree,Twainwas“notquiteas literary a man as he wasrequired to be,” wroteEllison, “because he couldhavegonetoWalterScott,tothe Russians, to any numberof places, and found touch-stones for filling out thecomplex humanity of thatman who appeared in hisbook out of his ownimagination, and who was

knownasJim.”i

In her eloquentcommentary on HuckleberryFinn, the novelist ToniMorrisonfindsthesolutiontoHuck’slonelinessanddespairto be not the godlike river—with its own terribleunpredictability—but thecompanionship of Jim.Floating on their raft, freefrom the troubles of theshore, Huck and Jim talk

quietly,andtheircommuniontogether is “so free of lies itproduces an aura ofrestfulness and peaceunavailable anywhere else inthenovel.”jButgiventherealdistance between blacks andwhites in America, Morrisonsays, so extreme today andinfinitelymoresoahundred-plusyearsago,thiswonderfulfriendship is doomed, and assavvy southerners, Jim and

Huckknowinadvancethatitisdoomed.Morrisonsaysthatthis inevitable split betweenthe two friends, the novel’sunderlying tragedy, helpsexplainwhyTwainpresentedJim in such exaggeratedlyoutsized stereotyped terms—lest Huck or the reader gettoo close to him.“Anticipating this loss mayhave led Twain to the over-the-top minstrelization ofJim,” writes Morrison.

“Predictable and common asthe gross stereotyping ofblacks was in nineteenth-century literature, here,nevertheless, Jim’s portraitseems unaccountablyexcessive and glaring in itscontradictions—like an ill-made clown suit that cannothidethemanwithin.”So as Said-trained readers

we receive Jim through thisabsurd stereotyped suit—

receive his humanity, hisfatherly sense ofresponsibility for Huck, hiscourage, family care, andindustriousness, and wisdom—just aswe find it.But it isalso useful to resist the ideathat Jim is thoroughlyrealistic,thatblackmenofhistime were typically thissimplistic, docile, or full ofminstrel-show-like patter. Aswe resist,wemight fruitfullyconsider the historical

backdrop of the minstrelstage, and the motives forwhite authors like Twain increating such true-falseblackimagesat themoralcenteroftheirwork.Anotherproblem,unrelated

torealisticportraitureassuch,also weighed down myrereading of HuckleberryFinn. I refer to the book’sfinal chapters, inwhichTomSawyerreappearsandinvents

ascoreofschemesthatdelayand imperil the freeing ofJim. In the key instance ofHuckleberry Finn’s“hypercanonization,”Hemingway wrote thesefamous sweeping wordsaboutthenovel:“AllmodernAmerican literature comesfrom one book by MarkTwain called HuckleberryFinn ... It’s the best bookwe’ve had. All Americanwriting comes from that.

There was nothing before.There has been nothing asgood since.” Hemingway’sotherkeysentences,hiddenintheellipsisabove,areusuallynot quoted: “If you read ityou must stop where theNigger Jim [there it is again:Hemingway’s phrase, notTwain‘s] is stolen from theboys. That is the real end.”kWhile I strongly agree withthose who upbraid

Hemingway forrecommendingthatthereaderstop before Jim is free—andthusmissingthemoralcenterof the work—I agree withHemingway that the novelgets infuriatingly dull oncenotHuckbutTomissteeringthewaytowardfreedom.Andyet here too it is useful toconsider the satiricalcommentary that might besaid to go with Tom’soutrageous interferences.

Could Tom’s delays and hisself-serving play with Jimwhen he knew the man hadbeen freed already compriseTwain’sstingingcommentonthe process of freeing blacksfrom slavery—a clumsyprocess that somewould sayis still haltingly in process?AndmightTom’sabsurd,by-the-book reliance onpurported precedentscomprise a tellingcommentaryontheU.S.legal

system not only duringslavery but in Twain’s owntime, when the gains ofReconstruction wereunderminedbycompromises,andwhen the rights of blackcitizenswereabridged,intheSupreme Court decisioncalled Plessy v. Ferguson,such that constitutionalsanction was given tovirtually all forms of racialsegregation.l The book slows

down, then, to suggest themiserable slowness of theprocess of gaining blackfreedom in America—stuckin a mire of what might betermed Tom Sawyerism. Wecan’t stop reading until thenovel’s end, but these lastchaptersareanagony!What’s left to recommend

inthisnovelfullofproblems?Having resisted so much inthe book, what do we gain

when we read it with anattitude of receptivity? Toofferananswer,I’mgoingtorisk another piece ofautobiographical reflection.For thepast tenyears, inmyown scholarship andteaching, I have beenexploringtheimpactofblues-idiommusiconAmericanlifeand literature. This newintellectualworkgrewoutofmy interest in black artsmovement writers of the

1960s and 1970s, whosepoetry and prose were oftenblues-and jazz-inflected,andinwriters likeRalphEllison,Jack Kerouac, and LangstonHughes, whose blues/jazzwriting of the 1940s and1950s (and in the case ofHughes,alsoofthe1920sand1930s) had shown the way.Was it possible to think ofHuckleberry Finn as a bluesnovel in the tradition ofEllison’s Invisible Man?

(EllisonalwaysnamedTwainasakeyinfluence,despitetheproblemshe saw in thegreatnovel.) Was it conceivablethatanovelwrittenmorethana hundred years before ToniMorrison’s Jazz wasnonetheless also infusedwiththespiritof themusicalformcalledtheblues,andthat thismusical connection helped todefine why, at least for me,Twain’s book has continuedto have such resonance so

longafteritscreation?m

Sitting in my EnglishDepartment office atColumbia University withblues-master Robert JohnsonontheCDplayer,Icontinuedrereading Huckleberry Finn,and the bluesiness ofHuck’stale sounded through thebook’s pages. Listening toJohnson, and then to BessieSmith and Louis Armstrongand Duke Ellington (yes, to

theinstrumentalbluesaswellas to the lyrics of bluessingers), I heard a storyringing true to the one inHuckleberry Finn: a journeytoward freedom againstinsurmountable oddsundertaken for the sake ofyearning for an oftenimpossible love, with thereadiness to improvise as thesolemeans of supporting thehope of that love. After all,Huck’sefforts to free Jimdo

comprise a profoundexpression of love—anassertionof theprinciple thatfor the American promise tobe realized, everyone mustlearn not only to go it alone,to solo, but also to makemusictogetherwithothers,toswing. This, at thisprofoundest level, is whatHuckleberry Finn learns todo.Huckknowshowtosolo;and like a true bluesman, helearnstoswing.

How shall we define theblues as a musical form?Crystallizing inNewOrleansand in other cities along theMississippi River at justabout the same timeTwain’snovel was being composed,the blues typically is a first-person musical narrative ormeditation on a life of trialand trouble, delivered in acomic mode. Its starkdescriptions of catastropheare leavened by the music’s

design as a good-time dancemusic, rolling and tumblingwith the sounds of flirtationand courtship, of the fine-framed “easy rider.” Evenwhen the music seemsespecially made for privatereflection (“I’m settin’ in thehouse,witheverythingonmymind”), its dreams of escaperarely offermere sentimentalflightsbutinsteadinvolvetheagonies of confrontation andof real-world trips toward

realms where freedom—thatimpossibly illusive butnonetheless inspiring dream(“how long, how long, hasthat evening train beengone?”)—is pursued with afull heart and a cool head.Rather than softening orturning from life’s pains,blues music probes the“jagged grain” of atroublesome existence.Typically concerned with awomanyearning forherman

or a man yearning for hiswoman (“I’m in love with awoman but she’s not in lovewith me”), the blues is amusic of romantic longingand, in a larger frame, ofdesire for connectedness andcompletion, for spiritual aswell as physicalcommunicationand love inaworld of fracture anddisarray. As an improvisedform, the blues admits life’sdire discouragements and

limits to the point of death,but nonetheless celebrateshuman continuity:mankind’sgood-humored resiliency andcapacity, in spite ofeverything, to endure andeventoprevail.n

In the first chapters ofHuckleberry Finn, Jim setsthe stage for the book’sblueness by explaining toHuck that most of themysterious natural signs of

things to come point to badluck and trouble—that, inotherwords, the twoof themlive in a world infested withthe blues. Huck complainsthat “it looked tome like allthesignswasaboutbadluck,and so I asked him if therewarn’t any good-luck signs.He says: ‘Mighty few—an’dey ain’ no use to a body.Whatyouwanttoknowwhengood luck’s a-comin’ for?wanttokeepitoff?’”(p.44).

One good luck sign, Jim’shairy body and chest, whichindicated he would be rich“bymeby,”promptanotherofJim’s bluesy reflections: “I’srichnow,cometolookatit.Iowns mysef, en I’s wurtheighthund’ddollars.IwishtIhad de money, I wouldn’want no mo’ ” (p. 46). Andyet of course (as SterlingBrown observed) Jim doeswant more: He continues onthe bad-luck-haunted road

toward freedom for himselfandforhisfamily.ThemoreIread,themoreI

came to feel that thisbook isfulloftheblues.HuckFinnisa lonesome, unhappy boywhose reflections on hissurroundings are oftensublimely sad and lonely.Beforetakingoffonthewaterwith Jim,Huck feels trappedin the house with his night-thoughts of loneliness and

death:Then I set down in achairbythewindowandtried to think ofsomething cheerful, butitwarn’tnouse.Ifeltsolonesome ImostwishedI was dead. The starswas shining, and theleaves rustled in thewoodseversomournful;andIheardanowl,awayoff, who-whooing about

somebodythatwasdead,and a whippowill and adog crying aboutsomebody that wasgoing to die; and thewind was trying towhispersomethingtomeand I couldn’tmake outwhat it was, and so itmade the cold shiversrunoverme.ThenawayoutinthewoodsIheardthatkindofasoundthata ghost makes when it

wants to tell aboutsomething that’s on itsmind and can’t makeitselfunderstood,andsocan’t rest easy in itsgrave and has to goabout that way everynight grieving. I got sodown-hearted andscared, I didwish I hadsomecompany(p.7).

Early one morning, beforehemeetsupwithJim,Huckis

alone on Jackson’s Island,lounging on the grass.Againthe scene is rathermelancholy. The sad boy iskilling time. “I could see thesun out at one or two holes,butmostlyitwasbigtreesallabout, and gloomy in thereamongst them” (p. 36). Thatnight“itgotsortoflonesome,and so Iwent and set on thebank and listened to thecurrents washing along, andcounted the stars and drift-

logs and rafts that comedown, and thenwent to bed;there ain’t no better way toput in time when you arelonesome; you can’t stay so,yousoongetoverit”(p.38).Only with Jim on hand as

Huck’s friendandpartner-in-escape does nature begin toshine. Sharedwith Jim, evena sudden summer storm onthe river strikes the boy asmarvelous:

Itwouldgetsodarkthatit looked all blue-blackoutside, and lovely; andthe rain would thrashalongbysothickthatthetrees off a little wayslooked dim and spider-webby; and here wouldcomeablastofwindthatwould bend the treesdown and turn up thepale underside of theleaves; and then aperfect ripper of a gust

would follow along andset the branches totossing their arms as ifthey was just wild; andnext, when it was justabout the bluest andblackest—fst! it was asbright as glory andyou’d have a littleglimpse of tree-tops a-plungingabout,awayoffyonder in the storm,hundreds of yardsfurther than you could

see before; dark as sinagain in a second, andnow you’d hear thethunder let go with anawful crash and then gorumbling, grumbling,tumbling down the skytowards the under sideoftheworld,likerollingempty barrels downstairs, where it’s longstairs and theybounceagooddeal,youknow.

“Jim, this is nice,” Isays.“Iwouldn’twanttobe nowhere else buthere. Pass me alonganotherhunkoffishandsomehotcorn-bread”(p.47).

Sometimes what Jim andHuck share on the raft isloneliness. Huck’s poeticdescriptions of their sharedsense of the river’s soft bluelonely quality stay in the

reader’s mind. “We wouldwatch the lonesomeness ofthe river, and kind of lazyalong,”hesays,“andby-and-bylazyofftosleep.Wakeup,by-and-by, and look to seewhatdoneit,andmaybeseeasteamboat,coughingalongupstream.” And soon “therewouldn’t be nothing to hearnornothingtosee—justsolidlonesomeness”(p.109).At the other end of the

novel, in the bright, sunnyback country where thePhelps family lives, Huck,alone again, is seized bydesolation:

It was all still andSunday-like,andhotandsunshiny—the handswas gone to the fields;andtherewasthemkindoffaintdroningsofbugsand flies in the air thatmakes it seem so

lonesome and likeeverybody’s dead andgone; and if a breezefans along and quiversthe leaves, itmakesyoufeel mournful, becauseyou feel like it’s spiritswhispering—spiritsthat’sbeendeadever somany years—and youalways think they’retalking about you. As ageneral thing itmakes abodywishhe was dead,

too, anddonewith it all(p.198).

Approaching the Phelps’shome, Huck “heard the dimhum of a spinning-wheelwailingalongupandsinkingalongdownagain;andthenIknowedforcertainIwishedIwas dead—for that is thelonesomest sound in thewhole world” (p. 199).Considering ways to thwartthe villainy of the king and

theduke,Huck“slippeduptobed, feeling ruther blue” (p.164).Through the course of the

novel,Huckhasmuchtofeelblue about. His mother isdead, and his father is adrunken back-countryvagabond who beats Huck,imprisons him, and tries tosteal hismoney. Thewomenwho take him in, WidowDouglas and her sister Miss

Watson(“atolerableslimoldmaid,withgoggleson”)offerHuckleberry a genteel homewhose rules of tidiness anddecorum are so tight-fittingthathecannotwaittogetoutthe window. Up the river,comfortably housed church-going families arepathologically locked into apatternofkillingoneanother,childrenincluded,forreasonssome (all?) of them cannotremember. Ruthless

“humbugs and frauds,” inHuck’s phrase, swarm theland: The king and the dukeusewhattheyknowofhumangreed and sentimentality toseparate the townsfolk fromtheirmoney;theyforceHuck(until he tricks the tricksters)to participate in theirelaborate ruses. Bullies andcowardlylynchmobsproduceanother plague oncommunities along the river.And, poisoning everything,

the region’s economydepends on the enslavementofAfricanAmericansandonthevigilanceofwhitepeoplein owning them, and then incapturing and returningrunaways, should they breakfree. Pap Finn so resents awell-dressed free blackcitizen and voter, with his“goldwatchandchain,andasilver-headed cane,” that hecan’t cannot see why “thisnigger” is not “put up at

auctionandsold”(pp.27-28).Not thatHuckleberry is an

abstract thinker—the poetryofhislanguageisinitsgrittyspecificityanditsrhythm—oreven advanced enough tooppose slavery as aninstitution.ButhehaslearnedthatJimisamanandafriendand a wise, guiding father-figure, one of AlbertMurray’s brown-skin shade-tree uncles,o and that he,

Huck,willdowhatittakestohelp Jim escape slavery.Though the scene in whichHuckdecides that hewill gotohell,ifthat’swhatassistingJim means, is more comicthantragic—forHuckalreadyhasmadeclearhispreferencefor the exciting bad placeover the dull good placetrumpeted by Miss Watsonp—Huck has decided to takewhatever risks may be

associated with helping Jim.In this sense Huck is a“blues-hero,” an improviserin a world of trouble whooptimistically faces a deadlyproject without a script.Remember that the blues isnotjustaconfrontationwithaworld gone wrong; to thatgone-wrongness, the bluesanswers that theinstrumentalist-hero (and thecommunity of blues peopleidentifying with the artist’s

expression) have just enoughresiliency and power to keepon keeping on, whatever thechangesinfortune.Getting Jim free is not a

simple business. One mightsay that Huck and Jim’s triptowardfreedomishauntedbythe blues. Along with thevarious efforts to recaptureand sell Jim back down theriver (including those of theduke and the king), consider

chapter15, inwhichJimandHuckareseparatedbyaswiftcurrent, and then seek eachother through a thickwall offog. As night falls, Huckpaddles in a canoe after Jimand the raft, but the boy’shands tremble as he hearswhat seem to be Jim’sansweringwhoops:

I whooped and listened.Away down there,somewheres, I hears a

small whoop, and upcomesmyspirits.Iwenttearing after it, listeningsharp to hear it again.Thenext timeitcome,Isee Iwarn’t heading forit but heading away tothe right of it. And thenexttime,Iwasheadingaway to the left of it—and not gaining on itmuch, either, for I wasflying around, this wayand that and ‘tother, but

it was going straightahead all the time (p.76).

Confused by the swirlingcurrent and blinded by thefog,Huckhearscallsinfrontof him and calls behind him,and finds himself in theterritory of the blues. “Icouldn’t tell nothing aboutvoices in a fog, for nothingdon’t look natural nor soundnatural in a fog” (p. 77).

Huck keeps still and quiet,listeningandwaiting.“Ifyouthink it ain’t dismal andlonesome out in a fog thatway,byyourself,inthenight,you try it once—you’ll see”(p.77).Thehardtruthis thatin the storm and fog theyhave passed Cairo, the portleading to the North. Theyhavebeenpulled southagainand will have many moredifficult scenarios to endure—in the hands of the king

and the duke and then withthe Phelps family—beforethey can light out for freerspaces. These travelers, likethe great singer/guitaristRobert Johnson,have“got tokeep moverin‘, the bluesfallin’ down like rain, bluesfallin’downlikerain.”This impulse to move on,

even without a satisfactorydestination or solution insight, echoes a trainload of

rambling blues. In the firstchapter,MissWatsonneedlesHuckleberryaboutthewayhesits and stands. She warnshim about hell, “and I said Iwished I was there.... All Iwanted was to gosomewheres;allIwantedwasachange.”Asformakingittoheaven, MissWatson’s goal:“I couldn’t see no advantagein going where she wasgoing,” Huck says, “so ImadeupmymindIwouldn’t

tryforit.ButIneversaidso,because it would only maketrouble, and wouldn’t do nogood” (pp. 6-7). Once hedecides to run away bothfrom the widow (and hersister)andfromPapFinn,hisplan is sketchy, but it isenoughtogoon.Andinhisbidtomakehis

getaway, Huck is nothing ifnot a brilliant improviser, inthebluesmode.qHeinventsa

scenario that convinces thetown that he has been killed.With things on the raft“gettingslowanddull,”Huckdecides to go ashore andinvestigatethetalkamongthevillagers along the river. Tohide himself, our restlessimproviser dresses as a girland tells a woman whosehouse he visits that he isSarah Williams fromHookerville, “all tired out”from walking all the way.

Would he like something toeat? “No‘m, I ain’t hungry,”declares Huck, cooking up astory.“IwassohungryIhadto stop two mile below hereatafarm;soIain’thungrynomore. It’swhatmakesme solate.Mymother’sdownsick,and out of money andeverything,andIcometotellmy uncle Abner Moore” (p.53).As the woman’s belief in

hisactasagirl falters,Huckmakes use of her suspicionthat he actually is a boy-apprentice on the run from acruel workplace master,which would explain thedesperate disguise andsecrecy. Warming up to thisnew role as runawayapprentice, Huck suppliesimpromptudetails:

ThenItoldhermyfatherand mother was dead,

and the law had boundme out to a mean oldfarmer in the countrythirtymilebackfromtheriver, and he treatedmesobadIcouldn’tstanditnolonger;hewentawayto be gone a couple ofdays, and so I took mychanceandstolesomeofhis daughter’s oldclothes, and cleared out(pp.62-63).

Though the woman is toosharp to fall for his act as agirl, Huck does gain enoughof her confidence to obtainthe information he has comefor—that a posse has a beadon Jim, and that the two ofthem had better move onquicker than planned. Andnote the themes of Huck’sinvented tales: hunger,sickness, death,abandonment, separation,escape.Thesearethesubjects

of the blues; and just asHuckleberry’s larger story,within the fully orchestratedbluessonatathatisthenovel,is at bottom about freedom,resiliency, and heroic action,so are these, at bottom, thesubjects of the blues: theimproviser’scapacity,inspiteof all disconnection, toconnect and tomake a breakforfreedom.To get help for a gang

whose boat Huck has stolen(and because of which thefthefeelsguilty),theboystopsamanpassingona ferryandpretends to weep beforeservingupanotherbluesytaleof woe. “Pap and mam, andsis andMissHooker” are allin a peck of trouble, Huckdeclares, because whilemaking a night visit toBooth’s Island,Miss Hookerandherblackservant-womantookaferrybutlosttheiroar,

so the ferry turned down theriver and ran into an oldwrecked boat, the WalterScott. With the servant andthe horses lost,Miss Hookerclimbed aboard the wreck.“Well,” says Huck,unwinding the yarn, “aboutan hour after dark, we comealong down in our trading-scow, and it was so darkwedidn’tnoticethewrecktillwewas right on it; and so wesaddle-baggsed”—that is,

they were slowed to acomplete halt. “Well, weholleredand tookon,but it’sso wide there, we couldn’tmake nobody hear. So papsaid somebody got to getashore and get helpsomehow”(p.70).Tosealthedealthatthemanontheferrywill go to offer help (thestranded gangsters), Huckplaysontheferryman’sgreedby claiming, as ifincidentally, that Miss

Hooker’s uncle is thefabulously wealthy JimHornback.Again, underneathHuck’s comedy ofmanipulation is an orphan’stragic tale of a family miredand separated by forcesbeyond their control, a bluesinthenightontheriver.Andagain there is the largerdrama of the quest forfreedom and democracy (ournation’s word for love)through quick and artful

improvisation.Like a blues musician,

Huck creates in themoment.With fertile imagination, hesolos. He fills the vividbreaks in the action withinvented phrases, gestures,and disguises, songs of selfand community in love andtrouble, characters trying topiece things back together,trying to get home, and thenagain, perhaps better still, to

get away, to break free.Sometimes,asasoloist,Huckoverblows. For instance, inthe scene where Huckpretends that Jim did notactually experience but onlydreamedupthestormthatleftthem separated, Huck’sinvention is merely self-serving, the smarty stuff ofTom Sawyerism. When Jimsees the trick, his heartfeltwords, containing a stingingrebuke, achieve a kind of

bluescadence:When Igotallworeoutwid work, en wid decallin’ for you, en wentto sleep, my heart wuzmos’ broke bekase youwuz los‘, en I didn’k’yer no mo’ whatbecomeermeenderaf‘.En when I wake up enfine you back agin’, allsafe en soun‘, de tearscome en I could a got

down on my knees enkiss’ yo’ foot I’s sothankful.Enallyouwuzthinkin ’bout wuz howyou could make a fooluvoleJimwidalie.Dattruck dah is trash; entrash is what people isdat puts dirt on de header dey fren’s en makes‘emashamed(p.80).

At its best, Huck’s languageis the language of the blues:

vigorous, ironical,understated, grainy withdetail, swingingly playful.Like the blues-singer, Huckhas little patience forsentimental language or theheadlong, tearful action thatgoes with it. This novel’songoingparodyofairypoemsabout dead relatives, etc.,parallels the blues’ disdainfor the easy tear,sentimentalism’s shallowparade of false feelings.

Huck’s impatiencewithTomSawyer’s egocentric relianceonbookishprecedents—evenwhenhecan’tsaywhatsomeof the highfalutin’ words heuses actually mean—is alsotrue to the blues, whichfavors not only theimproviser over the set textbutalsolanguagethatisclearand unabashed. “Whileyou’re steppin’ out someoneelse is steppin’ in,” says abluessongbyDeniseLaSalle

—never mind all the TomSawyerist indirection andpretense. When real troublehauntsthebook—thedeathofHuck’s new friendBuck, forexample—Huck does notgush; instead, the situationitself is so eloquent that hecan barely speak, there isnothing to say. In the sparedictionoftheblues,worldsofmeaning erupt.These are thestrange silences that ToniMorrisonnoticeselsewherein

Huck:HelovesJimtoomuchto make a speech about it.Likeatruebluesman,Huck’sart is magnificentlyunderstated and full of starkbut meaningful momentswhen there is nothing forwords to say. His answer toJim’s rebuke about Huck’strickingofJimafterthestormhad separated them is notdirect;we only know that hewas ashamed and that hecreptbacktoapologize.

It is Ellison who directlyconnects Huck’s resolution,thelineinthenovel’sfamouslast sentence—“to light outfor the Territory”—with theblues of Bessie Smith, who,in the “Workhouse Blues”alsodeclaresthatshe’s“goin’to the Nation, goin’ to theTerritor‘.”Inhiscollectionofessays called Going to theTerritory,rEllisonsaysthatinhersong,Smith’swilltotake

offforthe“Territory”beyondU.S. borders parallels thejourneys of slaves and ex-slaves, and their children,toward the broader freedomand multiplied sense ofpossibilityassociatednotonlywith the North but with theWestern frontier and, moregenerally,with the unchartedfrontiersofthefuture.Jim,ofcourse, “lights out,” too.Indeed, Mark Twain’smaster-stroke is connecting

Jim’squestforfreedomfromslavery with the nation’sefforttogrowup,morally,asHuckisabletodoashelightsout for a territory we hopewill be more humane andfreerforall.Makingthiscaseaboutthis

novel as a sort of “Blues forHuckleberry” or “Huck andJim’s Lonesome Raft Blues”does not depend on ourstrainingtoshowthatHuckis

black.Andyetitisintriguingto remember that, culturallyspeaking, all the boys andgirls of that period (and ofour own period) from all thetowns like Huck’s home inGrant’s Landing, Missouri,whatever their specific racialbloodlines, known andunknown, were both blackandwhite—aswellasNativeAmerican.Here Bernard De Voto’s

reflections on Mark Twain’sown boyhood can help usunderstand Huck’s“blackness.” De Votoobserves that in theworld ofMarkTwain’sboyhood,

blackandwhitechildrengrewuptogether....Theyinvestigated all thingstogether, exploring life.Theyhunted,swam,andfought together. ... Sothe days of Sam

Clemens were spentamongtheblacks.Negrogirls watched over hisinfancy. Negro boysshared his childhood.Negroeswerea fountainof wisdom and terrorand adventure. TherewasSandyandtheotherslave boys who playedbear with him. Theseandotherspreservedhimsometimes fromdrowning.Therewasthe

bedridden old womanwho had known Mosesandhadlostherhealthinthe exodus from Egypt.There was Uncle Dan‘lwho told the stories thatHarriswas to put in themouth of Uncle Remus,and,while the fire died,revealedtheawfulworldof ghosts. There werethe Negroes with whomhe roamed the woods,hunting coons and

pigeons. Therewere theroustabouts of thesteamboats, the fieldhands shouting callsover their hoes, and allthe leisurely domesticservants of the town....Olivia Langdon, whomhe married, was to givehim a principle fordealing justly with thehuman race. He ought,she said, to considereverymanblackuntilhe

wasprovedwhite.s

DeVotoalsotellsofMarkTwain/Sam Clemens’s loveof Negro spirituals. As anadult in Hartford,Connecticut, he wouldsometimes stand under themoonlit night, singing“NobodyKnows the TroubleI See” and delivering thesong’s final “Glory,Hallelujah,” “with a greatshout.” “Away back in the

beginning—to my mind,”said Twain, the singing ofblacks “made all other vocalmusic cheap... and it movesme more than any othermusiccan.”t

Whileasfaraswecantell,Twain never heard bluesmusic as such, he heard thevarious American musics,including the Negrospirituals, that blended tobecome the blues. And there

is a “nobody knows thetrouble I see” as well as a“glory Hallelujah” shout inthe blues. Both extremes offeeling find their way intothisnovel,HuckleberryFinn.If Huckleberry Finn may

be read as a blues narrative,with blues characters andplotlines, thebook’smodeofcompositionbyimprovisationalso is strongly suggestiveofthe blues. Manuscript

evidenceandlettersfromandtoTwainindicatethathefirstconceived of HuckleberryFinn as an extension of TheAdventuresofTomSawyer,inwhichHuckhadfirstmadeanappearance as Tom’s friend,dirt-poor but smart andnativelygoodatheart.Twaindecided that the new bookwould not bring Tom intoadulthood, as Twain’s friendWilliam Dean Howells hadrecommended, but instead

would tell the story of thisotherboy,Huck,whohadsomuch appeal that he hadnearlytakenoverTom’sownAdventures.The decision to shape this

new novel as a first-personnarrative, a chronicle told inan everyday voice by a boytrying to cope with thetrouble he sees, was brilliantand bluesy. It is alsoimportant that Twain did not

first conceive the book as aweaponagainstslavery,oraseven about slavery in anycentral way. In fact, Jim didnot figure as a majorcharacter in the book’s earlydrafts; nor at first was thereany indication that Twainintended to have Jim runawayfromslavery.EvidentlyTwain’s plan was to write aseries of episodes satirizingAmerican foibles andhypocrisies,particularlywhen

itcametoreligiouspractices,as his model book TheAdventures of Gil Blas(1749), by Alain René LeSagehaddone.According toscholar Victor Doyno,“Twain initially consideredhavingHuckescapefromhisfather’s cabin to set offtrampingacrossIllinois.Thenthe novelwould have been a‘road’ book, like Gil Blas’s,insteadofa‘river’book.Butwhenhe[Twain]remembered

theJuneriseintheriverlevel,with logs and rafts comingfrom upriver, he soon hadHuck spot a free-floatingcanoe, and that gave him themechanismforHucktotraveldown the river Twain knewsowell.“uTwainbringsHucktoJackson’sIsland,accordingto Doyno, without knowingwhat would happen next.Further, Twain ”may havebeen a bit puzzled by the

Robinson Crusoe—likemoment when Huck firstdiscovers the campfire onJackson’s Island because hedid not yet know in hisimagination who else wasthere. When he finallyrealized, after muchsequential revision, that theperson by the campfire wasJim,hewassoexcited—and,Ithink,happy—thathewrote’IbetIwasgladtoseehim!‘in running script, lifting his

pen off the page betweenwords only four times (hishabit when writing veryrapidly)insteadofthenormalseven times. Placing Jim bythe campfire was a crucialdiscovery/creationonthepartof Twain’s imagination,because it gave Huck acompanion who would givethe book surprising newpossibilities.“ Composing thebook over a ten-year period,with one episode suggesting

another, and with Jim’s leapforfreedomchallengingHuckto be more than anadventurouspicaroorvehiclefor incidental satire—he hadto face the implications ofloving Jim and identifyingwith his goal—graduallyMarkTwainshapedthenovelinto Adventures ofHuckleberryFinnaswehaveit today. Huck became amoralherohotlyengagedinabattle between what Twain

called ”a sound heart and adeformedconscience.”There is a sense in which

all novels, and perhaps allworks of art, are improvised.Still, Huckleberry Finnstrikes me as a special casebecausewhenitbeganoneofthe two main charactershardly existed, and the mostsignificantpartoftheplotlinewasnotyetimaginedatallbythe writer. Starting and

stopping, improvising overten years, Twain found outwhat the bookwas about. Intheprocesshe seems tohavediscovered that improvisingon the blues is theAmericanmode. In Adventures ofHuckleberry Finn, Huck notonlymakesupstoriestodupethe dupes and undo thetricksters he meets along theriver, he develops a style ofresiliency and optimism, areadiness in the face of

distressandevendisasterthatspells his survival as well ashis moral development. Helearns what the greatimprovisers in music learn:that improvisation at its bestis not a trick but a style andprocess; it is a philosophicaland aesthetic attitude withwhichtofacethefuturereadyto swing with others.Improvisation is swingingfreely, with discipline andwith love. In the end, that

capacity for free butdisciplinedlovingswingwithothers—at the heart of theblues—is what HuckleberryFinnisallabout.And in this new

millennium, how wonderfulforme,brown-skinnedreaderandinheritorof thelegacyofthe blues (as well as of thetraditions of the Americannovel), to discover that mylove for thismusic and, alas,

yes,my love for this book—wrong notes and all—arelinked, tied as tight as thestrings of old RobertJohnson’sbluesguitar.

RobertG.O‘Meally isZoraNeale Hurston Professor ofLiterature at ColumbiaUniversity, where he hasserved on the faculty forthirteen years; since 1999 he

has been the Director ofColumbia’s Center for JazzStudies. He is the author ofThe Craft of Ralph Ellison(1980) and Lady Day: TheManyFacesofBillieHoliday(1991), and the principlewriter ofSeeing Jazz (1997),the catalog for theSmithsonian Institution’sexhibit on jazz painting andliterature. He edited thecollection of essays Livingwith Music: Ralph Ellison’s

JazzWritings(2001)andTheJazz Cadence of AmericanCulture (1998), which wasawarded an 1999 ASCAP—Deems Taylor award, andcoeditedHistoryandMemoryin African-American Culture(1994) and The NortonAnthology of AfricanAmerican Literature (1996).O’Meallywrotethescriptforthe documentary film LadyDayandforthedocumentaryaccompanying the

Smithsonian exhibit DukeEllington: Beyond Category(1995),andhewasnominatedforaGrammyforhisworkascoproducer of the five-CDboxed set The Jazz Singers(1998).HelivesinNewYorkwithhiswife,JacquiMalone,and their sons,Douglass andGabriel.

Notice.

Persons attempting to find amotive in this narrative willbe prosecuted; personsattempting to find amoral init will be banished; personsattempting to findaplot in itwillbeshot.By Order of the Author PerG.G.,ChiefofOrdnance.v

Explanatory.In this book a number ofdialects are used, to wit: theMissouri negro dialect; theextremest form of thebackwoods South-Westerndialect; the ordinary “Pike-County” dialect; and fourmodifiedvarietiesofthislast.The shadings have not beendoneinahap-hazardfashion,or by guess-work; but pains-

takingly, and with thetrustworthy guidance andsupport of personalfamiliaritywith these severalformsofspeech.Imakethisexplanationfor

the reason that without itmany readers would supposethat all these charactersweretrying to talk alike and notsucceeding.TheAuthor.

CHAPTER1You don’t know about me,withoutyouhavereadabookby the name of “TheAdventuresofTomSawyer,”but that ain’t nomatter.ThatbookwasmadebyMr.MarkTwain, and he told the truth,mainly. There was thingswhich he stretched, butmainlyhetoldthetruth.Thatis nothing. I never seen

anybodybutlied,onetimeoranother, without it was AuntPolly, or the widow, ormaybe Mary. Aunt Polly—Tom’s Aunt Polly, she is—and Mary, and the WidowDouglas, is all told about inthatbook—whichismostlyatrue book; with somestretchers,wasIsaidbefore.Nowthewaythatthebook

windsup,isthis:Tomandmefound the money that the

robbershidinthecave,anditmade us rich. We got sixthousand dollars apiece—allgold.Itwasanawfulsightofmoneywhen itwaspiledup.Well,JudgeThatcher,hetookit and put it out at interest,and it fetched us a dollar adayapiece,alltheyearround—morethanabodycouldtellwhat todowith.TheWidowDouglas,shetookmeforherson, and allowed she would

sivilizeme;1butitwasroughliving in the house all thetime,consideringhowdismalregularanddecentthewidowwas in all her ways; and sowhen I couldn’t stand it nolonger,Ilitout.Igotintomyold rags, and my sugar-hogsheadx again, and wasfree and satisfied. But TomSawyer,hehuntedmeupandsaid he was going to start aband of robbers, and Imight

joinifIwouldgobacktothewidowandberespectable.SoIwentback.The widow she cried over

me,andcalledmeapoorlostlamb,andshecalledmealotof other names, too, but shenever meant no harm by it.She put me in them newclothes again, and I couldn’tdo nothing but sweat andsweat, and feel all crampedup.Well, then, the old thing

commenced again. Thewidowrungabellforsupper,andyouhadtocometotime.When you got to the tableyou couldn’t go right toeating,butyouhadtowaitforthe widow to tuck down herheadandgrumblealittleoverthe victuals, though therewarn’t really anything thematter with them. That is,nothing only everything wascookedbyitself.Inabarrelofodds and ends it is different;

things getmixed up, and thejuice kind of swaps around,andthethingsgobetter.After supper she got out

her book and learned meabout Moses and theBulrushers;y and I was in asweat to find out all abouthim; but by-and-by she let itoutthatMoseshadbeendeada considerable long time; sothen I didn’t care no moreabout him; because I don’t

takenostockindeadpeople.Pretty soon I wanted to

smoke, and asked thewidowto let me. But she wouldn’t.She said it was a meanpracticeandwasn’tclean,andI must try to not do it anymore. That is just the waywith some people. They getdown on a thing when theydon’t know nothing about it.Here she was a botheringabout Moses, which was no

kin to her, and no use toanybody, being gone, yousee, yet finding a power offault with me for doing athing that had some good init.Andshetooksnufftoo;ofcourse that was all right,becauseshedoneitherself.Her sister,MissWatson, a

tolerable slim oldmaid,withgoggles on, had just come tolivewithher,andtookasetatme now, with a spelling-

book. She worked memiddling hard for about anhour, and then the widowmade her ease up. I couldn’tstood it much longer. Thenforanhouritwasdeadlydull,and I was fidgety. MissWatson would say, “Don’tput your feet up there,Huckleberry;” and “don’tscrunch up like that,Huckleberry—set upstraight;”andprettysoonshewould say, “Don’t gap and

stretch like that,Huckleberry—why don’t you try tobehave?” Then she told meallabout thebadplace,andIsaidIwishedIwasthere.Shegot mad, then, but I didn’tmean no harm. All I wantedwas to go somewheres; all Iwanted was a change, Iwarn’t particular. She said itwas wicked to say what Isaid;saidshewouldn’tsay itfor thewholeworld;shewasgoingtolivesoastogotothe

good place. Well, I couldn’tsee no advantage in goingwhere she was going, so ImadeupmymindIwouldn’ttryforit.ButIneversaidso,because it would only maketrouble, and wouldn’t do nogood.Now she had got a start,

andshewentonand toldmeallabout thegoodplace.Shesaidallabodywouldhavetodotherewastogoaroundall

daylongwithaharpandsing,forever and ever. So I didn’tthinkmuchof it.But Ineversaid so. I asked her if shereckonedTomSawyerwouldgothere,and,shesaid,notbya considerable sight. I wasglad about that, because Iwanted him and me to betogether.Miss Watson she kept

pecking at me, and it gottiresome and lonesome. By-

and-by they fetched theniggers in and had prayers,and then everybody was offtobed.2Iwentuptomyroomwithapieceofcandleandputit on the table. Then I setdown in a chair by thewindowand tried to think ofsomething cheerful, but itwarn’t no use. I felt solonesomeImostwishedIwasdead. The stars was shining,and the leaves rustled in the

woodseversomournful;andI heard an owl, away off,who-whooing aboutsomebodythatwasdead,anda whippowill and a dogcrying about somebody thatwas going to die; and thewind was trying to whispersomething to me and Icouldn’t make out what itwas, and so itmade the coldshivers run over me. ThenawayoutinthewoodsIheardthat kind of a sound that a

ghostmakeswhenitwantstotellaboutsomethingthat’sonitsmindandcan’tmakeitselfunderstood, and so can’t resteasyinitsgraveandhastogoabout that way every nightgrieving. I got so down-heartedandscared,IdidwishI had some company. Prettysoon a spider went crawlingupmyshoulder,andIflippedit off and it lit in the candle;and before I could budge itwas all shriveled up. I didn’t

need anybody to tellme thatthat was an awful bad signandwouldfetchmesomebadluck, so I was scared andmostshooktheclothesoffofme. I got up and turnedaround in my tracks threetimes and crossed my breasteverytime;andthenItiedupalittlelockofmyhairwithathread to keepwitches away.But I hadn’t no confidence.Youdothatwhenyou’velosta horse-shoe that you’ve

found,insteadofnailingitupover the door, but I hadn’teverheardanybodysayitwasanywaytokeepoffbadluckwhenyou’dkilledaspider.Isetdownagain,ashaking

allover,andgotoutmypipefor a smoke; for the housewasallasstillasdeath,now,and so the widow wouldn’tknow.Well,afteralongtimeIheard theclockawayoff inthe town go boom—boom—

boom—twelve licks—and allstill again—stiller than ever.Pretty soon I heard a twigsnap, down in the darkamongst the trees—somethingwasastirring.Isetstill and listened. Directly Icouldjustbarelyheara“me-yow! me-yow!” down there.Thatwasgood!Says I,“me-yow! me-yow!” as soft as Icould, and then I put out thelightandscrambledoutofthewindowontotheshed.ThenI

slipped down to the groundand crawled in amongst thetrees, and sure enough therewasTomSawyerwaiting forme.

CHAPTER2We went tip-toeing along apath amongst the trees backtowards the end of thewidow’s garden, stoopingdown so as the brancheswouldn’t scrape our heads.Whenwewaspassingby thekitchen I fell over a root andmade a noise.We scroucheddown and laid still. MissWatson’s big nigger, named

Jim, was setting in thekitchen door; we could seehim pretty clear, becausetherewasalightbehindhim.He got up and stretched hisneck out about a minute,listening.Thenhesays,“Whodah?”He listened some more;

thenhecometip-toeingdownand stood right between us;we could a touched him,nearly. Well, likely it was

minutes and minutes thattherewarn’ta sound,andweall there so close together.There was a place on myanklethatgottoitching;butIdasn’tscratchit;andthenmyear begun to itch; and nextmy back, right between myshoulders. Seemed like I’ddieifIcouldn’tscratch.Well,I’venoticed that thingplentyoftimessince.Ifyouarewiththequality,oratafuneral,ortrying to go to sleep when

you ain’t sleepy—if you areanywhereswhere itwon’tdofor you to scratch, why youwill itch all over in upwardsof a thousand places. PrettysoonJimsays:“Say—who is you? Whar

is you? Dog my cats ef Ididn’t hear sumf’n. Well, IknowswhatI’sgwyneztodo.I’s gwyne to set down hereandlistentellIhearsitagin.”So he set down on the

groundbetwixtmeandTom.Heleanedhisbackupagainsta tree, and stretched his legsout till one of them mosttouched one of mine. Mynose begun to itch. It itchedtill the tears come into myeyes. But I dasn’t scratch.Then it begun to itch on theinside. Next I got to itchingunderneath. I didn’t knowhow I was going to set still.This miserableness went onas much as six or seven

minutes;butitseemedasightlongerthanthat.Iwasitchingin eleven different placesnow. I reckoned I couldn’tstand it more’n a minutelonger,butIsetmyteethhardandgotreadytotry.JustthenJim begun to breathe heavy;next he begun to snore—andthen I was pretty sooncomfortableagain.Tomhemadeasigntome

—kind of a little noise with

his mouth—and we wentcreeping away on our handsandknees.Whenwewas tenfoot off, Tom whispered tome and wanted to tie Jim tothetreeforfun;butIsaidno;he might wake and make adisturbance, and then they’dfind out I warn’t in. ThenTom said he hadn’t gotcandlesenough,andhewouldslip in the kitchen and getsomemore.Ididn’twanthimto try. IsaidJimmightwake

up and come. But Tomwanted to resk it; sowe slidinthereandgotthreecandles,and Tom laid five cents onthetableforpay.Thenwegotout, and I was in a sweat toget away; but nothing woulddoTombuthemustcrawl towhere Jimwas, on his handsand knees, and playsomething on him. I waited,and it seemed a good while,everything was so still andlonesome.

AssoonasTomwasback,wecutalongthepath,aroundthegardenfence,andby-and-byfetcheduponthesteeptopofthehilltheothersideofthehouse. Tom said he slippedJim’shatoffofhisheadandhung it on a limb right overhim, and Jim stirred a little,but he didn’t wake.Afterwards Jim said thewitches bewitched him andputhimina trance,androdehim all over the State, and

then set him under the treesagain and hung his hat on alimb to show who done it.And next time Jim told it hesaid they rode him down toNew Orleans: and after that,every time he told it hespread itmore andmore, tillby-and-by he said they rodehim all over the world, andtired himmost to death, andhisbackwasallover saddle-boils. Jim was monstrousproudabout it, andhegot so

hewouldn’thardlynoticetheother niggers.Niggerswouldcome miles to hear Jim tellabout it, and he was morelookedup to than anyniggerin that country. Strangeniggers would stand withtheir mouths open and lookhim all over, same as if hewas a wonder. Niggers isalways talking about witchesin the dark by the kitchenfire; but whenever one wastalkingandlettingontoknow

all about such things, Jimwould happen in and say,“Hm! What you know ‘boutwitches?”andthatniggerwascorked up and had to take aback seat. Jim always keptthat five-center piece aroundhis neck with a string andsaid itwasa charm thedevilgive to him with his ownhands and told him he couldcure anybody with it andfetch witches whenever hewanted to, just by saying

something to it; buthenevertoldwhatitwashesaidtoit.Niggerswouldcomefromallaround there and give Jimanything they had, just for asightofthatfive-centerpiece;but they wouldn’t touch it,becausethedevilhadhadhishands on it. Jim was mostruined,foraservant,becausehegotsostuckuponaccountof having seen the devil andbeenrodebywitches.

Well, when Tom and megottotheedgeofthehill-top,we looked away down intothe village and could seethreeorfourlightstwinkling,where there was sick folks,maybe;andthestarsoveruswas sparkling ever so fine;and downby the villagewastheriver,awholemilebroad,andawfulstillandgrand.WewentdownthehillandfoundJo Harper, and Ben Rogers,and twoor threemoreof the

boys, hid in the old tanyard.So we unhitched a skiff andpulled down the river twomile and a half, to the bigscaronthehillside,andwentashore.We went to a clump of

bushes, and Tom madeeverybody swear to keep thesecret,andthenshowedthemahole in thehill, right in thethickest part of the bushes.Then we lit the candles and

crawled in on our hands andknees. We went about twohundred yards, and then thecave opened up. Tom pokedabout amongst the passagesandprettysoonduckedunderawallwhere youwouldn’t anoticedthattherewasahole.We went along a narrowplace and got into a kind ofroom, all damp and sweatyand cold, and there westopped.Tomsays:

“Nowwe’ll start this bandof robbers and call it TomSawyer’s Gang. Everybodythat wants to join has got totake an oath, and write hisnameinblood.”Everybodywaswilling.So

Tomgotoutasheetofpaperthathehadwrotetheoathon,and read it. It swore everyboy to stick to theband, andnever tell any of the secrets;andifanybodydoneanything

to any boy in the band,whicheverboywasorderedtokillthatpersonandhisfamilymustdoit,andhemustn’teatand he mustn’t sleep till hehadkilledthemandhackedacross in their breasts, whichwasthesignoftheband.Andnobody that didn’t belong tothebandcouldusethatmark,andifhedidhemustbesued;and if he done it again hemust be killed. And ifanybody thatbelonged to the

bandtoldthesecrets,hemusthave his throat cut, and thenhavehiscarcassburntupandtheashesscatteredallaround,and his name blotted off ofthe listwith blood and nevermentionedagainbythegang,buthaveacurseputonitandbeforgot,forever.Everybody said it was a

realbeautifuloath,andaskedTom if he got it out of hisown head. He said, some of

it, but the rest was out ofpirate books, and robberbooks, and every gang thatwashigh-tonedhadit.Some thought it would be

good to kill the families ofboys that told the secrets.Tomsaid itwasagood idea,sohetookapencilandwroteitin.ThenBenRogerssays:“Here’s Huck Finn, he

hain’t got no family—whatyougoingtodo‘bouthim?”

“Well, hain’t he got afather?”saysTomSawyer.“Yes,he’sgotafather,but

you can’t never find him,these days. He used to laydrunk with the hogs in thetanyard, but he hain’t beenseen in theseparts for ayearormore.”They talked it over, and

they was going to rule meout, because they said everyboy must have a family or

somebody to kill, or else itwouldn’t be fair and squarefor the others. Well, nobodycouldthinkofanythingtodo—everybody was stumped,andsetstill.Iwasmostreadyto cry; but all at once Ithought of a way, and so Ioffered themMissWatson—they could kill her.Everybodysaid:“Oh, she’ll do, she’ll do.

That’s all right. Huck can

comein.”Thentheyallstuckapinin

their fingers to get blood tosign with, and I made mymarkonthepaper.“Now,” says Ben Rogers,

“what’s the line of businessofthisGang?”“Nothingonlyrobberyand

murder,”Tomsaid.“But who are we going to

rob? houses—or cattle—or—”

“Stuff! stealing cattle andsuchthingsain’trobbery, it’sburglary,” saysTomSawyer.“Weain’tburglars.Thatain’tno sort of style. We arehighwaymen.We stop stagesand carriages on the road,with masks on, and kill thepeopleandtaketheirwatchesandmoney.”“Must we always kill the

people?”“Oh, certainly. It’s best.

Some authorities thinkdifferent, but mostly it’sconsidered best to kill them.Exceptsomethatyoubringtothe cave here and keep themtillthey’reransomed.”“Ransomed?What’sthat?”“I don’t know. But that’s

what they do. I’ve seen it inbooks;andsoofcoursethat’swhatwe’vegottodo.”“But how can we do it if

wedon’tknowwhatitis?”

“Why blame it all, we’vegot to do it. Don’t I tell youit’s in the books? Do youwant togo todoingdifferentfromwhat’sinthebooks,andgetthingsallmuddledup?”“Oh, that’s all very fine to

say,TomSawyer,buthowinthe nation are these fellowsgoing to be ransomed if wedon’t know how to do it tothem? that’s the thing Iwantto get at. Now what do you

reckonitis?”“Well I don’t know. But

per‘aps if we keep them tillthey’re ransomed, it meansthatwekeepthemtillthey’redead.”“Now, that’s something

like. That’ll answer. Whycouldn’tyousaidthatbefore?We’ll keep them till they’reransomed to death—and abothersomelotthey’llbe,too,eating up everything and

alwaystryingtogetloose.”“How you talk, Ben

Rogers. How can they getloose when there’s a guardover them, ready to shootthem down if they move apeg?”“A guard. Well, that is

good. So somebody’s got tosetupallnightandnevergetanysleep,justsoastowatchthem. I think that’sfoolishness. Why can’t a

body take a club and ransomthem as soon as they gethere?”“Because it ain’t in the

books so—that’s why. NowBen Rogers, do you want todo things regular, or don’tyou?—that’s the idea. Don’tyou reckon that the peoplethat made the books knowswhat’s the correct thing todo? Do you reckon you canlearn‘emanything?Notbya

good deal.No, sir,we’ll justgoonandransomthemintheregularway.”“All right. I don’t mind;

but I say it’s a fool way,anyhow.Say—dowekill thewomen,too?”“Well,BenRogers,ifIwas

asignorantasyouIwouldn’tleton.Killthewomen?No—nobody ever sawanything inthebookslikethat.Youfetchthem to the cave, and you’re

always as polite as pie tothem;andby-and-bytheyfallin love with you and neverwanttogohomeanymore.”“Well, if that’s the way,

I’m agreed, but I don’t takeno stock in it. Mighty soonwe’ll have the cave soclutteredupwithwomen,andfellows waiting to beransomed,thattherewon’tbenoplace for the robbers.Butgo ahead, I ain’t got nothing

tosay.”Little Tommy Barnes was

asleep, now, and when theywakedhimuphewasscared,andcried,andsaidhewantedto go home to his ma, anddidn’twanttobearobberanymore.So they all made fun of

him,andcalledhimcry-baby,and thatmade himmad, andhe said he would go straightand tell all the secrets. But

Tom give him five cents tokeep quiet, and said wewould all go home andmeetnextweekandrobsomebodyandkillsomepeople.Ben Rogers said he

couldn’t get out much, onlySundays,andsohewantedtobeginnextSunday;butalltheboyssaiditwouldbewickedto do it on Sunday, and thatsettledthething.Theyagreedto get together and fix a day

as soon as they could, andthenweelectedTomSawyerfirst captain and Jo Harpersecond captain of the Gang,andsostartedhome.I clumb up the shed and

crept into my window justbeforedaywasbreaking.Mynew clothes was all greasedupandclayey,andIwasdog-tired.

CHAPTER3Well,Igotagoodgoing-overinthemorning,fromoldMissWatson, on account of myclothes; but the widow shedidn’tscold,butonlycleanedoff the grease and clay andlookedsosorrythatIthoughtI would behave a while if Icould.ThenMissWatsonshetook me in the closet andprayed, but nothing come of

it.She toldme toprayeveryday,andwhateverIaskedforI would get it. But it warn’tso. I tried it. Once I got afish-line, but no hooks. Itwarn’t any good to mewithouthooks. I tried for thehooksthreeorfourtimes,butsomehow I couldn’t make itwork. By-and-by, one day, IaskedMissWatson to try forme,butshesaidIwasafool.Shenevertoldmewhy,andIcouldn’tmakeitoutnoway.

I setdown,one time,backin thewoods,andhada longthink about it. I says tomyself, if a body can getanything they pray for, whydon’tDeaconWinn get backthe money he lost on pork?Why can’t the widow getbackhersilversnuff-boxthatwas stole? Why can’t MissWatsonfatup?aaNo,saysItomyself, thereain’tnothing init. Iwentandtoldthewidow

about it, and she said thething a body could get bypraying for it was “spiritualgifts.”Thiswastoomanyforme,butshetoldmewhatshemeant—I must help otherpeople, and do everything Icould for other people, andlookoutforthemallthetime,andneverthinkaboutmyself.This was including MissWatson, as I took it. I wentoutinthewoodsandturneditoverinmymindalongtime,

but I couldn’t see noadvantage about it—exceptfor the other people—so atlast I reckoned I wouldn’tworry about it anymore, butjust let it go. Sometimes thewidow would take me oneside and talk aboutProvidence inaway tomakea body’s mouth water; butmaybenextdayMissWatsonwouldtakeholdandknockitall down again.3 I judged I

could see that there was twoProvidences,andapoorchapwould stand considerableshow with the widow’sProvidence, but if MissWatson’s got him therewarn’t no help for him anymore.Ithoughtitallout,andreckoned I would belong tothewidow‘s,ifhewantedme,though I couldn’t make outhowhewasagoingtobeanybetter off then than what hewas before, seeing I was so

ignorant and so kind of low-downandornery.Paphehadn’tbeenseenfor

more than a year, and thatwas comfortable for me; Ididn’t want to see him nomore. He used to alwayswhalemewhenhewassoberand could get his hands onme; though I used to take tothe woods most of the timewhen he was around. Well,about this timehewas found

in the river drowned, abouttwelve mile above town, sopeople said. They judged itwas him, anyway; said thisdrowned man was just hissize,andwasragged,andhaduncommon long hair—whichwas all like pap—but theycouldn’tmakenothingoutofthe face, because it had beeninthewatersolongitwarn’tmuch likea faceat all.Theysaid he was floating on hisback in thewater.They took

him and buried him on thebank. But I warn’tcomfortable long, because Ihappened to think ofsomething. I knowed mightywell that a drownded mandon’tfloatonhisback,butonhis face. So I knowed, then,that this warn’t pap, but awoman dressed up in man’sclothes. So I wasuncomfortableagain.Ijudgedthe old man would turn upagain by-and-by, though I

wishedhewouldn’t.Weplayedrobbernowand

thenaboutamonth,andthenI resigned. All the boys did.We hadn’t robbed nobody,we hadn’t killed any people,but only just pretended. Weusedtohopoutofthewoodsand go charging down onhog-drovers and women incarts taking garden stuff tomarket, but we never hivedany of them. Tom Sawyer

called the hogs “ingots,”abandhe called the turnips andstuff“julery”acandwewouldgo to thecaveandpow-wowover what we had done andhow many people we hadkilled and marked. But Icouldn’t see no profit in it.One time Tom sent a boy torunabouttownwithablazingstick, which he called aslogan (which was the signfortheGangtogettogether),

and then he said he had gotsecret news by his spies thatnext day a whole parcel ofSpanish merchants and richA-rabswasgoing tocamp inCave Hollow with twohundred elephants, and sixhundred camels, and over athousand “sumter” mules,adall loaded down withdi‘monds, and they didn’thave only a guard of fourhundred soldiers, and so we

would lay in ambuscade, ashe called it, and kill the lotandscoopthethings.Hesaidwemust slick up our swordsand guns, and get ready. Henever could go after even aturnip-cart but he must havethe swords and guns allscouredupforit;thoughtheywas only lath and broom-sticks,andyoumightscouratthem till you rotted and thentheywarn’tworthamouthfulofashesmorethanwhatthey

was before. I didn’t believewecouldlicksuchacrowdofSpaniards and A-rabs, but Iwantedtoseethecamelsandelephants, so I was on handnext day, Saturday, in theambuscade;andwhenwegotthe word, we rushed out ofthewoodsanddownthehill.Buttherewarn’tnoSpaniardsandA-rabs, and therewarn’tnocamelsnornoelephants.Itwarn’t anything but aSunday-school picnic, and

only a primer-class at that.We busted it up, and chasedthe children up the hollow;butwenevergotanythingbutsome doughnuts and jam,thoughBenRogersgot a ragdoll, and Jo Harper got ahymn-book and a tract; andthen the teacher charged inandmadeusdropeverythingand cut. I didn’t see nodi’monds, and I told TomSawyerso.Hesaidtherewasloads of them there, anyway,

andhe said therewasA-rabsthere, too, and elephants andthings. I said, why couldn’tweseethem,then?HesaidifIwarn’t so ignorant, but hadread a book called “DonQuixote,” I would knowwithout asking.4 He said itwasalldonebyenchantment.Hesaidtherewashundredsofsoldiers there, and elephantsand treasure, and so on, butwe had enemies which he

called magicians, and theyhad turned the whole thingintoan infantSundayschool,just out of spite. I said, allright, then the thingforus todo was to go for themagicians. Tom Sawyer saidIwasanumskull.“Why,” says he, “a

magician could call up a lotof genies, and they wouldhash you up like nothingbefore you could say Jack

Robinson.Theyareas tall asa treeandasbigaroundasachurch.”“Well,” I says, “s‘posewe

gotsomegenies tohelpus—can’twelicktheothercrowdthen?”“How you going to get

them?”“I don’t know. How do

theygetthem?”“Why they rub an old tin

lamporanironring,andthen

the genies come tearing in,with the thunder andlightning a-ripping aroundand the smoke a-rolling, andeverything they’re told to dotheyupanddoit.Theydon’tthink nothing of pulling ashot tower up by the roots,and belting a Sunday-schoolsuperintendent over the headwithit—oranyotherman.”“Who makes them tear

aroundso?”

“Why, whoever rubs thelamporthering.Theybelongto whoever rubs the lamp orthering,andthey’vegottodowhatever he says. If he tellsthem to build a palace fortymiles long, out of di‘monds,and fill it full of chewinggum, or whatever you want,and fetch an emperor’sdaughter fromChina for youtomarry, they’vegot todoit—and they’ve got to do itbefore sun-up next morning,

too. And more—they’ve gotto waltz that palace aroundover the country whereveryouwantit,youunderstand.”“Well,” says I, “I think

theyareapackofflatheadsaefor not keeping the palacethemselves ‘stead of foolingthem away like that. Andwhat’smore—ifIwasoneofthem I would see a man inJericho before I would dropmybusinessandcometohim

for the rubbing of an old tinlamp.”“Howyoutalk,HuckFinn.

Why, you’d have to comewhen he rubbed it, whetheryouwantedtoornot.”“What, and I as high as a

tree and as big as a church?Allright,then;Iwouldcome;but I lay I’d make that manclimb the highest tree therewasinthecountry.”“Shucks, it ain’t no use to

talk to you, Huck Finn. Youdon’tseemtoknowanything,somehow—perfect sap-head.”I thought all this over for

twoor threedays,and then IreckonedIwouldseeif therewas anything in it. I got anold tin lampandan iron ringand went out in the woodsand rubbed and rubbed till Isweat like an Injun,calculating to build a palace

and sell it; but it warn’t nouse,noneofthegeniescome.So then I judged that all thatstuff was only just one ofTom Sawyer’s lies. Ireckoned he believed in theArabs and the elephants, butas forme I thinkdifferent. IthadallthemarksofaSundayschool.

CHAPTER4Well, three or four monthsrun along, and it was wellinto the winter, now. I hadbeen to school most all thetime, and could spell, andread, and write just a little,and could say themultiplication table up to sixtimessevenisthirty-five,andI don’t reckon I could everget any further than that if I

was to live forever. I don’ttakenostockinmathematics,anyway.At first I hated the school,

butby-and-byIgotsoIcouldstand it. Whenever I gotuncommon tired I playedhookey, and the hiding I gotnext day done me good andcheeredmeup.SothelongerIwent to school the easier itgottobe.Iwasgettingsortofused to the widow’s ways,

too,andtheywarn’tsoraspyonme.Livinginahouse,andsleeping in a bed, pulled onme pretty tight, mostly, butbeforethecoldweatherIusedto slide out and sleep in thewoods, sometimes, and sothatwasa rest tome. I likedthe old ways best, but I wasgetting so I liked the newones, too, a little bit. Thewidow said I was comingalong slow but sure, anddoing very satisfactory. She

said she warn’t ashamed ofme.OnemorningIhappenedto

turn over the salt-cellar atbreakfast. I reached for someof it as quick as I could, tothrow over my left shoulderandkeepoffthebadluck,butMissWatsonwasinaheadofme, and crossedme off. Shesays,“Takeyourhandsaway,Huckleberry—what a messyouarealwaysmaking.”The

widowputinagoodwordforme, but that warn’t going tokeep off the bad luck, Iknowed that well enough. Istarted out, after breakfast,feeling worried and shaky,and wondering where it wasgoingtofallonme,andwhatit was going to be. There isways to keep off somekindsof bad luck, but this wasn’tone of themkind; so I nevertried to do anything, but justpoked along low-spirited and

onthewatch-out.I went down the front

garden and clumb over thestile,afwhere you go throughthe high board fence. Therewas an inchof new snowonthe ground, and I seensomebody’s tracks.Theyhadcomeupfromthequarryandstoodaroundthestileawhile,and thenwent on around thegarden fence. It was funnythey hadn’t come in, after

standingaroundso.Icouldn’tmake it out. It was verycurious, somehow. I wasgoing to followaround,but Istooped down to look at thetracks first. I didn’t noticeanything at first, but next Idid.Therewasacross in theleft boot-heel made with bignails,tokeepoffthedevil.I was up in a second and

shinning down the hill. Ilooked over my shoulder

every now and then, but Ididn’t see nobody. I was atJudgeThatcher’sasquickasIcouldgetthere.Hesaid:‘Why,myboy,youareall

out of breath. Did you comeforyourinterest?”“No sir,” I says; “is there

someforme?”“Oh, yes, a half-yearly is

in,lastnight.Overahundredand fifty dollars. Quite afortuneforyou.Youbetterlet

me invest it along with yoursix thousand, because if youtakeityou’llspendit.”“No sir,” I says, “I don’t

wanttospendit.Idon’twantit at all—nor the sixthousand, nuther. I want youtotakeit;Iwanttogiveit toyou—the six thousand andall.”He looked surprised. He

couldn’tseemtomakeitout.Hesays:

“Why,whatcanyoumean,myboy?”I says, “Don’t you askme

no questions about it, please.You’lltakeit—won’tyou?”Hesays:“Well I’m puzzled. Is

somethingthematter?”“Please take it,” says I,

“anddon’t askmenothing—then I won’t have to tell nolies.”He studied a while, and

thenhesays:“Oho-o. I think I see.You

want tosellallyourpropertytome—notgiveit.That’sthecorrectidea.”Then he wrote something

on a paper and read it over,andsays:“There—you see it says

‘for a consideration.’ ThatmeansIhaveboughtitofyouand paid you for it.Here’s adollarforyou.Now,yousign

it.”SoIsignedit,andleft.MissWatson’snigger,Jim,

hadahair-ballasbigasyourfist,whichhadbeentookoutof the fourth stomach of anox, and he used to domagicwith it. He said there was aspirit inside of it, and itknowedeverything.SoIwenttohimthatnightandtoldhimpap was here again, for Ifoundhis tracks in the snow.

WhatIwantedtoknow,was,whathewasgoingtodo,andwashegoingtostay?Jimgotout his hair-ball, and saidsomething over it, and thenhe held it up and dropped iton the floor. It fell prettysolid, and only rolled aboutan inch. Jim tried it again,and then another time, and itacted just the same. Jim gotdownonhiskneesandputhisear against it and listened.Butitwarn’tnouse;hesaidit

wouldn’t talk. He saidsometimes it wouldn’t talkwithout money. I told him Ihad an old slick counterfeitquarter that warn’t no goodbecause the brass showedthroughthesilveralittle,anditwouldn’tpassnohow,evenif the brass didn’t show,because itwassoslick it feltgreasy,andsothatwouldtelloniteverytime.(IreckonedIwouldn’t say nothing aboutthe dollar I got from the

judge.) I said it was prettybad money, but maybe thehair-ball would take it,because maybe it wouldn’tknow the difference. Jimsmeltit,andbitit,andrubbedit,andsaidhewouldmanagesothehair-ballwouldthinkitwas good. He said hewouldsplit open a raw Irish potatoand stick the quarter inbetweenandkeep it there allnight, and next morning youcouldn’t see no brass, and it

wouldn’tfeelgreasynomore,and so anybody in townwould take it inaminute, letalone a hair-ball. Well, Iknowed a potato would dothat, before, but I had forgotit.Jim put the quarter under

the hair-ball and got downand listened again. This timehe said the hair-ball was allright.Hesaiditwouldtellmywhole fortune if I wanted it

to.Isays,goon.Sothehair-ball talked to Jim, and Jimtoldittome.Hesays:“Yo’ ole father doan’

know,yit,whathe’sa-gwyneto do. Sometimes he speche’llgo‘way,endenaginhespec he’ll stay. De bes’ wayis to res’ easy en let de olemantakehisownway.Dey’stwo angels hoverin’ roun’’bout him. One uv ‘em iswhiteenshiny,en’totherone

is black. De white one gitshimtogoright,alittlewhile,den de black one sail in enbust it all up. A body can’ttell, yit,which one gwyne tofetchhimatde las.‘Butyouis all right. You gwyne tohave considable trouble inyo’ life, en considable joy.Sometimes you gwyne to githurt, en sometimes yougwyne to git sick; but everytimeyou’sgwyne togitwellagin. Dey’s two gals flyin’

’boutyou inyo’ life.Oneuv‘em’s light en ’tother one isdark.Oneisrichen‘totherispo’.You’sgwynetomarrydepo’ one fust en de rich oneby-en-by.Youwants to keep‘way fum de water as muchas you kin, en don’t run noresk, ’kase it’s down in debillsagdatyou’sgwynetogithung.”When I lit my candle and

went up to my room that

night, there set pap, his ownself!

CHAPTER5Ihadshutthedoorto.ThenIturned around, and there hewas. I used to be scared ofhim all the time, he tannedahmesomuch.IreckonedIwasscared now, too; but in aminute I see Iwasmistaken.That is, after the first jolt, asyoumaysay,whenmybreathsort of hitched—he being so

unexpected; but right awayafter,IseeIwarn’tscaredofhimworthbotheringabout.Hewasmost fifty, and he

looked it. His hair was longand tangled and greasy, andhung down, and you couldsee his eyes shining throughlike he was behind vines. Itwasallblack,nogray;sowashis long, mixed-up whiskers.There warn’t no color in hisface,where his face showed;

itwaswhite;not likeanotherman’s white, but a white tomakeabodysick,awhite tomakeabody’sfleshcrawl—atree-toad white, a fish-bellywhite. As for his clothes—justrags,thatwasall.Hehadone ankle resting on ‘totherknee; the boot on that footwas busted, and two of histoes stuck through, and heworked them now and then.His hat was laying on thefloor; an old black slouch

with the top caved in, like alid.Istooda-lookingathim;he

set there a-looking at me,with his chair tilted back alittle.Isetthecandledown.Inoticed the window was up;so he had clumb in by theshed. He kept a-looking meallover.By-and-byhesays:“Starchy clothes—very.

Youthinkyou’reagooddealofabig-bug,don’tyou?”

“Maybe I am, maybe Iain‘t,”Isays.“Don’t you give me none

o’yourlip,”sayshe.“You’veput on considerable manyfrills since I been away. I’lltakeyoudownapegbeforeIget done with you. You’reeducated, too, they say; canread and write. You thinkyou’re better’n your father,now, don’t you, because hecan’t? I’ll take it out of you.

Who told you you mightmeddle with such hi falut’nfoolishness, hey?—who toldyouyoucould?”“Thewidow.Shetoldme.”“The widow, hey?—and

whotoldthewidowshecouldput in her shovel about athing that ain’t none of herbusiness?”“Nobodynevertoldher.”“Well,I’lllearnherhowto

meddle. And looky here—

you drop that school, youhear? I’ll learn people tobringupaboy toputonairsoverhisownfatherandletontobebetter’nwhatheis.Youlemme catch you foolingaroundthatschoolagain,youhear? Your mother couldn’tread, and she couldn’t write,nuther,beforeshedied.Noneofthefamilycouldn‘t,beforethey died. I can’t; and hereyou’rea-swellingyourselfuplike this. I ain’t the man to

stand it—you hear? Say—lemmehearyouread.”Itookupabookandbegun

something about GeneralWashington and the wars.When I’d readaboutahalfaminute,hefetchedthebookawhack with his hand andknocked it across the house.Hesays:“It’s so. You can do it. I

hadmydoubtswhenyoutoldme. Now looky here; you

stop that putting on frills. Iwon’thaveit.I’lllayforyou,mysmarty;andifIcatchyouabout that school I’ll tanyougood. First you know you’llget religion, too. I never seesuchason.”Hetookupalittleblueand

yaller picture of some cowsandaboy,andsays:“What’sthis?”“It’s something they give

me for learning my lessons

good.”Hetoreitup,andsays—“I’ll give you something

better—I’ll give you acowhide.”He set there a-mumbling

anda-growlingaminute,andthenhesays—“Ain’tyouasweet-scented

dandy, though? A bed; andbedclothes; and a look‘n-glass;andapieceofcarpetonthe floor—and your own

father got to sleep with thehogs in the tanyard. I neverseesuchason. Ibet I’ll takesomeo’thesefrillsouto’youbefore I’m done with you.Why there ain’t no end toyour airs—they say you’rerich.Hey?—how’sthat?”“Theylie—that’show.”“Looky here—mind how

you talk to me; I’m a-standingaboutallIcanstand,now—so don’t gimme no

sass. I’ve been in town twodays, and I hain’t heardnothing but about you bein’rich. I heard about it awaydown the river, too. That’swhyIcome.Yougitme thatmoneytomorrow—Iwantit.”“Ihain’tgotnomoney.”“It’salie.JudgeThatcher’s

gotit.Yougitit.Iwantit.”“I hain’t got no money, I

tell you. You ask JudgeThatcher; he’ll tell you the

same.”“Allright.I’llaskhim;and

I’llmakehimpungle,aitoo,orI’llknowthereasonwhy.Say—howmuchyougot inyourpocket?Iwantit.”“I hain’t got only a dollar,

andIwantthatto—”“It don’t make no

difference what you want itfor—youjustshellitout.”He took itandbit it tosee

if it was good, and then he

saidhewasgoingdowntownto get some whisky; said hehadn’t had a drink all day.When he had got out on theshed,heputhisheadinagain,andcussedmeforputtingonfrills and trying to be betterthan him; and when Ireckoned he was gone, hecome back and put his headinagain,andtoldmetomindabout thatschool,becausehewas going to lay forme andlickmeifIdidn’tdropthat.

Next day he was drunk,and he went to JudgeThatcher’sandbul lyraggedajhim and tried to make himgive up the money, but hecouldn‘t, and then he sworehe’dmakethelawforcehim.The judge and the widow

wenttolawtogetthecourttotake me away from him andlet one of them be myguardian; but it was a newjudgethathadjustcome,and

he didn’t know the oldman:so he said courts mustn’tinterfereandseparatefamiliesiftheycouldhelpit;saidhe’ddruthernot takeachildawayfrom its father.5 So JudgeThatcher and the widow hadtoquitonthebusiness.That pleased the old man

till he couldn’t rest. He saidhe’d cowhide me till I wasblackandblueifIdidn’traisesome money for him. I

borrowed three dollars fromJudgeThatcher,andpaptookit and got drunk andwent a-blowing around and cussingand whooping and carryingon;andhekeptitupallovertown,withatinpan,tillmostmidnight; then they jailedhim, and next day they hadhim before court, and jailedhimagainforaweek.Buthesaidhewas satisfied; saidhewasbossofhisson,andhe’dmakeitwarmforhim.

When he got out the newjudge said he was agoing tomake a man of him. So hetook him to his own house,anddressedhimupcleanandnice,andhadhimtobreakfastand dinner and supper withthe family, and was just oldpie to him, so to speak.Andafter supperhe talked tohimabout temperance and suchthings till the oldman cried,andsaidhe’dbeenafool,andfooledawayhislife;butnow

hewas agoing to turnover anew leaf and be a mannobodywouldn’tbeashamedof, and he hoped the judgewouldhelphimandnot lookdownonhim.Thejudgesaidhe could hug him for themwords; so he cried, and hiswifeshecriedagain;papsaidhe’d been a man that hadalways been misunderstoodbefore, and the judge saidhebelievedit.Theoldmansaidthat what a man wanted that

was down, was sympathy;and the judge said itwas so;so they cried again. Andwhen itwasbedtime, theoldmanroseupandheldouthishand,andsays:“Lookat itgentlemen,and

ladies all; take ahold of it;shake it. There’s a hand thatwas thehandofahog;but itain’tsonomore;it’sthehandofamanthat’sstartedinonanew life, and ’ll die before

he’llgoback.Youmarkthemwords—don’t forget I saidthem. It’s a clean hand now;shakeit—don’tbeafeard.”So they shook it, one after

the other, all around, andcried. The judge’s wife shekissedit.Thentheoldmanhesigned a pledge—made hismark. The judge said it wastheholiest timeon record,orsomething like that. Thenthey tucked the oldman into

a beautiful room, which wasthe spare room, and in thenight sometime he gotpowerful thirsty and clumbout onto the porch-roof andslid down a stanchion andtradedhisnewcoat for a jugof forty-rod,ak and clumbback again and had a goodold time; and towardsdaylighthecrawledoutagain,drunkasa fiddler, and rolledoff the porch and broke his

left arm in two places andwasmostfrozetodeathwhensomebody found him aftersun-up.Andwhentheycometo look at that spare room,they had to take soundingsbeforetheycouldnavigateit.The judge he felt kind of

sore. He said he reckoned abody could reform the olemanwitha shot-gun,maybe,but he didn’t know no otherway.

CHAPTER6Well,prettysoontheoldmanwasupandaroundagain,andthen he went for JudgeThatcher in the courts tomake him give up thatmoney, and he went for me,too, for not stopping school.He catched me a couple oftimes and thrashedme, but Iwent to school just the same,and dodged him or out-run

himmostofthetime.Ididn’twant to go to school much,before, but I reckoned I’dgonow to spite pap. That lawtrial was a slow business;appeared like they warn’tevergoingtogetstartedonit;so every now and then I’dborrow two or three dollarsoff of the judge for him, tokeep from getting acowhiding.Everytimehegotmoney he got drunk; andevery time he got drunk he

raisedCainaroundtown;andevery timehe raisedCain hegot jailed.Hewas just suited—thiskindofthingwasrightinhisline.He got to hanging around

thewidow’stoomuch,andsoshetoldhimatlast,thatifhedidn’tquitusingaroundthereshe would make trouble forhim. Well, wasn’t he mad?He said hewould showwhowasHuckFinn’sboss.Sohe

watched out for me one dayinthespring,andcatchedme,and took me up the riverabout three mile, in a skiff,and crossed over to theIllinois shore where it waswoody and there warn’t nohousesbutanoldloghutinaplacewherethetimberwassothick you couldn’t find it ifyou didn’t know where itwas.He kept me with him all

the time, and I never got achancetorunoff.Welivedinthatoldcabin,andhealwayslocked the door and put thekey under his head, nights.He had a gun which he hadstole,Ireckon,andwefishedand hunted, and that waswhatwelivedon.Everylittlewhile he locked me in andwentdowntothestore, threemiles,totheferry,andtradedfishandgameforwhiskyandfetchedithomeandgotdrunk

and had a good time, andlicked me. The widow shefound out where I was, by-and-by, and she sent a manovertotrytogetholdofme,but pap drove him off withthe gun, and it warn’t longafter that till I was used tobeingwhere Iwas, and likedit,allbutthecowhidepart.It was kind of lazy and

jolly, laying off comfortableallday, smokingand fishing,

andnobooksnorstudy.Twomonths or more run along,and my clothes got to be allragsanddirt,andIdidn’tseehowI’devergot to like it sowell at the widow‘s, whereyouhadtowash,andeatonaplate,andcombup,andgotobedandgetupregular,andbeforeverbotheringoverabookand have old Miss Watsonpeckingatyouall the time. Ididn’t want to go back nomore. I had stopped cussing,

becausethewidowdidn’tlikeit; but now I took to it againbecause pap hadn’t noobjections.Itwasprettygoodtimes up in the woods there,takeitallaround.But by-and-bypapgot too

handywithhishick‘ry,and Icouldn’t stand it. I was allover welts. He got to goingaway so much, too, andlocking me in. Once helocked me in and was gone

three days. It was dreadfullonesome.Ijudgedhehadgotdrowned and I wasn’t evergoing to get out anymore. Iwas scared. I made up mymind I would fix up somewaytoleavethere.Ihadtriedtogetoutof thatcabinmanyatime,butIcouldn’tfindnoway.Therewarn’t awindowtoitbigenoughtforadogtogetthrough.Icouldn’tgetupthe chimbly, it was toonarrow. The door was thick

solid oak slabs. Pap waspretty careful not to leave aknifeoranythinginthecabinwhenhewasaway;IreckonIhad hunted the place over asmuch as a hundred times;well,Iwas’mostallthetimeat itbecause itwasabout theonly way to put in the time.But this time I foundsomething at last; I found anold rusty wood-saw withoutany handle; it was laid inbetween a rafter and the

clapboards of the roof. Igreased it up and went towork. There was an oldhorse-blanket nailed againstthe logs at the far endof thecabin behind the table, tokeep the wind from blowingthrough the chinks andputting the candle out. I gotunderthetableandraisedtheblanket and went to work tosaw a section of the bigbottomlogout,bigenoughtoletmethrough.Well,itwasa

good long job, but I wasgetting towards the end of itwhenIheardpap’sguninthewoods. I got rid of the signsofmywork,anddroppedtheblanket and hidmy saw, andprettysoonpapcomein.Pap warn’t in a good

humor—sohewashisnaturalself.Hesaidhewasdowntotown, and everything wasgoingwrong.Hislawyersaidhereckonedhewouldwinhis

lawsuitandget themoney, ifthey ever got started on thetrial;butthentherewaswaystoput it off a long time, andJudge Thatcher knowed howto do it. And he said peopleallowed there’d be anothertrialtogetmeawayfromhimandgivemetothewidowformy guardian, and theyguessed it would win, thistime. This shook me upconsiderable,becauseIdidn’twant to go back to the

widow’s anymore andbe socramped up and sivilized, asthey called it. Then the oldman got to cussing, andcussed everything andeverybody he could think of,andthencussedthemalloveragain tomakesurehehadn’tskippedany,andafterthathepolished off with a kind ofgeneral cuss all round,including a considerableparcel of people which hedidn’t know the names of,

and so called them what‘s-his-name, when he got tothem, and went right alongwithhiscussing.He said he would like to

see the widow get me. Hesaidhewouldwatchout,andiftheytriedtocomeanysuchgameonhimheknowedofaplacesixorsevenmileoff,tostowmein,wheretheymighthunt till they dropped andthey couldn’t find me. That

mademeprettyuneasyagain,but only for a minute; Ireckoned I wouldn’t stay onhandtillhegotthatchance.The old man made me go

to the skiff and fetch thethingshehadgot.Therewasa fifty-pound sack of cornmeal, and a side of bacon,ammunition, and a four-gallon jug ofwhisky, and anoldbookandtwonewspapersfor wadding, besides some

tow. I toted up a load, andwent back and set down onthebowof theskiff to rest. Ithought it all over, and Ireckoned I would walk offwith the gun and some lines,andtaketothewoodswhenIrun away. I guessed Iwouldn’t stay in one place,butjusttramprightacrossthecountry, mostly night times,and hunt and fish to keepalive, and soget so far awaythat the old man nor the

widowcouldn’t ever findmeany more. I judged I wouldsawoutandleavethatnightifpap got drunk enough, and Ireckoned he would. I got sofull of it I didn’t notice howlongIwasstaying,tilltheoldman hollered and asked mewhether I was asleep ordrownded.Igotthethingsalluptothe

cabin, and then it was aboutdark. While I was cooking

supper the old man took aswig or two and got sort ofwarmed up, and went toripping again. He had beendrunk over in town, and laidinthegutterallnight,andhewasasighttolookat.Abodywould a thought he wasAdam, he was just all mud.6Wheneverhisliquorbeguntowork, he most always wentforthegovment.Thistimehesays:

“Call this a govment!7why, just look at it and seewhat it’s like.Here’s the lawa-standing ready to take aman’ssonawayfromhim—aman’sownson,whichhehashadallthetroubleandalltheanxietyandalltheexpenseofraising.Yes, justas thatmanhasgotthatsonraisedatlast,and ready to go towork andbegin to do suthin’ for himand give him a rest, the law

up and goes for him. Andthey call that govment! Thatain’t all, nuther. The lawbacksthatoldJudgeThatcherupandhelpshimtokeepmeout o’ my property. Here’swhat the law does. The lawtakes a man worth sixthousand dollars and upards,andjamshimintoanoldtrapof a cabin like this, and letshim go round in clothes thatain’t fitten for a hog. Theycall that govment! A man

can’t get his rights in agovmentlikethis.SometimesI’ve a mighty notion to justleave the country for goodand all. Yes, and I told ‘emso; I told old Thatcher so tohis face. Lots of ’em heardme, and can tellwhat I said.SaysI,fortwocentsI’dleavetheblamedcountryandnevercome anear it agin. Them’stheverywords.Isays,lookatmyhat—ifyoucallitahat—but the lid raises up and the

rest of it goes down till it’sbelow my chin, and then itain’t rightly a hat at all, butmore like my head wasshoved up through a jint o’stovepipe.Lookatit,saysI—such a hat forme to wear—one of the wealthiestmen inthis town, if I could git myrights.“Oh, yes, this is a

wonderful govment,wonderful. Why, looky here.

Therewasafreeniggerthere,from Ohio; a mulatter, mostaswhite as awhiteman.Hehad the whitest shirt on youeversee,too,andtheshiniesthat; and there ain’t aman inthat town that’s got as fineclothes as what he had; andhe had a gold watch andchain, and a silver-headedcane—the awfulest old gray-headed nabob in the State.Andwhatdoyouthink?theysaid he was a p‘fessor in a

college, and could talk allkinds of languages, andknowed everything.And thatain’t the wust. They said hecould vote, when he was athome.Well, that let me out.Thinks I,what is the countrya-coming to? It was ’lectionday, and I was just about togo and vote, myself, if Iwarn’ttoodrunktogetthere;but when they told me therewas a State in this countrywhere they’d let that, nigger

vote,Idrawedout.IsaysI’llnever vote agin. Them’s thevery words I said; they allheard me; and the countrymayrotforallme—I’llnevervote agin as long as I live.And to see the cool way ofthat nigger—why, hewouldn’t a give me the roadif Ihadn’tshovedhimouto’theway.Isaystothepeople,whyain’tthisniggerputupatauction and sold?—that’swhat I want to know. And

what do you reckon theysaid? Why, they said hecouldn’tbesoldtillhe’dbeenin the State six months, andhehadn’tbeentherethatlongyet. There, now—that’s aspecimen. They call that agovmentthatcan’tsellafreenigger till he’s been in theState six months. Here’s agovment that calls itself agovment, and lets on to be agovment, and thinks it is agovment,andyet’sgot to set

stock-still for six wholemonths before it can takeaholdofaprowling,thieving,infernal, white-shirted freenigger,and—”Pap was agoing on so, he

never noticed where his oldlimber legs was taking himto,sohewentheadoverheelsover thetubofsaltpork,andbarked both shins, and therestofhis speechwasall thehottest kind of language—

mostlyhoveattheniggerandthe govment, though he givethe tub some, too, all along,here and there. He hoppedaround the cabinconsiderable, first onone legandthenontheother,holdingfirst one shin and then theother one, and at last he letoutwith his left foot all of asudden and fetched the tub arattling kick. But it warn’tgood judgment, because thatwas the boot that had a

coupleofhistoesleakingoutofthefrontendofit;sonowhe raised a howl that fairlymadeabody’shairraise,anddownhewentinthedirt,androlledthere,andheldhistoes;and thecussinghedone thenlaid over anything he hadever done previous. He saidso his own self, afterwards.He had heard old SowberryHagan in his best days, andhe said it laid over him, too;but I reckon thatwas sort of

pilingiton,maybe.After supper pap took the

jug, and said he had enoughwhisky there for two drunksand one delirium tremens.alThat was always his word. Ijudged he would be blinddrunk in about an hour, andthenIwouldstealthekey,orsaw myself out, one or‘tother.Hedrank, anddrank,and tumbled down on hisblankets,by-and-by;but luck

didn’trunmyway.Hedidn’tgo sound asleep, but wasuneasy. He groaned, andmoaned,and thrashedaroundthisway and that, for a longtime.AtlastIgotsosleepyIcouldn’t keepmy eyes open,allIcoulddo,andsobeforeIknowed what I was about Iwas sound asleep, and thecandleburning.I don’t know how long I

was asleep, but all of a

sudden there was an awfulscream and I was up. Therewas pap, looking wild andskipping around everywhichwayandyellingaboutsnakes.Hesaidtheywascrawlinguphis legs; and then he wouldgive a jump and scream, andsay one had bit him on thecheek—but I couldn’t see nosnakes. He started and runround and round the cabin,hollering “take him off! takehimoff!he’sbitingmeonthe

neck!”Ineverseeamanlookso wild in the eyes. Prettysoon he was all fagged out,and fell down panting; thenhe rolled over and over,wonderfulfast,kickingthingseverywhichway,andstrikingand grabbing at the air withhishands,andscreaming,andsayingtherewasdevilsaholdofhim.Heworeout,by-and-by, and laid still a while,moaning.Thenhelaidstiller,and didn’t make a sound. I

could hear the owls and thewolves, away off in thewoods,anditseemedterriblestill. He was laying over bythe corner. By-and-by heraised up, part way, andlistened,withhisheadtooneside.Hesaysverylow:“Tramp—tramp—tramp;

that’sthedead;tramp—tramp—tramp;they’recomingafterme; but I won’t go—Oh,they’re here! don’t touchme

—don‘t! hands off—they’recold; let go—Oh, let a poordevilalone!”Thenhewent downon all

foursandcrawledoffbeggingthemtolethimalone,andherolled himself up in hisblanket and wallowed inunder the old pine table, stilla-begging; and then he wentto crying. I could hear himthroughtheblanket.By-and-by he rolled out

and jumped up on his feetlooking wild and he see meand went for me. He chasedme round and round theplace, with a clasp-knife,callingmetheAngelofDeathand saying he would kill meand then I couldn’t come forhim no more. I begged, andtoldhimIwasonlyHuck,buthe laughed such a screechylaugh,androaredandcussed,and kept on chasing me up.OncewhenIturnedshortand

dodged under his arm hemade a grab and got me bythe jacket between myshoulders,andIthoughtIwasgone; but I slid out of thejacketquickaslightning,andsavedmyself. Pretty soon hewasalltiredout,anddroppeddown with his back againstthe door, and said he wouldrest a minute and then killme. He put his knife underhim,andsaidhewouldsleepand get strong, and then he

wouldseewhowaswho.So he dozed off, pretty

soon.By-and-byIgottheoldsplit-bottom chairam anddumbup, as easy as I could,not to make any noise, andgot down the gun. I slippedthe ramrod down it to makesureitwasloaded,andthenIlaiditacrosstheturnipbarrel,pointingtowardspap,andsetdown behind it to wait forhim to stir. And how slow

and still the time did dragalong.

CHAPTER7“Gitup!whatyou‘bout!”I opened my eyes and

lookedaround,tryingtomakeoutwhere Iwas. Itwasaftersun-up,andIhadbeensoundasleep.Papwasstandingoverme, looking sour—and sick,too.Hesays—“What you doin’ with this

gun?”

I judged he didn’t knownothing about what he hadbeendoing,soIsays:“Somebody tried to get in,

soIwaslayingforhim.”“Why didn’t you roustme

out?”“Well I tried to, but I

couldn’t; I couldn’t budgeyou.”“Well, all right. Don’t

stand there palaveringan allday,butoutwithyouandsee

if there’s a fish on the linesforbreakfast. I’ll be along inaminute.”HeunlockedthedoorandI

clearedout,uptheriverbank.I noticed some pieces oflimbsandsuchthingsfloatingdown, and a sprinkling ofbark; so I knowed the riverhadbeguntorise.IreckonedI would have great times,now, if I was over at thetown. The June rise used to

be always luck for me;because as soon as that risebegins, here comes cord-woodao floating down, andpieces of log rafts—sometimes a dozen logstogether; so all you have todo is to catch them and sellthem to the wood yards andthesawmill.I went along up the bank

withoneeyeout forpapand‘tother one out for what the

risemight fetch along.Well,all at once, here comes acanoe; just a beauty, too,aboutthirteenorfourteenfootlong, ridinghigh likeaduck.I shot head first off of thebank, likea frog,clothesandall on, and struck out for thecanoe.I justexpectedthere’dbe somebody layingdown init,becausepeopleoftendonethattofoolfolks,andwhenachap had pulled a skiff outmosttoitthey’draiseupand

laughathim.Butitwarn’tsothistime.Itwasadrift-canoe,sure enough, and I clumb inand paddled her ashore.ThinksI, theoldmanwillbegladwhenheseesthis—she’sworthtendollars.ButwhenIgot to shore pap wasn’t insight yet, and as I wasrunningher intoa littlecreeklike a gully, all hung overwith vines and willows, Istruck another idea; I judgedI’d hide her good, and then,

stead of taking to the woodswhen I run off, I’d go downthe riverabout fiftymileandcamp in one place for good,and not have such a roughtimetrampingonfoot.It was pretty close to the

shanty, and I thought I heardthe old man coming, all thetime; but I got her hid; andthen Ioutand lookedaroundabunchofwillows,andtherewas the old man down the

path apiece just drawing abead on a birdwith his gun.Sohehadn’tseenanything.When he got along, I was

hard at it taking up a “trot”line.ap He abused me a littlefor being so slow, but I toldhimIfellintheriverandthatwaswhatmademesolong.Iknowed he would see I waswet, and then he would beaskingquestions.Wegotfivecat-fish off of the lines and

wenthome.While we laid off, after

breakfast,tosleepup,bothofusbeingaboutworeout,Igotto thinking that if I could fixupsomewaytokeeppapandthe widow from trying tofollow me, it would be acertainer thing than trustingto luck to get far enough offbefore they missed me; yousee,allkindsof thingsmighthappen.Well, Ididn’tseeno

way for awhile, but by-and-bypapraisedupaminute,todrinkanotherbarrelofwater,andhesays:“Another time a man

comesa-prowlingroundhere,you roust me out, you hear?Thatmanwarn’t here for nogood. I’d a shot him. Nexttime, you roust me out, youhear?”Thenhedroppeddownand

went to sleep again—but

whathehadbeensayinggiveme the very idea Iwanted. Isays to myself, I can fix itnowsonobodywon’tthinkoffollowingme.About twelve o‘clock we

turnedoutandwentalongupthe bank. The river wascoming up pretty fast, andlotsofdrift-woodgoingbyonthe rise. By-and-by, alongcomespartofalograft—ninelogs fast together. We went

outwiththeskiffandtoweditashore. Then we had dinner.Anybody but pap would awaited and seen the daythrough, so as to catchmorestuff; but that warn’t pap’sstyle. Nine logs was enoughfor one time; he must shoverightovertotownandsell.Sohelockedmeinandtooktheskiff and started off towingthe raft about half-past three.I judged he wouldn’t comebackthatnight.IwaitedtillI

reckoned he had got a goodstart, then Ioutwithmysawandwent toworkon that logagain. Before he was ’tothersideof the river Iwasoutofthehole;himandhisraftwasjust a speck on the waterawayoffyonder.I took the sack of corn

mealandtookittowherethecanoe was hid, and shovedthe vines and branches apartandput it in; then Idone the

samewith the side of bacon;thenthewhiskyjug;Itookallthe coffee and sugar therewas, and all the ammunition;Itookthewadding;Itookthebucket and gourd, I took adipperanda tincup,andmyoldsawandtwoblankets,andtheskilletand thecoffee-pot.I took fish-lines andmatchesand other things—everythingthat was worth a cent. Icleaned out the place. Iwanted an axe, but there

wasn’t any, only the one outat the wood pile, and Iknowed why I was going toleave that. I fetched out thegun,andnowIwasdone.I had wore the ground a

gooddeal,crawlingoutofthehole and dragging out somany things. So I fixed thatas good as I could from theoutside by scattering dust onthe place, which covered upthe smoothness and the

sawdust. Then I fixed thepiece of log back into itsplace, and put two rocksunder it andoneagainst it toholditthere,—foritwasbentup at that place, and didn’tquite touch ground. If youstood four or five foot awayand didn’t know it wassawed, you wouldn’t evernotice it; and besides, thiswasthebackofthecabinandit warn’t likely anybodywould go fooling around

there.Itwasallgrasscleartothe

canoe;soIhadn’tleftatrack.I followed around to see. Istoodonthebankandlookedout over the river. All safe.SoItookthegunandwentupa piece into the woods andwashuntingaroundforsomebirds,when I see awild pig;hogssoonwentwild in thembottoms after they had gotawayfromtheprairiefarms.I

shotthisfellowandtookhimintocamp.Itooktheaxeandsmashed

in the door—I beat it andhacked it considerable, a-doing it. I fetched the pig inand took him back nearly tothe table and hacked into histhroat with the ax, and laidhim down on the ground tobleed—Isayground,becauseit was ground—hard packed,and no boards. Well, next I

tookanoldsackandputalotofbigrocksinit,—allIcoulddrag-and I started it from thepiganddraggedittothedoorand through thewoodsdowntotheriveranddumpeditin,and down it sunk, out ofsight.Youcouldeasyseethatsomething had been draggedover the ground. I did wishTom Sawyer was there, Iknowed he would take aninterest in this kind ofbusiness, and throw in the

fancy touches.Nobodycouldspread himself like TomSawyer in such a thing asthat.Well,lastIpulledoutsome

ofmy hair, and bloodied theax good, and stuck it on thebackside,andslungtheaxinthecorner.ThenItookupthepigandheldhimtomybreastwith my jacket (so hecouldn’tdrip)tillIgotagoodpiece below the house and

then dumped him into theriver. Now I thought ofsomethingelse.SoIwentandgot the bag of meal and myoldsawoutof thecanoeandfetched them to the house. Itookthebagtowhereitusedtostand,andrippedaholeinthebottomofitwiththesaw,fortherewarn’tnoknivesandforksontheplace—papdoneeverything with his clasp-knife, about the cooking.ThenIcarriedthesackabout

a hundred yards across thegrassandthroughthewillowseastofthehouse,toashallowlake that was five mile wideandfullofrushes—andduckstoo, you might say, in theseason.Therewasa sloughaqoracreekleadingoutofitontheotherside,thatwentmilesaway, I don’t know where,but it didn’t go to the river.Themealsiftedoutandmadealittletrackallthewaytothe

lake. I dropped pap’swhetstone there too, so as tolooklikeithadbeendonebyaccident. Then I tied up therip in the meal sack with astring, so itwouldn’t leaknomore,andtookitandmysawtothecanoeagain.Itwasaboutdark,now;so

Idroppedthecanoedowntheriverundersomewillowsthathung over the bank, andwaitedforthemoontorise.I

made fast toawillow; then Itookabitetoeat,andby-and-by laid down in the canoe tosmoke a pipe and lay out aplan.Isaystomyself, they’llfollow the track of thatsackful of rocks to the shoreand then drag the river forme. And they’ll follow thatmeal trackto thelakeandgobrowsingdownthecreekthatleads out of it to find therobbers that killed me andtook the things. They won’t

ever hunt the river foranythingbutmydeadcarcass.They’llsoongettiredofthat,and won’t bother no moreaboutme.Allright;IcanstopanywhereIwantto.Jackson’sIslandisgoodenoughforme;Iknowthatislandprettywell,andnobodyevercomesthere.AndthenIcanpaddleovertotown, nights, and slinkaround and pick up things Iwant. Jackson’s Island’s theplace.

I was pretty tired, and thefirst thing I knowed, I wasasleep. When I woke up Ididn’tknowwhereIwas,foraminute.Isetupandlookedaround,alittlescared.ThenIremembered. The riverlooked miles and milesacross. The moon was sobright I could a counted thedriftlogsthatwentaslippingalong, black and still,hundreds of yards out fromshore. Everything was dead

quiet, and it looked late, andsmelt late. You knowwhat Imean—I don’t know thewordstoputitin.I took a good gap and a

stretch,andwasjustgoingtounhitch and start, when Iheard a sound awayover thewater.Ilistened.PrettysoonImade it out. It was that dullkind of a regular sound thatcomes from oars working inrowlocks when it’s a still

night. I peeped out throughthe willow branches, andthere it was—a skiff, awayacross the water. I couldn’ttell how many was in it. Itkept a-coming, and when itwasabreastofmeIseetherewarn’t but one man in it.Thinks I, maybe it’s pap,though I warn’t expectinghim. He dropped below me,with thecurrent, andby-and-by he come a-swinging up

shoreintheeasywater,arandhewentbysocloseIcouldareached out the gun andtouched him. Well, it waspap,sureenough—andsober,too,bythewayhelaidtohisoars.I didn’t lose no time. The

nextminute Iwasa-spinningdownstreamsoftbutquickintheshadeofthebank.Imadetwomileandahalf,andthenstruckoutaquarterofamile

or more towards the middleof the river, because prettysoon I would be passing theferry landing and peoplemight seeme and hail me. Igot out amongst the drift-wood and then laid down inthe bottom of the canoe andlet her float. I laid there andhad a good rest and a smokeoutofmypipe,lookingawayintothesky,notacloudinit.The sky looks ever so deepwhen you lay down on your

back in the moonshine; Inever knowed it before.Andhow far a body can hear onthewatersuchnights!Iheardpeople talking at the ferrylanding. I heard what theysaid, too, every word of it.One man said it was gettingtowardsthelongdaysandtheshort nights, now. ‘Totherone said this warn’t one oftheshortones,hereckoned—andthentheylaughed,andhesaid it over again and they

laughed again; then theywakedupanother fellowandtoldhim,andlaughed,buthedidn’t laugh; he ripped outsomething brisk and said lethim alone. The first fellowsaidhe’lowedtotellittohisoldwoman—shewouldthinkitwasprettygood;buthesaidthat warn’t nothing to somethingshehadsaidinhistime.I heard one man say it wasnearly three o‘clock, and hehopeddaylightwouldn’twait

more than about a weeklonger.Afterthat,thetalkgotfurtherandfurtheraway,andIcouldn’tmakeoutthewordsanymore,butIcouldhearthemumble;andnowand thenalaugh, too, but it seemed alongwaysoff.Iwasawaybelowtheferry

now.I roseupand therewasJackson’s Island, about twomileandahalfdownstream,heavy-timbered and standing

up out of the middle of theriver,biganddarkandsolid,like a steamboatwithout anylights.Therewarn’tanysignsofthebaratthehead—itwasallunderwater,now.It didn’t take me long to

getthere.Ishotpasttheheadat a ripping rate, the currentwas so swift, and then I gotinto the dead water andlanded on the side towardsthe Illinois shore. I run the

canoe intoadeepdent in thebank that I knowed about; Ihad to part the willowbranchestogetin;andwhenImade fast nobody could aseen the canoe from theoutside.Iwentupandsetdownon

alogattheheadoftheislandand looked out on the bigriverandtheblackdriftwood,and away over to the town,threemile away,where there

was three or four lightstwinkling. A monstrous biglumber raftwas about amileup stream, coming alongdown, with a lantern in themiddle of it. I watched itcome creeping down, andwhen it was most abreast ofwhere I stood I heard amansay,“Sternoars, there!heaveher head to stabboard!”as Iheard that just as plain as ifthemanwasbymyside.

There was a little gray inthe sky, now; so I steppedintothewoodsandlaiddownforanapbeforebreakfast.

CHAPTER8ThesunwasupsohighwhenIwaked, that I judged itwasafter eight o‘clock. I laidthereinthegrassandthecoolshade, thinking about thingsand feeling rested and ruthercomfortable and satisfied. Icould see the sun out at oneor two holes, but mostly itwas big trees all about, andgloomy in there amongst

them. There was freckledplaces on the ground wherethe light sifteddown throughthe leaves, and the freckledplacesswappedaboutalittle,showing there was a littlebreeze up there.A couple ofsquirrels set on a limb andjabberedatmeveryfriendly.I was powerful lazy and

comfortable—didn’t want toget up and cook breakfast.Well,Iwasdozingoffagain,

when I thinks I hears a deepsound of “boom!” away uptheriver.Irousesupandrestson my elbow and listens;prettysoonIhears itagain. Ihopped up and went andlooked out at a hole in theleaves, and I see a bunch ofsmoke laying on the water alongways up—about abreastthe ferry. And there was theferryboat full of people,floating along down. Iknowedwhatwas thematter,

now.“Boom!”Iseethewhitesmoke squirt out of the ferryboat’sside.Yousee,theywasfiring cannonover thewater,trying to make my carcasscometothetop.at

Iwas pretty hungry, but itwarn’t going to do forme tostart a fire, because theymightseethesmoke.SoIsetthere and watched thecannon-smokeandlistenedtothe boom. The river was a

mile wide, there, and italways looks pretty on asummer morning—so I washaving a good enough timeseeing them hunt for myremainders, if I only had abite to eat. Well, then Ihappened to think how theyalways put quicksilver inloaves of bread and floatthemoffbecausetheyalwaysgo right to the drowndedcarcass and stop there.au So

says I, I’ll keep a lookout,and if any of them’s floatingaround after me, I’ll givethemashow.IchangedtotheIllinois edge of the island tosee what luck I could have,and Iwarn’t disappointed.Abig double loaf come along,andImostgotit,withalongstick,butmyfootslippedandshe floated out further. Ofcourse I was where thecurrent set in the closest tothe shore—I knowed enough

for that.Butby-and-byalongcomes another one, and thistime I won. I took out theplug and shook out the littledabofquicksilver,andsetmyteeth in. It was “baker’sbread”—what the quality eat—none of your lowdowncorn-pone.av

Igotagoodplaceamongstthe leaves,andset thereonalog, munching the bread andwatching the ferry-boat, and

verywell satisfied.And thensomething struck me. I says,now I reckon the widow orthe parson or somebodyprayed that this bread wouldfindme,andhereithasgoneanddoneit.Sothereain’tnodoubt but there is somethingin that thing. That is, there’ssomething in itwhen a bodylike thewidowor the parsonprays, but it don’t work forme, and I reckon it don’twork for only just the right

kind.I litapipeandhadagood

long smoke and went onwatching.Theferry-boatwasfloatingwith thecurrent, andIallowedI’dhaveachancetoseewhowasaboardwhenshecome along, because shewould come in close, wherethebreaddid.Whenshe’dgotpretty well along downtowardsme,Iputoutmypipeand went to where I fished

out the bread, and laid downbehindalogonthebankinalittle open place. Where thelog forked I could peepthrough.By-and-byshecomealong,

and she drifted in so closethat they could a run out aplank and walked ashore.Most everybody was on theboat. Pap, and JudgeThatcher, and BessieThatcher, and JoHarper, and

Tom Sawyer, and his oldAunt Polly, and Sid andMary, and plenty more.Everybodywas talking aboutthe murder, but the captainbrokeinandsays:“Look sharp, now; the

current sets in the closesthere,andmaybehe’swashedashore and got tangledamongst the brush at thewater’s edge. I hope so,anyway.”

I didn’t hope so. They allcrowded up and leaned overthe rails, nearly in my face,and kept still, watching withall their might. I could seethem first-rate, but theycouldn’t see me. Then thecaptainsungout:“Stand away!” and the

cannon let off such a blastright before me that it mademe deef with the noise andpretty near blind with the

smoke, and I judged I wasgone. If they’d a had somebullets in, I reckon they’d agotthecorpsetheywasafter.Well, I see I warn’t hurt,thanks togoodness.Theboatfloated on and went out ofsight around the shoulder ofthe island. I could hear thebooming, now and then,further and further off, andby-and-by after an hour, Ididn’t hear it no more. Theislandwas threemile long. I

judged they had got to thefoot, and was giving it up.But they didn’t yet a while.They turned around the footof the island and started upthe channel on the Missouriside, under steam, andbooming once in a while asthey went. I crossed over tothat side and watched them.When they got abreast thehead of the island they quitshootinganddroppedovertothe Missouri shore and went

hometothetown.I knowed I was all right

now. Nobody else wouldcome a-hunting after me. Igotmytrapsoutofthecanoeandmademeanicecamp inthe thick woods. I made akind of a tent out of myblankets to put my thingsundersotheraincouldn’tgetat them. I catched a cat-fishand haggled him open withmy saw, and towards

sundown I started my campfire and had supper. Then Iset out a line to catch somefishforbreakfast.When itwas dark I set by

my camp fire smoking, andfeeling pretty satisfied; butby-and-by it got sort oflonesome, and so Iwent andset on the bank and listenedtothecurrentswashingalong,and counted the stars anddrift-logsand rafts that come

down, and thenwent to bed;there ain’t no better way toput in time when you arelonesome; you can’t stay so,yousoongetoverit.And so for three days and

nights. No difference—justthe same thing. But the nextday I went exploring arounddown through the island. Iwasbossofit;itallbelongedtome,sotosay,andIwantedto know all about it; but

mainlyIwantedtoput in thetime. I found plentystrawberries, ripe and prime;and green summer-grapes,andgreenrazberries;andthegreen blackberries was justbeginning to show. Theywould all come handy by-and-by,Ijudged.Well, Iwent fooling along

in the deep woods till Ijudged I warn’t far from thefoot of the island. I had my

gun along, but I hadn’t shotnothing;itwasforprotection;thought I would kill somegame nighaw home. Aboutthis time I mighty nearstepped on a good sizedsnake,anditwentslidingoffthroughthegrassandflowers,and I after it, trying to get ashotatit.Iclippedalong,andall of a sudden I boundedright on to the ashes of acamp fire that was still

smoking.My heart jumped up

amongst my lungs. I neverwaitedfortolookfurther,butuncocked my gun and wentsneakingbackonmytip-toesasfastaseverIcould.Everynow and then I stopped asecond, amongst the thickleaves, and listened; but mybreath come so hard Icouldn’t hear nothing else. Islunk along another piece

further, then listened again;andsoon,andsoon;ifIseeastump,Itookitforaman;ifItrodonastickandbrokeit,itmademefeel likeapersonhadcutoneofmybreaths intwo and I only got half, andtheshorthalf,too.When I got to camp I

warn’t feeling very brash,therewarn’tmuchsandinmycraw;ax but I says, this ain’tnotimetobefoolingaround.

SoIgotallmytrapsintomycanoe again so as to havethem out of sight, and I putout the fire and scattered theashes around to look like anoldlastyear’scamp,andthenclumbatree.I reckon I was up in the

tree two hours; but I didn’tsee nothing, I didn’t hearnothing—I only thought Iheard and seen asmuch as athousand things. Well, I

couldn’t stay up thereforever;soatlastIgotdown,but Ikept in the thickwoodsand on the lookout all thetime. All I could get to eatwasberriesandwhatwasleftoverfrombreakfast.By the time it was night I

wasprettyhungry.Sowhenitwasgoodanddark,Islidoutfrom shore before moonriseand paddled over to theIllinoisbank—aboutaquarter

of a mile. I went out in thewoods and cooked a supper,and Ihadaboutmadeupmymind I would stay there allnight,whenIhearaplunkety-plunk, plunkety-plunk, andsays to myself, horsescoming; and next I hearpeople’s voices. I goteverything into the canoe asquick as I could, and thenwent creeping through thewoods to see what I couldfindout.Ihadn’tgotfarwhen

Ihearamansay:“We better camp here, if

wecanfindagoodplace;thehorsesisaboutbeatout.Let’slookaround.”I didn’t wait, but shoved

outandpaddledawayeasy.Itied up in the old place, andreckonedIwouldsleepinthecanoe.I didn’t sleep much. I

couldn‘t, somehow, forthinking. And every time I

waked up I thoughtsomebody had me by theneck. So the sleep didn’t domenogood.By-and-byIsaysto myself, I can’t live thisway; I’m agoing to find outwho it is that’s here on theislandwithme;I’llfinditoutor bust. Well, I felt better,rightoff.So I took my paddle and

slidoutfromshorejustasteportwo,andthenletthecanoe

dropalongdownamongsttheshadows. The moon wasshining, and outside of theshadows it made it most aslight as day. I poked alongwellontoanhour,everythingstill as rocks and soundasleep. Well by this time Iwasmostdowntothefootoftheisland.Alittleripply,coolbreeze begun to blow, andthatwasasgoodassayingthenightwas about done. I giveheraturnwiththepaddleand

brunghernosetoshore; thenIgotmygunandslippedoutand into the edge of thewoods. Isetdownthereonalog and looked out throughtheleaves.Iseethemoongooff watch and the darknessbegintoblankettheriver.Butin a little while I see a palestreakover the tree-tops, andknowed thedaywascoming.SoItookmygunandslippedoff towards where I had runacross that camp fire,

stoppingeveryminuteortwotolisten.ButIhadn’tnoluck,somehow; I couldn’t seem tofindtheplace.Butby-and-by,sure enough, I catched aglimpseoffire,awaythroughthe trees. I went for it,cautiousandslow.By-and-byIwascloseenough tohavealook,andtherelaidamanonthe ground. It most give methe fan-tods.ay He had ablanket around his head, and

his head was nearly in thefire. I set there behind aclumpofbushes,inaboutsixfootofhim,andkeptmyeyesonhimsteady. Itwasgettinggray daylight, now. Prettysoonhegapped,andstretchedhimself, and hove off theblanket, and it was MissWatson’s Jim! I bet I wasgladtoseehim.Isays:“Hello, Jim!” and skipped

out.

He bounced up and staredat me wild. Then he dropsdown on his knees, and putshishandstogetherandsays:“Doan’ hurt me—don‘t! I

hain’teverdonenoharmtoaghos’. I awluz liked deadpeople,endoneallIcouldfor‘em.Yougoengitinderiveragin, whah you b’longs, endoan’donuffntoOleJim,‘at’uzawluzyo’fren‘.”Well,Iwarn’tlongmaking

him understand. I warn’tdead. I was ever so glad tosee Jim. I warn’t lonesome,now. I told him I warn’tafraid of him telling thepeople where I was. I talkedalong, but he only set thereand lookedatme;never saidnothing.ThenIsays:“It’s good daylight. Le’s

get breakfast. Make up yourcampfiregood.”“What’s de use er makin’

up de camp fire to cookstrawbriesen sich truck?Butyou got a gun, hain’t you?Den we kin git sumfn betterdenstrawbries.”“Strawberries and such

truck,” I says. “Is that whatyouliveon?”“I couldn’ git nuffn else,”

hesays.“Why, how long you been

ontheisland,Jim?”“Icomeheahdenightarter

you’skilled.”“What,allthattime?”“Yes-indeedy.”“Andain’tyouhadnothing

but that kind of rubbage toeat?”“No,sah—nuffnelse.”“Well, you must be most

starved,ain’tyou?”“Ireck’nIcouldeatahoss.

IthinkIcould.Howlongyoubenondeislan‘?”

“Since the night I gotkilled.”“No! Wy, what has you

livedon?Butyougot agun.Oh,yes,yougotagun.Dat’sgood.NowyoukillsumfnenI’llmakeupdefire.”Sowewent over towhere

the canoe was, and while hebuilt a fire in a grassy openplace amongst the trees, Ifetched meal and bacon andcoffee, and coffee-pot and

frying-pan, and sugar and tincups, and the nigger was setbackconsiderable,becausehereckoneditwasalldonewithwitchcraft. I catched a goodbig cat-fish, too, and Jimcleaned him with his knife,andfriedhim.Whenbreakfastwasready,

welolledonthegrassandeatit smoking hot. Jim laid it inwithallhismight,forhewasmost about starved. Then

whenwe had got prettywellstuffed, we laid off andlazied.By-and-byJimsays:“But looky here, Huck,

who wuz it dat ‘uz killed indatshanty,efitwarn’tyou?”Then I told him thewhole

thing, and he said it wassmart. He said Tom Sawyercouldn’tgetupnobetterplanthanwhatIhad.ThenIsays:“How do you come to be

here,Jim,andhow’dyougethere?”He looked pretty uneasy,

and didn’t say nothing for aminute.Thenhesays:“MaybeIbetternottell.”“Why,Jim?”“Well, dey’s reasons. But

you wouldn’ tell on me ef I‘uz to tell you, would you,Huck?”“BlamedifIwould,Jim.”“Well,Ib‘lieveyou,Huck.

I—Irunoff.”“Jim!”“But mind, you said you

wouldn’ttell—youknowyousaid you wouldn’t tell,Huck.”“Well, I did. I said I

wouldn‘t, and I’ll stick to it.Honest injun I will. Peoplewould call me a low downAblitionistaz and despise mefor keeping mum—but thatdon’t make no difference. I

ain’tagoingtotell,andIain’tagoing back there anyways.So now, le’s know all aboutit.”“Well, you see, it ‘uz dis

way.OleMissus—dat’sMissWatson—shepecksonmeallde time, en treats me pootyrough,butsheawluzsaidshewouldn’ sell me down toOrleans.8 But I noticed deywuz a nigger trader roun’ deplace considable, lately, en I

begintogitoneasy.Well,onenightIcreepstodedo’,pootylate, en de do’ warn’t quiteshet,enIhearolemissustellde widder she gwyne to sellmedown toOrleans, but shedidn’ want to, but she couldgit eight hund’d dollars forme,en it ‘uzsichabigstacko’ money she couldn’ resis’.Dewiddershetrytogithertosay she wouldn’ do it, but Ineverwaitedtohearderes‘.Ilit out mighty quick, I tell

you.“Ituckoutenshindownde

hill en ‘spec to steal a skift’long de sho’ som‘ers ’bovede town,butdeywuzpeoplea-stirrin’yit,soIhidindeoletumble-down cooper shop ondebanktowaitforeverybodyto go ‘way.Well, I wuz dahallnight.Deywuzsomebodyroun’alldetime.‘Long’boutsix in de mawnin‘, skiftsbegintogoby,en’bouteight

er nine every skift dat went‘long wuz talkin’ ’bout howyo’papcomeovertodetownensayyou’skilled.Deselas’skifts wuz full o’ ladies engenlmen agoin’ over for tosee de place. Sometimesdey’d pull up at de sho’ entake a res’ b‘fo’ dey startedacrost, so by de talk I got toknowall’boutdekillin‘.I’uzpowerful sorry you’s killed,Huck, but I ain’t no mo‘,now.

“I laid dah under deshavinsallday.I‘uzhungry,but I warn’t afeard; bekase Iknowed ole missus en dewidder wuz goin’ to start tode camp meetn’ right arterbreakfas’ enbegone all day,endeyknows I goesoffwidde cattle ’bout daylight, sodeywouldn’ ‘spec to seemeroun’ de place, en so deywouldn’ miss me tell arterdarkindeevenin’.Deyutherservants wouldn’ miss me,

kase dey’d shin out en takeholiday, soon as de ole folks‘uzout’ndeway.“Well,whenitcomedarkI

tuck out up de river road, enwent ‘bout twomile ermoreto whah dey warn’t nohouses.I’dmadeupmymine’boutwhat I’s agwyne todo.YouseeefIkep’ontryin’togit away afoot de dogs ‘udtrackme; ef I stole a skift tocross over, dey’d miss dat

skift you see, endey’dknow’bout whah I’d lan’ on deyuther side en whah to pickupmytrack.SoIsays,araffis what I’s arter; it doan’makenotrack.“I see a light a-comin’

roun’ de p‘int, bymeby, so Iwade’ in en shove’ a logahead o’ me, en swummore’n half-way acrost deriver, en got in ’mongst dedrift-wood, en kep’my head

down low, en kinder swumagin de current tell de raffcome along. Den I swum todesternuvit,entuckaholt.Itcloudedupen‘uzpootydarkfor a littlewhile. So I clumbupenlaiddownondeplanks.De men ’uz all ‘way yonderindemiddle,whahdelanternwuz.De riverwuz arisin’ endeywuzagoodcurrent; so Ireck’n‘d’at by fo’ in demawnin’ I’d be twenty-fivemile down de river, en den

I’dslipin,jis’b‘fo’daylight,en swim asho’ en take to dewoodsondeIllinoiside.“But I didn’ have no luck.

When we ‘uz mos’ down tode head er de islan’, a manbegin to come aft wid delantern.Iseeitwarn’tnousefer to wait, so I slidoverboard, en struck out ferdeislan‘.Well,IhadanotionI could lan’ mos’ anywhers,but I couldn’t—bank too

bluff.I‘uzmos’todefooterdeislan’b’fo’Ifoun’agoodplace. I went into de woodsenjedgedIwouldn’foolwidraffs no mo‘, long as deymove de lantern roun’ so. Ihadmypipeenaplugerdog-leg,baensomematchesinmycap, en dey warn’t wet, so I’uzallright.”“And so you ain’t had no

meatnorbread to eat all thistime? Why didn’t you get

mud-turkles?”bb

“Howyougwynetogit’m?You can’t slip up on um engrab um; en how’s a bodygwyne tohitumwida rock?Howcouldabodydoitindenight? en I warn’t gwyne toshowmysefondebankindedaytime.”“Well, that’s so. You’ve

had to keep in thewoods allthe time, of course. Did youhear ‘em shooting the

cannon?”“Oh, yes. I knowed dey

wasarteryou.Iseeumgobyheah; watched um thoo debushes.”Some young birds come

along,flyingayardortwoata time and lighting. Jim saiditwas a sign itwas going torain. He said it was a signwhen young chickens flewthatway,andsohereckonedit was the same way when

young birds done it. I wasgoingtocatchsomeof them,but Jim wouldn’t let me. Hesaiditwasdeath.Hesaidhisfather laidmighty sick once,and some of them catched abird, and his old granny saidhis father would die, and hedid.And Jim said you musn’t

count the things you aregoing to cook for dinner,becausethatwouldbringbad

luck. The same if you shookthetable-clothaftersundown.Andhesaidifamanownedabee-hive, and that man died,thebeesmustbetoldaboutitbefore sun-up next morning,or else the bees would allweaken down and quit workand die. Jim said beeswouldn’t sting idiots; but Ididn’t believe that, because Ihad tried them lots of timesmyself, and they wouldn’tstingme.

I had heard about someofthese things before, but notall of them. Jim knowed allkinds of signs. He said heknowed most everything. Isaid it looked to me like allthesignswasaboutbadluck,and so I asked him if therewarn’t any good-luck signs.Hesays:“Mightyfew—an’deyain’

no use to a body.What youwant to know when good

luck’s a-comin’ for? want tokeepitoff?”Andhesaid:“Efyou’s got hairy arms en ahairy breas‘, it’s a sign datyou’s agwyne to be rich.Well, dey’s some use in asignlikedat,’kaseit’ssofurahead.Yousee,maybeyou’sgottobepo’alongtimefust,en so you might gitdiscourage’ en kill yo‘sef ’fyou didn’ know by de signdat you gwyne to be richbymeby.”

“Have you got hairy armsandahairybreast,Jim?”“What’s de use to ax dat

question? don’ you see Ihas?”“Well,areyourich?”“No, but I ben richwunst,

and gwyne to be rich agin.Wunst I had foteen dollars,but I tuck to specalat‘n’, engotbustedout.”“What did you speculate

in,Jim?”

“Well, fust I tackledstock.”“Whatkindofstock?”“Why, live stock. Cattle,

youknow.Iputtendollarsina cow. But I ain’ gwyne toresk nomo’money in stock.De cow up ‘n’ died on myhan’s.”“So you lost the ten

dollars.”“No, I didn’ lose it all. I

on‘y los’ ’bout nine of it. I

sole de hide en tallerbc for adollarentencents.”“You had five dollars and

ten cents left. Did youspeculateanymore?”“Yes. You know dat one-

laigged nigger dat b‘longs toold Misto Bradish? well, hesotupabank,ensayanybodydat put in a dollar would gitfo’dollarsmo’atdeen’erdeyear. Well, all de niggerswent in, but dey didn’ have

much. Iwuzdeon’yonedathadmuch.So I stuckout formo’danfo’dollars,enIsaid‘f I didn’t git it I’d start abank mysef. Well o’ coursedat nigger want’ to keep meouterdebusiness,bekasehesay dey warn’t business’nough for two banks, so hesay I could put in my fivedollars en he pay me thirty-fiveatdeen’erdeyear.“So I done it. Den I

reck‘n’d I’d inves’ de thirty-five dollars right off en keepthings a-movin’. Dey wuz anigger name’ Bob, dat hadketched a wood-flat, en hismarster didn’ know it; en Ibought it off’ n him en toldhim to take de thirty-fivedollarswhendeen’erdeyearcome;butsomebodystoledewood-flat dat night, en nex’daydeone-laiggedniggersayde bank’s busted. So deydidn’ none uv us git no

money.”“Whatdidyoudowiththe

tencents,Jim?”“Well, I ‘uz gwyne to

spen’it,butIhadadream,endedreamtolemetogiveittoa nigger name’ Balum—Balum’sAssdeycallhimforshort, he’s one er demchuckle-heads, you know.Buthe’s lucky,dey say, en IseeIwarn’t lucky.Dedreamsay let Balum inves’ de ten

centsenhe’dmakearaiseforme.Well, Balum he tuck demoney, en when he wuz inchurch he hear de preachersay dat whoever give to depo’len’todeLord,enboun’to git his money back ahund’d times. So Balum hetuckengivedetencentstodepo,‘ en laid low to see whatwuzgwynetocomeofit.““Well,whatdidcomeofit,

Jim?”

“Nuffn’nevercomeofit.Icouldn’manage tok‘leckdatmoneynoway; enBalumhecouldn’. I ain’ gwyne to len’nomo’money‘dout Iseedesecurity. Boun’ to git yo’money back a hund’d times,de preacher says! Ef I couldgitdetencentsback,I’dcallit squah, en be glad er dechanst.”“Well, it’s all right,

anyway, Jim, long as you’re

going to be rich again sometimeorother.”“Yes—en I’s rich now,

come to look at it. I ownsmysef, en I’s wuth eighthund’d dollars. Iwisht I haddemoney,Iwouldn’wantnomo‘.”

CHAPTER9Iwanted to go and look at aplace right about the middleof the island, that I’d foundwhen Iwas exploring; sowestarted, and soon got to it,because the island was onlythreemileslongandaquarterofamilewide.This place was a tolerable

longsteephillorridge,about

forty foot high. We had aroughtimegettingtothetop,thesideswassosteepandthebushes so thick.We trampedandclumbaroundallover it,and by-and-by found a goodbig cavern in the rock, mostup to the top on the sidetowards Illinois. The cavernwas as big as two or threerooms bunched together, andJimcouldstandupstraightinit. It was cool in there. Jimwas for putting our traps in

there, right away, but I saidwedidn’twanttobeclimbingup and down there all thetime.Jim said if we had the

canoe hid in a good place,and had all the traps in thecavern,wecouldrushthereifanybody was to come to theisland, and theywould neverfind us without dogs. Andbesides, he said them littlebirdshadsaiditwasgoingto

rain,anddidIwantthethingstogetwet?So we went back and got

the canoe and paddled upabreast the cavern, andlugged all the traps up there.Then we hunted up a placeclosebytohidethecanoein,amongst the thick willows.Wetooksomefishoffof thelinesandset themagain,andbeguntogetreadyfordinner.Thedoorofthecavernwas

bigenoughtorollahogsheadin, and on one side of thedoor the floor stuck out alittle bit and was flat and agoodplacetobuildafireon.So we built it there andcookeddinner.We spread the blankets

inside for a carpet, and eatourdinnerinthere.Weputallthe other things handy at theback of the cavern. Prettysoon it darkened up and

beguntothunderandlighten;sothebirdswasrightaboutit.Directly itbegun to rain,anditrainedlikeallfury,too,andIneverseethewindblowso.It was one of these regularsummer storms. It would getsodarkthatitlookedallblue-blackoutside,andlovely;andthe rain would thrash alongbysothickthatthetreesoffalittle ways looked dim andspider-webby; and herewould come a blast of wind

that would bend the treesdown and turn up the paleunderside of the leaves; andthenaperfectripperofagustwould follow along and setthe branches to tossing theirarmsasiftheywasjustwild;and next, when it was justabout the bluest and blackest—fst!itwasasbrightasgloryand you’d have a littleglimpse of tree-tops a-plunging about, away offyonderinthestorm,hundreds

of yards further than youcould see before; dark as sinagain in a second, and nowyou’dhear the thunder letgowithanawfulcrashand thengo rumbling, grumbling,tumbling down the skytowards theundersideof theworld, like rolling emptybarrelsdownstairs,whereit’slongstairsandtheybounceagooddeal,youknow.“Jim, this is nice,” I says.

“I wouldn’t want to benowhere else but here. Passmealonganotherhunkoffishandsomehotcorn-bread.”“Well,youwouldn’t aben

here, ‘f it hadn’t a ben forJim.You’dabendowndahindewoodswidout anydinner,en gittin’ mos’ drownded,too, dat you would, honey.Chickens knows when itsgwyne to rain, en so do debirds,chile.”

The river went on raisingand raising for ten or twelvedays, till at last it was overthe banks. The water wasthreeorfourfootdeepontheisland in the low places andon the Illinois bottom. Onthat side itwasagoodmanymiles wide; but on theMissourisideitwasthesameold distance across—a half amile—because the Missourishorewas justawallofhighbluffs.

Daytimes we paddled allovertheislandinthecanoe.Itwasmightycoolandshadyinthe deep woods even if thesun was blazing outside.Wewent winding in and outamongst the trees; andsometimes the vines hung sothick we had to back awayandgosomeotherway.Well,on every old broken-downtree, you could see rabbits,and snakes, and such things;andwhentheislandhadbeen

overflowedadayortwo,theygot so tame, on account ofbeing hungry, that you couldpaddle right up and put yourhand on them if you wantedto; but not the snakes andturtles—they would slide offin the water. The ridge ourcavern was in, was full ofthem. We could a had petsenoughifwe’dwantedthem.One night we catched a

little section of a lumber raft

—nice pine planks. It wastwelve foot wide and aboutfifteen or sixteen foot long,andthetopstoodabovewatersix or seven inches, a solidlevel floor. We could seesaw-logs go by in thedaylight, sometimes, but welet them go; we didn’t showourselvesindaylight.Another night, when we

was up at the head of theisland, just before daylight,

here comes a frame housedown, on the west side. Shewas a two-story, and tiltedover, considerable. Wepaddledoutandgotaboard—clumb in at an up-stairswindow.But it was too darkto see yet, so we made thecanoe fast and set in her towaitfordaylight.The light begun to come

before we got to the foot oftheisland.Thenwelookedin

at the window. We couldmake out a bed, and a table,andtwooldchairs,andlotsofthings around about on thefloor; and there was clotheshanging against the wall.There was something layingon the floor in the far cornerthat looked like a man. SoJimsays:“Hello,you!”But it didn’t budge. So I

hollered again, and then Jim

says:“Demanain’tasleep—he’s

dead. You hold still—I’ll goensee.”He went and bent down

andlooked,andsays:“It’s a dead man. Yes,

indeedy;naked,too.He’sbenshotindeback.Ireck’nhe’sben dead two er three days.Come in, Huck, but doan’look at his face—it’s toogashly.”

I didn’t look at him at all.Jim throwed some old ragsoverhim,butheneedn’tdoneit; I didn’t want to see him.There was heaps of oldgreasycardsscatteredaroundoverthefloor,andoldwhiskybottles,andacoupleofmasksmadeout of black cloth; andall over the walls was theignorantestkindofwordsandpictures,madewith charcoal.There was two old dirtycalico dresses, and a sun-

bonnet, and some women’sunderclothes,hangingagainstthe wall, and some men’sclothing, too.We put the lotintothecanoe;itmightcomegood. Therewas a boy’s oldspeckled straw hat on thefloor; I took that too. Andthere was a bottle that hadhadmilkinit;andithadaragstopper for a baby to suck.We would a took the bottle,butitwasbroke.Therewasaseedy old chest, and an old

hair trunk with the hingesbroke. They stood open, butthere warn’t nothing left inthem that was any account.Thewaythingswasscatteredabout, we reckoned thepeople left in a hurry andwarn’tfixedsoastocarryoffmostoftheirstuff.We got an old tin lantern,

and a butcher knife withoutany handle, and a bran-newBarlowknifebdworthtwobits

in any store, and a lot oftallow candles, and a tincandlestick,andagourd,andatincup,andarattyoldbed-quilt off the bed, and areticulebe with needles andpinsandbeeswaxandbuttonsand threadandall such truckin it, andahatchetandsomenails, and a fish-line as thickasmylittlefinger,withsomemonstroushookson it, andarollofbuckskin,andaleather

dog-collar, and a horse-shoe,and some vials of medicinethat didn’t have no label onthem; and just as we wasleaving I found a tolerablegood curry-comb, bf and Jimhe found a ratty old fiddle-bow, and a wooden leg. Thestrapswasbrokeoffofit,butbarring that, it was a goodenoughleg,thoughitwastoolong for me and not longenough for Jim, and we

couldn’t find the other one,thoughwehuntedallaround.And so, take it all around,

wemade a good haul.Whenwe was ready to shove off,we was a quarter of a milebelow the island, and it waspretty broad day; so I madeJim lay down in the canoeand cover up with the quilt,because if he set up, peoplecould tell he was a nigger agoodwaysoff.Ipaddledover

to the Illinois shore, anddrifted down most a half amile doing it. I crept up thedead water under the bank,and hadn’t no accidents anddidn’t see nobody. We gothomeallsafe.

CHAPTER10After breakfast I wanted totalk about the deadman andguessouthowhecometobekilled,butJimdidn’twantto.He said it would fetch badluck;andbesides,hesaid,hemight come and ha‘nt us; hesaidamanthatwarn’tburiedwas more likely to go aha’nting around than one thatwasplantedandcomfortable.

That sounded prettyreasonable,soIdidn’tsaynomore; but I couldn’t keepfrom studying over it andwishing I knowed who shottheman, andwhat theydoneitfor.We rummaged the clothes

we’d got, and found eightdollars in silver sewed up inthe lining of an old blanketovercoat. Jim said hereckoned the people in that

house stole the coat, becauseifthey’daknowedthemoneywastheretheywouldn’taleftit. I said I reckoned theykilledhim,too;butJimdidn’twanttotalkaboutthat.Isays:“Now you think it’s bad

luck; but what did you saywhen I fetched in the snake-skinthatIfoundonthetopofthe ridge day beforeyesterday ? You said it wasthe worst bad luck in the

world to touch a snake-skinwith my hands. Well, here’syour bad luck! We’ve rakedin all this truck and eightdollars besides. I wish wecould have some bad lucklikethiseveryday,Jim.”“Never you mind, honey,

never you mind. Don’t yougit toopeart.bg It’s a-comin‘.Mind I tell you, it’s a-comin’.”It did come, too. It was a

Tuesdaythatwehadthattalk.Well, afterdinnerFriday,wewas laying around in thegrass at the upper end of theridge,andgotoutoftobacco.I went to the cavern to getsome,andfoundarattlesnakein there. I killed him, andcurled him up on the foot ofJim’sblanket,eversonatural,thinking there’d be some funwhen Jim found him there.Well, by night I forgot allabout the snake, and when

Jim flung himself down onthe blanket while I struck alight, the snake’s mate wasthere,andbithim.He jumpedupyelling, and

the first thing the lightshowed was the varmintcurled up and ready foranotherspring.Ilaidhimoutin a secondwith a stick, andJimgrabbedpap’swhiskyjugandbeguntopouritdown.Hewasbarefooted,andthe

snake bit him right on theheel. That all comes of mybeing such a fool as to notremember that wherever youleave a dead snake its matealwayscomesthereandcurlsaroundit.Jimtoldmetochopoff the snake’s head andthrow it away, and then skinthebodyandroastapieceofit.Idoneit,andheeatitandsaid it would help cure him.He made me take off therattlesandtiethemaroundhis

wrist, too. He said that thatwould help. Then I slid outquiet and throwed the snakesclear away amongst thebushes; for Iwarn’t going toletJimfindoutitwasallmyfault,notifIcouldhelpit.Jim sucked and sucked at

thejug,andnowandthenhegot out of his head andpitched around and yelled;but every time he come tohimselfhewenttosuckingat

the jug again. His footswelledupprettybig, and sodidhisleg;butby-and-bythedrunkbegun tocome,andsoI judgedhewasall right;butI’d druther been bit with asnakethanpap’swhisky.Jim was laid up for four

days and nights. Then theswellingwasallgoneandhewas aroundagain. ImadeupmymindIwouldn’tevertakeaholt of a snake-skin again

withmyhands,nowthatIseewhathadcomeofit.Jimsaidhe reckoned I would believehim next time. And he saidthat handling a snake-skinwassuchawfulbad luck thatmaybe we hadn’t got to theend of it yet. He said hedruther see the new moonoverhisleftshoulderasmuchasathousandtimesthantakeup a snake-skin in his hand.Well, I was getting to feelthatwaymyself, though I’ve

always reckoned that lookingat the new moon over yourleft shoulder is one of thecarelessest and foolishestthings a body can do. OldHank Bunker done it once,and bragged about it; and inless than two years he gotdrunkandfelloffof theshottowerandspreadhimselfoutsothathewasjustakindofalayer, as you may say; andthey slid him edgewaysbetweentwobarndoorsfora

coffin, andburiedhim so, sothey say, but I didn’t see it.Pap told me. But anyway, itall come of looking at themoonthatway,likeafool.Well, thedayswentalong,

and the river went downbetween its banks again; andabout the first thingwedonewas to bait one of the bighooks with a skinned rabbitandsetitandcatchacat-fishthat was as big as a man,

being six foot two incheslong, and weighed over twohundredpounds.Wecouldn’thandle him, of course; hewouldaflungusintoIllinois.Wejustsetthereandwatchedhimripandteararoundtillhedrownded.We found a brassbutton in his stomach, and around ball, and lots ofrubbage. We split the ballopen with the hatchet, andthere was a spool in it. Jimsaid he’d had it there a long

time, to coat it over so andmakeaballofit.Itwasasbiga fishaswasever catched intheMississippi,Ireckon.Jimsaid he hadn’t ever seen abiggerone.Hewould abeenworthagooddealoveratthevillage.Theypeddleoutsuchafishasthatbythepoundinthe market house there;everybodybuyssomeofhim;his meat’s as white as snowandmakesagoodfry.

NextmorningIsaiditwasgetting slow and dull, and Iwanted to get a stirring up,someway.IsaidIreckonedIwouldslipover the riverandfind out what was going on.Jim liked that notion; but hesaidImustgointhedarkandlooksharp.Thenhestudieditover and said, couldn’t I puton some of them old thingsanddressuplikeagirl?Thatwasagoodnotion,too.Soweshorteneduponeofthecalico

gowns and I turned up mytrowser-legstomykneesandgot into it. Jim hitched itbehindwiththehooks,anditwasafairfit.Iputonthesun-bonnet and tied it under mychin, and then for a body tolook in and seemy facewaslike looking down a joint ofstove-pipe. Jim said nobodywould knowme, even in thedaytime, hardly. I practicedaroundalldaytogetthehangof things, and by-and-by I

coulddoprettywell in them,only Jim said I didn’t walklikeagirl;andhesaidImustquit pulling up my gown toget at my britches pocket. Itooknotice,anddonebetter.I started up the Illinois

shore in the canoe just afterdark.Istartedacrosstothetown

from a little below the ferrylanding, and the drift of thecurrent fetched me in at the

bottomof the town. I tiedupand started along the bank.Therewasalightburninginalittle shanty that hadn’t beenlivedinforalongtime,andIwondered who had took upquarters there. I slipped upandpeepedinatthewindow.There was a woman aboutforty year old in there,knittingby a candle thatwasonapinetable.Ididn’tknowher face; she was a stranger,for you couldn’t start a face

in that town that I didn’tknow. Now this was lucky,because I was weakening; Iwas getting afraid I hadcome;peoplemightknowmyvoiceandfindmeout.But ifthiswomanhadbeen insucha little town two days shecould tellme all Iwanted toknow; so I knocked at thedoor,andmadeupmymindIwouldn’tforgetIwasagirl.

CHAPTER11“Comein,”saysthewoman,andIdid.Shesays:“Takeacheer.”Idoneit.Shelookedmeall

over with her little shinyeyes,andsays:“What might your name

be?”“SarahWilliams.”“Where‘boutsdoyoulive?

Inthisneighborhood?”“No’m. In Hookerville,

seven mile below. I’vewalked all the way and I’malltiredout.”“Hungry,too,Ireckon.I’ll

findyousomething.”“No‘m, I ain’t hungry. I

was so hungry I had to stoptwo mile below here at afarm; so I ain’t hungry nomore. It’swhatmakesme solate.Mymother’sdownsick,

and out of money andeverything,andIcometotellmy uncle Abner Moore. Helives at the upper end of thetown, she says. I hain’t everbeen here before. Do youknowhim?”“No; but I don’t know

everybodyyet.Ihaven’tlivedhere quite two weeks. It’s aconsiderable ways to theupper end of the town. Youbetter stay here all night.

Takeoffyourbonnet.”“No,” I says, “I’ll rest a

while, I reckon, and go on. Iain’tafeardofthedark.”She said she wouldn’t let

me go by myself, but herhusbandwouldbe inby-and-by, maybe in a hour and ahalf, and she’d send himalongwithme. Then she gotto talkingaboutherhusband,andaboutherrelationsuptheriver, and her relations down

the river, and about howmuch better off they used towas, and how they didn’tknow but they’d made amistake coming to our town,instead of letting well alone—and so on and so on, till Iwas afeard I had made amistakecomingtohertofindoutwhatwasgoingoninthetown; but by-and-by shedropped onto pap and themurder,andthenIwasprettywilling to letherclatter right

along.ShetoldaboutmeandTom Sawyer finding the sixthousanddollars(onlyshegotit ten) and all about pap andwhat a hard lot he was, andwhatahard lot Iwas, andatlast she got down towhere Iwasmurdered.Isays:“Who done it? We’ve

heard considerable aboutthese goings on, down inHookerville, but we don’tknow who ‘twas that killed

HuckFinn.”“Well, I reckon there’s a

right smart chance of peoplehere that’d like toknowwhokilled him. Some thinks oldFinndoneithimself.”“No—isthatso?”“Mosteverybodythoughtit

atfirst.He’llneverknowhownigh he come to gettinglynched. But before nightthey changed around andjudged it was done by a

runawayniggernamedJim.”“Whyhe—”I stopped. I reckoned I

better keep still. She run on,andnevernoticedIhadputinatall.“The nigger run off the

very night Huck Finn waskilled.Sothere’sarewardoutfor him—three hundreddollars.And there’sa rewardout for old Finn too—twohundred dollars.bh You see,

hecometotownthemorningafter the murder, and toldabout it, and was out with‘em on the ferry-boat hunt,and right away after he upand left. Before night theywanted to lynch him, but hewasgone,yousee.Well,nextdaytheyfoundouttheniggerwas gone; they found out hehadn’t been seen sence teno’clock the night the murderwasdone.Sothentheyputiton him, you see, and while

they was full of it, next dayback comes old Finn andwent boo-hooing to JudgeThatchertogetmoneytohuntfortheniggeralloverIllinoiswith. The judge give himsome,andthateveninghegotdrunk and was around tillafter midnight with a coupleof mighty hard lookingstrangers, and then went offwith them. Well, he hain’tcome back sence, and theyain’tlookingforhimbacktill

this thing blows over a little,forpeoplethinksnowthathekilled his boy and fixedthings so folks would thinkrobbersdoneit,andthenhe’dget Huck’s money withouthaving to bother a long timewithalawsuit.Peopledosayhewarn’tanytoogoodtodoit.Oh,he’ssly,Ireckon.Ifhedon’t come back for a year,he’ll be all right. You can’tprove anything on him, youknow; everything will be

quieted down then, and he’llwalk into Huck’s money aseasyasnothing.”“Yes, I reckon so, ’m. I

don’t see nothing in thewayof it. Has everybody quitthinkingtheniggerdoneit?”“Oh,no,noteverybody.A

goodmanythinkshedoneit.But they’ll get the niggerpretty soon, now, andmaybetheycanscareitoutofhim.”“Why, are they after him

yet?”“Well, you’re innocent,

ain’tyou!Doesthreehundreddollars lay round every dayfor people to pick up? Somefolks thinks the nigger ain’tfar from here. I’m one ofthem—but I hain’t talked itaround.AfewdaysagoIwastalking with an old couplethatlivesnextdoorinthelogshanty, and theyhappened tosayhardlyanybodyevergoes

tothatislandoveryonderthatthey call Jackson’s Island.Don’t anybody live there?saysI.No,nobody,saysthey.I didn’t say any more, but Idone some thinking. I waspretty near certain I’d seensmoke over there, about thehead of the island, a day ortwo before that, so I says tomyself, like as not thatnigger’s hiding over there;anyway,saysI,it’sworththetrouble to give the place a

hunt.Ihain’tseenanysmokesence,soIreckonmaybehe’sgone, if it was him; buthusband’s going over to see—him and another man. Hewasgoneuptheriver;buthegotbacktodayandItoldhimas soon as he got here twohoursago.”I had got so uneasy I

couldn’t set still. I had to dosomethingwithmyhands;soI took up a needle off of the

tableandwenttothreadingit.My hands shook, and I wasmakingabadjobofit.Whenthewomanstopped talking, Ilooked up, and she waslooking atme pretty curious,and smiling a little. I putdown the needle and threadand let on to be interested—andIwas,too—andsays:“Threehundreddollarsisa

power of money. I wish mymother could get it. Is your

husband going over there to-night?”“Oh,yes.Hewentuptown

with the man I was tellingyouof,togetaboatandseeifthey could borrow anothergun. They’ll go over aftermidnight.”“Couldn’ttheyseebetterif

they was to wait tilldaytime?”“Yes. And couldn’t the

nigger see better, too? After

midnight he’ll likely beasleep, and they can sliparound through the woodsandhuntuphiscampfireallthebetterforthedark,ifhe’sgotone.”“Ididn’tthinkofthat.”Thewomankeptlookingat

me pretty curious, and Ididn’t feel a bit comfortable.Prettysoonshesays:“What did you say your

namewas,honey?”

“M—MaryWilliams.”Somehowitdidn’tseemto

me that I said it was Marybefore, so I didn’t look up;seemed to me I said it wasSarah; so I felt sort ofcornered, and was a fearedmaybeIwaslookingit,too.Iwishedthewomanwouldsaysomething more; the longershe set still, the uneasier Iwas.Butnowshesays:“Honey,Ithoughtyousaid

it was Sarah when you firstcomein?”“Oh, yes‘m, I did. Sarah

Mary Williams. Sarah’s myfirst name. Some calls meSarah,somecallsmeMary.”“Oh,that’sthewayofit?”“Yes’m.”I was feeling better, then,

but I wished I was out ofthere,anyway.Icouldn’tlookupyet.Well, the woman fell to

talkingabouthowhard timeswas, and how poor they hadto live,andhow the ratswasas free as if they owned theplace,andsoforth,andsoon,andthenIgoteasyagain.Shewas right about the rats.You’d see one stick his noseout of a hole in the cornerevery little while. She saidshehad tohave thingshandyto throw at them when shewas alone, or they wouldn’tgive her no peace. She

showed me a bar of lead,twisted up into a knot, andsaidshewasagoodshotwithit generly, but she’dwrenched her arm a day ortwo ago, and didn’t knowwhethershecouldthrowtrue,now. But she watched for achance, and directly shebangedawayatarat,butshemissed him wide, and said“Ouch!” it hurt her arm so.Then she told me to try forthe next one. I wanted to be

getting away before the oldmangotback,butofcourseIdidn’t let on. I got the thing,and the first rat that showedhis nose I let drive, and ifhe’d a stayed where he washe’d a been a tolerable sickrat. She said that that wasfirst-rate, and she reckoned Iwouldhivethenextone.Shewentandgotthelumpofleadand fetched it back andbroughtalongahankofyarn,whichshewantedmetohelp

her with. I held up my twohands and she put the hankover them and went ontalking about her and herhusband’s matters. But shebrokeofftosay:“Keepyoureyeontherats:

You better have the lead inyourlap,handy.”So she dropped the lump

into my lap, just at thatmoment, and I clapped mylegs together on it and she

went on talking. But onlyabout a minute. Then shetookoff thehankand lookedme straight in the face, butverypleasant,andsays:“Come, now—what’s your

realname?”“Wh-what,mum?”“What’syourrealname?Is

it Bill, or Tom, or Bob?—orwhatisit?”IreckonIshooklikealeaf,

and I didn’t know hardly

whattodo.ButIsays:“Please to don’t poke fun

atapoorgirllikeme,mum.IfI’mintheway,here,I‘ll—”“No, youwon’t. Set down

and stay where you are. Iain’tgoingtohurtyou,andIain’t going to tell on you,nuther.You just tellmeyoursecret,andtrustme.I’llkeepit; andwhat’smore, I’ll helpyou.So’llmyoldman,ifyouwanthimto.Yousee,you’re

a runaway ‘prentice—that’sall. It ain’t anything. Thereain’t any harm in it. You’vebeen treated bad, and youmade up your mind to cut.Bless you, child, I wouldn’ttellonyou.Tellmeallaboutit,now—that’sagoodboy.”SoIsaiditwouldn’tbeno

use to try to play it anylonger,andIwouldjustmakea clean breast and tell hereverything, but she mustn’t

gobackonherpromise.ThenI told her my father andmotherwasdead,andthelawhadboundmeout to ameanold farmer in the countrythirty mile back from theriver, and he treated me sobad I couldn’t stand it nolonger; he went away to begoneacoupleofdays,andsoI took my chance and stolesome of his daughter’s oldclothes,andclearedout,andIhadbeenthreenightscoming

the thirty miles; I travelednights,andhidday-timesandslept, and the bag of breadandmeatIcarriedfromhomelasted me all the way and Ihadaplenty.IsaidIbelievedmy uncle Abner Moorewouldtakecareofme,andsothatwaswhyIstruckout forthistownofGoshen.“Goshen, child? This ain’t

Goshen. This is St.Petersburg.Goshen’stenmile

furtheruptheriver.WhotoldyouthiswasGoshen?”“Why,amanImetatday-

break this morning, just as Iwas going to turn into thewoods for my regular sleep.He told me when the roadsforked I must take the righthand, and five mile wouldfetchmetoGoshen.”“He was drunk I reckon.

He told you just exactlywrong.”

“Well, he did act like hewas drunk, but it ain’t nomatter now. I got to bemoving along. I’ll fetchGoshenbeforedaylight.”“Holdonaminute.I’llput

you up a snack to eat. Youmightwantit.”So sheputmeupa snack,

andsays:“Say—when a cow’s

laying down, which end ofher gets up first? Answer up

prompt, now—don’t stop tostudyoverit.Whichendgetsupfirst?”“Thehindend,mum.”“Well,then,ahorse?”“Thefor‘rardend,mum.”“Whichsideofa treedoes

themostmossgrowon?”“Northside.”“If fifteen cows is

browsing on a hillside, howmanyof themeatswith theirheads pointed the same

direction?”“Thewholefifteen,mum.”“Well, I reckon you have

livedinthecountry.Ithoughtmaybe you was trying tohocusmeagain.What’syourrealname,now?”“GeorgePeters,mum.”“Well, try to remember it,

George.Don’t forget and tellme it’sElexanderbeforeyougo,andthengetoutbysayingit’sGeorgeElexanderwhenI

catch you. And don’t goabout women in that oldcalico.Youdoagirltolerablepoor,butyoumightfoolmen,maybe. Bless you, child,when you set out to thread aneedle, don’t hold the threadstillandfetchtheneedleuptoit; hold the needle still andpoke the thread at it—that’sthe way a woman mostalways does; but a manalwaysdoes‘totherway.Andwhen you throw at a rat or

anything, hitch yourself up atip-toe, and fetch your handupoveryourheadasawkardasyoucan,andmissyourratabout six or seven foot.Throw stiff-armed from theshoulder, like there was apivotthereforittoturnon—likeagirl;notfromthewristandelbow,withyourarmoutto one side, like a boy. Andmindyou,whenagirltriestocatchanythinginherlap,shethrows her knees apart: she

don’t clap them together, theway you did when youcatched the lump of lead.Why,Ispottedyouforaboywhen you was threading theneedle; and I contrived theother things just to makecertain. Now trot along toyour uncle, Sarah MaryWilliams George ElexanderPeters, and if you get intotrouble you send word toMrs. Judith Loftus, which isme,and I’lldowhat Ican to

get you out of it. Keep theriver road, all the way, andnext time you tramp, takeshoes and socks with you.Theriverroad’sarockyone,and your feet’ll be in acondition when you get toGoshen,Ireckon.”I went up the bank about

fifty yards, and then Idoubled on my tracks andslipped back to where mycanoe was, a good piece

belowthehouse.I jumpedinandwasoffinahurry.Iwentupstreamfarenoughtomakethe head of the island, andthenstartedacross.Itookoffthe sun-bonnet, for I didn’twant no blinders on, then.WhenIwasaboutthemiddle,I hear the clock begin tostrike; so I stops and listens;thesoundcomefaintoverthewater, but clear—eleven.WhenIstrucktheheadoftheislandIneverwaitedtoblow,

though I was most winded,but I shoved right into thetimber where my old campusedtobe,andstartedagoodfire there on a high-and-dryspot.ThenIjumpedinthecanoe

and dug out for out place amileandahalfbelow,ashardas I could go. I landed, andslopped through the timberandup the ridgeand into thecavern.ThereJimlaid,sound

asleepontheground.Irousedhimoutandsays:“Gitupandhumpyourself,

Jim! There ain’t a minute tolose.They’reafterus!”Jim never asked no

questions, he never said aword;butthewayheworkedfor the next half an hourshowed about how he wasscared. By that timeeverything we had in theworldwasonourraftandshe

was ready to be shoved outfrom the willow cove whereshe was hid.We put out thecamp fire at the cavern thefirst thing,anddidn’t showacandleoutsideafterthat.I took the canoe out from

shorealittlepieceandtookalook, but if therewas a boataround I couldn’t see it, forstars and shadows ain’t goodtoseeby.Thenwegotouttheraft and slipped along down

in the shade, past the foot ofthe island dead still, neversayingaword.

CHAPTER12Itmustabeencloseontooneo‘clock when we got belowtheislandat last,andtheraftdid seem to gomighty slow.If a boatwas to come along,we was going to take to thecanoe and break for theIllinoisshore;anditwaswella boat didn’t come, for wehadn’teverthoughttoputthegun into the canoe, or a

fishing-line or anything toeat. We was in ruther toomuchofasweattothinkofsomany things. It warn’t goodjudgmenttoputeverythingontheraft.If the men went to the

island, I just expect theyfound the camp fire I built,and watched it all night forJim to come. Anyways, theystayed away from us, and ifmy building the fire never

fooledthemitwarn’tnofaultof mine. I played it as low-downonthemasIcould.When the first streak of

day begun to show, we tieduptoatowheadinabigbendon the Illinois side, andhacked off cotton-woodbrancheswiththehatchetandcovereduptheraftwiththemso she looked like there hadbeen a cave-in in the bankthere. A tow-head is a sand-

bar that has cotton-woods onitasthickasharrow-teeth.bi

We had mountains on theMissouri shore and heavytimber on the Illinois side,andthechannelwasdowntheMissouri shore at that place,so we warn’t afraid ofanybody running across us.We laid there all day andwatched the rafts andsteamboats spin down theMissourishore,andup-bound

steamboatsfightthebigriverin the middle. I told Jim allaboutthetimeIhadjabberingwith that woman; and Jimsaidshewasasmartone,andif she was to start after usherselfshewouldn’tsetdownand watch a camp fire—no,sir, she’d fetch a dog. Well,then,Isaid,whycouldn’tshetell her husband to fetch adog? Jim said he bet she didthink of it by the time themen was ready to start, and

hebelievedtheymustagoneup town to get a dog and sotheylostall thattime,orelsewe wouldn’t be here on atow-headsixteenorseventeenmile below the village—no,indeedy,wewouldbe in thatsame old town again. So Isaid I didn’t care what wasthe reason theydidn’tgetus,aslongastheydidn’t.When it was beginning to

come on dark,we poked our

heads out of the cottonwoodthicket and looked up, anddown, and across; nothing insight;soJimtookupsomeofthe topplanksof theraftandbuilt a snug wigwam to getunder inblazingweatherandrainy, and to keep the thingsdry.Jimmadea floor for thewigwam, and raised it a footormoreabovetheleveloftheraft, sonow theblankets andall the traps was out of thereach of steamboat waves.

Right in the middle of thewigwamwemade a layer ofdirt about five or six inchesdeep with a frame around itfortoholdittoitsplace;thiswas to build a fire on insloppyweather or chilly; thewigwam would keep it frombeingseen.Wemadeanextrasteeringoar,too,becauseoneoftheothersmightgetbroke,on a snag or something.Wefixed up a short forked stickto hang the old lantern on;

becausewemustalwayslightthelanternwheneverweseeasteamboat coming downstream, to keep from gettingrun over; but we wouldn’thave to light it for upstreamboatsunlessweseewewasinwhat they call a “crossing;”for the river was pretty highyet,verylowbanksbeingstilla little under water; so up-bound boats didn’t alwaysrun the channel, but huntedeasywater.

This second night we runbetween seven and eighthours,withacurrentthatwasmaking over four mile anhour. We catched fish, andtalked, and we took a swimnow and then to keep offsleepiness. It was kind ofsolemn,driftingdownthebigstillriver,layingonourbackslooking up at the stars, andwe didn’t ever feel liketalking loud, and it warn’toftenthatwelaughed,onlya

little kind of a low chuckle.Wehadmightygoodweather,as a general thing, andnothing ever happened to usatall,thatnight,northenext,northenext.Every night we passed

towns,someofthemawayupon black hill-sides, nothingbutjustashinybedoflights,not a house could you see.The fifthnightwepassedSt.Louis, and it was like the

whole world lit up. In St.Petersburg they used to saythere was twenty or thirtythousandpeople inSt.Louis,but I never believed it till Isee that wonderful spread oflightsattwoo‘clockthatstillnight. There warn’t a soundthere;everybodywasasleep.Everynight,now,Iusedto

slip ashore, towards teno‘clock,atsomelittlevillage,and buy ten or fifteen cents’

worth of meal or bacon orother stuff to eat; andsometimes I lifted a chickenthat warn’t roostingcomfortable, and took himalong.Papalwayssaid,takeachicken when you get achance, because if you don’twant him yourself you caneasyfindsomebodythatdoes,and a good deed ain’t everforgot. I never see papwhenhe didn’t want the chickenhimself, but that is what he

usedtosay,anyway.Mornings, before daylight,

I slipped into corn fields andborrowed awatermelon, or amushmelon,bjor apunkin,orsome new corn, or things ofthat kind. Pap always said itwarn’t no harm to borrowthings,ifyouwasmeaningtopaythemback,sometime;butthe widow said it warn’tanything but a soft name forstealing, and no decent body

would do it. Jim said hereckoned the widow waspartly right and pap waspartly right; so the best waywould be for us to pick outtwo or three things from thelist and say we wouldn’tborrowthemanymore—thenhereckoneditwouldn’tbenoharmtoborrowtheothers.Sowe talked it over all onenight,driftingalongdowntheriver, trying to make up ourminds whether to drop the

watermelons, or thecantelopes, or themushmelons, or what. Buttowardsdaylightwegotitallsettled satisfactory, andconcluded todropcrabapplesand p‘simmons. We warn’tfeeling just right,before that,but it was all comfortablenow. I was glad the way itcome out, too, becausecrabapples ain’t ever good,and the p’simmons wouldn’tbe ripe for two or three

monthsyet.Weshotawater-fowl,now

andthen,thatgotuptooearlyinthemorningordidn’tgotobed early enough in theevening. Take it all around,welivedprettyhigh.The fifth night below St.

Louis we had a big stormaftermidnight, with a powerof thunderand lightning, andthe rain poured down in asolid sheet.We stayed in the

wigwamand let the raft takecare of itself. When thelightningglaredoutwecouldseeabigstraightriverahead,andhighrockybluffsonbothsides.By-and-bysaysI,“Hel-lo,Jim,lookyyonder!”Itwasa steamboat that had killedherself on a rock. We wasdriftingstraightdownforher.The lightning showed herverydistinct.Shewasleaningover, with part of her upperdeck above water, and you

could see every littlechimbly-guybk clean andclear, and a chair by the bigbell, with an old slouch hathanging on the back of itwhentheflashescome.Well, it being away in the

night, and stormy, and all somysteriouslike,Ifeltjusttheway any other boy would afelt when I see that wrecklaying there somournful andlonesomeinthemiddleofthe

river. Iwanted to get aboardof her and slink around alittle, andseewhat therewasthere.SoIsays:“Le’slandonher,Jim.”But Jim was dead against

it,atfirst.Hesays:“Idoan’want togo fool’n

‘longernowrack.We’sdoin’blame’well, enwe better letblame’wellalone,asdegoodbooksays.blLikeasnotdey’sawatchmanondatwrack.”

“Watchman yourgrandmother,” I says; “thereain’tnothingtowatchbutthetexasbmandthepilot-house;bnanddoyoureckonanybody’sgoing to resk his life for atexasandapilot-housesuchanightas this,when it’s likelyto break up and wash offdown the river anyminute?”Jim couldn’t say nothing tothat, so he didn’t try. “Andbesides,” I says, “we might

borrow something worthhaving, out of the captain’sstateroom.Seegars,I bet you—and cost five cents apiece,solid cash. Steamboatcaptains is always rich, andgetsixtydollarsamonth,andtheydon’tcareacentwhatathing costs, you know, longastheywantit.Stickacandlein your pocket; I can’t rest,Jim, till we give her arummaging. Do you reckonTom Sawyer would ever go

bythis thing?Notforpie,hewouldn’t. He’d call it anadventure—that’s what he’dcall it; and he’d land on thatwreck if it was his last act.Andwouldn’t he throw styleinto it?—wouldn’t he spreadhimself, nor nothing? Why,you’d think it wasChristopher C‘lumbusdiscovering Kingdom-Come.I wish Tom Sawyer washere.”

Jim he grumbled a little,but give in. He said wemustn’t talk any more thanwe could help, and then talkmighty low. The lightningshowed us the wreck again,just in time, and we fetchedthe starboard derrick,bo andmadefastthere.The deck was high out,

here.Wewentsneakingdowntheslopeof it to labboard, inthe dark, towards the texas,

feelingourwayslowwithourfeet,andspreadingourhandsouttofendofftheguys,foritwas so dark we couldn’t seeno sign of them. Pretty soonwestruck the forwardendofthe skylight, and clumb ontoit; and the next step fetchedus in front of the captain’sdoor,whichwasopen,andbyJimminy,awaydownthroughthe texas-hallwe see a light!andallinthesamesecondweseem to hear low voices in

yonder!Jimwhispered and said he

was feeling powerful sick,and toldme tocomealong. Isays,allright;andwasgoingto start for the raft; but justthen Iheardavoicewailoutandsay:“Oh, please don‘t, boys; I

swearIwon’tevertell!”Another voice said, pretty

loud:“It’s a lie, Jim Turner.

You’veactedthiswaybefore.You always want more’nyour share of the truck, andyou’ve always got it, too,because you’ve swore ’t ifyoudidn’tyou’dtell.Butthistime you’ve said it jest onetime too many. You’re themeanest, treacherousesthoundinthiscountry.”By this timeJimwasgone

fortheraft.Iwasjusta-bilingwith curiosity; and I says to

myself, Tom Sawyerwouldn’t back out now, andso Iwon’teither; I’magoingto see what’s going on here.So I dropped on my handsand knees, in the littlepassage,andcreptaftbpinthedark, till there warn’t butabout one stateroom betwixtme and the cross-hall of thetexas. Then, in there I see aman stretched on the floorand tied hand and foot, and

two men standing over him,and one of them had a dimlantern in his hand, and theother one had a pistol. Thisonekeptpointingthepistolatthe man’s head on the floorandsaying—“I’d like to! And I orter,

too,ameanskunk!”The man on the floor

would shrivel up, and say:“Oh, please don‘t, Bill—Ihain’tevergoin’totell.”

And every time he saidthat,themanwiththelanternwouldlaugh,andsay:“ ‘Deed you ain’t! You

never said no truer thing ’nthat,youbetyou.”Andoncehe said: “Hear him beg! andyitifwehadn’tgotthebestofhim and tied him, he’d akilledusboth.Andwhatfor?Jist for noth’n. Jist becausewe stood on our rights—that’swhatfor.ButIlayyou

ain’t agoin’ to threatennobody any more, JimTurner. Put up that pistol,Bill.”Billsays:“I don’t want to, Jake

Packard.I’mforkillin’him—anddidn’thekilloldHatfieldjist thesameway—anddon’thedeserveit?”“But I don’t want him

killed, and I’ve got myreasonsforit.”

“Bless yo’ heart for themwords, Jake Packard! I’llnever forgit you, long’s Ilive!” says the man on thefloor,sortofblubbering.Packard didn’t take no

noticeofthat,buthunguphislantern on a nail, and startedtowardswhereIwas,thereinthedark,andmotionedBilltocome. I crawfishedbq as fastas I could, about two yards,but the boat slanted so that I

couldn’t make very goodtime;so tokeepfromgettingrun over and catched Icrawled into a stateroom ontheupperside.Themancomea-pawing along in the dark,andwhenPackard got tomystateroom,hesays:“Here—comeinhere.”And in he come, and Bill

afterhim.Butbeforetheygotin, I was up in the upperberth, cornered, and sorry I

come.Then they stood there,with theirhandson the ledgeof the berth, and talked. Icouldn’tseethem,butIcouldtell where they was, by thewhisky they’dbeenhaving. Iwas glad I didn’t drinkwhisky;butitwouldn’tmademuch difference, anyway,becausemostofthetimetheycouldn’tatreedmebecauseIdidn’t breathe. I was tooscared. And besides, a bodycouldn’t breathe, and hear

such talk. They talked lowand earnest. Bill wanted tokillTurner.Hesays:“He’ssaidhe’lltell,andhe

will. If we was to give bothour shares to him now, itwouldn’t make no differenceafter the row, and the waywe’ve served him. Shore’syou’reborn,he’llturnState’sevidence; now you hear me.I’mforputtinghimoutofhistroubles.”

“So’m I,” says Packard,veryquiet.“Blameit,I’dsorterbegun

to think you wasn’t. Well,then, that’s all right. Les’ goanddoit.”“Holdonaminute;Ihain’t

hadmysayyit.Youlistentome. Shooting’s good, butthere’s quieter ways if thething’s got to be done. Butwhat I say, is this; it ain’tgood sense to go court’n

aroundafterahalter,br ifyoucangitatwhatyou’reuptoinsomeway that’s jist as goodand at the same time don’tbringyouintonoresks.Ain’tthatso?”“Youbetitis.Buthowyou

goin’tomanageitthistime?”“Well, my idea is this:

we’llrustlearoundandgetherup whatever pickins we’veoverlookedinthestaterooms,andshove for shoreandhide

the truck. Then we’ll wait.NowIsayitain’tagoin’tobemore ’n twohours befo’ thiswrack breaks up and washesoffdowntheriver.See?He’llbedrownded,andwon’thavenobodytoblameforitbuthisown self. I reckon that’s aconsiderble sight better’nkillin’ of him. I’munfavorable to killin’ a manaslongasyoucangitaroundit; itain’tgoodsense, itain’tgoodmorals.Ain’tIright?”

‘“Yes—I reck’n you are.Buts’poseshedon’tbreakupandwashoff?”“Well,wecanwaitthetwo

hours anyway, and see, can’twe?”“All right, then; come

along.”So they started, and I lit

out, all in a cold sweat, andscrambled forward. It wasdarkaspitchthere;butIsaidinakindofacoarsewhisper,

“Jim!” and he answered up,rightatmyelbow,withasortofamoan,andIsays:“Quick, Jim, it ain’t no

time for fooling around andmoaning; there’s a gang ofmurderers in yonder, and ifwe don’t hunt up their boatandsetherdriftingdown theriver so these fellows can’tget away from the wreck,there’soneof‘emgoingtobein a bad fix. But if we find

their boat we can put all of’em in a bad fix—for theSheriff ’ll get ‘em. Quick—hurry!I’llhuntthelabboardbsside, you hunt the stabboard.Youstartattheraft,and—”“Oh,mylordy,lordy!Raf?

Deyain’no raf’nomo‘, shedone broke loose en gone!—’enhereweis!”

CHAPTER13Well, I catched my breathandmost fainted.Shutuponawreckwith such a gang asthat!But itwarn’tno time tobe senti mentering.bt We’dgot to find that boat, now—had to have it for ourselves.So we went a-quaking andshaking down the stabboardside, and slow work it was,

too—seemed a week beforewe got to the stern. No signof a boat. Jim said he didn’tbelieve he could go anyfurther—so scared he hadn’thardly any strength left, hesaid. But I said come on, ifweget leftonthiswreck,weare in a fix, sure. So on weprowled,again.Westruckforthe stern of the texas, andfound it, and then scrabbledalong forwards on theskylight, hanging on from

shuttertoshutter,fortheedgeof the skylight was in thewater. When we got prettyclose to the cross-hall door,there was the skiff, sureenough! I could just barelysee her. I felt ever sothankful. In another second Iwould a been aboard of her;butjustthenthedooropened.One of the men stuck hisheadout,onlyaboutacoupleof foot from me, and I

thought I was gone; but hejerkeditinagain,andsays:“Heave that blame lantern

outo’sight,Bill!”He flung a bag of

something into the boat, andthen got in himself, and setdown. It was Packard. ThenBill he come out and got in.Packardsays,inalowvoice:“Allready—shoveoff!”Icouldn’thardlyhangonto

the shutters, I was so weak.

ButBillsays:“Hold on—’d you go

throughhim?”“No.Didn’tyou?”“No.So he’s got his share

o’thecash,yet.”“Well, then, comealong—

nousetotaketruckandleavemoney.”“Say—won’t he suspicion

whatwe’reupto?”“Maybe he won’t. But we

got tohave it anyway.Come

along.” So they got out andwentin.The door slammed to,

because it was on thecareened side; and in a halfsecondIwasintheboat,andJim come a tumbling afterme. I out withmy knife andcut the rope, and away wewent!We didn’t touch an oar,

and we didn’t speak norwhisper, nor hardly even

breathe. We went glidingswift along, dead silent, pastthetipofthepaddle-box,andpast the stern; then in asecondortwomorewewasahundred yards below thewreck, and the darknesssoakedherup,everylastsignof her, andwewas safe, andknowedit.Whenwewasthreeorfour

hundred yards down stream,weseethelanternshowlikea

little spark at the texas door,forasecond,andweknowedby that that the rascals hadmissed their boat, and wasbeginning to understand thatthey was in just as muchtrouble, now, as Jim Turnerwas.ThenJimmannedtheoars,

andwetookoutafterourraft.Nowwas the first time that Ibeguntoworryaboutthemen—I reckon I hadn’t had time

to before. I begun to thinkhowdreadfulitwas,evenformurderers,tobeinsuchafix.I says to myself, there ain’tnotellingbutImightcometobe a murderer myself, yet,andthenhowwouldIlikeit?SosaysItoJim:“The first light we see,

we’ll land a hundred yardsbelow it or above it, in aplace where it’s a goodhiding-place for you and the

skiff,andthenI’llgoandfixup some kind of a yarn, andget somebody to go for thatgangandgetthemoutoftheirscrape, so they can be hungwhentheirtimecomes.”Butthatideawasafailure;

for pretty soon it begun tostorm again, and this timeworse than ever. The rainpoured down, and never alight showed; everybody inbed, I reckon. We boomed

along down the river,watching for lights andwatchingforourraft.Afteralong time the rain letup,butthe clouds staid, and thelightning kept whimpering,andby-and-byaflashshowedus a black thing ahead,floating,andwemadeforit.Itwas the raft, andmighty

gladwaswe togetaboardofit again. We seen a light,now,awaydowntotheright,

onshore.SoIsaidIwouldgofor it.The skiffwashalf fullof plunder which that ganghadstole,thereonthewreck.Wehustled itonto theraft inapile,and I toldJim to floatalongdown,andshowalightwhenhe judged he had goneabout two mile, and keep itburning till I come; then Imanned my oars and shovedfor the light. As I got downtowardsit,threeorfourmoreshowed—up on a hillside. It

was a village. I closed inabove the shore-light, andlaid on my oars and floated.As I went by, I see it was alantern hanging on thejackstaffbu of a double-hullferry-boat. Iskimmedaroundfor the watchman, a-wondering whereabouts heslept; and by-and-by I foundhim roosting on the bitts,forward,with his head downbetweenhisknees. I givehis

shoulder two or three littleshoves,andbeguntocry.Hestirredup,inakindofa

startlish way; when he see itwasonlyme,he tookagoodgap and stretch, and then hesays:“Hello, what’s up? Don’t

cry, bub. What’s thetrouble?”Isays:“Pap, and mam, and sis,

and—”

Then I broke down. Hesays:“Oh, dang it, now, don’t

takeonso,weallhastohaveour troubles and this’n ’llcomeoutallright.What’sthematterwith‘em?”“They‘re—they’re—are

you the watchman of theboat?”“Yes,” he says, kind of

pretty-well-satisfied like.“I’m the captain and the

owner,and themate,and thepilot, and watchman, andhead deck-hand; andsometimesI’mthefreightandpassengers. I ain’t as rich asoldJimHornback,andIcan’tbe so blame’ generous andgoodtoTom,DickandHarryas what he is, and slamaround money the way hedoes; but I’ve told him amany a time’t I wouldn’ttrade places with him; for,saysI,asailor’slife’sthelife

forme,andI’mdernedifI’dlive two mile out o’ town,wherethereain’tnothingevergoin’ on, not for all hisspondulicksbv and as muchmoreontopofit.SaysI—”Ibrokeinandsays:“They’re in an awful

peckbwoftrouble,and—”“Whois?”“Why, pap, andmam, and

sis, andMiss Hooker; and ifyou’d take your ferry-boat

andgoupthere—”“Up where? Where are

they?”“Onthewreck.”“Whatwreck?”“Why,thereain’tbutone.”“What,youdon’tmeanthe

WalterScott?”“Yes.”“Good land!whatare they

doin’ there, for gracioussakes?”

“Well, theydidn’tgotherea-purpose.”“I bet they didn‘t! Why,

greatgoodness,thereain’tnochance for ’em if they don’tgit off mighty quick! Why,how in the nation did theyevergitintosuchascrape?”“Easy enough. Miss

Hooker was a-visiting, uptheretothetown—”“Yes, Booth’s Landing—

goon.”

“She was a-visiting, thereat Booth’s Landing, and justintheedgeoftheeveningshestarted over with her niggerwoman in the horse-ferry, tostay all night at her friend’shouse, Miss What-you-may-call-her, I disremember hername, and they lost theirsteering-oar, and swungaround and went a-floatingdown, sternfirst, about twomile, and saddle-baggsed bx

on the wreck, and the ferryman and the nigger womanand the horses was all lost,butMissHooker shemade agrab and got aboard thewreck. Well, about an hourafter dark, we come alongdown in our trading-scow,and itwas so darkwe didn’tnotice the wreck till we wasrightonit;andsowe saddle-baggsed; but all of us wassaved butBillWhipple—andoh,hewasthebestcretur!—I

mostwish’tithadbeenme,Ido.”“My George! It’s the

beatenest thing I ever struck.And then what did you alldo?”“Well, we hollered and

took on, but it’s so widethere, we couldn’t makenobody hear. So pap saidsomebody got to get ashoreandgethelpsomehow.Iwastheonlyonethatcouldswim,

so I made a dash for it, andMiss Hooker she said if Ididn’t strike help sooner,come here and hunt up heruncle,andhe’d fix the thing.Imade the landabout amilebelow, and been foolingalongeversince,tryingtogetpeople to do something, butthey said, ‘What, in such anight and such a current?there ain’t no sense in it; gofor the steam-ferry.’ Now ifyou’llgo,and—”

“By Jackson, I’d like to,andblameitIdon’tknowbutI will; but who in thedingnation‘sby agoin’ to payfor it? Do you reckon yourpap—”“Whythat’sall right.Miss

Hooker she told me,particular, that her uncleHornback—”“Great guns!! is he her

uncle?Lookyhere,youbreakfor that light over yonder-

way, and turnoutwestwhenyou git there, and about aquarter of a mile out you’llcometothetavern;tell‘emtodart you out to JimHornback’sandhe’llfootthebill. And don’t you foolaround any, because he’llwant to know the news. TellhimI’llhavehisnieceallsafebefore he can get to town.Hump yourself, now; I’magoing up around the cornerhere, to roust out my

engineer.”Istruckforthelight,butas

soonasheturnedthecornerIwent back and got into myskiff and bailed her out andthen pulled up shore in theeasywateraboutsixhundredyards, and tucked myself inamongsomewoodboats;forIcouldn’t rest easy till I couldsee the ferry-boat start. Buttake it all around, I wasfeeling ruther comfortableon

accounts of taking all thistrouble for that gang, for notmany would a done it. Iwished the widow knowedabout it. I judged she wouldbe proud of me for helpingthese rapscallions, becauserapscallionsanddeadbeatsisthekindthewidowandgoodpeopletakesthemostinterestin.Well, before long, here

comes the wreck, dim and

dusky,slidingalongdown!Akind of cold shiver wentthroughme,andthenIstruckout for her. She was verydeep, and I see in a minutetherewarn’tmuchchanceforanybodybeing alive inher. Ipulled all around her andhollered a little, but therewasn’t any answer; all deadstill. I felt a little bit heavy-hearted about the gang, butnot much, for I reckoned iftheycouldstandit,Icould.

Thenherecomestheferry-boat; so I shoved for themiddleof the riverona longdown-streamslant; andwhenI judged I was out of eye-reach, I laidonmyoars, andlooked back and see her goand smell around the wreckfor Miss Hooker’sremainders, because thecaptainwouldknowheruncleHornback would want them;and then pretty soon theferry-boatgiveitupandwent

for shore, and I laid intomywork and went a-boomingdowntheriver.Itdidseemapowerfullong

time before Jim’s lightshowed up; and when it didshow, it looked like it was athousand mile off. By thetime I got there the sky wasbeginning to get a little grayin the east; so we struck foran island, and hid the raft,andsunktheskiff,andturned

inandsleptlikedeadpeople.

CHAPTER14By-and-by, when we got up,we turned over the truck thegang had stole off of thewreck, and found boots, andblankets, and clothes, and allsortsofotherthings,andalotofbooks,andaspyglass,andthree boxes of seegars. Wehadn’t ever been this richbefore,inneitherofourlives.The seegars was prime. We

laid off all the afternoon inthe woods talking, and mereadingthebooks,andhavinga general good time.9 I toldJim all about what happenedinside the wreck, and at theferry-boat; and I said thesekinds of things wasadventures; but he said hedidn’t want no moreadventures.HesaidthatwhenI went in the texas and hecrawled back to get on the

raft and found her gone, henearly died; because hejudgeditwasallupwithhim,anyway itcouldbefixed; forif he didn’t get saved hewould get drownded; and ifhe did get saved, whoeversaved him would send himback home so as to get thereward, and then MissWatsonwouldsellhimSouth,sure. Well, he was right; hewasmostalwaysright;hehadanuncommonlevelhead, for

anigger.I read considerable to Jim

about kings, and dukes, andearls, and such, and howgaudy theydressed, andhowmuch style they put on, andcalled each other yourmajesty, and your grace, andyour lordship, and so on,‘stead of mister; and Jim’seyes buggedout, and hewasinterested.Hesays:“I didn’ know dey was so

many un um. I hain’t heard‘bout none un um, skasely,but ole King Sollermun,bzonless you counts dem kingsdat’s in a pack er k’yards.Howmuchdoakinggit?”“Get?” I says; “why, they

get a thousand dollars amonth if they want it; theycanhavejustasmuchastheywant; everything belongs tothem.”“Ain’ dat gay? En what

deygottodo,Huck?”“They don’t do nothing!

Whyhowyoutalk.Theyjustsetaround.”“No—isdatso?”“Of course it is. They just

set around. Except maybewhenthere’sawar;thentheygotothewar.Butothertimesthey just lazy around; or gohawking—just hawking andsp—Sh!—d’ you hear anoise?”

We skipped out andlooked; but it warn’t nothingbut the flutter of asteamboat’s wheel, awaydown coming around thepoint;sowecomeback.“Yes,” says I, “and other

times, when things is dull,theyfusswith theparlyment;andifeverybodydon’tgojustsohewhackstheirheadsoff.But mostly they hang roundtheharem.”

“Roun’dewhich?”“Harem.”“What’sdeharem?”“The place where he keep

his wives. Don’t you knowabout the harem? Solomonhad one; he had about amillionwives.”“Why,yes,dat’sso;I—I’d

done forgot it. A harem’s abo‘d’n-house, I reck’n.Mos’likely dey has rackety timesindenussery.EnI reck’nde

wivesquarrelsconsidable;endat‘creasederacket.YitdeysaySollermundewises’mandateverlive’.Idoan’takenostock in dat. Bekase why:would a wise man want tolive in de mids’ er sich ablimblammin’ all de time?No—‘deed he wouldn’t. Awiseman ’ud take enbuil’ abiler-factry; en den he couldshet down de biler-factrywhenhewanttores‘”

“Well, but he was thewisestman,anyway;becausethewidowshetoldmeso,herownself.”“I doan k‘yer what de

widdersay,hewarn’tnowiseman,nuther.Hehadsomeerdedad-fetchedes’waysIeversee.Doesyouknow’boutdatchile dat he ‘uz gwyne tochopintwo?”ca

“Yes, the widow told meallaboutit.”

“Well, den! Warn’ at debeatenes’notion indeworl‘?You jes’ take en look at it aminute.Dah’s de stump, dah—dat’s one er de women;heah’s you—dat’s de yutherone; I’s Sollermun; en dish-yerdollarbill’sdechile.Bofeunyouclaimsit.WhatdoesIdo? Does I shin aroun’mongs’ de neighbors en fineout which un you de bill dob’long to, en han’ it over toderightone,allsafeensoun‘,

de way dat anybody dat hadany gumption would? No—Itakeenwhackdebill in two,en give half un it to you, ende yuther half to de yutherwoman. Dat’s de waySollermun was gwyne to dowid de chile. Now I want toast you:what’s deuse er dathalfabill?—can’tbuynoth’nwidit.Enwhatuseisahalfachile? I would’n give a dernforamillionunum.”

“But hang it, Jim, you’veclean missed the point—blame it, you’ve missed it athousandmile.”“Who? Me? Go ‘long.

Doan’ talk to me ’bout yo’pints. I reck’n I knows sensewhenIseesit;endeyain’nosenseinsichdoin’sasdat.De‘spute warn’t ’bout a half achile, de ‘spute was ’bout awhole chile; en de man datthink he kin settle a ‘spute

’boutawholechildwidahalfa chile, doan’ know enoughto come in out’n de rain.Doan’ talk to me ‘boutSollermun, Huck, I knowshimbydeback.”“But I tell you you don’t

getthepoint.”“Blame de pint! I reck’n I

knows what I knows. Enmine you, de real pint isdown furder—it’s downdeeper. It lays in de way

Sollermun was raised. Youtakeamandat’sgoton‘yoneer two chillen; is dat mangwyne to be waseful o’chillen?No,heain’t;hecan’t’ford it. He know how tovalue ‘em. But you take aman dat’s got ’bout fivemillion chillen runnin’ roun’de house, en it’s diffunt.Heassoonchopachileintwoasa cat. Dey’s plenty mo‘. Achile er two, mo’ er less,

warn’t no consekenscb toSollermun,dadfetchhim!“Ineverseesuchanigger.If

he got a notion in his headonce, therewarn’t no gettingitoutagain.Hewasthemostdown on Solomon of anyniggerIeversee.SoIwenttotalkingaboutotherkings,andlet Solomon slide. I toldaboutLouisSixteenththatgothis head cut off in Francelong time ago; and about his

little boy the dolphin,cc thatwouldabeenaking,buttheytook and shut him up in jail,andsomesayhediedthere.“Po’littlechap.”“But some sayshegotout

and got away, and come toAmerica.”“Dat’s good! But he’ll be

pootylonesome—deyain’nokingshere,isdey,Huck?”“No.”“Den he cain’t git no

situation. What he gwyne todo?”10

“Well,Idon’tknow.Someof them gets on the police,and some of them learnspeoplehowtotalkFrench.”“Why, Huck, doan’ de

French people talk de samewaywedoes?”“No, Jim; you couldn’t

understand a word they said—notasingleword.”“Well, now, I be ding-

busted!Howdodatcome?”“Idon’tknow;butit’sso.I

got some of their jabber outof a book. Spose amanwastocometoyouandsayPolly-voo-franzycd—what wouldyouthink?”“I wouldn’t think nuff’n;

I’d take en bust him over dehead. Dat is, if he warn’twhite. I wouldn’t ‘low noniggertocallmedat.”“Shucks, it ain’t calling

youanything.It’sonlysayingdo you know how to talkFrench.”“Well, den, why couldn’t

hesayit?”“Why, he is a-saying it.

That’saFrenchman’swayofsayingit.”“Well, it’s a blame’

ridicklous way, en I doan’want tohearnomo’‘bout it.Deyain’nosenseinit.”“Looky here, Jim; does a

cattalklikewedo?”“No,acatdon’t.”“Well,doesacow?”“No,acowdon‘t,nuther.”“Doesacattalklikeacow,

oracowtalklikeacat?”“No,deydon’t.”“It’s natural and right

for‘em to talk different fromeachother,ain’tit?”“‘Course.”“And ain’t it natural and

right for a cat and a cow totalkdifferentfromus?”“Why,mos’sholyitis.”“Well, then, why ain’t it

natural and right for aFrenchman to talk differentfrom us? You answer methat.”“Isacataman,Huck?”“No.”“Well, den, dey ain’t no

sense in a cat talkin’ like aman.Isacowaman?—erisa

cowacat?”“No, she ain’t either of

them.”“Well,den,sheain’gotno

business to talk like eitheroneertheyutherof‘em.IsaFrenchmanaman?”“Yes.”“Well, den! Dad blame it,

whydoan’hetalklikeaman?Youanswermedat!”I see it warn’t no use

wasting words—you can’t

learn a nigger to argue. So Iquit.

CHAPTER15We judged that three nightsmore would fetch us toCairo,ce at the bottom ofIllinois,wheretheOhioRivercomes in, and that waswhatwewas after.Wewould sellthe raft and get on asteamboatandgowayuptheOhioamongstthefreeStates,andthenbeoutoftrouble.

Well, the second night afogbeguntocomeon,andwemade for a tow-headcf to tieto,foritwouldn’tdototrytorun in fog; but when Ipaddled ahead in the canoe,with the line, to make fast,there warn’t anything butlittle saplings to tie to. Ipassedthelinearoundoneofthemrightontheedgeof thecutbank,buttherewasastiffcurrent, and the raft come

booming down so lively shetore it out by the roots andaway shewent. I see the fogclosingdown,anditmademeso sick and scared I couldn’tbudge for most a half aminuteitseemedtome—andthen there warn’t no raft insight;youcouldn’tseetwentyyards. I jumped into thecanoe and run back to thestern and grabbed the paddleandsetherbackastroke.Butshe didn’t come. I was in

such a hurry I hadn’t untiedher.Igotupandtriedtountieher, but Iwas so excitedmyhands shook so I couldn’thardlydoanythingwiththem.As soon as I got started I

tookoutaftertheraft,hotandheavy, right down the tow-head.Thatwasallrightasfaras it went, but the tow-headwarn’t sixty yards long, andtheminute I flewby the footof it I shot out into the solid

white fog, and hadn’t nomore idea which way I wasgoingthanadeadman.Thinks I, it won’t do to

paddle; first I know I’ll runintothebankoratow-headorsomething; I got to set stilland float, andyet it’smightyfidgety business to have toholdyourhandsstillatsuchatime.Iwhoopedandlistened.Away down there,somewheres, I hears a small

whoop, and up comes myspirits.Iwent tearingafter it,listening sharp to hear itagain.Thenexttimeitcome,I see I warn’t heading for itbutheadingawaytotherightofit.Andthenexttime,Iwasheadingaway to the leftof it—andnotgainingonitmuch,either, for I was flyingaround,thiswayandthatand‘tother, but it was goingstraightaheadallthetime.

I did wish the fool wouldthink to beat a tin pan, andbeat it all the time, but heneverdid,anditwasthestillplaces between the whoopsthat was making the troubleforme.Well, I fought along,and directly I hears thewhoop behind me. I wastangled good, now.Thatwassomebody else’s whoop, orelseIwasturnedaround.Ithrowedthepaddledown.

I heard the whoop again; itwas behind me yet, but in adifferent place; it keptcoming,andkeptchangingitsplace, and I kept answering,till by-and-by it was in frontofmeagainandIknowedthecurrent had swung thecanoe’s head down streamandIwasallright,ifthatwasJim and not some otherraftsmanhollering. Icouldn’ttellnothingaboutvoices inafog, for nothing don’t look

naturalnorsoundnaturalinafog.The whooping went on,

andinaboutaminuteIcomea booming down on a cutbank with smoky ghosts ofbigtreesonit,andthecurrentthrowedmeofftotheleftandshot by, amongst a lot ofsnags that fairly roared, thecurrent was tearing by themsoswift.Inanothersecondortwoit

was solid white and stillagain. I set perfectly still,then, listening to my heartthump, and I reckon I didn’tdraw a breath while itthumpedahundred.I just give up, then. I

knowedwhat thematterwas.That cut bankwas an island,and Jim had gone down‘tothersideofit.Itwarn’tnotow-head,thatyoucouldfloatby in tenminutes. It had the

bigtimberofaregularisland;it might be five or six milelong and more than a half amilewide.I kept quiet, with my ears

cocked,aboutfifteenminutes,Ireckon.Iwasfloatingalong,ofcourse,fourorfivemileanhour;butyoudon’teverthinkof that.No,you feel likeyouare laying dead still on thewater; and if a little glimpseof a snag slips by, youdon’t

think to yourself how fastyou’re going, but you catchyour breath and think, my!howthatsnag’stearingalong.If you think it ain’t dismaland lonesome out in a fogthat way, by yourself, in thenight,youtryitonce—you’llsee.Next, for about a half an

hour,Iwhoopsnowandthen;at last I hears the answer along ways off, and tries to

followit,butIcouldn’tdoit,and directly I judged I’d gotintoanestoftow-heads,forIhad little dim glimpses ofthem on both sides of me,sometimes just a narrowchannel between; and somethat I couldn’t see, I knowedwas there, because I’d hearthe wash of the currentagainst the old dead brushand trash that hung over thebanks. Well, I warn’t longlosing the whoops, down

amongstthetow-heads;andIonly tried to chase them alittle while, anyway, becauseit was worse than chasing aJack-o-lantern. You neverknowed a sound dodgearoundso,andswapplacessoquickandsomuch.I had to claw away from

thebankprettylively,fourorfive times, to keep fromknocking the islands out oftheriver;andsoI judged the

raft must be butting into thebank every now and then, orelse it would get furtheraheadandclearoutofhearing—itwasfloatingalittlefasterthanwhatIwas.Well,Iseemedtobeinthe

open river again, by-and-by,butIcouldn’thearnosignofa whoop nowheres. Ireckoned Jim had fetched uponasnag,maybe,and itwasall up with him. I was good

and tired, so I laid down inthecanoeandsaidIwouldn’tbothernomore.Ididn’twanttogotosleep,ofcourse;butIwassosleepyIcouldn’thelpit; so I thought I would takejustonelittlecat-nap.But I reckon it was more

than a cat-nap, for when Iwaked up the stars wasshiningbright,thefogwasallgone, and I was spinningdown a big bend stern first.

First I didn’t know where Iwas; I thought I wasdreaming; and when thingsbegun to come back to me,they seemed to comeupdimoutoflastweek.It was a monstrous big

riverhere,withthetallestandthethickestkindoftimberonboth banks; just a solidwall,aswellasIcouldsee,bythestars. I looked away downstream, and seen a black

speckonthewater.Itookoutafterit;butwhenIgottoititwarn’t nothing but a coupleof saw-logs made fasttogether. Then I see anotherspeck, and chased that; thenanother, and this time I wasright.Itwastheraft.When I got to it Jim was

setting there with his headdown between his knees,asleep, with his right armhangingoverthesteeringoar.

The other oar was smashedoff, and the raft was litteredup with leaves and branchesanddirt.Soshe’dhadaroughtime.Imade fast and laid down

under Jim’s nose on the raft,andbeguntogap,andstretchmy fists out against Jim, andsays:“Hello, Jim, have I been

asleep? Why didn’t you stirmeup?”

“Goodness gracious, is datyou,Huck?Enyouain’dead—you ain’ drownded—you’sback agin? It’s too good fortrue, honey, it’s toogood fortrue. Lemme look at you,chile,lemmefeelo’you.No,you ain’ dead! you’s backagin, ‘live en soun’, jis desameoleHuck—desameoleHuck,thankstogoodness!”“What’s the matter with

you, Jim? You been a

drinking?”“Drinkin‘? Has I ben a

drinkin’?Has I had a chancetobeadrinkin‘?”“Well, then, what makes

youtalksowild?”“HowdoesItalkwild?”“How? why, hain’t you

been talking about mycoming back, and all thatstuff, as if I’d been goneaway?”“Huck—Huck Finn, you

lookmeindeeye;lookmeinde eye.Hain’t you ben goneaway?”“Goneaway?Why,whatin

the nation do you mean? Ihain’t been gone anywheres.WherewouldIgoto?”“Well, looky here, boss,

dey’s sumf’n wrong, dey is.IsIme,orwhoisI?IsIheah,orwhahisI?Nowdat’swhatIwantstoknow?”11

“Well, I thinkyou’rehere,

plain enough, but I thinkyou’re a tangle-headed oldfool,Jim.”“Iis,isI?Wellyouanswer

medis.Didn’tyoutoteoutdeline indecanoe, fer tomakefas’todetow-head?”“No, I didn’t. What tow-

head? I hain’t seen no tow-head.”“You hain’t seen no tow-

head?Lookyhere—didn’tdelinepulllooseenderaf’goa

hummin’ down de river, enleaveyouendecanoebehineindefog?”“Whatfog?”“Whyde fog.Defogdat’s

ben aroun’ all night. Endidn’tyouwhoop,endidn’tIwhoop,tellwegotmix’upinde islands en one un us gotlos’en‘totheronewasjis’asgood as los’, ‘kase he didn’tknow whah he wuz? Endidn’t I bust up agin a lot er

demislandsenhaveaturribletime en mos’ git drownded?Now ain’ dat so, boss—ain’titso?Youanswermedat.”“Well,thisistoomanyfor

me,Jim.Ihain’tseennofog,nor no islands, nor notroubles, nor nothing. I beensetting here talking with youallnighttillyouwenttosleepabout tenminutes ago, and Ireckon I done the same.Youcouldn’t a got drunk in that

time, so of course you’vebeendreaming.”“Dad fetch it, how is I

gwynetodreamalldatintenminutes?”“Well, hang it all, you did

dreamit,becausetheredidn’tanyofithappen.”“But Huck, it’s all jis’ as

plaintomeas—”“It don’t make no

difference how plain it is,there ain’t nothing in it. I

know,becauseI’vebeenhereallthetime.”Jim didn’t say nothing for

about five minutes, but setthere studying over it. Thenhesays:“Well, den, I reck’n I did

dream it, Huck; but dog mycatsefitain’tdepowerfullestdream I ever see.En Ihain’teverhadnodreamb‘fo’dat’stiredmelikedisone.”“Oh, well, that’s all right,

because a dream does tire abody like everything,sometimes. But this one wasa staving dream—tell me allaboutit,Jim.”So Jim went to work and

toldmethewholethingrightthrough, just as it happened,only he painted it upconsiderable.Thenhesaidhemuststartinand“‘terpret”it,because it was sent for awarning.12 He said the first

tow-headstoodforamanthatwould try to do us somegood, but the current wasanothermanthatwouldgetusaway fromhim.Thewhoopswas warnings that wouldcome to us every now andthen,andifwedidn’ttryhardto make out to understandthem they’d just take us intobadluck,’steadofkeepingusoutofit.Thelotoftow-headswastroubleswewasgoingtoget into with quarrelsome

peopleandallkindsofmeanfolks, but if we minded ourbusinessanddidn’t talkbackand aggravate them, wewould pull through and getoutofthefogandintothebigclearriver,whichwasthefreeStates, andwouldn’t havenomoretrouble.It had clouded up pretty

dark just after I got onto theraft, but it was clearing upagain,now.

“Oh, well, that’s allinterpreted well enough, asfar as it goes, Jim,” I says;“but what does these thingsstandfor?”It was the leaves and

rubbish on the raft, and thesmashed oar. You could seethemfirstrate,now.Jimlookedatthetrash,and

then looked at me, and backatthetrashagain.Hehadgotthe dream fixed so strong in

his head that he couldn’tseemtoshakeitlooseandgetthe facts back into its placeagain, right away. But whenhe did get the thingstraightened around, helooked atme steady,withouteversmiling,andsays:“Whatdodeystan’for?I’s

gwynetotellyou.WhenIgotallworeoutwidwork,enwiddecallin’foryou,enwenttosleep, my heart wuz mos’

broke bekase you wuz los‘,enIdidn’k’yernomo’whatbecome erme en de raf‘. Enwhen I wake up en fine youbackagin’, all safe en soun‘,detearscomeenIcouldagotdown on my knees en kiss’yo’footI’ssothankful.Enallyou wuz thinkin ’bout wuzhow you could make a fooluv ole Jim wid a lie. Dattruckdahistrash;entrashiswhatpeopleisdatputsdirtonde head er dey fren’s en

makes‘emashamed.”Then he got up slow, and

walked to the wigwam, andwent in there,without sayinganything but that. But thatwas enough. Itmademe feelsomeanIcouldalmostkissedhis foot to get him to take itback.It was fifteen minutes

before I could work myselfup to go and humble myselftoanigger—butIdoneit,and

I warn’t ever sorry for itafterwards, neither. I didn’tdohimnomoremean tricks,and Iwouldn’tdone thatoneif I’d a knowed it wouldmakehimfeelthatway.

CHAPTER16We slept most all day, andstarted out at night, a littleways behind a monstrouslong raft that was as longgoingbyasaprocession.Shehadfour longsweepsateachend,sowejudgedshecarriedasmanyasthirtymen,likely.She had five big wigwamsaboard, wide apart, and anopencampfireinthemiddle,

and a tall flag-pole at eachend. There was a power ofstyle about her. It amountedto something being araftsman on such a craft asthat.We went drifting down

intoabigbend,andthenightclouded up and got hot. Theriverwasverywide,andwaswalled with solid timber onbothsides;youcouldn’tseeabreak in it hardly ever, or a

light.We talkedaboutCairo,and wondered whether wewould know it when we gotto it. I said likely wewouldn‘t,becauseIhadheardsay there warn’t but about adozen houses there, and ifthey didn’t happen to havethem lit up, how was wegoing to know we waspassing a town? Jim said ifthe two big rivers joinedtogether there, that wouldshow. But I said maybe we

might think we was passingthe foot of an island andcoming into the same oldriver again. That disturbedJim—and me too. So thequestion was, what to do? Isaid, paddle ashore the firsttime a light showed, and tellthempapwasbehind,comingalong with a trading-scow,and was a green hand at thebusiness,andwantedtoknowhow far it was to Cairo. Jimthoughtitwasagoodidea,so

we took a smoke on it andwaited.13

Therewarn’tnothingtodo,now,buttolookoutsharpforthe town, and not pass itwithout seeing it. He saidhe’dbemightysuretoseeit,because he’d be a free manthe minute he seen it, but ifhe missed it he’d be in theslave country again and nomore show for freedom.Everylittlewhilehejumpsup

andsays:“Dahsheis!”But itwarn’t. Itwas Jack-

o-lanterns, or lightning-bugs;so he set down again, andwent to watching, same asbefore. Jim said itmade himall over trembly and feverishto be so close to freedom.Well, I can tell you it mademe all over trembly andfeverish, too, to hear him,because I begun to get it

throughmyhead thathewasmost free—and who was toblame for it? Why, me Icouldn’t get that out of myconscience, no how nor noway.ItgottotroublingmesoIcouldn’trest;Icouldn’tstaystill in one place. It hadn’tever come home to mebefore, what this thing wasthat I was doing. But now itdid;anditstaidwithme,andscorchedmemore andmore.I tried tomakeout tomyself

that I warn’t to blame,because I didn’t run Jim offfromhisrightfulowner;butitwarn’t nouse, conscienceupand says, every time, “Butyou knowed he was runningfor his freedom, and youcould a paddled ashore andtold somebody.”Thatwas so—I couldn’t get around that,noway. That was where itpinched. Conscience says tome, “What had poor MissWatsondonetoyou,thatyou

could see her nigger go offright under your eyes andnever say one single word?What did that poor oldwoman do to you, that youcould treat her so mean?Why, she tried to learn youyour book, she tried to learnyou your manners, she triedtobegood toyoueverywaysheknowedhow.That’swhatshedone.”I got to feeling so mean

and so miserable I mostwishedIwasdead.Ifidgetedupanddowntheraft,abusingmyself to myself, and Jimwas fidgeting up and downpast me. We neither of uscould keep still. Every timehe danced around and says,“Dah’s Cairo!” it wentthroughme likeashot,andIthought if it was Cairo Ireckoned I would die ofmiserableness.

Jim talked out loud all thetime while I was talking tomyself. He was saying howthe first thing he would dowhenhegottoafreeStatehewouldgotosavingupmoneyandneverspendasinglecent,and when he got enough hewould buy his wife, whichwasownedonafarmclosetowhere Miss Watson lived;and then they would bothworktobuythetwochildren,and if their master wouldn’t

sell them, they’d get anAb‘litionist to go and stealthem.It most froze me to hear

such talk. He wouldn’t everdared to talk such talk in hislife before. Just see what adifference itmade inhimtheminute he judged he wasabout free. It was accordingto the old saying, “give anigger an inch and he’ll takean ell.”14 Thinks I, this is

what comes of my notthinking.HerewasthisniggerwhichIhadasgoodashelpedtorunaway,comingrightoutflat-footed and saying hewould steal his children—children that belonged to aman I didn’t even know; amanthathadn’teverdonemenoharm.IwassorrytohearJimsay

that,itwassuchaloweringofhim. My conscience got to

stirring me up hotter thanever,until at last I says to it,“Let up on me—it ain’t toolate, yet—I’ll paddle ashoreat the first light, and tell.” Ifelteasy,andhappy,andlightasafeather,rightoff.Allmytroubles was gone. I went tolooking out sharp for a light,andsortofsingingtomyself.By-and-by one showed. Jimsingsout:“We’s safe, Huck, we’s

safe! Jump up and crack yo’heels,dat’sdegoodoleCairoatlas‘,Ijisknowsit!”Isays:“I’ll take thecanoeandgo

see, Jim. It mightn’t be, youknow.”He jumped and got the

canoe ready, and put his oldcoat in the bottom forme toset on, and give me thepaddle; and as I shoved off,hesays:

“Pooty soon I’ll be a-shout’n for joy, en I’ll say,it’s all on accounts o’ Huck;I’s a freeman, en I couldn’tever ben free ef it hadn’ benfor Huck; Huck done it. Jimwon’t ever forgit you,Huck;you’sdebes’fren’Jim’severhad; en you’s de only fren’oleJim’sgotnow.”Iwaspaddlingoff,all ina

sweat to tell on him; butwhen he says this, it seemed

tokindoftakethetuckalloutof me. I went along slowthen,andIwarn’trightdowncertain whether I was glad Istarted or whether I warn’t.When I was fifty yards off,Jimsays:“Dahyougoes,deoletrue

Huck;deon‘ywhitegenlmandat ever kep’ his promise tooleJim.”Well, I just felt sick.But I

says, I got to do it—I can’t

getoutofit.Rightthen,alongcomes a skiff with two menin it, with guns, and theystoppedandIstopped.Oneofthemsays:“What’sthat,yonder?”“Apieceofaraft,”Isays.“Doyoubelongonit?”“Yes,sir.”“Anymenonit?”“Onlyone,sir.”“Well, there’s five niggers

run off to-night, up yonderabovetheheadofthebend.Isyourmanwhiteorblack?”Ididn’tanswerupprompt.

I tried to, but the wordswouldn’t come. I tried, for asecond or two, to brace upand out with it, but I warn’tman enough—hadn’t thespunkofarabbit.IseeIwasweakening; so I just give uptrying,andupandsays—“He’swhite.”

“I reckonwe’llgoandseeforourselves.”“Iwishyouwould,”saysI,

“becauseit’spapthat’sthere,and maybe you’d help metowtheraftashorewherethelight is.He’s sick—and so ismamandMaryAnn.”“Oh, the devil! we’re in a

hurry, boy. But I s‘posewe’ve got to. Come—buckleto your paddle, and let’s getalong.”

Ibuckledtomypaddleandthey laid to their oars.Whenwehadmadeastrokeortwo,Isays:“Pap’ll be mighty much

obleeged to you, I can tellyou. Everybody goes awaywhenIwantthemtohelpmetow the raft ashore, and Ican’tdoitbymyself.”“Well, that’s infernal

mean. Odd, too. Say, boy,what’s the matter with your

father?”“It’s the—a—the—well, it

ain’tanything,much.”They stopped pulling. It

warn’t but a mighty littleways to the raft, now. Onesays:“Boy, that’s a lie.What is

the matter with your pap?Answer up square, now, andit’llbethebetterforyou.”“Iwill,sir,Iwill,honest—

butdon’tleaveus,please.It’s

the—the—gentlemen, ifyou’llonlypullahead,andletme heave you the head-line,you won’t have to come a-neartheraft—pleasedo.”“Setherback,John,sether

back!”saysone.Theybackedwater. “Keep away, boy—keeptolooard.cgConfoundit,I just expect the wind hasblowed it to us. Your pap’sgot the small-pox, and youknow it precious well. Why

didn’t you come out and sayso?Doyouwant to spread itallover?”“Well,” says I, a-

blubbering, “I’ve toldeverybody before, and thenthey just went away and leftus.”“Poor devil, there’s

something in that. We arerightdownsorryforyou,butwe—well, hang it, we don’twant the smallpox, you see.

Look here, I’ll tell youwhatto do. Don’t you try to landby yourself, or you’ll smasheverything to pieces. Youfloat along down abouttwentymilesandyou’llcometo a town on the left-handside of the river. It will belong after sun-up, then, andwhen you ask for help, youtell them your folks are alldown with chills and fever.Don’tbeafoolagain,andletpeople guess what is the

matter. Now we’re trying todoyouakindness;soyoujustput twentymilesbetweenus,that’sagoodboy.Itwouldn’tdo any good to land yonderwherethelightis—it’sonlyawood-yard. Say—I reckonyour father’s poor, and I’mbound to say he’s in prettyhard luck. Here—I’ll put atwenty dollar gold piece onthis board, and you get itwhen it floats by. I feelmighty mean to leave you,

butmykingdom! itwon’tdoto foolwith small-pox, don’tyousee?““Holdon,Parker,”saysthe

other man, “here’s a twentyto put on the board for me.Good-bye,boy,youdoasMr.Parkertoldyou,andyou’llbeallright.”“That’sso,myboy—good-

bye,good-bye.Ifyouseeanyrunawayniggers,yougethelpand nab them, and you can

makesomemoneybyit.”“Good-bye, sir,” says I, “I

won’t letnorunawayniggersgetbymeifIcanhelpit.”They went off, and I got

aboard the raft, feeling badand low, because I knowedverywell I had donewrong,andIseeitwarn’tnouseformetotrytolearntodoright;a body that don’t get startedright when he’s little, ain’tgotnoshow—whenthepinch

comes there ain’t nothing tobackhimupandkeephimtohiswork,andsohegetsbeat.ThenI thoughtaminute,andsays to myself, hold on,—s‘poseyou’dadonerightandgive Jim up; would you feltbetterthanwhatyoudonow?No, says I, I’d feel bad—I’dfeel just the same way I donow. Well, then, says I,what’stheuseyoulearningtodo right, when it’stroublesome to do right and

ain’t no trouble todowrong,and the wages is just thesame?Iwasstuck.Icouldn’tanswer that. So I reckoned Iwouldn’t bother no moreabout it,butafter thisalwaysdo whichever come handiestatthetime.I went into the wigwam;

Jimwarn’t there.I lookedallaround;hewarn’tanywhere.Isays:“Jim!”

“HereIis,Huck.Isdeyouto’sightyit?Don’ttalkloud.”Hewas in the river, under

the stern oar, with just hisnoseout.I toldhimtheywasout of sight, so he comeaboard.Hesays:“Iwas a-listenin’ to all de

talk,enIslipsintoderiverenwasgwyne to shove for sho’if dey come aboard. Den Iwasgwynetoswimtoderaf’aginwhendeywasgone.But

lawsy,howyoudidfool‘em,Huck! Dat wuz de smartes’dodge! I tell you, chile, I’speck it save’ ole Jim—oleJimain’tgwynetoforgityoufordat,honey.”Then we talked about the

money. It was a pretty goodraise, twenty dollars apiece.Jim said we could take deckpassageon a steamboat now,and themoneywould last usas far aswewanted to go in

the free States. He saidtwenty mile more warn’t farfor the raft to go, but hewishedwewasalreadythere.Towards daybreak we tied

up, and Jim was mightyparticular about hiding theraftgood.Thenheworkedallday fixing things in bundles,and getting all ready to quitrafting.That night about ten we

hoveinsightofthelightsofa

town away down in a left-handbend.Iwent off in the canoe, to

ask about it. Pretty soon Ifound aman out in the riverwith a skiff, setting a trot-line.Irangedupandsays:“Mister, is that town

Cairo?”“Cairo?no.Youmustbea

blame’fool.”“Whattownisit,mister?”“If you want to know, go

andfindout.Ifyoustayherebotherin’aroundmeforaboutahalfaminutelonger,you’llget something you won’twant.”I paddled to the raft. Jim

wasawfuldisappointed,butIsaidnevermind,Cairowouldbethenextplace,Ireckoned.We passed another town

before daylight, and I wasgoing out again; but it washigh ground, so I didn’t go.

Nohigh ground aboutCairo,Jim said. I had forgot it.Welaidupfortheday,onatow-head tolerable close to theleft-hand bank. I begun tosuspicion something. So didJim.Isays:“Maybewewent byCairo

inthefogthatnight.”Hesays:“Doan’ less’ talk about it,

Huck.Po’niggerscan’thaveno luck. I awluz ‘specteddat

rattle-snake skinwarn’t donewiditswork.”“IwishI’dneverseen that

snake-skin, Jim—I do wishI’dneverlaideyesonit.”“It ain’t yo’ fault, Huck;

you didn’ know. Don’t youblameyo‘self’boutit.”Whenitwasdaylight,here

was the clear Ohio water inshore, sure enough, andoutside was the old regularMuddy!Soitwasallupwith

Cairo.15

We talked it all over. Itwouldn’t do to take to theshore; we couldn’t take theraft up the stream,of course.There warn’t no way but towait for dark, and start backin the canoe and take thechances. So we slept all dayamongst the cotton-woodthicket, so as to be fresh forthework, andwhenwewentbacktotheraftaboutdarkthe

canoewasgone!Wedidn’tsayawordfora

good while. There warn’tanything to say. We bothknowed well enough it wassomemoreworkof therattlesnake skin; so what was theuse to talkabout it? Itwouldonlylooklikewewasfindingfault, and that would beboundtofetchmorebadluck—and keep on fetching it,too,tillweknowedenoughto

keepstill.By-and-bywetalkedabout

whatwebetterdo,andfoundthere warn’t no way but justto go along down with theraft till we got a chance tobuy a canoe to go back in.Wewarn’tgoingtoborrowitwhen there warn’t anybodyaround, the way pap woulddo, for thatmight set peopleafterus.So we shoved out, after

dark,ontheraft.Anybodythatdon’tbelieve

yet, that it’s foolishness tohandle a snake-skin, after allthat that snake-skin done forus,willbelieveitnow,iftheyreadonandseewhatmore itdoneforus.Theplace tobuycanoes is

offofraftslayingupatshore.But we didn’t see no raftslaying up; so we went alongduring threehours andmore.

Well, thenightgotgray, andrutherthick,whichisthenextmeanest thing to fog. Youcan’t tell the shape of theriver, and you can’t see nodistance.Itgottobeverylateand still, and then alongcomes a steamboat up theriver.We lit the lantern, andjudged she would see it.Upstream boats didn’tgenerly come close to us;they go out and follow thebars and hunt for easywater

under the reefs; but nightslikethistheybullrightupthechannel against the wholeriver.We could hear her

poundingalong,butwedidn’tsee her good till she wasclose.Sheaimedrightforus.Often theydo that and try toseehowclose theycancomewithout touching; sometimesthe wheel bites off a sweep,and then the pilot sticks his

head out and laughs, andthinks he’s mighty smart.Well,hereshecomes,andwesaid she was going to try toshaveus;butshedidn’tseemto be sheering off a bit. Shewas a big one, and she wascoming in a hurry, too,looking like a black cloudwith rows of glow-wormsaround it;butallofasuddenshebulgedout,bigandscary,withalongrowofwide-openfurnace doors shining like

red-hot teeth, and hermonstrous bows and guardshanging right over us. Therewas a yell at us, and ajingling of bells to stop theengines, a pow-wow ofcussing, and whistling ofsteam—and as Jim wentoverboard on one side and Ion the other, she comesmashingstraightthroughtheraft.I dived—and I aimed to

find the bottom, too, for athirty-foot wheel had got togooverme,andIwantedittohave plenty of room. I couldalways stay under water aminute; this time I reckon Istaid under water a minuteand a half. Then I bouncedfor the top in a hurry, for Iwas nearly busting. I poppedout to my arm-pits andblowed the water out of mynose, and puffed a bit. Ofcourse there was a booming

current; and of course thatboatstartedherenginesagaintensecondsaftershestoppedthem, for they never caredmuch for raftsmen; so nowshe was churning along upthe river, out of sight in thethickweather, thoughIcouldhearher.I sung out for Jim about a

dozen times, but I didn’t getany answer; so I grabbed aplankthattouchedmewhileI

was “treading water,” andstruck out for shore, shovingit ahead of me. But I madeouttoseethatthedriftofthecurrent was towards the left-handshore,whichmeantthatI was in a crossing; so Ichanged off and went thatway.It was one of these long,

slanting, two-mile crossings;so Iwasagood long time ingetting over. I made a safe

landing, and clum up thebank. I couldn’t see but alittleways,butIwentpokingalongoverroughgroundforaquarterofamileormore,andthen I run across a big old-fashioned double log housebefore I noticed it. I wasgoing to rush by and getaway, but a lot of dogsjumped out and went tohowling and barking at me,and I knowed better than to

moveanotherpeg.ch

CHAPTER17In a about half a minutesomebody spoke out of awindow, without putting hisheadout,andsays:“Be done, boys! Who’s

there?”Isays:“It’sme.”“Who’sme?”“GeorgeJackson,sir.”

“Whatdoyouwant?”“Idon’twantnothing,sir.I

onlywanttogoalongby,butthedogswon’tletme.”“What are you prowling

around here this time ofnight,for—hey?”“Iwarn’tprowlingaround,

sir;Ifelloverboardoffofthesteamboat.”“Oh, you did, did you?

Strike a light there,somebody.Whatdidyousay

yournamewas?”“George Jackson, sir. I’m

onlyaboy.”“Look here; if you’re

telling the truth, you needn’tbe afraid—nobody’ ll hurtyou. But don’t try to budge;stand right where you are.Rouse out Bob and Tom,some of you, and fetch theguns. George Jackson, isthereanybodywithyou?”“No,sir,nobody.”

I heard the people stirringaroundinthehouse,now,andseealight.Themansungout:“Snatch that light away,

Betsy, you old fool—ain’tyou got any sense? Put it onthe floor behind the frontdoor. Bob, if you and Tomareready,takeyourplaces.”“Allready.”“Now,George Jackson,do

you know theShepherdsons?”

“No, sir—I never heard ofthem.”“Well, thatmaybeso,and

it mayn’t. Now, all ready.Step forward, GeorgeJackson.Andmind,don’tyouhurry—comemighty slow. Ifthere’sanybodywithyou, lethim keep back—if he showshimself he’ll be shot. Comealong,now.Comeslow;pushthedooropen,yourself—justenough to squeeze in, d‘you

hear?”Ididn’thurry,Icouldn’tif

I’d a wanted to. I took oneslowstepatatime,andtherewarn’t a sound, only Ithought I could hear myheart. The dogs were as stillas the humans, but theyfollowed a little behind me.When I got to the three logdoor-steps, I heard themunlocking and unbarring andunbolting. I put my hand on

thedoorandpusheditalittleand a little more, tillsomebodysaid,“There,that’senough—putyourheadin.”Idone it, but I judged theywouldtakeitoff.The candle was on the

floor, and there they allwas,looking at me, and me atthem,foraboutaquarterofaminute. Three big men withguns pointed at me, whichmade me wince, I tell you;

the oldest, gray and aboutsixty, the other two thirty ormore—all of them fine andhandsome—and the sweetestold gray-headed lady, andback of her two youngwomen which I couldn’t seerightwell.Theoldgentlemansays:“There—I reckon it’s all

right.Comein.”AssoonasIwasin,theold

gentlemanhelockedthedoor

and barred it and bolted it,and told the young men tocome inwith their guns, andthey all went in a big parlorthat had a new rag carpet onthe floor, and got together inacornerthatwasoutofrangeof the front windows—therewarn’tnoneontheside.Theyheld the candle, and took agoodlookatme,andallsaid,“Whybeain’taShepherdson—no, there ain’t anyShepherdson about him.”

Then the old man said hehopedIwouldn’tmindbeingsearchedforarms,becausehedidn’tmeannoharmbyit—itwasonlytomakesure.Sohedidn’t pry into my pockets,butonly felt outsidewithhishands, and said it was allright. He told me to makemyselfeasyandathome,andtell all about myself; but theoldladysays:“Why bless you, Saul, the

poorthing’saswetashecanbe; and don’t you reckon itmaybehe’shungry?”“True for you, Rachel—I

forgot.”Sotheoldladysays:“Betsy” (thiswas a nigger

woman),“youflyaroundandget him something to eat, asquickasyoucan,poorthing;and one of you girls go andwakeupBuckandtellhim—Oh,hereheishimself.Buck,

takethislittlestrangerandgetthewet clothes off fromhimand dress himup in some ofyoursthat’sdry.”Buck looked about as old

as me—thirteen or fourteenoralongthere,thoughhewasa little bigger than me. Hehadn’tonanythingbutashirt,and he was very frowsy-headed. He come in gapingand digging one fist into hiseyes, and he was dragging a

gunalongwiththeotherone.Hesays:“Ain’t they no

Shepherdsonsaround?”Theysaid,no,‘twasafalse

alarm.“Well,”he says, “if they’d

abensome,IreckonI’dagotone.”They all laughed, andBob

says:“Why, Buck, they might

have scalped us all, you’ve

beensoslowincoming.”“Well, nobody come after

me, and it ain’t right. I’malwayskep’down;Idon’tgetnoshow.”“Never mind, Buck, my

boy,” says the old man,“you’llhaveshowenough,allin good time, don’t you fretaboutthat.Go‘longwithyounow, and do as your mothertoldyou.”When we got up stairs to

his room,hegotmeacoarseshirt and a roundaboutci andpants of his, and I put themon.WhileIwasatitheaskedme what my name was, butbefore I could tell him, hestarted to telling me about ablue jay and a young rabbithe had catched in the woodsday before yesterday, and heasked me where Moses waswhen the candle went out. Isaid I didn’t know; I hadn’t

heardaboutitbefore,noway.“Well,guess,”hesays.“How’mIgoingtoguess,”

says I, “when I never heardtellaboutitbefore?”“But you can guess, can’t

you?It’sjustaseasy.”“Whichcandle?”Isays.“Why, any candle,” he

says.“I don’t know where he

was,” says I; “where washe?”

“Why hewas in the dark!That’swherehewas!”“Well, if you knowed

where he was, what did youaskmefor?”“Why, blame it, it’s a

riddle, don’t you see? Say,how long are you going tostay here? You got to stayalways. We can just havebooming times—they don’thave no school now.Doyouownadog? I’vegotadog—

and he’ll go in the river andbringoutchipsthatyouthrowin. Do you like to comb up,Sundays, and all that kind offoolishness?Youbet I don‘t,but ma she makes me.Confoundtheseolebritches,Ireckon I’dbetterput ’emon,but I’d ruther not, it’s sowarm.Areyouallready?Allright—comealong,oldhoss.”Coldcorn-pone,coldcorn-

beef,butterandbutter-milk—

that iswhat they had formedown there, and there ain’tnothing better that ever I’vecome across yet. Buck andhis ma and all of themsmokedcobpipes,exceptthenigger woman, which wasgone, and the two youngwomen.Theyallsmokedandtalked, and I eat and talked.Theyoungwomenhadquiltsaround them, and their hairdown their backs. They allasked me questions, and I

told them how pap and meand all the familywas livingon a little farm down at thebottomofArkansaw,andmysister Mary Ann run off andgot married and never washeard of no more, and Billwent to hunt them and hewarn’theardofnomore,andTomandMortdied,andthenthere warn’t nobody but justme and pap left, and hewasjust trimmed down tonothing, on account of his

troubles; so when he died Itook what there was left,because the farm didn’tbelong to us, and started upthe river, deck passage, andfell overboard; and that washow I come to be here. SotheysaidIcouldhaveahomethere as long as I wanted it.Then it was most daylight,and everybody went to bed,andIwenttobedwithBuck,and when I waked up in themorning, drat it all, I had

forgotwhatmynamewas.SoI laid there about an hourtrying to think, and whenBuckwakedup,Isays:“Canyouspell,Buck?”“Yes,”hesays.“I bet you can’t spell my

name,”saysI.“Ibetyouwhatyoudare I

can,”sayshe.“All right,” says I, “go

ahead.”“G-o-r-g-e J-a-x-o-n—

therenow,”hesays.“Well,” says I, “you done

it, but I didn’t think youcould. It ain’t no slouch of aname to spell—right offwithoutstudying.”I set it down, private,

because somebody mightwantme tospell it,next,andsoIwantedtobehandywithit and rattle it off like I wasusedtoit.It was a mighty nice

family, and a mighty nicehouse, too. I hadn’t seen nohouse out in the countrybefore that was so nice andhad so much style. It didn’thaveanironlatchonthefrontdoor, nor awoodenonewithabuckskinstring,butabrassknob to turn, the same ashouses in a town. Therewarn’t no bed in the parlor,notasignofabed;butheapsof parlors in towns has bedsin them. There was a big

fireplace thatwas bricked onthe bottom, and the brickswas kept clean and red bypouring water on them andscrubbing them with anotherbrick;sometimestheywashedthem over with red water-paint that they call Spanish-brown, same as they do intown. They had big brassdog-ironsthatcouldholdupasaw-log. There was a clockon themiddle of themantel-piece, with a picture of a

town painted on the bottomhalf of the glass front, and around place in themiddle ofit for the sun, and you couldsee the pendulum swingbehind it. It was beautiful tohear that clock tick; andsometimeswhenoneofthesepeddlers had been along andscouredherupandgotheringood shape, she would startin and strike a hundred andfifty before she got tuckeredout. Theywouldn’t took any

moneyforher.Well, there was a big

outlandishparrotoneachsideof the clock, made out ofsomething like chalk, andpainted up gaudy. By one oftheparrotswasacatmadeofcrockery, andacrockerydogby the other; and when youpressed down on them theysqueaked, but didn’t opentheir mouths nor lookdifferentnor interested.They

squeakedthroughunderneath.There was a couple of bigwild-turkey-wing fans spreadoutbehindthosethings.Onatable in the middle of theroomwas a kind of a lovelycrockery basket that hadapples and oranges andpeaches and grapes piled upin itwhichwasmuch redderandyellowerandprettierthanreal ones is, but they warn’treal because you could seewherepieceshadgotchipped

off and showed the whitechalk or whatever it was,underneath.This table had a cover

made out of beautiful oil-cloth, with a red and bluespread-eagle painted on it,and a painted border allaround. It come all the wayfrom Philadelphia, they said.There was some books too,piled up perfectly exact, oneachcornerof the table.One

wasabigfamilyBible,fullofpictures. One was “Pilgrim’sProgress,”16aboutamanthatleft his family it didn’t saywhy.Ireadconsiderableinitnowandthen.Thestatementswas interesting, but tough.Another was “Friendship’sOffering,”cj full of beautifulstuff and poetry; but I didn’tread thepoetry.AnotherwasHenryClay’sSpeeches,17andanother was Dr. Gunn’s

Family Medicine,ck whichtoldyouallaboutwhat todoif a body was sick or dead.TherewasaHymnBook,anda lot of other books. Andthere was nice split-bottomchairs, and perfectly sound,too—notbaggeddownin themiddleandbusted,likeanoldbasket.Theyhadpictureshungon

the walls—mainlyWashingtons and Lafayettes,

and battles, and HighlandMarys, and one called“Signing the Declaration.”There was some that theycalled crayons,which one ofthedaughterswhichwasdeadmade her own selfwhen shewas only fifteen years old.They was different from anypictures I ever see before;blacker, mostly, than iscommon. One was a womanin a slim black dress, beltedsmallunderthearm-pits,with

bulges like a cabbage in themiddle of the sleeves, and alarge black scoop-shovelbonnetwithablackveil, andwhite slim ankles crossedabout with black tape, andvery wee black slippers, likeachisel, andshewas leaningpensive on a tombstone onher right elbow, under aweeping willow, and herotherhandhangingdownherside holding a whitehandkerchief and a reticule,

and underneath the picture itsaid“Shall INeverSeeTheeMore Alas.”18 Another onewas a young lady with herhairallcombedupstraighttothe top of her head, andknotted there in front of acomb like a chair-back, andshe was crying into ahandkerchief and had a deadbird layingon itsback inherother handwith its heels up,and underneath the picture it

said“IShallNeverHearThySweet Chirrup More Alas.”Therewasonewhereayoungladywasatawindowlookingup at the moon, and tearsrunningdownhercheeks;andshehadanopen letter inonehand with black sealing-waxshowing on one edge of it,andshewasmashingalocketwith a chain to it against hermouth, and underneath thepictureitsaid“AndArtThouGone Yes Thou Art Gone

Alas.” These was all nicepictures,Ireckon,butIdidn’tsomehow seem to take tothem, because if ever I wasdown a little, they alwaysgive me the fan-tods.Everybody was sorry shedied,becauseshehadlaidoutalotmoreofthesepicturestodo, and a body could see bywhatshehaddonewhat theyhad lost.But I reckoned, thatwithher disposition, shewashaving a better time in the

graveyard. She was at workon what they said was hergreatest picture when shetook sick, and every day andeverynight itwasherprayerto be allowed to live till shegotitdone,butshenevergotthechance.Itwasapictureofa young woman in a longwhite gown, standing on therail of a bridge all ready tojump off, with her hair alldown her back, and lookinguptothemoon,withthetears

running down her face, andshe had two arms foldedacross her breast, and twoarms stretched out in frontand two more reaching uptowards the moon—and theidea was, to see which pairwould look best and thenscratchoutalltheotherarms;but,asIwassaying,shediedbeforeshegothermindmadeup, and now they kept thispicture over the head of thebed in her room, and every

time her birthday come theyhung flowers on it. Othertimes it was hidwith a littlecurtain.Theyoungwomaninthe picture had a kind of anicesweetfacebuttherewasso many arms it made herlook too spidery, seemed tome.This young girl kept a

scrap-book when she wasalive, and used to pasteobituaries and accidents and

casesofpatientsufferinginitout of the PresbyterianObserver, and write poetryafter them out of her ownhead. It was very goodpoetry.Thisiswhatshewroteabout a boy by the name ofStephen Dowling Bots thatfell down a well and wasdrownded:

ODE TO STEPHENDOWLING BOTS,DEC’D.

And did young Stephensicken,And did young Stephendie?And did the sad heartsthicken,And did the mournerscry?

No; such was not thefateofYoungStephenDowlingBots;

Thoughsadheartsroundhimthickened,‘Twas not fromsickness’shots.

Nowhooping-cough didrackhisframe,Nor measles drear, withspots;Not these impaired thesacrednameOf Stephen DowlingBots.

DespisedlovestrucknotwithwoeThatheadofcurlyknots,Nor stomach troubleslaidhimlow,YoungStephenDowlingBots.

O no. Then list withtearfuleye,WhilstIhisfatedotell.His soul did from this

coldworldfly,Byfallingdownawell.

They got him out andemptiedhim;Alasitwastoolate;His spirit was gone fortosportaloftIntherealmsofthegoodandgreat.

If Emmeline Grangerfordcould make poetry like thatbeforeshewasfourteen,there

ain’t no telling what shecouldadoneby-and-by.Bucksaid she could rattle offpoetry like nothing. Shedidn’t ever have to stop tothink.Hesaidshewouldslapdown a line, and if shecouldn’t find anything torhymewith it shewould justscratch it out and slap downanother one, and go ahead.She warn’t particular, shecould write about anythingyou choose to give her to

write about, just so it wassadful. Every time a mandied, or a woman died, or achild died, she would be onhandwithher“tribute”beforehewascold.Shecalledthemtributes.Theneighborssaiditwas the doctor first, thenEmmeline, then theundertaker—the undertakernever got in ahead ofEmmelinebutonce,and thenshehung fireona rhyme forthe dead person’s name,

which was Whistler. Shewarn’t ever the same, afterthat; she never complained,but she kind of pined awayand did not live long. Poorthing,many’sthetimeImademyself go up to the littleroomthatusedtobehersandget out her poor old scrap-bookand read in itwhenherpictureshadbeenaggravatingmeandIhadsouredonheralittle. I liked all that family,deadonesandall,andwarn’t

going to let anything comebetween us. Poor Emmelinemade poetry about all thedead people when she wasalive,anditdidn’tseemrightthat there warn’t nobody tomake some about her, nowshe was gone; so I tried tosweat out a verse or twomyself,butIcouldn’tseemtomake it go, somehow. Theykept Emmeline’s room trimand nice and all the thingsfixed in it just the way she

liked to have themwhen shewas alive, and nobody eversleptthere.Theoldladytookcare of the room herself,though there was plenty ofniggers, and she sewed therea good deal and read herBiblethere,mostly.Well,asIwassayingabout

theparlor,therewasbeautifulcurtains on the windows:white, with pictures paintedonthem,ofcastleswithvines

alldownthewalls,andcattlecomingdowntodrink.Therewas a little old piano, too,that had tin pans in it, Ireckon,andnothingwaseversolovelyastoheartheyoungladiessing,“TheLastLinkisBroken”andplay“TheBattleofPrague”onit.Thewallsofall the rooms was plastered,and most had carpets on thefloors, and the whole housewas whitewashed on theoutside.

Itwasadoublehouse,andthe big open place betwixtthemwasroofedandfloored,and sometimes the table wasset there in themiddleof theday, and it was a cool,comfortable place. Nothingcouldn’t be better. Andwarn’t thecookinggood,andjustbushelsofittoo!

CHAPTER18Col. Grangerford was agentleman,yousee.Hewasagentleman all over; and sowas his family. Hewas wellborn, as the saying is, andthat’sworthasmuchinamanas it is in a horse,19 so theWidow Douglas said, andnobody ever denied that shewasof thefirstaristocracyin

our town; andpaphe alwayssaid it, too, thoughhewarn’tno more quality than amudcat, himself. Col.Grangerfordwasverytallandveryslim,andhadadarkish-paly complexion, not a signofredinitanywheres;hewasclean-shaved every morning,all over his thin face, and hehad the thinnest kind of lips,and the thinnest kind ofnostrils,andahighnose,andheavy eyebrows, and the

blackestkindofeyes,sunksodeep back that they seemedlike they was looking out ofcaverns at you, as you maysay. His forehead was high,and his hair was black andstraight, and hung to hisshoulders. His hands waslong and thin, and every dayof his life he put on a cleanshirtandafullsuitfromheadto foot made out of linen sowhiteithurtyoureyestolookatit;andonSundayshewore

a blue tail-coat with brassbuttons on it. He carried amahogany cane with a silverhead to it. There warn’t nofrivolishnessabouthim,notabit, and he warn’t ever loud.Hewasaskindashecouldbe—you could feel that, youknow, and so you hadconfidence. Sometimes hesmiled, and it was good tosee;butwhenhestraightenedhimselfuplikealiberty-pole,and the lightning begun to

flicker out from under hiseyebrows you wanted toclimbatreefirst,andfindoutwhat the matter wasafterwards. He didn’t everhave to tell anybody tomindtheir manners—everybodywas always good manneredwhere he was. Everybodyloved to have him around,too; he was sunshine mostalways—I mean he made itseem like good weather.Whenheturnedintoacloud-

bank itwas awful dark for ahalf a minute and that wasenough; there wouldn’tnothinggowrongagainforaweek.Whenhimandtheoldlady

come down in the morning,all the family got up out oftheir chairs and give themgood-day, and didn’t setdown again till they had setdown. Then Tom and Bobwent to the sideboard where

thedecanterswas,andmixeda glass of bitters and handedittohim,andhehelditinhishand and waited till Tom’sand Bob’s was mixed, andthen they bowed and said“Our duty to you, sir, andmadam;”and theybowed theleastbitintheworldandsaidthankyou,andsotheydrank,all three, and Bob and Tompouredaspoonfulofwateronthe sugar and the mitecl of

whiskyorapplebrandyinthebottomof their tumblers,andgive it to me and Buck, andwe drank to the old peopletoo.Bob was the oldest, and

Tomnext.Tall,beautifulmenwith very broad shouldersand brown faces, and longblack hair and black eyes.They dressed in white linenfromheadtofoot,liketheoldgentleman, and wore broad

Panamahats.Then there was Miss

Charlotte, she was twenty-five, and tall and proud andgrand, but as good as shecould be, when she warn’tstirredup;butwhenshewas,she had a look that wouldmakeyouwiltinyourtracks,like her father. She wasbeautiful.So was her sister, Miss

Sophia,but itwasadifferent

kind. She was gentle andsweet, like a dove, and shewasonlytwenty.Eachpersonhad theirown

nigger to wait on them—Buck, too. My nigger had amonstrouseasytime,becauseI warn’t used to havinganybodydo anything forme,but Buck’s was on the jumpmostofthetime.This was all there was of

the family, now; but there

used tobemore—threesons;they got killed; andEmmelinethatdied.The old gentleman owned

a lot of farms, and over ahundred niggers. Sometimesastackofpeoplewouldcomethere, horseback, from ten orfifteenmile around, and stayfive or six days, and havesuch junketings round aboutand on the river, and dancesand picnics in the woods,

daytimes, and balls at thehouse, nights. These peoplewas mostly kin-folks of thefamily.Themenbroughttheirguns with them. It was ahandsomelotofquality,Itellyou.There was another clan of

aristocracy around there—five or six families—mostlyof the name of Shepherdson.Theywas as high-toned, andwellborn,andrichandgrand,

as the tribe of Grangerfords.The Shepherdsons and theGrangerfords used the samesteamboatlanding,whichwasabout two mile above ourhouse; so sometimes when Iwent up there with a lot ofourfolksIusedtoseealotofthe Shepherdsons there, ontheirfinehorses.OnedayBuckandmewas

away out in the woods,hunting, and heard a horse

coming.Wewascrossingtheroad.Bucksays:“Quick! Jump for the

woods!”We done it, and then

peeped down the woodsthrough the leaves. Prettysoon a splendid young mancome galloping down theroad, setting his horse easyandlookinglikeasoldier.Hehad his gun across hispommel. I had seen him

before. It was youngHarneyShepherdson. I heard Buck’sgun go off at my ear, andHarney’s hat tumbled offfromhishead.Hegrabbedhisgun and rode straight to theplacewherewewashid.Butwe didn’t wait. We startedthrough the woods on a run.Thewoodswarn’t thick, so Ilooked over my shoulder, tododge the bullet, and twice IseenHarneycoverBuckwithhis gun; and then he rode

away the way he come—toget his hat, I reckon, but Icouldn’t see. We neverstopped running till we gothome. The old gentleman’seyes blazed a minute—‘twaspleasure, mainly, I judged—thenhisfacesortofsmootheddown, and he says, kind ofgentle:“I don’t like that shooting

from behind a bush. Whydidn’tyoustep into the road,

myboy?”“The Shepherdsons don‘t,

father. They always takeadvantage.”MissCharlottesheheldher

head up like a queen whileBuckwastellinghistale,andher nostrils spread and hereyessnapped.Thetwoyoungmen looked dark, but neversaidnothing.MissSophiasheturned pale, but the colorcome back when she found

themanwarn’thurt.Soon as I could get Buck

downbythecorn-cribsunderthetreesbyourselves,Isays:“Didyouwant tokillhim,

Buck?”“Well,IbetIdid.”“Whatdidhedotoyou?”“Him? He never done

nothingtome.”“Well, then, what did you

wanttokillhimfor?”

“Why nothing—only it’sonaccountofthefeud.”“What’safeud?”20

“Why, where was youraised?Don’tyouknowwhatafeudis?”“Neverheardofitbefore—

tellmeaboutit.”“Well,”saysBuck,“afeud

is this way. A man has aquarrelwithanotherman,andkills him; then that otherman’sbrotherkillshim; then

the other brothers, on bothsides, goes for one another;thenthecousinschipin—andby-and-by everybody’s killedoff, and there ain’t no morefeud. But it’s kind of slow,andtakesalongtime.”“Has this one been going

onlong,Buck?”“Well I should reckon! it

started thirty year ago, orsom‘ers along there. Therewas trouble ’bout something

andthenalawsuittosettleit;andthesuitwentaginoneofthe men, and so he up andshotthemanthatwonthesuit—which he would naturallydo, of course. Anybodywould.”“What was the trouble

about,Buck?—land?”“I reckon maybe—I don’t

know.”“Well, who done the

shooting?—was it a

Grangerford or aShepherdson?”“Laws, howdo I know? it

wassolongago.”“Don’tanybodyknow?”“Oh, yes, pa knows, I

reckon,andsomeoftheotherold folks; but they don’tknow,now,whattherowwasaboutinthefirstplace.”“Has there been many

killed,Buck?”“Yes—right smart chance

of funerals. But they don’talways kill. Pa’s got a fewbuck-shot in him; but hedon’t mind it‘cuz he don’tweigh much anyway. Bob’sbeen carved up some with abowie,cm and Tom’s beenhurtonceortwice.”“Has anybody been killed

thisyear,Buck?”“Yes,wegotoneand they

got one. ‘Bout three monthsago,mycousinBud,fourteen

year old, was riding throughthewoods, on t’other side ofthe river, and didn’t have noweaponwithhim,whichwasblame’ foolishness, and in alonesome place he hears ahorse a-coming behind him,and sees old BaldyShepherdson a-linkin’ afterhimwithhisgun inhishandandhiswhitehaira-flying inthe wind; and ‘stead ofjumpingoffandtakingtothebrush, Bud ’lowed he could

outrunhim;sotheyhadit,nipand tuck, for five mile ormore, the old man a-gainingall the time; so at last Budseen itwarn’t any use, so hestopped and faced around soas tohave thebulletholes infront, you know, and the oldmanherodeupandshothimdown.Buthedidn’tgitmuchchance to enjoy his luck, forinside of a week our folkslaidhimout.”

“Ireckonthatoldmanwasacoward,Buck.”“I reckon he warn’t a

coward. Not by a blame’sight. There ain’t a cowardamongst them Shepherdsons—not a one. And there ain’tno cowards amongst theGrangerfords, either. Why,thatoldmankep’uphis endin a fight one day, for a halfan hour, against threeGrangerfords, and come out

winner. They was all a-horseback;helitoffhishorseandgotbehinda littlewood-pile, and kep’ his horsebeforehimtostopthebullets;buttheGrangerfordsstaidontheir horses and caperedaround the old man, andpepperedawayathim,andhepeppered away at them.Himandhishorsebothwenthomeprettyleakyandcrippled,butthe Grangerfords had to befetched home—and one of

‘em was dead, and anotherdiedthenextday.No,sir,ifabody’s out hunting forcowards, he don’t want tofool away any time amongstthem Shepherdsons, becuzthey don’t breed any of thatkind.”NextSundayweallwentto

church, about three mile,everybody a-horseback. Thementooktheirgunsalong,sodid Buck, and kept them

between their knees or stoodthem handy against thewall.The Shepherdsons done thesame. It was pretty ornerypreaching—all aboutbrotherly love, and such-liketiresomeness; but everybodysaid it was a good sermon,and they all talked it overgoing home, and had such apowerful lot to say aboutfaith, and good works, andfree grace, and

preforeordestination,21 and Idon’t know what all, that itdid seem tome to be one ofthe roughest Sundays I hadrunacrossyet.Aboutanhourafterdinner

everybody was dozingaround, some in their chairsandsomeintheirrooms,andit got to be pretty dull.Buckand a dog was stretched outonthegrassinthesun,soundasleep.Iwentuptoourroom,

andjudgedIwouldtakeanapmyself. I found that sweetMiss Sophia standing in herdoor,whichwasnexttoours,andshe tookme inher roomand shut the door very soft,and asked me if I liked her,andIsaidIdid;andsheaskedme if I would do somethingfor her and not tell anybody,and I said Iwould.Then shesaid she’d forgot herTestament, and left it in theseat at church, between two

other books andwould I slipout quiet and go there andfetch it to her, and not saynothing to nobody. I said Iwould. So I slid out andslipped off up the road, andthere warn’t anybody at thechurch, except maybe a hogor two, for there warn’t anylock on the door, and hogslikes a puncheon floor insummer-time because it’scool.Ifyounotice,mostfolksdon’tgotochurchonlywhen

they’ve got to; but a hog isdifferent.Says I to myself

something’s up—it ain’tnaturalforagirltobeinsuchasweataboutaTestament;soI give it a shake, and outdrops a little piece of paperwith “Half-past two” wroteon it with a pencil. Iransackedit,butcouldn’tfindanything else. I couldn’tmakeanythingoutofthat,so

I put the paper in the bookagain, and when I got homeandupstairs, therewasMissSophiainherdoorwaitingforme.Shepulledmeinandshutthe door; then she looked inthe Testament till she foundthepaper,andassoonassheread it she looked glad; andbefore a body could think,she grabbedme andgivemeasqueeze,andsaidIwasthebestboyintheworld,andnotto tell anybody. She was

mighty red in the face, for aminute, and her eyes lightedup and it made her powerfulpretty. I was a good dealastonished,butwhenIgotmybreath I asked her what thepaper was about, and sheaskedmeifIhadreadit,andIsaidno,andsheaskedmeifI could read writing, and Itold her “no, only coarse-hand,”cnandthenshesaidthepaper warn’t anything but a

book-mark tokeepherplace,andImightgoandplaynow.I went off down to the

river, studying over thisthing, and pretty soon Inoticed that my nigger wasfollowing along behind.Whenwewasoutofsightofthehouse,helookedbackandaround a second, and thencomesa-running,andsays:“Mars Jawge, if you’ll

come down into de swamp,

I’ll show you a whole stacko’water-moccasins.”Thinks I, that’s mighty

curious; he said thatyesterday.Heoughterknowabody don’t love water-moccasins enough to goaround hunting for them.Whatisheuptoanyway?SoIsays—“Allright,trotahead.”I followed a half a mile,

then he struck out over the

swampandwadedankledeepasmuchasanotherhalfmile.Wecometoa littleflatpieceof land which was dry andvery thick with trees andbushesandvines,andhesays—“You shove right in dah,

jist a few steps,Mars Jawge,dah’s whah dey is. I’s seed’mbefo‘,Idon’tk’yertosee‘emnomo’.”Then he slopped right

along and went away, andprettysoonthetreeshidhim.Ipokedintotheplacea-ways,and come to a little openpatchasbigasabedroom,allhung around with vines, andfound a man laying thereasleep—and by jings it wasmyoldJim!I waked him up, and I

reckoneditwasgoingtobeagrand surprise to him to seeme again, but it warn’t. He

nearly cried, hewas so glad,but he warn’t surprised. Hesaid he swum along behindme, that night, and heardmeyell every time, but dasn’tanswer, because he didn’twant nobody to pickhim up,and take him into slaveryagain.Sayshe—“I got hurt a little, en

couldn’tswimfas‘,soIwuzaconsidable ways behine you,towards de las’; when you

landed I reck‘ned I couldketch upwid you on de lan’’dout havin’ to shout at you,but when I see dat house Ibegintogoslow.I‘uzofftoofur to hear what dey say toyou—Iwuz’fraido’dedogs—but when it ‘uz all quietagin, I knowed you’s in dehouse, so I struck out for dewoods towait for day. Earlyin de mawnin’ some er deniggerscomealong,gwynetode fields, en dey tuckme en

showed me dis place, whahde dogs can’t track me onaccounts o’ dewater, en deybrings me truck to eat everynight,entellsmehowyou’sagitt’nalong.”‘Why didn’t you tell my

Jacktofetchmeheresooner,Jim?““Well, ‘twarn’t no use to

’sturb you, Huck, tell wecoulddosumfn—butwe’sallright, now. I ben a-buyin’

pots en pans en vittles, as Igotachanst,enapatchin’upderaf‘,nights,when—”“Whatraft,Jim?”“Ouroleraf‘.”“Youmean to say our old

raft warn’t smashed all toflinders?”“No, she warn’t. She was

toreupagooddeal—oneen’of her was—but dey warn’tnogreatharmdone,on‘yourtrapswasmos’alllos’.Efwe

hadn’dive’sodeepenswumso fur under water, en denight hadn’ ben so dark, enwewarn’t so sk‘yerd,enbensich punkin-heads, as desayin’is,we’daseedderaf’.Butit’sjis’aswellwedidn‘t,’kase now she’s all fixed upaginmos’asgoodasnew,enwe’s got a new lot o’ stuff,too, in de place o’ what ‘uzlos’.”“Why, how did you get

hold of the raft again, Jim—didyoucatchher?”“How I gwyne to ketch

her,enIoutindewoods?No,someerdeniggers foun’herketchedonasnag,alongheahindeben‘,endeyhidherinacrick,’mongstdewillows,endey wuz so much jawin’‘bout which un ’um sheb‘longtodemos’,datIcometo heah ‘bout it pooty soon,so I ups en settles de trouble

by tellin’ ’um she don’tb‘long tononeuvum,but toyouenme;enIast’mifdeygwynetograbayoungwhitegenlman’s propaty, en git ahid’nforit?DenIgin’mtencents apiece, en dey’uzmighty well satisfied, enwisht some mo’ rafs ‘udcome along enmake ’m richagin. Dey’s mighty good tome, dese niggers is, enwhateverIwants’mtodofurme, I doan’ have to ast’m

twice, honey. Dat Jack’s agoodnigger,enpootysmart.”“Yes, he is. He ain’t ever

told me you was here; toldme to come, and he’d showme a lot ofwater-moccasins.If anything happens, he ain’tmixedupinit.Hecansayhenever seen us together, andit’llbethetruth.”I don’t want to talk much

about the next day. I reckonI’ll cut it pretty short.22 I

waked up about dawn, andwas agoing to turn over andgo to sleep again, when Inoticed how still it was—didn’t seem to be anybodystirring. That warn’t usual.NextInoticedthatBuckwasupandgone.Well, Igetsup,a-wondering, and goes downstairs—nobody around;everythingasstillasamouse.Just the same outside; thinksI, what does it mean? Downby the wood-pile I comes

acrossmyJack,andsays:23

“What’sitallabout?”Sayshe:“Don’t you know, Mars

Jawge?”“No,”saysI,“Idon’t.”“Well, den, Miss Sophia’s

run off! ‘deed she has. Sherunoffindenight,sometime—nobody don’t know jis’when—runoff togitmarriedto dat young HarneyShepherdson, you know—

leastways, so dey’spec. Defamblyfoun’itout,‘bouthalfan hour ago—maybe a littlemo’—en’ I tell you deywarn’t no time los‘. Sichanother hurryin’ up guns enhosses you never see! Dewomen folks has gone for tostir up de relations, en oleMars Saul en de boys tuckdeygunsen rodeupde riverroad for to try to ketch datyoungmanenkillhim’fo’hekin git acrost de river wid

Miss Sophia. I reck’n dey’sgwyne to be mighty roughtimes.”“Buck went off ‘thout

wakingmeup.”“WellIreck’nhedid!Dey

warn’t gwyne tomix you upinit.MarsBuckheloadeduphisgunen‘lowedhe’sgwyneto fetchhomeaShepherdsonorbust.Well,dey’llbeplentyun ’m dah, I reck’n, en youbet you he’ll fetch one ef he

gitsachanst.”I tookup the river road as

hard as I could put. By-and-by I begin to hear guns agoodwaysoff.WhenIcomein sight of the log store andthe wood-pile where thesteamboats lands, I workedalong under the trees andbrush till I got to a goodplace, and then I clumb upinto the forks of a cotton-wood that was out of reach,

and watched. There was awood-rankcofourfoothigh,alittlewaysinfrontofthetree,and first Iwas going to hidebehindthat;butmaybeitwasluckierIdidn’t.Therewasfourorfivemen

cavorting around on theirhorses in the open placebefore the log store, cussingandyelling,and trying togetat a couple of young chapsthat was behind the wood-

rank alongside of thesteamboat landing—but theycouldn’t come it. Every timeone of them showed himselfontheriversideofthewood-pile he got shot at. The twoboys was squatting back toback behind the pile, so theycouldwatchbothways.By-and-bythemenstopped

cavortingaroundandyelling.They started riding towardsthestore; thenupgetsoneof

theboys,drawsasteadybeadover the wood-rank, anddrops one of themout of hissaddle. All the men jumpedoff of their horses andgrabbed the hurt one andstarted to carry him to thestore;andthatminutethetwoboysstartedontherun.Theygothalf-waytothetreeIwasin before the men noticed.Then the men see them, andjumped on their horses andtook out after them. They

gained on the boys, but itdidn’t do no good, the boyshadtoogoodastart;theygotto the wood-pile that was infront ofmy tree, and slippedinbehind it, and so theyhadthe bulge on the men again.One of the boys was Buck,and the other was a slimyoung chap about nineteenyearsold.The men ripped around

awhile, and then rode away.

As soon as they was out ofsight,Isungout toBuckandtold him. He didn’t knowwhat to make of my voicecoming out of the tree, atfirst.Hewasawfulsurprised.Hetoldmetowatchoutsharpand let him know when themencomeinsightagain;saidthey was up to somedevilmentorother—wouldn’tbegone long. IwishedIwasout of that tree, but I dasn’tcome down. Buck begun to

cry and rip, and ‘lowed thathim and his cousin Joe (thatwas the other young chap)would make up for this day,yet.Hesaidhisfatherandhistwo brothers was killed, andtwo or three of the enemy.Said the Shepherdsons laidfor them, in ambush. Bucksaid his father and brothersought to waited for theirrelations—the Shepherdsonswas too strong for them. Iasked himwhat was become

of young Harney and MissSophia. He said they’d gotacrosstheriverandwassafe.I was glad of that; but theway Buck did take onbecause he didn’t manage tokillHarneythatdayheshotathim—I hain’t ever heardanythinglikeit.All of a sudden, bang!

bang! bang! goes three orfour guns—the men hadslipped around through the

woods and come in frombehind without their horses!Theboysjumpedfortheriver—both of them hurt—and asthey swum down the currentthe men run along the bankshooting at themand singingout,“Killthem,killthem!”Itmade me so sick I most felloutof the tree. Iain’tagoingto tell all that happened—itwouldmakemesickagain ifI was to do that. I wished Ihadn’t ever come ashore that

night, to see such things. Iain’tevergoingtogetshutofthem—lots of times I dreamaboutthem.I staid in the tree till it

begun to get dark, afraid tocome down. Sometimes Iheard guns away off in thewoods;andtwiceIseenlittlegangsofmengalloppast thelog store with guns; so Ireckonedthetroublewasstillagoing on. I was mighty

down-hearted; so I made upmymind I wouldn’t ever goanear that house again,because I reckoned I was toblame, somehow. I judgedthatthatpieceofpapermeantthatMissSophiawastomeetHarney somewheres at half-past two and run off; and Ijudged I ought to told herfather about that paper andthe curious way she acted,and then maybe he would alocked her up and this awful

mess wouldn’t everhappened.WhenIgotdownoutofthe

tree, I crept along down theriverbankapiece,andfoundthe two bodies laying in theedgeofthewater,andtuggedatthemtillIgotthemashore;thenIcovereduptheirfaces,and got away as quick as Icould. I cried a little when IwascoveringupBuck’sface,for he was mighty good to

me.It was just dark, now. I

never went near the house,butstruck through thewoodsandmadefortheswamp.Jimwarn’t on his island, so Itrampedoffinahurryforthecrick, and crowded throughthe willows, red-hot to jumpaboard and get out of thatawful country—the raft wasgone! My souls, but I wasscared! I couldn’t get my

breath for most a minute.Then I raisedayell.Avoicenottwenty-fivefootfromme,says—“Good lan‘! is dat you,

honey? Doan’ make nonoise.”It was Jim’s voice—

nothingeversoundedsogoodbefore.Irunalongthebankapieceandgotaboard,andJimhe grabbed me and huggedme,hewassogladtoseeme.

Hesays—“Laws bless you, chile, I

‘uz right down sho’ you’sdead agin. Jack’s been heah,he say he reck’n you’s benshot, kase you didn’ comehome nomo’; so I’s jes’ disminuteastartin’deraf’downtowards demouf er de crick,so’s to be all ready for toshove out en leave soon asJack comes agin en tells mefor certain you is dead.

Lawsy,I’smightygladtogityoubackagin,honey.”Isays—“All right—that’s mighty

good; they won’t find me,and they’ll think I’ve beenkilled, and floated down theriver—there’s something upthere that’ll help them tothink so—so don’t you loseno time, Jim, but just shoveoffforthebigwaterasfastaseveryoucan.”

Ineverfelteasytilltheraftwastwomilebelowthereandout in the middle of theMississippi.Thenwehungupoursignallantern,andjudgedthat we was free and safeoncemore.Ihadn’thadabitetoeatsinceyesterday;soJimhe got out some corn-dodgerscpandbuttermilk,andporkandcabbage,andgreens—there ain’t nothing in theworld so good, when it’s

cooked right—and whilst Ieatmysupperwetalked,andhad a good time. I waspowerful glad to get awayfrom the feuds, and so wasJim to get away from theswamp.Wesaid therewarn’tnohome like a raft, after all.Other places do seem socramped up and smothery,but a raft don’t. You feelmighty free and easy andcomfortableonaraft.23

CHAPTER19Twoorthreedaysandnightswentby;IreckonImightsaytheyswumby,theyslidalongso quiet and smooth andlovely. Here is the way weput in the time. It was amonstrous big river downthere—sometimes amile anda half wide; we run nights,and laid up and hid day-times;soonasnightwasmost

gone, we stopped navigatingandtiedup—nearlyalwaysinthe dead water under a tow-head; and then cut youngcotton-woods and willowsand hid the raft with them.Then we set out the lines.Next we slid into the riverand had a swim, so as tofreshenupandcooloff; thenwe set down on the sandybottom where the water wasaboutkneedeep,andwatchedthe daylight come. Not a

sound, anywheres—perfectlystill—just like the wholeworld was asleep, onlysometimes the bull-frogs a-cluttering, maybe. The firstthing to see, looking awayoverthewater,wasakindofdullline—thatwasthewoodsont‘otherside—youcouldn’tmakenothingelseout;thenapale place in the sky; thenmore paleness, spreadingaround; then the riversoftened up, away off, and

warn’t black any more, butgray;youcouldseelittledarkspots drifting along, ever sofaraway—tradingscows,andsuch things; and long blackstreaks—rafts; sometimesyou could hear a sweepscreaking; or jumbled upvoices, it was so still, andsounds come so far; and by-and-byyoucouldseeastreakonthewaterwhichyouknowby the lookof thestreak thatthere’sasnagthereinaswift

current which breaks on itand makes that streak lookthat way; and you see themistcurlupoffof thewater,and the east reddens up, andtheriver,andyoumakeoutalog cabin in the edge of thewoods, away on the bank ont’othersideoftheriver,beingawood-yard,likely,andpiledby them cheats so you canthrow a dog through itanywheres; then the nicebreezespringsup,andcomes

fanning you fromover there,so cool and fresh, and sweetto smell, on account of thewoods and the flowers; butsometimes not that way,becausethey’veleftdeadfishlayingaround,gars,andsuch,and they do get pretty rank;and next you’ve got the fullday, and everything smilinginthesun,andthesong-birdsjustgoingit!A little smoke couldn’t be

noticed, now, so we wouldtake some fish off of thelines, and cook up a hotbreakfast.Andafterwardswewould watch thelonesomeness of the river,and kind of lazy along, andby-and-by lazy off to sleep.Wake up, by-and-by, andlook toseewhatdone it,andmaybe see a steamboat,coughingalongupstream,sofaroff towards theothersideyou couldn’t tell nothing

about her only whether shewas stern-wheel or side-wheel;thenforaboutanhourthere wouldn’t be nothing tohearnornothing to see—justsolid lonesomeness. Nextyou’d see a raft sliding by,away off yonder, andmaybea galootcq on it chopping,because they’re most alwaysdoing it on a raft; you’d seethe ax flash, and comedown—you don’t hear nothing;

you see that ax go up again,andbythetimeit’sabovetheman’shead,thenyouhearthek‘chunk! it had took all thattime to comeover thewater.Sowewould put in the day,lazying around, listening tothestillness.Oncetherewasathick fog, and the rafts andthings that went by wasbeating tin pans so thesteamboatswouldn’trunoverthem.Ascowcroraraftwent

by so close we could hearthemtalkingandcussingandlaughing—heard them plain;butwecouldn’tseenosignofthem; it made you feelcrawly, it was like spiritscarrying on that way in theair. Jim said he believed itwasspirits;butIsays:“No, spirits wouldn’t say,

‘dernthedernfog.’”Soon as it was night, out

we shoved;whenwegot her

out to about the middle, weletheralone,andletherfloatwherever the current wantedher to; thenwe lit the pipes,and dangled our legs in thewater and talked about allkinds of things—we wasalwaysnaked,dayandnight,whenever the mosquitoeswould let us—the newclothesBuck’sfolksmadeforme was too good to becomfortable, and besides Ididn’t go much on clothes,

nohow.Sometimes we’d have that

whole river all to ourselvesfor the longest time. Yonderwasthebanksandtheislands,acrossthewater;andmaybeaspark—whichwasacandleina cabin window—andsometimes on the water youcouldseeasparkortwo—ona raft or a scow, you know;andmaybe you could hear afiddleora songcomingover

from one of them crafts. It’slovely to live on a raft. Wehad the sky, up there, allspeckled with stars, and weused to layonourbacksandlook up at them, and discussabout whether they wasmade, or only just happened—Jim he allowed they wasmade, but I allowed theyhappened; I judged it wouldhavetooktoolongtomakesomany. Jim said the mooncould a laid them; well, that

lookedkindofreasonable,soIdidn’tsaynothingagainstit,because I’ve seen a frog laymostasmany,soofcourseitcould be done. We used towatch the stars that fell, too,and see them streak down.Jim allowed they’d gotspoiled and was hove out ofthenest.Once or twice of a night

we would see a steamboatslipping along in the dark,

andnowand then shewouldbelchawholeworldofsparksupout of her chimbleys, andthey would rain down in theriver and look awful pretty;then shewould turn a cornerandherlightswouldwinkoutand her pow-wow shut offandleavetheriverstillagain;and by-and-by her waveswould get to us, a long timeafter she was gone, andjoggletheraftabit,andafterthat you wouldn’t hear

nothing for you couldn’t tellhowlong,exceptmaybefrogsorsomething.After midnight the people

on shore went to bed, andthen for two or three hoursthe shores was black—nomore sparks in the cabinwindows. These sparks wasour clock—the first one thatshowedagainmeantmorningwas coming, so we hunted aplacetohideandtieup,right

away.One morning about day-

break, I found a canoe andcrossed over a chute to themain shore—itwas only twohundred yards—and paddledabout a mile up a crickamongst the cypress woods,to see if I couldn’t get someberries. Just as Iwaspassinga place where a kind of acow-path crossed the crick,here comes a couple of men

tearingupthepathastightastheycouldfootit.I thoughtIwas a goner, for wheneveranybodywasafter anybody Ijudged it was me-or maybeJim. I was about to dig outfromthereinahurry,buttheywas pretty close to me then,and sung out and beggedmeto save their lives—said theyhadn’t been doing nothing,andwasbeingchasedforit—said therewasmenanddogsa-coming. They wanted to

jumprightin,butIsays—“Don’t you do it. I don’t

hear thedogsandhorsesyet;you’ve got time to crowdthrough thebrushandgetupthe crick a little ways; thenyou take to the water andwade down tome and get in—that’ll throw the dogs offthescent.”They done it, and soon as

theywas aboard I lit out forour tow head, and in about

five or tenminuteswe heardthe dogs and the men awayoff,shouting.Weheardthemcomealongtowardsthecrick,but couldn’t see them; theyseemed to stop and foolaround a while; then, as wegot further and further awayall the time, we couldn’thardlyhearthematall;bythetime we had left a mile ofwoods behind us and struckthe river, everything wasquiet,andwepaddledoverto

the tow-head and hid in thecotton-woodsandwassafe.One of these fellows was

about seventy, or upwards,andhadabaldheadandverygraywhiskers.Hehadanoldbattered-upslouchhaton,anda greasy blue woolen shirt,and ragged old blue jeansbritches stuffed into his boottops,andhome-knitgallusescs—no, he only had one. Hehad an old long-tailed blue

jeans coat with slick brassbuttons, flung over his arm,andbothof themhadbig fatratty-lookingcarpet-bags.24

Theotherfellowwasaboutthirty and dressed about asornery.Afterbreakfastwealllaid off and talked, and thefirst thing that comeoutwasthat these chaps didn’t knowoneanother.“What got you into

trouble?”saysthebaldheadto

t‘otherchap.“Well, I’d been selling an

article to take the tartar offthe teeth—and it does take itoff, too, and generly theenamel along with it—but Istaid about one night longerthan I ought to, andwas justintheactofslidingoutwhenI ran across you on the trailthis side of town, and youtold me they were coming,andbeggedmetohelpyouto

get off. So I told you I wasexpecting troublemyself andwould scatter out with you.That’s the whole yarn—what’syourn?”“Well, I’d ben a-runnin’ a

little temperancerevival thar,‘boutaweek,andwasthepetof the women-folks, big andlittle, for I was makin’ itmighty warm for therummies, I tell you, andtakin’ asmuch as five or six

dollars a night—ten cents ahead, children and niggersfree—andbusiness agrowin’all the time; when somehowor another a little report gotaround,lastnight,thatIhadaway of puttin’ in my timewithaprivatejug,onthesly.Anigger roustedmeout thismornin’, and told me thepeople was getherin’ on thequiet, with their dogs andhorses, and they’d be alongprettysoonandgiveme‘bout

half an hour’s start, and thenrun me down, if they could;and if theygotme they’d tarand feather me and ride meon a rail, sure. I didn’t waitfor no breakfast—I warn’thungry.”“Oldman,”saystheyoung

one, “I reckon we mightdouble-teamit together;whatdoyouthink?”“Iain’tundisposed.What’s

yourline—mainly?”

“Jourprinter,ctbytrade;doa little in patent medicines;theatre-actor—tragedy, youknow; take a turn atmesmerismandphrenology25when there’s a chance; teachsinging-geography school fora change; sling a lecture,sometimes—oh, I do lots ofthings—most anything thatcomeshandy,soitain’twork.What’syourlay?”“I’ve done considerable in

thedoctoringwayinmytime.Layin’ono’handsismybestholt—for cancer, andparalysis,andsichthings;andI k’n tell a fortune prettygood, when I’ve gotsomebody along to find outthe facts for me. Preachin’smy line, too; and workin’camp-meetin’s; andmissionaryin’around.”Nobody never said

anythingforawhile;thenthe

young man hove a sigh andsays—“Alas!”“What’re you alassin’

about?”saysthebaldhead.“To think I should have

livedtobeleadingsuchalife,and be degraded down intosuch company.” And hebegun to wipe the corner ofhiseyewitharag.“Dern your skin, ain’t the

company good enough for

you?” says the baldhead,prettypertanduppish.“Yes,itisgoodenoughfor

me;it’sasgoodasIdeserve;for who fetched me so low,when I was so high? I didmyself. I don’t blame you,gentlemen—far from it; Idon’t blame anybody. Ideserve it all. Let the coldworlddo itsworst;one thingI know—there’s a gravesomewhereforme.Theworld

may go on just as its alwaysdone, and take everythingfrom me—loved ones,property, everything—but itcan’t takethat.SomedayI’llliedowninitandforgetitall,and my poor broken heartwillbeatrest.”Hewentona-wiping.“Drot your pore broken

heart,” says the baldhead;“what are you heaving yourpore broken heart at us f r?

Wehain’tdonenothing.”“No,Iknowyouhaven’t.I

ain’tblamingyou,gentlemen.Ibroughtmyselfdown—yes,I did it myself. It’s right Ishouldsuffer—perfectlyright—Idon’tmakeanymoan.”“Brought you down from

whar?Wharwasyoubroughtdownfrom?”“Ah,youwouldnotbelieve

me; theworld never believes—let it pass—‘tis no matter.

Thesecretofmybirth—”“The secret of your birth?

Doyoumeantosay—”“Gentlemen,” says the

young man, very solemn, “Iwillrevealittoyou,forIfeelI may have confidence inyou.ByrightsIamaduke!”Jim’s eyes bugged out

when he heard that; and Ireckon mine did, too. Thenthe baldhead says: “No! youcan’tmeanit?”

“Yes. My great-grandfather, eldest sonof theDuke ofBridgewater, fled tothis country about the endofthelastcentury,tobreathethepure air of freedom; marriedhere,anddied,leavingason,his own father dying aboutthe same time. The secondsonofthelatedukeseizedthetitle and estates—the infantreal duke was ignored. I amthe lineal descendant of thatinfant—I am the rightful

Duke of Bridgewater; andhere am I, forlorn, torn frommy high estate, hunted ofmen, despised by the coldworld, ragged, worn, heart-broken, and degraded to thecompanionshipoffelonsonaraft!”Jim pitied him ever so

much, and sodid I.We triedtocomforthim,buthesaiditwarn’tmuchuse,hecouldn’tbe much comforted; said if

we was a mind toacknowledgehim,thatwoulddohimmoregood thanmostanything else; sowe saidwewould, if he would tell ushow. He said we ought tobow,whenwe spoke tohim,and say “Your Grace,” or“My Lord,” or “YourLordship”—and he wouldn’tminditifwecalledhimplain“Bridgewater,”whichhesaidwasatitle,anyway,andnotaname;andoneofusoughtto

waitonhimatdinner,anddoany little thing for him hewanteddone.Well, thatwas all easy, so

we done it. All throughdinner Jim stood around andwaited on him, and says,“Willyo’Gracehavesomeo’dis, or some o’ dat?” and soon, and a body could see itwasmightypleasingtohim.But theoldmangotpretty

silent, by-and-by—didn’t

havemuch to say,anddidn’tlook pretty comfortable overallthatpettingthatwasgoingon around that duke. Heseemedtohavesomethingonhis mind. So, along in theafternoon,hesays:“Looky here, Bilgewater,”

hesays,“I’mnationsorryforyou, but you ain’t the onlypersonthat’shadtroubleslikethat.”“No?”

“No, you ain’t. You ain’tthe only person that’s bensnaked down wrongfullyout’nahighplace.”“Alas!”“No, you ain’t the only

person that’s had a secret ofhis birth.” And by jing, hebeginstocry.“Hold! What do you

mean?”“Bilgewater, kin I trust

you?” says the oldman, still

sortofsobbing.“To the bitter death!” He

tooktheoldmanbythehandand squeezed it and says,“The secret of your being:speak!”“Bilgewater, I am the late

Dauphin!”You bet you Jim and me

stared, this time. Then thedukesays:“Youarewhat?”“Yes, my friend, it is too

true—your eyes is lookin’ atthisverymomentontheporedisappeared Dauphin, Looythe Seventeen, son of Looythe Sixteen and MarryAntonette.”“You! At your age! No!

You mean you’re the lateCharlemagne; you must besix or seven hundred yearsold,attheveryleast.”“Trouble has done it,

Bilgewater, trouble has done

it; trouble has brung thesegrayhairsand thisprematurebalditude. Yes, gentlemen,you see before you, in bluejeans and misery, thewanderin‘, exiled, trampled-onandsufferin’rightfulKingofFrance.”Well,hecriedandtookon

so, that me and Jim didn’tknow hardly what to do, wewas so sorry—and so gladandproudwe’dgothimwith

us, too.Soweset in, likewedone before with the duke,andtriedtocomforthim.Buthe said it warn’t no use,nothing but to be dead anddonewithitallcoulddohimany good; though he said itoften made him feel easierand better for a while ifpeople treated him accordingtohisrights,andgotdownononekneetospeaktohim,andalways called him “YourMajesty,” andwaitedonhim

first at meals, and didn’t setdown in his presence till heasked them. So Jim and meset to majestying him, anddoingthisandthatandt‘otherfor him, and standing up tillhetolduswemightsetdown.Thisdonehimheapsofgood,and so he got cheerful andcomfortable. But the dukekind of soured on him, anddidn’tlookabitsatisfiedwiththe way things was going;still, the king acted real

friendly towards him, andsaid the duke’s great-grandfather and all the otherDukes of Bilgewater was agood deal thought of by hisfather and was allowed tocome to the palaceconsiderable; but the dukestaid huffy a goodwhile, tillby-and-bythekingsays:“Like as not we got to be

together a blamed long time,onthish-yerraft,Bilgewater,

andsowhat’stheuseo’yourbein’ sour? It’ll only makethingsoncomfortable. It ain’tmyfaultIwarn’tbornaduke,it ain’t your fault youwarn’tborn a king—so what’s theuse to worry?Make the besto’ things the way you find‘em,saysI—that’smymotto.This ain’t no bad thing thatwe’ve struck here—plentygrubandaneasylife—come,giveusyourhand,Duke,andlessallbefriends.”

The duke done it, and Jimandmewasprettygladtoseeit. It took away all theuncomfortableness, and wefelt mighty good over it,because it would a been amiserable business to haveanyunfriendlinessontheraft;forwhat youwant, above allthings, on a raft, is foreverybodytobesatisfied,andfeel right and kind towardstheothers.

It didn’t take me long tomake upmymind that theseliars warn’t no kings nordukes, at all, but just low-down humbugscu and frauds.But I never said nothing,neverleton;keptittomyself;it’s the best way; then youdon’t have no quarrels, anddon’t get into no trouble. Ifthey wanted us to call themkings and dukes, I hadn’t noobjections, ‘long as it would

keeppeaceinthefamily;anditwarn’tnousetotellJim,soI didn’t tell him. If I neverlearntnothingelseoutofpap,I learnt that the best way toget along with his kind ofpeople is to let them havetheirownway.

CHAPTER20They asked us considerablemany questions; wanted toknowwhatwecovereduptheraft thatway for,and laidbyin the day-time instead ofrunning—was Jima runawaynigger?SaysI—“Goodness sakes, would a

runawayniggerrunsouth?”No, they allowed he

wouldn’t.Ihadtoaccountforthingssomeway,soIsays:“My folks was living in

Pike County, in Missouri,whereIwasborn,andtheyalldied off but me and pa andmybrotherIke.Pa,he‘lowedhe’d break up and go downand live with Uncle Ben,who’s got a little one-horseplace on the river, forty-fourmile below Orleans. Pa waspretty poor, and had some

debts; so when he’d squaredup there warn’t nothing leftbut sixteen dollars and ournigger, Jim. That warn’tenough to take us fourteenhundred mile, deck passagenornootherway.Well,whentheriverrose,pahadastreakof luck one day; he ketchedthis piece of a raft; so wereckoned we’d go down toOrleansonit.Pa’sluckdidn’thold out; a steamboat runovertheforrardcornerof the

raft, one night, and we allwent overboard and doveunder thewheel; Jimandmecomeup,allright,butpawasdrunk,andIkewasonlyfouryearsold,sotheynevercomeup no more. Well, for thenext day or two we hadconsiderable trouble, becausepeople was always comingoutinskiffsandtryingtotakeJim away from me, sayingthey believed he was arunawaynigger.Wedon’trun

day-times no more, now;nightstheydon’tbotherus.“Thedukesays—“Leaveme alone to cipher

out a way so we can run inthe day-time if we want to.I’ll think the thing over—I’llinvent a plan that’ll fix it.We’ll let it alone for to-day,because of course we don’twant to go by that townyonder in daylight—itmightn’tbehealthy.”

Towards night it begun todarkenupand look like rain;the heat lightning wassquirtingaround,lowdowninthe sky, and the leaves wasbeginning to shiver—it wasgoingtobeprettyugly,itwaseasy to see that. So the dukeand the king went tooverhauling our wigwam, tosee what the beds was like.My bed was a straw tick—better than Jim‘s, which wasa corn-shuck tick; there’s

alwayscobsaroundaboutinashucktick,andtheypokeintoyou and hurt; and when youroll over, the dry shuckssound like you was rollingover inapileofdead leaves;it makes such a rustling thatyouwakeup.Well, thedukeallowed he would take mybed; but the king allowed hewouldn’t.Hesays—“I should a reckoned the

difference in rank would a

sejested to you that a corn-shuck bed warn’t just fittenfor me to sleep on. YourGrace’ll take the shuck bedyourself.”Jimandmewasinasweat

again, for a minute, beingafraid there was going to besome more trouble amongstthem; so we was pretty gladwhenthedukesays—“‘Tismyfatetobealways

ground into the mire under

the iron heel of oppression.Misfortune has broken myoncehaughtyspirit;Iyield,Isubmit; ’tis my fate. I amalone in the world—let mesuffer;Icanbearit.”Wegot awayas soonas it

wasgoodanddark.Thekingtold us to stand well outtowards the middle of theriver,andnotshowalighttillwegotalongwaysbelowthetown.Wecomeinsightofthe

little bunch of lights by-and-by—that was the town, youknow—and slid by, about ahalf a mile out, all right.When we was three-quartersof a mile below, we hoistedup our signal lantern; andabout ten o‘clock it comeonto rainandblowand thunderand lighten like everything;so the king told us to bothstayonwatchtilltheweathergot better; then him and theduke crawled into the

wigwamandturnedinforthenight.Itwasmywatchbelow,till twelve, but I wouldn’t aturned in, anyway, if I’d hada bed; because a body don’tseesuchastormasthateverydayintheweek,notbyalongsight.Mysouls,howthewinddid screamalong!Andeverysecondortwothere’dcomeaglare that lit up the white-capsforahalfamilearound,and you’d see the islandslooking dusty through the

rain, and the trees thrashingaround in the wind; thencomes a h-wack! —bum!bum! bumble-umble-um-bum-bum-bum-bum—andthethunder would go rumblingandgrumblingaway,andquit—andthenripcomesanotherflash and anothersockdolager.cv The wavesmostwashedmeoff the raft,sometimes, but I hadn’t anyclothes on, and didn’t mind.

We didn’t have no troubleabout snags; the lightningwas glaring and flitteringaround so constant that wecould see them plenty soonenoughtothrowherheadthiswayorthatandmissthem.I had the middle watch,

you know, but I was prettysleepybythattime,soJimhesaid he would stand the firsthalf of it for me; he wasalways mighty good, that

way, Jimwas. I crawled intothewigwam,butthekingandthe duke had their legssprawled around so therewarn’t no show forme; so Ilaid outside—I didn’t mindtherain,becauseitwaswarm,andthewaveswarn’trunningsohigh,now.Abouttwotheycome up again, though, andJimwasgoingtocallme,buthechangedhismindbecausehereckonedtheywarn’thighenough yet to do any harm;

but he was mistaken aboutthat, for pretty soon all of asuddenalongcomesaregularripper, and washed meoverboard. Itmost killed Jima-laughing. He was theeasiest nigger to laugh thateverwas,anyway.I took the watch, and Jim

he laid down and snoredaway; and by-and-by thestormletupforgoodandall;and the first cabin-light that

showed, I rousted him outand we slid the raft intohiding-quartersfortheday.The king got out an old

ratty deck of cards, afterbreakfast, and him and theduke played seven-up awhile, five cents a game.Then theygot tiredof it,andallowedtheywould“layoutacampaign,” as they called it.Thedukewentdownintohiscarpet-bag and fetched up a

lot of little printed bills, andread them out loud. One billsaid “The celebrated Dr.Armand de Montalban ofParis,”would “lecture on theScience of Phrenology” atsuchandsuchaplace,ontheblank day of blank, at tencentsadmission,and“furnishchartsofcharacterat twenty-five cents apiece.” The dukesaid thatwashim. In anotherbill he was the “worldrenowned Shaksperean

tragedian, Garrick theYounger,cw of Drury Lane,London.”Inotherbillshehadalotofothernamesanddoneother wonderful things, likefindingwaterandgoldwitha“divining rod,” “dissipatingwitch-spells,”and soon.By-and-byhesays—“But the histrionic musecx

is thedarling.Haveyouevertrodtheboards,cyRoyalty?”“No,”saystheking.

“You shall, then, beforeyou’re three days older,Fallen Grandeur,” says theduke. “The first good townwecome to,we’llhireahalland do the sword-fight inRichard III. and the balconyscene in Romeo and Juliet.Howdoesthatstrikeyou?”“I’m in, up to thehub, for

anything that will pay,Bilgewater, but you see Idon’t know nothing about

play-actn‘, and hain’t everseen much of it. I was toosmallwhenpapused tohave’em at the palace. Do youreckonyoucanlearnme?”“Easy!”“All right. I’m jist a-

freezn’ for something fresh,anyway. Less commence,rightaway.”Sothedukehetoldhimall

about who Romeo was, andwho Juliet was, and said he

wasusedtobeingRomeo,sothekingcouldbeJuliet.“But if Juliet’s such a

young gal, Duke, my peeledhead and my white whiskersis goin’ to look oncommonoddonher,maybe.”“No, don’t you worry—

these country jakes won’tever think of that. Besides,you know, you’ll be incostume, and that makes allthe difference in the world;

Juliet’sinabalcony,enjoyingthemoonlightbeforeshegoesto bed, and she’s got on hernightgown and her rufflednightcap. Here are thecostumesfortheparts.”He got out two or three

curtain-calico suits,whichhesaidwasmeedyevilarmorforRichardIII.and t‘otherchap,andalongwhitecottonnight-shirt and a ruffled night-capto match. The king was

satisfied; so thedukegotouthis book and read the partsover in the most splendidspread-eagle way, prancingaroundandactingatthesametime, to showhow ithadgotto be done; then he give thebooktothekingandtoldhimtogethispartbyheart.There was a little one-

horse town about three miledown the bend, and afterdinner the duke said he had

ciphered out his idea abouthow to run in daylightwithout it being dangersomefor Jim; so he allowed hewould go down to the townand fix that thing. The kingallowedhewouldgotoo,andsee if he couldn’t strikesomething. We was out ofcoffee,soJimsaidIbettergoalongwith themin thecanoeandgetsome.When we go there, there

warn’tnobodystirring;streetsempty,andperfectlydeadandstill,likeSunday.Wefoundasick nigger sunning himselfin a back yard, and he saideverybody that warn’t tooyoungor too sickor tooold,was gone to camp-meeting,about two mile back in thewoods. The king got thedirections, and allowed he’dgo and work that camp-meeting for all it wasworth,andImightgo,too.

Thedukesaidwhathewasafter was a printing office.We found it; a little bit of aconcern, up over a carpentershop—carpentersandprintersall gone to the meeting, andno doors locked. It was adirty, littered-up place, andhad inkmarks, and handbillswith pictures of horses andrunawayniggerson them,alloverthewalls.Thedukeshedhis coat and said he was allright, now. So me and the

king lit out for the camp-meeting.We got there in about a

half an hour, fairly dripping,for it was a most awful hotday.Therewasasmuchasathousand people there, fromtwenty mile around. Thewoodswas full of teams andwagons,hitchedeverywheres,feeding out of the wagontroughsandstompingtokeepofftheflies.Therewassheds

madeoutofpolesandroofedover with branches, wherethey had lemonade andgingerbread to sell, and pilesof watermelons and greencornandsuch-liketruck.The preaching was going

on under the same kinds ofsheds, only they was biggerand held crowds of people.Thebencheswasmadeoutofoutside slabs of logs, withholesbored in theroundside

to drive sticks into for legs.They didn’t have no backs.The preachers had highplatforms to stand on, at oneendofthesheds.Thewomenhad on sun-bonnets; andsome had linsey-woolseyfrocks, some gingham ones,and a fewof the young oneshad on calico. Some of theyoung men was barefooted,and some of the childrendidn’thaveonanyclothesbutjust a tow-linen shirt. Some

of the old women wasknitting, and some of theyoung folks was courting onthesly.Thefirstshedwecometo,

thepreacherwas liningoutahymn.Helinedouttwolines,everybodysungit,anditwaskindofgrandtohearit,therewas so many of them andtheydoneitinsucharousingway; then he lined out twomore for them to sing—and

so on. The people woke upmore and more, and sunglouder and louder; andtowards theend, somebegunto groan, and some begun toshout. Then the preacherbeguntopreach;andbeguninearnest, too; and wentweaving first to one side ofthe platform and then theother, and then a leaningdownoverthefrontofit,withhis arms and his body goingall the time,andshoutinghis

wordsoutwithallhismight;and every now and then hewould hold up his Bible andspread it open, and kind ofpass it around this way andthat, shouting, “It’s thebrazen serpent in thewilderness!Lookuponitandlive!” And people wouldshout out, “Glory!—A-a-men!” And so he went on,and the people groaning andcryingandsayingamen:

“Oh, come to themourners’ bench! come,blackwithsin!(amen!)come,sickand sore! (amen!)come,lame and halt, and blind!(amen!) come, pore andneedy, sunk in shame! (a-a-men!) come all that’s worn,and soiled, and suffering!—come with a broken spirit!come with a contrite heart!comeinyourragsandsinanddirt!thewatersthatcleanseisfree, the door of heaven

standsopen—oh,enterinandbe at rest!” (a-a-men! glory,gloryhallelujah!)And so on. You couldn’t

make out what the preachersaid,anymore,onaccountofthe shouting and crying.Folks got up, everywheres inthe crowd, and worked theirway,justbymainstrength,tothemourners’bench,withthetears running down theirfaces; and when all the

mournershadgotup there tothefrontbenchesinacrowd,they sung, and shouted, andflungthemselvesdownonthestraw,justcrazyandwild.Well, the first I knowed,

thekinggot agoing; andyoucould hear him overeverybody; and next hewenta-charging up on to theplatform and the preacher hebegged him to speak to thepeople, and he done it. He

told them he was a pirate—beenapirate for thirtyyears,out in the IndianOcean, andhis crew was thinned outconsiderable, lastspring, inafight, andhewashomenow,to take out some fresh men,and thanks to goodness he’dbeen robbed last night, andputashoreoffofasteamboatwithout a cent, and he wasglad of it, it was theblessedest thing that everhappened to him, because he

wasachangedmannow,andhappyforthefirsttimeinhislife; and poor as he was, hewas going to start right offandworkhiswaybacktotheIndian Ocean and put in therest of his life trying to turnthepirates into the truepath;forhecoulddo it better thananybody else, beingacquaintedwithall thepiratecrews in that ocean; andthough it would take him along time to get there,

withoutmoney,hewouldgetthereanyway,andeverytimehe convinced a pirate hewouldsaytohim,“Don’tyouthankme,don’t yougivemeno credit, it all belongs tothemdearpeopleinPokevillecamp-meeting, naturalbrothers and benefactors ofthe race—and that dearpreacher there, the truestfriendapirateeverhad!”And then he busted into

tears, and so did everybody.Then somebody sings out,“Takeupacollectionforhim,takeupacollection!”Well,ahalf a dozenmade a jump todoit,butsomebodysingsout,“Let him pass the hataround!” Then everybodysaidit,thepreachertoo.So the king went all

through the crowd with hishat, swabbing his eyes, andblessing the people and

praising them and thankingthemforbeingsogoodtothepoor pirates away off there;and every little while theprettiest kind of girls, withthe tears running down theircheeks,wouldupandaskhimwould he let them kiss him,for to rememberhimby;andhe always done it; and someofthemhehuggedandkissedasmany as five or six times—andhewasinvitedtostayaweek; and everybodywanted

him to live in their houses,and said they’d think it wasan honor; but he said as thiswasthelastdayofthecamp-meeting he couldn’t do nogood,andbesideshewasinasweat to get to the IndianOcean right off and go toworkonthepirates.When we got back to the

raftandhecometocountup,he found he had collectedeighty-seven dollars and

seventy-five cents. And thenhehad fetchedawaya three-gallonjugofwhisky,too,thathefoundunderawagonwhenwewasstartinghomethroughthe woods. The king said,takeitallaround,it laidoverany day he’d ever put in inthe missionarying line. Hesaid itwarn’t no use talking,heathens don’t amount toshucks, alongside of pirates,toworkacamp-meetingwith.

The duke was thinkinghe’d been doing pretty well,tillthekingcometoshowup,but after that he didn’t thinkso so much. He had set upandprintedofftwolittlejobsfor farmers, in that printingomce—horse bills—and tookthemoney, four dollars.Andhe had got in ten dollarsworth of advertisements forthe paper, which he said hewould put in for four dollarsif theywouldpay inadvance

—so they done it. The priceofthepaperwastwodollarsayear, but he took in threesubscriptionsforhalfadollarapiece on condition of thempaying him in advance; theywere going to pay in cord-wood and onions, as usual,buthesaidhehadjustboughtthe concern and knockeddown the price as low as hecouldaffordit,andwasgoingtorunitforcash.Hesetupalittle piece of poetry, which

he made, himself, out of hisown head—three verses—kind of sweet and saddish—the name of it was, “Yes,crush, cold world, thisbreaking heart”—and he leftthat all set up and ready toprint in the paper and didn’tchargenothingforit.Well,hetook in nine dollars and ahalf, and said he’d done apretty square day’s work forit.

Thenheshowedusanotherlittle job he’d printed andhadn’tchargedfor,becauseitwasforus.Ithadapictureofa runaway nigger, with abundle on a stick, over hisshoulder, and “$200 reward”under it.26 The reading wasall about Jim, and justdescribedhimtoadot.Itsaidhe run away from St.Jacques’ plantation, fortymilebelowNewOrleans,last

winter,andlikelywentnorth,andwhoeverwouldcatchhimand send him back, he couldhave the reward andexpenses.“Now,” says the duke,

“after to-nightwe can run inthe daytime if we want to.Whenever we see anybodycoming,we can tie Jimhandandfootwitha rope,and layhiminthewigwamandshowthis handbill and say we

capturedhimuptheriver,andwere too poor to travel on asteamboat, so we got thislittle raft on credit from ourfriendsandaregoingdowntogetthereward.Handcuffsandchainswould lookstillbetteron Jim, but it wouldn’t gowell with the story of usbeingsopoor.Toomuchlikejewelry.Ropesarethecorrectthing—we must preserve theunities,cz as we say on the

boards.”We all said the duke was

pretty smart, and therecouldn’t be no trouble aboutrunningdaytimes.Wejudgedwecouldmakemilesenoughthat night to get out of thereach of the pow-wow wereckoned the duke’s work inthe printing officewas goingtomake in that little town—then we could boom rightalong,ifwewantedto.

Welaid lowandkept still,and never shoved out tillnearly ten o‘clock; then weslid by, pretty wide awayfrom the town, and didn’thoist our lantern till we wasclearoutofsightofit.When Jim called me to

take thewatch at four in themorning,hesays—“Huck,doesyoureck’nwe

gwyne to run acrost anymo’kingsondistrip?”

“No,” I says, “I reckonnot.”“Well,” says he, “dat’s all

right, den. I doan’ mine oneer two kings, but dat’senough. Dis one’s powerfuldrunk, en de duke ain’muchbetter.”IfoundJimhadbeentrying

to get him to talk French, sohe could hear what it waslike;buthe saidhehadbeenin this country so long, and

had so much trouble, he’dforgotit.

CHAPTER21Itwasafter sun-up,now,butwewent right on, and didn’ttieup.Thekingandtheduketurned out, by-and-by,lookingprettyrusty;butafterthey’d jumpedoverboardandtook a swim, it chipperedthem up a good deal. Afterbreakfast the king he took aseat on a corner of the raft,and pulled off his boots and

rolleduphisbritches,andlethis legs dangle in the water,so as to be comfortable, andlit his pipe, and went togetting his Romeo and Julietby heart.27When he had gotit pretty good, him and theduke begun to practice ittogether. The duke had tolearn him over and overagain, how to say everyspeech; and he made himsigh,andputhishandonhis

heart, andafterwhilehe saidhedoneitprettywell;“only,”he says, “youmustn’tbellowout Romeo! that way, like abull—you must say it soft,andsick,andlanguishy,so—R-o-o-meo! that is the idea;forJuliet’sadearsweetmerechildofagirl,youknow,andshedon’tbraylikeajackass.”Well, next they got out a

coupleoflongswordsthattheduke made out of oak laths,

and begun to practice thesword-fight—the duke calledhimself Richard III.; and thewaytheylaidon,andprancedaround the raft was grand tosee. But by-and-by the kingtripped and fell overboard,andafterthattheytookarest,andhadatalkaboutallkindsof adventures they’d had inothertimesalongtheriver.Afterdinner,thedukesays:“Well,Capet,we’llwantto

make this a first-class show,you know, so I guess we’lladd a little more to it. Wewant a little something toanswer encores with,anyway.”“What’s onkores,

Bilgewater?”The duke told him, and

thensays:“I’ll answer by doing the

Highland flingor the sailor’shornpipe;28 and you—well,

letme see—oh, I’ve got it—you can do Hamlet’s soliloquy”.“Hamlet’swhich?”“Hamlet’s soliloquy, you

know; the most celebratedthinginShakespeare.Ah,it’ssublime, sublime! Alwaysfetches the house. I haven’tgot it in thebook—I’veonlygotonevolume—butIreckonI can piece it out frommemory.I’lljustwalkupand

down a minute, and see if Ican call it back fromrecollection’svaults.”Sohewenttomarchingup

and down, thinking, andfrowning horrible every nowandthen;thenhewouldhoistup his eyebrows; next hewould squeeze his hand onhisforeheadandstaggerbackand kind of moan; next hewouldsigh,andnexthe’dleton to drop a tear. It was

beautiful toseehim.By-and-by he got it. He told us togiveattention.Thenhestrikesa most noble attitude, withonelegshovedforwards,andhis arms stretched away up,and his head tilted back,looking up at the sky; andthenhebeginstoripandraveand grit his teeth; and afterthat,allthroughhisspeechhehowled, and spread around,andswelleduphischest,andjustknocked the spotsoutof

any acting ever I see before.This is thespeech—Ilearnedit,easyenough,whilehewaslearningittotheking:

Tobe,ornot tobe; thatisthebarebodkinThat makes calamity ofsolonglife;For who would fardelsbear,tillBirnamWooddocometoDunsinane,But that the fear ofsomethingafterdeath

Murders the innocentsleep,Great nature’s secondcourse,And makes us ratherslingthearrowsofoutrageousfortuneThan fly to others thatweknownotof.There’s therespectmustgiveuspause:Wake Duncan with thyknocking!Iwouldthoucouldst;

Forwhowouldbear thewhipsandscornsoftime,The oppressor’s wrong,theproudman’scontumely,Thelaw’sdelay,andthequietuswhichhispangsmighttake,In the dead waste andmiddleofthenight,whenchurchyardsyawnIn customary suits ofsolemnblack,

But that theundiscovered countryfromwhosebourne no travelerreturns,Breathes forthcontagionontheworld,And thus the native hueofresolution,likethepoorcati’theadage,Is sicklied o‘er withcare,And all the clouds thatloweredo’erour

housetops,With this regard theircurrentsturnawry,And lose the name ofaction.‘Tis a consummationdevoutlytobewished.But soft you, the fairOphelia:Ope not thy ponderousandmarblejaws,Butgettheetoanunnery—go!da

Well, theoldmanhelikedthat speech, and he mightysoon got it so he could do itfirst rate. It seemed like hewasjustbornforit;andwhenhe had his hand in and wasexcited, it was perfectlylovely the way he would ripand tear and rair up behindwhenhewasgettingitoff.The first chance we got,

the duke he had some showbills printed; and after that,

for two or three days as wefloated along, the raft was amostuncommonlivelyplace,for there warn’t nothing butsword-fightingandrehearsing—as the duke called it—going on all the time. Onemorning,whenwewasprettywell down the State ofArkansaw, we come in sightofalittleone-horsetowninabigbend;sowetiedupaboutthree-quartersofamileaboveit, in the mouth of a crick

which was shut in like atunnel by the cypress trees,andallofusbutJimtookthecanoeandwentdowntheretoseeiftherewasanychanceinthatplaceforourshow.Westruckitmightylucky;

therewasgoingtobeacircusthere that afternoon, and thecountry people was alreadybeginning to come in, in allkindsofold shacklywagons,and on horses. The circus

would leave before night, soourshowwouldhaveaprettygood chance. The duke hehiredthecourthouse,andwewentaroundandstuckupourbills.Theyreadlikethis:

ShakspereanRevival!!!WonderfulAttraction!ForOneNightOnly!Theworldrenowned

tragedians,DavidGarrickthe

younger,ofDruryLane

Theatre,London,and

EdmundKeantheelder,oftheRoyalHaymarketTheatre,Whitechapel,

PuddingLane,Piccadilly,London,and

theRoyalContinentalTheatres,intheir

sublimeShakspereanSpectacle

entitledTheBalconyScene

inRomeoandJuliet!!!

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Juliet..................................................................................................

Assistedbythewholestrengthofthecompany!Newcostumes,new

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Also:

Thethrilling,masterly,andblood-curdlingBroad-swordconflictInRichardIII.!!!

RichardIII....................................................................................

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also:(byspecialrequest,)Hamlet’sImmortal

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BytheIllustriousKean!Donebyhim300

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ForOneNightOnly,Onaccountof

imperativeEuropeanengagements!

Admission25cents;childrenandservants,10

cents.Then we went loafing

around the town. The stores

and houses was most all oldshackly dried-up frameconcerns that hadn’t everbeenpainted;theywassetupthree or four foot aboveground on stilts, so as to beout of reach of the waterwhen the river wasoverflowed. The houses hadlittle gardens around them,but they didn’t seem to raisehardly anything in them butjimpson weeds, andsunflowers,andash-piles,and

old curled-up boots andshoes, and pieces of bottles,and rags, and played-out tin-ware. The fences was madeof different kinds of boards,nailed on at different times;andtheyleanedeverywhich-way,andhadgatesthatdidn’tgenerlyhavebutonehinge—a leather one. Some of thefences had beenwhitewashed, some time oranother, but the duke said itwas in Clumbus’s time, like

enough. There was generlyhogs in the garden, andpeopledrivingthemout.All the stores was along

one street. They had white-domestic awnings in front,and the country peoplehitched their horses to theawning-posts. There wasemptydry-goodsboxesunderthe awnings, and loafersroostingonthemalldaylong,whittling them with their

Barlow knives; and chawingtobacco, and gaping andyawning and stretching—amighty ornery lot. Theygenerly had on yellow strawhats most as wide as anumbrella, but didn’t wear nocoats nor waistcoats; theycalled one another Bill, andBuck,andHank,andJoe,andAndy, and talked lazy anddrawly, and usedconsiderable many cuss-words.Therewasasmanyas

one loafer leaning up againstevery awning-post, and hemostalwayshadhishandsinhis britches pockets, exceptwhen he fetched them out tolend a chaw of tobacco orscratch. What a body washearingamongstthem,allthetimewas—“Gimme a chaw ‘v

tobacker,Hank.”“Cain‘t—I hain’t got but

onechawleft.AskBill.”

MaybeBillhegiveshimachaw;maybeheliesandsayshe ain’t got none. Some ofthem kinds of loafers neverhasacentintheworld,norachawoftobaccooftheirown.Theygetalltheirchawingbyborrowing—they say to afellow, “I wisht you’d len’me a chaw, Jack, I jist thisminute give Ben Thompsonthe last chaw I had”—whichis a lie, pretty much everytime;itdon’tfoolnobodybut

a stranger; but Jack ain’t nostranger,sohesays—“Yougivehimachaw,did

you?sodidyoursister’scat’sgrandmother. You pay meback the chaws you’veawready borry’d off’ n me,LafeBuck ner, then I’ll loanyouoneor two tonof it,andwon’t charge you no backintrust,nuther.”“Well, I did pay you back

someofitwunst.”

“Yes, you did—‘bout sixchaws. You borry’d storetobacker and paid backnigger-head.”db

Store tobacco is flat blackplug,butthesefellowsmostlychaws the natural leaftwisted.When theyborrowachaw, they don’t generly cutit off with a knife, but theyset the plug in between theirteeth, and gnaw with theirteethandtugattheplugwith

their hands till they get it intwo—thensometimestheonethat owns the tobacco looksmournful at it when it’shanded back, and says,sarcastic—“Here, gimme the chaw,

andyoutaketheplug.”All the streets and lanes

was just mud, they warn’tnothing else but mud—mudasblackastar,andnighabouta foot deep in some places;

and twoor three inchesdeepin all the places. The hogsloafed and grunted around,everywheres. You’d see amuddy sow and a litter ofpigs come lazying along thestreet and whollop herselfrightdownintheway,wherefolkshadtowalkaroundher,and she’d stretch out, andshut her eyes, and wave herears, whilst the pigs wasmilking her, and look ashappyasifshewasonsalary.

Andprettysoonyou’dhearaloafer sing out, “Hi! so boy!sickhim,Tige!”andawaythesow would go, squealingmost horrible, with a dog ortwoswingingtoeachear,andthree or four dozen more a-coming; and then youwouldseeall the loafersgetupandwatch the thing out of sight,andlaughatthefunandlookgrateful for the noise. Thenthey’d settle back again tillthere was a dog-fight. There

couldn’t anythingwake themup all over, and make themhappy all over, like a dog-fight—unless it might beputting turpentine on a straydogandsettingfiretohim,ortyinga tinpantohis tailandseehimrunhimselftodeath.On the river front someof

the houses was sticking outover the bank, and they wasbowed and bent, and aboutready to tumble in. The

people had moved out ofthem. The bank was cavedaway under one corner ofsome others, and that cornerwas hanging over. Peoplelived in them yet, but it wasdangersome, becausesometimes a strip of land aswideasahousecavesinatatime. Sometimes a belt oflandaquarterofamiledeepwill start in and cave alongandcavealongtillitallcavesintotheriver inonesummer.

Suchatownasthathastobealways moving back, andback, and back, because theriver’salwaysgnawingatit.The nearer it got to noon

that day, the thicker andthicker was the wagons andhorses in the streets, andmore coming all the time.Familiesfetchedtheirdinnerswith them, from the country,and eat them in the wagons.There was considerable

whiskey drinking going on,and I seen three fights. By-and-bysomebodysingsout—“HerecomesoldBoggs!—

in from the country for hislittle old monthly drunk—herehecomes,boys!”All the loafers lookedglad

—I reckoned they was usedto having fun out of Boggs.Oneofthemsays—“Wonder who he’s a

gwyne to chaw up this time.

If he’d a chawed up all themen he’s ben a gwyne tochaw up in the last twentyyear,he’dhaveaconsiderbleruputation,now.”Anotherone says, “Iwisht

old Boggs ’d threaten me,‘cuz then I’d know I warn’tgwyne to die for a thousan’year.”Boggs comes a-tearing

alongonhishorse,whoopingandyellinglikeanInjun,and

singingout—“Cler the track, thar. I’m

on the waw-path, and thepriceuvcoffinsisagwynetoraise.”He was drunk, and

weaving about in his saddle;he was over fifty year old,and had a very red face.Everybodyyelledathim,andlaughed at him, and sassedhim,andhesassedback,andsaid he’d attend to them and

lay them out in their regularturns, but he couldn’t waitnow, because he’d come totown to kill old ColonelSherburn, and hismotto was“meat first, and spoon vittlestotopoffon.”Heseeme,androdeupand

says—“Whar’d you come f‘m,

boy?Youpreparedtodie?”Then he rode on. I was

scared;butamansays—

“He don’t mean nothing;he’salwaysacarryin’onlikethat, when he’s drunk. He’sthebest-naturedestoldfoolinArkansaw—never hurtnobody,drunknorsober.”Boggs rode up before the

biggeststoreintownandbenthis head down so he couldsee under the curtain of theawning,andyells—“Comeouthere,Sherburn!

Come out andmeet the man

you’ve swindled. You’re thehoun’ I’m after, and I’m agwynetohaveyou,too!”Andsohewenton,calling

Sherburneverythinghecouldlay his tongue to, and thewhole street packed withpeople listeningand laughingand going on. By-and-by aproud-looking man aboutfifty-five—andhewasaheapthe best dressed man in thattown, too—steps out of the

store, and the crowd dropsback on each side to let himcome. He says to Boggs,mighty ca’m and slow—hesays:“I’m tired of this; but I’ll

endureittilloneo‘clock.Tillone o’clock, mind—nolonger. If you open yourmouth againstme only once,after that time, you can’ttravel so far but I will findyou.”

Thenhe turnsandgoes in.The crowd looked mightysober; nobody stirred, andthere warn’t no morelaughing. Boggs rode offblackguarding Sherburn asloud as he could yell, alldown the street; and prettysoonbackhecomesandstopsbefore the store, stillkeepingit up. Some men crowdedaround him and tried to gethim to shut up, but hewouldn’t; they told him it

would be one o‘clock inabout fifteenminutes, and sohe must go home—he mustgo right away. But it didn’tdonogood.Hecussedaway,with all his might, andthrowed his hat down in themud and rode over it, andpretty soon away he went a-ragingdown the street again,with his gray hair a-flying.Everybody that could get achanceathimtried theirbestto coax him off of his horse

sotheycouldlockhimupandget him sober; but it warn’tno use—up the street hewould tear again, and giveSherburn another cussing.By-and-bysomebodysays—“Go for his daughter!—

quick, go for his daughter;sometimeshe’ll listen to her.Ifanybodycanpersuadehim,shecan.”So somebody started on a

run. I walked down street a

ways, and stopped. In aboutfive or ten minutes, herecomes Boggs again—but noton his horse. He was a-reeling across the streettowardsme,bareheaded,withafriendonbothsidesofhimaholtofhisarmsandhurryinghimalong.Hewasquiet,andlookeduneasy;andhewarn’thanging back any, but wasdoing some of the hurryinghimself. Somebody sings out—

“Boggs!”I looked over there to see

who said it, and it was thatColonel Sherburn. He wasstandingperfectlystill, in thestreet,andhadapistolraisedinhisrighthand—notaimingit,butholding itoutwith thebarrel tilted up towards thesky.ThesamesecondIseeayounggirlcomingontherun,andtwomenwithher.Boggsand themen turned round, to

seewhocalledhim,andwhenthey see the pistol the menjumped to one side, and thepistolbarrelcomedownslowand steady to a level—bothbarrelscocked.Boggsthrowsup both of his hands, andsays, “O Lord, don’t shoot!”Bang!goesthefirstshot,andhe staggers back clawing atthe air—bang! goes thesecond one, and he tumblesbackwards onto the ground,heavy and solid, with his

arms spread out. That younggirlscreamedout,andcomesrushing,anddownshethrowsherself on her father, crying,and saying, “Oh, he’s killedhim, he’s killed him!” Thecrowdcloseduparoundthem,and shouldered and jammedone another,with their necksstretched, trying to see, andpeopleontheinsidetryingtoshove them back, andshouting, “Back, back! givehimair,givehimair!”

ColonelSherburnhetossedhis pistol onto the ground,and turned around on hisheelsandwalkedoff.TheytookBoggstoalittle

drugstore,thecrowdpressingaround,justthesame,andthewhole town following, and Irushed and got a good placeat the window, where I wasclosetohimandcouldseein.They laid him on the floor,andputonelargeBibleunder

hishead, andopenedanotherone and spread it on hisbreast—buttheytoreopenhisshirt first, and I seen whereoneofthebulletswentin.Hemade about a dozen longgasps, his breast lifting theBible up when he drawed inhisbreath,andlettingitdownagainwhenhebreatheditout—and after that he laid still;he was dead. Then theypulled his daughter awayfrom him, screaming and

crying, and tookheroff.Shewas about sixteen, and verysweetandgentle-looking,butawfulpaleandscared.Well,prettysoonthewhole

town was there, squirmingand scroug ing and pushingand shoving to get at thewindowandhavea look,butpeople that had the placeswouldn’t give them up, andfolksbehindthemwassayingall the time, “Say, now,

you’ve looked enough, youfellows;‘taintrightand’taintfair, for you to stay thar allthe time, and never givenobody a chance; other folkshas their rights as well asyou.”There was considerable

jawing back, so I slid out,thinking maybe there wasgoing to be trouble. Thestreets was full, andeverybody was excited.

Everybody that seen theshooting was telling how ithappened,andtherewasabigcrowd packed around eachone of these fellows,stretching their necks andlistening. One long lankyman,withlonghairandabigwhite fur stove-pipe hat onthe back of his head, and acrooked-handled cane,markedout theplaceson theground where Boggs stood,and where Sherburn stood,

andthepeoplefollowinghimaround from one place tot‘other and watchingeverything he done, andbobbing their heads to showtheyunderstood,andstoopingalittleandrestingtheirhandson their thighs to watch himmarktheplacesonthegroundwith his cane; and then hestood up straight and stiffwhere Sherburn had stood,frowning and having his hat-brimdownoverhiseyes,and

sung out, “Boggs!” and thenfetchedhiscanedownslowtoa level, and says “Bang!”staggered backwards, says“Bang!”again,andfelldownflat on his back. The peoplethathadseenthethingsaidhedone it perfect; said it wasjust exactly the way it allhappened.Thenasmuchasadozen people got out theirbottlesandtreatedhim.Well,by-and-bysomebody

said Sherburn ought to belynched. In about a minuteeverybody was saying it; soaway they went, mad andyelling, and snatching downevery clothes-line they cometo,todothehangingwith.

CHAPTER22They swarmed up the streettowardsSherburn’s house, a-whooping and yelling andraging like Injuns, andeverything had to clear theway or get run over andtromped tomush, and it wasawful to see. Children washeeling it ahead of the mob,screaming and trying to getout of the way; and every

window along the road wasfull of women’s heads, andthere was nigger boys inevery tree, and bucks andwenches looking over everyfence;29 and as soon as themobwouldgetnearlytothemtheywouldbreakandskaddlebackoutofreach.Lotsofthewomen and girls was cryingandtakingon,scaredmosttodeath.They swarmed up in front

ofSherburn’spalingsasthickas they could jam together,and you couldn’t hearyourselfthinkforthenoise.Itwas a little twenty-foot yard.Some sung out “Tear downthe fence! tear down thefence!” Then there was aracket of ripping and tearingand smashing, and down shegoes,andthefrontwallofthecrowdbegins to roll in likeawave.

Just then Sherburn stepsoutontotheroofofhislittlefront porch, with a double-barrel gun in his hand, andtakes his stand, perfectlyca’m and deliberate, notsaying a word. The racketstopped,andthewavesuckedback.Sherburnneversaidaword

—just stood there, lookingdown.Thestillnesswasawfulcreepy and uncomfortable.

Sherburn run his eye slowalong the crowd; andwhereveritstruck,thepeopletried a little to outgaze him,but they couldn’t; theydroppedtheireyesandlookedsneaky. Then pretty soonSherburnsortoflaughed;notthepleasantkind,butthekindthatmakesyoufeellikewhenyou are eating bread that’sgotsandinit.Then he says, slow and

scornful:“The idea of you lynching

anybody! It’s amusing. Theideaofyou thinkingyouhadpluckenoughtolynchaman!Becauseyou’rebraveenoughto tar and feather poorfriendless cast-out womenthatcomealonghere,didthatmake you think you had gritenoughtolayyourhandsonaman? Why, a man’s safe inthe hands of ten thousand of

your kind—as long as it’sday-time and you’re notbehindhim.“Do I know you? I know

youclearthrough.Iwasbornand raised in the South, andI’ve lived in the North; so Iknow the average all around.Theaverageman’sacoward.In theNorth he lets anybodywalk over him thatwants to,andgoeshomeandprays fora humble spirit to bear it. In

the South one man, all byhimself, has stopped a stagefull of men, in the day-time,and robbed the lot. Yournewspapers call you a bravepeoplesomuchthatyouthinkyouarebraverthananyotherpeople—whereas you’re justasbrave,andnobraver.Whydon’t your juries hangmurderers? Because they’reafraid the man’s friends willshootthemintheback,inthedark—and it’s justwhat they

woulddo.“So they always acquit;

and then a man goes in thenight,withahundredmaskedcowards at his back, andlynches the rascal. Yourmistake is, that you didn’tbring amanwith you; that’sonemistake, and the other isthat you didn’t come in thedark, and fetch your masks.Youbroughtpartofaman—BuckHarkness,there—andif

you hadn’t had him to startyou, you’d a taken it out inblowing.“Youdidn’twant tocome.

The average man don’t liketroubleanddanger.Youdon’tliketroubleanddanger.Butifonly half a man—like BuckHarkness, there—shouts‘Lynch him, lynch him!’you’reafraidtobackdown—afraid you’ll be found out tobewhatyouare—cowards—

and so you raise a yell, andhang yourselves onto thathalf-a-man’s coat tail, andcome raging up here,swearing what big thingsyou’re going to do. Thepitifulest thing out is amob;that’s what an army is—amob; they don’t fight withcourage that’s born in them,but with courage that’sborrowed from their mass,andfromtheirofficers.Butamob without anyman at the

head of it, is beneathpitifulness.Nowthethingforyou to do, is to droop yourtails and go home and crawlin a hole. If any reallynching’s going to be done,it will be done in the dark,Southern fashion; 30 andwhentheycomethey’llbringtheirmasks, and fetch amanalong. Now leave—and takeyour half-a-manwith you”—tossing his gun up across his

leftarmandcockingit,whenhesaysthis.The crowd washed back

sudden, and then broke allapart and went tearing offevery which way, and BuckHarkness he heeled it afterthem, looking tolerablecheap.Icouldastaid,ifI’dawanted to, but I didn’t wantto.I went to the circus, and

loafed around the back side

till the watchman went by,and then dived in under thetent. I had my twenty-dollargold piece and some othermoney, but I reckoned Ibetter save it, because thereain’tnotellinghowsoonyouare going to need it, awayfrom home and amongststrangers,thatway.Youcan’tbetoocareful.Iain’topposedto spending money oncircuses,when there ain’t nootherway, but there ain’t no

useinwastingitonthem.Itwasarealbullycircus.It

wasthesplendidestsightthateverwas,whentheyallcomeriding in, two and two, agentleman and lady, side byside, the men just in theirdrawers and undershirts, andno shoes nor stirrups, andresting their hands on theirthighs, easy and comfortable—there must a’ been twentyofthem—andeveryladywith

a lovely complexion, andperfectly beautiful, andlooking just like a gang ofreal sure-enough queens, anddressed in clothes that costmillions of dollars, and justlitteredwithdiamonds.Itwasapowerfulfinesight;Ineversee anything so lovely. Andthen one by one they got upand stood, and went a-weaving around the ring sogentleandwavyandgraceful,the men looking ever so tall

and airy and straight, withtheir heads bobbing andskimming along, away upthereunder the tent-roof,andevery lady’s rose-leafy dressflappingsoftandsilkyaroundherhips,andshelookinglikethemostloveliestparasol.And then faster and faster

they went, all of themdancing, first one foot stuckout in the air and then theother,thehorsesleaningmore

andmore,andthering-mastergoing round and round thecentre-pole, cracking hiswhipand shouting“hi!—hi!”and theclowncracking jokesbehind him; and by-and-byall hands dropped the reins,and every lady put herknuckles on her hips andevery gentleman folded hisarms, and then how thehorses did lean over andhump themselves! And so,one after the other they all

skippedoff intothering,andmadethesweetestbowIeversee, and then scampered out,and everybody clapped theirhands and went just aboutwild.Well,allthroughthecircus

they done the mostastonishingthings;andallthetimethatclowncarriedonsoitmostkilledthepeople.Thering-master couldn’t ever saya word to him but he was

back at him quick as awinkwith the funniest things abody ever said; and how heever could think of so manyofthem,andsosuddenandsopat, was what I couldn’tnoway understand. Why, Icouldn’tathoughtofthemina year. And by-and-by adrunk man tried to get intothe ring—said he wanted toride; said he could ride aswell as anybody that everwas.Theyarguedandtriedto

keephimout,buthewouldn’tlisten, and the whole showcometoastandstill.Thenthepeoplebeguntohollerathimandmakefunofhim,andthatmadehimmad,andhebeguntoripandtear;sothatstirredup the people, and a lot ofmen begun to pile down offof the benches and swarmtowards the ring, saying,“Knock him down! throwhim out!” and one or twowomen begun to scream. So,

then,thering-masterhemadea little speech, and said hehoped there wouldn’t be nodisturbance, and if the manwould promise he wouldn’tmake no more trouble, hewould let him ride, if hethought he could stay on thehorse. So everybody laughedandsaidallright,andthemangot on. The minute he wason,thehorsebeguntoripandtear and jump and cavortaround, with two circusmen

hangingontohisbridletryingto hold him, and the drunkman hanging onto his neck,andhisheelsflyingintheairevery jump, and the wholecrowd of people standing upshoutingandlaughingtill thetearsrolleddown.Andatlast,sure enough, all the circusmen could do, the horsebroke loose, and away hewent like the very nation,round and round the ring,

with that sotdc laying downon him and hanging to hisneck, with first one leghanging most to the groundon one side, and then t‘otherone on t’other side, and thepeople just crazy. It warn’tfunnytome,though;Iwasallofatrembletoseehisdanger.But pretty soon he struggledup astraddle and grabbed thebridle,a-reeling thiswayandthat; and the next minute he

sprung up and dropped thebridle and stood! and thehorse agoing like a houseafire too. He just stood upthere,a-sailingaroundaseasyand comfortable as if hewarn’t ever drunk in his life—and then he begun to pulloffhisclothesandslingthem.He shed them so thick theykind of clogged up the air,and altogether he shedseventeen suits. And then,there he was, slim and

handsome, and dressed thegaudiest and prettiest youever saw, and he lit into thathorsewithhiswhipandmadehim fairly hum—and finallyskipped off, and made hisbow and danced off to thedressing-room, andeverybody just a-howlingwith pleasure andastonishment.Then the ring-master he

see how he had been fooled,

and he was the sickest ring-masteryoueversee,Ireckon.Why, it was one of his ownmen!Hehadgotupthatjokeall out of his own head, andneverletontonobody.Well,I felt sheepish enough, to betook in so, but I wouldn’t abeen in that ring-master’splace, not for a thousanddollars. I don’t know; theremay be bullier circuses thanwhatthatonewas,butIneverstruck them yet. Anyways it

was plenty good enough forme;andwhereverIrunacrossit, it can have all of mycustom,ddeverytime.Well,thatnightwehadour

show; but there warn’t onlyabout twelve people there;just enough to pay expenses.And they laughed all thetime,and thatmade thedukemad; and everybody left,anyway,beforetheshowwasover, butoneboywhichwas

asleep.SothedukesaidtheseArkansawlunkheadscouldn’tcomeuptoShakspeare;whattheywantedwaslowcomedy—and may be somethingruther worse than lowcomedy,hereckoned.Hesaidhe could size their style. Sonextmorninghegotsomebigsheetsofwrapping-paperandsomeblackpaint,anddrawedoff some handbills and stuckthem up all over the village.Thebillssaid:

ATTHECOURTHOUSE!

FOR3NIGHTSONLY!TheWorld-Renowned

TragediansDAVIDGARRICKTHEYOUNGER!

ANDEDMUNDKEANTHE

ELDER!OftheLondonandContinentalTheatres,

IntheirThrilling

TragedyofTHEKING’S

CAMELOPARDOR

THEROYALNONESUCH!!!Admission50cents.

Thenatthebottomwasthebiggestlineofall—

whichsaid:

LADIESANDCHILDRENNOTADMITTED.

“There,” says he, “if thatlinedon’t fetch them, Idon’tknowArkansaw!”

CHAPTER23Well, all day him and thekingwashardatit,riggingupa stage, and a curtain, and arowofcandles for footlights;and that night the housewasjam full of men in no time.Whentheplacecouldn’tholdno more, the duke he quittendingdoorandwentaroundthe backway and comeontothestageandstoodupbefore

the curtain, andmade a littlespeech, and praised up thistragedy, and said it was themostthrillingestonethateverwas; and so he went on a-bragging about the tragedyand about Edmund Kean theElder,whichwas to play themain principal part in it; andat last when he’d goteverybody’s expectations uphighenough,herolledupthecurtain, and the next minutethekingcomea-prancingout

on all fours, naked; and hewas painted all over, ring-streaked-and-striped, all sortsof colors, as splendid as arainbow. And—but nevermind the rest of his outfit, itwas just wild, but it wasawfulfunny.Thepeoplemostkilled themselves laughing;and when the king got donecapering, and capered offbehindthescenes,theyroaredandclappedandstormedandhaw-hawedtillhecomeback

and done it over again; andafterthat,theymadehimdoitanothertime.Well,itwouldamade a cow laugh to see theshinesdethatoldidiotcut.Then the duke he lets the

curtaindown,andbowstothepeople, and says the greattragedy will be performedonly two nights more, onaccounts of pressing Londonengagements,wheretheseatsis all sold already for it in

Drury Lane; and then hemakesthemanotherbow,andsays if he has succeeded inpleasing themand instructingthem, he will be deeplyobleegediftheywillmentionit to their friends and getthemtocomeandseeit.Twentypeoplesingsout:“What, is it over? Is that

all?”The duke says yes. Then

there was a fine time.

Everybodysingsout“sold,”dfand rose up mad, and wasagoing for that stage andthem tragedians. But a bigfine-looking man jumps uponabench,andshouts:“Hold on! Just a word,

gentlemen.” They stopped tolisten. “Weare sold—mightybadlysold.Butwedon’twantto be the laughing-stock ofthis whole town, I reckon,andneverhearthelastofthis

thingas longaswe live.No.Whatwewant,istogooutofherequiet,andtalkthisshowup, and sell the rest of thetown!Thenwe’llallbeinthesame boat. Ain’t thatsensible?” (“You bet it is!—thejedgeisright!”everybodysings out.) “All right, then—notawordaboutanysell.Goalong home, and adviseeverybody to come and seethetragedy.”

Nextdayyoucouldn’thearnothingaround that townbuthow splendid that showwas.House was jammed again,that night, and we sold thiscrowd the same way. Whenmeandthekingandthedukegot home to the raft, we allhada supper; andby-and-by,about midnight, they madeJimandmebackheroutandfloat her down themiddle oftheriverandfetchher inandhide her about two mile

belowtown.The third night the house

was crammed again—andthey warn’t newcomers, thistime, but people that was attheshowtheothertwonights.I stood by the duke at thedoor,andIseethateverymanthat went in had his pocketsbulging, or somethingmuffled up under his coat—and I see it warn’t noperfumery neither, not by a

longsight.Ismeltsicklyeggsby the barrel, and rottencabbages, and such things;and if I know the signs of adead cat being around, and Ibet Ido, therewas sixty-fourof themwent in. I shoved inthereforaminute,but itwastoovariousforme,Icouldn’tstandit.Well,whentheplacecouldn’tholdnomorepeople,the duke he give a fellow aquarter and told him to tenddoor for him a minute, and

thenhestartedaroundforthestage door, I after him; butthe minute we turned thecornerandwasinthedark,hesays:“Walk fast, now, till you

get away from the houses,andthenshinfortheraftlikethedickenswasafteryou!”I done it, and he done the

same. We struck the raft atthe same time, and in lessthan two seconds we was

glidingdownstream,alldarkand still, and edging towardsthe middle of the river,nobody saying a word. Ireckonedthepoorkingwasinforagaudytimeofitwiththeaudience; but nothing of thesort;prettysoonhecrawlsoutfromunderthewig-warn,andsays:“Well,how’dtheoldthing

panoutthistime,Duke?”Hehadn’tbeenup townat

all.We never showed a light

till we was about ten milebelow that village. Then welit up and had a supper, andthe king and the duke fairlylaughed their bones looseover the way they’d servedthempeople.Thedukesays:“Greenhorns, flatheads! I

knew the first house wouldkeepmumand let the restofthe town get roped in; and I

knew they’d lay for us thethird night, and consider itwastheirturnnow.Well,itistheir turn, and I’d givesomething to know howmuch they’d take for it. Iwould just like to know howthey’re putting in theiropportunity. They can turn itinto a picnic, if theywant to—they brought plentyprovisions.”Them rapscallions took in

four hundred and sixty-fivedollars in that three nights. Ineverseemoneyhauledinbythe wagonload like that,before.By-and-by,when theywas

asleepandsnoring,Jimsays:“Don’t it ‘sprise you, de

way dem kings carries on,Huck?”“No,”Isays,“itdon’t.”“Whydon’tit,Huck?”“Well,itdon‘t,becauseit’s

in thebreed.Ireckonthey’reallalike.”“But, Huck, dese kings o’

ourn is reglar rapscallions;dat’s jist what dey is; dey’sreglarrapscallions.”“Well, that’s what I’m a-

saying; all kings is mostlyrapscallions, as fur as I canmakeout.”“Isdatso?”“Youreadaboutthemonce

—you’ll see. Look at Henry

theEight;this’n’saSunday-School Superintendent tohim. And look at CharlesSecond, and Louis Fourteen,andLouisFifteen,andJamesSecond, andEdwardSecond,andRichard Third, and fortymore;besidesallthemSaxonheptarchies that used to riparound so in old times andraiseCain.My,youought toseen old Henry the Eightwhen he was in bloom. Hewas a blossom. He used to

marry a newwife every day,and chop off her head nextmorning.dgAndhewoulddoit just as indifferent as if hewasorderingup eggs. ‘Fetchup Nell Gwynn,’ he says.They fetch her up. Nextmorning, ‘Chop off herhead!’ And they chop it off.‘Fetch up Jane Shore,’ hesays;andupshecomes.Nextmorning ‘Chop off herhead’—and they chop it off.

‘RingupFairRosamun.’FairRosamun answers the bell.Nextmorning, ‘Chop off herhead.’ And he made everyone of them tell him a taleevery night; and he kept thatup till he had hogged athousand and one tales thatway,andthenheputthemallin a book, and called itDomesdayBook—whichwasa good name and stated thecase. You don’t know kings,Jim, but I know them; and

this old rip of ourn is one ofthe cleanest I’ve struck inhistory.Well,Henryhetakesa notion he wants to get upsome trouble with thiscountry.Howdoeshegoatit—give notice?—give thecountryashow?No.Allofasudden he heaves all the teain Boston Harbor overboard,andwhacksoutadeclarationof independence, and daresthem to come on. That washis style—he never give

anybody a chance. He hadsuspicions of his father, theDuke of Wellington. Well,whatdidhedo?—askhim toshowup?No—drowndedhiminabuttofmamsey,dh like acat. Spose people leftmoneylaying around where he was—what did he do? Hecollared it. Spose hecontracted to do a thing; andyou paid him, and didn’t setdown there and see that he

done it—whatdidhedo?Healways done the other thing.Sposeheopenedhismouth—whatthen?Ifhedidn’tshutitup powerful quick, he’d losea lie, every time. That’s thekindofabugHenrywas;andif we’d a had him along‘stead of our kings, he’d afooledthattownaheapworsethan ourn done. I don’t saythat ourn is lambs, becausethey ain’t, when you comeright down to the cold facts;

but they ain’t nothing to thatoldram,anyway.AllIsayis,kingsiskings,andyougottomake allowances. Take themall around, they’re a mightyornery lot. It’s the waythey’reraised.““But dis one do smell so

likedenation,Huck.”“Well,theyalldo,Jim.We

can’t help the way a kingsmells; history don’t tell noway.”

“Now de duke, he’s atolerble likely man, in someways.”“Yes, a duke’s different.

But not very different. Thisone’samiddlinghardlot,fora duke. When he’s drunk,there ain’t no near-sightedman could tell him from aking.”“Well, anyways, I doan’

hanker for no mo’ un um,Huck.DeseisallIkinscan‘”

“It’s the way I feel, too,Jim. But we’ve got them onour hands, and we got torememberwhat theyare, andmake allowances. SometimesI wish we could hear of acountrythat’soutofkings.”What was the use to tell

Jim these warn’t real kingsanddukes?Itwouldn’tadoneno good; and besides, it wasjust as I said; you couldn’ttellthemfromtherealkind.

I went to sleep, and Jimdidn’t call me when it wasmy turn. He often done that.WhenIwakedup,justatday-break, he was setting therewith his head down betwixthis knees, moaning andmourning tohimself. Ididn’ttake notice, nor let on. Iknowed what it was about.He was thinking about hiswife and his children, awayup yonder, and he was lowand homesick; because he

hadn’t ever been away fromhomebeforeinhislife;andIdo believe he cared just asmuch forhispeopleaswhitefolks does for their’n.31 Itdon’t seem natural, but Ireckon it’s so. He was oftenmoaning and mourning thatway,nights,whenhejudgedIwas asleep, and saying, “Po’little ‘Lizabeth! po’ littleJohnny! Its mighty hard; Ispec’ I ain’t ever gwyne to

seeyounomo’,nomo‘!”Hewas a mighty good nigger,Jimwas.32

But this time I somehowgottotalkingtohimabouthiswifeandyoungones;andby-and-byhesays:“What makes me feel so

bad dis time, ‘uz bekase Ihear sumpn over yonder onde bank like a whack, er aslam, while ago, en it minemeerdetimeItreatmylittle

’Lizabeth so ornery. Shewarn’t on‘y ’bout fo’ yearole, en she tuckde sk‘yarlet-fever,enhadapowful roughspell;butshegotwell,enoneday she was a-stannin’aroun’, en I says to her, Isays:“Shetdedo‘.”“She never done it; jis’

stooddah,kinersmilin’upatme. It make me mad; en Isays agin, mighty loud, I

says:“ ‘Doan’ you hear me?—

shetdedo’!‘“She jis’ stood de same

way, kiner smilin’ up. I wasa-bilin‘!Isays:“‘IlayImakeyoumine!’“Enwid dat I fetch’ her a

slapsidedeheaddatsonthera-sprawlin‘. Den I went intode yuther room, en’uz gone‘bout tenminutes; enwhen Icome back, dah was dat do’

a-stannin’ open yit, en datchilestannin’mos’rightinit,a-lookin’downandmournin’,endetearsrunnin’down.My,butIwuzmad,Iwasagwynefor de chile, but jis’ den—itwasado’datopeninnerds—jis’ den, ‘long comedewindenslamitto,behinedechile,ker-blam!—en my lan’, dechile never move‘!My breffmos’ hopouterme; en I feelso—so—Idoan’knowhow Ifeel. I crope out, all a-

tremblin’,encropearoun’enopendedo’easyenslow,enpoke my head in behine dechile,sof’enstill,enalluvasudden, I says pow! jis’ asloud as I could yell: Shenever budge! Oh, Huck, Ibust out a-cryin’ en grab herup inmy arms, en say, ‘Oh,de po’ little thing! de LordGod Amighty fogive po’ oleJim, kaze he never gwyne tofogive hisself as long’s helive!’Oh,shewasplumbdeef

en dumb, Huck, plumb deefen dumb—en I’d ben a-treat’nherso!”

CHAPTER24Next day, towards night, welaid up under a little willowtow head out in the middle,where therewas a village oneachsideoftheriver,andtheduke and the king begun tolay out a plan for workingthem towns. Jim he spoke totheduke,andsaidhehopeditwouldn’t take but a fewhours, because it got mighty

heavy and tiresome to himwhenhehadtolayalldayinthe wigwam tied with therope. You see, when we lefthim all alone we had to tiehim, because if anybodyhappened on him all byhimself and not tied, itwouldn’t look much like hewas a runaway nigger, youknow.Sothedukesaiditwaskind of hard to have to layropedallday,andhe’dcipher

outdisomewaytogetaroundit.Hewas uncommon bright,

the duke was, and he soonstruck it. He dressed Jim upinKingLear’soutfit—itwasa long curtain-calico gown,and a white horse-hair wigand whiskers; and then hetook his theatre-paint andpainted Jim’s face and handsand ears and neck all over adead dull solid blue, like a

man that’s been drowndednine days. Blamed if hewarn’t the horriblest lookingoutrage I ever see. Then theduke took and wrote out asignonashingleso—Sick flrab-but harmless

whennotoutofhishead.And he nailed that shingle

toa lath,dj and stood the lathupfourorfivefootinfrontofthe wigwam. Jim wassatisfied. He said it was a

sightbetter thanlayingtiedacoupleofyearseverydayandtremblingalloverevery timetherewas a sound. The duketoldhimtomakehimselffreeandeasy,andifanybodyevercome meddling around, hemusthopoutofthewigwam,andcarryonalittle,andfetcha howl or two like a wildbeast, and he reckoned theywouldlightoutandleavehimalone. Which was soundenough judgment; but you

taketheaverageman,andhewouldn’t wait for him tohowl. Why, he didn’t onlylook like he was dead, helooked considerable morethanthat.These rapscallions wanted

to try the Nonesuch again,because there was so muchmoneyinit,buttheyjudgeditwouldn’t be safe, becausemaybe the news might aworked along down by this

time. They couldn’t hit noprojectthatsuited,exactly;soat last the duke said hereckoned he’d lay off andwork his brains an hour ortwoandseeifhecouldn’tputup something on theArkansaw village; and theking he allowed he woulddrop over to t‘other village,without any plan, but justtrust in Providence to leadhim the profitable way—meaning the devil, I reckon.

We had all bought storeclothes where we stoppedlast; and now the king puthis’n on, and he told me toput mine on. I done it, ofcourse. The king’s duds wasallblack,andhedidlookrealswell and starchy. I neverknowed how clothes couldchange a body before. Why,before, he looked like theorneriest old rip that everwas;butnow,whenhe’dtakeoffhisnewwhitebeaverand

make a bow and do a smile,he looked that grand andgoodandpiousthatyou’dsayhehadwalkedrightoutoftheark, and maybe was oldLeviticusdk himself. Jimcleaned up the canoe, and Igot my paddle ready. Therewasabigsteamboatlayingatthe shore away up under thepoint,about threemileabovetown—beenthereacoupleofhours,takingonfreight.Says

theking:“Seein’howI’mdressed,I

reckon maybe I better arrivedown from St. Louis orCincinnati,orsomeotherbigplace. Go for the steamboat,Huckleberry; we’ll comedowntothevillageonher.”Ididn’thavetobeordered

twice, to go and take asteamboat ride. I fetched theshoreahalfamileabove thevillage, and then went

scootingalongthebluffbankintheeasywater.Prettysoonwe come to a nice innocent-looking young country jakedlsettingonalogswabbingthesweat off of his face, for itwas powerfulwarmweather;and he had a couple of bigcarpet-bagsbyhim.“Run her nose in shore,”

says the king. I done it.“Wher’youboundfor,youngman?”

“For the steamboat; goingtoOrleans.”“Git aboard,” says the

king. “Holdon aminute,myservant’llhe‘pyouwiththembags. Jump out and he’p thegentleman, Adolphus”—meaningme,Isee.I done so, and thenwe all

three started on again. Theyoung chap was mightythankful; said it was toughworktotinghisbaggagesuch

weather. He asked the kingwhere hewas going, and theking told him he’d comedown the river and landed attheothervillagethismorning,and now he was going up afewmile to seeanold friendon a farm up there. Theyoungfellowsays:“When I first see you, I

says to myself, ‘It’s Mr.Wilks, sure, and he comemighty near getting here in

time.’ But then I says again,‘No, I reckon it ain’thim,orelse hewouldn’t be paddlingup the river.’Youain’t him,areyou?”“No, my name’s Blodgett

—Elexander Blodgett—Reverend ElexanderBlodgett, I spose Imust say,asI’moneo’theLord’spoorservants. But still I’m jist asabletobesorryforMr.Wilksfor not arriving in time, all

the same, if he’s missedanythingbyit—whichIhopehehasn’t.”“Well, he don’t miss any

property by it, because he’llget that all right; but he’smissed seeing his brotherPeter die—which he mayn’tmind, nobody can tell as tothat—buthisbrotherwouldagiveanythinginthisworldtoseehimbeforehedied;nevertalked about nothing else all

these three weeks; hadn’tseenhimsincetheywasboystogether—and hadn’t everseenhisbrotherWilliamatall—that’s the deef and dumbone—Williamain’tmorethanthirtyorthirty-five.PeterandGeorgewastheonlyonesthatcome out here; George wasthemarried brother; him andhis wife both died last year.Harvey and William’s theonly ones that’s left now;and, as I was saying, they

haven’tgothereintime.““Did anybody send ‘em

word?”“Oh, yes; a month or two

ago, when Peter was firsttook;becausePeter said thenthat he sorter felt like hewarn’t going to get well thistime.You see, hewas prettyold,andGeorge’sg‘yirlswastoo young to be muchcompany for him, exceptMary Jane the red-headed

one; and so he was kinderlonesome after George andhiswifedied,anddidn’tseemtocaremuchtolive.Hemostdesperately wanted to seeHarvey—and William too,for that matter—because hewas one of them kind thatcan’tbeartomakeawill.Heleft a letter behind forHarvey,andsaidhe’dtoldinit where his money was hid,andhowhewantedtherestofthe property divided up so

George’sg’yirlswouldbeallright—for George didn’tleavenothing.And that letterwasall theycouldgethimtoputapento.”“Why do you reckon

Harvey don’t come? Wher’doeshelive?”“Oh,helivesinEngland—

Sheffield—preaches there—hasn’t ever been in thiscountry. He hasn’t had anytoo much time—and besides

hemightn’tagottheletteratall,youknow.”“Too bad, too bad he

couldn’t a lived to see hisbrothers, poor soul. YougoingtoOrleans,yousay?”“Yes, but that ain’t only a

partofit.I’mgoinginaship,next Wednesday, for RyoJaneero,dm where my unclelives.”“It’s apretty long journey.

But it’ll be lovely; I wisht I

wasagoing.IsMaryJanetheoldest? How old is theothers?”“Mary Jane’s nineteen,

Susan’s fifteen, and Joanna’sabout fourteen—that’s theonethatgivesherselftogoodworksandhasahare-lip.”“Poor things! to be left

aloneinthecoldworldso.”“Well,theycouldbeworse

off. Old Peter had friends,and they ain’t going to let

them come to no harm.There’s Hobson, the Babtis’preacher; and Deacon LotHovey, andBenRucker, andAbner Shackleford, and LeviBell, the lawyer; and Dr.Robinson, and their wives,andthewidowBartley,and—well,there’salotofthem;butthese are the ones that Peterwasthickestwith,andusedtowrite about sometimes,whenhe wrote home; so Harvey’llknow where to look for

friendswhenhegetshere.”Well, theoldmanhewent

on asking questions till hejustfairlyemptiedthatyoungfellow. Blamed if he didn’tinquire about everybody andeverything in that blessedtown, and all about all theWilkses; and about Peter’sbusiness—which was atanner;dn and aboutGeorge‘s—whichwasacarpenter;andaboutHarvey’s—whichwasa

dissentering minister; and soon,andsoon.Thenhesays:“What did you want to

walk all the way up to thesteamboatfor?”“Because she’s a big

Orleans boat, and I wasafeard she mightn’t stopthere.Whenthey’redeeptheywon’t stop for a hail. ACincinnati boat will, but thisisaSt.Louisone.”“Was Peter Wilks well

off?”“Oh, yes, pretty well off.

He had houses and land, andit’s reckoned he left three orfour thousand in cash hid upsom‘ers.”“When did you say he

died?”“Ididn’tsay,butitwaslast

night.”“Funeral to-morrow,

likely?”“Yes, ‘bout the middle of

theday.”“Well, it’s all terrible sad;

but we’ve all got to go, onetime or another. Sowhat wewant todo is tobeprepared;thenwe’reallright.”“Yes,sir,it’sthebestway.

Mausedtoalwayssaythat.”When we struck the boat,

she was about done loading,and pretty soon she got off.The king never said nothingabout going aboard, so I lost

my ride, after all. When theboatwasgone,thekingmademepaddleupanothermiletoalonesomeplace,andthenhegotashore,andsays:“Now hustle back, right

off, and fetch the duke uphere, and the new carpet-bags.Andifhe’sgoneovertot‘otherside,gooverthereandgit him. And tell him to githimself up regardless. Shovealong,now.”

I see what be was up to;but I never said nothing, ofcourse.WhenIgotbackwiththe duke, we hid the canoeand then they set down on alog, and the king told himeverything, just like theyoung fellow had said it—everylastwordof it.Andallthetimehewasadoingit,hetried to talk like anEnglishman; and he done itprettywelltoo,foraslouch.Ican’t imitate him, and so I

ain’t agoing to try to; but hereally done it pretty good.Thenhesays:“How are you on the deef

anddumb,Bilgewater?”The duke said, leave him

alone for that; said he hadplayed a deef and dumbperson on the histrionicboards. So then they waitedforasteamboat.About the middle of the

afternoon a couple of little

boats come along, but theydidn’t come from highenough up the river; but atlast therewas a big one, andthey hailed her. She sent outher yawl,do and we wentaboard, and she was fromCincinnati; and when theyfound we only wanted to gofour or five mile, they wasboomingmad, and give us acussing, and said theywouldn’t land us. But the

kingwasca’m.Hesays:“Ifgentlemenkinaffordto

payadollaramileapiece, tobe took on and put off in ayawl, a steamboat kin affordtocarry‘em,can’tit?”Sotheysofteneddownand

saiditwasallright;andwhenwe got to the village, theyyawledusashore.About twodozen men flocked down,when they see the yawl acoming; and when the king

says—“Kinanyofyougentlemen

tellmewher’Mr.PeterWilkslives?” they give a glance atoneanother,andnoddedtheirheads, as much as to say,“What d’ I tell you?” Thenoneofthemsays,kindofsoftandgentle:“I’msorry,sir,butthebest

wecandoistotellyouwherehe did live yesterdayevening.”

Sudden as winking, theornery old cretur went all tosmash,andfellupagainsttheman, and put his chin on hisshoulder, and cried down hisback,andsays:“Alas, alas, our poor

brother-gone, and we nevergot to see him; oh, it’s too,toohard!”Then he turns around,

blubbering, and makes a lotofidioticsignstothedukeon

his hands, and blamed if hedidn’t drop a carpet-bag andbust out a-crying. If theywarn’tthebeatenestlot,themtwofrauds,thateverIstruck.Well, the men gethered

around,andsympathizedwiththem, and said all sorts ofkind things to them, andcarried their carpet-bags upthehillforthem,andletthemlean on them and cry, andtold the king all about his

brother’s last moments, andthe king he told it all overagain on his hands to theduke, and both of them tookonaboutthatdeadtannerlikethey’d lost the twelvedisciples. Well, if ever Istruck anything like it, I’m anigger. It was enough tomake a body ashamedof thehumanrace.

CHAPTER25The news was all over townin two minutes, and youcould see the people tearingdownon the run, from everywhich way, some of themputtingon their coatsas theycome.Pretty soonwewas inthe middle of a crowd, andthenoiseofthetrampingwaslike a soldier-march. Thewindows and dooryards was

full; and every minutesomebodywould say, over afence:“Isitthem?”And somebody trotting

along with the gang wouldanswerbackandsay,“Youbetitis.”Whenwegottothehouse,

the street in front of it waspacked, and the three girlswas standing in the door.Mary Jane was red-headed,

but that don’t make nodifference, she was mostawful beautiful, and her faceand her eyes was all lit uplike glory, she was so gladher uncles was come. Theking he spread his arms, andMary Jane she jumped forthem, and the hare-lipdpjumped for the duke, andthere they had it! Everybodymost,leastwayswomen,criedfor joy to see them meet

again at last and have suchgoodtimes.Then the king he hunched

the duke, private—I see himdo it—and then he lookedaround and see the coffin,over in the corner on twochairs; so then, him and theduke,withahandacrosseachother’s shoulder, and t‘otherhand to their eyes, walkedslow and solemn over there,everybody dropping back to

give them room, and all thetalk and noise stopping,people saying “Sh!” and allthemen taking their hats offand drooping their heads, soyou could a heard a pin fall.And when they got there,they bent over and looked inthecoffin,andtookonesight,and then they bust out acrying so you could a heardthem to Orleans, most; andthen they put their armsaround each other’s necks,

and hung their chins overeach other’s shoulders; andthen for three minutes, ormaybe four, I never see twomen leak theway they done.And mind you, everybodywas doing the same; and theplace was that damp I neverseeanythinglikeit.Thenoneofthemgotononesideofthecoffin, and t‘other on t’otherside, and they kneeled downand rested their foreheads onthecoffin, and leton topray

all to theirselves.Well,whenitcometo that, itworkedthecrowd like you never seeanything like it, and soeverybody broke down andwenttosobbingrightoutloud—the poor girls, too; andevery woman, nearly, wentuptothegirls,withoutsayinga word, and kissed them,solemn, on the forehead, andthen put their hand on theirhead, and looked up towardsthe sky, with the tears

running down, and thenbusted out and went offsobbing and swabbing, andgivethenextwomanashow.I never see anything sodisgusting.Well, by-and-by the king

hegetsupandcomesforwardalittle,andworkshimselfupandslobbersoutaspeech,allfull of tears and flap-doodledq about itsbeinga sore trialfor him and his poor brother

to lose the diseased, and tomiss seeing diseased alive,after thelongjourneyoffourthousandmile, but it’s a trialthat’s sweetened andsanctified to us by this dearsympathy and these holytears, and so he thanks themoutofhisheartandoutofhisbrother’s heart, because outof their mouths they can‘t,words being too weak andcold, and all that kind of rotand slush, till it was just

sickening; and then heblubbers out a pious goody-goody Amen, and turnshimself loose and goes tocryingfittobust.And the minute the words

was out of his mouthsomebody over in the crowdstruckupthedoxolojer,drandeverybody joined in with alltheir might, and it justwarmedyouupandmadeyoufeelasgoodaschurchletting

out. Music is a good thing;and after all that soul-butterand hogwash, I never see itfreshen up things so, andsoundsohonestandbully.Then the king begins to

workhis jawagain, and sayshow him and his nieceswouldbegladifafewofthemain principal friends of thefamily would take supperhere with them this evening,andhelpsetupwiththeashes

of the diseased; and says ifhis poor brother layingyondercouldspeak,heknowswhohewouldname,fortheywasnamesthatwasverydearto him, and mentioned oftenin his letters; and so he willname the same, to-wit, asfollows, vizz:—Rev. Mr.Hobson, and Deacon LotHovey, andMr.BenRucker,and Abner Shackleford, andLeviBell, andDr.Robinson,and their wives, and the

widowBartley.Rev. Hobson and Dr.

Robinson was down to theend of the town, a-huntingtogether; that is, I mean thedoctor was shipping a sickmantot‘otherworld,andthepreacher was pinting himright. LawyerBellwas awayup to Louisville on somebusiness.But therestwasonhand, and so they all comeand shook hands with the

king and thanked him andtalked to him; and then theyshook hands with the duke,and didn’t say nothing butjust kept a-smiling andbobbing their heads like apassel of sapheads whilst hemade all sorts of signs withhis hands and said “Goo-goo—goo-goo-goo,”allthetime,likeababythatcan’ttalk.So the king he blattedds

along, and managed to

inquire about pretty mucheverybody and dog in town,by his name, and mentionedall sorts of little things thathappenedonetimeoranotherin the town, or to George’sfamily, or to Peter; and healwaysletonthatPeterwrotehimthethings,butthatwasalie, he got every blessed oneof them out of that youngflatheadthatwecanoeduptothesteamboat.

Then Mary Jane shefetched the letter her fatherleft behind, and the king hereaditoutloudandcriedoverit. It give the dwelling-houseand three thousand dollars,gold, to the girls; and it givethetanyard(whichwasdoinga good business), alongwithsome other houses and land(worth about seventhousand),andthreethousanddollarsingoldtoHarveyandWilliam, and told where the

six thousand cash was hid,down cellar. So these twofrauds said they’d go andfetch it up, and haveeverythingsquareandabove-board; and told me to comewith a candle. We shut thecellar door behind us, andwhentheyfoundthebagtheyspiltitoutonthefloor,anditwas a lovely sight, all themyaller-boys.dtMy,thewaytheking’s eyes did shine! He

slaps the duke on theshoulder,andsays:“Oh, this ain’t bully, nor

noth‘n!Oh,no, I reckonnot!Why, Biljy, it beats theNonesuch,don’tit!”The duke allowed it did.

They pawed the yaller-boys,andsifted them through theirfingers and let them jingledown on the floor; and thekingsays:“It ain’t no use talkin‘;

bein’ brothers to a rich deadman, and representatives offurrin heirs that’s got left, isthe line for you and me,Bilge. Thish-yer comes oftrust’n toProvidence. It’s thebestway,inthelongrun.I’vetried ’em all, and ther’ ain’tnobetterway.”Most everybody would a

been satisfied with the pile,and took it on trust; but no,they must count it. So they

counts it, and it comes outfour hundred and fifteendollarsshort.Saystheking:“Dern him, Iwonderwhat

he done with that fourhundredandfifteendollars?”They worried over that a

while, and ransacked allaround for it. Then the dukesays:“Well,hewasaprettysick

man, and likely he made amistake—I reckon that’s the

way of it. The best way’s tolet it go, andkeep still aboutit.Wecanspareit.”“Oh, shucks, yes, we can

spare it. I don’t k‘yer noth’n’boutthat—it’sthecount I’mthinkin’about.Wewanttobeawful square and open andabove-board,here,youknow.We want to lug this h-yermoney up stairs and count itbeforeeverybody—then ther’ain’t noth’n suspicious. But

when the dead man saysther’ssixthous’ndollars,youknow,wedon’twantto—”“Hold on,” says the duke.

“Lessmakeupthedefnsit”—and he begun to haul outyaller-boysoutofhispocket.“It’s amost amaz‘n’ good

idea, duke—you have got arattlin’ clever head on you,”saystheking.“BlestiftheoldNonesuch ain’t a heppin’ usout agin”—and he begun to

haul out yaller-jackets andstackthemup.It most busted them, but

they made up the sixthousandcleanandclear.“Say,”saystheduke,“Igot

anotheridea.Le’sgoupstairsand count this money, andthen take and give it to thegirls.”“Good land, duke, lemme

hug you! It’s the mostdazzling idea ‘at ever a man

struck.Youhavecert’nlygotthe most astonishin’ head Iever see.Oh, this is thebossdodge, ther’ ain’t nomistake‘bout it. Let ’em fetch alongtheir suspicions now, if theywantto—this’lllay‘emout.”When we got up stairs,

everybody gethered aroundthe table, and the king hecounted it and stacked it up,threehundreddollarsinapile—twenty elegant little piles.

Everybody looked hungry atit, and licked their chops.Then they raked it into thebagagain,and I see thekingbegin to swellhimselfup foranotherspeech.Hesays:“Friends all, my poor

brother that lays yonder, hasdonegenerousbythemthat’sleft behind in the vale ofsorrers.Hehasdonegenerousbythese-‘yerpoorlittlelambsthat he loved and sheltered,

and that’s left fatherless andmotherless.Yes, andwe thatknowed him, knows that hewould a donemoregenerousby’emifhehadn’tbenafeardo’woundin’hisdearWilliamand me. Now, wouldn’t he?Ther’ ain’t no question ‘boutit, inmy mind.Well, then—what kind o’ brothers woulditbe,that’dstandinhiswayat sech a time? And whatkind o’ uncles would it bethat ’d rob—yes, rob-sech

poorsweetlambsasthese’athelovedso,atsechatime?IfIknowWilliam—and I thinkI do—he—well, I’ll jest askhim.” He turns around andbegins tomakea lotof signsto the duke with his hands;and thedukehe looksathimstupid and leather-headed awhile,thenallofasuddenheseems to catch his meaning,and jumps for the king, goo-gooingwith all hismight forjoy, and hugs him about

fifteen times before he letsup. Then the king says, “Iknowed it; I reckon that’llconvinceanybodythewayhefeels about it. Here, MaryJane,Susan,Joanner,takethemoney—take it all. It’s thegift of him that lays yonder,coldbutjoyful.”Mary Jane she went for

him, Susan and the hare-lipwent for the duke, and thensuch another hugging and

kissing I never see yet. Andeverybody crowded up withthe tears in their eyes, andmost shook the hands off ofthem frauds, saying all thetime:“You dear good souls!—

how lovely!—how couldyou!”Well, then, pretty soon all

handsgottotalkingaboutthediseasedagain,andhowgoodhe was, and what a loss he

was, and all that; and beforelong a big iron-jawed manworkedhimself intherefromoutside, and stooda listeningand looking, and not sayinganything; and nobody sayinganything to him either,because the kingwas talkingand they was all busylistening. The king wassaying—in the middle ofsomething he’d started in on—

“—they bein’ particklerfriendso’thediseased.That’swhy they’re invited here thisevenin‘; but to-morrow wewant all to come—everybody; for he respectedeverybody, he likedeverybody, and so it’s fittenthat his funeral orgiesdu sh’dbepublic.”Andsohewenta-mooning

on and on, liking to hearhimself talk, and every little

while he fetched in hisfuneral orgies again, till theduke he couldn’t stand it nomore; sohewritesona littlescrap of paper,“obsequies,dvyouoldfool,”andfoldsitupand goes to goo-gooing andreaching it over people’sheads to him. The king hereads it, and puts it in hispocket,andsays:“PoorWilliam,afflictedas

he is, his heart’s aluz right.

Asksme to invite everybodyto come to the funeral—wants me to make ‘em allwelcome. But he needn’t aworried—it was jest what Iwasat.”Then he weaves along

again, perfectly ca‘m, andgoes to dropping in hisfuneral orgies again everynow and then, just like hedone before. And when hedoneitthethirdtime,hesays:

“I say orgies, not becauseit’s the common term,because it ain‘t—obsequiesbein’ the common term—butbecause orgies is the rightterm.Obsequiesain’tused inEngland no more, now—it’sgoneout.Wesayorgiesnow,in England. Orgies is better,because it means the thingyou’re after, more exact. It’sa word that’s made up out’nthe Greek orgo, outside,open,abroad;andtheHebrew

jeesum, to plant, cover up;hence inter. So, you see,funeral orgies is an open erpublicfuneral.”He was the worst I ever

struck. Well, the iron-jawedman he laughed right in hisface. Everybody wasshocked. Everybody says,“Why doctor!” and AbnerShacklefordsays:“Why, Robinson, hain’t

you heard the news? This is

HarveyWilks.”The king he smiled eager,

and shoved out his flapper,andsays:“Is it my poor brother’s

dear good friend andphysician?I—”“Keep your hands off of

me!” says the doctor. “Youtalk like an Englishman—don’t you? It’s the worseimitation I ever heard. YouPeterWilks’sbrother.You’re

afraud,that’swhatyouare!”Well,howtheyalltookon!

They crowded around thedoctor,andtriedtoquiethimdown, and tried to explain tohim, and tell him howHarvey’d showed in fortywaysthathewasHarvey,andknowed everybody by name,and the names of the verydogs,andbeggedandbeggedhim not to hurt Harvey’sfeelings and the poor girls’

feelings, and all that; but itwarn’t no use, he stormedrightalong,andsaidanymanthat pretended to be anEnglishman and couldn’timitate the lingo no betterthanwhathedid,wasafraudandaliar.Thepoorgirlswashanging to the king andcrying; and all of a suddenthe doctor ups and turns onthem.Hesays:“Iwasyourfather’sfriend,

and I’m your friend; and Iwarnyouas a friend, and anhonest one, that wants toprotectyouandkeepyououtof harm and trouble, to turnyourbacksonthatscoundrel,and have nothing to do withhim,theignoranttramp,withhisidioticGreekandHebrewas he calls it. He is thethinnest kind of an impostor—hascomeherewithalotofemptynamesandfactswhichhe has picked up

somewheres, and you takethem for proofs, and arehelped to fool yourselves bythese foolish friends here,who ought to know better.Mary JaneWilks, you knowme for your friend, and foryour unselfish friend, too.Now listen to me; turn thispitiful rascal out—I beg youtodoit.Willyou?”Mary Jane straightened

herself up, and my, but she

washandsome!Shesays:“Here ismy answer.” She

hove up the bag of moneyandputitintheking’shands,and says, “Take this sixthousanddollars,andinvestitfor me and my sisters anyway you want to, and don’tgiveusnoreceiptforit.”Then she put her arm

around the king on one side,and Susan and the hare-lipdone the same on the other.

Everybody clapped theirhands and stomped on thefloor like a perfect storm,whilst the king held up hishead and smiled proud. Thedoctorsays:“Allright,Iwashmyhands

ofthematter.ButIwarnyouallthatatime’scomingwhenyou’re going to feel sickwhenever you think of thisday”—andawayhewent.“Allright,doctor,”saysthe

king, kinder mocking him,“we’lltryandget‘emtosendfor you”—which made themalllaugh,andtheysaiditwasaprimegoodhit.

CHAPTER26Well, when they was allgone, the king he asksMaryJane how they was off forsparerooms,andshesaidshehad one spare room, whichwoulddo forUncleWilliam,andshe’dgiveherownroomtoUncleHarvey,whichwasalittle bigger, and she wouldturn into the room with hersistersandsleeponacot;and

up garret was a little cubby,with a pallet in it. The kingsaid the cubby would do forhisvalleydw—meaningme.SoMary Jane took us up,

and she showed them theirrooms, which was plain butnice.Shesaidshe’dhaveherfrocksandalotofothertrapstook out of her room if theywas in Uncle Harvey’s way,but he said they warn’t. Thefrocks was hung along the

wall, and before themwas acurtain made out of calicothat hung down to the floor.Therewasanoldhairtrunkinone corner, and a guitar boxin another, and all sorts oflittle knick-knacks andjimcracks around, like girlsbrisken up a roomwith. Theking said itwas all themorehomely and more pleasanterforthesefixings,andsodon’tdisturb them. The duke’sroom was pretty small, but

plenty good enough, and sowasmycubby.That night they had a big

supper,andallthemmenandwomenwasthere,andIstoodbehind the king and theduke’s chairs and waited onthem, and the niggerswaitedontherest.MaryJaneshesetat theheadof the table,withSusan along side of her, andsaid how bad the biscuitswas, and how mean the

preserves was, and howornery and tough the friedchickens was—and all thatkind of rot, the way womenalways do for to force outcompliments; and the peopleall knowed everything wastip-top, and said so—said“How do you get biscuits tobrownsonice?”and“Where,for the land’s sake did youget these amaz’n pickles?”and all that kind of humbugtalky-talk,justthewaypeople

always does at a supper, youknow.Andwhen itwas all done,

me and the hare-lip hadsupper in the kitchen off oftheleavings,whilsttheotherswashelpingtheniggerscleanup the things. The hare-lipshegot topumpingmeaboutEngland, andblest if I didn’tthink the ice was gettingmighty thin, sometimes. Shesays:

“Did you ever see theking?”“Who? William Fourth?

Well,IbetIhave—hegoestoourchurch.”Iknowedhewasdeadyearsago,butIneverleton.SowhenIsayshegoestoourchurch,shesays:“What—regular?”“Yes—regular. His pew’s

right over opposite ourn—on‘tothersidethepulpit.”“I thought he lived in

London?”“Well, he does. Where

wouldhelive?”“ButIthoughtyoulivedin

Sheffield?”I see I was up a stump. I

had to let on to get chokedwithachickenbone,soas toget time to think how to getdownagain.ThenIsays:“I mean he goes to our

church regular when he’s inSheffield. That’s only in the

summer-time,whenhecomestheretotaketheseabaths.”“Why, how you talk—

Sheffieldain’tonthesea.”“Well,whosaiditwas?”“Why,youdid.”“Ididn‘t,nuther.”“Youdid!”“Ididn’t.”“Youdid.”“Ineversaidnothingofthe

kind.”

“Well, what did you say,then?”“Said he come to take the

sea baths—that’s what Isaid.”“Well, then! how’s he

going to take theseabaths ifitain’tonthesea?”“Looky here,” I says; “did

you ever see any Congress-water?”dx

“Yes.”“Well, did you have to go

toCongresstogetit?”“Why,no.”“Well, neither does

WilliamFourthhavetogototheseatogetaseabath.”“Howdoeshegetit,then?”“Gets it the way people

down here gets Congress-water—in barrels. There inthe palace at Sheffieldthey’ve got furnaces, and hewants his water hot. Theycan’t bile that amount of

water away off there at thesea. They haven’t got noconveniencesforit.”“Oh,Isee,now.Youmight

a said that in the first placeandsavedtime.”Whenshesaid that,IseeI

was out of the woods again,andsoIwascomfortableandglad.Next,shesays:“Do you go to church,

too?”“Yes—regular.”

“Wheredoyouset?”“Why,inourpew.”“Whosepew?”“Why, ourn—your Uncle

Harvey’s.”“His’n?Whatdoeshewant

withapew?”“Wants it to set in. What

did you reckon he wantedwithit?”“Why,Ithoughthe’dbein

thepulpit.”

Rothim, I forgothewasapreacher. I see I was up astump again, so I playedanotherchickenboneandgotanotherthink.ThenIsays:“Blame it, doyou suppose

thereain’tbutonepreachertoachurch?”“Why, what do they want

withmore?”“What!—to preach before

aking?Ineverseesuchagirlas you. They don’t have no

lessthanseventeen.”“Seventeen! My land!

Why,Iwouldn’tsetoutsuchastringasthat,notifInevergottoglory.Itmusttake‘emaweek.”“Shucks, they don’t all of

‘em preach the same day—onlyoneofem.”“Well, then,whatdoes the

restof‘emdo?”“Oh, nothing much. Loll

around, pass the plate—and

one thing or another. Butmainly they don’t donothing.”“Well, then,what are they

for?”“Why, they’re for style.

Don’tyouknownothing?”“Well, I don’t want to

know no such foolishness asthat. How is servants treatedinEngland?Dotheytreat‘embetter ’n we treat ourniggers?”33

“No! A servant ain’tnobodythere.Theytreatthemworsethandogs.”“Don’t they give ‘em

holidays, the way we do,Christmas and New Year’sweek,andFourthofJuly?”“Oh, just listen! A body

could tell you hain’t everbeen to England, by that.Why, Hare-I—why, Joanna,theyneverseeaholidayfromyear’s end to year’s end;

never go to the circus, northeatre,norniggershows,nornowheres.”“Norchurch?”“Norchurch.”“But you always went to

church.”Well,Iwasgoneupagain.

I forgot I was the oldman’sservant. But next minute Iwhirled in on a kind of anexplanationhowavalleywasdifferent from a common

servant, and had to go tochurchwhether hewanted toor not, and set with thefamily, on account of it’sbeingthelaw.ButIdidn’tdoitprettygood,andwhenIgotdone I see she warn’tsatisfied.Shesays:“Honest injun, now, hain’t

you been telling me a lot oflies?”“Honestinjun,”saysI.“Noneofitatall?”

“Noneofitatall.Notalieinit,”saysI.“Lay your hand on this

bookandsayit.”Iseeitwarn’tnothingbuta

dictionary, so I laidmyhandon it and said it.So then shelookedalittlebettersatisfied,andsays:“Well, then, I’ll believe

some of it; but I hope togracious if I’ll believe therest.”

“What is it you won’tbelieve, Joe?” says MaryJane, stepping in with Susanbehindher.“Itain’trightnorkindforyoutotalksotohim,andhimastrangerandsofarfrom his people.Howwouldyouliketobetreatedso?”“That’s always your way,

Maim—always sailing in tohelpsomebodybeforethey’rehurt. Ihain’tdonenothing tohim. He’s told some

stretchers,Ireckon;andIsaidIwouldn’tswallowitall;andthat’s every bit and grain Ididsay.Ireckonhecanstanda little thing like that, can’the?”“Idon’tcarewhether‘twas

little or whether ’twas big,he’s here in our house and astranger, and it wasn’t goodofyoutosayit.Ifyouwasinhisplace, itwouldmakeyoufeel ashamed; and so you

oughtn’t to say a thing toanotherpersonthatwillmakethemfeelashamed.”“Why,Maim,hesaid—”“It don’t make no

differencewhathesaid—thatain’t the thing. The thing isforyoutotreathimkind,andnotbe saying things tomakehimrememberheain’t inhisowncountryandamongsthisownfolks.”I says to myself, this is a

girl that I’m letting that oldreptlerobherofhermoney!ThenSusanshewaltzedin;

and if you’ll believeme, shedid give Hare-lip hark fromthetomb!dy

Says I tomyself,And thisisanotheronethatI’mlettinghimrobherofhermoney!Then Mary Jane she took

another inning, and went insweet and lovely again—which was her way—but

when she got done therewarn’thardlyanythinglefto’poor Hare-lip. So shehollered.“All right, then,” says the

other girls, “you just ask hispardon.”She done it, too. And she

done itbeautiful.Shedone itso beautiful it was good tohear;andIwishedIcouldtellher a thousand lies, so shecoulddoitagain.

I says to myself, this isanother one that I’m lettinghim rob her of her money.And when she got through,they all jest laid theirselvesout tomakeme feel athomeand know I was amongstfriends. I felt so ornery andlow down and mean, that Isays to myself, My mind’smade up; I’ll hivedz thatmoneyforthemorbust.SothenIlitout—forbed,I

said, meaning some time oranother. When I got bymyself,Iwenttothinkingthething over. I says to myself,shall I go to that doctor,private, and blow on thesefrauds? No—that won’t do.He might tell who told him;then the king and the dukewouldmake itwarm forme.Shall I go, private, and tellMary Jane? No—I dasn’t doit.Her facewould give thema hint, sure; they’ve got the

money,andthey’dsliderightout and get away with it. Ifshe was to fetch in help, I’dgetmixedupinthebusiness,before it was done with, Ijudge.No,thereain’tnogoodway but one. I got to stealthat money, somehow; and Igot to steal it someway thatthey won’t suspicion that Idone it. They’ve got a goodthing, here; and they ain’tagoing to leave till they’veplayed this family and this

townforallthey’reworth,soI’ll find a chance timeenough. I’ll steal it, andhideit; and by-and-by, when I’maway down the river, I’llwrite a letter and tell MaryJane where it’s hid. But Ibetterhiveitto-night,ifIcan,because the doctor maybehasn’t let up as much as heletsonhehas;hemightscarethemoutofhere,yet.So, thinks I, I’ll go and

search themrooms.Upstairsthehallwasdark,butIfoundthe duke’s room, and startedto paw around it with myhands; but I recollected itwouldn’t be much like theking to let anybodyelse takecare of that money but hisownself;sothenIwenttohisroom and begun to pawaround there. But I see Icouldn’tdonothingwithoutacandle,andIdasn’tlightone,ofcourse.SoIjudgedI’dgot

todotheotherthing—layforthem, and eavesdrop. Aboutthat time, I hears theirfootsteps coming, and wasgoingtoskipunderthebed;Ireached for it, but it wasn’twhere I thought itwould be;but I touched thecurtain thathidMary Jane’s frocks, so Ijumped in behind that andsnuggled in amongst thegowns, and stood thereperfectlystill.

Theycomeinandshut thedoor; and the first thing theduke done was to get downandlookunderthebed.ThenIwasgladIhadn’tfoundthebed when I wanted it. Andyet, you know, it’s kind ofnatural tohideunder thebedwhenyou are up to anythingprivate.Theysetsdown,then,andthekingsays:“Well,whatisit?andcutit

middlin’ short, because it’s

betterforustobedowntherea whoopin‘-up the mournin’,than up here givin’ ‘em achancetotalkusover.”“Well, this is it, Capet. I

ain’t easy; I ain’tcomfortable.Thatdoctorlayson my mind. I wanted toknow your plans. I’ve got anotion, and I think it’s asoundone.”“Whatisit,duke?”“Thatwebetterglideoutof

this, before three in themorning,andclipitdowntheriver with what we’ve got.Specially,seeingwegotitsoeasy—givenbacktous,flungatourheads,asyoumaysay,whenofcourseweallowedtohave to steal it back. I’m forknocking off and lightingout.”That made me feel pretty

bad. About an hour or twoago, it would a been a little

different,butnowitmademefeel bad and disappointed.Thekingripsoutandsays:“What!Andnotselloutthe

rest o’ the property? Marchoff like a passel o’ fools andleave eight or nine thous‘n’dollars’ worth o’ propertylayin’aroundjestsufferin’tobescoopedin?—andallgoodsalablestuff,too.”The duke he grumbled;

said the bag of gold was

enough,andhedidn’twanttogonodeeper—didn’twanttorob a lot of orphans ofeverythingtheyhad.“Why,howyoutalk!”says

theking.“Weshan’trob‘emof nothing at all but jest thismoney.The people thatbuysthe property is the suff’rers;because as soon’s it’s foundout ‘at we didn’t own it—which won’t be long afterwe’veslid—thesalewon’tbe

valid, and it’ll all go back tothe estate.These-yer orphans’ll git their house back agin,and that’s enough for them;they’re young and spry, andk’n easy earn a livin’. Theyain’t agoing to suffer. Why,jest think—there’s thous‘n’sand thous’n’s that ain’t nighso well off Bless you, theyain’t got noth’n to complainof.”Well, the king he talked

him blind; so at last he givein,andsaidallright,butsaidhe believed it was blamefoolishness to stay, and thatdoctor hanging over them.Butthekingsays:“Cuss thedoctor!Whatdo

we k‘yer forhim?Hain’twegot all the fools in town onour side?andain’t that abigenough majority in anytown?”So they got ready to go

down stairs again. The dukesays:“I don’t think we put that

moneyinagoodplace.”That cheered me up. I’d

beguntothinkIwarn’tgoingto get a hint of no kind tohelpme.Thekingsays:“Why?”“BecauseMary Jane ’ll be

in mourning from this out;andfirstyouknowtheniggerthat does up the rooms will

getanordertoboxthesedudsupandput‘emaway;anddoyou reckon a nigger can runacrossmoneyandnotborrowsomeofit?”“Your head’s level, agin,

duke,” says the king; and hecome a fumbling under thecurtaintwoorthreefootfromwhere I was. I stuck tight tothe wall, and kept mightystill, though quivery; and Iwondered what them fellows

would say to me if theycatched me; and I tried tothink what I’d better do ifthey did catch me. But theking he got the bag before Icouldthinkmorethanaboutahalf a thought, and he neversuspicioned I was around.Theytookandshovedthebagthrougharipinthestrawtickthat was under the featherbed,andcrammeditinafootortwoamongstthestrawandsaid it was all right, now,

because a nigger onlymakesup the featherbed, anddon’tturn over the straw tick onlyabout twice a year, and so itwarn’tinnodangerofgettingstole,now.But I knowedbetter. I had

itoutoftherebeforetheywashalf-way down stairs. Igropedalonguptomycubby,andhidittheretillIcouldgetachancetodobetter.IjudgedI better hide it outsideof the

housesomewheres,becauseifthey missed it they wouldgive the house a goodransacking. I knowed thatvery well. Then I turned in,withmy clothes all on; but Icouldn’tagonetosleep,ifI’dawanted to, Iwas in such asweat toget throughwiththebusiness. By-and-by I heardthe king and the duke comeup;soIrolledoffofmypalletand laidwithmy chin at thetop of my ladder and waited

to see if anything was goingtohappen.Butnothingdid.SoIheldontillallthelate

soundshadquitandtheearlyones hadn’t begun, yet; andthen I slipped down theladder.

CHAPTER27I crept to their doors andlistened;theywassnoring,soItiptoedalong,andgotdownstairs all right. There warn’tsound anywheres. I peepedthroughacrackofthedining-room door, and see the menthatwaswatching the corpseall sound asleep on theirchairs. The door was openinto the parlor, where the

corpse was laying, and therewasacandleinbothrooms.Ipassed along, and the parlordoorwasopen;butIseetherewarn’t nobody in there butthe remainders of Peter; so Ishoved on by; but the frontdoorwaslocked,andthekeywasn’tthere.JustthenIheardsomebody coming down thestairs, back behindme. I runintheparlor,andtookaswiftlook around, and the onlyplace I see to hide the bag

wasinthecoffin.Thelidwasshoved along about a foot,showing thedeadman’s facedown in there, with a wetcloth over it, and his shroudon.Ituckedthemoney-baginunder the lid, just downbeyondwhere his hands wascrossed, which made mecreep, they was so cold, andthen I run back across theroomandinbehindthedoor.The person coming was

Mary Jane. She went to thecoffin,verysoft,andkneeleddownandlookedin;thensheputupherhandkerchiefandIseeshebeguntocry,thoughIcouldn’t hear her, and herback was to me. I slid out,and as I passed the dining-roomIthoughtI’dmakesurethem watchers hadn’t seenme; so I looked through thecrack and everything was allright.Theyhadn’tstirred.

Islippeduptobed,feelingruther blue, on accounts ofthethingplayingoutthatwayafter I had took so muchtroubleandrunsomuchreskabout it. Says I, if it couldstay where it is, all right;because when we get downthe river a hundred mile ortwo, I could write back toMaryJane,andshecoulddighim up again and get it; butthat ain’t the thing that’sgoing to happen; the thing

that’sgoing tohappen is, themoney’llbefoundwhentheycome to screw on the lid.Then the king’ll get it again,andit’llbea longdaybeforehe gives anybody anotherchance to smouch it fromhim. Of course I wanted toslide down and get it out ofthere, but I dasn’t try it.Every minute it was gettingearlier, now, and pretty soonsomeofthemwatcherswouldbegin to stir, and Imightget

catched—catched with sixthousanddollarsinmyhandsthat nobody hadn’t hired metotakecareof.Idon’twishtobe mixed up in no suchbusiness as that, I says tomyself.When I got down stairs in

the morning, the parlor wasshutup,andthewatcherswasgone. There warn’t nobodyaroundbutthefamilyandthewidowBartley and our tribe.

Iwatchedtheirfacestoseeifanythinghadbeenhappening,butIcouldn’ttell.Towards themiddle of the

day the undertaker come,withhisman,andtheysetthecoffin in the middle of theroom on a couple of chairs,and then set all our chairs inrows, and borrowed morefrom the neighbors till thehall and the parlor and thedining-room was full. I see

the coffin lidwas theway itwasbefore,butIdasn’tgotolook in under it, with folksaround.Then the people begun to

flockin,andthebeatsandthegirls took seats in the frontrowattheheadofthecoffin,and for a half an hour thepeople filed around slow, insinglerank,andlookeddownat the dead man’s face aminute, and somedropped in

atear,anditwasallverystillandsolemn,onlythegirlsandthe beats holdinghandkerchiefs to their eyesandkeeping theirheadsbent,and sobbing a little. Therewarn’tnoothersoundbutthescraping of the feet on thefloor, and blowing noses—becausepeople alwaysblowsthem more at a funeral thantheydoatotherplacesexceptchurch.

When the place waspackedfull,theundertakerheslid around in his blackgloves with his softysootheringeaways,puttingonthe last touches, and gettingpeople and things allshipshape and comfortable,and making no more soundthanacat.Heneverspoke;hemoved people around, hesqueezed in late ones, heopeneduppassage-ways,and

done it all with nods, andsignswithhishands.Thenhetook his place over againstthe wall. He was the softest,glidingest, stealthiest man Ieversee;and therewarn’tnomoresmile tohim than thereistoaham.They had borrowed a

melodeumeb—asickone;andwheneverythingwasready,ayoung woman set down andworked it, and it was pretty

skreeky and colicky,ec andeverybodyjoinedinandsung,and Peter was the only onethat had a good thing,accordingtomynotion.ThentheReverendHobsonopenedup, slow and solemn, andbeguntotalk;andstraightoffthe most outrageous rowbustedoutinthecellarabodyever heard; it was only onedog, but he made a mostpowerful racket, and he kept

it up, right along; the parsonhehadtostandthere,overthecoffin, and wait—youcouldn’t hear yourself think.It was right down awkward,and nobody didn’t seem toknowwhat to do. But prettysoon they see that long-legged undertaker make asign to the preacher asmuchas to say, “Don’t you worry—just depend on me.” Thenhe stooped down and begunto glide along the wall, just

his shoulders showing overthe people’s heads. So heglided along, and the pow-wowandracketgettingmoreand more outrageous all thetime;andatlast,whenhehadgonearound twosidesof theroom, he disappears downcellar. Then, in about twoseconds we heard a whack,and the dog he finished upwithamostamazinghowlortwo,andtheneverythingwasdead still, and the parson

begun his solemn talk whereheleftoff.Inaminuteortwohere comes this undertaker’sback and shoulders glidingalong the wall again; and soheglided,andglided,aroundthree sides of the room, andthen rose up, and shaded hismouth with his hands, andstretched his neck outtowardsthepreacher,overthepeople’sheads,andsays,inakindofacoarsewhisper,“Hehad a rat!”Then he drooped

down and glided along thewall again to his place. Youcould see it was a greatsatisfaction to the people,becausenaturallytheywantedto know. A little thing likethat don’t cost nothing, andit’s just the little things thatmakesamantobelookeduptoandliked.Therewarn’tnomore popular man in townthan what that undertakerwas.

Well, the funeral sermonwasverygood,butpisonlongand tiresome; and then thekingheshovedinandgotoffsome of his usual rubbage,and at last the job wasthrough, and the undertakerbegun to sneak up on thecoffinwithhisscrew-driver.Iwas in a sweat then, andwatchedhimprettykeen.Buthe nevermeddled at all; justslid the lid along, as soft asmush, and screwed it down

tightandfast.SothereIwas!I didn’t know whether themoney was in there, or not.So, says I, spose somebodyhas hogged that bag on thesly?—now how do I knowwhethertowritetoMaryJaneor not? ‘Spose she dug himup and didn’t find nothing—whatwouldshe thinkofme?Blame it, I says, I might gethunted up and jailed; I’dbetter laylowandkeepdark,and not write at all; the

thing’s awful mixed, now;trying to better it, I’veworsened it a hundred times,and I wish to goodness I’djustlet italone,dadfetchthewholebusiness!They buried him, and we

comebackhome, and Iwentto watching faces again—Icouldn’t help it, and Icouldn’t rest easy. Butnothing comeof it; the facesdidn’ttellmenothing.

Thekinghevisitedaround,intheevening,andsweetenedevery body up, and madehimself ever so friendly; andhe give out the idea that hiscongregationoverinEnglandwould be in a sweat abouthim, so he must hurry andsettle up the estate rightaway,andleaveforhome.Hewas very sorry he was sopushed, and so waseverybody; they wished hecould stay longer, but they

saidtheycouldseeitcouldn’tbe done. And he said ofcourse him and Williamwould take the girls homewith them; and that pleasedeverybody too, because thenthegirlswouldbewellfixed,and amongst their ownrelations; and it pleased thegirls, too—tickled them sothey clean forgot they everhad a trouble in the world;and told him to sell out asquick as he wanted to, they

would be ready. Them poorthings was that glad andhappy itmademyheartachetoseethemgettingfooledandliedtoso,butIdidn’tseenosafe way for me to chip inandchangethegeneraltune.Well, blamed if the king

didn’t bill the house and theniggers and all the propertyfor auction straight off—saletwodaysafterthefuneral;butanybody could buy private

beforehandiftheywantedto.So the next day after the

funeral, along aboutnoontime, the girls’ joy gotthe first jolt; a couple ofnigger traders come along,and the king sold them theniggers reasonable, for three-daydraftsed as they called it,and away theywent, the twosonsuptherivertoMemphis,and their mother down theriver to Orleans. I thought

them poor girls and themniggers would break theirhearts for grief; they criedaround each other, and tookonso itmostmademedownsick to see it. The girls saidthey hadn’t ever dreamed ofseeingthefamilyseparatedorsold away from the town. Ican’t ever get it out of mymemory, the sight of thempoor miserable girls andniggers hanging around eachother’snecksandcrying;and

I reckon I couldn’t a stood itall but would a had to bustout and tell on our gang if Ihadn’t knowed the salewarn’t no account and theniggerswould be back homeinaweekortwo.Thethingmadeabigstirin

the town, too, and a goodmanycomeoutflatfootedandsaid it was scandalous toseparate the mother and thechildren that way. It injured

the frauds some; but the oldfool he bulled right along,spiteofallthedukecouldsayordo,andItellyouthedukewaspowerfuluneasy.Next daywas auctionday.

About broad-day in themorning, the king and theduke come up in the garretandwokemeup,andIseebytheir look that there wastrouble.Thekingsays:“Was you in my room

nightbeforelast?”“No, your majesty”—

which was the way I alwayscalled him when nobody butourgangwarn’taround.“Was you in there

yisterdayerlastnight?”“No,yourmajesty.”“Honor bright, now—no

lies.”“Honor bright, your

majesty, I’m telling you thetruth.Ihain’tbeenanearyour

room since Miss Mary Janetook you and the duke andshowedittoyou.”Thedukesays:“Have you seen anybody

elsegointhere?”“No, your grace, not as I

remember,Ibelieve.”“Stopandthink.”I studied a while, and see

mychance,thenIsays:“Well,Iseetheniggersgo

inthereseveraltimes.”

Both of them give a littlejump; and looked like theyhadn’t ever expected it, andthen like they had. Then thedukesays:“What,allofthem?”“No—leastways not all at

once. That is, I don’t think Ieverseethemallcomeoutatoncebutjustonetime.”“Hello—whenwasthat?”“Itwasthedaywehadthe

funeral. In the morning. It

warn’t early, because Ioverslept. I was just startingdown the ladder, and I seethem.”“Well,goon,goon—what

did they do? How’d theyact?”“They didn’t do nothing.

And they didn’t act anyway,much, as fur as I see. Theytip-toedaway;soIseen,easyenough,thatthey’dshovedintheretodoupyourmajesty’s

room, or something, sposingyou was up; and found youwarn’t up, and so they washopingtoslideoutofthewayof trouble without wakingyouup,iftheyhadn’talreadywakedyouup.”“Great guns, this is a go!”

says the king; and both ofthem looked pretty sick, andtolerable silly. They stoodthere a thinking andscratching their heads, a

minute, and then thedukehebust into a kind of a littleraspychuckle,andsays:“It does beat all, howneat

theniggersplayedtheirhand.They let on to be sorry theywasgoingoutof this region!andIbelievedtheywassorry.And so did you, and so dideverybody.Don’tevertellmeany more that a nigger ain’tgot any histrionicee talent.Why, the way they played

that thing, it would foolanybody. In my opinionthere’s a fortune in‘em. If Ihad capital and a theatre, Iwouldn’twantabetterlayoutthan that—and here we’vegoneandsold’emforasong.Yes, and ain’t privileged tosingthesong,yet.Say,whereisthatsong?—thatdraft.”“In the bank for to be

collected. Where would itbe?”

“Well,that’sallrightthen,thankgoodness.”SaysI,kindoftimid-like:“Is something gone

wrong?”Thekingwhirlsonmeand

ripsout:“None o’ your business!

Youkeepyourheadshet,andmind y‘r own afiairs—if yougot any. Long as you’re inthis town, don’t you forgitthat,youhear?”Thenhesays

to the duke, “We got to jestswaller it, and say noth’n:mum’sthewordforus.”As theywas startingdown

the ladder, the duke hechucklesagain,andsays:“Quick sales and small

profits! It’s a good business—yes.”The king snarls around on

himandsays,“Iwas trying todo for the

best, in sellin’ ’m out so

quick. If the profits hasturnedouttobenone,lackin’considable,andnonetocarry,is itmy faultanymore’n it’syourn?”“Well, they’d be in this

houseyet,andwewouldn’tifI could a got my advicelistenedto.”The king sassed back, as

much as was safe for him,andthenswappedaroundandlitintomeagain.Hegiveme

down the banks for notcoming and telling him I seethe niggers come out of hisroom acting that way—saidany fool would a knowedsomething was up. And thenwaltzedinandcussedhimselfawhile; and said it all comeof him not laying late andtaking his natural rest thatmorning,andhe’dbeblamedif he’d ever do it again. Sotheywentoffa jawing;andIfelt dreadful glad I’dworked

italloffontotheniggersandyet hadn’t done the niggersnoharmbyit.

CHAPTER28By-and-by it was getting-uptime; so I come down theladder and started for downstairs, but as I come to thegirls’ room, the door wasopen, and I see Mary Janesetting by her old hair trunk,which was open and she’dbeen packing things in it—getting ready to go toEngland.Butshehadstopped

now, with a folded gown inher lap, and had her face inherhands,crying.Ifeltawfulbad to see it; of courseanybody would. I went inthere,andsays:“MissMaryJane,youcan’t

abeartoseepeopleintrouble,and I can‘t—most always.Tellmeaboutit.”Soshedone it.And itwas

the niggers—I just expectedit. She said the beautiful trip

to England was most aboutspoiled for her; she didn’tknowhowshewasevergoingto be happy there, knowingthe mother and the childrenwarn’tevergoingtoseeeachother no more—and thenbusted out bitterer than ever,and flung up her hands, andsays:“Oh, dear, dear, to think

they ain’t ever going to seeeachotheranymore!”

“But theywill—and insideof two weeks—and I knowit!”saysI.Laws it was out before I

could think!—and before Icould budge, she throws herarms around my neck, andtoldmetosayitagain,sayitagain,sayitagain!I see I had spoke too

sudden, and said too much,and was in a close place. Iasked her to let me think a

minute; and she set there,very impatient and excited,and handsome, but lookingkind of happy and eased-up,like a person that’s had atoothpulledout.SoIwenttostudying it out. I says tomyself, I reckon a body thatups and tells the truth whenheisinatightplace,istakingconsiderable many resks,though I ain’t had noexperience, and can’t say forcertain;butitlookssotome,

anyway;andyethere’sacasewhere I’m blest if it don’tlook to me like the truth isbetter,andactulysafer,thanalie. I must lay it by in mymind, and think it over sometime or other, it’s so kind ofstrangeandunregular.Ineversee nothing like it. Well, Isays to myself at last, I’magoing to chance it; I’ll upand tell the truth this time,thoughitdoesseemmostlikesetting down on a kag of

powder and touching it offjusttoseewhereyou’llgoto.ThenIsays:“Miss Mary Jane, is there

anyplaceoutof towna littleways, where you could goandstaythreeorfourdays?”“Yes—Mr. Lothrop’s.

Why?”“Never mind why, yet. If

I’ll tell you how I know theniggers will see each otheragain—inside of two weeks

—here in this house—andprove how I know it—willyou go toMr. Lothrop’s andstayfourdays?”“Fourdays!”shesays;“I’ll

stayayear!”“Allright,”Isays,“Idon’t

wantnothingmoreoutofyouthan just your word—Idruther have it than anotherman’s kiss-the-Bible.” Shesmiled,andreddenedupverysweet, and I says, “If you

don’t mind it, I’ll shut thedoor—andboltit.”Then I come back and set

downagain,andsays:“Don’t you holler. Just set

still,andtake it likeaman.Igot to tell the truth, and youwanttobraceup,MissMary,because it’s a bad kind, andgoing to be hard to take, butthere ain’t no help for it.These uncles of yourn ain’tno uncles at all—they’re a

couple of frauds—regulardead-beats.There,nowwe’reovertheworstofit—youcanstandtherestmiddlingeasy.”It Jolted her up like

everything, of course; but Iwas over the shoal waterefnow, so I went right along,hereyesablazinghigherandhigher all the time, and toldher every blame thing, fromwhere we first struck thatyoung fool going up to the

steamboat, clear through towhere she flung herself ontothe king’s breast at the frontdoorandhekissedhersixteenorseventeentimes—andthenup she jumps, with her faceafirelikesunset,andsays:“The brute! Come—don’t

wasteaminute—notasecond—we’llhavethemtarredandfeathered, and flung in theriver!”SaysI:

“Cert‘nly. But do youmean, before you go to Mr.Lothrop’s,or—”“Oh,”shesays,“whatamI

thinkingabout!”shesays,andset right down again. “Don’tmind what I said—pleasedon‘t—youwon’t, now, willyou?” Laying her silky handonmineinthatkindofawaythatIsaidIwoulddiefirst.“Inever thought, I was sostirredup,”shesays;“nowgo

on, and I won’t do so anymore.Youtellmewhattodo,andwhateveryousay,I’lldoit.”“Well,” I says, “it’s a

roughgang,themtwofrauds,and I’m fixed so I got totravel with them a whilelonger, whether I want to ornot—I druther not tell youwhy—andifyouwastoblowon them this townwould getmeoutoftheirclaws,andI’d

be all right, but there’d beanotherpersonthatyoudon’tknow about who’d be in bigtrouble.Well,wegot to savehim, hain’t we? Of course.Well,then,wewon’tblowonthem.”Saying them words put a

good idea in my head. I seehow maybe I could get meandJimridof thefrauds;getthem jailed here, and thenleave.ButIdidn’twanttorun

the raft in daytime, withoutanybody aboard to answerquestions butme; so I didn’twant the plan to beginworking till pretty late to-night.Isays:“Miss Mary Jane, I’ll tell

youwhat we’ll do—and youwon’t have to stay at Mr.Lothrop’s so long, nuther.Howfurisit?”“Alittleshortoffourmiles

—right out in the country,

backhere.”“Well, that’llanswer.Now

you go along out there, andlay low till nine or half-past,to-night,andthengetthemtofetch you home again—tellthem you’ve thought ofsomething. If you get herebeforeeleven,putacandleinthis window, and if I don’tturn up, wait till eleven, andthen if I don’t turn up itmeans I’m gone, and out of

the way, and safe. Then youcomeoutandspreadthenewsaround, and get these beatsjailed.““Good,” she says, “I’ll do

it.”“And if it just happens so

thatIdon’tgetaway,butgettookupalongwiththem,youmustupandsayItoldyouthewhole thing beforehand, andyoumuststandbymeallyoucan.”

“Stand by you, indeed Iwill. They sha‘n’t touch ahair of your head!” she says,and I see her nostrils spreadand her eyes snap when shesaidit,too.“IfIgetaway,Isha‘n’tbe

here,” I says,“toprove theserapscallionsain’tyouruncles,and I couldn’t do it if I washere. I could swear theywasbeatsandbummers,that’sall;though that’s worth

something. Well, there’sotherscando thatbetter thanwhat I can—and they’repeople that ain’t going to bedoubted as quick as I’d be.I’lltellyouhowtofindthem.Gimme a pencil and a pieceof paper. There—’RoyalNonesuch,Bricksville.‘ Put itaway,anddon’tloseit.Whenthe court wants to find outsomething about these two,let them send up toBricksville and say they’ve

got the men that played theRoyalNonesuch, and ask forsomewitnesses—why, you’llhave that entire town downhere before you can hardlywink,MissMary.Andthey’llcomea-biling,too.”I judged we had got

everything fixed about right,now.SoIsays:“Just let the auction go

right along, and don’tworry.Nobodydon’thavetopayfor

the things they buy till awhole day after the auction,on accounts of the shortnotice, and they ain’t goingout of this till they get thatmoney—and the way we’vefixeditthesaleain’tgoingtocount,andtheyain’tgoingtoget no money. It’s just likethe way it was with theniggers—it warn’t no sale,and the niggers will be backbefore long.Why, they can’tcollect the money for the

niggers, yet—they’re in theworst kind of a fix, MissMary.”“Well,” she says, “I’ll run

down to breakfast now, andthen I’ll start straight forMr.Lothrop’s.”“‘Deed, that ain’t the

ticket, Miss Mary Jane,” Isays, “by no manner ofmeans;gobeforebreakfast.”“Why?”“What did you reckon I

wanted you to go at all for,MissMary?”‘Well, I never thought—

and come to think, I don’tknow.Whatwasit?““Why, it’s because you

ain’toneoftheseleather-facepeople.Idon’twantnobetterbook thanwhat your face is.A body can set down andread it off like coarse print.Do you reckon you can goand face your uncles, when

they come to kiss you good-morning,andnever——”“There, there, don‘t! Yes,

I’ll go before breakfast—I’llbe glad to. And leave mysisterswiththem?”“Yes—never mind about

them.They’vegot to stand ityet a while. They mightsuspicion something if all ofyou was to go. I don’t wantyou to see them, nor yoursisters, nor nobody in this

town—if a neighbor was toask how is your uncles thismorning,yourfacewouldtellsomething. No, you go rightalong, Miss Mary Jane, andI’llfixitwithallofthem.I’lltell Miss Susan to give yourlove to your uncles and sayyou’ve went away for a fewhours for to get a little restandchange,ortoseeafriend,andyou’llbebackto-nightorearlyinthemorning.”

“Gonetoseeafriendisallright, but I won’t have mylovegiventothem.”“Well, then, it sha‘n’t be.”

Itwaswellenoughtotellherso—noharminit.Itwasonlya little thing to do, and notrouble; and it’s the littlethingsthatsmoothespeople’sroads the most, down herebelow; it would make MaryJane comfortable, and itwouldn’tcostnothing.ThenI

says:“There’sonemorething—thatbagofmoney.”“Well, they’ve got that;

and it makes me feel prettysillytothinkhowtheygotit.”“No, you’re out, there.

Theyhain’tgotit.”“Why,who’sgotit?”“I wish I knowed, but I

don’t.Ihadit,becauseIstoleitfromthem:andIstoleittogive to you; and I knowwhere Ihid it,but I’mafraid

it ain’t there no more. I’mawfulsorry,MissMaryJane,I’m just as sorryas I canbe;but Idone thebest I could; Idid, honest. I come nighgetting caught, and I had toshove it into the first place Icome to, and run—and itwarn’tagoodplace.”“Oh,stopblamingyourself

—it’s too bad to do it, and Iwon’t allow it—you couldn’thelp it; it wasn’t your fault.

Wheredidyouhideit?”I didn’t want to set her to

thinking about her troublesagain;andIcouldn’tseemtogetmymouthtotellherwhatwould make her see thatcorpse laying in the coffinwiththatbagofmoneyonhisstomach. So for a minute Ididn’t say nothing—then Isays:“I’d ruther not tell you

where I put it, Miss Mary

Jane, if you don’t mindlettingmeoff;butI’llwriteitfor you on a piece of paper,andyoucanreaditalongtheroad toMr.Lothrop‘s, ifyouwantto.Doyoureckonthat’lldo?”“Oh,yes.”So Iwrote: “Iput it in the

coffin. It was in there whenyouwascryingthere,awayinthe night. I was behind thedoor,andIwasmightysorry

foryou,MissMaryJane.”It made my eyes water a

little, torememberhercryingthere all by herself in thenight, and themdevils layingthere right under her ownroof, shaming her androbbing her; and when Ifoldeditupandgiveittoher,Isee thewatercomeintohereyes, too; and she shookmebythehand,hard,andsays:“Good-bye.—I’m going to

do everything just as you’vetold me; and if I don’t eversee you again, I sha‘n’t everforget you, and I’ll think ofyou a many and a many atime, and I’ll pray for you,too!”—andshewasgone.Pray forme! I reckoned if

she knowedme she’d take ajob thatwasmore nearer hersize.ButIbetshedoneit,justthe same—she was just thatkind.Shehadthegrittopray

for Juduseg if she took thenotion—there warn’t noback-down to her, I judge.Youmay saywhat youwantto,butinmyopinionshehadmoresandinherthananygirlIeversee; inmyopinionshewas just full of sand. Itsounds like flattery, but itain’tnoflattery.Andwhenitcomes to beauty—andgoodness too—she lays overthem all. I hain’t ever seen

her since that time that I seehergooutof thatdoor;no, Ihain’teverseenhersince,butIreckonI’vethoughtofheramany and a many a milliontimes, and of her saying shewould pray for me; and ifeverI’dathoughtitwoulddoany good for me to pray forher, blamed if I wouldn’t adoneitorbust.Well,MaryJaneshelitout

the back way, I reckon;

because nobody see her go.When I struckSusanand thehare-lip,Isays:“What’s the name of them

peopleoveront‘othersideofthe river that you all goes toseesometimes?”Theysays:“There’s several; but it’s

theProctors,mainly.”“That’s the name,” I says;

“Imost forgot it.Well,MissMaryJaneshetoldmetotell

youshe’sgoneoverthereinadreadful hurry—one ofthem’ssick.”“Whichone?”“Idon’tknow; leastways I

kinder forget; but I think it‘s——”“Sakesalive,Ihopeitain’t

Hanner?”“I’m sorry to say it,” I

says, “but Hanner’s the veryone.”“Mygoodness—andsheso

well only last week! Is shetookbad?”“It ain’t no name for it.

Theysetupwithherallnight,Miss Mary Jane said, andthey don’t think she’ll lastmanyhours.”“Only think of that, now!

What’sthematterwithher!”Icouldn’tthinkofanything

reasonable,rightoffthatway,soIsays:“Mumps.”

“Mumps your granny!Theydon’tsetupwithpeoplethat’sgotthemumps.”“They don‘t, don’t they?

You better bet they do withthese mumps. These mumpsis different. It’s a new kind,MissMaryJanesaid.”“How’sitanewkind?”“Because it’s mixed up

withotherthings.”“Whatotherthings?”“Well, measles, and

whooping-cough, anderysiplas, and consumption,andyallerjanders,ehandbrainfever,andIdon’tknowwhatall.”“Myland!And theycall it

themumps?”“That’s what Miss Mary

Janesaid.”“Well, what in the nation

do they call it the mumpsfor?”“Why, because it is the

mumps. That’s what it startswith.”“Well, ther’ ain’t no sense

init.Abodymightstumphistoe, and take pison, and falldown thewell, andbreakhisneck,andbusthisbrainsout,and somebody come alongandaskwhatkilledhim, andsome numskull up and say,Why, he stumped his toe.‘Would ther’ be any sense inthat?No. And ther’ ain’t no

sense in this, nuther. Is itketching?”“Is itketching?Why, how

you talk. Is a harroweicatching?—in the dark? Ifyou don’t hitch onto onetooth, you’re bound to onanother, ain’t you? And youcan’tgetawaywiththattoothwithout fetching the wholeharrowalong,canyou?Well,thesekindofmumpsisakindof a harrow, as youmay say

—and it ain’t no slouch of aharrow, nuther, you come togetithitchedongood.”“Well, it’s awful, I think,”

says the hare-lip. “I’ll go toUncleHarveyand——”“Oh,yes,”Isays,“Iwould.

OfcourseIwould.Iwouldn’tlosenotime.”“Well, why wouldn’t

you?”“Just look at it a minute,

and maybe you can see.

Hain’t your uncles obleegedtogetalonghometoEnglandas fast as they can? And doyou reckon they’d be meanenough to go off and leaveyou to go all that journeybyyourselves?Youknowthey’llwaitforyou.Sofur,sogood.Your uncle Harvey’s apreacher,ain’the?Verywell,then; is a preacher going todeceiveasteamboatclerk? ishe going to deceive a shipclerk?—so as to get them to

let Miss Mary Jane goaboard? Now you know heain’t.Whatwill he do, then?Why, he’ll say, ‘It’s a greatpity, but my church mattershas got to get along the bestway they can; for my niecehas been exposed to thedreadful pluribus-unummumps, and so it’s mybounden duty to set downhere and wait the threemonths it takes to show onher ifshe’sgot it.’Butnever

mind,ifyouthinkit’sbesttotellyouruncleHarvey——”“Shucks, and stay fooling

around here when we couldall be having good times inEngland whilst we waswaiting to find out whetherMary Jane’s got it or not?Why, you talk like amuggins.”ej

“Well,anyway,maybeyoubetter tell some of theneighbors.”

“Listen at that, now. Youdo beat all, for naturalstupidness.Can’tyouseethatthey’dgoandtell?Ther’ain’tno way but just to not tellanybodyatall.”“Well, maybe you’re right

—yes,Ijudgeyouareright.”“But I reckonweought to

tellUncleHarveyshe’sgoneout a while, anyway, so hewon’tbeuneasyabouther?”“Yes,MissMary Jane she

wanted you to do that. Shesays,‘TellthemtogiveUncleHarveyandWilliammyloveand a kiss, and say I’ve runover the river to see Mr.—Mr.—whatisthenameofthatrich family your uncle Peterusedtothinksomuchof?—Imeantheonethat——““Why, youmustmean the

Apthorps,ain’tit?”“Of course; bother them

kind of names, a body can’t

everseemtorememberthem,half the time,somehow.Yes,shesaid,sayshehasrunoverfor toask theApthorps tobesure andcome to the auctionand buy this house, becauseshe allowed her uncle Peterwouldruther theyhad it thananybodyelse;andshe’sgoingto stick to them till they saythey’llcome,andthen, ifsheain’t too tired, she’s cominghome;and ifshe is, she’llbehomeinthemorninganyway.

She said, don’t say nothingabout the Proctors, but onlyabouttheApthorps—which’llbeperfectlytrue,becausesheis going there to speakabouttheir buying the house; Iknow it,because she toldmeso,herself.”“All right,” they said, and

cleared out to lay for theiruncles, and give them thelove and the kisses, and tellthemthemessage.

Everything was all rightnow. The girls wouldn’t saynothing because they wantedto go to England; and theking and the duke wouldruther Mary Jane was offworking for the auction thanaround in reach of DoctorRobinson. I felt very good; Ijudged I had done it prettyneat—I reckoned TomSawyercouldn’tadone itnoneater himself. Of course hewould a throwed more style

intoit,butIcan’tdothatveryhandy,notbeingbrungup toit.Well,theyheldtheauction

in the public square, alongtowards the end of theafternoon,anditstrungalong,andstrungalong,andtheoldman he was on hand andlookinghis levelpisonest,upthere longside of theauctioneer, and chipping in alittleScripture,nowandthen,

or a little goody-goodysaying,ofsomekind,andtheduke he was around goo-gooing for sympathy all heknowed how, and justspreadinghimselfgenerly.But by-and-by the thing

dragged through, andeverything was sold.Everything but a little oldtrifling lot in the graveyard.Sothey’dgottoworkthatoff—Ineverseesuchagirafftas

the king was for wanting toswallow everything. Well,whilst they was at it, asteamboat landed, and inabout twominutes up comesa crowd a whooping andyelling and laughing andcarryingon,andsingingout:“Here’s your opposition

line! here’s your two sets o’heirstooldPeterWilks—andyoupaysyourmoneyandyoutakesyourchoice!”

CHAPTER29Theywasfetchingaverynicelookingoldgentlemanalong,and a nice looking youngerone, with his right arm in asling.Andmysouls,howthepeople yelled, and laughed,and kept it up. But I didn’tsee no joke about it, and Ijudged it would strain thedukeandthekingsometoseeany. I reckoned they’d turn

pale.But no, nary a pale didthey turn.ek The duke henever let on he suspicionedwhatwasup,but justwent agoo-gooing around, happyandsatisfied,likeajugthat’sgooglingoutbutter-milk;andasfor theking,he justgazedandgazeddownsorrowfulonthem newcomers like it givehim the stomach ache in hisveryhearttothinktherecouldbe such frauds and rascals in

the world. Oh, he done itadmirable. Lots of theprincipal people getheredaround the king, to let himseetheywasonhisside.Thatold gentleman that had justcome looked all puzzled todeath. Pretty soon he begunto speak, and I see, straightoff, he pronounced like anEnglishman, not the king’sway, though the king’s waspretty good, for an imitation.I can’t give the old gent’s

words, nor I can’t imitatehim; but he turned around tothe crowd, and says, aboutlikethis:“This is a surprise to me

which I wasn’t looking for;and I’ll acknowledge, candidand frank, I ain’t very wellfixedtomeetitandanswerit;for my brother and me hashad misfortunes, he’s brokehisarm,andourbaggagegotputoffata townabovehere,

last night in the night by amistake. I am Peter Wilks’sbrotherHarvey,andthisishisbrotherWilliam,which can’thear nor speak—and can’tevenmakesignstoamounttomuch, now’t he’s only gotonehand towork themwith.We are who we say we are;and in a day or two, when Iget the baggage, I can proveit. But, up till then, I won’tsay nothing more, but go tothehotelandwait.”

So him and the newdummy started off; and theking he laughs, and blethersout:“Broke his arm—very

likely ain’t it?—and veryconvenient, too, for a fraudthat’s got tomake signs, andhain’t learnt how. Lost theirbaggage!That’smightygood!—and mighty ingenious—underthecircumstances!”So he laughed again; and

sodideverybodyelse,exceptthreeorfour,ormaybehalfadozen.Oneof thesewas thatdoctor; another one was asharp looking gentleman,with a carpet-bag of the old-fashioned kind made out ofcarpet-stuff, that had justcome off of the steamboatand was talking to him in alow voice, and glancingtowards the king now andthen and nodding their heads—itwasLeviBell,thelawyer

that was gone up toLouisville; and another onewas a big rough husky thatcomealongandlistenedtoallthe old gentleman said, andwaslisteningtothekingnow.Andwhenthekinggotdone,thishuskyupandsays:“Say,lookyhere;ifyouare

Harvey Wilks, when’d youcometothistown?”“The day before the

funeral, friend,” says the

king.“Butwhattimeo’day?”“In the evenin‘—’bout an

hourertwobeforesundown.”“How’dyoucome?”“IcomedownontheSusan

Powell,fromCincinnati.”“Well, then, how’d you

come to be up at the Pint inthemornin—inacanoe?”“Iwarn’t up at the Pint in

themornin‘.”

“It’salie.”Severalofthemjumpedfor

him and begged him not totalk that way to an old manandapreacher.“Preacher be hanged, he’s

afraudandaliar.HewasupatthePintthatmornin‘.Iliveupthere,don’tI?Well,Iwasupthere,andhewasupthere.Iseehimthere.Hecomeinacanoe, along with TimCollinsandaboy.”

Thedoctorheupandsays:“Would you know the boyagain if youwas to see him,Hines?”“I reckon I would, but I

don’t know.Why, yonder heis,now.Iknowhimperfectlyeasy.”It was me he pointed at.

Thedoctorsays:“Neighbors, I don’t know

whether the new couple isfraudsornot;butifthesetwo

ain’t frauds, I am an idiot,that’sall.Ithinkit’sourdutyto see that they don’t getaway from here till we’velooked into this thing. Comealong,Hines;comealong,therest of you.We’ll take thesefellows to the tavern andaffront them with t‘othercouple, and I reckon we’llfindoutsomethingbeforewegetthrough.”It was nuts for the crowd,

though maybe not for theking’s friends; so we allstarted. It was aboutsundown. The doctor he ledme along by the hand, andwas plenty kind enough, butheneverletgomyhand.Weallgotinabigroomin

the hotel, and lit up somecandles, and fetched in thenew couple. First, the doctorsays:“Idon’twishtobetoohard

onthesetwomen,butI thinkthey’re frauds, and theymayhavecomplicesthatwedon’tknow nothing about. If theyhave,won’tthecomplicesgetaway with that bag of goldPeter Wilks left? It ain’tunlikely. If these men ain’tfrauds, they won’t object tosending for that money andletting us keep it till theyprove they’re all right—ain’tthatso?”

Everybody agreed to that.SoIjudgedtheyhadourganginaprettytightplace,rightatthe outstart. But the king heonly looked sorrowful, andsays:“Gentlemen, I wish the

money was there, for I ain’tgot no disposition to throwanythinginthewayofafair,open, out-and-outinvestigation o’ this misablebusiness;butalas, themoney

ain’t there; youk’n sendandsee,ifyouwantto.”“Whereisit,then?”“Well,whenmyniecegive

ittometokeepforher,Itookandhid it insideo’ the strawticko’mybed,notwishin’tobankitforthefewdayswe’dbe here, and considerin’ thebedasafeplace,wenotbein’used to niggers, andsuppos‘n’ ’em honest, likeservants in England. The

niggers stole it the very nextmornin’ after I had wentdown stairs; andwhen I sold‘em, I hadn’t missed themoney yit, so they got cleanawaywithit.Myservantherek’n tell you ’bout it,gentlemen.”Thedoctorandseveralsaid

“Shucks!” and I see nobodydidn’taltogetherbelievehim.OnemanaskedmeifIseetheniggerssteal it. Isaidno,but

Iseethemsneakingoutoftheroomandhustling away, andInever thoughtnothing,onlyI reckoned they was afraidtheyhadwakedupmymasterand was trying to get awaybefore he made trouble withthem.Thatwasalltheyaskedme.Thenthedoctorwhirlsonmeandsays:“AreyouEnglishtoo?”I says yes; and him and

some others laughed, and

said,“Stuff!”Well,thentheysailedinon

thegeneral investigation,andtherewehadit,upanddown,hourin,hourout,andnobodynever said a word aboutsupper, nor ever seemed tothink about it—and so theykeptitup,andkeptitup;andit was the worst mixed-upthing you ever see. Theymade the king tell his yarn,and they made the old

gentleman tell his’n; andanybody but a lot ofprejudiced chuckleheadselwould a seen that the oldgentlemanwasspinning truthand t‘otherone lies.Andby-and-bytheyhadmeuptotellwhat I knowed. The king hegive me a left-handed lookout of the corner of his eye,and so I knowed enough totalkontherightside.Ibegunto tell about Sheffield, and

how we lived there, and allabout the English Wilkses,and so on; but I didn’t getprettyfurtillthedoctorbegunto laugh; and Levi Bell, thelawyer,says:“Set down, my boy, I

wouldn’t strain myself, if Iwas you. I reckon you ain’tusedtolying,itdon’tseemtocome handy; what you wantis practice. You do it prettyawkward.”

Ididn’tcarenothingforthecompliment,butIwasgladtobeletoff,anyway.Thedoctorhestartedtosay

something, and turns andsays:“If you’d been in town at

first,LeviBell——”The king broke in and

reached out his hand, andsays:“Why,isthismypoordead

brother’s old friend that he’s

wrotesooftenabout?”The lawyerandhimshook

hands, and the lawyer smiledand lookedpleased, and theytalked right along a while,and then got to one side andtalked low; and at last thelawyerspeaksupandsays:“That’ll fix it. I’ll take the

order and send it, alongwithyour brother‘s, and thenthey’llknowit’sallright.”Sotheygotsomepaperand

a pen, and the king he setdownandtwistedhisheadtoone side, and chawed histongue, and scrawled offsomething;andthentheygivethepentotheduke—andthenfor the first time, the dukelooked sick. But he took thepen and wrote. So then thelawyer turns to the new oldgentlemanandsays:“You and your brother

pleasewritealineortwoand

signyournames.”34

The old gentleman wrote,but nobody couldn’t read it.The lawyer looked powerfulastonished,andsays:“Well, it beats me”—and

snakedalotofoldlettersoutof his pocket, and examinedthem, and then examined theold man’s writing, and thenthem again; and then says:“These old letters is fromHarvey Wilks; and here’s

thesetwo’shandwritings,andanybody can see they didn’twritethem”(thekingandthedukelookedsoldandfoolish,I tell you, to see how thelawyer had took them in),“and here’s this oldgentleman’shandwriting,andanybody can tell, easyenough,he didn’twrite them—fact is, the scratches hemakes ain’t properlywriting,at all. Now here’s somelettersfrom——”

The new old gentlemansays:“If you please, let me

explain.Nobodycanreadmyhand but my brother there—so he copies for me. It’s hishand you’ve got there, notmine.”“Well!” says the lawyer,

“this isastateof things. I’vegotsomeofWilliam’s letterstoo; so if you’ll get him towritealineorsowecancom

——”“He can’t write with his

left hand,” says the oldgentleman. “If he could usehisrighthand,youwouldseethat he wrote his own lettersand mine too. Look at both,please—they’re by the samehand.”The lawyer done it, and

says:“Ibelieveit’sso—andifit

ain’t so, there’s a heap

strongerresemblancethanI’dnoticedbefore,anyway.Well,well,well! I thoughtwewasrightonthetrackofaslution,but it’s gone to grass, partly.But anyway, one thing isproved—these two ain’teither of ‘emWilkses”—andhe wagged his head towardsthekingandtheduke.Well, what do you think?

—that muleheaded old foolwouldn’tgiveinthen!Indeed

hewouldn’t.Saiditwarn’tnofair test. Said his brotherWilliam was the cussedestjokerintheworld,andhadn’ttried to write—he seeWilliam was going to playoneofhisjokestheminuteheput thepen to paper.And sohe warmed up and wentwarbling and warbling rightalong, till he was actulybeginning to believewhat hewas saying, himself—butpretty soon the new old

gentlemanbrokein,andsays:“I’ve thought of

something. Is there anybodyherethathelpedtolayoutmybr—helpedtolayoutthelatePeterWilksforburying?”“Yes,” says somebody,

“me and Ab Turner done it.We’rebothhere.”Then the old man turns

towardstheking,andsays:“Perapsthisgentlemancan

tell me what was tatooed on

hisbreast?”Blamed if the king didn’t

have to brace up mightyquick, or he’d a squsheddown like a bluff bank thattheriverhascutunder,ittookhim so sudden—and mindyou, it was a thing that wascalculated to make mostanybody sqush toget fetchedsuch a solid one as thatwithout any notice—becausehow was he going to know

whatwastatooedontheman?He whitened a little; hecouldn’t help it; and it wasmighty still in there, andeverybody bending a littleforwards and gazing at him.Says I to myself, Now he’llthrow up the sponge—thereain’t no more use.Well, didhe? A body can’t hardlybelieve it, but he didn’t. Ireckon he thought he’d keepthethinguptillhetiredthempeopleout,sothey’dthinout,

and him and the duke couldbreak loose and get away.Anyway, he set there, andprettysoonhebeguntosmile,andsays:“Mf! It’s a very tough

question, ain’t it! Yes, sir, Ik’ntellyouwhat’statooedonhis breast. It’s jest a small,thin,bluearrow—that’swhatit is; and if you don’t lookclost, you can’t see it. Nowwhatdoyousay—hey?”

Well,I never see anythinglike that old blister for cleanout-and-outcheek.The new old gentleman

turns brisk towards AbTurner and his pard, and hiseye lights up like he judgedhe’d got the king this time,andsays:“There—you’ve heard

what he said!Was there anysuch mark on Peter Wilks’sbreast?”

Bothofthemspokeupandsays:“We didn’t see no such

mark.”“Good!” says the old

gentleman. “Now, what youdid see on his breast was asmalldimP,andaB(whichisaninitialhedroppedwhenhewas young), and a W, withdashesbetweenthem,so:P—B—W”—and he markedthem that way on a piece of

paper. “Come—ain’t thatwhatyousaw?”Both of them spoke up

again,andsays:“No, we didn’t. We never

seenanymarksatall.”Well, everybody was in a

state ofmind, now; and theysingsout:“The whole bilin’ of’m ’s

frauds! Le’s duck ‘em! le’sdrown’em!le’sride‘emonarail!” and everybody was

whooping at once, and therewas a rattlingpow-wow.Butthe lawyer he jumps on thetableandyells,andsays:“Gentlemen—gentlemen!

Hear me just a word—just asingle word—if youPLEASE! There’s one wayyet—let’s go and dig up thecorpseandlook.”Thattookthem.“Hooray!”theyallshouted,

andwasstartingrightoff;but

the lawyer and the doctorsungout:“Hold on, hold on! Collar

all these four men and theboy, and fetch them along,too!”‘We’ll do it!“ they all

shouted:”andifwedon’tfindthem marks we’ll lynch thewholegang!“I was scared, now, I tell

you. But there warn’t nogetting away, you know.

They gripped us all, andmarched us right along,straight for the graveyard,which was a mile and halfdowntheriver,andthewholetown at our heels, for wemade noise enough, and itwasonlynineintheevening.AswewentbyourhouseI

wished I hadn’t sent MaryJane out of town; becausenow if I could tip her thewink,she’dlightoutandsave

me, and blow on our dead-beats.Well, we swarmed along

down the river road, justcarrying on like wild- cats;andtomakeitmorescary,thesky was darking up, and thelightning beginning to winkand flitter, and the wind toshiver amongst the leaves.This was the most awfultroubleandmostdangersomeI ever was in; and I was

kinder stunned; everythingwas going so different fromwhatIhadallowedfor;steadofbeingfixedsoIcouldtakemyown time, if Iwanted to,and seeall the fun, andhaveMaryJaneatmybacktosavemeandsetme freewhen theclose-fit come, here wasnothing in the world betwixtmeandsuddendeathbut justthem tatoo-marks. If theydidn’tfindthem—

I couldn’t bear to thinkabout it;andyet,somehow,Icouldn’t think about nothingelse.Itgotdarkeranddarker,anditwasabeautifultimetogive the crowd the slip; butthatbighuskyhadmebythewrist—Hines—and a bodymight as well try to giveGoliar the slip. He draggedme right along, he was soexcited; and I had to run tokeepup.

When they got there theyswarmed into the graveyardand washed over it like anoverflow.Andwhentheygotto thegrave, they found theyhadaboutahundredtimesasmanyshovelsastheywanted,butnobodyhadn’t thought tofetch a lantern. But theysailed into digging, anyway,bytheflickerofthelightning,andsentamantothenearesthouse a half a mile off, toborrowone.

So they dug and dug, likeeverything; and it got awfuldark,andtherainstarted,andthe wind swished andswushed along, and thelightning come brisker andbrisker, and the thunderboomed; but them peoplenever took no notice of it,they was so full of thisbusiness;andoneminuteyoucould see everything andevery face in that big crowd,and the shovelfuls of dirt

sailing up out of the grave,and the next second the darkwiped it all out, and youcouldn’tseenothingatall.At last they got out the

coffin, andbegun tounscrewthelid,andthensuchanothercrowding, and shouldering,and shoving as there was, toscrouge in and get a sight,you never see; and in thedark, thatway, it was awful.Hines he hurt my wrist

dreadful, pulling and tuggingso, and I reckon he cleanforgot Iwas in theworld,hewassoexcitedandpanting.All of a sudden the

lightning let go a perfectsluice of white glare, andsomebodysingsout:“Bythelivingjingo,here’s

the bag of gold on hisbreast!”Hinesletoutawhoop,like

everybody else, and dropped

mywristandgiveabigsurgeto bust his way in and get alook,andthewayIlitoutandshinned for the road in thedark, there ain’t nobody cantell.Ihadtheroadalltomyself,

andIfairlyflew—leastwaysIhaditalltomyselfexceptthesolid dark, and the now-and-then glares,em and thebuzzing of the rain, and thethrashingofthewind,andthe

splitting of the thunder; andsureasyouarebornIdidclipitalong!When I struck the town, I

see there warn’t nobody outin the storm, so I neverhunted for no back streets,but humped it straightthrough the main one; andwhen I begun to get towardsourhouseIaimedmyeyeandset it. No light there; thehouse all dark—which made

me feel sorry anddisappointed, I didn’t knowwhy.Butatlast,justasIwassailing by, flash comes thelightinMaryJane’swindow!and my heart swelled upsudden, like to bust; and thesamesecondthehouseandallwas behind me in the dark,and wasn’t ever going to bebefore me no more in thisworld.ShewasthebestgirlIever see, and had the mostsand.

The minute I was farenoughabovethetowntoseeI could make the towhead, Ibeguntolooksharpforaboatto borrow; and the first timethe lightning showedme onethat wasn’t chained, Isnatcheditandshoved.Itwasa canoe, and warn’t fastenedwith nothing but a rope. Thetowhead was a rattling bigdistance off, away out thereinthemiddleoftheriver,butI didn’t lose no time; and

whenIstrucktheraftatlast,IwassofaggedenIwouldajustlaiddowntoblowandgaspifI could afforded it. But Ididn’t. As I sprung aboard Isungout:“OutwithyouJim,andset

her loose! Glory be togoodness, we’re shut ofthem!”Jim lit out, and was a

coming for me with botharmsspread,hewassofullof

joy;butwhenIglimpsedhiminthelightning,myheartshotup inmymouth, and I wentoverboard backwards; for Iforgot he was old King Learand a drownded A-rab all inone, and it most scared thelivers and lights out of me.But Jim fished me out, andwas going to hug me andbless me, and so on, he wasso glad I was back and wewas shut of the king and theduke,butIsays:

“Not now—have it forbreakfast, have it forbreakfast! Cut loose and letherslide!”So, in two seconds, away

we went, a sliding down theriver,anditdidseemsogoodto be free again and all byourselvesonthebigriverandnobodytobotherus.Ihadtoskip around a bit, and jumpupandcrackmyheels a fewtimes, I couldn’t help it; but

about the third crack, InoticedasoundthatIknowedmighty well—and held mybreath and listened andwaited—and sure enough,when the next flash bustedout over thewater, here theycome!—and just a laying totheir oars and making theirskiffhum!Itwasthekingandtheduke.SoIwiltedrightdownonto

theplanks,then,andgiveup;

and it was all I could do tokeepfromcrying.

CHAPTER30When they got aboard, thekingwent forme, and shookmebythecollar,andsays:“Tryin’ togiveus the slip,

wasye,youpup!Tiredofourcompany—hey?”Isays:“No, your majesty, we

warn‘t—please don’t, yourmajesty!”

“Quick, then, and tell uswhat was your idea, or I’llshaketheinsidesouto’you!”“Honest, I’ll tell you

everything, just as ithappened, your majesty. Themanthathadaholtofmewasvery good to me, and keptsayinghehadaboyaboutasbigasme thatdied lastyear,andhewassorrytoseeaboyin such a dangerous fix; andwhen they was all took by

surprise by finding the gold,and made a rush for thecoffin, he lets go of me andwhispers, ‘Heel it, now, orthey’ll hang ye, sure!’ and Ilitout.Itdidn’tseemnogoodforme tostay—Icouldn’tdonothing, and I didn’twant tobe hung if I could get away.So I never stopped runningtill I found the canoe; andwhenIgothere I toldJimtohurry,orthey’dcatchmeandhangme yet, and said I was

afeard you and the dukewasn’t alive, now, and Iwasawful sorry, and sowas Jim,andwasawfulgladwhenweseeyoucoming,youmayaskJimifIdidn’t.”Jimsaid itwasso;and the

kingtoldhimtoshutup,andsaid, “Oh, yes, it’s mightylikely!” and shook me upagain, and said he reckonedhe’d drownd me. But thedukesays:

“Leggo the boy, you oldidiot!Wouldyou a done anydifferent? Did you inquirearoundforhim,whenyougotloose?Idon’trememberit.”So the king let go of me,

and begun to cuss that townand everybody in it. But thedukesays:“You better a blame sight

giveyourselfagoodcussing,for you’re the one that’sentitledtoitmost.Youhain’t

done a thing, from the start,that had any sense in it,except coming out so cooland cheeky with thatimaginary blue-arrow mark.Thatwasbright—itwasrightdown bully; and it was thething that saved us. For if ithadn’tbeenfor that, they’dajailed us till themEnglishmen’s baggage come—andthen—thepenitentiary,you bet! But that tricktook‘emtothegraveyard,and

thegolddoneusastillbiggerkindness; for if the excitedfools hadn’t let go all holtsand made that rush to get alook, we’d a slept in ourcravats to-night—cravatswarranted to wear, too—longerthanwe’dneed’em.”They was still a minute—

thinking—then thekingsays,kindofabsent-mindedlike:“Mf!Andwereckonedthe

niggersstoleit!”

Thatmademesquirm!“Yes,” says the duke,

kinder slow, and deliberate,andsarcastic.“Wedid.”Afteraboutahalfaminute,

thekingdrawlsout:“Leastways—Idid.”The duke says, the same

way:“Onthecontrary—I˝did.”Thekingkindofrufflesup,

andsays:

“Looky here, Bilgewater,what‘ryoureferrin’to?”Thedukesays,prettybrisk:“When it comes to that,

maybeyou’llletmeask,whatwasyoureferringto?”“Shucks!” says the king,

very sarcastic; “but I don’tknow—maybe you wasasleep,anddidn’tknowwhatyouwasabout.”The duke bristles right up,

now,andsays:

“Oh, letup on this cussednonsense—do you take meforablame’ fool?Don’tyoureckon I know who hid thatmoneyinthatcoffin?”“Yes, sir! I know you do

know—because you done ityourself!”“It’s a lie!”—and theduke

went forhim.Thekingsingsout:“Take y‘r hands off!—

leggomythroat!—Itakeitall

back!”Thedukesays:“Well, you just own up,

first, that you did hide thatmoney there, intending togiveme thesliponeof thesedays,andcomebackanddigit up, and have it all toyourself.”“Wait jest a minute, duke

—answer me this onequestion, honest and fair; ifyou didn’t put the money

there, say it, and I’ll b‘lieveyou,andtakebackeverythingIsaid.”“You old scoundrel, I

didn‘t,andyouknowIdidn’t.There,now!”“Well, then, I b‘lieve you.

But answerme only jest thisone more— now don’t gitmad; didn’t you have it inyour mind to hookeo themoneyandhideit?”The duke never said

nothingforalittlebit;thenhesays:“Well—I don’t care if I

did, I didn’t do it, anyway.But you not only had it inmind to do it, but you doneit.”“IwishtImayneverdie if

I done it, duke, and that’shonest. I won’t say I warn’tgoin’ todoit,becauseIwas;but you—I mean somebody—gotinaheado’me.”

“It’salie!Youdoneit,andyougottosayyoudoneit,or—”The king begun to gurgle,

andthenhegaspsout:“‘Nough!—Iownup!’Iwasverygladtohearhim

say that, it made me feelmuchmoreeasierthanwhatIwas feeling before. So theduke took his hands off, andsays:“Ifyoueverdeny it again,

I’ll drown you. It’s well foryou to set there and blubberlike a baby—it’s fitten foryou, after the way you’veacted.Ineverseesuchanoldostrich forwanting togobbleeverything—and I a trustingyouallthetime,likeyouwasmyownfather.Youought tobeen ashamed of yourself tostand by and hear it saddledontoalotofpoorniggersandyouneversayawordfor‘em.Itmakesmefeelridiculousto

think I was soft enough tobelieve that rubbage. Cussyou,Icansee,now,whyyouwas so anxious to make upthedeffesitep—youwanted togetwhatmoneyI’dgotoutofthe Nonesuch and one thingoranother,andscoopitall!”The king says, timid, and

stillasnuffling:“Why, duke, it was you

that said make up thedeffersit,itwarn’tme.”

“Dry up! I don’t want tohear no more out of you!”saystheduke.“Andnowyousee what you got by it.They’ve got all their ownmoney back, and all of ournbut a shekel or two, besides.G‘long to bed—and don’tyou deffersit me no moredeffersits,long’syoulive!”So the king sneaked into

thewigwam, and took to hisbottleforcomfort;andbefore

long the duke tackled hisbottle; and so inabout ahalfan hour theywas as thick asthieves again, and the tighterthey got, the lovinger theygot;andwentoffasnoringineachother’sarms.Theybothgot powerful mellow, but Inoticed the king didn’t getmellow enough to forget toremember to not deny abouthiding the moneybag again.That made me feel easy andsatisfied. Of course when

theygottosnoring,wehadalonggabble,eq and I told Jimeverything.

CHAPTER31Wedasn’t stop again at anytown,fordaysanddays;keptright along down the river.We was down south in thewarm weather, now, and amightylongwaysfromhome.We begun to come to treeswith Spanish moss on them,hangingdownfromthelimbslike long gray beards. It wasthefirstIeverseeitgrowing,

and it made the woods looksolemn and dismal. So nowthefraudsreckoned theywasoutofdanger,andtheybeguntoworkthevillagesagain.Firsttheydonealectureon

temperance;er but they didn’tmakeenoughforthembothtogetdrunkon.Theninanothervillagetheystartedadancingschool; but they didn’t knownomorehowtodancethanakangaroo does; so the first

prancetheymade,thegeneralpublicjumpedinandprancedthem out of town. Anothertime they tried a go atyellocution;es but they didn’tyellocute long till theaudience got up and givethemasolidgoodcussingandmade them skip out. Theytackled missionarying, andmesmerizering, anddoctoring, and tellingfortunes, and a little of

everything; but they couldn’tseem to have no luck. So atlast they got just about deadbroke, and laid around theraft, as she floated along,thinking, and thinking, andnever saying nothing, by thehalf a day at a time, anddreadfulblueanddesperate.And at last they took a

change,andbeguntolaytheirheadstogetherinthewigwamand talk lowandconfidential

two or three hours at a time.Jim and me got uneasy. Wedidn’t like the lookof it.Wejudged they was studying upsome kind of worse deviltrythan ever.We turned it overandover,andatlastwemadeupourminds theywasgoingto break into somebody’shouse or store, or was goinginto the counterfeit-moneybusiness, or something. Sothen we was pretty scared,and made up an agreement

that we wouldn’t havenothing in the world to dowith such actions, and if weever got the least show wewould give them the coldshake,andclearoutandleavethembehind.Well, earlyonemorningwe hid the raft in agood safe place about twomile below a little bit of ashabby village, namedPikesville, and the king hewentashore,andtoldusalltostayhidwhilsthewentup to

townandsmeltaroundtoseeif anybodyhadgot anywindof the Royal Nonesuch thereyet. (“House to rob, youmean,”saysItomyself;“andwhen you get throughrobbing it you’ll come backhere and wonder what’sbecome of me and Jim andthe raft—and you’ll have totake it out in wondering.”)Andhesaidifhewarn’tbackbymidday, the duke andmewould know it was all right,

andwewastocomealong.Sowestaidwherewewas.

The duke he fretted andsweatedaround,andwasinamightysourway.Hescoldedus for everything, and wecouldn’t seem to do nothingright; he found fault withevery little thing. Somethingwas a-brewing, sure. I wasgood and glad when middaycome and no king; we couldhavea change, anyway—and

maybe a chance for thechange, on top of it. So meand the duke went up to thevillage, and hunted aroundthere for the king, and by-and-by we found him in theback room of a little lowdoggery,et very tight, and alot of loafers bul lyragginghim for sport, and he acussing and threatening withallhismight, and so tighthecouldn’t walk, and couldn’t

donothingtothem.Thedukehebegantoabusehimforanold fool, and the king begunto sass back; and the minutetheywasfairlyat it, I litout,andshookthereefsoutofmyhindlegs,andspundowntheriver road like a deer—for Isee our chance; and I madeupmymindthatitwouldbealongdaybeforetheyeverseemeandJimagain.Igotdownthere all out of breath butloadedupwith joy,andsung

out—“Set her loose, Jim, we’re

allright,now!”But there warn’t no

answer,andnobodycomeoutof the wigwam. Jim wasgone! I set up a shout—andthen another—and thenanotherone;andrunthiswayand that in the woods,whoopingandscreeching;butitwarn’tnouse—oldJimwasgone. Then I set down and

cried;Icouldn’thelpit.ButIcouldn’t set still long. Prettysoon Iwent out on the road,trying to think what I betterdo, and I run across a boywalking, and asked him ifhe’d seen a strange nigger,dressed so and so, and hesays:“Yes.”“Wherebouts?”saysI.“Down to Silas Phelps’s

place, two mile below here.

He’s a runaway nigger, andthey’ve got him. Was youlookingforhim?”“You bet I ain‘t! I run

across him in the woodsaboutanhourortwoago,andhe said if I hollered he’d cutmyliversouteu—andtoldmetolaydownandstaywhereIwas;andIdoneit.Beenthereever since; afeard to comeout.”“Well,” he says, “you

needn’t be afeard no more,becuz they’ve got him. Herun off f’m down South,som‘ers.”“It’s a good job they got

him.”“Well, I reckon! There’s

two hundred dollars rewardon him. It’s like picking upmoneyout’ntheroad.”“Yes, it is—and I could a

haditifI’dbeenbigenough;I see him first. Who nailed

him?”“It was an old fellow—a

stranger—andhesoldouthischance in him for fortydollars, becuz he’s got to goup the river and can’t wait.Think o’ that, now! You betI’dwait,ifitwassevenyear.”“That’s me, every time,”

saysI.“Butmaybehischanceain’tworthnomorethanthat,if he’ll sell it so cheap.Maybe there’s something

ain’tstraightaboutit.”“Butitis, though—straight

asa string. I see thehandbillmyself. It tellsall abouthim,to a dot—paints him like apicture, and tells theplantation he’s frum, belowNewrleans. No-sirree-bob,they ain’t no trouble ‘boutthatspeculation,youbetyou.Say,gimmeachawtobacker,won’tye?”I didn’t have none, so he

left.Iwenttotheraft,andsetdowninthewigwamtothink.But I couldn’t come tonothing. I thought till Iworemy head sore, but I couldn’tseenowayoutofthetrouble.After all this long journey,and after all we’d done forthem scoundrels, here was itall come to nothing,everything all busted up andruined, because they couldhave the heart to serve Jimsuchatrickasthat,andmake

himaslaveagainallhis life,and amongst strangers, too,forfortydirtydollars.Once I said to myself it

would be a thousand timesbetterforJimtobeaslaveathome where his family was,as long as he’d got to be aslave,andsoI’dbetterwritealettertoTomSawyerandtellhim to tell Miss Watsonwherehewas.ButIsoongiveupthatnotion,fortwothings:

she’dbemadanddisgustedathis rascality andungratefulness for leavingher, and so she’d sell himstraightdowntheriveragain;and if she didn‘t, everybodynaturally despises anungrateful nigger, and they’dmakeJimfeel it all the time,and so he’d feel ornery anddisgraced. And then think ofme! It would get all around,that Huck Finn helped aniggertogethisfreedom;and

if Iwas to ever see anybodyfrom that town again, I’d bereadytogetdownandlickhisboots for shame. That’s justtheway:apersondoesalow-downthing,andthenhedon’twanttotakenoconsequencesofit.Thinksaslongashecanhide it, it ain’t no disgrace.Thatwasmyfixexactly.ThemoreIstudiedaboutthis,themoremy conscience went togrinding me, and the morewicked and low-down and

orneryIgottofeeling.Andatlast, when it hit me all of asuddenthatherewastheplainhand of Providence slappingmeinthefaceandlettingmeknow my wickedness wasbeing watched all the timefrom up there in heaven,whilst I was stealing a poorold woman’s nigger thathadn’teverdonemenoharm,and now was showing methere’s One that’s always onthe lookout, and ain’t agoing

to allow no such miserabledoings to go only just so furand no further, I mostdroppedinmytracksIwassoscared.Well,ItriedthebestIcould to kinder soften it upsomehow for myself, bysaying I was brung upwicked, and so I warn’t somuch to blame; butsomething inside of me keptsaying, “There was theSunday school, you could agonetoit;andifyou’dadone

it they’d a learnt you, there,that people that acts as I’dbeenactingabout thatniggergoestoeverlastingfire.”It made me shiver. And I

about made up my mind topray;andseeifIcouldn’ttrytoquitbeingthekindofaboyI was, and be better. So Ikneeleddown.But thewordswouldn’t come. Whywouldn’t they? It warn’t nouse to try and hide it from

Him.Norfromme, neither. Iknowed very well why theywouldn’t come. It wasbecause my heart warn’tright; itwasbecauseIwarn’tsquare; it was because I wasplaying double. I was lettingon to give up sin, but awayinsideofmeIwasholdingontothebiggestoneofall.IwastryingtomakemymouthsayIwoulddotherightthingandthe clean thing, and go andwrite to that nigger’s owner

and tell where he was; butdeepdowninmeIknoweditwasalie—andHeknowedit.Youcan’tprayalie—Ifoundthatout.So I was full of trouble,

full as I couldbe; anddidn’tknow what to do. At last Ihadanidea;andIsays,I’llgoandwritetheletter—andthenseeifIcanpray.Why,itwasastonishing, theway I felt aslight as a feather, right

straight off, and my troublesall gone. So I got a piece ofpaper and a pencil, all gladandexcited,andsetdownandwrote:

Miss Watson yourrunaway nigger Jim isdown here two milebelowPikesvilleandMr.Phelps has got him andhe will give him up fortherewardifyousend.HuckFinn

I felt good and allwashedcleanofsinforthefirsttimeIhad ever felt so in my life,and I knowed I could praynow. But I didn’t do itstraightoff,butlaidthepaperdown and set there thinking—thinking how good it wasallthishappenedso,andhownearIcometobeinglostandgoing to hell. And went onthinking.Andgot to thinkingover our trip down the river;and I see Jim before me, all

the time, in the day, and inthe night-time, sometimesmoonlight,sometimesstorms,and we a floating along,talking, and singing, andlaughing. But somehow Icouldn’t seem to strike noplaces to harden me againsthim, but only the other kind.I’d see him standing mywatch on top of his‘n, steadof calling me, so I could goonsleeping;andseehimhowglad he was when I come

backoutofthefog;andwhenI come to him again in theswamp, up there where thefeud was; and such-liketimes;andwouldalwayscallmehoney,andpetme,anddoeverything he could think offor me, and how good healways was; and at last Istruck the time I saved himby telling the men we hadsmall-poxaboard,andhewassograteful,andsaidIwasthebest friend old Jim ever had

intheworld,andtheonlyonehe’s got now; and then Ihappenedtolookaround,andseethatpaper.Itwasacloseplace.Itook

itup,andhelditinmyhand.Iwasatrembling,becauseI’dgottodecide,forever,betwixttwothings,andIknowedit.Istudied a minute, sort ofholding my breath, and thensaystomyself:“All right, then, I’ll go to

hell”—andtoreitup.Itwas awful thoughts, and

awful words, but they wassaid.AndIletthemstaysaid;and never thought no moreaboutreforming.Ishovedthewhole thing out ofmy head;and said I would take upwickednessagain,whichwasinmyline,beingbrunguptoit, and the otherwarn’t.Andfor a starter, I would go towork and steal Jim out of

slavery again; and if I couldthink up anything worse, Iwoulddothat,too;becauseaslong as I was in, and in forgood, Imight aswell go thewholehog.ThenIset to thinkingover

how to get at it, and turnedoverconsiderablemanywaysinmymind;andat last fixedup a plan that suitedme. Sothen I took the bearings of awoody island that was down

theriverapiece,andassoonas it was fairly dark I creptoutwithmyraftandwentforit, and hid it there, and thenturned in. I slept the nightthrough, and got up before itwas light, and had mybreakfast, and put on mystore clothes, and tied upsomeothersandone thingoranotherinabundle,andtookthe canoe and cleared forshore.IlandedbelowwhereIjudged was Phelps’s place,

and hid my bundle in thewoods,andthenfilledupthecanoewithwater,and loadedrocks into her and sunk herwhere I could find her againwhen I wanted her, about aquarterofamilebelowalittlesteamsawmillthatwasonthebank.Then I struck up the road,

andwhen I passed themill Isee a sign on it, “Phelps’sSawmill,” and when I come

to the farmhouses, two orthree hundred yards furtheralong,Ikeptmyeyespeeled,butdidn’tseenobodyaround,though it was good daylight,now. But I didn’t mind,because I didn’t want to seenobody just yet—I onlywanted to get the lay of theland.Accordingtomyplan,Iwas going to turn up therefrom the village, not frombelow.So I just took a look,andshovedalong,straightfor

town.Well,theveryfirstmanI see, when I got there, wastheduke.Hewas stickingupabillfortheRoyalNonesuch—three-night performance—likethatothertime.Theyhadthecheek,themfrauds!Iwasright on him, before I couldshirk. He looked astonished,andsays:“Hel-lo! Where’d you

come from?” Then he says,kind of glad and eager,

“Where’s the raft?—got herinagoodplace?”Isays:“Why, that’s just what I

was a going to ask yourgrace.”Then he didn’t look so

joyful—andsays:“What was your idea for

askingme?”hesays.“Well,”Isays,“whenIsee

the king in that doggeryyesterday, I says to myself,

we can’t get him home forhours, till he’s soberer; so Iwentaloafingaroundtowntoput in the time, and wait. Aman up and offered me tencents tohelphimpulla skiffover the river and back tofetch a sheep, and so I wentalong, but when we wasdragginghimtotheboat,andthe man left me aholt of therope andwentbehindhim toshove him along, hewas toostrong for me, and jerked

loose and run, and we afterhim.Wedidn’thavenodog,and so we had to chase himall over the country till wetired him out. We never gothimtilldark,thenwefetchedhimover, and I starteddownfor theraft.WhenIgot thereandseeitwasgone,Isaystomyself, ‘they’ve got intotroubleandhad to leave;andthey’ve took my nigger,which is theonlynigger I’vegotintheworld,andnowI’m

inastrangecountry,andain’tgotnopropertynomore,nornothing,andnowaytomakemyliving,’soIsetdownandcried.Isleptinthewoodsallnight. But what did becomeof the raft then?—and Jim,poorJim!”“Blamed if I know—that

is,what’sbecomeoftheraft.That old fool had made atrade and got forty dollars,and when we found him in

the doggery the loafers hadmatchedhalfdollarswithhimand got every cent but whathe’d spent for whisky; andwhenIgothimhomelatelastnightandfoundtheraftgone,wesaid,‘Thatlittlerascalhasstole our raft and shook us,andrunoffdowntheriver.’”“I wouldn’t shake my

nigger, would I?—the onlyniggerIhadintheworld,andtheonlyproperty.”

“Wenever thoughtof that.Fact is, I reckon we’d cometo consider him our nigger;yes, we did consider him so—goodness knows we hadtrouble enough for him. Sowhen we see the raft wasgone,andweflatbroke,therewarn’t anything for it but totry the Royal Nonesuchanother shake. And I’vepegged along ever since, dryas a powderhorn. Where’sthattencents?Giveithere.”

I had considerable money,so I give him ten cents, butbegged him to spend it forsomethingtoeat,andgivemesome, because it was all themoneyIhad,andIhadn’thadnothing to eat sinceyesterday. He never saidnothing. The next minute hewhirlsonmeandsays:“Doyoureckonthatnigger

wouldblowonus?We’dskinhimifhedonethat!”

“Howcanheblow?Hain’therunoff?”“No! That old fool sold

him, and never divided withme,andthemoney’sgone.”“Sold him?” I says, and

begun to cry; “why, he wasmy nigger, and that was mymoney.Whereishe?—Iwantmynigger.”“Well, you can’t get your

nigger, that’s all—so dry upyour blubbering. Looky here

—doyouthinkyou’dventureto blow on us? Blamed if Ithink I’d trust you. Why, ifyouwastoblowonus—”Hestopped,butIneversee

the duke look so ugly out ofhis eyes before. Iwent on a-whimpering,andsays:“I don’t want to blow on

nobody; and I ain’t got notimetoblow,nohow.Igottoturnoutandfindmynigger.”Helookedkinderbothered,

andstood therewithhisbillsfluttering on his arm,thinking,andwrinklinguphisforehead.Atlasthesays:“I’ll tell you something.

Wegottobeherethreedays.If you’ll promise you won’tblow,andwon’tlettheniggerblow, I’ll tell you where tofindhim.”SoIpromised,andhesays:“A farmer by the name of

Silas Ph—” and then he

stopped.Youseehestartedtotellmethetruth;butwhenhestopped, thatway,andbegunto study and think again, Ireckonedhewaschanginghismind. And so he was. Hewouldn’t trustme;hewantedto make sure of having meout of the way the wholethreedays.Sopretty soonhesays: “The man that boughthim is named Abram Foster—Abram G. Foster—and helives forty mile back here in

the country, on the road toLafayette.”“All right,” I says, “I can

walkitinthreedays.AndI’llstartthisveryafternoon.”“Noyouwon‘t,you’llstart

now; and don’t you lose anytime about it, neither, nor doanygabblingbytheway.Justkeep a tight tongue in yourhead and move right along,and then you won’t get intotroublewithus,d’yehear?”

That was the order Iwanted,and thatwas theoneI played for. I wanted to beleftfreetoworkmyplans.“So clear out,” he says;

“and you can tellMr. Fosterwhateveryouwantto.Maybeyou can get him to believethat Jim is your nigger—some idiots don’t requiredocuments—leastways I’veheard there’s such downSouth here. And when you

tell him the handbill and thereward’s bogus, maybe he’llbelieveyouwhenyouexplaintohimwhat the ideawas forgetting ‘em out. Go ’long,now, and tell him anythingyou want to; but mind youdon’t work your jaw anybetweenhereandthere.”SoIleft,andstruckforthe

back country. I didn’t lookaround, but I kinder felt likehe was watching me. But I

knowed I could tire him outat that. Iwent straight out inthe country as much as amile,beforeIstopped; thenIdoubled back through thewoods towards Phelps’s. Ireckoned I better start in onmy plan straight off, withoutfooling around, because Iwanted to stop Jim’s mouthtill these fellows could getaway. I didn’t want notrouble with their kind. I’dseenall Iwanted toof them,

and wanted to get entirelyshutofthem.

CHAPTER32When I got there it was allstillandSunday-like,andhotandsunshiny—thehandswasgone to the fields; and therewas them kind of faintdronings of bugs and flies inthe air thatmakes it seem solonesome and likeeverybody’s dead and gone;andifabreezefansalongandquivers the leaves, it makes

you feel mournful, becauseyou feel like it’s spiritswhispering—spirits that’sbeendeadeversomanyyears—and you always thinkthey’re talkingaboutyou.Asa general thing it makes abodywish he was dead, too,anddonewithitall.Phelps’s was one of these

little one-horse cottonplantations; and theyall lookalike. A rail fence round a

two-acre yard; a stile, madeoutoflogssawedoffandup-ended,insteps,likebarrelsofa different length, to climbover the fence with, and forthewomen to standonwhentheyaregoingtojumpontoahorse; some sickly grass-patches in the big yard, butmostly it was bare andsmooth, like an old hat withthe nap rubbed off; bigdouble log house for thewhite folks—hewed logs,

with the chinks stopped upwithmudormortar,andthesemud-stripes beenwhitewashed some time oranother; round-log kitchen,with a big broad, open butroofed passage joining it tothe house; log smoke-houseback of the kitchen; threelittle log nigger-cabins in arow t‘other side the smoke-house; one little hut all byitself away down against theback fence, and some out-

buildings down a piece theother side; ash-hopper,ev andbig kettle to bile soap in, bythe little hut; bench by thekitchen door, with bucket ofwater and a gourd; houndasleepthere,inthesun;morehounds asleep, round about;about three shade-trees awayoff in a corner; some currantbushesandgooseberrybushesin one place by the fence;outsideof the fenceagarden

andawatermelonpatch;thenthe cotton fields begins; andafterthefields,thewoods.I went around and clumb

overthebackstilebytheash-hopper, and started for thekitchen. When I got a littleways,Iheardthedimhumofa spinning-wheel wailingalong up and sinking alongdown again; and then IknowedforcertainIwishedIwas dead—for that is the

lonesomest sound in thewholeworld.I went right along, not

fixingupanyparticularplan,butjusttrustingtoProvidenceto put the rightwords inmymouth when the time come;for I’d noticed thatProvidencealwaysdidputtherightwordsinmymouth,ifIleftitalone.When I got half-way, first

one hound and then another

got up andwent forme, andofcourseIstoppedandfacedthem,andkeptstill.Andsuchanother pow-wow as theymade! In a quarter of aminuteIwasakindofahubofawheel,asyoumaysay—spokes made out of dogs—circle of fifteen of thempacked together around me,with their necks and nosesstretched up towards me, abarking and howling; andmoreacoming;youcouldsee

them sailing over fences andaround corners fromeverywheres.A nigger woman come

tearingoutofthekitchenwitha rolling-pin in her hand,singing out, “Begone! youTige!youSpot!begone,sah!”and she fetched first one andthen another of them a clipand sent him howling, andthen the rest followed; andthenextsecond,halfof them

come back, wagging theirtails around me and makingfriends with me. There ain’tnoharminahound,nohow.And behind the woman

comes a littleniggergirl andtwolittleniggerboys,withoutanything on but tow-linenshirts, and they hung ontotheir mother’s gown, andpeepedoutfrombehindheratme, bashful, the way theyalways do. And here comes

the white woman runningfrom the house, about forty-five or fifty year old,bareheaded,andherspinning-stick inherhand;andbehindher comes her little whitechildren,actingthesamewaythe little niggers was doing.She was smiling all over soshe could hardly stand—andsays:“It’s you, at last!—ain’t

it?”

I out with a “Yes‘m,”beforeIthought.She grabbed me and

hugged me tight; and thengrippedmebybothhandsandshook and shook; and thetears come in her eyes, andrun down over; and shecouldn’t seem to hug andshake enough, and keptsaying, “You don’t look asmuch like your mother as Ireckonedyouwould,but law

sakes, I don’t care for that,I’msogladtoseeyou!Dear,dear,itdoesseemlikeIcouldeat you up! Childern, it’syour cousin Tom!—tell himhowdy.”But they ducked their

heads,andputtheirfingersintheirmouths, and hid behindher.Sosherunon:“Lize, hurry up and get

him a hot breakfast, rightaway—or did you get your

breakfastontheboat?”I said I had got it on the

boat. So then she started forthe house, leadingmeby thehand, and the childrentagging after. When we gotthere, she set me down in asplit-bottomed chair, and setherself down on a little lowstool in front ofme, holdingbothofmyhands,andsays:

“Now I can have a good

look at you; and laws-a-me,I’ve been hungry for it amany and amany a time, allthese long years, and it’scome at last! We beenexpecting you a couple ofdays and more. What’s kep’you?—boatgetaground?”“Yes‘m—she—”“Don’t say yes‘m—say

Aunt Sally.Where’d she getaground?”I didn’t rightly knowwhat

tosay,becauseIdidn’tknowwhether the boat would becominguptheriverordown.But I go a good deal oninstinct; andmy instinct saidshe would be coming up—from down towards Orleans.That didn’t help me much,though;forIdidn’tknowthenamesofbarsdownthatway.I see I’d got to invent a bar,orforgetthenameoftheonewe got aground on—or—Now I struck an idea, and

fetcheditout:“Itwarn’t thegrounding—

thatdidn’tkeepusbackbutalittle. We blowed out acylinder-head.”ew

“Good gracious! Anybodyhurt?”“No’m.Killedanigger.”35

“Well, it’s lucky; becausesometimespeopledogethurt.TwoyearsagolastChristmas,your uncle Silaswas comingupfromNewrleansontheold

Lally Rook, and she blowedout a cylinder-head andcrippled a man. And I thinkhediedafterwards.HewasaBabtist. Your uncle Silasknowed a family in BatonRouge that knowed hispeople very well. Yes, Iremember, now he did die.Mortification set in, and theyhad to amputate him. But itdidn’t save him. Yes, it wasmortification—thatwasit.Heturnedblueallover,anddied

in the hope of a gloriousresurrection.Theysayhewasa sight to look at. Youruncle’s been up to the townevery day to fetch you. Andhe’s gone again, not more’nan hour ago; he’ll be backanyminute,now.Youmustamet him on the road, didn’tyou?—oldishman,witha—”“No, I didn’t see nobody,

Aunt Sally. The boat landedjustatdaylight,andIleftmy

baggage on the wharf-boatandwent looking around thetown and out a piece in thecountry,toputinthetimeandnotgetheretoosoon;andsoIcomedownthebackway.”“Who’d you give the

baggageto?”“Nobody.”“Why,child,it’llbestole!”“Not where I hid it I

reckonitwon‘t,”Isays.“How’d you get your

breakfast so early on theboat?”Itwaskinderthinice,butI

says:“The captain see me

standingaround,and toldmeIbetterhavesomethingtoeatbefore I went ashore; so hetook me in the texas to theofficers’ lunch, and give meallIwanted.”I was getting so uneasy I

couldn’tlistengood.Ihadmy

mind on the children all thetime;Iwantedtogetthemouttooneside,andpumpthemalittle,andfindoutwhoIwas.But I couldn’t get no show,Mrs.Phelpskeptitupandrunon so. Pretty soon she madethecoldchillsstreakalldownmyback,becauseshesays:“But here we’re a running

on this way, and you hain’ttoldmeawordaboutSis,noranyofthem.NowI’llrestmy

works a little, and you startup yourn; just tell meeverything—tellme all about’m all—every one of’m; andhow they are, and whatthey’re doing, andwhat theytoldyoutotellme;andeverylastthingyoucanthinkof.”Well, I see I was up a

stump—and up it good.Providence had stood by methis fur, all right, but I washard and tight aground, now.

I see itwarn’tabitofuse totry to go ahead—I’d got tothrowupmyhand.So I saysto myself, here’s anotherplacewhere I got to resk thetruth. I openedmymouth tobegin; but she grabbed meandhustledme inbehind thebed,andsays:“Herehecomes!stickyour

head down lower—there,that’ll do; you can’t be seen,now.Don’tyouletonyou’re

here. I’llplaya jokeonhim.Childern, don’t you say aword.”I see I was in a fix, now.

Butitwarn’tnousetoworry;therewarn’tnothingtodobutjustholdstill, and tryandbeready to stand from underwhenthelightningstruck.Ihadjustonelittleglimpse

oftheoldgentlemanwhenhecome in, then the bed hidhim. Mrs. Phelps she jumps

forhimandsays:“Hashecome?”“No,”saysherhusband.“Good-ness gracious!” she

says, “what in theworld canhavebecomeofhim?”“Ican’t imagine,” says the

old gentleman; “and I mustsay, it makes me dreadfuluneasy.”“Uneasy!” she says, “I’m

ready to go distracted! Hemust a come; and you’ve

missed him along the road. Iknowit’sso—somethingtellsmeso.”“Why Sally, I couldn’t

misshimalongtheroad—youknowthat.”“But oh, dear, dear, what

willSissay?Hemustacome!You must a missed him. He—”“Oh,don’tdistressmeany

more’n I’m alreadydistressed.Idon’tknowwhat

in the world to make of it.I’m at my wit’s end, and Idon’t mind acknowledging’tI’m right down scared. Butthere’s no hope that he’scome; for he couldn’t comeand me miss him. Sally, it’sterrible—just terrible—something’s happened to theboat,sure!”“Why,Silas!Lookyonder!

—up the road!—ain’t thatsomebodycoming?”

Hesprungtothewindowatthe head of the bed, and thatgive Mrs. Phelps the chanceshe wanted. She stoopeddownquick,atthefootofthebed, and giveme a pull, andout I come; and when heturnedbackfromthewindow,there she stood, a-beamingand a-smiling like a houseafire, and I standing prettymeek and sweaty alongside.Theoldgentlemanstared,andsays:

“Why,who’sthat?”“Whodoyoureckon’tis?”“I hain’t no idea. Who is

it?”“It’sTomSawyer.!”By jings, I most slumped

through the floor. But therewarn’t no time to swapknives; the old man grabbedme by the hand and shook,and kept on shaking; and allthetime,howthewomandiddance around and laugh and

cry; and then how they bothdid fire off questions aboutSid,andMary,andtherestofthetribe.But if they was joyful, it

warn’tnothingtowhatIwas;for it was like being bornagain, I was so glad to findout who I was. Well, theyfroze to me for two hours;andatlastwhenmychinwassotireditcouldn’thardlygo,any more, I had told them

more about my family—Imean the Sawyer family—thaneverhappenedtoanysixSawyer families. And Iexplained all about how weblowedoutacylinder-headatthemouthofWhiteRiverandittookusthreedaystofixit.Which was all right, andworked first rate; becausethey didn’t know but what itwould take three days to fixit. If I’d a called it a bolt-

headexitwouldadonejustaswell.Now I was feeling pretty

comfortable all down oneside, and prettyuncomfortable all up theother. Being Tom Sawyerwas easy and comfortable;and it stayed easy andcomfortable till by-and-by Ihear a steamboat coughingalongdown the river—then Isays to myself, spose Tom

Sawyer come down on thatboat?—and sposehe steps inhere, any minute, and singsout my name before I canthrow him a wink to keepquiet?Well,Icouldn’thaveitthat way—it wouldn’t do atall.Imustgouptheroadandwaylay him. So I told thefolks I reckoned I would goup to the town and fetchdown my baggage. The oldgentleman was for goingalongwithme,butIsaidno,I

coulddrive thehorsemyself,and I druther he wouldn’ttakenotroubleaboutme.

CHAPTER33So I started for town, in thewagon,andwhen Iwashalf-way I see a wagon coming,and sure enough it was TomSawyer, and I stopped andwaited till he come along. Isays “Hold on!” and itstopped alongside, and hismouthopeneduplikeatrunk,and staid so; and heswallowedtwoorthreetimes

likeaperson that’sgot adrythroat,andthensays:“Ihain’teverdoneyouno

harm. You know that. Sothen,whatyouwant tocomebackandha‘ntmefor?”Isays:“I hain’t come back—I

hain’tbeengone.”Whenheheardmyvoice,it

righted him up some, but hewarn’t quite satisfiedyet.Hesays:

“Don’tyouplaynothingonme, because I wouldn’t onyou. Honest injun, now, youain’taghost?”“Honest injun, I ain‘t,” I

says.“Well—I—I—well, that

ought to settle it, of course;but I can’t somehowseem tounderstandit,noway.Lookyhere, warn’t you evermurderedatall?”“No. I warn’t ever

murdered at all—I played iton them. You come in hereand feel of me if you don’tbelieveme.”So he done it; and it

satisfiedhim;andhewasthatglad to see me again, hedidn’tknowwhat todo.Andhewanted to know all aboutit right off; because it was agrand adventure, andmysterious, and so it hit himwhere he lived. But I said,

leave it alone till by-and-by;and told his driver to wait,and we drove off a littlepiece,andItoldhimthekindofafixIwasin,andwhatdidhe reckon we better do? Hesaid, let him alone aminute,and don’t disturb him. So hethought and thought, andprettysoonhesays:“It’s all right, I’ve got it.

Take my trunk in yourwagon,andletonit’syour’n;

and you turn back and foolalongslow,soastogettothehouse about the time youought to; and I’ll go towardstownapiece,andtakeafreshstart, and get there a quarteror a half an hour after you;and you needn’t let on toknowme,atfirst.”Isays:“All right; but wait a

minute. There’s one morething—a thing that nobody

don’tknowbutme.And thatis, there’s a nigger here thatI’m a trying to steal out ofslavery—andhisnameisJim—oldMissWatson’sJim.”Hesays:“What!WhyJimis—”He stopped and went to

studying.Isays:“I know what you’ll say.

You’ll say it’s dirty low-downbusiness;butwhat if itis?—I’m low down; and I’m

agoing to steal him, and Iwant you to keep mum andnotleton.Willyou?”Hiseyelitup,andhesays:“I’llhelpyoustealhim!”Well,Iletgoallholtsthen,

like I was shot. It was themost astonishing speech Iever heard—and I’m boundto say Tom Sawyer fell,considerable, in myestimation. Only I couldn’tbelieve it. Tom Sawyer a

niggerstealer!“Oh, shucks,” I says,

“you’rejoking.”“Iain’tjoking,either.”“Well, then,” I says,

“joking or no joking, if youhear anything said about arunaway nigger, don’t forgetto remember that you don’tknownothingabouthim,andI don’t know nothing abouthim.”Thenwetookthetrunkand

put it in my wagon, and hedroveoffhisway,andIdrovemine. But of course I forgotall about driving slow, onaccounts of being glad andfullofthinking;soIgothomea heap too quick for thatlength of a trip. The oldgentleman was at the door,andhesays:“Why, this is wonderful.

Whoeverwoulda thought itwas in that mare to do it. I

wish we’d a timed her. Andshe hain’t sweated a hair—not a hair. It’s wonderful.Why, I wouldn’t take ahunderddollarsforthathorsenow; Iwouldn‘t, honest; andyet I’d a sold her for fifteenbefore, and thought ’twas allshewasworth.”That’s all he said.Hewas

the innocentest, best old soulI ever see. But it warn’tsurprising;becausehewarn’t

only just a farmer, he was apreacher, too,andhada littleone-horse log church downbackof theplantation,whichhebuilt ithimselfathisownexpense, for a church andschool-house, and nevercharged nothing for hispreaching, and it was worthit,too.Therewasplentyotherfarmer-preachers like that,anddonethesameway,downSouth.

In about half an hourTom’swagondroveuptothefrontstile,andAuntSallyshesee it through the windowbecause it was only aboutfiftyyards,andsays:“Why, there’s somebody

come! I wonder who ‘tis?Why, I do believe it’s astranger. Jimmy” (that’s oneofthechildren),“runandtellLize to put on another platefordinner.”

Everybodymadearushforthe front door, because, ofcourse,astrangerdon’tcomeevery year, and so he laysover the yaller fever, forinterest,when he does come.Tom was over the stile andstarting for the house; thewagon was spinning up theroad for the village, and wewas all bunched in the frontdoor. Tom had his storeclotheson,andanaudience—and thatwas always nuts for

Tom Sawyer. In themcircumstances it warn’t notrouble tohimto throwinanamount of style that wassuitable. He warn’t a boy tomeekyalongupthatyardlikea sheep; no, he come ca’mand important, like the ram.Whenhegotafrontofus,helifts his hat ever so graciousanddainty,likeitwasthelidof a box that had butterfliesasleepinitandhedidn’twanttodisturbthem,andsays:

“Mr. Archibald Nichols, Ipresume?”“No,myboy,”saystheold

gentleman,“I’msorrytosay’tyourdriverhasdeceivedyou;Nichols’s place is down amatter of three mile more.Comein,comein.”Tom he took a look back

over his shoulder, and says,“Toolate—he’soutofsight.”“Yes, he’s gone, my son,

andyoumustcomeinandeat

yourdinnerwithus;andthenwe’ll hitch up and take youdowntoNichols’s.”“Oh, I can’t make you so

muchtrouble;Icouldn’tthinkof it. I’llwalk—Idon’tmindthedistance.”“Butwewon’tletyouwalk

—it wouldn’t be Southernhospitality to do it. Comerightin.”“Oh,do,”saysAuntSally;

“itain’tabitoftroubletous,

not a bit in the world. Youmust stay. It’s a long, dustythree mile, and we can’t letyou walk. And besides, I’vealready told ‘em to put onanotherplate,whenIseeyoucoming; so you mustn’tdisappointus.Come right in,andmakeyourselfathome.”So Tom he thanked them

very hearty and handsome,and lethimselfbepersuaded,and come in; and when he

was in, he said he was astranger from Hicksville,Ohio, and his name wasWilliam Thompson—and hemadeanotherbow.Well, he run on, and on,

andon,makingupstuffaboutHicksville and everybody init he could invent, and Igetting a little nervious, andwondering how this wasgoing to help me out of myscrape; and at last, still

talkingalong,hereachedoverand kissed Aunt Sally rightonthemouth,andthensettledback again in his chair,comfortable, and was goingontalking;butshejumpedupandwipeditoffwiththebackofherhand,andsays:“Youowdaciouseypuppy!”Helookedkindofhurt,and

says:“I’m surprised at you,

m‘am.”

“You’re s‘rp—Why, whatdo you reckon I am? I’ve agoodnotiontotakeand—say,whatdoyoumeanbykissingme?”Helookedkindofhumble,

andsays:“I didn’t mean nothing,

m‘am.Ididn’tmeannoharm.I—I—thoughtyou’dlikeit.”“Why,youbornfool!”She

took up the spinning-stick,and it looked like it was all

she could do to keep fromgiving him a crack with it.‘What made you think I’dlikeit?““Well,Idon’tknow.Only,

they—they—told me youwould.”“They told you I would.

Whoever told you’s anotherlunatic.Ineverheardthebeatofit.Who’sthey?”“Why—everybody. They

allsaidso,m‘am.”

It was all she could do tohold in; and her eyessnapped, and her fingersworked like she wanted toscratchhim;andshesays:“Who’s ‘everybody’? Out

with their names—or ther’llbeanidiotshort.”He got up and looked

distressed, and fumbled hishat,andsays:“I’m sorry, and I warn’t

expectingit.Theytoldmeto.

Theyall toldme to.Theyallsaid kiss her; and said she’lllikeit.Theyallsaidit—everyone of them. But I’m sorry,m‘am, and I won’t do it nomore—Iwon’t,honest.”“You won‘t, won’t you?

Well, I sh’d reckon youwon’t!”“No‘m, I’m honest about

it; I won’t ever do it again.Tillyouaskme.”“Till I ask you! Well, I

neverseethebeatofitinmyborndays!Ilayyou’llbetheMethusalem-numskull ofcreationbeforeeverIaskyou—orthelikesofyou.”“Well,” he says, “it does

surprisemeso.Ican’tmakeitout,somehow.Theysaidyouwould, and I thought youwould. But—” He stoppedand looked around slow, likehewishedhecouldrunacrossa friendly eye, somewhere’s;

and fetched up on the oldgentleman‘s, and says,“Didn’t you think she’d likemetokissher,sir?”“Why, no, I—I—well, no,

Ib‘lieveIdidn’t.”Then he looks on around,

the same way, to me—andsays:“Tom, didn’t you think

Aunt Sally ’d open out herarmsandsay,‘SidSawyer—’”

“My land!” she says,breaking in and jumping forhim, “you impudent youngrascal, to fool a body so—”and was going to hug him,but he fended her off, andsays:“No, not till you’ve asked

me,first.”Soshedidn’tlosenotime,

but asked him; and huggedhimandkissedhim,overandover again, and then turned

himover to theoldman,andhe took what was left. Andafter they got a little quietagain,shesays:“Why,dearme,Ineversee

such a surprise. We warn’tlooking for you, at all, butonlyTom.Sisneverwrotetome about anybody comingbuthim.”“It’s because it warn’t

intended for any of us tocomebutTom,”hesays;“but

I begged and begged, and atthe last minute she let mecome, too; so, coming downthe river, me and Tomthought it would be a first-ratesurprise forhimtocomeheretothehousefirst,andforme to by-and-by tag alonganddropinandletontobeastranger.Butitwasamistake,Aunt Sally. This ain’t nohealthyplaceforastrangertocome.”

“No—not impudentwhelps, Sid. You ought tohadyourjawsboxed;Ihain’tbeen soput out since I don’tknowwhen.ButIdon’tcare,I don’t mind the terms—I’dbewillingtostandathousandsuch jokes to have you here.Well, to think of thatperformance! I don’t deny it,I was most putrified withastonishment when you givemethatsmack.”

We had dinner out in thatbroad open passage betwixtthe house and the kitchen;and there was things enoughon that table for sevenfamilies—and all hot, too;none of your flabby toughmeatthat’slaidinacupboardinadampcellarallnightandtastes likeahunkofoldcoldcannibal in the morning.UncleSilasheaskedaprettylong blessing over it, but itwas worth it; and it didn’t

cool it abit,neither, thewayI’ve seen them kind ofinterruptionsdo,lotsoftimes.There was a considerable

good deal of talk, all theafternoon, and me and Tomwas on the lookout all thetime, but it warn’t no use,they didn’t happen to saynothing about any runawaynigger, andwewas afraid totry to work up to it. But atsupper, at night, one of the

littleboyssays:“Pa, mayn’t Tom and Sid

andmegototheshow?”“No,”says theoldman,“I

reckonthereain’tgoingtobeany; and you couldn’t go ifthere was; because therunaway nigger told Burtonand me all about thatscandalous show, andBurtonsaidhewouldtellthepeople;soIreckonthey’vedrovetheowdacious loafers out of

townbeforethistime.”So there it was!—but I

couldn’thelpit.Tomandmewastosleepinthesameroomand bed; so, being tired, webidgood-nightandwentuptobed, right after supper, andclumboutofthewindowanddown the lightning-rod, andshoved for the town; for Ididn’t believe anybody wasgoingtogivethekingandthedukeahint,andso,ifIdidn’t

hurry up and give them onethey’dgetintotroublesure.On the road Tom he told

me all about how it wasreckonedIwasmurdered,andhow pap disappeared, prettysoon, and didn’t come backnomore,andwhatastirtherewaswhenJimrunaway;andI told Tom all about ourRoyalNonesuchrapscallions,and as much of the raft-voyage as I had time to; and

as we struck into the townandupthroughthemiddleofit—it was as much as half-aftereight, then—herecomesa raging rushofpeople,withtorches, and an awfulwhooping and yelling, andbangingtinpansandblowinghorns;andwe jumped toonesidetoletthemgoby;andastheywent by, I see they hadthe king and the dukeastraddle of a rail—that is, Iknowed it was the king and

theduke,thoughtheywasallover tar and feathers, anddidn’tlooklikenothingintheworld that was human—justlooked like a couple ofmonstrous big soldier-plumes. Well, it made mesicktoseeit;andIwassorryfor them poor pitiful rascals,itseemedlikeIcouldn’teverfeel any hardness againstthem anymore in theworld.Itwasadreadfulthingtosee.Human beings can be awful

crueltooneanother.We seewewas too late—

couldn’t do no good. Weasked some stragglers aboutit, and they said everybodywent to the show lookingvery innocent; and laid lowandkeptdarktillthepooroldkingwasinthemiddleofhiscavortings on the stage; thensomebody give a signal, andthe house rose up and wentforthem.

So we poked along backhome,andIwarn’tfeelingsobrash as I was before, butkind of ornery, and humble,and to blame, somehow—thoughIhadn’tdonenothing.But that’s always theway; itdon’t make no differencewhether you do right orwrong,aperson’sconscienceain’t got no sense, and justgoesforhimanyway.IfIhadayallerdog thatdidn’tknowno more than a person’s

conscience does, I wouldpison him. It takes up moreroom than all the rest of aperson’sinsides,andyetain’tno good, nohow. TomSawyerhesaysthesame.

CHAPTER34We stopped talking, and gottothinking.By-and-byTomsays:“Looky here, Huck, what

foolsweare,tonotthinkofitbefore! I bet I know whereJimis.”“No!Where?”“In that hut down by the

ash-hopper.Why,lookyhere.

When we was at dinner,didn’t you see a nigger mango in there with somevittles?”“Yes.”“What did you think the

vittleswasfor?”“Foradog.”“So’dI.Well,itwasn’tfor

adog.”“Why?”“Because part of it was

watermelon.”

“So it was—I noticed it.Well, it does beat all, that Ineverthoughtaboutadognoteating watermelon. It showshowabodycanseeanddon’tseeatthesametime.”“Well,theniggerunlocked

thepadlockwhenhewentin,and he locked it again whenhe come out. He fetcheduncle a key, about the timewe got up from table—samekey,Ibet.Watermelonshows

man, lock shows prisoner;and itain’t likely there’s twoprisoners on such a littleplantation, and where thepeople’sallsokindandgood.Jim’stheprisoner.Allright—I’m glad we found it outdetective fashion; I wouldn’tgive shucks for any otherway. Now you work yourmindand studyout aplan tostealJim,andIwillstudyoutone, too; and we’ll take theonewelikethebest.”

Whataheadfor justaboyto have! If I had TomSawyer’s head, I wouldn’ttrade it off to be a duke, normate of a steamboat, norclowninacircus,nornothingI can think of. I went tothinking out a plan, but onlyjust tobedoing something; Iknowed very well where therightplanwasgoingtocomefrom.Prettysoon,Tomsays:“Ready?”

“Yes,”Isays.“Allright—bringitout.”“My plan is this,” I says.

“We can easy find out if it’sJiminthere.Thengetupmycanoe to-morrow night, andfetch my raft over from theisland. Then the first darknight that comes, steal thekey out of the old man’sbritches,afterhegoestobed,andshoveoffdown the riveron the raft, with Jim, hiding

daytimes and running nights,thewayme and Jim used todobefore.Wouldn’tthatplanwork?”“Work? Why cert‘nly, it

would work, like rats afighting. But it’s too blame’simple; thereain’tnothing toit.What’s thegoodofaplanthat ain’t no more troublethan that? It’s as mild asgoose-milk. Why, Huck, itwouldn’t make no more talk

than breaking into a soapfactory.”I never said nothing,

because I warn’t expectingnothing different; but Iknowed mighty well thatwhenever he got his planready it wouldn’t have noneofthemobjectionstoit.And it didn’t. He told me

what it was, and I see in aminuteitwasworthfifteenofmine, for style, and would

make Jim just as free amanas mine would, and maybegetusallkilledbesides.SoIwas satisfied, and said wewouldwaltzinonit.Ineedn’ttellwhatitwas,here,becauseIknoweditwouldn’tstaytheway it was. I knowed hewouldbechanging itaround,everywhichway,aswewentalong,andheavinginnewbullinesses wherever he got achance. And that is what hedone.

Well, one thing was deadsure; and thatwas, that TomSawyer was in earnest andwasactulygoingtohelpstealthat nigger out of slavery.That was the thing that wastoomanyforme.Herewasaboythatwasrespectable,andwell brung up; and had acharactertolose;andfolksathomethathadcharacters;andhewasbrightandnotleather-headed;andknowingandnotignorant; and not mean, but

kind; and yet here he was,without any more pride, orrightness, or feeling, than tostoop to this business, andmake himself a shame, andhis family a shame, beforeeverybody. I couldn’tunderstandit,nowayatall.Itwas outrageous, and IknowedIoughttojustupandtellhimso;andsobehistruefriend, and let him quit thethingrightwherehewas,andsave himself. And I did start

totellhim;butheshutmeup,andsays:“Don’t you reckon I know

what I’m about? Don’t Igenerly know what I’mabout?”“Yes.”“Didn’t I say I was going

tohelpstealthenigger?”“Yes.”“Wellthen.”That’s all he said, and

that’s all I said. It warn’t no

usetosayanymore;becausewhenhesaidhe’ddoathing,he always done it. But Icouldn’t make out how hewas willing to go into thisthing; so I just let it go, andneverbotherednomoreaboutit. Ifhewasboundtohaveitso,Icouldn’thelpit.When we got home, the

house was all dark and still;so we went on down to thehut by the ash-hopper, for to

examine it.Wewent throughtheyard,soastoseewhatthehounds would do. Theyknowed us, and didn’t makeno more noise than countrydogs is always doing whenanything comes by in thenight. When we got to thecabin, we took a look at thefront and the two sides; andon the side I warn’tacquainted with—which wasthe north side—we found asquare window-hole, up

tolerable high, with just onestoutboardnailedacross it. Isays:“Here’s the ticket. This

hole’s big enough for Jim togetthrough,ifwewrenchofftheboard.”Tomsays:“It’sassimpleastit-tat-toe,

three-in-a-row,andaseasyasplayinghooky. Ishouldhopewe can find a way that’s alittle more complicated than

that,HuckFinn.”“Well then,” I says,

“how’ll itdo tosawhimout,theway I done before I wasmurdered,thattime?”“That’s more like,” he

says. “It’s real mysterious,and troublesome, and good,”he says; “but I bet we canfind a way that’s twice aslong. There ain’t no hurry;le’skeeponlookingaround.”Betwixt the hut and the

fence,onthebackside,wasalean-to, that joined thehut atthe eaves, andwasmade outofplank.Itwasaslongasthehut, but narrow—only aboutsix footwide. The door to itwasatthesouthend,andwaspadlocked. Tom he went tothe soap kettle, and searchedaround and fetched back theiron thing they lift the lidwith;sohetookitandprizedout one of the staples. Thechain fell down, and we

openedthedoorandwent in,and shut it, and struck amatch, and see the shedwasonly built against the cabinand hadn’t no connectionwith it; and there warn’t nofloortotheshed,nornothingin it but some old rustyplayed-out hoes, and spades,and picks, and a crippledplow. The match went out,andsodidwe,andshovedinthestapleagain,andthedoorwas locked as good as ever.

Tomwasjoyful.Hesays:“Nowwe’reallright.We’ll

dighimout.It’lltakeaboutaweek!”Then we started for the

house,andIwentinthebackdoor—youonlyhavetopullabuckskin latch-string, theydon’t fasten the doors—butthatwarn’tromanticalenoughfor Tom Sawyer: no waywould do him but he mustclimb up the lightning-rod.

But after he got up half-wayaboutthreetimes,andmissedfire and fell every time, andthe last timemost busted hisbrains out, he thought he’dgot togive itup;butafterhewas rested, he allowed hewouldgiveheronemoreturnfor luck, and this time hemadethetrip.In themorningwewas up

atbreakofday,anddown tothe nigger cabins to pet the

dogs and make friends withthe nigger that fed Jim—if itwas Jim that was being fed.The niggers was just gettingthroughbreakfastandstartingfor the fields; and Jim’sniggerwaspilingupatinpanwith bread and meat andthings; and whilst the otherswas leaving, the key comefromthehouse.This nigger had a good-

natured,chuckle-headedface,

and hiswoolwas all tied upin little bunches with thread.Thatwastokeepwitchesoff.He said the witches waspestering him awful, thesenights, and making him seeall kinds of strange things,and hear all kinds of strangewords and noises, and hedidn’t believe he was everwitchedsolong,before,inhislife. He got so worked up,and got to running on soabout his troubles, he forgot

all about what he’d beenagoingtodo.SoTomsays:“What’s the vittles for?

Goingtofeedthedogs?”The nigger kind of smiled

aroundgradulyoverhis face,like when you heave abrickbatinamudpuddle,andhesays:“Yes, Mars Sid, a dog.

Cur‘us dog, too. Does youwanttogoenlookat’im?”“Yes.”

I hunched Tom, andwhispers:“You going, right here in

the day-break? That warn’ttheplan.”“No,itwarn‘t—butit’sthe

plannow.”So, drat him, we went

along, but I didn’t like itmuch. When we got in, wecouldn’t hardly see anything,it was so dark; but Jim wasthere,sureenough,andcould

seeus;andhesingsout:“Why, Huck! En good

lan‘!ain’datMistoTom?”Ijustknowedhowitwould

be;Ijustexpectedit.Ididn’tknow nothing to do; and if Ihad, I couldn’t a done it;because thatniggerbusted inandsays:“Why, de gracious sakes!

doheknowyougenlmen?”We could see pretty well,

now. Tom he looked at the

nigger, steady and kind ofwondering,andsays:“Doeswhoknowus?”“Why, dish-yer runaway

nigger.”“I don’t reckon he does;

but what put that into yourhead?”“Whatput itdar?Didn’he

jis’ dis minute sing out likeheknowedyou?”Tom says, in a puzzled-up

kindofway:

“Well, that’s mightycurious.Whosungout?Whendidhesingout?What did hesing out?” And turns to me,perfectly ca‘m, and says,“Did you hear anybody singout?”Of course there warn’t

nothingtobesaidbuttheonething;soIsays:“No; I ain’t heard nobody

saynothing.”Then he turns to Jim, and

looks himover like he neverseehimbefore;andsays:“Didyousingout?”“No, sah,” says Jim; “I

hain’tsaidnothing,sah.”“Notaword?”“No, sah, I hain’t said a

word.”“Did you ever see us

before?”“No, sah; not as I knows

on.”

SoTomturnstothenigger,which was looking wild anddistressed, and says, kind ofsevere:“Whatdoyoureckon’sthe

matter with you, anyway?What made you thinksomebodysungout?”“Oh, it’s de dad-blame’

witches,sah,enIwishtIwasdead,Ido.Dey’sawluzat it,sah, en dey domos’ killme,dey sk‘yersme so. Please to

don’ttellnobody’boutitsah,er ole Mars Silas he’ll scoleme;‘kasehesaydeyain’tnowitches. I jis’ wish togoodness he was heah now—den what would he say! Ijis’ bet he couldn’ fine noway togit aroun’ it dis time.But it’s awluz jis’ so; peopledat’ssot,stayssot;deywon’tlookintonothn’enfineitoutf’r deyselves, en when youfineitoutentellum‘boutit,deydoan’b’lieveyou.”

Tomgivehimadime,andsaidwewouldn’ttellnobody;and told him to buy somemorethreadtotieuphiswoolwith; and then looks at Jim,andsays:“IwonderifUncleSilas is

goingtohangthisnigger.IfIwastocatchaniggerthatwasungrateful enough to runaway,Iwouldn’tgivehimup,I’dhanghim.”Andwhilstthenigger stepped to thedoor to

lookatthedimeandbiteittosee if it was good, hewhisperstoJim,andsays:“Don’teverletontoknow

us. And if you hear anydigging going on nights, it’sus: we’re going to set youfree.”Jim only had time to grab

usbythehandandsqueezeit,then the nigger come back,andwesaidwe’dcomeagainsome time if the nigger

wanted us to; and he said hewould, more particular if itwasdark,becausethewitcheswent for him mostly in thedark,anditwasgoodtohavefolksaroundthen.

CHAPTER35Itwouldbemostanhour,yet,till breakfast, sowe left, andstruck down into the woods;because Tom said we got tohavesomelighttoseehowtodig by, and a lantern makestoo much, and might get usinto trouble; what we musthavewasalotofthemrottenchunks that’s called fox-fireand justmakesasoftkindof

aglowwhenyoulaythemina dark place. We fetched anarmful and hid it in theweeds, and set down to rest,and Tom says, kind ofdissatisfied:“Blameit,thiswholething

is justaseasyandawkardasit can be.And so itmakes itso rottendifficult togetupadifficult plan. There ain’t nowatchman to be drugged—now there ought to be a

watchman.Thereain’tevenadog to give a sleeping-mixture to. And there’s Jimchained by one leg, with aten-foot chain, to the leg ofhis bed: why, all you got todo is to lift up the bedsteadand slip off the chain. AndUncle Silas he trustseverybody; sends the key tothe punkin-headed nigger,and don’t send nobody towatchthenigger.Jimcouldagot out of that window hole

before this, only therewouldn’t be no use trying totravelwithaten-footchainonhis leg. Why, drat it, Huck,it’s thestupidestarrangementI ever see.Yougot to inventall the difficulties. Well, wecan’thelpit,wegottodothebestwecanwiththematerialswe’ve got. Anyhow, there’sone thing—there’s morehonor in getting him outthrough a lot of difficultiesand dangers, where there

warn’toneof themfurnishedto you by the people who itwas their duty to furnishthem,andyouhadtocontrivethem all out of your ownhead. Now look at just thatone thing of the lantern.Whenyoucomedown to thecold facts, we simply got tolet on that a lantern’s resky.Why, we could work with atorchlight procession if wewanted to, I believe. Now,whilstI thinkof it,wegot to

huntupsomething tomakeasaw out of, the first chanceweget.”“What do we want of a

saw?”“What do we want of it?

Hain’twe got to saw the legof Jim’sbedoff, soas togetthechainloose?”“Why,youjustsaidabody

couldliftupthebedsteadandslipthechainoff.”“Well,ifthatain’tjustlike

you,HuckFinn.Youcangetup the infant-schooliestwaysof going at a thing. Why,hain’t you ever read anybooksatall?—BaronTrenck,norCasanova,norBenvenutoChelleeny,norHenriIV.,nornone of them heroes?36Whoever heard of getting aprisonerlooseinsuchanold-maidy way as that? No; theway all the best authoritiesdoes,istosawthebed-legin

two, and leave it just so, andswallow the sawdust, so itcan’tbefound,andputsomedirt and grease around thesawed place so the verykeenest seneskalez can’t seeno sign of it’s being sawed,and thinks the bed-leg isperfectly sound. Then, thenight you’re ready, fetch theleg a kick, down she goes;slipoffyourchain,and thereyou are. Nothing to do but

hitch your rope-ladder to thebattlements, shin down it,breakyour leg in themoat—because a rope-ladder isnineteen foot too short, youknow—and there’s yourhorses and your trustyvassles, and they scoop youup and fling you across asaddle and away you go, toyour native Langudoc,fa orNavarre,fb or wherever it is.It’sgaudy,Huck.Iwishthere

was a moat to this cabin. Ifwe get time, the night of theescape,we’lldigone.”Isays:“What do we want of a

moat, when we’re going tosnakehimoutfromunderthecabin?”Butheneverheardme.He

hadforgotmeandeverythingelse. He had his chin in hishand, thinking. Pretty soon,hesighs,andshakeshishead;

thensighsagain,andsays:“No,itwouldn’tdo—there

ain’tnecessityenoughforit.”“Forwhat?”Isays.“Why, to saw Jim’s leg

off,”hesays.“Goodland!”Isays,“why,

thereain’tnonecessityforit.Andwhatwouldyouwant tosawhislegofffor,anyway?”“Well, some of the best

authorities has done it. Theycouldn’tget the chainoff, so

they just cut their hand off,andshoved.Andalegwouldbe better still. But we got tolet that go. There ain’tnecessityenoughinthiscase;and besides, Jim’s a niggerand wouldn’t understand thereasons for it, and how it’sthe custom in Europe; sowe’llletitgo.Butthere’sonething—he can have a rope-ladder; we can tear up oursheets andmake him a rope-ladder easy enough. And we

can send it to him in a pie;it’s mostly done that way.AndI’veetworsepies.”“Why, Tom Sawyer, how

you talk,” I says; “Jim ain’tgotnouseforarope-ladder.”“Hehasgotuseforit.How

you talk, you better say; youdon’t know nothing about it.He’s got to have a rope-ladder;theyalldo.”“Whatinthenationcanhe

dowithit?”

“Dowithit?Hecanhideitin his bed, can’t he? That’swhattheyalldo;andhe’sgotto, too.Huck,youdon’teverseem to want to do anythingthat’sregular;youwanttobestarting something fresh allthe time. Spose he don’t donothingwith it? ain’t it therein his bed, for a clew, afterhe’s gone? and don’t youreckonthey’llwantclews?Ofcourse they will. And youwouldn’t leave them any?

That would be a prettyhowdy-do, wouldn’t it! Ineverheardofsuchathing.”“Well,” I says, “if it’s in

the regulations, and he’s gotto have it, all right, let himhave it; because I don’twishtogobackonnoregulations;but there’s one thing, TomSawyer—if we go to tearingup our sheets tomake Jim arope-ladder, we’re going toget into trouble with Aunt

Sally, just as sure as you’reborn.Now, thewayI lookatit, a hickry-bark ladder don’tcostnothing,anddon’twastenothing,andisjustasgoodtoload up a pie with, and hidein a straw tick, as any ragladder you can start; and asfor Jim, he ain’t had noexperience, and so he don’tcarewhatkindofa—”“Oh,shucks,HuckFinn,if

Iwas as ignorant as you, I’d

keepstill—that’swhatI’ddo.Who ever heard of a stateprisoner escaping by ahickry-barkladder?Why,it’sperfectlyridiculous.”“Well,allright,Tom,fixit

your own way; but if you’lltakemyadvice,you’llletmeborrow a sheet off of theclothes-line.”Hesaidthatwoulddo.And

that give him another idea,andhesays:

“Borrowashirt,too.”“What do we want of a

shirt,Tom?”“Want it for Jim tokeepa

journalon.”“Journalyourgranny—Jim

can’twrite.”“Spose he can’t write—he

canmakemarkson the shirt,can’t he, if we make him apen out of an old pewterspoon or a piece of an oldironbarrel-hoop?”

“Why,Tom,wecanpullafeather out of a goose andmake him a better one; andquicker,too.”“Prisoners don’t have

geese running around thedonjon-keep to pull pens outof, you muggins. Theyalwaysmaketheirpensoutofthe hardest, toughest,troublesomest piece of oldbrass candlestick orsomething like that they can

get their hands on; and ittakesthemweeksandweeks,and months and months tofile it out, too, becausethey’ve got to do it byrubbing it on the wall. Theywouldn’t use a goose-quill iftheyhadit.Itain’tregular.”“Well, then, what’ll we

makehimtheinkoutof?”“Many makes it out of

iron-rust and tears; but that’sthecommonsortandwomen;

thebest authoritiesuses theirown blood. Jim can do that;and when he wants to sendany little common ordinarymysteriousmessagetolettheworld know where he’scaptivated,hecanwrite itonthebottomofatinplatewithaforkandthrowitoutofthewindow. The Iron Maskfcalways done that, and it’s ablame’goodway,too.”“Jimain’tgotnotinplates.

Theyfeedhiminapan.”“That ain’t anything; we

cangethimsome.”“Can’t nobody read his

plates.”“That ain’t got nothing to

do with it, Huck Finn. Allhe’s got to do is towrite onthe plate and throw it out.Youdon’thave to be able toread it. Why, half the timeyou can’t read anything aprisonerwritesonatinplate,

oranywhereelse.”“Well, then, what’s the

senseinwastingtheplates?”“Why,blame it all, it ain’t

theprisoner’splates.”“But it’s somebody’s

plates,ain’tit?”“Well, spos’n it is? What

does theprisonercarewhose—”Hebrokeoffthere,because

we heard the breakfast-hornblowing. So we cleared out

forthehouse.Alongduring thatmorning

I borrowed a sheet and awhiteshirtoffof theclothes-line; and I foundanold sackand put them in it, and wewent down and got the fox-fire,fd and put that in too. Icalled it borrowing, becausethat was what pap alwayscalled it; but Tom said itwarn’t borrowing, it wasstealing. He said we was

representing prisoners; andprisonersdon’tcarehowtheygetathingsotheygetit,andnobodydon’tblamethemforit,either.Itain’tnocrimeinaprisoner to steal the thing heneeds togetawaywith,Tomsaid; it’shis right;andso,aslongaswewasrepresentingaprisoner, we had a perfectrighttostealanythingonthisplacewehadtheleastusefor,togetourselvesoutofprisonwith. He said if we warn’t

prisoners it would be a verydifferent thing, and nobodybut a mean ornery personwouldstealwhenhewarn’taprisoner. So we allowed wewould steal everything therewas that come handy. Andyet he made a mighty fuss,one day, after that, when Istoleawatermelonoutof theniggerpatchandeatit;andhemade me go and give theniggers a dime, withouttelling themwhat it was for.

Tomsaid thatwhathemeantwas,we could steal anythingwe needed. Well, I says, Ineeded the watermelon. ButhesaidIdidn’tneedit togetout of prison with, there’swhere thedifferencewas.HesaidifI’dawantedittohidea knife in, and smuggle it toJim to kill the seneskalwith,itwouldabeenallright.SoIlet it go at that, though Icouldn’t see no advantage inmyrepresentingaprisoner,if

I got to set down and chawover a lot of gold-leafdistinctions like that, everytime I see a chance to hog awatermelon.Well, as I was saying, we

waited that morning tilleverybody was settled downto business, and nobody insight around the yard; thenTomhe carried the sack intothelean-towhilstIstoodoffapiece tokeepwatch.By-and-

byhecomeout,andwewentand set down on thewoodpile,totalk.Hesays:“Everything’s all right,

now, except tools; and that’seasyfixed.”“Tools?”Isays.“Yes.”“Toolsforwhat?”“Why, to dig with. We

ain’tagoingtognawhimout,arewe?”“Ain’t them old crippled

picksandthingsintheregoodenough to dig a nigger outwith?”Isays.He turns on me looking

pitying enough to make abodycry,andsays:“Huck Finn, did you ever

hear of a prisoner havingpicksandshovels,andallthemodern conveniences in hiswardrobe to dig himself outwith?NowIwant toaskyou—if you got any

reasonablenessinyouatall—what kind of a show wouldthat give him to be a hero?Why,theymightaswelllendhimthekey,anddonewithit.Picksandshovels—whytheywouldn’t furnish ‘em to aking.”“Well,then,”Isays,“ifwe

don’t want the picks andshovels,whatdowewant?”“Acoupleofcase-knives.”“Todigthefoundationsout

fromunderthatcabinwith?”“Yes.”“Confound it, it’s foolish,

Tom.”“It don’t make no

difference how foolish it is,it’s the right way—and it’sthe regular way. And thereain’tnootherway,thateverIheardof,andI’vereadallthebooks that gives anyinformation about thesethings. They always dig out

with a case-knife—and notthrough dirt, mind you;generly it’s through solidrock. And it takes themweeksandweeksandweeks,and for ever and ever.Why,lookatoneofthemprisonersin thebottomdungeonof theCastleDeef,feintheharborofMarseilles, that dug himselfout that way; how long washeatit,youreckon?”“Idon’tknow.”

“Well,guess.”“I don’t know. A month

andahalf?”“Thirty-seven year—and

hecomeout inChina.That’sthekind.Iwishthebottomofthisfortresswassolidrock.”“Jim don’t know nobody

inChina.”“What’sthatgottodowith

it? Neither did that otherfellow. But you’re always a-wanderingoffonasideissue.

Why can’t you stick to themainpoint?”“All right—I don’t care

where he comes out, so hecomes out; and Jim don‘t,either, I reckon. But there’sonething,anyway—Jim’stoooldtobedugoutwithacase-knife.Hewon’tlast.”“Yes,hewilllast,too.You

don’treckonit’sgoingtotakethirty-seven years to dig outthrough adirt foundation, do

you?”“How long will it take,

Tom?”“Well,wecan’t reskbeing

as long as we ought to,because it mayn’t take verylong for Uncle Silas to hearfrom down there by NewOrleans. He’ll hear Jim ain’tfrom there. Then his nextmovewillbetoadvertiseJim,orsomethinglikethat.Sowecan’t resk being as long

digging himout aswe oughtto. By rights I reckon weoughttobeacoupleofyears;butwecan’t.Thingsbeingsouncertain,what I recommendisthis:thatwereallydigrightin, as quick as we can; andafter that, we can let on, toourselves, that we was at itthirty-seven years. Then wecan snatch him out and rushhim away the first timethere’s an alarm. Yes, Ireckon that’ll be the best

way.”“Now, there’s sense in

that,” I says. “Letting ondon’t costnothing; lettingonain’t no trouble; and if it’sany object, I don’t mindletting on we was at it ahundred and fifty year. Itwouldn’tstrainmenone,afterI got my hand in. So I’llmosey along now, andsmouchff a couple of case-knives.“fg

“Smouch three,” he says;“wewantone tomakea sawoutof.”“Tom, if it ain’t unregular

and irreligious to sejest it,” Isays, “there’s an old rustysaw-blade around yondersticking under theweatherboard ing behind thesmoke-house.”He looked kind of weary

and discouraged-like, andsays:

“It ain’t no use to try tolearnyounothing,Huck.Runalongandsmouch theknives—three of them.” So I doneit.

CHAPTER36As soon as we reckonedeverybody was asleep, thatnight, we went down thelightning-rod, and shutourselves up in the lean-to,and got out our pile of fox-fire, and went to work. Wecleared everything out of theway, about four or five footalong the middle of thebottomlog.Tomsaidhewas

right behind Jim’s bed now,andwe’ddiginunder it,andwhen we got through therecouldn’t nobody in the cabineverknowtherewasanyholethere, because Jim’scounterpinfhhungdownmosttotheground,andyou’dhaveto raise it up and look underto see the hole. So we dugand dug, with the case-knives, till most midnight;and then we was dog-tired,

and our hands was blistered,andyetyoucouldn’tseewe’ddoneanything,hardly.AtlastIsays:“This ain’t no thirty-seven

year job, this is a thirty-eightyearjob,TomSawyer.”Heneversaidnothing.But

hesighed,andprettysoonhestoppeddigging,andthenfora good little while I knowedhe was thinking. Then hesays:

“It ain’t no use, Huck, itain’t agoing to work. If wewas prisoners it would,because then we’d have asmany years as we wanted,and no hurry; and wewouldn’t get but a fewminutes to dig, every day,while they was changingwatches, and so our handswouldn’t get blistered, andwe could keep it up rightalong, year in and year out,anddoitright,andthewayit

ought to be done. But wecan’t fool along, we got torush;we ain’t got no time tospare. If we was to put inanother night this way, we’dhave toknockoff foraweekto let our hands get well—couldn’t touch a case-knifewiththemsooner.““Well,then,whatwegoing

todo,Tom?”“I’ll tellyou. It ain’t right,

and it ain’t moral, and I

wouldn’t like it to get out—but there ain’t only just theone way; we got to dig himoutwiththepicks,andletonit’scase-knives.”“Now you’re talking!” I

says; “your head gets levelerand levelerall the time,TomSawyer,”Isays.“Picksisthething,moralornomoral;andasforme,Idon’tcareshucksfor themoralityof it,nohow.When I start in to steal a

nigger,orawatermelon,oraSunday-school book, I ain’tno ways particular how it’sdone so it’s done. What Iwant ismynigger; orwhat Iwant is my watermelon; orwhat I want is my Sunday-school book; and if a pick’sthe handiest thing, that’s thething I’m agoing to dig thatnigger,or thatwatermelonorthat Sunday-school book outwith;andIdon’tgiveadeadratwhattheauthoritiesthinks

aboutitnuther.”“Well,” he says, “there’s

excuse for picks and letting-on in a case like this; if itwarn’tso,Iwouldn’tapproveof it,norIwouldn’tstandbyand see the rules broke—because right is right, andwrong is wrong, and a bodyain’t got no business doingwrongwhenheain’tignorantand knows better. It mightanswerforyoutodigJimout

with a pick, without anyletting-on, because you don’tknow no better; but itwouldn’tforme,becauseIdoknow better. Gimme a case-knife.”Hehadhisownbyhim,but

Ihandedhimmine.He flungitdown,andsays:“Gimmeacase-knife.”I didn’t know justwhat to

do—but then I thought. Iscratchedaroundamongstthe

old tools, and got a pick-axand give it to him, and hetookitandwenttowork,andneversaidaword.He was always just that

particular.Fullofprinciple.SothenIgotashovel,and

thenwepickedandshoveled,turn about, andmade the furfly. We stuck to it about ahalf an hour, which was aslong as we could stand up;butwe had a good deal of a

hole to show for it. When Igot up stairs, I looked out atthe window and see Tomdoing his level best with thelightning-rod,buthecouldn’tcome it, his hands was sosore.Atlasthesays:“Itain’tnouse, itcan’tbe

done. What you reckon Ibetterdo?Can’tyouthinkupnoway?”“Yes,”Isays,“butIreckon

it ain’t regular. Come up the

stairs, and let on it’s alightning-rod.”Sohedoneit.Next day Tom stole a

pewter spoon and a brasscandlestick in the house, forto make some pens for Jimoutof,andsixtallowcandles;andIhungaround theniggercabins,andlaidforachance,and stole three tin plates.Tom said it wasn’t enough;but I said nobody wouldn’t

ever see the plates that Jimthrowed out, because they’dfall in the dog-fennel andjimpson weeds under thewindow-hole—thenwecouldtote them back and he couldusethemoveragain.SoTomwassatisfied.Thenhesays:“Now, the thing to study

out is, how to get the thingstoJim.”“Take them in through the

hole,”Isays,“whenwegetit

done.”He only just looked

scornful, and said somethingabout nobody ever heard ofsuchanidioticidea,andthenhewent to studying.By-and-by he said he had cipheredout two or three ways, butthere warn’t no need todecide on any of them yet.Said we’d got to post Jimfirst.That night we went down

the lightning-roda little afterten, and took one of thecandles along, and listenedunder the window-hole, andheard Jim snoring; so wepitched it in, and it didn’twake him. Then we whirledin with the pick and shovel,andinabouttwohoursandahalf the job was done. Wecrept in under Jim’s bed andinto the cabin, and pawedaround and found the candleand lit it, andstoodover Jim

a while, and found himlooking hearty and healthy,and then we woke him upgentleandgradual.Hewassoglad to seeus hemost cried;and called us honey, and allthepetnameshe could thinkof; and was for having ushunt up a cold chisel to cutthe chain off of his legwith,right away, and clearing outwithout losing any time. ButTom he showed him howunregularitwouldbe,andset

down and told him all aboutourplans, andhowwecouldalter them in a minute anytime therewasanalarm;andnot to be the least afraid,becausewewouldseehegotaway,sure.SoJimhesaid itwasallright,andwesetthereand talked over old times awhile, and thenTomaskedalot of questions, and whenJim told him Uncle Silascome in every day or two topray with him, and Aunt

Sallycomeintoseeifhewascomfortableandhadplentytoeat, and both of them waskind as they could be, Tomsays:“NowIknowhowtofixit.

We’ll send you some thingsbythem.”I said, “Don’t do nothing

of the kind; it’s one of themost jackass ideas I everstruck;”butheneverpaidnoattention to me; went right

on.Itwashiswaywhenhe’dgothisplansset.So he told Jim how we’d

have to smuggle in the rope-ladder pie, and other largethings,byNat,theniggerthatfed him, and he must be onthe lookout, and not besurprised,andnot letNatseehim open them; and wewould put small things inuncle’s coat pockets and hemust steal them out; and we

would tie things to aunt’sapron strings or put them inherapronpocket, ifwegotachance; and told him whattheywouldbeandwhat theywasfor.Andtoldhimhowtokeep a journal on the shirtwith his blood, and all that.He told him everything. Jimhe couldn’t see no sense inthemostofit,butheallowedwe was white folks andknowedbetterthanhim;sohewas satisfied, and said he

would do it all just as Tomsaid.Jim had plenty corn-cob

pipesandtobacco;sowehada right down good sociabletime; then we crawled outthrough the hole, and sohome tobed,withhands thatlooked like they’d beenchawed. Tom was in highspirits.Hesaiditwasthebestfun he ever had in his life,and the most intellectural;

and said ifheonlycould seehiswaytoitwewouldkeepitupalltherestofourlivesandleave Jim to our children toget out; for he believed Jimwould come to like it betterand better the more he gotusedtoit.Hesaidthatinthatway it couldbestrungout toas much as eighty year, andwould be the best time onrecord.And he said itwouldmake us all celebrated thathadahandinit.

Inthemorningwewentouttothewood-pileandchoppedup the brass candlestick intohandy sizes, and Tom putthemandthepewterspooninhis pocket. Thenwewent totheniggercabins,andwhileIgot Nat’s notice off, Tomshovedapieceofcandlestickinto the middle of a corn-pone that was in Jim’s pan,and we went along with Nattoseehowitwouldwork,andit just worked noble; when

Jimbitintoititmostmashedall his teeth out; and therewarn’t ever anything could aworked better. Tom said sohimself. Jim he never let onbut what it was only just apiece of rock or somethinglikethatthat’salwaysgettinginto bread, you know; butafter that he never bit intonothing but what he jabbedhisforkintoitinthreeorfourplaces,first.

And whilst we was astandingthereinthedimmishlight,herecomesacoupleofthe hounds bulging in, fromunder Jim’s bed; and theykeptonpilingintilltherewaseleven of them, and therewarn’thardlyroomintheretogetyourbreath.By jings,weforgot to fasten that lean-todoor.TheniggerNatheonlyjusthollered“witches!”once,andkeeledoverontotheflooramongst thedogs, andbegun

to groan like he was dying.Tomjerkedthedooropenandflung out a slab of Jim’smeat, and the dogs went forit,andintwosecondshewasout himself and back againand shut the door, and Iknowed he’d fixed the otherdoor too. Then he went towork on the nigger, coaxinghim and petting him, andasking him if he’d beenimagining he saw somethingagain. He raised up, and

blinked his eyes around, andsays:“MarsSid,you’ll say I’sa

fool, but if I didn’t b‘lieve Isee most a million dogs, erdevils, er some’n, I wisht Imay die right heah in desetracks. I did, mos’ sholy.Mars Sid, I felt um—I feltum,sah;deywasalloverme.Dad fetch it, I jis‘wisht Icouldgitmyhan’sononeerdemwitchesjis’wunst—on’y

jis’ wunst—it’s all I’d ast.But mos‘ly I wisht dey’dlemme’lone,Idoes.”Tomsays:“Well, I tell you what I

think. What makes themcome here just at thisrunaway nigger’s breakfast-time? It’s because they’rehungry; that’s the reason.Youmake them awitch pie;that’sthethingforyoutodo.”“But my lan‘, Mars Sid,

how’s Igwyne tomake ’mawitchpie?Idoan’knowhowtomakeit.Ihain’teverhearnersichathingb’fo‘.”“Well, then, I’ll have to

makeitmyself:”“Will you do it, honey?—

will you? I’ll wusshup degroun’und’yo’foot,Iwill!”“Allright,I’lldoit,seeing

it’s you, and you’ve beengoodtousandshowedustherunaway nigger. But you got

to be mighty careful. Whenwe come around, you turnyourback;andthenwhateverwe’ve put in the pan, don’tyou let on you see it at all.And don’t you look, whenJim unloads the pan—something might happen, Idon’tknowwhat.Andaboveall, don’t you handle thewitch-things.”“Hannel‘m, Mars Sid?

Whatisyouatalkin’’bout?I

wouldn’ laydeweightermyfinger on um, not f‘r tenhund’d thous’n’ billiondollars,Iwouldn’t.”

CHAPTER37That was all fixed. So thenwe went away and went tothe rubbage-pile in the backyardwhere theykeep theoldboots,andrags,andpiecesofbottles, and wore-out tinthings,andallsuchtruck,andscratched around and foundan old tin washpan andstopped up the holes as wellas we could, to bake the pie

in, and took it down cellarand stole it full of flour, andstarted for breakfast andfound a couple of shingle-nails thatTomsaidwouldbehandy for a prisoner toscrabble his name andsorrowsonthedungeonwallswith, and dropped one ofthem in Aunt Sally’s apronpocketwhichwashangingona chair, and t‘otherwe stuckin the band of Uncle Silas’shat,whichwasonthebureau,

becauseweheardthechildrensay their pa and ma wasgoingtotherunawaynigger’shouse thismorning, and thenwent to breakfast, and Tomdropped the pewter spoon inUncleSilas’scoatpocket,andAunt Sally wasn’t come yet,so we had to wait a littlewhile.And when she come she

was hot, and red, and cross,and couldn’t hardly wait for

the blessing; and then shewent to sluicing outfi coffeewith one hand and crackingthehandiestchild’sheadwithher thimble with the other,andsays:“I’vehuntedhigh,andI’ve

hunted low, and it does beatall,whathasbecomeofyourothershirt.”My heart fell down

amongstmy lungs and liversand things, and a hard piece

ofcorn-cruststarteddownmythroatafter it andgotmetonthe road with a cough andwasshotacross the tableandtookoneofthechildrenintheeye and curledhimup like afishing-worm, and let a cryoutofhim the sizeof awar-whoop, and Tom he turnedkinder blue around the gills,and it all amounted to aconsiderable state of thingsfor about a quarter of aminute or as much as that,

and I would a sold out forhalf price if there was abidder.Butafter thatwewasall right again—it was thesudden surprise of it thatknocked us so kind of cold.UncleSilashesays:“It’s most uncommon

curious,Ican’tunderstandit.IknowperfectlywellItookitoff,because—”“Because you hain’t got

but oneon. Just listen at the

man! I knowyou took it off,and know it by a better waythan your wool-getheringmemory, too, because it wasontheclo‘es-lineyesterday—I see it theremyself.But it’sgone—that’sthelongandtheshort of it, and you’ll justhave to change to a redflann’lone till Icanget timetomakeanewone.And it’llbethethirdI’vemadeintwoyears;itjustkeepsabodyonthe jump to keep you in

shirts; and whatever you domanage to dowith ’m all, ismore’n I can make out. Abody’dthinkyouwouldlearnto take some sort of careof‘em,atyourtimeoflife.”“Iknow it,Sally, and Ido

tryallIcan.Butitoughtn’ttobe altogether my fault,becauseyouknowIdon’tseethem nor have nothing to dowith them except whenthey’re on me; and I don’t

believe I’ve ever lost one ofthemoffofme.”“Well, it ain’tyour fault if

you haven‘t, Silas—you’d adoneitifyoucould,Ireckon.And the shirt ain’t all that’sgone, nuther. Ther’s a spoongone;andthatain’tall.Therewas ten, andnow ther’sonlynine. The calf got the shirt Ireckon, but the calf nevertook the spoon, that’scertain.”

“Why, what else is gone,Sally?”“Ther’ssixcandlesgone—

that’swhat. The rats could agot the candles, and I reckontheydid;Iwondertheydon’twalk off with the wholeplace, thewayyou’realwaysgoing to stop their holes anddon’tdoit;andiftheywarn’tfools they’d sleep in yourhair, Silas—you’d never find

it out; but you can’t lay thespoon on the rats, and that Iknow.”“Well, Sally, I’m in fault,

and I acknowledge it; I’vebeen remiss; but I won’t letto-morrow go by withoutstoppingupthemholes.”“Oh,Iwouldn’thurry,next

year’ll do. Matilda AngelinaAramintaPhelps!”Whack comes the thimble,

and the child snatches her

claws out of the sugar-bowlwithout fooling around any.Just then, the nigger womansteps onto the passage, andsays:“Missus, dey’s a sheet

gone.”“A sheet gone! Well, for

theland’ssake!”“I’llstopupthemholesto-

day,” says Uncle Silas,lookingsorrowful.“Oh, do shet up!—spose

the rats took the sheet?Where’sitgone,Lize?”“Clah to goodness I hain’t

no notion, Miss Sally. Shewuzondeclo‘s-lineyistiddy,but she done gone; she ain’dahnomo’,now.”“I reckon the world is

comingtoanend.Inever seethe beat of it, in allmyborndays.Ashirt,andasheet,andaspoon,andsixcan—”“Missus,” comes a young

yaller wench, “dey’s a brasscannelstickmiss’n.”“Cler out from here, you

hussy, er I’ll takea skillet toye!”Well,shewasjustabiling.

Ibeguntolayforachance;Ireckoned I would sneak outand go for thewoods till theweathermoderated. She kepta raging right along, runningherinsurrectionallbyherself,and everybody else mighty

meek and quiet; and at lastUncle Silas, looking kind offoolish, fishes up that spoonout of his pocket. Shestopped,withhermouthopenand her hands up; and as forme, I wished I was inJeruslemorsomewheres.Butnotlong;becauseshesays:“It’s just as I expected.So

you had it in your pocket allthe time; and like as notyou’ve got the other things

there, too. How’d it getthere?”“I reely don’t know,

Sally,” he says, kind ofapologizing, “or you know Iwould tell. I was a-studyingover my text in ActsSeventeen, before breakfast,andIreckonIput it in there,not noticing, meaning to putmyTestamentin,anditmustbeso,becausemyTestamentain’t in, but I’ll go and see,

andiftheTestamentiswhereIhadit,I’llknowIdidn’tputitin,andthatwillshowthatIlaid theTestament down andtookupthespoon,and—”“Oh, for the land’s sake!

Giveabodya rest!Go ‘longnow,thewholekitandbilingof ye; and don’t come nighmeagaintillI’vegotbackmypeaceofmind.”I’d a heard her, if she’d a

said it to herself, let alone

speaking itout;andI’dagotup and obeyed her, if I’d abeen dead. As we waspassing through the setting-room,theoldmanhetookuphis hat, and the shingle-nailfell out on the floor, and hejust merely picked it up andlaid it on the mantel-shelf,and never said nothing, andwentout.Tomseehimdo it,and remembered about thespoon,andsays:

“Well, it ain’t no use tosend things byhim nomore,he ain’t reliable.” Then hesays:“Buthedoneusagoodturnwith the spoon,anyway,without knowing it, and sowe’ll go and do him onewithouthimknowingit—stopuphisrat-holes.”Therewasanoblegoodlot

of them, down cellar, and ittookusawholehour,butwedone the job tight and good,

and ship-shape. Then weheard stepson the stairs, andblowedoutourlight,andhid;and here comes the oldman,withacandleinonehandanda bundle of stuff in t‘other,looking as absent-minded asyear before last. He went amooning around, first to onerat-holeand thenanother, tillhe’d been to them all. Thenhe stood about five minutes,picking tallow-dripoffofhiscandleand thinking.Thenhe

turns off slow and dreamytowardsthestairs,saying:“Well, for the life ofme I

can’t rememberwhen I doneit.IcouldshowhernowthatIwarn’ttoblameonaccountofthe rats.Butnevermind—letitgo.Ireckonitwouldn’tdonogood.”And so he went on a

mumblingup stairs, and thenweleft.Hewasamightyniceoldman.Andalwaysis.

Tom was a good dealbotheredaboutwhattodoforaspoon,buthesaidwe’dgottohaveit;sohetookathink.Whenhehadciphered itout,hetoldmehowwewastodo;then we went and waitedaround the spoon-basket tillwe see Aunt Sally coming,and then Tom went tocounting the spoons andlaying them out to one side,andIslidoneofthemupmysleeve,andTomsays:

“Why, Aunt Sally, thereain’tbutninespoons,yet.”Shesays:“Go‘longtoyourplay,and

don’t bother me. I knowbetter,Icounted’mmyself.”“Well, I’ve counted them

twice, Aunty, and I can’tmakebutnine.”She looked out of all

patience, but of course shecome to count—anybodywould.

“Ideclaretograciousther’ain’t but nine!” she says.“Why, what in the world—plague take the things, I’llcount’magain.”SoIslippedbacktheoneI

had, and when she got donecounting,shesays:“Hang the troublesome

rubbage,ther’stennow!”andshe looked huffy andbotheredboth.ButTomsays:“Why,Aunty,Idon’tthink

there’sten.”“Younumskull,didn’tyou

seemecount‘m?”“Iknow,but—”“Well, I’ll count ’m

again.”So I smouched one, and

they come out nine same astheothertime.Well,shewasin a tearing way—just atremblingallover,shewassomad. But she counted andcounted, till she got that

addledshe’dstart tocount-inthe basket for a spoon,sometimes; and so, threetimes they come out right,andthreetimestheycomeoutwrong. Then she grabbed upthe basket and slammed itacrossthehouseandknockedthe cat galley-west; and shesaidcle‘routandletherhavesome peace, and if we comebothering around her againbetwixtthatanddinner,she’dskin us. So we had the odd

spoon; and dropped it in herapronpocketwhilstshewasagiving us our sailing-orders,andJimgotitallright,alongwith her shingle-nail, beforenoon. We was very wellsatisfied with this business,and Tom allowed it wasworth twice the trouble ittook,becausehesaidnowshecouldn’t ever count themspoons twice alike again tosave her life; and wouldn’tbelieve she’d counted them

right,ifshedid;andsaidthataftershe’daboutcountedherhead off, for the next threedays, he judged she’d give itup and offer to kill anybodythatwantedhertoevercountthemanymore.So we put the sheet back

on the line, that night, andstole one out of her closet;and kept on putting it backand stealing it again, for acoupleofdays,tillshedidn’t

know how many sheets shehad, any more, and said shedidn’t care, and warn’tagoing tobullyrag therestofher soul out about it, andwouldn’t count them againnot to save her life, shedrutherdiefirst.Sowewasallrightnow,as

to the shirt and the sheetandthespoonandthecandles,bythe help of the calf and therats and the mixed-up

counting; and as to thecandlestick, it warn’t noconsequence, it would blowoverby-and-by.But thatpiewasa job;we

had no end of trouble withthatpie.Wefixeditupawaydown in the woods, andcookeditthere;andwegotitdone at last, and verysatisfactory,too;butnotallinoneday;andwehadtouseupthree washpans full of flour,

before we got through, andwe got burnt prettymuch allover, in places, and eyes putoutwith the smoke; because,you see, we didn’t wantnothing but a crust, and wecouldn’tprop itup right, andshe would always cave in.But of course we thought ofthe right way at last; whichwastocooktheladder,too,inthe pie. So then we laid inwith Jim, the second night,and tore up the sheet all in

littlestrings,andtwistedthemtogether, and long beforedaylight we had a lovelyrope,thatyoucouldahungapersonwith.Weletonittookninemonthstomakeit.And in the forenoon we

took it down to the woods,but itwouldn’tgo in thepie.Beingmadeofawholesheet,that way, there was ropeenoughforfortypies,ifwe’da wanted them, and plenty

leftoverforsoup,orsausage,or anything you choose. Wecouldahadawholedinner.But we didn’t need it. All

we needed was just enoughfor the pie, and so wethrowed the rest away. Wedidn’t cook none of the piesin the washpan, afraid thesolderwouldmelt;butUncleSilas he had a noble brasswarming-pan which hethought considerable of,

becauseitbelongedtooneofhis ancesters with a longwooden handle that comeover from England withWilliamtheConquerorintheMayflower or one of themearly ships37 and was hidaway up garret with a lot ofotheroldpotsandthingsthatwasvaluable, not on accountofbeinganyaccountbecausetheywarn‘t,butonaccountofthembeingrelicts,youknow,

and we snaked her out,private, and took her downthere, but she failed on thefirst pies, because we didn’tknow how, but she come upsmiling on the last one. Wetook and lined her withdough, and set her in thecoals,andloadedherupwithrag-rope,andputonadoughroof, and shut down the lid,and put hot embers on top,and stood off five foot, withthe long handle, cool and

comfortable, and in fifteenminutes she turned out a piethatwasasatisfactiontolookat. But the person that et itwouldwant to fetchacoupleof kags of toothpicks along,for if that rope-ladderwouldn’tcramphimdowntobusiness, I don’t knownothing what I’m talkingabout,andlayhiminenoughstomach-ache to last him tillnexttime,too.

Nat didn’t look, when weput the witch-pie in Jim’span; andweput the three tinplates in the bottom of thepan under the vittles; and soJim got everything all right,and as soon as he was byhimselfhebustedintothepieandhidtherope-ladderinsideof his straw tick, andscratchedsomemarksonatinplateandthroweditoutofthewindow-hole.

CHAPTER38Making them pens was adistressid-tough job, and sowasthesaw;andJimallowedthe inscription was going tobe the toughest of all.That’sthe one which the prisonerhas to scrabble on the wall.But we had to have it; Tomsaidwe’dgotto;therewarn’tnocaseofastateprisonernotscrabbling his inscription to

leave behind, and his coat ofarms.“LookatLadyJaneGrey,”

he says; “look at GilfordDudley; look at oldNorthumberland!fj Why,Huck, spose it is considerbletrouble?—what you going todo?—how you going to getaroundit?Jim’sgottodohisinscription and coat of arms.Theyalldo.”Jimsays:

“Why,Mars Tom, I hain’tgot no coat o’ arms; I hain’tgot nuffn but dish-yer oleshirt, en you knows I got tokeepdejournalondat.”“Oh,youdon’tunderstand,

Jim; a coat of arms is verydifferent.”“Well,” I says, “Jim’s

right, anyway, when he sayshehain’tgotnocoatofarms,becausehehain’t.”“I reckon I knowed that,”

Tom says, “but you bet he’llhave one before he goes outof this—because he’s goingout right, and there ain’tgoing to be no flaws in hisrecord.”SowhilstmeandJimfiled

away at the pens on abrickbatapiece,Jimamakinghis’n out of the brass and Imaking mine out of thespoon, Tom set to work tothink out the coat of arms.

By-and-byhesaidhe’dstrucksomanygoodoneshedidn’thardly know which to take,but there was one which hereckoned he’d decide on.Hesays:“On the scutcheon we’ll

have a bendor in the dexterbase, a saltiremurrey in thefess,withadog,couchant,forcommon charge, and underhisfootachainembattled,forslavery, with a chevron vert

inachiefengrailed,andthreeinvected lines on a fieldazure,withthenombrilpointsrampant on a dancetteindented; crest, a runawaynigger,sable,withhisbundleover his shoulder on a barsinister:andacoupleofgulesfor supporters, which is youand me;38 motto, Maggiorefretta, minore atto.fk Got itout of a book—means, themorehaste,thelessspeed.”

“Geewhillikins,” I says,“but what does the rest of itmean?”“We ain’t got no time to

bother over that,” he says,“wegot todig in likeallgit-out.”“Well, anyway,” I says,

“what’ssomeof it?What’safess?”“A fess—a fess is—you

don’t need to know what afess is. I’ll showhimhow to

makeitwhenhegetstoit.”“Shucks, Tom,” I says, “I

thinkyoumighttellaperson.What’sabarsinister?”“Oh, I don’t know. But

he’s got to have it. All thenobilitydoes.”Thatwasjusthisway.Ifit

didn’t suit him to explain athing to you, hewouldn’t doit.Youmightpumpathimaweek, it wouldn’t make nodifference.

He’d got all that coat ofarms business fixed, so nowhe started in to finish up therest of that part of thework,which was to plan out amournful inscription—saidJimgottohaveone,liketheyall done. He made up a lot,and wrote them out on apaper,andreadthemoff,so:

1.Here a captive heartbusted.2.Hereapoorprisoner,forsookbytheworldand

friends, fretted out hissorrowfullife.3. Here a lonely heartbroke,andawornspiritwent to its rest, afterthirty-seven years ofsolitarycaptivity.4. Here, homeless andfriendless, after thirty-seven years of bittercaptivity, perished anoble stranger, naturalsonofLouisXIV.

Tom’s voice trembled,whilst he was reading them,and he most broke down.When he got done, hecouldn’tnowaymakeuphismind which one for Jim toscrabble onto the wall, theywasallsogood;butatlastheallowed he would let himscrabblethemallon.Jimsaidit would take him a year toscrabble such a lot of truckontothelogswithanail,andhedidn’t knowhow tomake

letters,besides;butTomsaidhewould block them out forhim, and then he wouldn’thave nothing to do but justfollow the lines. Then prettysoonhesays:“Come to think, the logs

ain’tagoingtodo;theydon’thave logwalls in adungeon:wegot todigtheinscriptionsinto a rock. We’ll fetch arock.”Jim said the rock was

worsethanthelogs;hesaiditwould take him such a pisonlong time to dig them into arock, he wouldn’t ever getout. But Tom said he wouldletmehelphimdoit.Thenhetook a look to see how meand Jim was getting alongwith the pens. It was mostpesky tedious hardwork andslow, and didn’t give myhandsnoshowtogetwellofthesores,andwedidn’tseemtomake no headway, hardly.

SoTomsays:“I knowhow to fix it.We

gottohavearockforthecoatof arms and mournfulinscriptions, and we can killtwo birds with that samerock. There’s a gaudy biggrindstone down at the mill,and we’ll smouch it, andcarvethethingsonit,andfileout the pens and the saw onit,too.”It warn’t no slouch of an

idea; and itwarn’t no slouchofagrindstonenuther;butweallowed we’d tackle it. Itwarn’tquitemidnight,yet,sowe cleared out for the mill,leaving Jim at work. Wesmouchedthegrindstone,andsetouttorollherhome,butitwas amostnation tough job.Sometimes, do what wecould, we couldn’t keep herfrom falling over, and shecome mighty near mashingus, every time.Tomsaid she

was going to get one of us,sure, before we got through.We got her half way; andthen we was plumb playedout,andmostdrowndedwithsweat. We see it warn’t nouse, we got to go and fetchJim. So he raised up his bedand slid the chain off of thebed-leg, and wrapt it roundand round his neck, and wecrawledout throughourholeanddown there, and Jimandme laid into that grindstone

and walked her along likenothing; and Tomsuperintended. He couldoutsuperintendanyboyIeversee. He knowed how to doeverything.Our hole was pretty big,

but it warn’t big enough toget the grindstone through;but Jimhe took thepick andsoon made it big enough.Then Tom marked out themthingsonitwiththenail,and

setJimtoworkonthem,withthe nail for a chisel and anironbolt fromtherubbage inthelean-toforahammer,andtold him towork till the restofhiscandlequitonhim,andthenhe couldgo to bed, andhide thegrindstoneunderhisstraw tick and sleep on it.Then we helped him fix hischain back on the bed-leg,and was ready for bedourselves. But Tom thoughtofsomething,andsays:

“You got any spiders inhere,Jim?”“No, sah, thanks to

goodness I hain‘t, MarsTom.”“All right, we’ll get you

some.”“But bless you, honey, I

doan’want none. I’s afearedun um. I jis’ ’s soon haverattlesnakesaroun‘.”Tom thought a minute or

two,andsays:

“It’s a good idea. And Ireckonit’sbeendone.Itmusta been done; it stands toreason.Yes,it’saprimegoodidea. Where could you keepit?”“Keepwhat,MarsTom?”“Why,arattlesnake.”“De goodness gracious

alive,MarsTom!Why,ifdeywasarattlesnaketocomeinheah, I’d take en bust rightout thoo dat log wall, I

would,widmyhead.”“Why, Jim, you wouldn’t

be afraid of it, after a little.Youcouldtameit.”“Tameit!”‘“Yes—easy enough.

Every animal is grateful forkindness and petting, andtheywouldn’tthinkofhurtinga person that pets them.Anybook will tell you that. Youtry—that’s all I ask; just tryfor two or three days. Why,

youcangethimso,inalittlewhile,thathe’llloveyou;andsleep with you; and won’tstayawayfromyouaminute;and will let you wrap himround your neck and put hisheadinyourmouth.”“Please, Mars Tom—

doan’talkso!Ican’tstan’it!He’dletmeshovehisheadinmymouf—fera favor,hain’tit? I lay he’dwait a pow‘fullong time ’fo’ I ast him. En

mo’endat,Idoan’wanthimtosleepwidme.”“Jim, don’t act so foolish.

Aprisoner’sgottohavesomekind of a dumb pet, and if arattlesnake hain’t ever beentried,why,there’smoreglorytobegainedinyourbeingthefirst to ever try it than anyother way you could everthinkoftosaveyourlife.”“Why,Mars Tom, I doan’

want no sich glory. Snake

take ’n bite Jim’s chin off,den whah is de glory? No,sah, I doan’ want no sichdoin’s.”“Blame it,can’tyou try? I

only want you to try—youneedn’t keep it up if it don’twork.”“Butdetroublealldone,ef

de snake bitemewhile I’s atryin’ him. Mars Tom, I’swillin’ to tackle mos’anything ‘at ain’t

onreasonable, but ef you enHuck fetches a rattlesnake inheah for me to tame, I’sgwynetoleave,dat’sshore.”“Well, then, let itgo, let it

go, if you’re so bullheadedabout it. We can get yousome garter-snakes and youcan tie somebuttonson theirtails, and let on they’rerattlesnakes, and I reckonthat’llhavetodo.”“I k’n stan’ dem, Mars

Tom,butblame’‘fIcouldn’tget along widout um, I tellyou dat. I never knowedb’fo‘, ’t was somuch botherandtroubletobeaprisoner.”“Well, it always is, when

it’s done right. You got anyratsaroundhere?”“No, sah, I hain’t seed

none.”“Well,we’ll get you some

rats.”“Why,Mars Tom, I doan’

want no rats. Dey’s de dad-blamedest creturs to sturb abody, en rustle roun’ over‘im, en bite his feet, whenhe’stryin’tosleep,Ieversee.No, sah, gimme g’yarter-snakes, ‘f I’sgot tohave ’m,but doan’ gimme no rats, Iain’ got no use f‘r um,skasely.”“But Jim, yougot to have

‘em—they all do. So don’tmake no more fuss about it.

Prisoners ain’t ever withoutrats. There ain’t no instanceof it. And they train them,andpet them,andlearnthemtricks, and they get to be associableas flies.Butyougotto play music to them. Yougot anything to play musicon?”“I ain’ got nuffn but a

coase comb en a piece o’paper, en a juice-harp; but Ireck’n dey wouldn’ take no

stockinajuice-harp.”“Yes they would. They

don’tcarewhatkindofmusic‘tis. A jews-harp’s plentygood enough for a rat. Allanimals likes music—in aprison they dote on it.Specially, painfulmusic; andyou can’t get no other kindout of a jews-harp. It alwaysintereststhem;theycomeoutto seewhat’s thematterwithyou. Yes, you’re all right;

you’re fixed very well. Youwant to set on your bed,nights,beforeyougotosleep,and early in the mornings,andplayyourjews-harp;playThe Last Link is Broken—that’sthethingthat’llscooparat, quicker’n anything else:and when you’ve playedabouttwominutes,you’llseeall the rats, and the snakes,andspiders, and thingsbegintofeelworriedaboutyou,andcome. And they’ll just fairly

swarm over you, and have anoblegoodtime.”“Yes, dey will, I reck‘n,

Mars Tom, but what kine ertime isJim havin’?Blest if Ikin seedepint.But I’lldo itef I got to. I reck’n I betterkeep de animals satisfied, ennot have no trouble in dehouse.”Tomwaited to think over,

and see if there wasn’tnothing else; and pretty soon

hesays:“Oh—there’s one thing I

forgot. Could you raise aflowerhere,doyoureckon?”“Idoan’knowbutmaybeI

could, Mars Tom; but it’stolabledarkinheah,enIain’got no use f‘r no flower,nohow,enshe’dbeapow’fulsighto’trouble.”“Well, you try it, anyway.

Some other prisoners hasdoneit.”

“One er dem big cat-tail-lookin’mullen-stalksfl wouldgrow in heah, Mars Tom, Ireck‘n, but she wouldn’t bewuth half de trouble she’dcoss.““Don’t you believe it.

We’ll fetch you a little one,andyouplantitinthecorner,over there, and raise it. Anddon’t call it mullen, call itPitchiola—that’s its rightname, when it’s in a prison.

Andyouwanttowateritwithyourtears.”“Why, I got plenty spring

water,MarsTom.”“You don’t want spring

water; you want to water itwith your tears. It’s the waytheyalwaysdo.”“Why, Mars Tom, I lay I

kin raiseoneerdemmullen-stalks twyste wid springwaterwhilesanotherman’sastart’nonewidtears.”

“That ain’t the idea. Yougottodoitwithtears.”“She’ll die on my han‘s,

Mars Tom, she sholy will;kase I doan’ skasely evercry.”SoTomwas stumped.But

he studied it over, and thensaidJimwouldhavetoworryalong the best he could withan onion. He promised hewouldgototheniggercabinsand drop one, private, in

Jim’s coffee-pot, in themorning. Jim said he would“jis’’ssoonhavetobackerinhis coffee;” and found somuch fault with it, and withtheworkandbotherofraisingthemullen,andyews-harpingthe rats, and petting andflattering up the snakes andspiders and things, on top ofall the other work he had todo on pens, and inscriptions,and journals, and things,which made it more trouble

and worry and responsibilitytobeaprisonerthananythinghe ever undertook, that Tommost lost all patience withhim; and said he was justloadened down with moregaudier chances than aprisonereverhadintheworldto make a name for himself,and yet he didn’t knowenough to appreciate them,and they was just aboutwastedonhim.SoJimhewassorry, and said he wouldn’t

behave so nomore, and thenmeandTomshovedforbed.

CHAPTER39Inthemorningwewentuptothevillageandboughtawirerat trap and fetched it down,and unstopped the best rathole,andinaboutanhourwehadfifteenofthebulliestkindof ones; and thenwe took itand put it in a safe placeunder Aunt Sally’s bed. Butwhile we was gone forspiders, little Thomas

Franklin Benjamin JeffersonElexander Phelps found itthere,andopenedthedoorofit to see if the rats wouldcome out, and they did; andAunt Sally she come in, andwhenwegot back shewas astanding on top of the bedraisingCain,andtheratswasdoingwhattheycouldtokeepoff thedull times forher.Soshe took and dusted us bothwith the hickry, and we wasas much as two hours

catching another fifteen orsixteen,dratthatmeddlesomecub, and they warn’t thelikeliest, nuther, because thefirsthaulwas thepickof theflock.Ineverseealikelierlotof rats than what that firsthaulwas.Wegotasplendidstockof

sorted spiders, andbugs, andfrogs, and caterpillars, andone thingor another; andwelike-togotahornet’snest,but

wedidn’t.The familywas athome.Wedidn’tgiveitrightup, but staid with them aslongaswecould;becauseweallowedwe’dtirethemoutorthey’d got to tire us out, andthey done it. Then we gotallycum pain and rubbed onthe places, and was prettynear all right again, butcouldn’tsetdownconvenient.And so we went for thesnakes,andgrabbedacoupleof dozen garters and house-

snakes,andputtheminabag,andputitinourroom,andbythat time it was supper time,and a rattling good honestday’s work; and hungry?—oh, no, I reckon not! Andthere warn’t a blessed snakeupthere,whenwewentback—wedidn’thalf tie thesack,and they worked out,somehow, and left. But itdidn’t matter much, becausetheywasstillonthepremisessomewheres. So we judged

we could get some of themagain. No, there warn’t noreal scarcity of snakes aboutthe house for a considerblespell. You’d see themdripping from the rafters andplaces, every now and then;and they generly landed inyour plate, or down the backofyourneck,andmostofthetime where you didn’t wantthem. Well, they washandsome, and striped, andthere warn’t no harm in a

million of them; but thatnever made no difference toAunt Sally, she despisedsnakes, be the breed whattheymight, and she couldn’tstandthemnowayyoucouldfix it; and every time one ofthemfloppeddownonher, itdidn’t make no differencewhat she was doing, shewould just lay that workdown and light out. I neversee such a woman. And youcould hear her whoop to

Jericho.Youcouldn’tgetherto take aholt of one of themwith the tongs. And if sheturnedoverandfoundone inbed, she would scramble outandliftahowlthatyouwouldthinkthehousewasafire.Shedisturbedtheoldmanso,thathe said he could most wishthere hadn’t ever been nosnakes created. Why, afterevery last snake had beengone clear out of the housefor asmuchas aweek,Aunt

Sally warn’t over it yet; shewarn’tnearoverit;whenshewas setting thinking aboutsomething, you could touchher on the back of her neckwitha featherandshewouldjump right out of herstockings. It was verycurious. But Tom said allwomen was just so. He saidtheywasmade that way; forsomereasonorother.We got a licking every

timeoneofour snakes comein her way; and she allowedthese lickingswarn’t nothingto what she would do if weever loaded up the placeagain with them. I didn’tmind the lickings, becausethey didn’t amount tonothing; but I minded thetrouble we had, to lay inanother lot.Butwegot themlaid in, and all the otherthings; and you never see acabin as blithesome as Jim’s

was when they’d all swarmoutformusicandgoforhim.Jim didn’t like the spiders,and the spiders didn’t likeJim;andsothey’dlayforhimandmakeitmightywarmforhim. And he said thatbetween the rats, and thesnakes, and the grindstone,there warn’t no room in bedfor him, skasely; and whenthere was, a body couldn’tsleep, itwas so lively, and itwas always lively, he said,

becausetheyneverallsleptatonetime,buttookturnabout,so when the snakes wasasleep the rats was on deck,and when the rats turned inthesnakescomeonwatch,sohealwayshadonegangunderhim, in his way, and t‘othergang having a circus overhim,andifhegotuptohuntanewplace, the spiderswouldtake a chance at him as hecrossed over. He said if heever got out, this time, he

wouldn’t ever be a prisoneragain,notforasalary.Well, by the end of three

weeks, everything was inpretty good shape. The shirtwassentinearly,inapie,andevery time a rat bit Jim hewouldgetupandwritealittlein his journal whilst the inkwas fresh; the pens wasmade, the inscriptionsandsoon was all carved on thegrindstone; the bed-leg was

sawed in two, andwe had etupthesawdust,anditgiveusa most amazing stomach-ache. We reckoned we wasallgoingtodie,butdidn’t.Itwas the most undigestiblesawdust I ever see; andTomsaid the same. But as I wassaying,we’dgotalltheworkdone, now, at last; and wewas all pretty much faggedout, too,butmainlyJim.Theold man had wrote a coupleof times to the plantation

below Orleans to come andget their runawaynigger, buthadn’tgotnoanswer,becausethere warn’t no suchplantation; so he allowed hewouldadvertiseJimintheSt.Louis and New Orleanspapers; and when hementionedtheSt.Louisones,it give me the cold shivers,andIseewehadn’tnotimetolose. So Tom said, now forthenonnamousletters.

“What’sthem?”Isays.“Warnings to the people

that something is up.Sometimesit’sdoneoneway,sometimes another. Butthere’s always somebodyspying around, that givesnotice to the governor of thecastle.WhenLouisXVI.wasgoing to light out of theTooleries,aservantgirldoneit. It’s a very goodway, andso is the nonnamous letters.

We’llusethemboth.Andit’susual for the prisoner’smothertochangeclotheswithhim,andshestays in,andheslides out in her clothes.We’lldothattoo.”“But looky here, Tom,

what do we want to warnanybodyfor,thatsomething’sup? Let them find it out forthemselves—it’s theirlookout.”“Yes, I know; but you

can’tdependonthem.It’stheway they’ve acted from thevery start—left us to doeverything. They’re soconfiding and mullet-headedfm they don’t takenoticeofnothingatall.So ifwe don’t give them notice,there won’t be nobody nornothing to interfere with us,andsoafterallourhardworkand trouble thisescape ’llgooff perfectly flat: won’t

amounttonothing—won’tbenothingtoit.”‘Well, as for me, Tom,

that’sthewayI’dlike.““Shucks,” he says, and

lookeddisgusted.SoIsays:“But I ain’tgoing tomake

no complaint. Any way thatsuitsyousuitsme.Whatyougoingtodoabouttheservant-girl?”“You’ll be her. You slide

in,inthemiddleofthenight,

and hook that yaller girl’sfrock.”“Why, Tom, that’ll make

trouble next morning;because of course sheprob‘bly hain’t got any butthatone.”“I know; but you don’t

wantitbutfifteenminutes,tocarry the nonnamous letterand shove it under the frontdoor.”“All right, then, I’ll do it;

but I could carry it just ashandyinmyowntogs.”“Youwouldn’t look like a

servant-girl then, wouldyou?”“No, but there won’t be

nobody to see what I looklike,anyway.”“That ain’t got nothing to

dowithit.Thethingforustodo,isjusttodoourduty,andnot worry about whetheranybodyseesusdo itornot.

Hain’tyougotnoprincipleatall?”“All right, I ain’t saying

nothing; I’m the servant-girl.Who’sJim’smother?”“I’mhismother.I’llhooka

gownfromAuntSally.”“Well, then,you’llhave to

stay in the cabin when meandJimleaves.”“Notmuch. I’ll stuff Jim’s

clothesfullofstrawandlayiton his bed to represent his

mother in disguise, and Jim’ll take the nigger woman’sgown off ofme andwear it,and we’ll all evade together.When a prisoner of styleescapes, it’s called anevasion. It’salwayscalledsowhen a king escapes,f‘rinstance. And the samewith a king’s son; it don’tmake no difference whetherhe’s a natural one or anunnaturalone.”

So Tom he wrote thenonnamous letter, and Ismouched the yallerwench’sfrock, that night, and put iton, and shoved it under thefrontdoor, thewayTomtoldmeto.Itsaid:

Beware. Trouble isbrewing. Keep a sharplookout.UnknownFriend.

Next night we stuck apicturewhichTomdrawedin

blood, of a skull andcrossbones,onthefrontdoor;andnextnightanotheroneofa coffin, on the back door. Inever see a family in such asweat. They couldn’t a beenworsescared if theplacehada been full of ghosts layingfor them behind everythingand under the beds andshiveringthroughtheair.Ifadoor banged, Aunt Sally shejumped, and said “ouch!” ifanythingfell,shejumpedand

said“ouch!”ifyouhappenedtotouchher,whenshewarn’tnoticing, she done the same;she couldn’t face noway andbe satisfied, because sheallowed therewas somethingbehind her every time—soshe was always a whirlingaround, sudden, and saying“ouch,” and before she’d gettwo-thirds around, she’dwhirl back again, and say itagain; and she was afraid togo to bed, but she dasn’t set

up.Sothethingwasworkingverywell, Tom said; he saidhe never see a thing workmore satisfactory. He said itshoweditwasdoneright.So he said, now for the

grandbulge!Sotheverynextmorningatthestreakofdawnwe got another letter ready,and was wondering what webetter dowith it, becauseweheardthemsayatsuppertheywasgoingtohaveaniggeron

watchatbothdoorsallnight.Tom he went down thelightning-rod to spy around;and the nigger at the backdoorwasasleep,andhestuckitinthebackofhisneckandcomeback.Thislettersaid:

Don’t betrayme, Iwishto be your friend. Thereis a desprate gang ofcutthroats from over inthe Ingean Territorygoing to steal your

runawayniggerto-night,and they have beentryingtoscareyousoasyou will stay in thehouse and not botherthem. I am one of thegang, but have gotreliggion and wish toquit it and leadahonestlife again, and willbetray thehelishdesign.They will sneak downfrom northards, alongthe fence, at midnight

exact, with a false key,and go in the nigger’scabintogethim.Iamtobeoffapieceandblowatin horn if I see anydanger;butsteadofthat,I will BA like a sheepsoon as they get in andnot blow at all; thenwhilst they are gettinghischainsloose,youslipthere and lock them in,andcankillthematyourleasure. Don’t do

anything but just theway I am telling you, ifyou do they willsuspicionsomethingandraisewhoopjamboreehoo.IdonotwishanyrewardbuttoknowIhavedonetherightthing.UnknownFriend.

CHAPTER40We was feeling pretty good,after breakfast, and took mycanoeandwentovertherivera fishing, with a lunch, andhad a good time, and took alookattheraftandfoundherallright,andgothomelatetosupper, and found them insuch a sweat andworry theydidn’t know which end theywasstandingon,andmadeus

gorightofftobedtheminutewe was done supper, andwouldn’t tell us what thetroublewas,andnever letona word about the new letter,but didn’t need to, becauseweknowed asmuch about itas anybody did, and as soonaswewas half up stairs andher backwas turned,we slidfor the cellar cubboard andloaded up a good lunch andtook it up to our room andwenttobed,andgotupabout

half-pasteleven,andTomputonAuntSally’sdress thathestole and was going to startwiththelunch,butsays:“Where’sthebutter?”“I laid out a hunkof it,” I

says, “on a piece of a corn-pone.”“Well, you left it laid out,

then—itain’there.”“Wecangetalongwithout

it,”Isays.“Wecanget alongwith it,

too,”hesays;“Justyouslidedowncellarandfetchit.Andthen mosey right down thelightning-rod and comealong. I’ll go and stuff thestraw into Jim’s clothes torepresent his mother indisguise, and be ready to balike a sheep and shove soonasyougetthere.”So out hewent, and down

cellar went I. The hunk ofbutter, big as a person’s fist,

was where I had left it, so Itookuptheslabofcorn-ponewithiton,andblowedoutmylight, and started up stairs,very stealthy, and got up tothe main floor all right, butherecomesAuntSallywithacandle, and I clapped thetruck inmy hat, and clappedmy hat onmy head, and thenext second she seeme; andshesays:“Youbeendowncellar?”

“Yes’m.”“What you been doing

downthere?”“Noth’n.”“Noth‘n!”“No’m.”“Well, then, what

possessed you to go downthere,thistimeofnight?”“Idon’tknow’m.”“You don’t know? Don’t

answer me that way, Tom, I

want toknowwhatyoubeendoingdownthere?”“I hain’t been doing a

single thing, Aunt Sally, IhopetograciousifIhave.”Ireckonedshe’dletmego,

now,andasagenerlthingshewould; but I spose therewassomanystrangethingsgoingon she was just in a sweatabout every little thing thatwarn’t yard-stick straight; soshesays,verydecided:

“You just march into thatsetting-room and stay theretill I come. You been up tosomethingyounobusinessto,andI layI’ll findoutwhat itisbeforeI’mdonewithyou.”So she went away as I

opened the door and walkedintothesetting-room.My,butthere was a crowd there!Fifteen farmers, and everyoneofthemhadagun.Iwasmostpowerfulsick,andslunk

toachairandsetdown.Theywas setting around, some ofthemtalkinga little, ina lowvoice,andallofthemfidgetyanduneasy,buttryingtolooklike they warn’t; but Iknowed they was, becausethey was always taking offtheir hats, and putting themon, and scratching theirheads, and changing theirseats,andfumblingwiththeirbuttons.Iwarn’teasymyself,but I didn’t takemy hat off,

allthesame.I did wish Aunt Sally

would come, and get donewithme, and lickme, if shewanted to, and let me getawayandtellTomhowwe’doverdonethisthing,andwhata thundering hornet’s nestwe’d got ourselves into, sowecouldstopfoolingaround,straight off, and clear outwithJimbeforetheseripsgotoutof patience andcome for

us.At last she come, and

begun to ask me questions,but I couldn’t answer themstraight, Ididn’tknowwhichend of me was up; becausethese men was in such afidget now, that some waswantingtostartrightnowandlayforthemdesperadoes,andsaying it warn’t but a fewminutes to midnight; andotherswastryingtoget them

to hold on and wait for thesheep-signal; and here wasaunty pegging away at thequestions, and me a shakingall over and ready to sinkdowninmytracksIwasthatscared; and the place gettinghotter and hotter, and thebutter beginning to melt andrun down my neck andbehind my ears: and prettysoon,whenoneofthemsays,“I’m forgoingandgettinginthecabinfirst,andrightnow,

andcatchingthemwhentheycome,”Imostdropped;andastreak of butter come atrickling down my forehead,andAuntSallysheseeit,andturns white as a sheet, andsays:“For the land’s sake what

isthematterwiththechild!—he’s got the brain fever asshore as you’re born, andthey’reoozingout!”Andeverybodyrunstosee,

and she snatches offmy hat,andoutcomesthebread,andwhat was left of the butter,and she grabbed me, andhuggedme,andsays:“Oh, what a turn you did

give me! and how glad andgrateful I am it ain’t noworse; for luck’s against us,anditneverrainsbutitpours,and when I see that truck Ithought we’d lost you, for Iknowed by the color and all,

it was just like your brainswould be if—Dear, dear,whyd‘ntyoutellme thatwaswhat you’d been down therefor, Iwouldn’t a cared.Nowcler out to bed, and don’tlemmeseenomoreofyoutillmorning!”Iwasupstairsinasecond,

anddownthelightning-rodinanother one, and shinningthroughthedarkforthelean-to. I couldn’t hardly get my

words out, Iwas so anxious;but I told Tom as quick as Icould, we must jump for it,now,andnotaminutetolose—the house full of men,yonder,withguns!His eyes just blazed; and

hesays:“No!—is that so? Ain’t it

bully!Why,Huck,ifitwastodo over again, I bet I couldfetch two hundred! If wecouldputitofftill———”

“Hurry! hurry!” I says.“Where’sJim?”“Right at your elbow; if

you reach out your arm youcan touch him.He’s dressed,and everything’s ready.Nowwe’ll slide out and give thesheep-signal.”But then we heard the

tramp ofmen, coming to thedoor,andheardthembegintofumblewiththepadlock;andheardamansay:

“I told you we’d be toosoon;theyhaven’tcome—thedoorislocked.Here,I’lllocksome of you into the cabinand you lay for ‘em in thedark and kill ’em when theycome; and the rest scatteraround a piece, and listen ifyoucanhear‘emcoming.”So in they come, but

couldn’t see us in the dark,andmosttrodonuswhilstwewashustling togetunder the

bed. But we got under allright, and out through thehole,swiftbutsoft—Jimfirst,menext,andTomlast,whichwas according to Tom’sorders. Now we was in thelean-to, and heard trampingsclosebyoutside.Sowecrepttothedoor,andTomstoppedusthereandputhiseyetothecrack, but couldn’tmake outnothing, it was so dark; andwhisperedandsaidhewouldlisten for the steps to get

further, andwhen he nudgedus Jim must glide out first,andhimlast.Sohesethiseartothecrackandlistened,andlistened,andlistened,andthesteps a scraping around, outthere,all thetime;andatlasthe nudged us, and we slidout, and stooped down, notbreathing,andnotmakingtheleast noise, and slippedstealthy towards thefence, inInjun file, and got to it, allright,andmeandJimoverit;

but Tom’s britches catchedfast on a splinter on the toprail, and then he hear thesteps coming, so he had topullloose,whichsnappedthesplinter and made a noise;and as he dropped in ourtracks and started, somebodysingsout:“Who’s that? Answer, or

I’llshoot!”But we didn’t answer; we

just unfurled our heels and

shoved. Then there was arush,andabang,bang,bang!andthebulletsfairlywhizzedaround us! We heard themsingout:“Here they are! They’ve

brokefortheriver!after‘em,boys! And turn loose thedogs!”Soheretheycome,fulltilt.

Wecouldhearthem,becausethey wore boots, and yelled,butwedidn’twear no boots,

anddidn’tyell.Wewasinthepath to the mill; and whentheygotprettycloseontous,wedodged into thebushandlet them go by, and thendropped in behind them.They’d had all the dogs shutup,sotheywouldn’tscareoffthe robbers; but by this timesomebodyhadletthemloose,and here they come, makingpow-wow enough for amillion; but they was ourdogs; so we stopped in our

tracks till they catched up;and when they see it warn’tnobody but us, and noexcitementtoofferthem,theyonlyjustsaidhowdy,andtoreright ahead towards theshouting and clattering; andthen we up steam again andwhizzed along after them tillwewasnearlytothemill,andthen struck up through thebush towheremycanoewastied, and hopped in andpulled for dear life towards

the middle of the river, butdidn’t make no more noisethan we was obleeged to.Thenwestruckout,easyandcomfortable, for the islandwhere my raft was; and wecould hear them yelling andbarking at each other all upand down the bank, till wewas so far away the soundsgot dim and died out. Andwhen we stepped onto theraft,Isays:

“Now, old Jim, you’re afreemanagain,andIbetyouwon’t ever be a slave nomore.”“En a mighty good job it

wuz, too, Huck. It ‘uzplanned beautiful, en it ’uzdone beautiful; en dey ain’tnobodykingitupaplandat’smo’ mixed-up en splendiddenwhatdatonewuz.”We was all as glad as we

could be, but Tom was the

gladdest of all, because hehadabullet in thecalfofhisleg.When me and Jim heard

that, we didn’t feel so brashaswhatwedidbefore.Itwashurting him considerble, andbleeding; so we laid him inthewigwam and tore up oneof the duke’s shirts for tobandagehim,buthesays:“Gimme the rags, I cando

it myself. Don’t stop, now;

don’t fool around here, andtheevasionboomingalongsohandsome; man the sweeps,and set her loose! Boys, wedone it elegant!—‘deed wedid. I wish we’d a had thehandlingofLouisXVI.,therewouldn’t a been no ’Son ofSaint Louis, ascend toheaven!‘fnwrote down inhisbiography: no, sir, we’d awhoopedhimovertheborder—that’s what we’d a done

withhim—anddoneitjustasslick as nothing at all, too.Man the sweeps—man thesweeps!“But me and Jim was

consulting—and thinking.And after we’d thought aminute,Isays:“Sayit,Jim.”Sohesays:“Well,den,disisdewayit

look tome, Huck. Ef it wuzhim dat‘uz bein’ sot free, en

one er de boys wuz to gitshot,wouldhesay,’Goonensave me, nemmine ‘bout adoctorf’rtosavedisone?‘Isdat like Mars Tom Sawyer?Wouldhesaydat?Youbethewouldn’t! Well, den, is Jimgwyne to say it? No, sah—Idoan’ budge a step out’n displace, ‘dout a doctor, not ifit’sfortyyear!”I knowed he was white

inside, and I reckoned he’d

say what he did say—so itwasall right,now,andI toldTom I was agoing for adoctor.He raisedconsiderblerowabout it,butmeandJimstuck to it and wouldn’tbudge;sohewasforcrawlingout and setting the raft loosehimself; but we wouldn’t lethim.Thenhegiveusapieceofhismind—but itdidn’tdonogood.Sowhenheseemegetting

thecanoeready,hesays:“Well, then, if you’re

bound to go, I’ll tell you theway to do, when you get tothevillage.Shutthedoor,andblindfoldthedoctortightandfast, andmake him swear tobesilentasthegrave,andputa purse full of gold in hishand, and then take and leadhimallaroundthebackalleysandeverywheres,inthedark,andthenfetchhimhereinthe

canoe, in a roundabout wayamongst the islands, andsearchhimandtakehischalkaway from him, and don’tgiveitbacktohimtillyougethim back to the village, orelsehewill chalk this raft sohe can find it again. It’s thewaytheyalldo.”SoIsaidIwould,andleft,

and Jim was to hide in thewoodswhenheseethedoctorcoming, till he was gone

again.

CHAPTER41Thedoctorwasanoldman;avery nice, kind-looking oldman, when I got him up. Itold him me and my brotherwas over on Spanish Islandhunting, yesterday afternoon,and camped on a piece of araft we found, and aboutmidnighthemustakickedhisguninhisdreams,foritwentoff and shot him in the leg,

and we wanted him to goover there and fix it and notsay nothing about it, nor letanybody know, because wewanted to come home thisevening, and surprise thefolks.“Who is your folks?” he

says.“The Phelpses, down

yonder.”“Oh,”hesays.Andaftera

minute,hesays:“How’dyou

sayhegotshot?”“He had a dream,” I says,

“anditshothim.”“Singulardream,”hesays.Sohelituphislantern,and

got his saddle-bags, and westarted. But when he see thecanoe,hedidn’tlikethelookof her—said she was bigenough for one, but didn’tlook pretty safe for two. Isays:“Oh, you needn’t be

afeard, sir, she carried thethreeofus,easyenough.”“Whatthree?”“Why, me and Sid, and—

and—and the guns; that’swhatImean.”“Oh,”hesays.But he put his foot on the

gunnel, and rocked her; andshook his head, and said hereckoned he’d look aroundforabiggerone.Buttheywasall lockedandchained;sohe

took my canoe, and said formetowaittillhecomeback,or I could hunt aroundfurther, ormaybe I better godown home and get themready for the surprise, if Iwantedto.ButIsaidIdidn’t;soItoldhimjusthowtofindtheraft,andthenhestarted.I struck an idea, pretty

soon.Isaystomyself,spos’nhe can’t fix that leg just inthreeshakesofasheep’stail,

as the saying is? spos’n ittakeshimthreeorfourdays?What are we going to do?—lay around there till he letsthecatoutofthebag?No,sir,IknowwhatI’lldo.I’llwait,and when he comes back, ifhe says he’s got to go anymore,I’llgetdownthere,too,if Iswim;andwe’ll takeandtie him, and keep him, andshoveoutdowntheriver;andwhen Tom’s done with him,we’ll give him what it’s

worth,orallwegot,andthenlethimgetshore.So then I crept into a

lumberpiletogetsomesleep;andnexttimeIwakedupthesun was away up over myhead!Ishotoutandwentforthe doctor’s house, but theytold me he’d gone away inthenight,sometimeorother,and warn’t back yet. Well,thinks I, that looks powerfulbadforTom,andI’lldigout

for the island, right off. SoawayIshoved,andturnedthecorner, and nearly rammedmy head into Uncle Silas’sstomach!Hesays:“Why, Tom! Where you

been, all this time, yourascal?”“Ihain’tbeennowheres,”I

says, “only just hunting forthe runaway nigger—me andSid.”“Why,where ever didyou

go?” he says. “Your aunt’sbeenmightyuneasy.”“She needn‘t,” I says,

“because we was all right.Wefollowedthemenandthedogs,buttheyout-runus,andwelost them;butwethoughtwe heard them on thewater,so we got a canoe and tookout after them, and crossedoverbutcouldn’tfindnothingof them;sowecruisedalongup-shore till we got kind of

tiredandbeatout;andtiedupthe canoe andwent to sleep,andneverwakeduptillaboutanhourago,thenwepaddledover here to hear the news,andSid’satthepost-officetoseewhathecanhear,andI’ma branching out to getsomething to eat for us, andthenwe’regoinghome.”So then we went to the

post-office to get “Sid”; butjust as I suspicioned, he

warn’t there; so the old manhe got a letter out of theoffice,andwewaitedawhilelonger but Sid didn’t come;so the old man said comealong,letSidfootithome,orcanoe-it, when he got donefooling around—but wewouldride.Icouldn’tgethimto let me stay and wait forSid; andhe said therewarn’tnouseinit,andImustcomealong, and letAuntSally seewewasallright.

When we got home, AuntSallywasthatgladtoseemeshe laughed and cried both,andhuggedme, andgivemeone of them lickings of hernthat don’t amount to shucks,and said she’d serve Sid thesamewhenhecome.And the place was plumb

full of farmers and farmers’wives, to dinner; and suchanother clack a body neverheard. Old Mrs. Hotchkiss

wastheworst;hertonguewasagoingallthetime.Shesays:“Well, Sister Phelps, I’ve

ransacked that-air cabin overan’ I b‘lieve the nigger wascrazy. I says so to SisterDamrell—didn’t I, SisterDamrell? —s’I, he’s crazy,s‘I—them’s the verywords Isaid. You all hearn me: he’scrazy, s’I; everything showsit, s‘I. Look at that-airgrindstone, s’I; want to tell

me‘tanycretur’tsinhisrightmind’sagoin’toscrabbleallthem crazy things onto agrindstone,s‘I?Heresich’n’sichapersonbustedhisheart;‘n’ here so ’n’ so peggedalong for thirty-seven year,‘n’ all that—natcheri son o’Louis somebody, ’n’ sicheverlast’n rubbage. He’splumb crazy, s‘I; it’s what Isays in the fust place, it’swhatIsaysinthemiddle,’n’it’swhatIsayslast‘n’allthe

time—the nigger’s crazy—crazy ’s Nebokoodneezer,s’I.”“An’lookatthat-airladder

made out’n rags, SisterHotchkiss,” says old Mrs.Damrell, “what in the nameo’ goodness could he everwantof——”“The very words I was a-

sayin’nolongeragoth’nthisminute to Sister Utterback,‘n’ she’ll tell you so herself.

Sh-she, look at that-air ragladder, sh-she; ’n’ s‘I, yes,lookat it,s’I—whatcouldhea wanted of it, s‘I. Sh-she,SisterHotchkiss,sh-she——”“But how in the nation’d

they ever git that grindstonein there, anyway? ‘n’ whodug that-air hole? ’n’ who——”“My very words, Brer

Penrod! Iwas a-sayin‘—passthat-air sasser o’ m’lasses,

won’tye?—Iwasa-sayin’ toSister Dunlap, jist thisminute,howdid theygit thatgrindstone in there, s‘I.Without help, mind you—’thout help! Thar’s wher’‘tis. Don’t tellme, s’I; therewuzhelp,s‘I; ’n’ ther’wuzaplenty help, too, s‘I; ther’sben a dozen a-helpin’ thatnigger,’n’IlayI’dskineverylast nigger on this place, butI’d findoutwhodone it, s‘I;’n’moreover,s‘I——”

“Adozen says you!—fortycouldn’t a done everythingthat’s been done. Look atthem case-knife saws andthings, how tedious they’vebeenmade; look at that bed-leg sawed off with ‘m, aweek’s work for six men;lookatthatniggermadeout’nstrawonthebed;andlookat——”“Youmaywellsayit,Brer

Hightower! It’s jist as I was

a-sayin’ to Brer Phelps, hisown self. S‘e, what do youthink of it, Sister Hotchkiss,s’e? think o’ what, BrerPhelps,s‘I?thinko’thatbed-legsawedoffthataway,s’e?think of it, s‘l? I lay it neversawed itself off, s’I—somebodysawedit,s‘I;that’smyopinion,takeitorleaveit,it mayn’t be no ’count, s‘I,but sich as ’t is, it’s myopinion, s’I, ‘n’ if anybodyk’n start a better one, s’I, let

himdoit,s‘I,that’sall.IsaystoSisterDunlap,s’I———”“Why, dog my cats, they

must a ben a house-full o’niggers in there every nightfor fourweeks, to a done allthat work, Sister Phelps.Lookat thatshirt—everylastinch of it kivered over withsecret African writ’n donewithblood!Mustabenaraftuv’matitrightalong,allthetime, amost. Why, I’d give

twodollars tohave it read tome;‘n’asfortheniggersthatwrote it, I ’low I’d take ‘n’lash’mt’ll———”“People to help him,

Brother Marples! Well, Ireckon you’d think so, ifyou’dabeeninthishousefora while back. Why, they’vestole everything they couldlaytheirhandson—andweawatching, all the time, mindyou. They stole that shirt

right off o’ the line! and asfor that sheet they made therag ladder out of ther’ ain’tno telling how many timesthey didn’t steal that; andflour, and candles, andcandlesticks,andspoons,andthe old warming-pan, andmosta thousand things that Idisremember, now, and mynewcalicodress;andme,andSilas,andmySidandTomonthe constant watch day andnight, as Iwas a telling you,

and not a one of us couldcatchhidenorhair, nor sightnor sound of them; and hereat the last minute, lo andbehold you, they slides rightinunderournoses,andfoolsus, and not only foolsusbutthe Injun Territory robberstoo, and actuly gets awaywith that nigger, safe andsound, and that with sixteenmen and twenty-two dogsright on their very heels atthat very time! I tell you, it

just bangs anything I everheard of. Why, speritscouldn’t a done better, andbeen no smarter. And Ireckon they must a beensperits—because, you knowour dogs, and ther’ ain’t nobetter;well, themdogsnevereven got on the track of ‘m,once!Youexplainthattome,ifyoucan!—anyofyou!”“Well,itdoesbeat——”“Lawsalive,Inever——”

“So helpme, Iwouldn’t abe——”“House-thieves as well as

——”“Goodnessgracioussakes,

I’dabenafeardtoliveinsicha——”“ ‘Fraid to live!—why, I

was that scared I dasn’thardlygotobed,orgetup,orlaydown,orsetdown,SisterRidgeway.Why, they’d stealthe very—why, goodness

sakes, you can guess whatkind of a fluster I was in bythe timemidnight come, lastnight. I hope to gracious if Iwarn’t afraid they’d stealsomeo’thefamily!Iwasjustto thatpass, Ididn’thavenoreasoning faculties no more.It looksfoolishenough,now,in the daytime; but I says tomyself, there’s my two poorboysasleep,’wayupstairsinthat lonesome room, and IdeclaretogoodnessIwasthat

uneasy’tIcrep’upthereandlocked‘em in! I did. Andanybodywould.Because,youknow, when you get scared,thatway,anditkeepsrunningon, and getting worse andworse, all the time, and yourwitsgets to addling, andyouget to doing all sorts o’wildthings, and by-and-by youthink to yourself, spos’n Iwasaboy, andwasawayupthere, and the door ain’tlocked, and you———” She

stopped, looking kind ofwondering, and then sheturnedherheadaroundslow,andwhenhereyelitonme—Igotupandtookawalk.Says I to myself, I can

explain better how we cometo not be in that room thismorning, if I go out to onesideandstudyoveritalittle.So I done it.But I dasn’t gofur, or she’d a sent for me.And when it was late in the

day, thepeople allwent, andthen I come in and told herthenoiseandshootingwakedup me and “Sid,” and thedoor was locked, and wewanted to see the fun, sowewent down the lightning-rod,and both of us got hurt alittle, and we didn’t neverwanttotrythatnomore.AndthenIwentonandtoldherallwhat I told Uncle Silasbefore; and then she saidshe’d forgive us, and maybe

it was all right enoughanyway, and about what abody might expect of boys,for all boys was a prettyharum scarum lot, as fur asshecouldsee;andso,aslongasnoharmhadn’tcomeofit,she judged she better put inher time being grateful wewas alive and well and shehad us still, stead of frettingoverwhatwaspastanddone.So then she kissed me, andpatted me on the head, and

dropped into a kind of abrown study;fo and prettysoonjumpsup,andsays:“Why, lawsamercy, it’s

mostnight,andSidnotcomeyet!Whathasbecomeofthatboy?”Iseemychance;soIskips

upandsays:“I’ll run right up to town

andgethim,”Isays.“No youwon‘t,” she says.

“You’ll stay right wher’ you

are;one’senoughtobelostata time. If he ain’t here tosupper,youruncle’llgo.”Well, he warn’t there to

supper; so right after supperunclewent.Hecomebackabout ten,a

little bit uneasy; hadn’t runacross Tom’s track. AuntSallywasagooddealuneasy;butUncleSilas he said therewarn’t no occasion to be—boys will be boys, he said,

and you’ll see this one turnup in themorning, all soundand right. So she had to besatisfied. But she said she’dset up for him a while,anyway, and keep a lightburning,sohecouldseeit.And then when I went up

to bed she come upwithmeand fetched her candle, andtucked me in, and motheredme so good I felt mean, andlikeIcouldn’tlookherinthe

face;andshesetdownonthebedandtalkedwithmealongtime, and said what asplendid boy Sid was, anddidn’t seem to want to everstop talking about him; andkept asking me every nowand then, if I reckoned hecould a got lost, or hurt, ormaybe drownded, and mightbe laying at this minute,somewheres, suffering ordead, and she not by him tohelp him, and so the tears

woulddripdown,silent,andIwouldtellherthatSidwasallright, andwould be home inthe morning, sure; and shewould squeeze my hand, ormaybekissme,andtellmetosay it again, and keep onsayingit,becauseitdonehergood,andshewasinsomuchtrouble. And when she wasgoingaway,shelookeddownin my eyes, so steady andgentle,andsays:

“Thedoorain’tgoingtobelocked, Tom; and there’s thewindow and the rod; butyou’ll be good, won’t you?And you won’t go? For mysake?”Laws knows I wanted to

go, bad enough, to see aboutTom,andwasallintendingtogo;butafterthat,Iwouldn’tawent,notforkingdoms.But she was on my mind,

andTomwasonmymind;so

I slept very restless. Andtwice I went down the rod,awayinthenight,andslippedaround front, and see hersetting therebyhercandle inthe window with her eyestowardstheroadandthetearsinthem;andIwishedIcoulddo something for her, but Icouldn‘t,only to swear that Iwouldn’tneverdonothing togrieveheranymore.Andthethird time, I waked up atdawn,andsliddown,andshe

wasthereyet,andhercandlewas most out, and her oldgrayheadwas restingonherhand,andshewasasleep.

CHAPTER42The old man was up townagain, before breakfast, butcouldn’tgetnotrackofTom;and both of them set at thetable, thinking, and notsaying nothing, and lookingmournful, and their coffeegetting cold, and not eatinganything. And by-and-by theoldmansays:

“DidIgiveyoutheletter?”“Whatletter?”“The one I got yesterday

outofthepost-office.”“No,youdidn’tgivemeno

letter.”“Well,Imustaforgotit.”So he rummaged his

pockets, and then went offsomewheres where he hadlaid it down, and fetched it,andgiveittoher.Shesays:“Why, it’s from St.

Petersburg—it’sfromSis.”I allowed another walk

would do me good; but Icouldn’t stir. But before shecould break it open, shedropped it and run—for shesee something.And so did I.It was Tom Sawyer on amattress;and thatolddoctor;and Jim, in her calico dress,with his hands tied behindhim;andalotofpeople.Ihidthe letter behind the first

thing that come handy, andrushed. She flung herself atTom,crying,andsays:“Oh, he’s dead, he’s dead,

Iknowhe’sdead!”And Tom he turned his

head a little, and mutteredsomething or other, whichshowedhewarn’tinhisrightmind; then she flung up herhands,andsays:“He’s alive, thank God!

And that’s enough!” and she

snatched a kiss of him, andflew for the house to get thebed ready, and scatteringorders right and left at theniggers and everybody else,asfastashertonguecouldgo,everyjumpoftheway.I followed the men to see

what they was going to dowith Jim; and the old doctorand Uncle Silas followedafterTomintothehouse.Themen was very huffy, and

someofthemwantedtohangJim,foranexampletoalltheotherniggersaroundthere,sotheywouldn’tbetryingtorunaway, like Jim done, andmakingsucharaftoftrouble,and keeping a whole familyscaredmosttodeathfordaysand nights. But the otherssaid, don’t do it, it wouldn’tanswer at all, he ain’t ournigger, and his owner wouldturn up andmake us pay forhim, sure. So that cooled

them down a little, becausethe people that’s always themost anxious for to hang anigger that hain’t done justright,isalwaystheveryonesthatain’t themostanxioustopayforhimwhenthey’vegottheirsatisfactionoutofhim.They cussed Jim

considerble, though,andgivehim a cuff or two, side thehead,onceinawhile,butJimnever said nothing, and he

neverletontoknowme,andthey took him to the samecabin, and put his ownclothes on him, and chainedhimagain,andnottonobed-leg, this time, but to a bigstaple drove into the bottomlog, and chained his hands,too, and both legs, and saidhewarn’ttohavenothingbutbread and water to eat, afterthis,tillhisownercomeorhewas sold at auction, becausehe didn’t come in a certain

length of time, and filled upourhole,andsaidacoupleoffarmerswithgunsmuststandwatcharoundaboutthecabinevery night, and a bull-dogtied to the door in the daytime;andaboutthistimetheywasthroughwiththejobandwas tapering off with a kindof generl good-bye cussing,andthentheolddoctorcomesandtakesalook,andsays:“Don’t be no rougher on

him than you’re obleeged to,becauseheain’tabadnigger.When Igot towhere I foundthe boy, I see I couldn’t cutthe bullet out without somehelp, and he warn’t in nocondition forme to leave, togoandgethelp;andhegotalittleworseandalittleworse,andafteralongtimehewentoutofhishead,andwouldn’tlet me come enigh him, anymore,andsaidifIchalkedhisrafthe’dkillme, andnoend

of wild foolishness like that,and I see I couldn’t doanythingatallwithhim;soIsays, I got to have help,somehow; and the minute Isaysit,outcrawlsthisniggerfrom somewheres, and sayshe’llhelp,andhedoneit,too,and done it very well. Ofcourse I judgedhemustbearunaway nigger, and there Iwas!andthereIhadtostick,rightstraightalongalltherestof the day, and all night. It

was a fix, I tell you! I had acouple of patients with thechills, and of course I’d ofliked to run up to town andsee them, but I dasn‘t,because the niggermight getaway, and then I’d be toblame; and yet never a skiffcomecloseenoughforme tohail. So there I had to stick,plumb till daylight thismorning; and I never see anigger thatwas a better nussorfaith-fuller,andyethewas

resking his freedom to do it,andwasalltiredout,too,andI seeplain enoughhe’dbeenworked main hard, lately. Ilikedtheniggerforthat;Itellyou,gentlemen,anigger likethat is worth a thousanddollars—and kind treatment,too. I had everything Ineeded, and the boy wasdoing as well there as hewould a done at home—better,maybe,becauseitwassoquiet;butthereIwas,with

both of’m onmy hands; andthereIhadtostick, tillaboutdawn this morning; thensomemeninaskiffcomeby,andasgoodluckwouldhaveit, the nigger was setting bythe pallet with his headpropped on his knees, soundasleep;soImotionedthemin,quiet,and theyslippeduponhimandgrabbedhimandtiedhim before he knowed whathe was about, and we neverhad no trouble. And the boy

being in a kind of a flightysleep, too, we muffled theoars and hitched the raft on,andtowedheroververyniceand quiet, and the niggernevermade the least rownorsaid a word, from the start.He ain’t no bad nigger,gentlemen;that’swhatIthinkabouthim.”Somebodysays:“Well,itsoundsverygood,

doctor,I’mobleegedtosay.”

Then the others softenedup a little, too, and I wasmighty thankful to that olddoctor for doing Jim thatgood turn; and I was glad itwas according to myjudgment of him, too;because I thought he had agood heart in him andwas agoodman,thefirsttimeIseehim.ThentheyallagreedthatJimhad acted verywell, andwas deserving to have somenotice tookof it,andreward.

So every one of thempromised, right out andhearty, that they wouldn’tcusshimnomore.Then they come out and

locked him up. I hoped theywas going to say he couldhaveoneortwoofthechainstook off, because they wasrotten heavy, or could havemeat and greens with hisbread and water, but theydidn’t think of it, and I

reckoneditwarn’tbestformetomixin,butIjudgedI’dgetthe doctor’s yarn to AuntSally, somehow or other, assoon as I’d got through thebreakers that was laying justahead ofme. Explanations, Imean, of how I forgot tomentionaboutSidbeingshot,when I was telling how himand me put in that drattednight paddling aroundhuntingtherunawaynigger.

ButIhadplentytime.AuntSally she stuck to the sick-room all day and all night;and every time I see UncleSilas mooning around, Idodgedhim.NextmorningIheardTom

was a good deal better, andthey said Aunt Sally wasgonetogetanap.SoIslipstothe sick-room, and if I foundhim awake I reckoned wecould put up a yarn for the

family that would wash. Buthewassleeping,andsleepingvery peaceful, too; and pale,notfire-facedthewayhewaswhenhecome.SoIsetdownand laid for him to wake. Inabout a half an hour, AuntSally comes gliding in, andthereIwas,upastumpagain!She motioned me to be still,and set down by me, andbegun to whisper, and saidwe could all be joyful now,becauseallthesymptomswas

first rate, and he’d beensleeping like that for ever solong, and looking better andpeacefuller all the time, andtentoonehe’dwakeupinhisrightmind.So we set there watching,

and by-and-by he stirs a bit,and opened his eyes verynatural,andtakesalook,andsays:“Hello, why I’m at home!

How’s that? Where’s the

raft?”“It’sallright,”Isays.“AndJim?”“The same,” I says, but

couldn’t say it pretty brash.But he never noticed, butsays:“Good! Splendid! Now

we’re all right and safe! DidyoutellAunty?”Iwasgoingtosayyes;but

shechippedinandsays:“Aboutwhat,Sid?”

“Why, about the way thewholethingwasdone.”“Whatwholething?”“Why, the whole thing.

There ain’t but one; howwesettherunawayniggerfree—meandTom.”“Good land! Set the run—

What is the child talkingabout! Dear, dear, out of hisheadagain!”“No, I ain’t out of my

HEAD; I know all what I’m

talkingabout.Wedidsethimfree—me and Tom. We laidout to do it, andwe done it.Andwedoneitelegant,too.”He’d got a start, and shenever checked him up, justsetandstaredandstared,andlethimclipalong,andIseeitwarn’t no use forme to putin.“Why,Aunty, it costusapower of work—weeks of it—hours and hours, everynight, whilst you was allasleep. And we had to steal

candles, and the sheet, andtheshirt, andyourdress,andspoons, and tin plates, andcase-knives, and thewarming-pan, and thegrindstone,andflour,andjustno end of things, and youcan’t thinkwhatwork itwasto make the saws, and pens,and inscriptions, and onething or another, and youcan’tthinkhalfthefunitwas.And we had to make up thepicturesofcoffinsandthings,

and nonnamous letters fromthe robbers, and get up anddown the lightning-rod, anddig the hole into the cabin,andmaketherope-ladderandsendit incookedupinapie,andsendinspoonsandthingsto work with, in your apronpocket”———“Mercysakes!”———“and load up the

cabin with rats and snakesand so on, for company for

Jim; and then you kept Tomheresolongwiththebutterinhis hat that you come nearspiling the whole business,becausethemencomebeforewewasoutof thecabin,andwe had to rush, and theyheard us and let drive at us,and I got my share, and wedodgedoutofthepathandletthem go by, and when thedogs come they warn’tinterested in us, butwent forthe most noise, and we got

our canoe, and made for theraft,andwasallsafe,andJimwasafreeman,andwedoneitallbyourselves,andwasn’titbully,Aunty!”“Well, I never heard the

likesofitinallmyborndays!So it was you, you littlerapscallions, that’s beenmaking all this trouble, andturnedeverybody’switscleaninside out and scared us allmost todeath.I’veasgooda

notion as ever I had in mylife, to take itouto’you thisvery minute. To think, hereI’vebeen,nightafternight,a—you justgetwellonce,youyoung scamp, and I lay I’lltan the Old Harryfp out o’botho’ye!”ButTom,hewas soproud

and joyful, he just couldn’thold in, and his tongue justwent it—she a-chipping in,andspittingfireallalong,and

bothofthemgoingitatonce,likeacat-convention;andshesays:“Well, you get all the

enjoyment you can out of itnow, for mind I tell you if Icatchyoumeddlingwithhimagain——”“Meddling with who?”

Tomsays,droppinghissmileandlookingsurprised.“With who? Why, the

runaway nigger, of course.

Who’dyoureckon?”Tom looks at me very

grave,andsays:“Tom, didn’t you just tell

me he was all right? Hasn’thegotaway?”“Him?” says Aunt Sally;

“the runaway nigger? ‘Deedhe hasn’t. They’ve got himback, safe and sound, andhe’s in that cabin again, onbread and water, and loadeddown with chains, till he’s

claimedorsold!”Tomrosesquareupinbed,

with his eye hot, and hisnostrils opening and shuttinglikegills,andsingsouttome:“They hain’t no right to

shut him up! Shove!—anddon’tyouloseaminute.Turnhim loose! he ain’t no slave;he’sasfreeasanycreturthatwalksthisearth!”“What does the child

mean?”

“Imean everyword I say,Aunt Sally, and if somebodydon’tgo,I’llgo. I’veknowedhim all his life, and so hasTom,there.OldMissWatsondiedtwomonthsago,andshewas ashamed she ever wasgoing to sell him down theriver,andsaidso;andshesethimfreeinherwill.”“Then what on earth did

youwant to set him free for,seeinghewasalreadyfree?”

“Well, that is aquestion, Imust say; and just likewomen! Why, I wanted theadventure of it; and I’d awaded neck-deep in blood to—goodness alive, AUNTPOLLY!”Ifshewarn’tstandingright

there, just inside the door,looking as sweet andcontented as an angel half-full of pie, I wish I maynever!

AuntSallyjumpedforher,andmosthuggedtheheadoffofher,andcriedoverher,andI found a good enoughplacefor me under the bed, for itwas getting pretty sultry forus, seemed to me. And Ipeeped out, and in a littlewhile Tom’s Aunt Pollyshookherselflooseandstoodthere looking across at Tomover her spectacles—kind ofgrinding him into the earth,youknow.Andthenshesays:

“Yes, you better turn y‘rheadaway—Iwould if Iwasyou,Tom.”“Oh,dearyme!”saysAunt

Sally; “is he changed so?Why,thatain’tTom, it’sSid;Tom‘s—Tom’s—why, whereis Tom? He was here aminuteago.”“You mean where’s Huck

Finn—that’swhatyoumean!IreckonIhain’traisedsuchascamp as my Tom all these

years,not toknowhimwhenI see him. That would be apretty howdy-do. Come outfrom under that bed, HuckFinn.”So I done it. But not

feelingbrash.AuntSally shewasoneof

the mixed-upest lookingpersons I ever see; exceptone,andthatwasUncleSilas,when he come in, and theytold it all to him. It kind of

madehimdrunk,asyoumaysay, and he didn’t knownothing at all the rest of theday, and preached a prayer-meeting sermon that nightthat give him a rattlingruputation,becausetheoldestman in the world couldn’t aunderstoodit.SoTom’sAuntPolly,shetoldallaboutwhoIwas, and what; and I had toupandtellhowIwasinsucha tight place that whenMrs.Phelps took me for Tom

Sawyer—she chipped in andsays,“Oh,goonandcallmeAunt Sally, I’m used to it,now, and ‘tain’t no need tochange”—that when AuntSally took me for TomSawyer, I had to stand it—there warn’t no other way,and I knowed he wouldn’tmind, because it would benutsforhim,beingamystery,and he’d make an adventureout of it and be perfectlysatisfied.Andsoitturnedout,

and he let on to be Sid, andmade things as soft as hecouldforme.And his Aunt Polly she

saidTomwasrightaboutoldMissWatsonsettingJimfreein her will; and so, sureenough, Tom Sawyer hadgoneandtookallthattroubleandbothertosetafreeniggerfree! and I couldn’t everunderstand, before, until thatminute and that talk, how he

couldhelpabodysetaniggerfree,withhisbringing-up.Well, Aunt Polly she said

thatwhenAuntSallywrotetoher that Tom and Sid hadcome, all right and safe, shesaystoherself:“Lookatthat,now!Imight

have expected it, letting himgo off that way withoutanybody to watch him. SonowIgottogoandtrapseallthe way down the river,

elevenhundredmile,andfindoutwhat that creetur’sup to,this time; as long as Icouldn’t seem to get anyansweroutofyouaboutit.”“Why, I never heard

nothingfromyou,”saysAuntSally.“Well, I wonder! Why, I

wrotetoyoutwice,toaskyouwhat you couldmeanbySidbeinghere.”“Well, I never got ‘em,

Sis.”Aunt Polly, she turns

around slow and severe, andsays:“You,Tom!”“Well—what?” he says,

kindofpettish.“Don’t you what me, you

impudent thing—hand outthemletters.”“Whatletters?”“Them letters. I be bound,

if Ihave to takeaholtofyou

I‘ll——”“They’re in the trunk.

There, now.And they’re justthe sameas theywaswhen Igot them out of the office. Ihain’t looked into them, Ihain’t touched them. But Iknowed they’dmake trouble,andIthoughtifyouwarn’tinnohurry,I‘d———”“Well, you do need

skinning, there ain’t nomistakeaboutit.AndIwrote

anotherone to tellyou Iwascoming;andIsposehe——”“No, it come yesterday; I

hain’t read it yet, but it’s allright,I’vegotthatone.”Iwantedtooffertobettwo

dollars she hadn‘t, but Ireckonedmaybeitwasjustassafetonotto.SoIneversaidnothing.

CHAPTERTHELAST

ThefirsttimeIcatchedTom,private,Iaskedhimwhatwashisidea,timeoftheevasion?—whatitwashe’dplannedtodo if the evasion worked allrightandhemanagedtosetanigger free that was alreadyfree before? And he said,what he had planned in his

head,fromthestart,ifwegotJimoutallsafe,wasforustorun him down the river, onthe raft, and have adventuresplumb to the mouth of theriver,andthentellhimabouthis being free, and take himback up home on asteamboat, in style, and payhim for his lost time, andwritewordaheadandgetoutall the niggers around, andhave them waltz him intotown with a torchlight

procession and a brass band,andthenhewouldbeahero,and so would we. But Ireckeneditwasaboutaswellthewayitwas.We had Jim out of the

chains in no time, and whenAunt Polly and Uncle SilasandAuntSallyfoundouthowgood he helped the doctornurseTom,theymadeaheapof fuss over him, and fixedhim up prime, and give him

all he wanted to eat, and agoodtime,andnothingtodo.And we had him up to thesick-room; and had a hightalk; andTomgive Jim fortydollars for being prisoner forussopatient,anddoingitupsogood,andJimwaspleasedmosttodeath,andbustedout,andsays:“Dah, now, Huck, what I

tellyou?—what I tellyouupdah on Jackson islan‘? I tole

you I got a hairy breas’, enwhat’sdesignunit;enItoleyou I ben rich wunst, engwineter to be rich agin; enit’scometrue;enheahsheis!Dah,now!doan’talktome—signsissigns,mineItellyou;en Iknowed jis’ ’swell ‘at I’uz gwineter be rich agin asI’s a stannin’ heah disminute!”And then Tom he talked

along, and talked along, and

says,le’sallthreeslideoutofhere,oneofthesenights,andget an outfit, and go forhowling adventures amongstthe Injuns, over in theTerritory, for a couple ofweeksor two; and I says, allright,thatsuitsme,butIain’tgot nomoney for to buy theoutfit,andIreckonIcouldn’tgetnonefromhome,becauseit’s likely pap’s been backbefore now, and got it allaway from Judge Thatcher

anddrunkitup.“No he hain‘t,”Tom says;

“it’s all there, yet—sixthousand dollars and more;andyourpaphain’teverbeenback since. Hadn’t when Icomeaway,anyhow.”Jimsays,kindofsolemn:“Heain’tacomin’backno

mo‘,Huck.”Isays:“Why,Jim?”“Nemmine why, Huck—

but he ain’t comin’ back nomo‘.”ButIkeptathim;soatlast

hesays:“Doan’ you ‘member de

house dat was float’n downderiver,endeywuzamanindah,kiveredup,en Iwent inen unkivered him and didn’let you come in? Well, den,you k’n git yo’moneywhenyou wants it; kase dat wuzhim.”

Tom’smostwell,now,andgothisbulletaroundhisneckonawatch-guardforawatch,and is always seeing whattime it is, and so there ain’tnothingmore to write about,and I am rotten glad of it,becauseifI’daknowedwhata trouble it was to make abook I wouldn’t a tackled itand ain’t agoing to nomore.ButIreckonIgottolightoutfor theTerritoryaheadof therest,becauseAuntSallyshe’s

goingtoadoptmeandsivilizemeandIcan’tstandit.Ibeentherebefore.

THEEND.YOURSTRULY,HUCKFINN.

ENDNOTESChapter1

1 (p. 5) sivilized: Civilized.Here and throughout thenovel Twain, by means ofwillful misspelling, marks acharacter’s speech as adistinctivespokendialect.2 (p. 7) niggers: Because ofthe casual use of this racialepithet throughout the novel,

many readers have been putoff by Adventures ofHuckleberry Finn. Manyhave even believed the bookshouldbebanned,despitethefact—some would saybecause of the fact—that“nigger” is used by thenovel’s favorite characters,including Jim, often withaffection. The challenge fortoday’s reader is to confrontthe word in all its violenceand contradictions, and to

consider its meaning forvarious audiences—fornineteenth-, twentieth-, andtwenty-first-century readers;for blacks, whites, and thoseof other races; for childrenand adults. Readers alsoshould consider the fact thatmuchof thenovel issatirical—intended to spoof andupend the prevailing values,racial and otherwise, of thecharactersandcommunitiesitdescribes.

Chapter33(p.14)Providence:Godorgodlycareforallofcreation.HucktakesnoteoftwoviewsofGod:asforgivingprotector(the widow’s view) or asterrible, swift judge (MissWatson’s). A continuingtheologicalmeditationbeginshere. A variety of meanings,including “sheer luck,” areattached to this wordthroughoutthebook.

4 (p. 16) abook called ‘DonQuixote“: Satirical chivalricromance by Miguel deCervantes Saavedra (1547-1616).Thereferenceistothecolorful imagination of thenovel’sheroandhisidealisticimpulse to right incorrigiblewrongs.

Chapter55 (p. 23) mustn’t ... take achild away from its father.Twainpointstothehypocrisy

of this position—whichironically enforces uponHuckacruel familysituation—in light of the routineseparation of black familiesin slavery, which the readerwitnessesinchapter27.

Chapter66 (p.27)woulda thoughthewas Adam: Huck compareshis father to the biblical firstman perhaps in the sense of”as old as Adam“—that is,

Pap looks as though he hasbeenaroundforallofhumanhistory. Or he may bereferringtotheBible,Genesis2:6-7,whichdescribesGod’screation of Adam: ”A mistwent up from the earth andwateredthewholefaceoftheground. And the Lord Godformedmanofthedustoftheground.“7 (p. 27) ”Call this agovment!“: Pap’s drunken

ravingsreflectpositionstakenbymanyAmericancitizensofthe nineteenth century.Certainof these issues—suchas, in thenextparagraph, therightof freeblacks tovote—persisted deep into thetwentiethcentury.

Chapter88(p.42)”shewouldn’sellmedown to Orleans“: In thegeography of slavery, NewOrleans was an especially

dreaded location. To be solddown the river to that citywas to be sent with slave-dealers to the bottom of theSouth,atthefarthestpossibleremove from family, then tobe sold again, presumably toworkinthefields.

Chapter149 (p. 71) me reading thebooks: Huck is a reader notonlyof school lessonsbutofbooks for pleasure. He is a

great reader, too, ofsituations, of faces, and ofpeople’smotivesandvalues.10(p.74)”Denhecain’tgitno situation. What he gwynetodo?“:HereTwaindirectlymirrors the tradition ofminstrel humor—the onstageverbal play among whiteactors in blackface (makeupthat makes a white personappear black) enactingexaggeratedversionsofblack

language and body English.And yet the humor isirresistible.TheblackliterarycriticSterlingA.Browncitesthis line as an example ofTwain’s realistic presentationof the authentic nineteenth-century Southern slave.Where does the black humorend and the white imitationbegin?

Chapter1511(p.79)”IsIme,orwhois

I? Is I heah, or whah is I?Now dat’s what I wants toknow?“: Jim’s questionechoes a central concern—some would say the centralconcern—ofthenovel:thatofidentity, particularly inrelationtoplaceandtime.12 (p. 80) he must start inand ” ‘terpret“ it: HereTwain parodies the reader’simpulsetoreadtoomuchintosimple events. The twist is

thatJim’sreadingofeventstocomeisnotfarwrong.

Chapter1613(p.81)sowetookasmokeon it and waited: In someeditionsofHuckleberryFinn,which was first published in1884, a section called the”raft passage“ or the”raftmen’s passage“ appearsfollowing this paragraph.That section was originallypart of the manuscript of

HuckleberryFinn, butTwaininserted it into chapter 3 ofLife on the Mississippi,publishedin1883.Becauseofconcern about matching thelength of Huckleberry Finnwith that of the highlysuccessfulAdventuresofTomSawyer (1876), the sectionwascut fromthefirsteditionof Huckleberry Finn. Thepresent edition uses that firstedition as its primary modelandsomaintainsthecut.

14 (p. 82)”give a nigger aninch and he’ll take an ell“:Anellisanobsoletemeasureof length—45 inches—usedin nineteenth-centuryEngland. The old expression(”give a man an inch andhe’ll take an ell“) about aperson taking advantage of aslightconcessionisracializedhere to echo an Americanslave-owner’s watchword.Thesewordsalsoevoke theirmost famous literary use,

including the slave’s ownresponse to them, in theNarrative of the Life ofFrederick Douglass (1845).As a slave, Douglass hearshis master upbraid his wifefor teaching young Douglasstoread:”Ifyougiveaniggeraninch,hewilltakeanell.Anigger should know nothingbuttoobeyhismaster—todoas he is told to do. Learningwouldspoilthebestniggerinthe world. If you teach that

nigger (speaking of myself)how to read, there would beno keeping him. It wouldforever unfit him to be aslave.“ For Douglass, thesewords had the force ofrevelation: ”From thatmoment on,“ he wrote, ”Iunderstood thepathway fromslaverytofreedom.“15(p.87)herewas theclearOhiowater....Soitwasallupwith Cairo: Having passed

Cairo, Huck and Jim areheading south towardamorepunishing slavery. The OhioRiverwasaroutetofreedom,with many UndergroundRailroadstops.

Chapter1716 (p. 93) ”Pilgrim’sProgress“: A religiousallegorybyJohnBunyan,ThePilgrim’sProgress fromThisWorld to That Which Is toCome (1678)was immensely

popular in nineteenth-centuryAmerica.17 (p. 93) Henry Clay’sSpeeches:HenryClay(1777-1852) was one of the mostpowerfulAmericanstatesmenandoratorsofthenineteenth-century.Heservedassenatorand then congressman fromKentucky, and as Speaker ofthe House and secretary ofstate, andhewasacandidatefor the presidency. A

powerful slave-holder andapologist for slavery, hedevised the ”Compromise of1850,“ a political deal that”saved the union“ with amore rigorousFugitive SlaveAct.18(p.94)”ShallINeverSeeThee More Alas“: Here andinthefollowingpages,Twainsatirizes the period’spreoccupation with death,including the death of pets.

Thoughexpressingfeelingsina manner that is oftenridiculously false andgrotesque, the feud betweenthe twofamilies—and indeedthe succession of scenes ofviolence and death—ofiers acontext for the prevalence ofthesesadversesandsongs.

Chapter1819 (p. 97)Hewaswell born...worthasmuchinamanasit is in a horse: One of

Twain’s most frequentobjectsof satirewas the ideaof southern gentlemen andladies whose noble goodnessderives from the purity oftheir ancestry. The earnedcharacter that Huck and Jimpossess is what counts withTwain—not money or theaccidentsofbirth.20 (p. 100) ”What’s afeud?“: Huck’s innocentquestion, and the ones that

follow, shed light on theabsurdity of this particularfeud and feuding in general.A word with medievalEuropeanroots,”feud“meansactive hatred and hostility; itnames a state of perpetualhostilitybetweentwofamiliesor individuals, marked bymurderousassaultsinrevengeforpriorinsultorinjury.Thisfeudcansuggestvariouslinesofhostilityintheworldofthenovel—not only between

black andwhite but betweenrich and poor, North andSouth.21 (p. 101)preforeordestination: Huckcollapses two mainstays ofPresbyterianism :predestination andforeordination; both refer totheideathatGodhasdecidedin advance on all matters,includingwhetheronewillgotoheaven.

22(p.104)cutitprettyshort:This is one of several placeswhere Huck declines to tellhis readers something that ispainful for him to recall.These silences are veryeffective and add an air ofauthenticitytohisfirst-personaccount, in whichunderstatement is a kind ofeloquence.23 (p. 107) You feel mightyfree and easy and

comfortable on a raft: Thesewords lead to the chapter inwhich life on the raft iscelebrated in beautifullanguagereflecting thedesireon the part ofHuck and Jimto escape the trouble andviolence thatcharacterize lifeontheshore.

Chapter1924 (p. 111) big fat ratty-lookingcarpet-bags:Madeofscraps of old carpet,

carpetbagsgrewinpopularityin the 1830s and 1840s withthe rapid expansion ofmodernmodesoftravel.TheyalsocametosignifyNorthernspeculators and confidencemen, scorned as”carpetbaggers,“whosawtheSouth as a place where theycouldeasilymakemoney.25 (p. 112) mesmerism andphrenology: Mesmerism,developed in the late

eighteenth century, was anearly system of hypnotismthat became discredited as amedical practice and wasrelegated tocomic sideshowsand fantastic exhibitions.Developed around 1800,phrenologyisthestudyoftheregions and shapes of thehuman skull to determine anindividual’s characteristicsand mental faculties; it alsowas reduced to a fortune-teller’s trick and sideshow

act.Chapter20

26 (p. 122) picture of arunaway nigger ... ”$200reward“ under it. Thetraveling conmen get set touse a ruse aimed at AfricanAmericans, slave and free.The conmen would print asmall poster advertisingsomeoneblackasa runaway,andthencaptureandsellthatperson.Thehandbillservesas

”evidence“ of the person’sstatus.

Chapter2127 (p. 123) lit his pipe, andwent to getting his Romeoand Juliet by heart:Mentionof this play offers anunderstated allusion to thestory of family feud andsecretloveinchapter18.Theparagraphs that followreflectthe longstanding tradition inthe United States—in the

cities and on the frontier,often in serious productions—of presentingShakespeare’s works asgrotesquely gnarled andreducedtravesties.28 (p. 124) ”the Highlandfling or the sailor’shornpipe“: The Highlandfling, a Scottish social dancein which the arms and legsare moved with great vigor,was transported to American

social dances and theatricalstages, including minstrelshows. The sailor’s hornpipeis a spirited dance usuallyperformedbyasingleperson,originally to theaccompaniment of ahornpipe, a wind instrumentconsisting of a wooden orbonepipewithfingerholes,abell, and a horn mouthpiece.Beginning in the eighteenthcentury, sailor’s hornpipeswere occasionally performed

on American stages, where,lest they seem too low orrude,thedanceswereofferedaspartofa”lecture.“

Chapter2229 (p. 133) bucks andwenches: In the colloquiallanguage of slavery in theUnited States, whites usedthese terms to refer toAfrican-American males andfemales.30 (p. 134) ”If any real

lynching’s going to be done,... Southern fashion“:Expressing his views aboutthe rarity of human courage,eveninthefaceofoutrageousinjustice, Twain registers hisdisdain for the odiousAmerican practice oflynching—executingsomeone accused of a crimewithout legal due process.Whilewomenandmen,blackand white, were victims oflynch mobs, in the period

following slavery black menwere most often the oneskilledinthisway.

Chapter2331 (p. 142)He was thinkingabout his wife ... does fortheir’n: In this sentence, andthe ones concluding thischapter, the reader gains asense of Jim as someone’shusband and father, andperhaps recalls Jim’s ferventintention to freehiswifeand

children.32(p.142)goodnigger.Thisphrase, part of the colloquiallanguageofslavery,generallyreferred to a slave’sdependability as a loyalservant or as a work-horse.ButhereHuckmeansthatJimis a man for whom hisadmiration and sympathiesaregenuineandprofound.

Chapter2633 (p. 158) ”better ’n we

treatourniggers?“:Thiswasan important question forthose debating the Americanslavery system.One irony ofthe nineteenth century wasthepresenceofformerslaves—including, for a time,Frederick Douglass—inEnglandandontheEuropeancontinent, extolling thefreedom of the Old Worldandblasting theslavesystemin”thelandofthefree.“

Chapter2934 (p. 181) ’You and yourbrother ... signyournames”:The effort to prove identitywith physical evidencefascinatedTwainandisaptlyused in Huckleberry Finn, anovel of disguises,masquerades, and trickery.The author would use asimilar plot device again inhis novel The Tragedy ofPudd‘nhead Wilson (1894),

in which fingerprints arebrought forward in court toproveanidentity.

Chapter3235 (p. 201) ‘No’m. Killed anigger“: This is the mostfamous statement of racialprejudice in the novel. AsHuck manipulates the scenehe is setting with another”stretcher,“ Twain’s satiricalknifeisswiftandsharp.

Chapter35

36(p.216)”BaronTrenck...none of them heroes?“:Franz, Freiherr von derTrenck (1711-1749) was anAustrian officer andadventurer. GiovanniCasanova (1725-1798)was aVenetian adventurer andauthor. Benvenuto Cellini(1500-1571) was an Italiansculptor, metalsmith, andauthor. Henry IV (1553-1610) was king of Francefrom 1589 to 1610. These

well-known historical figuresall escaped from prison indramaticfashion.

Chapter3737 (p. 232) come over fromEngland... one of them earlyships: Twain mocks theAmericanimpulsetoclaimanexalted lineage based ondescenteitherfromthosewhosailed to the New World ontheMayflower,whicharrivedat Plym- outh Colony from

England in 1620, or fromsomeone else grandlyhistorical. William theConqueror was king ofEnglandfrom1066to1087.

Chapter3838 (p. 233) ”On thescutcheon ... you and me“:HuckandTomstart tocreatefor Jim a coat of arms,employingsomeof the termsof heraldry, a medievalinstitution in which noble

individuals and familiesdisplayed their insignia.When collections of thesesymbolswereembroideredonthecoatswornoverthechainmail of knights, theybecameknown as coats of arms.Thesymbols, called charges, aredisplayed on a shield knownasanescutcheon;abend isadiagonal band across theshield,afessisabandacrossthe middle, and a chief is abandatthetop.

INSPIREDBYADVENTURESOFHUCKLEBERRY

FINNI have written 400 pages on it—thereforeitisverynearlyhalfdone. It is Huck Finn’sAutobiography.Ilikeitonlytolerablywell, as far as I have got & maypossiblypigeonholeorburntheMSwhenitisdone.

—MarkTwain,fromalettertoWilliamDeanHowells,

August9,1876

DramaticAdaptationsTwain’s lyricaluseofdialectand evocative descriptions oflandscapes in Adventures ofHuckleberry Finn haveprovidedmaterial for severaladaptations to the musicalcomedy form. On November11, 1902, Klaw andErlanger’s production MarkTwain’s Huckleberry Finn

opened in Hartford,Connecticut. The playincluded scenes from bothTomSawyerandHuckleberryFinn, as well as originalmaterial—including a showtune called “I Want to Be aDrummer in the Band”—created by Lee Arthur, whoadapted the novel for thestage. Despite its title, thisproduction had little to dowithMarkTwainorhiswork.It was the only musical

adaptation to appear duringTwain’slifetime.When he died in 1950,

German-American composerKurt Weill, perhaps bestknown for his Three-PennyOpera, was creating amusical work based on thenovel, with book and lyricsby Maxwell Anderson. Thefive completed songs—“River Chanty,” “CatfishSong,” “Come In, Mornin‘,”

“This Time Next Year,” and“Apple Jack”—aresometimes sung in concertperformances and can beheard on several CDcollectionsofWeill’swork.Big River, a musical

adaptation of HuckleberryFinn by Roger Miller andWilliam Hauptman, openedon Broadway on April 25,1985, featuring JohnGoodmanasHuck’sfather.Itwon seven Tony Awards,

including Best Musical, BestBook, Best Score, and BestScenic Design, and ran formore than 1,000performances. Miller’smusical numbers drew fromgospel,soul,andhonky-tonk.

SculptureOn May 27, 1926, in MarkTwain’schildhoodhometownof Hannibal, Missouri, abronze sculpture of Tom

Sawyer and Huck Finn wasunveiled.Thefiguresembodythe spirit of adventure:Hucksports his famous straw hat,pushes a walking stick intothe ground, and looks up tohis hero Tom Sawyer, whogazes forward confidently inmid-step. The monument,createdbyFrederickHibbard,stands at the base of CardiffHill in the town thatwas themodel for the setting ofTwain’s two famous novels

of boyhood. The unveilingwas attended by ninety-year-old Laura Frazer, whoinspired the character BeckyThatcher in The AdventuresofTomSawyer.

TheBanningofHuckleberryFinn

Shortly after the novel waspublished,acommitteeofthepublic library of Concord,Massachusetts, called

HuckleberryFinn“trash”andbanned the book from itsshelves in the belief that itcorrupted youth and theEnglish language itself. Inresponse, Twain wrote thisletter, published in theHartford Courant, to thelibrarydirectors:

A committee of thepublic library of yourtown have condemnedandexcommunicatedmy

lastbookanddoubleditssale. This generousaction of theirs mustnecessarilybenefitmeinone or two additionalways. For instance, itwill deter other librariesfrom buying the book;and you are doubtlessawarethatonebookinapublic library preventsthesaleofasuretenandapossiblehundredofitsmates.And, secondly, it

willcausethepurchasersof the book to read it,out of curiosity, insteadof merely intending todo so, after the usualway of the world andlibrary committees; andthen they will discover,to my great advantageand their own indignantdisappointment, thatthere is nothingobjectionable in thebookafterall.

Nonetheless, in 1957 theNational Association for theAdvancement of ColoredPeople claimed thatHuckleberry Finn was racist.Within the context of theburgeoning civil rightsmovement, this charge wasenough for the New YorkCityschoolsystemtoremovethebookfromitscurriculum.The book continues to bewidely banned from schoolstoday, and the American

Library Association rankedHuckleberry Finn number 5on their list of the100most-challenged books between1990and1999.

COMMENTS&QUESTIONS

In this section, we aim toprovide the reader with anarray of perspectives on thetext,aswellasquestionsthatchallenge those perspectives.The commentary has beenculled from sources asdiverse as reviewscontemporaneous with the

work, letters written by theauthor, literary criticism oflater generations, andappreciations writtenthroughout the history of thebook. Following thecommentary, a series ofquestionsseekstofilterMarkTwain’s Adventures ofHuckleberry Finn through avariety of points of view andbring about a richerunderstanding of thisenduringwork.

CommentsMARKTWAIN

I shall like it, whetheranybodyelsedoesornot.—from a letter to WilliamDeanHowells,July20,1883

THE HARTFORDCOURANT

In his latest story,

Huckleberry Finn (TomSawyer’sComrade),byMarkTwain, Mr. Clemens hasmade a very distinct literaryadvanceoverTomSawyer,asan interpreter of humannature and a contributor toour stock of original picturesof American life. Stilladhering to his plan ofnarrating the adventures ofboys, with a primeval andRobinHoodfreshness,hehasbroadened his canvas and

givenusapictureofapeople,ofageographicalregion,ofalife that is new in theworld.The scene of his romance isthe Mississippi River. Mr.Clemens has written of thisriver before specifically, buthehasnotbeforepresenteditto the imagination sodistinctly nor so powerfully.HuckFinn’svoyagedowntheMississippiwith the runawaynigger Jim, and withoccasionally other

companions, is an adventurefascinating in itself asanyoftheclassicoutlawstories,butin order that the reader mayknow what the author hasdone for him, let him noticethe impression left on hismind of this lawless,mysterious, wonderfulMississippi, when he hasclosed thebook.But it isnotalone the river that isindelibly impressed upon themind, the life that went up

and down it and went onalong its banks are projectedwith extraordinary power.Incidentally, and with a trueartistic instinct, the villages,the cabins, the people of thisriverbecomestartlinglyreal.Thebeautyofthisisthatitisapparently done withouteffort. Huck floating downtheriverhappenstoseethesethings and to encounter thepeopleandthecharactersthatmade the river famous forty

years ago—that is all. Theydo not have the air of beinginvented,butofbeing found.And the dialects of thepeople, white and black—whatastudyarethey;andyetnobody talks for the sake ofexhibiting a dialect. It is notnecessary to believe thesurprising adventures thatHuck engages in, but no onewill have a moment’s doubtof the reality of the countryandthepeoplehemeets.

Anotherthingtobemarkedin the story is its dramaticpower. Take the story of theSouthern Vendetta—amarvelouspieceofworkinapurely literary point of view—andtheepisodeofthedukeandtheking,withitspicturesof Mississippi communities,both of which our readersprobably saw in theCenturymagazine. They are equaledin dramatic force by nothingrecentlyinliterature.

We are not in this noticetelling the story or quotingfrom a book that nearlyeverybodyissuretoread,butit is proper to say that Mr.Clemens strikes in a veryamusing way certainpsychological problems.What,forinstance,inthecaseofHuck, the sonof the towndrunkard, perverted from thetime of his birth, isconscience, and how does itwork? Most amusing is the

struggle Huck has with hisconscience in regard toslavery. His conscience tellshim, the way it has beeninstructed, that to help therunawayniggerJimtoescape—to aid in stealing theproperty of Miss Watson,whohasneverinjuredhim,isanenormousoffensethatwillnodoubtcarryhimtothebadplace; but his affection forJim finally induces him toviolate his conscience and

risk eternal punishment inhelping Jim to escape. ThewholestudyofHuck’smoralnature is as serious as it isamusing, his confusion ofwrong as right and hisabnormal mendacity,traceable tohis training frominfancy, is a singularcontribution to theinvestigation of humannature.These contradictions,

however, do not interfere

with the fun of the story,which has all the comicality,all theoddwayof lookingatlife,allthewhimsicalturnsofthought and expression thathave given the author hiswide fameandmadehimsuigeneris. The story is sointeresting,sofullof lifeanddramaticforce,thatthereaderwill be carried alongirresistibly, and the time heloses in laughing he willmakeupindiligencetohurry

alongandfindouthowthingscomeout.—February20,1885

BOSTON EVENINGTRAVELLER

It is little wonder that Mr.Samuel Clemens, otherwiseMark Twain, resorted to realormock lawsuits,asmaybe,to restrain some real orimaginary selling of “The

Adventures of HuckleberryFinn” as a means ofadvertising thatextraordinarily senselesspublication. Before the workis disposed of, Mr. MarkTwain will probably have toresort to lawtocompelsometo sell it by any sort ofbribery or corruption. It isdoubtful if the edition couldbe disposed of to people ofaverage intellect at anythingshort of the point of the

bayonet. This publicationrejoices in two frontispieces,ofwhich theone issupposedto be a faithful portrait ofHuckleberry Finn, and theother an engraving of theclassic features of Mr. MarkTwain as seen in the bustmade by Karl Gerhardt. Thetaste of this gratuitouspresentationisasbadasisthebook itself, which is anextreme statement. Mr.Clemens has contributed

somehumorousliteraturethatis excellent and will hold itsplace, but his HuckleberryFinnappears tobe singularlyflat, stale and unprofitable.The book is sold bysubscription.—March5,1885—March5,1885

THE ATLANTACONSTITUTION

Averydeplorablefact is that

the great body of literarycriticism is mainlyperfunctory. This is not duetoalackofabilityortoalackofknowledge.Itisduetothefactthatmostofitisfromthepens of newspaper writerswhohavenotimetoelaboratetheir ideas. They are in ahurry, andwhat theywrite ishurried. Under thesecircumstances it is notunnatural that they shouldtake their cues from

inadequate sources and givetothepublicopinionsthatareeither conventional or thathavenoreasonablebasis.All this is the outcome of

the conditions andcircumstances of Americanlife. There is no demand forsound criticism any morethan there is a demand forgreat poetry. We have aleisureclass,butitstastesruntowards horses, yachting and

athleticsports,inimitationofthe English young men whooccasionally honor theseshores with their presence.The imitation, after all, is alimping one. The youngEnglishman of leisure is notonly fond of outdoor sports,but of books. He has cultureand taste, and patronizesliterature with as muchenthusiasm as he doesphysical amusements. If ourleisure class is to imitate the

English, itwould be better ifthe imitation extendedsomewhat in the direction ofculture.TheAmericanleisureclass

—the class that might beexpected to patronize goodliterature and to create ademand for sound,conservativecriticism—isnotonly fond of horses, but isdecidedlyhorsey. It is coarseand uncultivated. It has notasteineitherliteratureorart.

It reads few books and buysits pictures in Europe by theyard.We are led to these

remarks by the whollyinadequate verdict that hasrecently been given in someof the most prominentnewspapersastothemeritsofMark Twain’s new book,“The Adventures ofHuckleberry Finn.” Thecritics seem to have gottentheircueinthisinstancefrom

the action of the Concordlibrary,thedirectorsofwhichrefused the book a place ontheir shelves. This action, aswas afterwards explained,wasbasedonthefactthatthebook was a work of fiction,and not because of thehumorous characteristics thatare popularly supposed toattach to the writings ofMr.Clemens. But the critics hadgot their cue before theexplanation was made, and

theystraightwayproceededtoinformthereadingpublicthatthe book was gratuitouslycoarse, its humorunnecessarily broad, and itspurposecrudeandinartistic.Now, nothing could be

moremisleading than such acriticismasthis.Itisdifficulttobelievethatthecriticswhohave condemned the book ascoarse, vulgar and inartisticcan have read it. Taken inconnection with “The Prince

and the Pauper,” it marks aclear and distinct advance inMr. Clemens’s literarymethods. It presents analmost artistically perfectpicture of the life andcharacter in the southwest,anditwillbeequallyvaluableto the historian and to thestudent of sociology. Itshumor,which is genuine andnever-failing, is relieved bylittle pathetic touches hereand there that vouch for its

literaryvalue.It is the story of a half

illiterate, high-spirited boywhose adventures are relatedby himself. The art withwhichthisconceptionisdealtwith is perfect in all itsdetails. The boy’s point ofview is never for a momentlostsightof,andthemoralofthe whole is that this halfilliterate boy can bemade topresent, with perfectconsistency, not only the

characters of the peoplewhom he meets, but anaccuratepictureoftheirsociallife.Fromtheartisticpointofview,thereisnotacoarsenorvulgar suggestion from thebeginning to the end of thebook.Whateveriscoarseandcrude is in the life that ispictured, and the picture isperfect. It may be said thatthe humor is sometimesexcessive, but it is genuinehumor—and themoralof the

book, though it is notscrawled across every page,teaches the necessity ofmanlinessandself-sacrifice.—May26,1885

H.L.MENCKEN

What is the origin of theprejudice against humor?Whyisitsodangerous,ifyouwould keep the publicconfidence, to make the

publiclaugh?Is it because humor and

sound sense are essentiallyantagonistic? Has humanityfound by experience that themanwho sees the funof lifeisunfittedtodealsanelywithits problems? I thinknot.Noman had more of the comicspirit in him than WilliamShakespeare, and yet hisserious reflections, by thesheer force of their sublime

obviousness, have pushedtheir way into the race’sarsenal of immortalplatitudes. So, too, withAesop, andwithLincoln andJohnson, to come down thescale.All of thesemenwerehumorists,andyetallofthemperformed prodigies ofindubitable wisdom. Andcontrariwise, many anundeniablepundithashadhisguffaw.Huxley,ifhehadnotbeen the greatest intellectual

duellistofhisage,mighthavebeen its greatest wit. AndBeethoven, after soaring tothe heights of tragedy in thefirst movement of the FifthSymphony, turned to thedivinefooling,theirresistiblebull-fiddlingofthescherzo.No, there is not the

slightestdisharmonybetweensense and humor andrespectability, despite thealmost universal tendency toassume that there is. But,

why, then, that widespreaderror?Whatactualfactoflifelies behind it, giving it aspecious appearance ofreasonableness?Noneother,Iam convinced, than the factthat the average man is fartoostupidtomakeajoke.Hemayseeajokeandlove

a joke, particularly when itfloors and flabbergasts someperson he dislikes, but theonlywayhecanhimselftakepart in the priming and

pointing of a new one is byacting as its target. In brief,his personal contact withhumor tends to fill him withan accumulated sense ofdisadvantage, of prickedcomplacency, of sudden andcrushingdefeat;andso,byaneasy psychological process,heisledintotheideathatthething itself is incompatiblewith truedignityofcharacterand intellect.Hence his deepsuspicion of jokers, however

their thrusts. “What adamphool!”—this same half-pitying tributehepays towitand butt alike. He cannotseparate the virtuoso ofcomedy from his generalconceptofcomedyitself,andthat concept is inextricablymixedwithmemoriesof foulambuscades and mortifyinghurts. And so it is not oftenthatheiswillingtoadmitanywisdom in a humorist, or tocondonefrivolityinasage.

In all this, I believe, thereis a plausible explanation ofthe popular, and even of thecritical attitude toward thelate Samuel LanghorneClemens (Mark Twain).Unless I am so whollymistaken that my onlyexpiation lies in suicide,Markwasthenoblest literaryartist who ever set pen topaper on American soil, andnotonlythenoblestartist,butalsooneofthemostprofound

and sagacious philosophers.From the beginning of hismaturitydown tohisold agehe dealt constantly andearnestly with the deepestproblems of life and living,and to his consideration ofthem he brought a trulyamazinginstinctforthetruth,an almost uncanny talent forridding the essential thing ofits deceptive husks oftradition, prejudice, flubduband balderdash.Noman, not

even Nietzsche, ever didgreater execution againstthose puerilities of fancywhich so many men mistakefor religion, and over whichthey are so eager to disputeandbreakheads.Nomanhadakeenereyefor thatelementofpretensewhichisboundtointrude itself into all humanthinking, however serious,however painstaking,howeverhonestinintent.Andyet, because the man had

humor as well as acumen,becausehelaughedathumanweakness instead ofweepingover it, because he turnednowandthenfromtheriddleof life to the joy of lire—becauseof thishabitofminditisthecustomtoregardhimlightly and somewhatapologetically, as onedebarred from greatness byunfortunateinfirmities.William Dean Howells

probably knew him better

than any other human being,but in all that Howells haswritten about him one isconscious of a conditionedadmiration,ofasubtlefearofallowinghimtoomuchmerit,of an ineradicabledisinclination to take himquiteseriously.TheMarkthatHowellsdrawsisnotsomucha great artist as a gloriousenfant terrible. And evenWilliam Lyon Phelps, ahospitable and penetrating

critic, wholly loose oforthodox shackles—evenPhelps hems and haws a bitbefore putting Mark aboveOliver Wendell Holmes, andis still convinced that “TheScarlet Letter” is anincomparably finer work ofartthan“HuckleberryFinn.”Well,suchnotionswilldie

hard, but soon or late, I amsure, theywill inevitablydie.So certain am I, indeed, oftheir dying that I now

formallyannouncetheirdeathin advance, and prepare towait in patience for thedelayed applause. In one ofhis essays Dr. Phelps showshow critical opinion ofMarkhas gradually evolved fromscorn into indifference, andfrom indifference intotoleration,andfromtolerationinto apologetic praise, andfrom apologetic praise intohearty praise. The stage ofunqualified enthusiasm is

coming—it has already castits lights before England—andIamverygladtojointhelodge as a charter member.Let me now set down myfaith, for the literaryarcheologists of day aftertomorrow:Ibelievethat“Huckleberry

Finn” is one of the greatmasterpieces of the world,that it is the full equal of“Don Quixote” and“RobinsonCrusoe,” that it is

vastly better than “GilBlas,”“TristramShandy,”“NicholasNickleby” or “Tom Jones.” Ibelievethatitwillbereadbyhumanbeingsofallages,notas a solemn duty but for thehonest love of it, and overand over again, long afterevery book written inAmerica between the years1800 and1860,withperhapsthree exceptions, hasdisappearedentirelysaveasaclassroom fossil. I believe

thatMarkTwainhadaclearervision of life, that he camenearer to its elementals andwaslessdeceivedbyitsfalseappearances, than any otherAmerican who has everpresumed to manufacturegeneralizations,notexceptingEmerson. I believe that,admitting all his defects, hewrote better English, in thesense of cleaner, straighter,vivider, saner English, thaneither IrvingorHawthorne. I

believethatfourofhisbooks—“Huck,” “Life on theMississippi,” “CaptainStormfield’s Visit toHeaven,”and“AConnecticutYankee”—are alone worthmore, asworks of art and ascriticisms of life, than thewhole output of Cooper,Irving, Holmes, Mitchell,Stedman, Whittier andBryant.Ibelievethatherankswell above Whitman andcertainly not below Poe. I

believe that he was the truefather of our nationalliterature, the first genuinelyAmerican artist of the bloodroyal....AndwhatamanthatMark Twain was! How hestood above and apart fromtheworld,likeRabelaiscometo life again, observing thehuman comedy, chucklingover the eternal fraudulenceofman!Whatasharpeyehehadforthebogus,inreligion,politics, art, literature,

patriotism, virtue! Whatcontempt he emptied uponshamsofall sorts—andwhatpity! Mr. Paine [Twain’sbiographer] reveals for usveryclearly,byquotationandexposition, his habitualattitudeofmind.Heregardedall men as humbugs, but ashumbugs to be dealt withgently, as humbugs toooftentakeninandswindledbytheirown humbuggery. He sawhow false reasoning, false

assumptions, false gods hadentered into the very warpand woof of their thinking;how impossible it was forthem to attack honestly theproblems of being; howhelplesstheywereinthefaceof life’s emergencies. Andseeing all this, he laughed atthem, but not often withmalice. What genuineindignationhewascapableofwas leveled at life itself andnotatitsvictims.Throughall

his later years the riddle ofexistence was ever beforehim. He thought about itconstantly; he discussed itwith everyone he knew; hemade copious notes of hisspeculations. But he nevercametoanysoothingcustom-made conclusion. The moreheexamined life, themore itappearedtohimtobewithoutmeaning, and even withoutdirection; the more hepondered upon the idea of

God,themoreadefiniteideaof God eluded him. In theend,asMr.Paine tellsus,heverged toward a hopelesspessimism. Death seemed tohim a glad release, aninestimable boon. When hisdaughterJeandied,suddenly,tragically, he wrote to hersister:“Iamsogladsheisoutofitandsafe—safe!”It is this reflective,

philosophizing Clemens whostandsoutmostclearlyinMr.

Paine’s book. In his ownworks, our glimpses of himarealltoobrief.Hiswifeandhis friends opposed hisspeculations, perhaps wisely,fortheartistmighthavebeenswallowedupinthesage.Buthe wrote much to pleasehimself and left a vast massof unpublished manuscriptbehindhim.Certainly it is tobe hoped that these writingswill see the light, and beforelong.One book described by

Mr. Paine, “Three ThousandYearsAmong theMicrobes,”wouldappeartobeasatiresomordantandsolargeinscalethathisadmirershaveaplainright to demand itspublication.Andthereshouldbe a new edition, too, of hisconfessionofdoubt,“WhatisMan?”ofwhichafewcopieswere printed for privatedistribution in 1905. Yetagainwe have a right to askfor most if not all of his

unpublished stories andsketches,manyofwhichweresuppressed at the behest ofMrs.Clemens,forreasonsnolonger worth considering.There is good ground forbelieving that his reputationwillgainratherthansufferbythe publication of thesethings,andinanycaseitcanwithstand theexperiment, for“HuckFinn”and“LifeontheMississippi” and the“Connecticut Yankee” will

remain, and so long as theyremain there can be noquestionoftheman’sliterarystature. He was one of thegreat artists of all time. Hewas the full equal ofCervantesandMoliere,SwiftandDefoe.Hewasandisoneauthenticgiantofournationalliterature.—from Smart Set (February1913)

ERNESTHEMINGWAY

All modern Americanliterature comes from onebook by Mark Twain calledHuckleberryFinn.—fromGreenHillsofAfrica(1935)

Questions1. The AtlantaConstitutionreferstothebanning of Huckleberry

Finn by the Concordlibrary. Is it surprisingthat the novel continuesto bewidely banned? Isthis syndrome a productofhastycriticism,astheConstitutionasserts?2.WhatistobemadeofMencken’s correlationbetween humor andphilosophy? BothMencken andHemingway equateTwainwiththefatherof

modern Americanliterature. What isdistinctly modern anddistinctly Americanabout Twain’s writing?Is he read today for thesame reasons Menckenand Hemingway readhim?3. Robert O‘Meallydescribes Huck Finn asengaged in a battlebetween what Twaincalled “a sound heart

and a deformedconscience.”Isheright?How do you understandthe distinction between“heart” and“conscience”?4.Takeacloselookatapassage of the novel’sprose that strikesyouasparticularly evocative.How in particular is theeffect achieved? Try torewrite the passage instandardEnglish.

5. Is nature inHuckleberry Finnfriendly or hostile? IsAmericannature akinorantithetical to theAmerican communitiesJim and Huckencounter?6. Is the last section ofthebook,inwhichHuckand Tom Sawyer playtheir childish trick onJim, a mistake onTwain’s part? Does it

undercut the rest of thenovel?

FORFURTHERREADING

ClassicEssaysEliot, T. S. Introduction.Huckleberry Finn. 1950. InAdventures of HuckleberryFinn, edited by SculleyBradleyetal.NortonCriticalEdition; second edition.NewYork:W.W.Norton,1977.

Ellison,Ralph.TheCollectedEssays of Ralph Ellison.Edited by John F. Callahan.New York: Modern Library,1995.Ellison,Ralph.ConversationswithRalphEllison.EditedbyMaryemma Graham andAmritjit Singh. Jackson:University Press ofMississippi,1995.Ellison, Ralph. “RichardWright’s Blues.” 1945.

Reprinted in Living withMusic: Ralph Ellison’s JazzWritings,editedbyRobertG.O‘Meally. New York:ModernLibrary,2001.Fiedler, Leslie A. “ComeBacktotheRaftAg‘in,HuckHoney!” 1948. In MarkTwain, Adventures ofHuckleberry Finn: A CaseStudyinCriticalControversy,edited by Gerald Graff andJames Phelan. Boston:

Bedford Books/St. Martin’sPress,1995.Hemingway, Ernest. GreenHillsofAfrica.1935.Reprint:New York: CharlesScribner’sSons,1953.Howells, William Dean. MyMark Twain. 1910. In TheShock of Recognition: TheDevelopment of Literature inthe United States Recordedby the Men Who Made It,edited by Edmund Wilson.

GardenCity,NY:Doubleday,1943.Smith, Henry Nash.Introduction. Adventures ofHuckleberry Finn. Boston:HoughtonMifflin,1958.Trilling, Lionel. The LiberalImagination: Essays onLiteratureandSociety. 1950.GardenCity,NY:Doubleday,1953.Warren, Robert Penn.“Samuel Clemens (1835-

1910).” In AmericanLiterature: The Makers andtheMaking,editedbyCleanthBrooks,R.W.B.Lewis,andRobert PennWarren.Vol. 2.New York: St. Martins’Press,1973.

BibliographicalStudies

De Voto, Bernard. MarkTwain’s America. 1932.Reprinted in Mark Twain’s

America, andMarkTwainatWork. Boston: HoughtonMifflin,1967.Kaplan, Justin. Mr. ClemensandMarkTwain.NewYork:SimonandSchuster,1966.Kaplan, Justin. Born toTrouble:OneHundredYearsof Huckleberry Finn. Centerfor the Book ViewpointSeries, no. 13. Washington,D.C.: Library of Congress,1985.

Smith, Henry Nash. MarkTwain:TheDevelopmentofaWriter. 1962. New York:Atheneum,1972.

NewCriticalDirections

Bradley, David. [Untitled].New Yorker (June 26, 1995),p.133.Bradley, Sculley, et al., eds.Adventures of HuckleberryFinn.NortonCriticalEdition;

second edition. New York:W.W.Norton,1977.Budd, Louis J., ed.Introduction. In New Essayson Adventures ofHuckleberry Finn.Cambridge: CambridgeUniversityPress,1985.Doyno,VictorA.Afterword.InAdventuresofHuckleberryFinn, by Mark Twain. TheOxford Mark Twain. NewYork: Oxford University

Press,1996.Fischer,Victor.“HuckleberryFinn Reviewed: TheReception of HuckleberryFinn in the United States,1885-1897.” AmericanLiteraryRealism16(1983).Fishkin, Shelley Fisher.Lighting Out for theTerritory: Reflections onMark Twain and AmericanCulture. New York: OxfordUniversityPress,1996.

Fishkin, Shelley Fisher.WasHuckBlack?MarkTwainandAfrican-American Voices.NewYork:OxfordUniversityPress,1993.Gibson, Donald B. “MarkTwain’s Jim in theClassroom.” English Journal57(February1968).Graff, Gerald, and JamesPhelan, eds. Mark Twain,Adventures of HuckleberryFinn:ACaseStudyinCritical

Controversy.Boston:BedfordBooks/St. Martin’s Press,1995.Harris, Susan K. Adventuresof Huckleberry Finn:Complete Text withIntroduction, HistoricalContexts, Critical Essays.Riverside Edition. Boston:HoughtonMifflin,2000.Mailer, Norman.“Huckleberry Finn, Alive at100.” New York Times Book

Review(December9,1984).Mason, Bobbie Ann.[Untitled].New Yorker (June26,1995),p.130.Morrison, Toni. Introduction.InAdventuresofHuckleberryFinn, by Mark Twain. TheOxford Mark Twain. NewYork: Oxford UniversityPress,1996.Rabinovitz, Jonathan. “HuckFinn 101, or How to TeachTwain Without Fear.” New

York Times (July 25, 1995),pp.B1,B4.Smiley, Jane. “Say It Ain’tSo, Huck: Second Thoughtson Mark Twain’s‘Masterpiece.‘ ” Harper’s292(January1996).Smith, David L. “BlackCritics andMark Twain.” InThe Cambridge Companionto Mark Twain, edited byForrest G. Robinson.Cambridge: Cambridge

UniversityPress,1995.

Historical/CulturalContexts

Arac, Jonathan. HuckleberryFinnasIdolandTarget:TheFunctionsofCriticisminOurTime.Madison:UniversityofWisconsinPress,1997.Baker, Houston A. Blues,Ideology, and Afro-AmericanLiterature. Chicago:University of Chicago Press,

1984.Champion, Laurie, ed. TheCritical Response to MarkTwain’s Huckleberry Finn.Westport, CT: Greenwood,1991.Ellison,Ralph.InvisibleMan.New York: Vintage Books,1972.Foner, Eric. “Blacks and theU.S. Constitution, 1789-1989.”New Left Review 183(September-October1990).

Frederickson,GeorgeM.TheBlack Image in the WhiteMind: The Debate on Afro-American Character andDestiny, 1817-1914. 1971.NewYork:Harper andRow,1972.Harding, Vincent, Robin D.G. Kelley, and Earl Lewis.We Changed the World:African Americans, 1945-1970. New York: OxfordUniversityPress,1997.

Harris, Susan K. MarkTwain’sEscapefromTime:AStudyofPatternsandImages.Columbia: University ofMissouriPress,1982.Kelley,RobinD.G.,andEarlLewis, eds. To Make OurWorld Anew: A History ofAfrican Americans. NewYork: Oxford UniversityPress,2000.Kennedy, Randall. Nigger:The Strange Career of a

Troublesome Word. NewYork:PantheonBooks,2002.Murray, Albert. The Heroand the Blues. Columbia:UniversityofMissouriPress,1973.Murray, Albert. South to aVery Old Place. New York:McGraw-Hill,1971.O‘Meally, Robert, ed. TheJazz Cadence of AmericanCulture. New York:Columbia University Press,

1998.Rourke,Constance.AmericanHumor: A Study of theNational Character. NewYork: Harcourt, Brace andCompany,1931.Said,EdwardW.CultureandImperialism. New York:AlfredA.Knopf,1993.Smith, Henry Nash, andWilliam M. Gibson, eds.MarkTwain-HowellsLetters:The Correspondence of

Samuel L. Clemens andWilliam D. Howells, 1872-1910. 2 vols. Cambridge,MA: Harvard UniversityPress,1960.Sundquist, Eric, ed.Introduction.Mark Twain: ACallectionofCriticalEssays.Englewood Cliffs, NJ:Prentice-Hall,1994,pp.1-14.Toll,RobertC.BlackingUp:The Minstrel Show inNineteenth-Century America.

NewYork:OxfordUniversityPress,1974.Twain, Mark. “FenimoreCooper’s Literary Offenses.”In Mark Twain: CollectedTales, Sketches, Speeches,and Essays. Vol. 2, 1891-1910.NewYork:TheLibraryofAmerica,1992.

aEdwardSaidusedthesetermsin a lecture at ColumbiaUniversityinApril2000.b

William Dean Howells, MyMark Twain, New York:HarperandBrothers,1910,p.101.c

Jonathan Arac, HuckleberryFinnasIdolandTarget:TheFunctionsofCriticisminOur

Time,Madison:UniversityofWisconsinPress,1997.d

Randall Kennedy, Nigger:The Strange Career of aTroublesome Word, NewYork:PantheonBooks,2002.e

SterlingBrown,TheNegroinAmerican Fiction, 1937,reprint: New York:Atheneum,1969,pp.67-68.f

Brown,p.68.g

Reprinted in The CollectedEssays of Ralph Ellison,edited by John F. Callahan,New York: Modern Library,1995,p.88.h

Ralph Ellison, “Change theJoke and Slip the Yoke,”reprinted in The CollectedEssays of Ralph Ellison, p.112.

iConversations with RalphEllison,editedbyMaryemmaGraham and Amritjit Singh,Jackson: University Press ofMississippi, 1995, p. 172.SomeofEllison’smixtureoffeeling about Twain’screation is suggested inEllison’snovelInvisibleMan,New York: Vintage Books,1972, in which a whitecharacter named Emerson,

son of a company tycoon,reveals to Invisible Man aletter that has kept himrunning in circles. “With usit’sstillJimandHuckFinn,”Emerson says to the youngblackman.“Anumberofmyfriends are jazz musicians,and I’ve been around,” hegoes on. “I’m Huckleberry,you see.” Thus whiteEmerson’s gesture ofcamaraderie, the moralaction, must be discerned

through a screen of well-meaning condescension inwhich Invisible Man isironically saddled with thestarklylimitedroleofJim—anow-realistic, now-minstrelfigure whom black readersbarely recognize as one oftheir own. To compound theirony—and perhaps tounderscoreEllison’s sense ofTwain‘s—InvisibleMan seesa black couple in Harlemevicted onto the pavement

along with their belongings,including “a pair of crudelycarved and polished bones,’knocking bones,‘ used toaccompany music at countrydances, used in black-facedminstrels; the flat ribs of acow, a steer or sheep, flatbones that gave off a sound,when struck, like heavycastanets (had he been aminstrel?) or the woodenblock of a set of drums” (p.265). These evidences of a

minstrel past, of connectionto this tradition, may bedistasteful, but they figure aspartofblack identity, too, aswe recall that not onlywhitemen but black men blacked-up for minstrel shows.Distastefulasitmaybe,theseevidences of minstrelsy arepart of black American (andwhiteAmerican)identity.j

Morrison,Toni,“Re-Marking

Twain,” reprinted inAdventures of HuckleberryFinn, edited by Susan K.Harris, Boston: HoughtonMifflin,2000,p.377.k

Green Hills of Africa, 1935,reprint: New York: CharlesScribner’sSons,1953,p.22.l

Plessy v. Ferguson wasdecided in 1896, but thedebates were alive as Twain

was completing HuckleberryFinn.m

It is true that at the time ofthisnovel’screation,theformofmusiccalledtheblueswasjust in the process of beingcreated.Twaincouldnothavemodeled his narrative aftertheform,butheusedsomeofits ingredients and habits ofmind in the making of hiswork. Houston A. Baker, in

Blues, Ideology, and Afro-American Literature(Chicago: University ofChicago Press, 1984), mightsay that Adventures ofHuckleberryFinn ispartofablues-matrix— that is, it fallswithin the broad network ofthe blues form and feelingwhether it literally antedatesthemusicalformofthebluesitselfornot.n

This definition owes a lot toRalph Ellison’s essay“Richard Wright’s Blues,”1945,reprintedinLivingwithMusic, edited by Robert G.O‘Meally, New York:Modern Library, 2001, pp.101-119; and to AlbertMurray’sStompingtheBlues,New York: McGraw-Hill,1976.o

Murrayspeaksofthistypeof

American citizen inSouth toaVeryOldPlace,NewYork:McGraw-Hill,1971.p

Forthisinsight,Iamindebtedto Arac’s Huckleberry FinnasIdolandTarget,p.34.q

As Constance Rourke notesinAmericanHumor:AStudyof the National Character(New York: Harcourt, Braceand Company, 1931),

American storytellers,“streaming nonsense,” werenothing if not superbimprovisers. Huck, and, asRourke observes, Twainhimself, certainly were alsopart of this brashly inventiveAmerican vernaculartradition.r

Ralph Ellison, Going to theTerritory, New York:RandomHouse,1986.

sBernard De Voto, MarkTwain’s America, 1932;reprinted in Mark Twain’sAmerica, andMarkTwainatWork, Boston: HoughtonMifflin,1967,pp.65-66.t

DeVoto,p.39.u

Victor A. Doyno, “TheCompositionofAdventuresofHuckleberry Finn,” reprinted

inAdventuresofHuckleberryFinn, edited by Susan K.Harris, Boston: HoughtonMifflin,2000,p.12.v

Awordthatreferstomilitaryequipment. Twain’s use of ithere,todescribeanimaginaryofficerwhopatrolsthatwhichis officially ordained orproperly sanctioned, sets thestage for unself-consciouscomedy.

wExaggerated accounts of thefacts. Adventures ofHuckleberry Finn, with itsowntruthstightlywovenintoits form, is by definition a“stretcher.”x

Alargebarrelmadetoholdaship’ssupplyofsugar.y

The story of Moses and thebulrushes. See the Bible,

Exodus2:3-10.z

Going.aa

Fattenup.ab

Cast metal, usually gold orsilverandoftenbrick-shaped.ac

Jewelry.ad

Mules domesticated for

packingorhauling.ae

Fools.af

An arrangement of bars orsteps meant to prevent theescape of cattle or to forcepeople to pass one by onethroughawallorfence.ag

Writtendown,foreordained.ah

Beat; derives from tanning,the process of converting ananimalskinintoleather.ai

Slang for “pay” or “handover”;fromSpanishpongale,for“putitdown.”aj

Bullied.ak

Cheap whiskey, named forthe distance from which itcouldmakeapersondrunk.A

rodis16.5feet.al

Aviolentstateofmentalandphysical disturbance,characterized byhallucinations and trembling;induced by prolongedexcessiveuseofalcohol.am

Cheap, homemade woodenchair.an

Idle talk, perhaps with a

motivetodeceive.ao

woodsizedjustrighttobuildafire.ap

A long, sturdy fishing linethat reaches across a stream,bearing hooks hung by shortlines.aq

Pronounced“sloo”;aplaceofdeepmud;amarshorswamp.

arCalm water, without muchcurrent.as

Starboard; the right side of avessel.at

A superstition claimed that acannon’s explosion woulderupt the dead body’s gallbladder and thus force thebody to rise to the water’ssurface.

auAccording to anothersuperstition, bread treatedwith mercury (“quicksilver”)and/or blessed by a preacherwouldfloattowardadrownedhumanbody.av

Baker’s bread came from abakery; corn-pone was ameager home recipe ofcornmeal, salt, and water,bakedinanovenorcookedin

afryingpan.aw

Near.ax

Sand, in this context, means“resolution” or “courage,”and craw means “stomach.”Huck is sayinghedidn’t feelveryself-confident.ay

Slangfornervousfidgetiness,fuss,andstomachache.

azAbolitionist;aparticipantinapolitical movement to bringabouttheendofslavery.ba

Aportionofcheaptobacco.bb

Mudturtles.bc

Hideisthecow’sskin;tallowis the animal’s fat, used insoap,candles,andmargarine.

bdA single-bladed jackknifedesigned in the eighteenthcenturybyRussellBarlow.be

A small drawstring bagcarried by a woman as apocketbookorworkbag.bf

A metal comb typically forgroominghorses.bg

Lively;clever;fresh.bh

Twain has the Negro JimvaluedaboveHuck’spap.bi

Blades on a farm machineused to sift and smooth thesoil.bj

Amushmelon isa relativeofthecantaloupe.bk

A steel cable that holds aboat’ssmokestackinplace.bl

This old saying is not fromthe Bible. Twain spoofs theimpulse, in his time, toattribute all wisdom to “degoodbook.”bm

The officers’ room, thelargest quarters, named forwhat was then the largeststateintheunion.

bnAn enclosed space on thefront of the upper deck of aboat, a shelter for thehelmsman and the steeringgear.bo

A pole in front of thehurricanedeck.bp

Near the stem (rear) of avessel.bq

Crawled backward, like acrawfish.br

Aropeusedinahanging.bs

Larboard; the left side of avessel; also called the portside.bt

Acting sentimental;pretending strong emotionalfeelings.

buAshortstaffat thefrontofaboat from which a flag ishung.bv

Money.bw

Eight dry quarts; a largequantity.bx

Gotcaught,entangled.by

Aslangeuphemismfor“darncountry”or“damnation.”bz

Solomon, whose reign isrecounted in theBible’sFirstBookofKings.ca

In the Bible, wise KingSolomon settled a disputebetween two women overwho was the mother of achildbyproposing to cut theinfantinhalf.SeetheBible,I

Kings3:16-28.cb

Consequence.cc

Dauphin;inFrance,theeldestprince.cd

Huck means “Parlez-vousfrançais.”ce

Pronounced “KAY-ro”; anIllinois town on the

Mississippi River, at thesoutherntipoffreesoil.cf

A sandbar or otherobstructionmaking ripples ina body of water; in hisnotebooks Twain defined“tow-head” as “an infantisland,agrowingisland.”cg

Leeward; the side turned inthe opposite direction to thewind, as opposed to

windward.ch

Step in a process or on ajourney.ci

Jacket.cj

An annual published inEngland. Twain disliked itsornateartisticstylingsanditssentimental pictures andpoems.

ckDomestic Medicine, or PoorMan’sFriend,intheHoursofAffliction, Pain and Sickness(1830), a handbook of homemedicine that was widelyused by rural families andtheirdoctors.cl

Smallamount.cm

Along,heavy,sharpknife.cn

Hand-printing in blockletters, as opposed to cursivehandwriting.co

Astackoffirewood.cp

Cornbreadbiscuits.cq

Good-humored Americanslangforaclumsyoruncouthfellow.cr

Alarge,flat-bottomedboat.cs

Suspenders.ct

Colloquial abbreviation forjourneyman printer, one intrainingforthetrade.cu

Oneswhodeceiveormislead.cv

Amightypunch.cw

The most famous Britishactor of the late eighteenthcentury.cx

The calling to be aprofessionalactor.cy

Played a role on stage as anactor.cz

The critical theory, stated byAristotle, that the art ofdrama should be consistently

organized according to the“unities” of place, time, andaction.da

This long jumbleofaspeechborrows from three ofShakespeare’s dramas:Hamlet,Macbeth,andRichardIII.db

Intheraciallybluntlanguageof Twain’s era, this termindicated a strong black wad

of tobacco, typically of aninferiorquality.dc

Afool,usuallyadrunk.dd

All of my business, as acustomer.de

Foolish, funny pranks ortricks.df

Tricked,deceived.

dgHuck confuses Henry VIIIwith theking inTheArabianNights.dh

A large cask of malmsey, asweetwine.di

Figureout.dj

Aroundpostorrod.dk

Huck refers to the biblicalstoryofNoah,inthebookofGenesis,butmistakenlytakesthenamefromthethirdbookoftheOldTestament.dl

Boy.dm

RiodeJaneiro,Brazil.dn

Onewhosetradeistoconvertanimal skins into leather bytanning them—that is,

treating them with tannicacid.do

A small boat for fishing,oftenkeptbyalargerboatforsmalltrips.dp

A person with a harelip, acleft caused by arrestedgrowth of the upper lip; thename comes from itsresemblance to the lip of ahareorrabbit.

dqNonsense or trifling talk,perhapsdesignedtomislead.dr

A doxology, a brief churchsong expressing praise andthanksgiving.Oneofthebestknown is “Praise God fromwhomallblessingsflow.”ds

Colloquial past tense of theverb “bleat”: to make thesound of a sheep or goat.

Figuratively, as used here:talked noisily, impulsively,andhollowly.dt

GoldcoinsofU.S.currency.du

An orgy was an ancientGreek or Roman rite thatinvolvedextravagantdancing,singing, and drinking;originally itwas a festival inhonor of the gods of bawdyrevelryandstrongdrink.

dvThe correct term for funeralrites.dw

Valet;personalattendant.dx

Water from CongressSprings, New York,renowned for its healingpower.dy

A sharp scolding. The

reference is to the popularhymn “A Funeral Thought,”byIsaacWatt.dz

Togatherandstore,ashoneyishived.ea

Gentlycoaxing.eb

Melodeon, a musicalinstrument that—withkeyboard, foot-pedals, andbellows—combines aspects

of the organ, accordion, andreeds.ec

Sickly.ed

Contracts permitting buyerstopayininstallmentsonthreespecifieddays.ee

Theatrical.ef

Shallow water; figuratively,

thedangerous,difficultpart.eg

She had the kindness andindependenceofmindtoprayfor Judas Iscariot, thenotorious betrayer of JesusChrist.eh

Erysipelas is a serious skindisease. Consumption isanothertermfortuberculosis,a deadly disease that wasmore widespread in the

nineteenth century than it istoday. Jaundice is a diseasethat gives the skin a yellowcast.ei

Aplowwithmanybladesthatsiftandsmooththesoil.ej

Slangforafoolorsimpleton.ek

Colloquial phrase meaningtheydidnotturntheslightestdegreepale.

elSilly,stupidpeople.em

Fireflies;lightningbugs.en

Exhausted.eo

Steal.ep

Deficit; amount of moneyowed or short of what isnecessary.

eqArapid,noisytalk.er

Moderation in or abstinencefromdrinkingalcohol.es

Huck combines yelling andelocution, the art of publicspeaking.et

Asleazybar.eu

Huck cleverly uses thestereotypedviewoftheblackslave—ashorrificallyviolent,evenagainstachild—to lendan air of authenticity to histale.ev

Barrel of lye and ashes formakingsoap.ew

The steamboat’s cylindricalchamber in which the steamactsuponthepiston.

exThe head of a common boltor metal pin, like a screw’shead.ey

Audacious;bold.ez

Seneschal; an official of amedieval noble to whomgreat authority overhousehold matters wasentrusted.fa

Languedoc, a region andformer province in southernFrance.fb

ThekingdomtowhichHenryIVescapedfromEngland.fc

The hero of The Man in theIron Mask (serialized 1848-1850), by Alexandre DumastheElder(1802-1870).fd

Theluminescencethatcertainfungi cause in decayingwood.fe

Chateaud‘If,inTheCountofMonte Cristo (1845,translated 1846), byAlexandreDumastheElder.ff

Steal.fg

Largekitchenknives.

fhCounterpane;bedspread.fi

Pouring out in a rush ofliquid.fj

Characters from WilliamHarrison Ainsworth’sromance The Tower ofLondon(1840).fk

A popular expression of the

time thatactuallymeans“themorehaste,thelessaction.”fl

Stalks of a coarse, woolly,tall,yellowflower.fm

Stupid; a mullet is afreshwater fish with a large,flathead.fn

Reputedly the last words ofKingLouisXVIofFrance.

foA state of despondentabstractionormusing.fp

TheDevil.