The scene of this history is an Arkansas village, on the bank of the Mississippi; the time, a great many years ago. The houses were small and unpretentious; some few were of frame, the others of logs; a very few were whitewashed, but none were painted; nearly all the fences leaned outward or inward and were more or less dilapidated. The whole village had a lazy, tired, neglected look. The river bank was high and steep, and here and there an aged, crazy building stood on the edge with a quarter or a half of itself overhanging the water, waiting forlorn and tenantless for the next freshet to eat the rest of the ground from under it and let the stream swallow it. This was a town that was always moving westward. Twice a year, regularly, in the dead of winter and in the dead of summer, the great river called for the front row of the village’s possessions, and always got it. It took the front farms, the front orchards, the front gardens; those front houses that were worth hauling away, were moved to the rear by ox-power when the danger-season approached; those that were not worth this trouble were timely deserted and left to cave into the river. If a man lived obscurely in a back street and chafed under this fate, he only needed to have patience; his back street would be the front street by and by.

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There were no sidewalks, no pavements, no stepping stones; therefore, on a spring day the streets were either several inches deep with dust or as many inches deep with thick black mud. People slopped through this mud on foot or horseback, the hogs wallowed in it without fear of molestation, wagons got stuck fast in it, and while the drivers lashed away with their long whips and swore with power, coatless, jeans-clad loafers stood by with hands in pockets and sleepily enjoyed this blessed interruption of the customary monotony until a dog-fight called them to higher pleasure. When the dog-fight ended they adjourned to the empty dry-goods boxes in front of the poor little stores and whittled and expectorated and discussed the fight and the merits of the dogs that had taken part in it.

One of the largest dwellings in this village of Tupperville was the home of the widow Bennett and her family. It was built of logs, and stood in the back part of the town next to the corn and cotton-fields. In the common sitting room was a mighty fire place, paved with slabs of stone shaped by nature and worn smooth by use. The oaken floor in front of it was thickly freckled, as far as the middle of the room, with black spots burned in it by coals popped out from the hickory fire-wood. There was no carpeting anywhere; but there was a spinning wheel in one corner, a bed in another, with a white counterpane, a dinner table with leaves, in another, a tall eight-day clock in the fourth corner, a dozen splint-bottom chairs scattered around, several guns resting upon deer-horns over the mantel piece, and generally a cat or a hound or two

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Since this house was in all ways much superior to the average of the Dobbsville residences, it will be easily perceived that the average residence was necessarily a very marvel of rudeness, nakedness, and simplicity.

That other book which I made before, was named “Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.” Maybe you remember about it. But if you don’t, it don’t make no difference, because it ain’t got nothing to do with this one. The way it ended up, was this. Me and Tom Sawyer and the nigger Jim, that used to belong to old Miss Watson, was away down in Arkansaw at Tom’s aunt Sally’s and uncle Silas’s. Jim warn’t a slave no more, but free; because—but never mind about that: how he become to get free, and who done it, and what a power of work and danger it was, is all told about in that other book.

Well then, pretty soon it got dull there on that little plantation, and Tom he got pisoned with a notion of going amongst the Injuns for a while, to see how it would be; but about that time aunt Polly took us off up home to Missouri; and then right away after that she went away across the State, nearly to the west border, to stay a month or two months with some of her relations on a hemp farm out there, and took Tom and Sid and Mary; and I went along

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Well, there’s liver places than a hemp farm, there ain’t no use to deny it, and some people don’t take to them. Pretty soon, sure enough, just as I expected, Tom he begun to get in a sweat to have something going on. Somehow, Tom Sawyer couldn’t ever stand much lazying around; though as for me, betwixt lazying around and pie, I hadn’t no choice, and wouldn’t know which to take, and just as soon have them both as not, and druther. So he rousted out his Injun notion again, and was dead set on having us run off, some night, and cut for the Injun country and go for adventures. He said it was getting too dull on the hemp farm, it give him the fan-tods.

But me and Jim kind of hung fire. Plenty to eat and nothing to do. We was very well satisfied. We hadn’t ever had such comfortable times before, and we reckoned we better let it alone as long as Providence warn’t noticing; it would get busted up soon enough, likely, without our putting in and helping. But Tom he stuck to the thing, and pegged at us every day. Jim says:

“I doan’ see de use, Mars Tom. Fur as I k’n see, people dat has Injuns on dey han’s ain’ no better off den people dat ain’ got no Injuns. Well den: we ain’ got no Injuns, we doan’ need no Injuns, en what does we want to go en hunt ’em up f’r? We’s gitt’n along jes’ as well as if we had a million un um. Dey’s a powful ornery lot, anyway.”

“Who is?”

“Why, de Injuns.”

“Who says so?”

“Why, I says so.”

“What do you know about it?”

“What does I know ’bout it? I knows dis much. Ef dey ketches a body out, dey’ll take en skin him same as dey would a dog. Dat’s what I knows ’bout ’em.”

“All fol-de-rol. Who told you that?”

“Why, I hear ole Missus say so.”

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“Course not.”

“Just as I expected. She don’t know what she’s talking about. Has she ever been amongst the Injuns?”

“No.”

“Well, then, what right has she got to be blackguarding them and telling what ain’t so about them?”

“Well, anyway, ole Gin’l Gaines, he’s ben amongst ’m, anyway.”

“All right, so he has. Been with them lots of times, hasn’t he?”

“Yes—lots of times.”

“Been with them years, hasn’t he?”

“Yes, sir! Why, Mars Tom, he—”

“Very well, then. Has he been skinned? You answer me that.”

Jim see Tom had him. He couldn’t say a word. Tom Sawyer was the keenest boy for laying for a person and just leading him along by the nose without ever seeming to do it till he got him where he couldn’t budge and then bust his arguments all to flinders I ever see. It warn’t no use to argue with Tom Sawyer—a body never stood any show.

Jim he hem’d and haw’d, but all he could say was, that he had somehow got the notion that Injuns was powerful ornery, but he reckoned maybe—then Tom shut him off.

“You reckon maybe you’ve been mistaken. Well, you have. Injuns ornery! It’s the most ignorant idea that ever—why, Jim, they’re the noblest human beings that’s ever been in the world. If a white man tells you a thing, do you know it’s true? No, you don’t; because generally it’s a lie. But if an Injun tells you a thing, you can bet on it every time for the petrified fact; because you can’t get an Injun to lie, he would cut his tongue out first. If you trust to a white man’s honor, you better look out; but you trust to an Injun’s honor, and nothing in the world can make him betray you—he would die first, and be glad to. An Injun is all honor. It’s what they’re made of. You ask a white man to divide his property with you—will he do it? I think I see him at it; but you go to an Injun, and he’ll give you everything he’s got in the world. It’s just the difference between an

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Jim’s eyes was shining, and so was mine, I reckon, and he was excited, and it was the same with both of us, as far as that was concerned. Jim drawed a long breath, and then says:

“Whoosh! Dem’s de ticket for Jim! Bust ef it doan’ beat all, how rotten ignornt a body kin be ’bout Injuns w’en ’e hain’t had no chance to study um up. Why, Mars Tom, ef I’d a knowed what Injuns reely is, I pledges you my word I’d—well, you jes’ count me in, dat’s all; count me in on de Injun-country business; I’s ready to go, I doan’ want no likelier folks aroun’ me d’n what dem Injuns is. En Huck’s ready, too—hain’t it so, Huck?”

Course I warn’t going to stay behind if they went, so I said I was.

So we went to making preparations; and mighty private and secret, too, because Tom Sawyer wouldn’t have nothing to do with a thing if there warn’t no mystery about it. About three mile out in the woods, amongst the hills, there was an old tumble-down log house that used to be lived in, some time or other when people cut timber there, and we found it on a coon hunt one night, but nobody ever went there, now. So we let on it was infested with pirates and robbers, and we laid in the woods all one rainy night, perfectly still,

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Every day we went up to the little town that was two mile from the farm, and bought things for the outfit and to barter with the Injuns—skillets and coffee pots and tin cups, and blankets, and three sacks of flour, and bacon and sugar and coffee, and fish hooks, and pipes and tobacco, and ammunition, and pistols, and three guns, and glass beads, and all such things. And we hid them in the woods; and nights we clumb out of the window and slid down the lightning rod, and went and got the things and took them to the cavern. There was an old Mexican on the next farm below ours, and we got him to learn us how to pack a pack-mule so we could do it first rate.

And last of all, we went down fifteen or twenty mile further and bought five good mules, and saddles, because we didn’t want to raise no suspicions around home, and took the mules to the cavern in the night and picketed them in the grass. There warn’t no better mules in the State of Missouri, Tom said, and so did Jim.

Our idea was to have a time amongst the Injuns for a couple of months or so, but we had stuff enough to last longer than that, I reckon, because Tom allowed we ought to be fixed for accidents. Tom bought a considerable lot of little odds and ends of one kind and another which it ain’t worth while to name, which he said they would come good with the Injuns.

Well, the last day that we went up to town, we laid in an almanac, and a flask or two of liquor, and struck a stranger that had a curiosity and was peddling it. It was little sticks about as long as my finger with some stuff like yellow wax on the ends, and all you had to do was to rake the yellow end on something, and the stick would catch fire and smell like all possessed, on account of part of it being brimstone. We hadn’t ever heard of anything like that,

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We was all ready, now. So we waited for full moon, which would be in two or three days. Tom wrote a letter to his aunt Polly to leave behind, telling her good bye, and saying rest easy and not worry, because we would be back in two or three weeks, but not telling her anything about where we was going.

And then Thursday night, when it was about eleven and everything still, we got up and dressed, and slid down the lightning rod, and shoved the letter under the front door, and slid by the nigger-quarter and give a low whistle, and Jim come gliding out and we struck for the cavern, and packed everything onto two of the mules, and put on our belts and pistols and bowie knives, and saddled up the three other mules and rode out into the big moonlight and started west.

By and by we struck level country, and a pretty smooth path, and not so much woods, and the moonlight was perfectly splendid, and so was the stillness. You couldn’t hear nothing but the skreaking of the saddles. After while there was that cool and fresh feeling that tells you day is coming; and then the sun come up behind us, and made the leaves and grass and flowers shine and sparkle, on account of the dew, and the birds let go and begun to sing like everything.

So then we took to the woods, and made camp, and picketed the mules, and laid off and slept a good deal of the day. Three more nights we traveled that way, and laid up daytimes, and everything was mighty pleasant. We never run across anybody, and hardly ever see a light. After that, we judged we was so far from home that we was safe; so then we begun to travel by daylight.

The second day after that, when we was hoping to begin to see Injun signs, we struck a wagon road, and at the same time we struck an emigrant wagon with a family aboard, and it was near sundown, and they asked us to camp with them, and we done it.

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They was the simple-heartedest good-naturedest country folks in the world, and didn’t know anything hardly—I mean what you call “learning.” Except Peggy. She had read considerable many books, and knowed as much as most any girl, and was just as pretty as ever she could be, and live. But she warn’t no prettier than she was good, and all the tribe doted on her. Why they took as much care of her as if she was made out of sugar or gold or something. When she’d come to the camp fire, any of her brothers would get up in a minute and give her the best place. I reckon you don’t see that kind of brothers pretty often. She didn’t have to saddle her own mule, the way she’d have to do in most society, they always done it for her. Her and her mother never had anything to do but cook, that is all; the brothers got the wood, they built the fires, they skinned the game; and whenever they had time they helped her wash up the things. It ain’t often you see a brother kiss his own sister; fact is, I don’t know as I’d ever seen such a thing before; but they done it. I know, because I see them do it myself; and not just once, but plenty of times. Tom see it, too, and so did Jim. And they never said a cross word to her, not one. They called her “dear.” Plenty of times they called her that; and right before company, too; they didn’t care; they never thought nothing of it. And she didn’t, either. They’d say “Peggy dear,” to her, just in the naturalest off-handedest way, it didn’t make no difference who was around; and it took me two or three days to get so I could keep from blushing, I was so ashamed for them, though I knowed it warn’t the least harm, because they was right out of the woods and didn’t know no better. But I don’t wish to seem to be picking flaws in them, and abusing them, because I don’t. They was the splendidest people in the world; and

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We all got to be uncommon friendly together; it warn’t any trouble at all. We traveled with them, and camped with them every night. Buck and Bill and Sam was wonderful with a lasso, or a gun, or a pistol, or horseback riding, and they learned us all these things so that we got to be powerful good at them, specially Tom; and though he couldn’t throw a lasso as far as a man could, he could throw it about as true. And he could cave in a squirrel’s or a wild turkey’s or a prairie chicken’s head any fair distance; and could send both loads from his pistol through your hat on a full gallop, at twenty yards, if you wanted him to. There warn’t ever any better people than the Millses; but Peggy she was the cap-sheaf of the lot, of course; so gentle, she was, and so sweet, and whenever you’d done any little thing for her it made you feel so kind of all over comfortable and blessed to see her smile. If you ever felt cut, about anything, she never asked about the rights of it, or who done it, but just went to work and never rested till she had coaxed the smart all out and made you forget all about it. And she was that kind of a girl that if you ever made a mistake and happened to say something that hurt her, the minute you saw by her face what you had done, you wanted to get down on your knees in the dirt, you felt so mean and sorry. You couldn’t ever get tired looking at her, all day long, she was so dear and pretty; and mornings it warn’t ever sun-up to me till she come out.

One day, about a couple of weeks after we had left the United States behind, and was ever so far away out on the Great Plains, we struck the Platte river and went into camp in a nice grassy place a couple of hours before sun-down, and there we run across a camp of Injuns, the first ones we had been close enough to, yet, to get acquainted with. Tom was powerful glad.

It was just the place for a camp; the likeliest we had found yet. Big stream of water, and considerable many trees along it. The rest of the country, as far as you could see, any which-way you looked, clear to where the sky touched the earth, was just long levels and low waves—like what I reckon the ocean would be, if the ocean was made out of grass. Away off, miles and miles, was one tree standing by itself, and away off the other way was another, and here and yonder another and another scattered around; and the air was so clear you would think they was close by, but it warn’t so, most of them was miles away.

Old Mills said he would stop there and rest up the animals. I happened to be looking at Peggy, just then, because I mostly always happened to be looking at her when she was around, and her cheeks turned faint red and beautiful, like a nigger’s does when he puts a candle in his mouth to surprise a child; she never said nothing, but pretty soon she got to singing low to herself and looking happy. I didn’t let on; but next morning when I see her slip off to the top of one of them grass-waves and stand shading her eyes with her hand and looking away off over the country, I went there and got it all out of her. And it warn’t no trouble, either, after she got started. It looked like the mainest trouble was going to be to stop her again.

She had a sweetheart—that was what was the matter of her. He had staid behind, to finish up things, and would be along when he got done. His name was Brace Johnson; big, and fine, and brave, and good, and splendid, and all that, as near as I could make out; twenty-six years old; been amongst the Injuns ever since he was a boy, trapping, hunting, scouting, fighting; knowed all about Injuns, knowed some of the languages, knowed the plains and the mountains, and all the whole country, from Texas to Oregon; and now he

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There was five of the Injuns, and they had spry little ponies, and was camped tolerable close by. They was big, strong, grand looking fellows, and had on buckskin leggings and moccasins, and red feathers in their hair, and knives and tomahawks, and bows and arrows, and one of them had an old gun and could talk a little English, but it warn’t any use to him, he couldn’t kill anything with it because it hadn’t any flint—I mean the gun. They was naked from the waist up, when they hadn’t on their blankets.

They set around our fire till bedtime, the first night, and took supper with us, and passed around the pipe, and was very friendly, and made signs to us, and grunted back, when we signed anything they understood, and pretty much everything they see that they liked, they wanted it. So they got coffee, and sugar, and tobacco, and a lot of little things.

They was there to breakfast, next morning, and then me and Tom went over to their camp with them, and we all shot at a mark with their bows and arrows, and they could outshoot anything I ever see with a bow and arrow, and could stand off a good ways and hit a tree with a tomahawk every time.

They come back with us at noon and eat dinner, and the one with the gun showed it to Peggy, and made signs would she give him a flint, and she got one from her father, and put it in the gunlock and fixed it herself, and the Injun was very thankful, and called her good squaw and pretty squaw, and she was ever so pleased; and another one named Hog Face that had a bad old hurt on his shin, she bandaged it up and put salve on it, and he was very thankful too.

Tom he was just wild over the Injuns, and said there warn’t no white men so noble; and he warn’t by himself in it, because me and

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“I don’t know,” says I. “Who did give it to you?”

“Brace.” Then she laughed, gay and happy, and says, “You’ll never guess what it’s for.”

“Well, what is it for?” says I.

“To kill myself with!”

“O, good land!” says I, “how you talk.”

“Yes,” she says, “it’s the truth. Brace told me that if I ever fell into the hands of the savages, I mustn’t stop to think about him, or the family, or anything, or wait an hour to see if I mightn’t be rescued; I mustn’t waste any time, I mustn’t take any chances, I must kill myself right away.”

“Goodness,” I says, “and for why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Didn’t you ask him why?”

“Of course; and teased him to tell me, but he wouldn’t. He kept trying to get me to promise, but I laughed him off, every time, and told him if he was so anxious to get rid of me he must tell me why I must kill myself, and then maybe I would promise. At last he said he couldn’t tell me. So I said, very well, then, I wouldn’t promise; and laughed again, but he didn’t laugh. By and by he said, very serious and troubled, ‘You know I wouldn’t ask you to do that or any other thing that wasn’t the best for you—you can trust me for that, can’t you?’ That made me serious, too, because that was true; but I couldn’t promise such a thing, you know, it made me just shudder to think of it. So then he asked me if I would keep the dirk, as his gift and keepsake; and when I said I would, he said that would do, it was all he wanted.”

One of the Injuns, named Blue Fox, come up, just then, and the minute he see the dirk he begun to beg for it; it was their style—

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They was a sociable lot. They wrastled with Buck and Bill and Sam, and learned them some new holts and throws that they didn’t know before; and we all run foot races and horse races with them, and it was prime to see the way their ornery little ponies would split along when their pluck was up.

And they danced dances for us. Two or three times they put on all their fuss and feathers and war paint and danced the war dance, and whooped and jumped and howled and yelled, and it was lovely and horrible. But the one with the gun, named Man-afraid-of-his-Mother-in-law, didn’t ever put on any paint and finery, and didn’t dance in the war dances, and mostly he didn’t come around when they had them, and when he did he looked sour and glum and didn’t stay.

Yes, we was all stuck after the Injuns, kind of in love with them, as you may say, and I reckon I never had better times than I had then. Peggy was as good to them as if she was their sister or their child, and they was very fond of her. She was sorry for the one with the gun, and tried to encourage him to put on his war paint and dance the war dance with the others and be happy and not glum; and it pleased him to have her be so friendly, but he never done it. But pretty soon it struck her what maybe the matter was, and she says to me:

“He’s in mourning—that’s what it is; he has lost a friend. And to

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So after that, she couldn’t do too much for him, nor be sorry enough for him. And she wished more than ever that Brace was here, so he could see that Injuns was just like other people, after all, and had their sorrows and troubles, and knowed how to love a friend and grieve for him when he was gone.

Tom he was set on having the Injuns take me and him and Jim into their band and let us travel to their country and live in their tribe a week or two; and so, the fourth day, we went over to their camp, me and Tom did, to ask them. But they was fixing for a buffalo hunt next morning, to be gone all day, and maybe longer, and that filled Tom so full of excitement, he couldn’t think about anything else, for we hadn’t ever seen a buffalo yet. They had a plan for me and Jim and Tom to start before daylight with one Injun and go in one direction, and Buck in another with another Injun, and Bill with another and Sam with another, and leave the other Injun in their camp because he was so lame with his sore leg, and whichever gang found the buffaloes first was to signal the others. So it was all fixed.

Then we see Peggy off there on one of them grass-waves, with Flaxy, looking out over the country with her hand over her eyes, and all the Injuns noticed her at once and asked us what she was looking for. I said she was expecting a lot of friends. The Injun that spoke a little English asked me how many. It’s always my disposition to stretch, so I said seven. Tom he kind of smiled, but let it go at that. Man-afraid-of-his-Mother-in-law says:

“Little child (meaning Flaxy, you know,) say only one.”

I see I was ketched, but in my opinion a body don’t ever gain anything by weakening, in them circumstances, so I says:

“Seven,” and said it firm, and stuck to it.

The Injuns talked amongst themselves a while, then they told us to go over and ask Bill and Buck and Sam to come and talk about the hunt. We done it, and they went over, and we all set down to

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By and by Tom shoved his elbow into my side, soft and easy, and then got up and took a bucket and said he would fetch some water for Peggy, and went santering off. I said I would help; so I took a bucket and followed along. As soon as we was behind some trees, Tom says:

“Somehow everything don’t seem right, Huck. They don’t smoke; they’ve always smoked, before. There’s only one gun outside the wagon, and a minute or two ago one of them was meddling with it. I never thought anything of it at the time, but I do now, because I happened to notice it just a minute ago, and by George the flint’s gone! There’s something up, Huck—I’m going to fetch the boys.”

Away he went, and what to do I didn’t know. I started back, keeping behind the trees, and when I got pretty close, I judged I would watch what was going on, and wait for Tom and the boys. The Injuns was up, and sidling around, the rest was chatting, same as before, and Peggy was gathering up the plates and things. I heard a trampling like a lot of horses, and when it got pretty near, I see that other Injun coming on a pony, and driving the other ponies and all our mules and horses ahead of him, and he let off a long wild whoop, and the minute he done that, the Injun that had a gun, the one that Peggy fixed, shot her father through the head with it and scalped him, another one tomahawked her mother and scalped her, and then these two grabbed Jim and tied his hands together, and the other two grabbed Peggy, who was screaming and

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Soon it got dark, and I had to stop, I was so tired. It was an awful long night, and I didn’t sleep, but was watching and listening all the time, and scared at every little sound, and miserable. I never see such a night for hanging on, and stringing out, and dismalness.

When daylight come, I didn’t dast to stir, at first, being afraid; but I got so hungry I had to. And besides, I wanted to find out about Tom; so I went sneaking for the camp, which was away off across the country, I could tell it by the trees. I struck the line of trees as far up as I could, and slipped along down behind them. There was a smoke, but by and by I see it warn’t the camp fire, it was the wagon; the Injuns had robbed it and burnt it. When I got down pretty close, I see Tom there, walking around and looking. I was desperate glad; for I didn’t know but the other Injun had got him.

We scratched around for something to eat, but didn’t find it, everything being burnt; then we set down and I told Tom everything, and he told me everything. He said when he got to the Injun camp, the first thing he see was Buck and Sam and Bill laying dead—tomahawked and scalped, and stripped; and each of them had as much as twenty-five arrows sticking in him. And he told me how else they had served the bodies, which was horrible, but it would not do to put it in a book. Of course the boys’ knives and pistols was gone.

Then Tom and me set there a considerable time, with our jaws in our hands, thinking, and not saying anything. At last I says:

“Well?”

He didn’t answer right off, but pretty soon he says:

“I’ve thought it out, and my mind’s made up; but I’ll give you the first say, if you want it.”

I says:

“No, I don’t want it. I’ve tried, but I can’t seem to strike any plan. We’re here, and that’s all there is to it. We’re here, as much as a million miles from any place, I reckon; and we haven’t got

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So he says:

“Well, this is my idea, Huck. I got Jim into this scrape, and so of course I ain’t going to turn back towards home till I’ve got him out of it again, or found out he’s dead; but you ain’t in fault, like me, and so if we can run across any trappers bound for the States—”

“Never mind about that, Tom,” I says, “I’m agoing with you. I want to help save Jim, if I can, and I want to help save Peggy, too. She was good to us, and I couldn’t rest easy if I didn’t. I’ll go with you, Tom.”

“All right,” he says, “I hoped you would, and I was certain you would; but I didn’t want to cramp you or influence you.”

“But how are we going?” says I, “walk?”

“No,” he says, “have you forgot about Brace Johnson?”

I had. And it made the cold misery go through me to hear his name; for it was going to be sorrowful times for him when he come.

So we was to wait there for him. And maybe two or three days, without anything to eat; because the folks warn’t expecting him for about a week from the time we camped. We went off a half a mile to the highest of them grass-waves, where there was a small tree, and took a long look over the country, to see if we could see Brace or anybody coming, but there wasn’t a living thing stirring, anywhere. It was the biggest, widest, levelest world—and all dead; dead and still; not a sound. The lonesomest place that ever was; enough to break a body’s heart, just to listen to the awful stillness of it. We talked a little sometimes—once an hour, maybe; but mostly

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“Tom, where did you learn about Injuns—how noble they was, and all that?”

He give me a look that showed me I had hit him hard, very hard, and so I wished I hadn’t said the words. He turned away his head, and after about a minute he said “Cooper’s novels,” and didn’t say anything more, and I didn’t say anything more, and so that changed the subject. I see he didn’t want to talk about it, and was feeling bad, so I let it just rest there, not ever having any disposition to fret or worry any person.

We had started a camp fire in a new place further along down the stream, with fire from the burnt wagon, because the Injuns had burnt the bodies of old Mr. Mills and his wife along with the wagon, and so that place seemed a kind of graveyard, you know, and we didn’t like to stay about it. We went to the new fire once in a while and kept it going, and we slept there that night, most starved.

We turned out at dawn, and I jumped up brash and gay, for I had been dreaming I was at home; but I just looked around once over that million miles of gray dead level, and my soul sucked back that brashness and gayness again with just one suck, like a sponge, and then all the miserableness come back and was worse than yesterday.

Just as it got to be light, we see some creatures away off on the prairie, going like the wind; and reckoned they was antelopes or Injuns, or both, but didn’t know; but it was good to see some life again, anyway; it didn’t seem so lonesome after that, for a while.

We was so hungry we couldn’t stay still; so we went loafing off, and run across a prairie-dog village—little low mounds with holes in them, and a sentinel, which was a prairie dog, and looked like a Norway rat, standing guard. We had long cottonwood sticks along, which we had cut off of the trees and was eating the bark for breakfast; and we dug into the village, and rousted out an owl or two and a couple of hatfuls of rattlesnakes, and hoped we was going to get a dog, but didn’t, nor an owl, either; but we hived as bully a

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We put in the third day that we was alone talking, and laying around, and wandering about, and snaking, and found it more and more lonesomer and drearier than ever. Often, as we come to a high grass-wave, we went up and looked out over the country, but all we ever saw was buzzards or ravens or something wheeling round and round over where the Injun camp was—and knowed what brought them there. We hadn’t been there; and hadn’t even been near there.

When we was coming home towards evening, with a pretty likely snake, we stopped and took another long look across country, and didn’t see anything at first, but pretty soon we thought we did; but it was away off yonder against the sky, ever so far, and so we warn’t certain. You can see an awful distance there, the air is so clear; so we calculated to have to wait a good while. And we did. In about a half an hour, I reckon, we could make out that it was horses or men or something, and coming our way. Then we laid down and kept close, because it might be Injuns, and we didn’t want no more Injun then, far from it. At last Tom says:

“There’s three horses, sure.”

And pretty soon he says:

“There’s a man riding one. I don’t make out any more men.”

And presently he says:

“There’s only one man; he’s driving three pack mules ahead of him; and coming along mighty brisk. He’s got a wide slouch hat on, and I reckon he’s white. It’s Brace Johnson, I guess; I reckon he’s the only person expected this year. Come—let’s creep along behind the

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But we couldn’t. He was too fast for us. There he set, on his horse, staring. The minute we showed ourselves he had his gun leveled on us; then he noticed we warn’t Injuns, and dropped it, and told us to come on, and we did.

“Boys,” he says, “by the odds and ends that’s left, I see that this was the Mills’s camp. Was you with them?”

“Yes.”

“What’s happened?”

I never said nothing; and Tom he didn’t, at first; then he said:

“Injuns.”

“Yes,” he says, “I see that, myself, by the signs; but the folks got away, didn’t they?—along with you?—didn’t they?”

We didn’t answer. He jumped off of his horse, and come up to us quick, looking anxious, and says:

“Where are they?—quick, where are they? Where’s Peggy?”

Well, we had to tell him—there warn’t no other way. And it was all he could do to stand it; just all he could do. And when we come to tell about Peggy, he couldn’t stand it; his face turned as white as milk, and the tears run down his cheeks, and he kept saying “Oh, my God, oh my God.” It was so dreadful to see him, that I wanted to get him away from that part of it, and so I worked around and got back onto the other details, and says:

“The one with the gun, that didn’t have no war paint, he shot Mr. Mills, and scalped him; and he bloodied his hands, then, and made blood stripes across his face with his fingers, like war paint, and then begun to howl war-whoops like the Injuns does in the circus. And poor old Mrs. Mills, she was down on her knees, begging so pitiful when the tomahawk—”

“I shall never never see her again—never never any more—my poor little darling, so young and sweet and beautiful—but thank God, she’s dead!”

He warn’t listening to me.

“Dead?” I says; “if you mean Peggy, she’s not dead.”

He whirls on me like a wild-cat, and shouts:

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His fingers was working, and so I stepped back a little out of reach, and then says:

“I know she ain’t, because I see the Injuns drag her away; and they didn’t strike her nor offer to hurt her.”

Well, he only just groaned; and waved out his hands, and fetched them together on top of his head. Then he says:

“You staggered me, and for a minute I believed you, and it made me most a lunatic. But it’s all right—she had the dirk. Poor child, poor thing—if I had only been here!”

I just had it on my tongue’s end to tell him she let Blue Fox have the dirk for a while and I didn’t know whether he give it back to her or not—but I didn’t say it. Some kind of instinct told me to keep it to myself, I didn’t know why. But this fellow was the quickest devil you ever see. He see me hesitate, and he darted a look at me and bored into me like he was trying to see what it was I was keeping back in my mind. But I held my face quiet, and never let on. So then he looked considerable easier, but not entirely easy, and says:

“She had a dirk—didn’t you see her have a dirk?”

“Yes,” I says.

“Well, then, it’s all right. She didn’t lose it, nor give it away, nor anything, did she? She had it with her when they carried her away, didn’t she?”

Of course I didn’t know whether she did or not, but I said yes, because it seemed the thing to say.

“You are sure?” he says.

“Yes, perfectly sure,” I says, “I ain’t guessing, I know she had it with her.”

He looked very grateful, then, and drawed a long sigh, and says:

“Ah, the poor child, poor friendless little thing—thank God she’s dead.”

I couldn’t make out why he wanted her to be dead, nor how he could seem to be so thankful for it. As for me, I hoped she wasn’t, and I hoped we would find her, yet, and get her and Flaxy away

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When we got to the camp, we looked at the bodies a minute, and then Brace said we would bury them presently, but he wanted to look around and make some inquiries, first. So he turned over the ashes of the fire, examining them careful, and examining any little thing he found amongst them, and the tracks, and any little rag or such like matter that was laying around, and pulled out one of the arrows, and examined that, and talked to himself all the time, saying “Sioux—yes, Sioux, that’s plain”—and other remarks like that. I got to wandering around, too, and once when I was a step or two away from him, lo and behold, I found Peggy’s little dirk-knife on the ground! It just took my breath, and I reckon I made a kind of a start, for it attracted his attention, and he asked me if I had found something, and I said yes, and dropped on my knees so that the knife was under my leg; and when he was coming, I let some moccasin beads drop on the ground that I had found before, and pretended to be looking at them; and he come and took them up, and whilst he was turning them over in his hand examining them, I slipped the dirk into my pocket; and presently, as soon as it was dark, I slipped out of our camp and carried it away off about a quarter of a mile and throwed it amongst the grass. But I warn’t satisfied; it seemed to me that it would be just like that fellow to stumble on it and find it, he was so sharp. I didn’t even dast to bury it, I was so afraid he’d find it. So at last I took and cut a little hole and shoved it in betwixt the linings of my jacket, and then I was satisfied. I was glad I thought of that, for it was like having a keepsake from Peggy, and something to remember her by, always as long as I lived.

That night, in camp, after we had buried the bodies, we set around and talked, and me and Tom told Brace all about how we come to be there, on account of Tom wanting us to go with him and hunt up some Injuns and live with them a while, and Brace said it was just like boys the world over, and just the same way it was with him when he was a boy; and as we talked along, you could see he warmed to us because we thought so much of Peggy and told him so many things she done and said, and how she looked. And now and then, as we spoke of the Injuns, a most wicked look would settle into his face, but at these times he never said nothing.

There was some things which he was a good deal puzzled about; and now and then he would bust into the middle of the talk with a remark that showed us his mind had been wandering to them things. Once he says:

“I wonder what the nation put ’em on the war path. It was perfectly peaceable on the Plains a little while back, or I wouldn’t a had the folks start, of course. And I wonder if it’s general war, or only some little private thing.”

Of course we couldn’t tell him, and so had to let him puzzle along. Another time, he busted in and says:

“It’s the puzzlingest thing!—there’s features about it that I can’t seem to make head nor tail of, no way. I can understand why they fooled around here three or four days, because there warn’t no hurry; they knowed they had from here to Oregon to do the job in, and besides, an Injun is patient; he’d ruther wait a month till he can make sure of his game without any risk to his own skin than attempt it sooner where there’s the least risk. I can understand why they planned a buffalo hunt that would separate all the whites from each other and make the mastering of them easy and certain, because five warriors, nor yet fifteen, won’t tackle five men and two boys, even by surprise when they’re asleep at dawn, when there’s a

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For the minute, I couldn’t help him out any; I couldn’t think of anything to make them in a hurry. But Tom he remembered about me telling the Injuns the Millses was expecting seven friends, and they looked off and see Peggy and Flaxy on the watch-out for them. So Brace says:

“That’s all right, then; I understand it, now. That’s Injun—that would make ’em drop the buffalo business and hurry up things. I know why they didn’t kill the nigger, and why they haven’t killed him yet, and ain’t going to, nor hurt him; and now if I only knowed whether this is general war or only a little private spurt, I would be satisfied and not bother any more. But—well, hang it, let it go, there ain’t any way to find out.”

So we dropped back on the details again, and by and by I was telling how Man-afraid-of-his-Mother-in-law streaked his face all over with blood after he killed Mr. Mills, and then—

“Why, he done that for war paint!” says Brace Johnson, excited; “warn’t he in war-outfit before?—warn’t they all painted?”

“All but him,” I says. “He never wore paint nor danced with the rest in the war dance.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that before; it explains everything.”

“I did tell you,” I says, “but you warn’t listening.”

“It’s all right, now, boys,” he says, “and I’m glad it’s the way it is, for I wasn’t feeling willing to let you go along with me, because I didn’t know but all the Injuns was after the whites, and it was a general war, and so it would be bad business to let you get into it, and we couldn’t dare to travel except by night, anyway. But you are all right, now, and can shove out with me in the morning, for this is nothing but a little private grudge, and like as not this is the end of

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So poor Peggy guessed right; that Injun was “in mourning;” he had “lost a friend;” but it turns out that he knowed better how to comfort himself than she could do it for him.

We had breakfast just at dawn in the morning, and then rushed our arrangements through. We took provisions and such like things as we couldn’t get along without, and packed them on one of the mules, and cachéd the rest of Brace’s truck—that is, buried it—and then Brace struck the Injun trail and we all rode away, westward. Me and Tom couldn’t have kept it; we would have lost it every little while; but it warn’t any trouble to Brace, he dashed right along like it was painted on the ground before him, or paved.

He was so sure Peggy had killed herself, that I reckoned he would be looking out for her body, but he never seemed to. It was so strange that by and by I got into a regular sweat to find out why; and so at last I hinted something about it. But he said no, the Injuns would travel the first twenty-four hours without stopping, and then they would think they was far enough ahead of the Millses’ seven friends to be safe for a while—so then they would go into camp; and there’s where we’d find the body. I asked him how far they would go in that time, and he says:

“The whole outfit was fresh and well fed up, and they had the extra horses and mules besides. They’d go as much as eighty miles—maybe a hundred.”

He seemed to be thinking about Peggy all the time, and never about anything else or anybody else. So I chanced a question, and says:

“What’ll the Injuns do with Flaxy?”

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It didn’t ever seem to strike him that Peggy wouldn’t kill herself whilst Flaxy was a prisoner, but it did me. I had my doubts; sometimes I believed she would, sometimes I reckoned she wouldn’t.

We nooned an hour, and then went on, and about the middle of the afternoon Brace seen some Injuns away off, but we couldn’t see them. We could see some little specks, that was all; but he said he could see them well enough, and it was Injuns; but they warn’t going our way, and didn’t make us any bother, and pretty soon they was out of sight. We made about forty or fifty miles that day, and went into camp.

Well, late the next day, the trail pointed for a creek and some bushes on its bank about a quarter of a mile away or more, and Brace stopped his horse and told us to ride on and see if it was the camp; and said if it was, to look around and find the body; and told us to bury it, and be tender with it, and do it as good as we could, and then come to him a mile further down the creek, where he would make camp—just come there, and only tell him his orders was obeyed, and stop at that, and not tell him how she looked, nor what the camp was like, nor anything; and then he rode off on a walk, with his head down on his bosom, and took the pack mule with him.

It was the Injun camp, and the body warn’t there, nor any sign of it, just as I expected. Tom was for running and telling him, and cheering him up. But I knowed better. I says:

“No, the thing has turned out just right. We’ll stay here about long enough to dig a grave with bowie knives, and then we’ll go and tell him we buried her.”

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“That’s mysterious, and crooked, and good, and I like that much about it; but hang it there ain’t any sense in it, nor any advantage to anybody in it, and I ain’t willing to it.”

So it looked like I’d got to tell him why I reckoned it would be better, all around, for Brace to think we found her and buried her, and at last I come out with it, and then Tom was satisfied; and when we had staid there three or four hours, and all through the long twilight till it was plumb dark, we rode down to Brace’s camp, and he was setting by his fire with his head down, again, and we only just said, “It’s all over—and done right,” and laid down like we wanted to rest; and he only says, in that deep voice of his’n, “God be good to you, boys, for your kindness,” and kind of stroked us on the head with his hand, and that was all that anybody said.

After about four days, we begun to catch up on the Injuns. The trail got fresher and fresher. They warn’t afraid, now, and warn’t traveling fast, but we had kept up a pretty good lick all the time. At last one day we struck a camp of theirs where they had been only a few hours before, for the embers was still hot. Brace said we would go very careful, now, and not get in sight of them but keep them just a safe distance ahead. Tom said maybe we might slip up on them in the night, now, and steal Jim and Flaxy away; but he said no, he had other fish to fry, first, and besides it wouldn’t win, anyway.

Me and Tom wondered what his other fish was; and pretty soon we dropped behind and got to talking about it. We couldn’t make nothing out of it for certain, but we reckoned he was meaning to get even with the Injuns and kill some of them before he took any risks about other things. I remembered he said we would get Flaxy “by and by,” and said there warn’t no hurry about it. But then for all he talked so bitter about Injuns, it didn’t look as if he could actually

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We killed considerable game, these days; and about this time here comes an antelope scampering towards us. He was a real pretty little creature. He stops, about thirty yards off, and sets up his head, and arches up his neck, and goes to gazing at us out of his bright eyes as innocent as a baby. Brace fetches his gun up to his shoulder, but waited and waited, and so the antelope capered off, zig-zagging first to one side and then t’other, awful graceful, and then stretches straight away across the prairie swift as the wind, and Brace took his gun down. In a little while here comes the antelope back again, and stopped a hundred yards off, and stood still, gazing at us same as before, and wondering who we was and if we was friendly, I reckon. Brace fetches up his gun twice, and then the third time; and this time he fired, and the little fellow tumbled. Me and Tom was starting for him, seeing Brace didn’t. But Brace says:

“Better wait a minute, boys, you don’t know the antelope. Let him die, first. Because if that little trusting, harmless thing looks up in your face with its grieved eyes when it’s dying, you’ll never forget it. When I’m out of meat, I kill them, but I don’t go around them till they’re dead, since the first one.”

Tom give me a look, and I give Tom a look, as much as to say, “his fish ain’t revenge, that’s certain, and so what the mischief is it?”

According to my notions, Brace Johnson was a beautiful man. He was more than six foot tall, I reckon, and had broad shoulders, and he was as straight as a jackstaff, and built as trim as a racehorse. He had the steadiest eye you ever see, and a handsome face, and his hair hung all down his back, and how he ever could keep his outfit so clean and nice, I never could tell, but he did. His buckskin suit looked always like it was new, and it was all hung with fringes, and had a star as big as a plate between the shoulders of his coat, made of beads of all kinds of colors, and had beads on his moccasins, and a hat as broad as a barrel-head, and he never looked so fine and grand as he did a-horseback; and a horse couldn’t any more throw him than he could throw the saddle, for when it

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He didn’t talk very much; and when he talked about Injuns, he talked the same as if he was talking about animals; he didn’t seem to have much idea that they was men. But he had some of their ways, himself, on account of being so long amongst them; and moreover he had their religion. And one of the things that puzzled him was how such animals ever struck such a sensible religion. He said the Injuns hadn’t only but two Gods, a good one and a bad one, and they never paid no attention to the good one, nor ever prayed to him or worried about him at all, but only tried their level best to flatter up the bad god and keep on the good side of him; because the good one loved them and wouldn’t ever think of doing them any harm, and so there warn’t any occasion to be bothering him with prayers and things, because he was always doing the very best he could for them, anyway, and prayers couldn’t better it; but all the trouble come from the bad god, who was setting up nights to think up ways to bring them bad luck and bust up all their plans, and never fooled away a chance to do them all the harm he could; and so the sensible thing was to keep praying and fussing around him all the time, and get him to let up. Brace thought more of the Great Spirit than he did of his own mother, but he never fretted

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Now as to that antelope, it brought us some pretty bad luck. When we was done supper, that day, and was setting around talking and smoking, Brace begun to make some calculations about where we might be by next Saturday, as if he thought this day was a Saturday, too—which it wasn’t. So Tom he interrupted him and told him it was Friday. They argued over it, but Tom turned out to be right. Brace set there awhile thinking, and looking kind of troubled; then he says:

“It’s my mistake, boys, and all my fault, for my carelessness. We’re in for some bad luck, and we can’t get around it; so the best way is to keep a sharp look-out for it and beat it if we can—I mean make it come as light as we can, for of course we can’t beat it altogether.”

Tom asked him why he reckoned we would have bad luck, and it come out that the Bad God was going to fix it for us. He didn’t say Bad God, out and out; didn’t mention his name, seemed to be afraid to; said “he” and “him,” but we understood. He said a body had got to perpetuate him in all kinds of ways. Tom allowed he said propitiate, but I heard him as well as Tom, and he said perpetuate. He said the commonest way and the best way to perpetuate him was to deny yourself something and make yourself uncomfortable, same as you do in any religion. So one of his plans was to try to perpetuate him by vowing to never allow himself to eat meat on Fridays and Sundays, even if he was starving; and now he had gone and eat it on a Friday, and he’d druther have cut his hand off than done it if he had knowed. He said “he” had got the advantage of us, now, and you could bet he would make the most of it. We would have a run of bad luck, now, and no knowing when it would begin or when it would stop.

We had been pretty cheerful, before that, galloping over them beautiful Plains, and popping at Jack rabbits and prairie dogs and all sorts of things, and snuffing the fresh air of the early mornings, and all that, and having a general good time; but it was all busted up, now, and we quit talking and got terrible blue and uneasy and

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“Well, it hain’t come yet, but it’s coming.”

It come the next morning. We started out from camp, just at early dawn, in a light mist, Brace and the pack mule ahead, I next, and Tom last. Pretty soon the mist begun to thicken, and Brace told us to keep the procession closed well up. In about a half an hour it was a regular fog. After a while Brace sings out:

“Are you all right?”

“All right,” I says.

By and by he sings out again:

“All right, boys?”

“All right,” I says, and looked over my shoulder and see Tom’s mule’s ears through the fog.

By and by Brace sings out again, and I sings out, and he says:

“Answer up, Tom,” but Tom didn’t answer up. So he said it again, and Tom didn’t answer up again; and come to look, there warn’t anything there but the mule—Tom was gone.

“It’s come,” says Brace, “I knowed it would,” and we faced around and started back, shouting for Tom. But he didn’t answer.

When we had got back a little ways we struck wood and water, and Brace got down and begun to unsaddle. Says I:

“What you going to do?”

“Going to camp.”

“Camp!” says I, “why what a notion. I ain’t going to camp, I’m going for Tom.”

“Going for Tom! Why, you fool, Tom’s lost,” he says, lifting off his saddle.

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“Huck, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Get off of that mule.”

But I didn’t. I fetched the mule a whack, and started; but he grabbed him and snaked me off like I was a doll, and set me on the ground. Then he says:

“Keep your shirt on, and maybe we’ll find him, but not in the fog. Don’t you reckon I know what’s best to do?” He fetched a yell, and listened, but didn’t get any answer. “We couldn’t find him in the fog; we’d get lost ourselves. The thing for us to do is to stick right here till the fog blows off. Then we’ll begin the hunt, with some chance.”

I reckoned he was right, but I most wanted to kill him for eating that antelope meat and never stopping to think up what day it was and he knowing so perfectly well what consounded luck it would fetch us. A body can’t be too careful about such things.

We unpacked, and picketed the mules, and then set down and begun to talk, and every now and then fetched a yell, but never got any answer. I says:

“When the fog blows off, how long will it take us to find him, Brace?”

“If he was an old hand on the Plains, we’d find him pretty easy; because as soon as he found he was lost he would set down and not budge till we come. But he’s green, and he won’t do that. The minute a greeny finds he’s lost, he can’t keep still to save his life—tries to find himself, and gets lost worse than ever. Loses his head; wears himself out, fretting and worrying and tramping in all kinds of directions; and what with starving, and going without water, and being so scared, and getting to mooning and imagining more and more, it don’t take him but two or three days to go crazy, and then—”

“My land, is Tom going to be lost as long as that?” I says; “it makes the cold shudders run over me to think of it.”

“Keep up your pluck,” he says, “it ain’t going to do any good to lose that. I judge Tom ain’t hurt; I reckon he got down to cinch up,

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He stopped; and as he didn’t go on, I says:

“Well? If he ain’t hurt, what then?”

He didn’t say anything, right away; but at last he says:

“No, I reckon he ain’t hurt, and that’s just the worst of it; because there ain’t no power on earth can keep him still, now. If he’d a broken his leg—but of course he couldn’t, with this kind of luck against him.”

We whooped, now and then, but I couldn’t whoop much, my heart was most broke. The fog hung on, and on, and on, till it seemed a year, and there we set and waited; but it was only a few hours, though it seemed so everlasting. But the sun busted through it at last, and it begun to swing off in big patches, and then Brace saddled up and took a lot of provisions with him, and told me to stick close to camp and not budge, and then he cleared out and begun to ride around camp in a circle, and then in bigger circles, watching the ground for signs all the time; and so he circled wider and wider, till he was far away, and then I couldn’t see him any more. Then I freshened up the fire, which he told me to do, and throwed armfuls of green grass on it to make a big smoke; it went up tall and straight to the sky, and if Tom was ten mile off he would see it and come.

I set down, blue enough, to wait. The time dragged heavy. In about an hour I see a speck away off across country, and begun to watch it; and when it got bigger, it was a horseman, and pretty soon I see it was Brace, and he had something across the horse, and I reckoned it was Tom, and he was hurt. But it wasn’t; it was a man. Brace laid him down, and says:

“Found him out yonder. He’s been lost, nobody knows how long—two or three weeks, I judge. He’s pretty far gone. Give him a spoonful of soup every little while, but not much, or it will kill him.

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So away he started again, across country, and left me and this fellow there, and I went to making soup. He laid there with his eyes shut, breathing kind of heavy, and muttering and mumbling. He was just skin and bones and rags, that’s all he was. His hands was all scratched up and bloody, and his feet the same and all swelled up and wore out, and a sight to look at. His face—well, I never see anything so horrible. It was baked with the sun, and was splotchy and purple, and the skin was flaked loose and curled, like old wall paper that’s rotted on a damp wall. His lips was cracked and dry, and didn’t cover his teeth, so he grinned very disagreeable, like a steel-trap. I judged he had walked till his feet give out on him, and then crawled around them deserts on his hands and knees; for his knees hadn’t any flesh or skin on them.

When I got the soup done, I touched him, and he started up scared, and stared at me a second, and then tried to scramble away; but I catched him and held him pretty easy, and he struggling and begging very pitiful for me to let him go and not kill him. I told him I warn’t going to hurt him, and had made some nice soup for him; but he wouldn’t touch it at first, and shoved the spoon away and said it made him sick to see it. But I persuaded him, and told him I would let him go if he would eat a little, first. So then he made me promise three or four times, and then he took a couple of spoonfuls; and straight off he got just wild and ravenous, and wanted it all. I fed him a cup full, and then carried the rest off and hid it; and so there I had to set, by the hour, and him begging for more; and about every half an hour I give him a little, and his eyes would blaze at the sight of it, and he would grab the cup out of my hands and take it all down at a gulp, and then try to crowd his mouth into it to lick the bottom, and get just raging and frantic because he couldn’t.

Between times he would quiet down and doze; and then start up wild, and say “Lost, my God, lost!” and then see me, and recollect, and go to begging for something to eat again. I tried to get

[begin page 67]

This kind of worry and sweat went on the whole day long, and was the longest day I ever see. And then the sun was going down, and no Tom and no Brace. This fellow was sound asleep, for about the first time. I took a look at him, and judged it would last; so I thought I would run out and water the mules and put on their side-lines and get right back again before he stirred. But the pack mule had pulled his lariat loose, and was a little ways off dragging it after him and grazing, and I walked along after him, but every time I got pretty close he throwed up his head and trotted a few steps, and first I knowed he had tolled me a long ways, and I wished I had the other mule to catch him with, but I dasn’t go back after him, because the dark would catch me and I would lose this one, sure; so I had to keep tagging along after him afoot, coming as near to cussing the antelope meat as I dast, and getting powerful nervous all the time, and wondering if some more of us was going to get lost. And I would a got lost if I hadn’t had a pretty big fire; for you could just barely see it, away back yonder like a red spark when I catched the mule at last, and it was plumb dark too, and getting black before I got home. It was that black when I got to camp that you couldn’t see at all, and I judged the mules would get water enough pretty soon without any of my help; so I picketed them closer by than they was before, and put on their side-lines, and groped into the tent, and bent over this fellow to hear if he was there, yet, and all of a sudden it busted on me that I had been gone two or three hours, I didn’t know how long, and of course he was out and gone, long ago, and how in the nation would I ever find him in the dark,

[begin page 68]

So I held my breath and listened over him, and by Jackson he was there yet, and I hear him breathe—about once a minute. Once a week would a done me, though, it sounded so good to hear him and I was so thankful he hadn’t sloped. I fastened the flap of the tent and then stretched out snug on my blankets, wishing Tom and Brace was there; and thinks I, I’ll let myself enjoy this about five minutes before I sail out and freshen up the camp fire.

The next thing that I knowed anything about, was no telling how many hours afterwards. I sort of worked along up out of a solid sleep, then, and when I come to myself the whole earth was rocking with the smashingest blast of thunder I ever heard in my life and the rain was pouring down like the bottom had fell out of the sky. Says I, now I’ve done it! the camp fire’s out, and no way for Tom or Brace to find the camp. I lit out, and it was so; everything drenched, not a sign of an ember left. Of course nobody could ever start a new fire out there in the rain and wind; but I could build one inside and fetch it out after it got to going good. So I rushed in and went to bulging around in the dark, and lost myself and fell over this fellow, and scrambled up off of him, and begged his pardon and asked if I hurt him; but he never said a word and didn’t make a sound. And just then comes one of them blind-white glares of lightning that turns midnight to daytime, and there he laid, grinning up at me, stone dead. And he had hunks of bread and meat around, and I see in a second how it all was. He had got at our grub whilst I was after the mule, and over-eat himself and died, and I had been sleeping along perfectly comfortable with his relics I don’t know how long, and him the gashliest sight I ever struck. But I never waited there to think all that; I was out in the public wilderness before the flash got done quivering, and I never went

[begin page 69]

I went off a good ways, and staid the rest of the night out, and got most drownded; and about an hour or more after sun-up Tom and Brace come, and I was glad. I told them how things had went, and we took the gold locket and buried the man and had breakfast, and Brace didn’t scold me once. Tom was about used up, and we had to stay there a day or two for him to get straightened up again. I asked him all about it, and he says:

“I got down to cinch up, and I nearly trod on a rattlesnake which I didn’t see, but heard him go bzzz! right at my heel. I jumped most a rod, I was so scared and taken so sudden, and I run about three steps, and then looked back over my shoulder and my mule was gone—nothing but just white fog there. I forgot the snake in a second, and went for the mule. For ten steps I didn’t hurry, expecting to see him all the time; but I picked up my heels, then, and run. When I had run a piece I got a little nervous, and was just going to yell, though I was ashamed to, when I thought I heard voices ahead of me, bearing to the right, and that give me confidence, knowing it must be you boys; so I went heeling it after you on a short-cut; but if I did hear voices I misjudged the direction and went the other way, because you know you can’t really tell where a sound comes from, in a fog. I reckon you was trotting in one direction and me in the other, because it warn’t long before I got uneasy and begun to holler, and you didn’t hear me nor answer. Well, that scared me so that I begun to tremble all over, and I did wish the fog would lift, but it didn’t, it shut me in, all around, like a thick white smoke. I wanted to wait, and let you miss me and come back, but I couldn’t stay still a second; it would a killed me; I had to run, and I did. And so I kept on running, by the hour, and listening, and shouting; but never a sound did ever I hear; and whenever I stopped just a moment and held my breath to listen, it was the awfulest stillness that ever was, and I couldn’t stand it and had to run on again.

“When I got so beat out and tired I couldn’t run any more, I walked; and when the fog went off at last and I looked over my shoulder and there was a tall smoke going up in the sky miles across the

[begin page 70]

We was away along up the North Fork of the Platte, now. When we started again, the Injuns was two or three days ahead of us, and their trail was pretty much washed out, but Brace didn’t mind it, he judged he knowed where they was striking for. He had been reading the signs in their old camps, all these days, and he said these Sioux was Ogillallahs. We struck a hilly country, now, and traveled the day through and camped a few miles up a nice valley late in the afternoon on top of a low flattish hill in a grove of small trees. It was an uncommon pretty place, and we picked it out on

[begin page 71]

There was a puddle or two, but Brace couldn’t get down the banks easy; so he told me to wait with the mules, and if he didn’t find a better place he would come back and rig some way to get up and down the bank here. Then he rode off down stream and pretty soon the trees hid him. By and by an antelope darts by me and I looked up the river and around a corner of the timber comes two men, riding fast. When they got to me they reined up and begun to ask me questions. They was half drunk, and a mighty rough looking couple, and their clothes didn’t help them much, being old greasy buckskin, just about black with dirt. I was afraid of them. They asked me who I was, and where I come from, and how many was with me, and where we was camped; and I told them my name was Archibald Thompson, and says:

“Our camp’s down at the foot of the valley, and we’re traveling for pap’s health, he’s very sick, we can’t travel no more till he gets better, and there ain’t nobody to take care of him but me and aunt Mary and Sis, and so we’re in a heap of troub—”

“It’s all a lie!” one of them breaks in. “You’ve stole them animals.”

“You bet he has,” says the other. “Why, I know this one myself; he belongs to old Vaskiss the trader, up at the Fort, and I’m dead certain I’ve seen one of the others somewheres.”

“Seen him? I reckon you have. Belongs to Roubidou the

[begin page 72]

First I didn’t know what to do; but I had to work my mind quick, and I struck a sort of an idea, the best I could think of, right off, that way. I says to myself, it’s two to one these is horse-thieves, because Brace says there’s a plenty of them in these regions; and so I reckon they’d like to get one or two more while they’re at it. Then I up and says:

“Gents, as sure as I’m here I never stole the animals; and if I’ll prove it to you you’ll let me go, won’t you?”

“How’re you going to prove it?”

“I’ll do it easy if you’ll come along with me, for we bought two mules that’s almost just like these from the Injuns day before yesterday, and maybe they stole ’em, I don’t know, but we didn’t, that’s sure.”

They looked at each other, and says:

“Where are they—down at your camp?”

“No; they’re only down here three or four hundred yards. Sister Mary she—”

“Has she got them?”

“Yes.”

“Anybody with her?”

“No.”

“Trot along, then, and don’t you try to come any tricks, boy, or you’ll get hurt.”

I didn’t wait for a second invite, but started right along, keeping a sharp lookout for Brace, and getting my yell ready, soon as I should see him. I edged ahead, and edged ahead, all I could, and they notified me a couple of times not to shove along so fast, because there warn’t no hurry; and pretty soon they noticed Brace’s trail, and sung out to me to halt a minute, and bent down over their saddles, and checked up their speed, and was mightily interested, as I could see when I looked back. I didn’t halt, but jogged ahead, and

[begin page 73]

Well, we had two dead men on our hands, and I felt pretty crawly, and didn’t like to look at them; but Brace allowed it warn’t a very unpleasant sight, considering they tried to kill me. He said we must hurry into camp, now, and get ready for trouble; so we shoved for camp, and took the two new horses and the men’s guns and things with us, not waiting to water our animals.

It was nearly dark. We kept a watch-out towards up the river, but didn’t see anything stirring. When we got home we still watched from the edge of the grove, but didn’t see anything, and no sign of that gang’s camp fire; then Brace said we was probably safe from them for the rest of the night, so we would rest the animals three or four hours, and then start out and get as well ahead as we could, and keep ahead as long as this blamed Friday-antelope luck would let us, if Tom could stand the travel.

It come on starlight, a real beautiful starlight, and all the world as still and lovely as Sunday. By and by Brace said it would be a good idea to find out where the thieves was camped, so we could give it a wide berth when we started; and he said I could come along if I wanted to; and he took his gun along, this time, and I took one of the thieves’ guns. We took the two fresh horses and rode down across the valley and struck the river, and then went

[begin page 74]

We was interested, and stayed looking a considerable time. But the liquor begun to beat them, and first one and then another went gaping and stretching to the tents and turned in. And then another one started, and the others tried to make him stay up, because it was his watch, but he said he was drunk and sleepy and didn’t want to watch, and said “Let Jack and Bill stand my watch, as long they like to be up late—they’ll be in directly, like as not.”

But the others threatened to lick him if he didn’t stand his watch; so he grumbled, but give in, and got his gun and set down; and when the others was all gone to roost, he just stretched himself out and went to snoring as comfortable as anybody.

We left, then, and sneaked down to where our horses was, and rode away, leaving the rapscallions to sleep it out and wait for Jack and Bill to come, but we reckoned they’d have to wait a most notorious long time first.

We rode down the river to where Brace was when I yelled to him when the thieves was after me; and he said he had dug some steps in the bank there with his bowie, and we could finish the job in a little while, and when we broke camp and started we would bring

[begin page 75]

“Hello, what’s that?”

It was as still as death before, but you could hear a faint, steady, rising sound, now, up the river. We held our breath and listened. You could see a good stretch up it, and tolerable clear, too, the starlight was so strong. The sound kept growing and growing, very fast. Then all of a sudden Brace says:

“Jump for the bank! I know what that is.”

It’s always my plan to jump first, and ask afterwards. So I done it. Brace says:

“There’s a water-spout broke loose up country somewheres, and you’ll see sights mighty soon, now.”

“Do they break when there ain’t no clouds in the sky?” I says, judging I had him.

“ Never you mind,” he says, “there was a cloud where this one broke. I’ve seen this kind of thing before, and I know that sound. Fasten your horse just as tight as you can, or he’ll break loose presently.”

The sound got bigger and bigger, and away up yonder it was just one big dull thundering roar. We looked up the river a piece, and see something coming down its bed like dim white snakes writhing along. When it went hissing and sizzling by us it was shallow foamy water. About twenty yards behind it comes a solid wall of water four foot high, and nearly straight up and down, and before you could wink it went rumbling and howling by like a whirlwind, and carrying logs along, and them thieves, too, and their horses and tents, and tossing them up in sight, and then under again, and grinding them to hash, and the noise was just awful, you couldn’t a heard it thunder; and our horses was plunging and pitching, and trying their best to break loose. Well, before we could turn around the water was over the banks and ankle deep.

“Out of this, Huck, and shin for camp, or we’re goners!”

We was mounted and off in a second, with the water chasing after us. We rode for life, we went like the wind, but we didn’t

[begin page 76]

Our little low hill was an island, now, and we couldn’t a got away from it if we had wanted to. We all three set around and watched the water rise. It rose wonderful fast; just walked up the long, gradual slope, as you may say, it come up so fast. It didn’t stop rising for two or three hours; and then that whole valley was just a big level river a mile to a mile and a half wide, and deep enough to swim the biggest ship that was ever built, and no end of dim black drift logs spinning around and sailing by in the currents on its surface.

Brace said it hadn’t took the water-spout an hour to dump all that ocean of water and finish up its job, but like enough it would be a week before the valley was free of it again; so Tom would have considerable more time than we bargained to give him to get well in.

Me and Tom was down-hearted and miserable on account of Jim and Peggy and Flaxy, because we reckoned it was all up with them and the Injuns, now; and so at last Tom throwed out a feeler to see what Brace thought. He never said anything about the others, but only about the Injuns; said the water-spout must a got the Injuns, hadn’t it? But Brace says:

“No, nary an Injun. Water-spouts don’t catch any but white folks. There warn’t ever a white man that could tell when a water-spout’s coming; and how the nation an Injun can tell is something I never could make out, but they can. When it’s perfectly clear weather, and other people ain’t expecting anything, they’ll say, all of a sudden, ‘heap water coming,’ and pack up in a

[begin page 77]

Next morning there we was, on an island, same as before; just a level, shining ocean everywheres, and perfectly still and quiet, like it was asleep. And awful lonesome.

Next day the same, only lonesomer than ever.

And next day just the same, and mighty hard work to put in the time. Mostly we slept. And after a long sleep, wake up, and eat dinner, and look out over the tiresome water, and go to sleep again; and wake up again, by and by, and see the sun go down and turn it into blood, and fire, and melted butter, and one thing or another, awful beautiful, and soft, and lovely, but solemn and lonesome till you couldn’t rest.

We had eight days of that, and the longer we waited for that ocean to play out and run off, the bigger the notion I got of a water-spout that could puke out such a mortal lot of water as that in an hour.

We left, then, and made a good day’s travel, and by sundown begun to come onto fresh buffalo carcases. There was so many of them that Brace reckoned there was a big party of Injuns near, or else whites from the fort.

In the morning we hadn’t gone five miles till we struck a big camp where Injuns had been, and hadn’t gone more than a day or two. Brace said there was as many as a hundred of them, altogether, men, women and children, and made up from more than one band of Sioux, but Brulé’s, mostly, as he judged by the signs. Brace said things looked like these Injuns was camped here a considerable time.

Of course we warn’t thinking about our Injuns, or expecting to run across any signs of them or the prisoners, but Tom he found an arrow, broke in two, which was wound with blue silk thread down by the feather, and he said he knowed it was Hog Face’s, because he got the silk for him from Peggy and watched him wind it. So Brace begun to look around for other signs, and he believed he found some. Well, I was ciphering around in a general way myself,

[begin page 78]

“There—that’s the shoe-print of a white woman. See—you can see, where she turned it down to one side, how thin the sole is. She’s white, and she’s a prisoner with this gang of Injuns. I don’t understand it. I’m afraid there’s general trouble broke out between the whites and Injuns; and if that’s so, I’ve got to go mighty cautious from this out.” He looks at the track again, and says, “Poor thing, it’s hard luck for her,” and went mumbling off, and never noticed that me and Tom was most dead with uneasiness, for we could see plain enough it was Peggy’s print, and was afraid he would see it himself, or think he did, any minute. His back warn’t more than turned before me and Tom had tramped on the print once or twice—just enough to take the clearness out of it, because we didn’t know but he might come back for another look.

Pretty soon we see him over yonder looking at something, and we went there, and it was four stakes drove in the ground; and he looks us very straight and steady in the eyes, first me and then Tom, and then me again, till it got pretty sultry; then he says, cold and level, but just as if he’d been asking us a question:

“Well, I believe you. Come along.”

Me and Tom followed along, a piece behind; and Tom says:

“Huck, he’s so afraid she’s alive, that it’s just all he can do to believe that yarn of ours about burying her. And pretty soon, now, like enough, he’ll find out she ain’t dead, after all.”

“That’s just what’s worrying me, Tom. It puts us in a scrape, and I don’t see no way out of it; because what can we say when he tackles us about lying to him?”

“I know what to say, well enough.”

[begin page 79]

“I’ll say this, to him. I’ll say, suppose it was likely you was going to get knocked in the head with a club some time or other, but it warn’t quite certain; would you want to be knocked in the head straight off, so as to make it certain, or wouldn’t you ruther wait and see if you mightn’t live your life out and not happen to get clubbed at all? Of course, he would say. Then I would put it at him straight, and say, wasn’t you happier, when we made you think she was dead, than you was before? Didn’t it keep you happy all this time? Of course. Well, wasn’t it worth a little small lie like that to keep you happy instead of awfully miserable many days and nights? Of course. And wasn’t it likely she would be dead before you ever run across her again?—which would make our lie plenty good enough. True again. And at last I would up and say, just you put yourself in our place, Brace Johnson: now, honor bright, would you have told the truth, that time, and broke the heart of the man that was Peggy Mills’s idol? If you could, you are not a man, you are a devil; if you could and did, you’d be lower and hard-hearteder than the devils, you’d be an Injun. That’s what I’ll say to him, Huck, if the time ever comes.”

Now that was the cleanest and slickest way out that ever was; and who would ever a thought of it but Tom Sawyer? I never seen the like of that boy for just solid gobs of brains and level headedness. It made me comfortable, right away, because I knowed very well Brace Johnson couldn’t ever get around that, nor under it nor over it nor through it; he would have to answer up and confess he would a told that lie his own self, and would have went on backing it up and standing by it, too, as long as he had a rag of a lie left in him to do it with.

I noticed, but I never said anything, that Tom was putting the Injuns below the devils, now. You see, he had about got it through his noddle, by this time, that book Injuns and real Injuns is different.

Brace was unslinging the pack; so we went to him to see what he was doing it for, and he says:

[begin page 80]

He had got a needle and some thread out of the pack, and a little paper bag full of dried bugs, and butterflies, and lizards, and frogs, and such like creatures, and he sat down and went to sewing them fast to the lapels of his buckskin coat, and all over his slouch hat, till he was that fantastic he looked like he had just broke out of a museum when he got it all done. Then he says:

“Now if I act strange and foolish, the Injuns will think I’m crazy; so I’ll be safe and all right. They are afraid to hurt a crazy man, because they think he’s under His special persecution” (he meant the Bad God, you know) “for his sins; and they kind of avoid him, and don’t much like to be around him, because they think he’s bad medicine, as they call it—‘medicine’ meaning luck, about as near as you can put it into English. I got this idea from a chap they called a naturalist.

“A war party of Injuns dropped onto him, and if he’d a knowed his danger, he’d a been scared to death; but he didn’t know a war party from a peace party, and so he didn’t act afraid, and that bothered the Injuns, they didn’t know what to make of it; and when they see how anxious and particular he was about his bugs, and how fond of them and stuck after them he seemed to be, they judged he was out of his mind, and so they let him go his own gait, and never touched him. I’ve gone fixed for the crazy line ever since.”

Then he packed the mule again, and says:

“Now we’ll get along again, and follow the trail of these Injuns.”

[begin page 81]

We struck out on this trail, and followed it a couple of days

Judge Draper

Judge  Draper, dead without issue.

Judge Carpenter

. Wife, . Sons: , , , . Daughter, .

Dr. Meredith

Dr. Meredith. Sons, Charley and John. Two old-maid sisters. He had been a sailor, and had a deep voice. Charley went to California and thence to hell; John, a meek and bashful boy, became the cruelest of bushwhacker-leaders in the war-time.

Dr. Fife; Dr. Peake

Dr. Fife. Dr. Peake.

Lawyer Lakenan

Lawyer Lakenan.

Captain Robards

Captain Robards. Flour mill. Called rich. George (flame, Mary Moss,) an elder pupil at Dawson’s, long hair, Latin, grammar, etc. Disappointed, wandered out into the world, and not heard of again for certain. Floating rumors at long intervals that he had been seen in South America (Lima) and other far places. Family apparently not disturbed by his absence. But it was known that Mary Moss was.

John Robards

John Robards. When 12, went to California across the plains with his father. Gone a year. Returned around Cape Horn. Rode in the Plains manner, his long yellow hair flapping. He said he was appointed to West Point and couldn’t pass because of a defect in

[begin page 94]

Clay Robards

Clay Robards. A good and daring rebel soldier. Disappeared from view.

Sally Robards

Sally Robards. Pupil at Dawson’s. Married Bart Bowen, pilot and captain. Young widow.

Russell Moss

Russell Moss. Pork-house. Rich. Mary, very sweet and pretty at 16 and 17. Wanted to marry George Robards. Lawyer Lakenan the rising stranger, held to be the better match by the parents, who were looking higher than commerce. They made her engage herself to L. L. made her study hard a year to fit herself to be his intellectual company; then married her, shut her up, the docile and heart-hurt young beauty, and continued her education rigorously. When he was ready to trot her out in society 2 years later and exhibit her, she had become wedded to her seclusion and her melancholy broodings, and begged to be left alone. He compelled her—that is, commanded. She obeyed. Her first exit was her last. The sleigh was overturned, her thigh was broken; it was badly set. She got well with a terrible limp, and forever after stayed in the house and produced children. Saw no company, not even the mates of her girlhood.

Neil Moss

Neil Moss. The envied rich boy of the Meth. S. S. Spoiled and of small account. Dawson’s. Was sent to Yale—a mighty journey and an incomparable distinction. Came back in swell eastern clothes, and the young men dressed up the warped negro bell ringer in a travesty of him—which made him descend to village fashions. At 30 he was a graceless tramp in Nevada, living by mendicancy and borrowed money. Disappeared. The parents died after the war. Mary Lakenan’s got the property.

Dana Breed

Dana Breed. From Maine. Clerk for old T. R. Selmes, an Englishman. Married Letititia Richmond. Collins and Breed—merchants. This lot all dead now.

Loth Southard

[begin page 95]

Jesse Armstrong

Jesse Armstrong. Clerk for Selmes. Married - - - - - - -. After many years she fell in love with her physician. One night somebody entered the back door—A. jumped out of bed to see about it and was chopped to pieces with an axe brought from his own woodpile. The widow and the physician tried for the murder. Evidence insufficient. Acquitted, but Judge, jury and all the town believed them guilty. Before the year was out they married, and were at once and rigorously ostracised. The physician’s practice shrunk to nothing, but Armstrong left wealth, so it was no matter.

Bill Briggs

Bill Briggs. Drifted to California in ’50, and in ’65 was a handsome bachelor and had a woman. Kept a faro-table.

John Briggs

John Briggs. (Miss Torrey and Miss Newcomb and Mrs. Horr.) Worked as stemmer in Garth’s factory. Became a 6-footer and a capable rebel private.

Artemissa Briggs

Artemissa Briggs. (Miss Torrey, N. and Mrs. H.) Married Richmond the mason, Miss Torrey’s widower.

Miss Newcomb

Miss Newcomb—old maid and thin. Married Davis, a day laborer.

Miss Lucy Davis

Miss Lucy Davis. Schoolmarm.

Mrs. Hawkins

Mrs. Hawkins. Widow about 1840. ’Lige—became rich merchant in St Louis and New York.

Ben

Ben . City marshal. Shot his thumb off, hunting. Fire marshal of Big 6 Company.

Jeff

Jeff . Little boy. Died. Buried in the old graveyard on the hill.

Sophia

Sophia. Married - - - - - the prosperous tinner.

Laura

Laura . Pretty little creature of 5 at Miss Torrey’s. At the Hill street school she and Jenny Brady wrote on the slate that day at the noon recess. Another time Laura fell out of her chair and Jenny made that vicious remark. Laura lived to be the mother of six 6-foot sons. Died.

Little Margaret Striker

Little Margaret Striker.

— Striker

- - - - - Striker the blacksmith.

McDonald

McDonald the desperado (plasterer.)

Mrs. Holiday

Mrs. Holiday. Was a MacDonald, born Scotch. Wore her father’s ivory miniature—a British General in the Revolution. Lived

[begin page 96]

Old Stevens

Old Stevens, jeweler. Dick, Upper Miss. pilot. Ed, neat as a new pin. Miss Newcomb’s. Tore down Dick Hardy’s stable. Insurrection-leader. Brought before Miss N., brickbats fell out of his pockets and J. Meredith’s. Ed was out with the rebel company sworn in by Col. Ralls of the Mexican war.

Ed. Hyde

Ed. Hyde, Dick Hyde. Tough and dissipated. Ed. held his uncle down while Dick tried to kill him with a pistol which refused fire.

Eliza Hyde

Eliza Hyde. “Last Link is Broken.” Married . Thought drifted to Texas. Died.

Old Selmes

Old Selmes and his Wildcat store. Widower. married well—St Louis.

’Gyle Buchanan

’Gyle Buchanan. Robert, proprietor of Journal. Shouting methodists. Young Bob and Little Joe, printers. Big Joe a fighter and steamboat engineer after apprenticeship as a moulder. Somebody hit young Bob over the head with a fire-shovel.

Sam Raymond

Sam Raymond—fire company, and editor of (Journal?) St Louis swell. Always affected fine city language, and said “Toosday.” Married Mary Nash?

Tom Nash

Tom Nash. Went deaf and dumb from breaking through ice. Became a house-painter; and at Jacksonville was taught to talk, after a fashion. His 2 young sisters went deaf and dumb from scarlet fever.

Old Nash

Old Nash. Postmaster. His aged mother was Irish, had family jewels, and claimed to be aristocracy.

Blankenships

Blankenships. paupers and drunkards; the girls charged with prostitution—not proven. Tom, a kindly young heathen. Bence, a fisherman. These children were never sent to school or church. Played out and disappeared.

Captain S. A. Bowen

[begin page 97]

John

John , steamboat agent in St Louis; army contractor, later—rich.

Bart

Bart . Pilot and Captain. Good fellow. Consumptive. Gave $20, time of Pennsylvania disaster. Young McManus got it. Left young widow.

Mary

Mary . Married lawyer Green, who was Union man.

Eliza

Eliza —stammered badly, and was a kind of a fool.

Will

Will . Pilot. Diseased. Mrs. Horr and all the rest (including Cross?) Had the measles that time. Baptist family. Put cards in minister’s baptising robe. Trouble in consequence. Helped roll rock down that jumped over Simon’s dray and smashed into coopershop. He died in Texas. Family.

Sam

Sam . Pilot. Slept with the rich baker’s daughter, telling the adoptive parents they were married. The baker died and left all his wealth to “Mr. and Mrs. S. Bowen.” They rushed off to a Carondolet magistrate, got married, and bribed him to antedate the marriage. Heirs from Germany proved the fraud and took the wealth. Sam no account and a pauper. Neglected his wife; she took up with another man. Sam a drinker. Dropped pretty low. Died of yellow fever and whisky on a little boat with Bill Kribben the defaulting secretary. Both buried at the head of 82. In 5 years 82 got washed away.

Rev. Mr. Rice

Rev. Mr. Rice. Presbyterian. Died.

Rev. Tucker

Rev. Tucker. Went east.

Roberta Jones

Roberta Jones. Scared old Miss - - - - - - into the insane asylum with a skull and a doughface. Married Jackson. “Oh, on Long Island’s Sea-girt Shore.”

Jim Quarles

Jim Quarles. Tinner. Set up in business by —$3,000—a fortune, then. Popular young beau—dancer—flutist—serenader—envied—a great catch. Married a child of 14. Two babies the result. Father highly disapproved the marriage. Dissipation—often drunk. Neglected the business—and the child-wife and babies. Left them and went to California. The little family went to Jim’s father. Jim became a drunken loafer in California, and so died.

Jim Lampton

[begin page 98]

In sixty years…

In sixty years that town has not turned out a solitary preacher; not a U.S. Senator, only 2 congressmen, and in no instance a name known across the river. But one college-man.

Wales McCormick

Wales McCormick. J—s H. C.

Dick Rutter

Dick Rutter.

Pet McMurry

Pet McMurry. His medicine bottle—greasy auburn hair—Cuba sixes. Quincy. Family. Stove store.

Bill League

Bill League. Married the gravestone-cutter’s daughter. “Courier.” Became its proprietor. Made it a daily and prosperous. Children. Died.

The two young sailors

The two young sailors—Irish.

Urban E. Hicks

Urban E. Hicks. Saw Jenny Lind . Went to Oregon; served in Indian war.

Jim Wolf

Jim Wolf. The practical jokes. Died.

Letitia Honeyman

Letitia Honeyman. School. Married a showy stranger. Turned out to be a thief and swindler. She and her baby waited while he served a long term. At the end of it her youth was gone, and her cheery ways.

Sam

Sam . Lost an arm in the war. Became a policeman.

Pavey

Pavey . “Pigtail done.” A lazy, vile-tempered old hellion. His wife and daughters did all the work and were atrociously treated. Pole—went to St Louis. Gone six months—came back a striker, with wages, the envy of everybody. Drove his girl Sunday in buggy from Shoot’s stable, $1.50 a day. Introduced poker—cent ante. Became

[begin page 99]

Becky

Becky . Came up from St Louis a sweet and pretty young thing—caused many heart-breaks. Silver pencil—$1.50—she didn’t care for it. Davis a widower, married her sister Josephine, and Becky married Davis’s son. They went to Texas. Disappeared. The “long dog.”

The other sisters married—Mrs. Strong went to Peoria. One of them was Mrs. Shoot—married at 13, born at 14. Mrs. Hayward’s daughter tried the stage at home, then at Daly’s, didn’t succeed. Finally a .

Jim Foreman

Jim Foreman. Clerk. Pomeroy Benton & Co. Handkerchief.

Mrs. Sexton

Mrs. Sexton (she pronounced it Saxton to make it finer, the nice, kind-hearted, smirky, smily dear Christian creature—Methodist.)

Margaret

Margaret. Pretty child of 14. Boarders in 1844 house. and , rivals. Mrs. S. talked much of N-Yorliuns; and hints and sighs of better days there, departed never to return. Sunday-school.

[Cloak…

[Cloak of the time, flung back, lined with bright plaid. Worn with a swagger. Most rational garment that ever was.

Slouch hat

Slouch hat, worn gallusly.

Hoop-skirts…

Hoop-skirts coming in.

Literature

Literature. Byron, Scott, Cooper, Marryatt, . Pirates and knights preferred to other society. Songs tended to regrets for bygone days and vanished joys: Oft in the Stilly Night; Last Rose of Summer; The Last Link; Bonny Doon; Old Dog Tray; for the lady I love will soon be a bride; Gaily the Troubadour; Bright Alfarata.

Negro melodies

Negro melodies the same trend: Old Kentucky Home; (de day goes by like a shadow on de wall, wid sorrow where all was delight;) Massa’s in de Cold Ground; Swanee River.

The gushing Crusaders…

The gushing Crusaders admired; the serenade was a survival or a result of this literature.

Any young person would have been proud of a “strain” of Indian

[begin page 100]

All that sentimentality and romance among young folk seem puerile, now, but when one examines it and compares it with the ideals of to-day, it was the preferable thing. It was soft, sappy, melancholy; but money had no place in it. To get rich was no one’s ambition—it was not in any young person’s thoughts. The heroes of these young people—even the pirates—were moved by lofty impulses: they waded in blood, in the distant fields of war and adventure and upon the pirate deck, to rescue the helpless, not to make money; they spent their blood and made their self-sacrifices for “honor’s” sake, not to capture a giant fortune; they married for love, not for money and position. It was an intensely sentimental age, but it took no sordid form. The Californian rush for wealth in ’49 introduced the change and begot the lust for money which is the rule of life to-day, and the hardness and cynicism which is the spirit of to-day.

The three “rich” men were not worshiped, and not envied. They were not arrogant, nor assertive, nor tyrannical, nor exigeant. It was California that changed the spirit of the people and lowered their ideals to the plane of to-day.

Unbeliever

Unbeliever. There was but one—, the young Kentucky lawyer, a fascinating cuss—and they shuddered to hear him talk. They expected a judgment to fall upon him at any moment. They believed the devil would come for him in person some stormy night.

He was very profane, and blasphemous. He was vain of being prayed for in the revivals; vain of being singled out for this honor always by every new revivalist; vain of the competition between these people for his capture; vain that it was the ambition of each in his turn to hang this notable scalp at his belt. The young ladies were ambitious to convert him.

Chastity

Chastity. There was the utmost liberty among young people—but no young girl was ever insulted, or seduced, or even scandalously gossiped about. Such things were not even dreamed of in that society, much less spoken of and referred to as possibilities.

[begin page 101]

Ouseley

Ouseley. Prosperous merchant. Smoked fragrant cigars—regalias—5 apiece. Killed old Smar. Acquitted. His party brought him huzzaing in from Palmyra at midnight. But there was a cloud upon him—a social chill—and he presently moved away.

The Hanged Nigger

. He raped and murdered a girl of 13 in the woods. He confessed to forcing 3 young women in Va, and was brought away in a feather bed to save his life—which was a valuable property.

The Stabbed Cal. Emigrant

The Stabbed Cal. Emigrant. Saw him.

Judge Carpenter

knocked MacDonald down with a mallet and saved Charley Schneider. Mac in return came near shooting Col. Elgin in the back of the head.

Clint Levering

Clint Levering drowned. lived to have a family and be rich and respected.

Garth

Garth. Presbyterians. Tobacco. Eventually rich. David, teacher in S. school. Later, Supt.

John

John . Mrs. Horr and the others. He removed to New York and became a broker, and prosperous. Returned, and brought Helen Kercheval to Brooklyn in ’68. Presently went back to St P. and remained. Banker, rich. Raised 2 beautiful daughters and a son.

Old Kercheval

Old Kercheval the tailor. Helen did not like his trade to be referred to.

His apprentice

saved ’s life—aged 9—from drowning, and was cursed for it by Simon for 50 years.

Daily Packet Service

Daily Packet Service to Keokuk. The merchants—envied by all the untraveled town—made trips to the great city (of 30,000 souls). St. L papers had pictures of Planters House, and sometimes an engraved letter-head had a picture of the city front, with the boats sardined at the wharf and the modest spire of the little Cath Cathedral showing prominently; and at last when a minor citizen realized the dream of his life and traveled to St. Louis, he was thrilled to the marrow when he recognized the rank of boats and the spire and the Planters, and was amazed at the accuracy of the

[begin page 102]

4th July

4th July. Banners. Declaration and Spreadeagle speech in public square. Procession—Sunday schools, Masons, Odd Fellows, Temperance Society, Cadets of Temperance, the Co of St P Greys, the Fantastics (oh, so funny!) and of course the Fire Co and Sam R. Maybe in the woods. Collation in the cool shade of a tent. Gingerbread in slabs; lemonade; ice cream. Opened with prayer—closed with a blessing.

Circus

Circus.

Mesmerizer

Mesmerizer .

Nigger Show

Nigger Show . (the swell pet tenor) Prendergast

Bell-Ringers

Bell-Ringers (Swiss)

Debating Society

Debating Society .

National Intelligencer

National Intelligencer. Dr. Peake.

St. Louis Republican

St. L. Republican.

Old Pitts

Old Pitts, the saddler. Always rushed wildly down street putting on coat as he went—rushed aboard—nothing for him, of course.

John Hannicks

John Hannicks, with the laugh. See black smoke rising beyond point—“Steeammmboat a coming!” Laugh. Rattle his dray.

Bill Pitts

Bill Pitts, saddler, succeeded his father.

Ben Coontz

Ben Coontz—sent to W. Point.

Glover

Glover (protégé of old T. K. Collins) really did become a famous lawyer in St L., but St P always said he was a fool and nothing to him.

The Mock Duel

The Mock Duel .

Lavinia Honeyman

Lavinia Honeyman captured “celebrated” circus-rider—envied for the unexampled brilliancy of the match—but he got into the penitentiary at Jefferson City and the romance was spoiled.

Ratcliffes

Ratcliffes. One son lived in a bark hut up at the stillhouse branch and at intervals came home at night and emptied the larder.

[begin page 103]

Another son had to be locked into a small house in corner of the yard—and chained. Fed through a hole. Would not wear clothes, winter or summer. Could not have fire. Religious mania. Believed his left hand had committed a mortal sin and must be sacrificed. Got hold of a hatchet, nobody knows how, and chopped it off. Escaped and chased his stepmother all over the house with carving knife. arrived and rescued her. He seemed to be afraid of his father, and could be cowed by him, but by no one else. He died in that small house.

One son became a fine physician and in California ventured to marry; but went mad and finished his days in the asylum. The old Dr., dying, said, “Don’t cry; rejoice—shout. This is the only valuable day I have known in my 65 years.” His grandfather’s generation had been madmen—then the disease skipped to his. He said Nature laid a trap for him: slyly allowed all his children to be born before exposing the taint.

Blennerhasset

enlarged upon it and said Nature was always treacherous—did not single him out, but spared nobody.

B. went to K. to get married. All present at the wedding but himself. Shame and grief of the bride; indignation of the rest. A year later he would be found—bridally clad—shut into the family vault in the graveyard—spring lock and the key on the outside. His mother had but one pet and he was the one—because he was an infidel and the target of bitter public opinion. He always visited her tomb when at home, but the others didn’t. So the judgment hit him at last. He was found when they came to bury a sister. There had been a theft of money in the town, and people managed to suspect him; but it was not found on him.

Judge Carpenter

Married in Lexington in ’23; he 24, 20. She married him to spite young , to whom she was engaged, and who wouldn’t go to a neighboring town, 9 miles, in the short hours of the night, to bring her home from a ball.

He was a small storekeeper. Removed to Jamestown and kept a

[begin page 104]

Removed to village of Florida. born there—died at 10. Small storekeeper. Then to St P middle of 1838. Rest of the family born there—Han and B. died there. The mother made the children feel the cheek of the dead boy, and tried to make them understand the calamity that had befallen. The case of memorable treachery.

Still a small storekeeper—but progressing. Then Ira Stout, who got him to go security for a large sum, “took the benefit of the bankrupt law” and ruined him—in fact made a pauper of him.

Became justice of the peace and lived on its meagre pickings.

Stern, unsmiling, never demonstrated affection for wife or child. Had found out he had been married to spite another man. Silent, austere, of perfect probity and high principle; ungentle of manner toward his children, but always a gentleman in his phrasing—and never punished them—a look was enough, and more than enough.

Had but one —she wanted to be sold to Beebe, and was. He sold her down the river. Was seen, years later, ch. on steamboat. Cried and lamented. Judge whipped her once, for impudence to his wife—whipped her with a bridle.

It was remembered that he went to church—once; never again. His family were abandoned Presbyterians. What his notions about religion were, no one ever knew. He never mentioned the matter; offered no remarks when others discussed it. Whoever tried to drag a remark out of him failed; got a courteous answer or a look which discouraged further effort, and that person understood, and never approached the matter again.

If he had intimates at all, it was Peake and Draper. Peake was very old in the 40s, and wore high stock, pigtail and up to ’40, still wore kneebreeches and buckle-shoes. A courtly gentleman of the old school—a Virginian, like Judge C.

Judge C. was elected County Judge by a great majority in ’49, and at last saw great prosperity before him. But of course caught his death the first day he opened court. He went home with pneumonia, 12 miles, horseback, winter—and in a fortnight was dead.

[begin page 105]

The autopsy

The autopsy .

Jimmy Reagan

Jimmy Reagan, from St Louis.

Carey Briggs

Carey Briggs, from Galena and also from Bayou Lafourche.

Priscella

. Old maid at 25, married W. Moffett, mouldy old bachelor of 35—a St L commission merchant and well off. He died 1865, rich ($20,000) leaving little and .

Oscar

. Born Jamestown, 1825. About 1842, aged 17, went to St. L to learn to be a printer, in Ustick’s job office.

At 18, wrote home to , that he was studying the life of Franklin and closely imitating him; that in his boarding house he was confining himself to bread and water, and was trying to persuade the other young boarders and Ustick’s other cubs, to eschew beer. They called him Parson Snivel and gave him frank and admirable cursings, and urged him to mind his own business. All of which pleased him, and made him a hero to himself: for he was turning his other cheek, as commanded, he was being reviled and persecuted for righteousness’ sake, and all that. Privately his little Presbyterian mother was not pleased with this too-literal loyalty to the theoretical Bible-teachings which he had acquired through her agency, for, slender and delicately moulded as she was, she had a dauntless courage and a high spirit, and was not of the cheek-turning sort. She believed fervently in her religion and strenuously believed it was a person’s duty to turn the cheek, but she was quite open and aboveboard in saying that she wouldn’t turn her own cheek nor respect anybody that did. “Why, how do you reconcile that with—” “I don’t reconcile it with anything. I am the

[begin page 106]

We know what she meant. Her attitude is easily understandable, but we get our comprehension of it not through her explanation of it but in spite of it. Her language won’t scan, but its meaning is clear, all the same.

She did not show Oscar’s letter to ; the Judge would have taken no great interest in it. There were few points of contact between him and his son; there were few or no openings for sympathy between the two. The father was as steady as a church-tower, the son as capricious as the weather-vane on its top. Steady people do not admire the weather-vane sort.

But the mother answered the letter; and she poured out her affection upon her boy, and her praises, too; praises of his resolution to be a Franklin and become great and good and renowned; for she always said that he was distrustful of himself and a prey to despondences, and that no opportunity to praise him and encourage him must be lost, or he would lose heart and be defeated in his struggles to gain the front in the race of life. She had to do all the encouraging herself; the rest of the family were indifferent, and this wounded her, and brought gentle reproaches out of her that were strangely eloquent and moving, considering how simple and unaffected her language was, and how effortless and unconscious. But there was a subtle something in her voice and her manner that was irresistably pathetic, and perhaps that was where a great part of the power lay; in that and in her moist eyes and trembling lip. I know now that she was the most eloquent person whom I have met in all my days, but I did not know it then, and I suppose that no one in all the village suspected that she was a marvel, or indeed that she was in any degree above the common. I had been abroad in the world for twenty years and known and listened to many of its best talkers before it at last dawned upon me that in the matter of

[begin page 107]

Oscar’s mother praised in her letter what she was able to praise; and she praised forcefully and generously and heartily, too. There was no uncertain ring about her words. But her gorge rose at the cheek-turning heroisms, and since she could not commend them and be honest, she skipped them wholly, and made no reference to them.

Oscar’s next week’s letter showed further progress. He was now getting up at four in the morning, because that was Franklin’s way; he had divided his day on the Franklin plan—eight hours for labor, eight for sleep, eight for study, meditation and exercise; he had pinned Franklin’s rules up in a handy place, and divided the hours into minutes, and distributed the minutes among the rules, each minute sacred to its appointed duty: so many minutes for the morning prayer; so many for the Bible chapter; so many for the dumb-bells; so many for the bath; so many for What did I do yesterday that was morally and mentally profitable? What did I do which should have been left undone? What opportunity did I neglect of doing good? Whom did I injure, whom did I help, whose burden did I lighten? How shall I order this day to the approval of God, my own spiritual elevation, and the betterment of my fellow beings? And so on, and so on, all the way through: sixteen waking hours cut up into minutes, and each minute labeled with its own particular duty-tag.

He wrote it all home to his mother; and added that he found that life was a noble and beautiful thing when reduced to order and system; that he was astonished to see what briskness, mentally and physically, early rising gave him, and what a difference he could already notice between himself and the late-rising boarders—the greatest difference in the world, and all in four days.

But he said he had taken to his lamp again, for he had found that he could not read his fine-print books by the Franklin tallow candle. Also, he had been to a lecture, and was now a vegetarian, and an

[begin page 108]

The mother’s face flushed when she read that, and the foreman was better off where he was than he would have been, here, in reach of her tongue.

“But James, he is our son, and we must bear with him. If we cannot bear with him, how can we expect others to do it?”

“I have not said I expected it, Sarah. I am very far from expecting it. He is the most trying ass that was ever born.”

“James! You forget that he is our son.”

“That does not save him from being an ass. It does not even take the sting out of it.”

“I do not see how you can be so hard toward your own flesh and blood. Mr. Rucker does not think of him as you do.”

“And why should he? Mr. Rucker is an ass himself.”

“James—do think what you are saying. Do you think it becoming to speak so of a minister—a person called of God?”

“Who said he was?”

“Who said he was? Now you are becoming blasphemous. His office is proof that he was called.”

“Very well, then, perhaps he was. But it was an error of judgment.”

“James, I might have known you would say some awful thing like that. Some day a judgment will overtake you when you least expect it. And after saying what you have said about Mr. Rucker,

[begin page 110]

“What was it? What did he say?”

“He said there was not another youth of seventeen in the Sunday School that was so bright.”

“Bright. What of that? He is bright enough, but what is brightness worth when it is allied to constitutional and indestructible instability of character? Oscar’s a fool.”

“For pity’s sake! And he your own son.”

“It’s what he is. He is a fool. And I can’t help his being my son. It is one of those judgments that overtake a person when he is least expecting it.”

“James, I wonder how you can say such things. The idea of calling your own son a judgment.”

“Oh, call him a benefaction if you like.”

“I do call him one, James; and I bless the day that God in his loving thoughtfulness gave him to us.”

“That is pure flattery.”

“James Carpenter!”

“That is what it is, and you know it. What is there about it to suggest loving thoughtfulness—or any kind of thoughtfulness? It was an inadvertence.”

“James, such language is perfectly shocking. It is profanity.”

“Profanity is better than flattery. The trouble with you Presbyterians and other church-people is that you exercise no discrimination. Whatever comes, you praise; you call it praise, and you think it praise; yet in the majority of cases it is flattery. Flattery, and undignified; undignified and unworthy. Your singular idea that Oscar was a result of thoughtfulness—”

“James, I won’t listen to such talk! If you would go to church yourself, instead of finding fault with people who do, it would be better.”

“But I don’t find fault with people who do.”

“Didn’t you just say that they exercise no discrimination, and all that?”

“Certainly, but I did not say that that was an effect of going to

[begin page 111]

“Well, James, you as good as said it; and now it comes out that at bottom you thought it. It shows how staying away from church makes a person uncharitable in his judgments and opinions.”

“Oh, come!”

“But it does.”

“I dissent—distinctly.”

“Now James, how can you know? In the nineteen years that we have been married, you have been to church only once, and that was nearly nineteen years ago. You have been uncharitable in your judgments ever since—more or less so.”

“I do not quite catch your argument. Do you mean that going to church only once made me uncharitable for life?”

“James, you know very well that I meant nothing of the kind. You just said that to provoke me. You know perfectly well that I meant—I meant—now you have got me all confused, and I don’t know what I did mean.”

“Don’t trouble about it, Sarah. It’s not like having a new experience, you know. For—”

“That will do, James. I do not wish to hear anything more about it. And as for Oscar—”

“Good—let us have some more Oscar for a change. Is it true that he has resigned from the Cadets of Temperance?”

“Ye-s.”

“I thought he would.”

“Indeed? And what made you think it?”

“Because he has been a member three months.”

“What has that to do with it?”

“It’s his limit.”

“What do you mean by that, James?”

“Three months is his limit—in most things. When it isn’t three weeks or three days or three hours. You must have noticed that. He revolves in threes—it is his make. He is a creature of enthusiasms. Burning enthusiasms. They flare up, and light all the region round. For three months, or weeks, or days. Then they go out and he

[begin page 112]

“James, it makes me sick to hear you talk like that. You have never loved your boy. And you never encourage him. You know how sensitive he is to slights and neglect, yet you have always neglected him. You know how quickly he responds to praise, and how necessary praise and commendation and encouragement are to him—indeed they are his very life—yet he gets none of these helps from you. How can you expect him to be steadfast; how can you expect him to keep up his heart in his little affairs and plans when you never show any interest in them and never applaud anything he does?”

“Applaud? What is there to applaud? It is just as you say: praise is his meat and bread—it is his life. And there never was such an unappeasable appetite. So long as you feed him praise, he gorges, gorges, gorges, and is obscenely happy; the moment you stop he is famished—famished and wretched; utterly miserable, despondent, despairing. You ought to know all about it. You have tried to keep him fed-up, all his life, and you know what a job it is. I detest that word—encouragement—where the male sex is concerned. The boy that needs much of it is a girl in disguise. He ought to put on petticoats. Praise has a value—when it is earned. When it isn’t earned, the male creature receiving it ought to despise it; and will, when there is a proper degree of manliness in him. Sarah, if it is possible to make anything creditable out of the boy, only a strong hand can do it. Not yours, and not mine. You are all indulgence, I all indifference. The earlier the strong hand takes him in charge, the

[begin page 113]

“Oh, James, James, you can’t mean what you say! Oh, I never could bear it; oh, I know I never could.”

“Now come, don’t cry, Sarah. Be reasonable. You don’t want the boy ruined. Now do you?”

“But oh, to have him away off there, and I not by if anything should happen.”

“Nothing’s going to happen. He—”

“James—he might get sick. And if I were not there—”

“But you can go there, if he gets sick. Let us not borrow trouble—there is time enough. Other boys go from home—it is nothing new—and if Oscar doesn’t, he will be ruined. Now you know Underwood—a good man, and an old and trusty friend of mine.”

“The printer?”

“Yes. I have been corresponding with him. He is willing to take Oscar as an apprentice. Now doesn’t that strike you pleasantly?”

“Why—yes. If he must go away from home—oh, dear, dear, dear!—why of course I would rather have him with Mr. Underwood than with anyone else. I want to see Oscar succeed in the world; I desire it as much as you can. But surely there are other ways than the one proposed; and ways more soothing to one’s pride, too. Why should our son be a common mechanic—a printer? As far back as we can go there have been no mechanics in your family, and none in mine. In Virginia, for more than two centuries they have been as good as anybody about them; they have been slave-holding planters, professional men, politicians—now and then a merchant, but never a mechanic. They have always been gentlemen. And they were that in England before they came over. Isn’t it so?”

“I am not denying it. Go on.”

“Don’t speak in that tired way, James. You always act annoyed when I speak of our ancestors, and once you said ‘Damn the ancestors.’ I remember it very well. I wonder you could say such a horrid thing about them, knowing, as you do, how brief this life is, and how soon you must be an ancestor yourself.”

[begin page 114]

“I heard that, James—heard every word of it; and you said it ironically, too, which is not good taste—no better taste than muttering it was—muttering to yourself like that when your wife is talking to you.”

“Well, I’m sorry; go on, I won’t do it again. But if the irony was the thing that pinched, that was a quite unnecessary unkindness; I could have said it seriously, and so saved you the hurt.”

“Seriously? How do you mean?”

“Oh, sometimes I feel as if I could give anything to give it all up and lie down in the peace and the quiet and be an ancestor, I do get so tired of being posterity. It is when things go wrong and I am low spirited that I feel like that. At such times—peculiarly dark times, times of deep depression, when the heart is bruised and sore and the light of life is veiled in shadows—it has seemed to me that I would rather be a dog’s ancestor than a lieutenant governor’s posterity.”

“For shame! James, it is the same as saying I am a disappointment to you, and that you would be happier without me than with me. Oh, James, how could you say such a thing?”

“I didn’t say it.”

“What did you say?”

“I said that sometimes I would rather be an ancestor than posterity.”

“Well, isn’t that separating us?”

“No—for I included you.”

“That is different. But James you didn’t say so. It sounded as if you only wanted to be an ancestor by yourself, and of course that hurt me. Did you always think of me, James? Did you always include me? Did you wish I was an ancestor as often as you wished you were one?”

“Yes. Oftener. Twice as often.”

“How good you are, James—when you want to be. But you are not always good; I wish you were. Still, I am satisfied with you, just as you are; I don’t want you changed. You don’t want me changed, do you, James?”

“No, I don’t think of any change that I would want to risk.”

[begin page 115]

“Don’t mention it. Now, as I remember it, your argument had reached the point where—well, I think you had about finished with the ancestry, and—”

“Yes—and was coming to you. You are county judge—the position of highest dignity in the gift of the ballot—and yet you would see your son become a mechanic.”

“I would see him become a man. He needn’t remain a mechanic, if you think it would damage his chances for the peerage.”

“The peerage! I never said anything about the peerage. He would never get rid of the stain. It would always be remembered that he had been a mechanic.”

“To his discredit? Nonsense. Who would remember it as a smirch?”

“Well, I would, for one. And so would the widow Buckner—”

“Grand-daughter of a Hessian corporal, whom she has painted up in a breastpin as an English general. She despise mechanics! Why, her ancestors were bought and sold in shoals in Cassel, at the price of a pound of candles apiece. And it was an overcharge.”

“Well, there’s Miss Rector—”

“Bosh!”

“It isn’t bosh! She—”

“Oh, I know all about that old Tabby. She claims to be descended in an illegal and indelicate way from Charles II. That is no distinction; we are all that. Come, she is no aristocracy. Her opinion is of no consequence. That poor scraggy old thing—why, she is the descendant of an interminable line of Presbyterian Scotch fishermen, and is built, from the ground up, out of hereditary holiness and herring-bones.”

“James, it is scandalous to talk so. She—”

“Get back on your course, Sarah. We can discuss the Hessian and the osteological remains another time. You were coming to some more reasons why Oscar should not be a printer.”

“Yes. It is not a necessity—either moneywise or otherwise. You are comfortably off and need no help from earnings of his. By grace of his grandfather he has a permanent income of four hundred

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“Yes; and fortunately for him it is but a life-interest and he can never touch the principal; otherwise I would rather have a hatful of smoke than that property.”

“Well, that is neither here nor there. He has that income; and has six hundred dollars saved from it and laid up.”

“Don’t let him find it out, Sarah.”

“I—I—he already knows it, James. I did not mean to tell him; it escaped me when I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry.”

“I am, too. But it is no matter—yet awhile. It is out of his reach until he is of age.”

Sarah said nothing, but she was a little troubled. She had lent trifles of money to Oscar from time to time, against the day of his financial independence.

Judge Carpenter mused a while, then said—

“Sarah, I think your objections to my project are not very strong. I believe we must let it stand, unless you can suggest something better. What is your idea about the boy?”

“I think he ought to be trained to one of the professions, James.”

“Um-m. Medicine and surgery?”

“Oh, dear no! not surgery. He is too kind-hearted to give pain, and the sight of blood distresses him. A physician has to turn out of his bed at all hours and expose himself to all weathers. I should be afraid of that—for his health, I mean. I should prefer the law. There is opportunity for advancement in that; such a long and grand line of promotions open to one who is diligent and has talent. James, only think of it—he could become Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States!”

“Could? Would, you mean.”

“Oh, James, do you think he would?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Oh, James, what makes you think so?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

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“I don’t know.”

“James, I think you are the most provoking man that ever—James, are you trifling with me? But I know you are—I can see it. I don’t see how you can act so. I think he would be a great lawyer. If you have doubts—”

“Well, Sarah, I have. He has a fair education; good enough for the business—here in a region where lawyers are hardly ever college-bred men; he has a brighter mind than the average, hereabouts—very much brighter than the average, indeed; he is honest, upright, honorable, his impulses are always high, never otherwise—but he would make a poor lawyer. He has no firmness, no steadfastness, he is as changeable as the wind. He will stick at a thing no longer than the novelty of it lasts, and the praises—then he is off again. When his whole heart is in something and all his fires blazing, anybody can squirt a discouraging word on them and put them out; and any wordy, half-clever person can talk him out of his dearest opinion and make him abandon it. This is not the stuff that good lawyers are made of.”

“James, you cannot be right. It cannot be as bad as you think; you are prejudiced. You never would consent to see any but the most unfavorable side of Oscar. Do you believe he is unfitted for all the professions?”

“All but one.”

“Which one?”

“The pulpit.”

“James, I could hug you for that! It was the secret wish of my heart—my day-dream all these years; but I never dared to speak of it to you, of all creatures. Oh, James, do you think, do you really and seriously think that he would make a name for himself in the pulpit—be spoken of, written about?”

“I know it.”

“Oh, it is too good, too lovely! Think of it—our Oscar famous! You really believe he would be famous!”

“No. Notorious.”

“Well—what is the difference?”

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“Well, what is it?”

“Why, fame is a great and noble thing—and permanent. Notoriety is a noise—just a noise, and doesn’t last.”

“So that is what you think our Oscar would reach. Then pray, why do you think him suited for the pulpit?”

“The law is a narrow field, Sarah; in fact it is merely a groove. Or, you may call it a house with only one room in it. But in religion there are a hundred sects. It is a hotel. Oscar could move from room to room, you know.”

“James!”

“Yes, he could. He could move every quarter, and take a fresh start. And every time he moved, there would be a grand to-do about it. The newspapers would be full of it. That would make him happy. It is my opinion that he ought to be dedicated to this career of sparkling holiness, usefulness and health-giving theological travel.”

Sarah’s face flushed and all her frame quivered with anger. Her breath came in gasps; for the moment she could not get her voice. Then she got it, but before she could use it the thin pipe of a boy calling to a mate pierced to her ear through the still and murky air—

“Thug Carpenter’s got drownded!”

“Oh, James, our Oscar—drowned!” She sank into a chair, pallid and faint, and muttered, “The judgment—I warned you.”

“Drownded, you say?” This from another boy.

“Well, not just entirely, but he’s goin’ to be. The ice is breaking up, and he’s got caught all by himself on t’other side of the split, about a half a mile from shore. He’s a goner!”

Sarah Carpenter was on her feet in a moment, and fumbling with bonnet and shawl with quaking hands. “Quick, James, there’s hope yet!” The Judge was getting into his overcoat with all haste.

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Now arose the ringing sound of flying hoofs, and a trim and fair young girl, bareheaded and riding bareback and astride, went thundering by on a great black horse.

“There goes Hellfire Hotchkiss! Oh, James, he’s saved, if anybody can save him!”

“You’ve said the truth, Sarah. She has saved him before, and she will do it again. Keep up your heart, it will all come right.”

By this time the couple had crossed the river road and were starting down the ice-paved slope of the bank. Ahead, on the level white plain, the black horse was speeding past detachment after detachment of plodding citizens; and all along the route hats and handkerchiefs went up in welcome as the young girl swept by, and burst after burst of cheers rose and floated back, fainter and fainter, as the distance grew.

Far out toward the middle of the river the early arrivals were massed together on the border of a wide rift of indeterminable length. They could get no further. In front of them was the water; beyond it, clear to the Illinois shore, a moaning and grinding drift and turmoil of monster ice-cakes, which wandered apart at times, by compulsion of the swirling currents, then crashed thunderously together again, piling one upon another and rising for a moment into rugged hillocks, then falling to ruin and sagging apart once more. It was an impressive spectacle, and the people were awed by the sight and by the brooding spirit of danger and death that was in the air, and they spoke but little, and then in low voices. Most of them said nothing at all, but gazed fixedly out over the drifting plain, searching it for the missing boy. Now and then, through the vague steam that rose from the thawing ice they caught sight of a black speck away out among the recurrent up-bursting hillocks under the lowering sky, and then there would be a stir among the crowd, and eager questions of “Where? which is it? where do you

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By and by distant cheering was heard, and all turned to listen. The sound grew and grew, approached nearer and nearer, the black horse was sighted, the people fell apart, and down the lane the young girl came flying, with her welcome roaring about her. Evidently she was a favorite. All along, from the beginning of her flight, as soon as she was recognised the cry went up—

“It’s Hellfire Hotchkiss—stand back and give her the road!” and then the cheers broke out.

She reined up, now, and spoke—

“Where is he?”

“Nobody knows. Him and the other boys were skating, along about yonder, somewheres, and they heard a rip, and the first they knew their side of the river begun to break up. They made a rush, and got through all right; but he was behind, and by the time he got here the split was too wide for him—for him, you understand—so they flew home to tell, and get help, and he broke for up the river to hunt a better place, and—”

The girl did not wait for the rest, but rode off up stream, peering across the chasm as she went, the people following her with their eyes, and commenting.

“She’s the only person that had enough presence of mind to come fixed to do something in case there was a chance. She’s got a life-preserver along.” It was Miss Hepworth, the milliner, that said that. Peter Jones, the blacksmith, said—

“It ought to do some good, seeing she took the trouble and had the thoughtfulness to fetch it, but there’s never any telling which way Thug Carpenter is going to act. Take him as a rule, he is afraid of his shadow; and then again, after a mighty long spell, he’ll up and do a thing which is brave enough for most anybody to be proud of. If he is just his ordinary natural self to-day, the life-preserver ain’t going to be any good; he won’t dare use it when Hellfire throws it to him.”

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“So she has. Maybe she’s found him.”

“No, only thought she had. She’s moving on, again. Pudd’nhead Wilson says Thug’s got the lightest heart and the best disposition of any person in this town, and pretty near the quickest brains, too, but is a most noble derned fool just the same. And he says Hellfire’s a long sight the prettiest human creature that ever lived, and the trimmest built, too, and as graceful as a fish; and says he’d druther see her eyes snap when she’s mad, or water up when she’s touched than—’y George, she’s stopped again. Say—she’s faced around; she’s coming this way.”

“It’s so. Stopped again. She’s found him, sure. Seems to be talking across the rift—don’t you see? Got her hand up to her mouth for a trumpet. Ain’t it so?”

“Oh, yes, there ain’t any doubt. She’s got off of her horse. Hi!—come along, everybody. Hellfire’s found him!”

The crowd set out at a pace which soon brought them to the girl; then they faced about and walked along with her. Oscar was abreast, prisoner on a detached and independent great square of ice, with a couple of hundred yards of water and scattered ice-cakes between him and the people. His case had a bad look. Oscar’s parents arrived, now, and when his mother realized the situation she put out her hands toward him and began to wail and sob, and call him by endearing names, and implore him not to leave her, not to take away the light of her life and make it desolate; and then she looked beseechingly into the faces about her, and said, “Oh, will nobody save him? he is all the world to me; oh, I cannot give him up.” She caught sight of the young girl, now, and ran to her and said, “Oh, Rachel, dear, dear Rachel, you saved him before, you’ll not let him die now, will you?”

“No.”

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“’Sh! What is he saying? Listen.”

Oscar was shouting something, but the words could not be made out with certainty.

“Wasn’t it something about snags?” asked the girl. “Are there snags down yonder?”

“Snags? Yes,” said the baker, “there’s a whole rack-heap of them. That is what he’s talking about, sure. He knows they are there, and he knows they’ll wreck him.”

“Then it won’t do to wait any longer for the rift to get narrower,” said Rachel. “He must be helped now or it will be too late.”

She threw off her winter wrap, and began to take off her shoes.

“What are you going to do?” said old Uncle Benny Stimson, Indian doctor and tavern keeper.

“Take him the preserver. He isn’t much of a swimmer, and couldn’t ever make the trip without it.”

“You little fool, you’ll freeze to death.”

“Freeze to death—the idea!”

“Well, you will. You let some of these young fellows do it.”

“When I want anybody’s help, I’ll ask for it, Uncle Benny. I am one of the young fellows myself, I’ll let you know.”

“Right you are. The pig-headedest little devil, for a parson’s daughter, I ever saw. But a brick just the same; I’ll say that for you, H. H.,—every time.”

“Thank you, dear. Please lead my horse and carry my things, and go along down yonder and stand by. Thug is pretty well chilled by this time; somebody please lend me a whisky-flask.”

Thirty-five were offered. She took one, and put it in her bosom. Uncle Benny said—

“No use in that, he’s teetotal—he won’t touch it, girly.”

“That was last week. He has reformed by this time.”

She plunged in and struck out. Somebody said “Let us pray,” but no one heard; all were absorbed in watching. The girl made good progress both ways—forward, by her own strength, and downstream by the force of the current. She made her goal, and got a cheer when she climbed out of the water. Oscar had been in a state

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“Yes you can. I’ll help you, Thug, and the preserver will keep you up. Here, take some of this—it will hearten you.”

“What is it?”

“Milk.”

He took a drain.

“Good milk, too,” he said. “It is so comforting, and I was so cold. I will take some more. How thoughtful it was of you to bring the flask; but you always think of everything.”

“Hurry. Get off your overcoat, Thug.”

But he glanced at the water and the wide distance, and said, “Oh, I don’t dare to venture it. I never could make it.”

“Yes you can. Trust to me. I’ll help you with the coat. There, it’s off. Now the boots. Sit down—I’ll help. Now the preserver; hold still, I’ll strap it around you. We are ready, now. Come—you are not afraid to trust to me, Thug?”

“I am going to do it, if I die—but I wouldn’t risk it with any other person. You’ll go through safe, I know that; and you’ll fetch me through if anybody can.” He added, tearfully, “But it may be that I’ll never get across; I don’t feel that I shall. And if these are my last words, I want to say this. If I go down, you must tell my mother that I loved her and thought of her to the last; and I want you to remember always that I was grateful to you. I think you are the best, best girl that ever lived; and if I pass from this troubled life this day, I shall enter heaven with a prayer on my lips for you, Hellfire. I am ready.”

“You are a dear good boy, Thug, but it is not wise to be thinking about death at such a time as this. Come along, and don’t be afraid; your mother is yonder, and you will be with her in a very little while. Quick, here are the snags.”

They were away in time; in a few moments more their late refuge went to wreck and ruin with a crash.

“Rest your right hand on my shoulder, Thug, and keep the same

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“Yes, and oh, so cold! I can’t hold out, Rachel.”

“Yes you can. You must. We are doing well; we are going to make it. Turn on your back and float a little—two minutes. There, that will do; you mustn’t get cramps.”

“Rachel, they are cheering us. How that warms a person up! If they’ll keep that up, I believe I can make it.”

“They’ll do it—hear that!”

“Rachel—”

“What?”

“I’m afraid there’s a cramp coming.”

“Hush—put it out of your mind!”

“I can’t, Rachel— it’s coming.”

“Thug, you must put it out of your mind. Brace up—we are almost there. It is no distance at all, now. Two minutes more. Brace up. Don’t give in—I know we are safe.”

Both were well spent when they were hauled out on the ice, and also fairly well frozen; but a warm welcome and good whisky refreshed them and made them comfortable; and the attentions and congratulations and interest and sympathy and admiration lavished upon them deeply gratified Oscar’s love of distinction and made him glad the catastrophe had happened to him.

Vesuvius, isolated, conspicuous, graceful of contour, is lovely when it is at peace, with the sunshine pouring upon its rich vineyards and its embowered homes and hamlets drowsing in the drift of the cloud-shadows; but it is subject to irruptions. Rachel was a Vesuvius, seen through the butt-end of the telescope. She was largely made up of feeling. She had a tropically warm heart, a right spirit and a good disposition; but under resentment her

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Part of what she was was born to her, the rest was due to environment and to her up-bringing. She had had neither brothers nor sisters; there was no young society for her in the house. Her mother was an invalid and kept her room the most of the time. She could not endure noise, nor tempers, nor restless activities; and from the cradle her child was a master hand in these matters. So, in her first years she was deprived of the society of her mother. The young slave woman, Martha, was superstitious about her, thinking at first that she was possessed of a devil, and later that he had found the accommodations to his mind and had brought his family. She petted and spoiled the child, partly out of her race’s natural fondness for children of any sort or kind, and partly to placate and pacify the devils; but she had a world of work to do and could give but little time to play, so the child would soon find the kitchen a dull place and seek elsewhere for amusement.

The father was sweetness and amiability itself, and greatly loved the child, but he was no company for the volatile creature, nor she for him. He was always musing, dreaming, absorbing himself in his books, or grinding out sermons, and while the child was present these industries suffered considerable interruption. There was conversation—abundance of it—but it was of a wearing and nerve-racking kind.

“Can I have this, fa’r?” (father.)

“No, dear, that is not for lit—”

“Could I have that?”

“No, dear, please don’t handle it. It is very frail and you might—”

“What is this for, fa’r? Can Wildcat have it?” This was Martha’s love-name for Rachel.

“Oh, dear no! My child, you must not put your hands on things without asking beforehand whether you may or—”

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“Ah, poor child, I wish—there! Oh, I knew you would; the whole inkstand emptied onto your nice clean clothes. Run along, dear, and tell Martha to attend to you—quick, before you smear it over everything.”

There was no one to govern Rachel, no one to train her, so she drifted along without these aids; and such rearing as she got was her own handiwork and was not according to any familiar pattern. She was never still when awake, she was stored to the eyelids with energies and enthusiasms, her mind, her hands, her feet, her body, were in a state of constant and tireless activity, and her weather was about equally divided between brilliant and happy sunshine and devastating tempests of wrath. Martha said she was a “sudden” child—the suddenest she had ever seen; that when anything went wrong with her there was no time to provide against consequences: she had smashed every breakable thing she could get her hands on before a body could say a word; and then as suddenly her fury was over and she was gathering up the wreckage and mourning over it remorsefully.

By the law of her nature she had to have society; and as she could not get it in the house she forsook that desert early and found it outside. And so while she was as yet a toddling little thing it became a peaceful house—a home of deep and slumberous tranquillity, and for a good while perhaps forgot that it had ever been harassed and harried and terrorised by her family of uneasy devils.

She was a stranger outside, but that was nothing; she soon had a reputation there. She laid its foundations in her first week at Miss Roper’s school, when she was six years old and a little past. At first she took up with the little girls, but they were a disappointment; she found their society a weariness. They played with dolls; she found that dull. They cried for a pin-scratch: she did not like that. When they quarreled, they took it out in calling each other names; according to her ideas, this was inadequate. They would not jump from high places; they would not climb high trees; they were afraid of the thunder; and of the water; and of cows; and would take no

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They would have none of her, and told her so. They said they were not going to play with girls—they despised them. Shad Stover threatened her with a stout hickory, and told her to move along or she would catch it. She perceived, now, that she could be happy, here, and was sorry she had wasted so much time with the little girls. She did not say anything to the boy, but snatched his switch away and wore it out on him. She made him beg. He was nearly twice her own age and size, and as he was the bully of the small-fry side of the school, she had established her ability to whip the whole of his following by whipping him—and if she had been a boy this would have been conceded and she would have succeeded to the bully’s captainship without further balloting; but she was a girl, and boys have no manly sense of fairness and justice where girls are concerned; so she had to whip two or three of the others before opposition was quenched and her wish to play with the gang granted. Shad Stover withdrew and took a minor place in a group of somewhat larger boys.

Thenceforth Rachel trained with the boys altogether, and found in their rough play and tough combats and dangerous enterprises the contentment and joy for which she long had hungered. She took her full share in all their sports, and was a happy child. All through the summer she was encountering perils, but she had luck, and disappointed all the prophets. They all said she would get herself killed, but in no instance did her damages reach quite to that, though several times there were good hopes. She was a hardy and determined fighter, and attacked anything that came along, if it offended. By and by when the cool October came and the news went about that the circus was coming, on its way to the South, she was on hand outside the village, with many others, at sunrise, to get a look at the elephant free of charge. With a cake in her hand for the animal, she sat with the crowd on the grass by the country road. When the elephant was passing by, he scooped up a snoutful of dust and flung it over his back, then scooped up another and discharged it into the faces of the audience. They were astonished

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A few months later her mother died. Rachel was then seven years old. During the next three years she went on playing with the boys, and gradually building up a perfect conflagration of a reputation, as far as unusual enterprises and unsafe exploits went. Then at last arguments and reasonings began to have an effect upon her, and she presently stopped training with the boys.

She played with the girls six months, and tried to get used to it and fond of it, but finally had to give it up. The amusements were not rugged enough; they were much too tame, not to say drowsy. Kissing parties and candy pullings in the winter, and picnics in the summer: these were good romps and lively, but they did not happen often enough, and the intermediate dissipations seemed wholly colorless to Rachel.

She withdrew. She did not go back to the boys at once, but tried to get along by herself. But nature was too strong for her; she had to have company; within two months she was a tomboy again, and her life was once more a satisfaction to her, a worry to her friends, and a marvel to the rest of the community.

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She kept the community in an unrestful state; it could settle to no permanent conclusion about her. She was always rousing its resentment by her wild unfeminine ways, and always winning back its forgiveness again by some act or other of an undeniably creditable sort.

By the time she was ten she had begun to help about the house, and before she was thirteen she was become in effect its mistress—mistress and assistant housekeeper. She kept the accounts, checked wastage, and was useful in other ways. But she had earned her picturesque nickname, and it stayed by her. It was a country where nicknames were common; and once acquired, they were a life-property, and inalienable. Rachel might develop into a saint, but that would not matter: the village would acknowledge the saintship

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Along in her sixteenth year she accidentally crossed the orbit of her early antagonist, Shad Stover, and this had good results for her; or rather it led up to something which did her that service. Shad Stover was now twenty, and had gone to the dogs, along with his brother Hal, who was twenty-one. They were dissipated young loafers, and had gotten the reputation of being desperadoes, also. They were as vain of this dark name as if they had legitimately earned it—which they hadn’t. They went armed—which was not the custom of the town—and every now and then they pulled their pepper-box revolvers and made some one beg for his life. They traveled in a pair—two on one—and they always selected their man with good discretion, and no bloodshed followed. It was a cheap way to build up a reputation, but it was effective. About once a month they added something to it in an inexpensive way: they got drunk and rode the streets firing their revolvers in the air and scaring the people out of their wits. They had become the terror of the town. There was a sheriff, and there was also a constable, but they could never be found when these things were going on. Warrants were not sued out by witnesses, for no one wanted to get into trouble with the Stovers.

One day there was a commotion in the streets, and the cry went about that the Stovers had picked a quarrel with a stranger and were killing him. Rachel was on her way home from a ball-game, and had her bat in her hand. She turned a corner, and came upon the three men struggling together; at a little distance was gathered a crowd of citizens, gazing spell-bound and paralyzed. The Stovers had the stranger down, and he had a grip upon each of them and was shouting wildly for help. Just as Rachel arrived Shad snatched himself free and drew his revolver and bent over and thrust it in the man’s face and pulled the trigger. It missed fire, and Rachel’s bat fell before he could pull again. Then she struck the other brother senseless, and the stranger jumped up and ran away, grateful but not stopping to say so.

A few days later old Aunt Betsy Davis paid Rachel a visit. She

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“I want to have a little talk with you, dear. I was your mother’s friend, and I am yours, although you are so headstrong and have never done as I’ve tried to get you to do. But I’ve got to try again, and you must let me; for at last the thing has happened that I was afraid might happen: you are being talked about.”

Rachel’s expression had been hardening for battle; but she broke into a little laugh, now, and said—

“Talked about? Why, aunt Betsy, I was always talked about.”

“Yes, dear, but not in this new way.”

“New way?”

“Yes. There is one kind of gossip that this town has never dealt in before, in the fifty-two years that I’ve lived in it—and has never had any occasion to. Not in one single case, if you leave out the town drunkard’s girls; and even that turned out to be a lie, and was stopped.”

“Aunt Betsy!” Rachel’s face was crimson, and an angry light rose in her eyes.

“There—now don’t lose your temper, child. Keep calm, and let us have a good sensible talk, and talk it out. Take it all around, this is a fair town, and a just town, and has been good to you—very good to you, everything considered, for you have led it a dance, and you know it. Now ain’t that so?”

“Ye-s, but—”

“Never mind the buts. Leave it just so. The town has been quite reasonably good to you, everything considered. Partly it was on account of your poor mother, partly on your father’s account and your own, and partly because it’s its natural and honorable disposition to stand by all its old families the best it can. Now then, haven’t you got your share to do by it? Of course you have. Have you done it? In some ways you haven’t, and I’m going to tell you about it. You’ve always preferred to play with the boys. Well, that’s all right, up to a certain limit; but you’ve gone away beyond the limit. You ought to have stopped long ago—oh, long ago. And

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“Why, I’ve not done it once since I was twelve, aunt Betsy.”

“Is that so? Well, I’m glad of it; I hadn’t noticed. I’ll set that down to your credit. Now there’s another thing. If you must go boating, and shooting, and skating, and all that—however, let that go. I reckon you couldn’t break yourself. But anyway, you don’t need the boys’ company—you can go alone. You see, if you had let the boys alone, why then these reports wouldn’t ever—”

“Aunt Betsy, does anybody believe those reports?”

“Believe them? Why, how you talk! Of course they don’t. Our people don’t believe such things about our old families so easy as all that. They don’t believe it now, but if a thing goes on, and on, and on, being talked about, why that’s another matter. The thing to do is to stop it in time, and that is what I’ve come to plead with you to do, child, for your own sake and your father’s, and for the sake of your mother who is in her grave—a good friend to me she was, and I’m trying to be hers, now.”

She closed with a trembling lip and an unsteady voice. Rachel was not hearing; she was lost in a reverie. Presently a flush crept into her face, and she muttered—

“And they are talking about me—like that!” After a little she glanced up suddenly and said, “You spoke of it as new talk; how new is it?”

“Two or three days old.”

“Two or three days. Who started it?”

“Can’t you guess?”

“I think I can. The Stovers.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll horsewhip them both.”

The old lady said with simplicity—

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After aunt Betsy took her leave, Rachel sat a long time silent and thinking. In the end, she arrived at a conclusion, apparently.

“And they are talking about me—like that. Who would ever have dreamed it? Aunt Betsy is right. It is time to call a halt. It is a pity, too. The boys are such good company, and it is going to be so dull without them. Oh, everything seems to be made wrong, nothing seems to be the way it ought to be. Thug Carpenter is out of his sphere, I am out of mine. Neither of us can arrive at any success in life, we shall always be hampered and fretted and kept back by our misplaced sexes, and in the end defeated by them, whereas if we could change we should stand as good a chance as any of the young people in the town. I wonder which case is the hardest. I am sorry for him, and yet I do not see that he is any more entitled to pity than I am.”

She went on thinking at random for a while longer, then her thoughts began to settle and take form and shape, and she ended by making a definite plan.

“I will change my way of life. I will begin now, and stick to it. I will not train with the boys any more, nor do ungirlish things except when it is a duty and I ought to do them. I mean, I will not do them for mere pleasure. Before this I would have horsewhipped the Stovers just as a pleasure; but now it will be for a higher motive—a higher motive, and in every way a worthier one.

“That is for Monday. Tomorrow I will go to church. I will go every Sunday. I do not want to, but it must be done. It is a duty.

“Withdraw from the boys. The Stovers. Church. That makes three. Three in three days. It is enough to begin with; I suppose I have never done three in three weeks before—just as duties.”

And being refreshed and contented by this wholesale purification, she went to bed.

Well, we was back home and I was at the Widow Douglas’s up on Cardiff Hill again getting sivilised some more along of her and old Miss Watson all the winter and spring, and the Widow was hiring Jim for wages so he could buy his wife and children’s freedom some time or other, and the summer days was coming, now, and the new leaves and the wind-flowers was out, and marbles and hoops and kites was coming in, and it was already barefoot time and ever so bammy and soft and pleasant, and the damp a-stewing out of the ground and the birds a-carrying on in the woods, and everybody taking down the parlor stoves and stowing them up garret, and speckled straw hats and fish-hooks beginning to show up for sale, and the early girls out in white frocks and blue ribbons, and schoolboys getting restless and fidgetty, and anybody could see that the derned winter was over. Winter is plenty lovely enough when it is winter and the river is froze over and there’s hail and sleet and bitter cold and booming storms and all that, but spring is no good—just rainy and slushy and sloppy and dismal and ornery and uncomfortable, and ought to be stopped. Tom Sawyer he says the same.

Me and Jim and Tom was feeling good and thankful, and took

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“Mars Tom, you ought not to talk so. You can’t relieve Prov’dence none, en he doan need yo’ help, nohow. En what’s mo’, Mars Tom, if you’s gwyne to try to plan out sump’n dat Prov’dence ain’ gwyne to ’prove of, den ole Jim got to pull out, too.”

Tom seen that he was making a mistake, and resking getting Jim down on his projects before there was any to get down on. So he changed around a little, and says—

“Jim, Providence appoints everything beforehand, don’t he?”

“Yessah—’deed he do—fum de beginnin’ er de worl’.”

“Very well. If I plan out a thing—thinking it’s me that’s planning it out, I mean—and it don’t go; what does that mean? Don’t it mean that it wasn’t Providence’s plan and he ain’t willing?”

“Yessah, you can ’pen’ ’pon it—dat’s jes’ what it mean, every time.”

“And if it does go, it means that it was Providence’s plan, and I just happened to hit it right, don’t it?”

“Yessah, it’s jes’ what it mean, dead sho’.”

“Well, then, it’s right for me to go ahead and keep on planning out things till I find out which is the one he wants done, ain’t it?”

“W’y, sutt’nly, Mars Tom, dat’s all right, o’ course, en ain’ no sin en no harm—”

“That is, I can suggest plans?”

“Yassah, sutt’nly, you can sejest as many as you want to, Prov’dence ain’ gwyne to mine dat, if he can look ’em over fust, but doan you do none of ’em, Mars Tom, excep’ only jes’ de right one—becase de sin is shovin’ ahead en doin’ a plan dat Prov’dence ain’t satisfied wid.”

[begin page 136]

“It’s all right, now, and we’ll set down here on the sand and plan out something that ’ll just make the summer buzz, and worth being alive. I’ve been examining the authorities and sort of posting up, and there’s two or three things that look good, and would just suit, I reckon—either of them.”

“Well,” I says, “what’s the first one?”

“The first one, and the biggest, is a civil war—if we can get it up.”

“Shucks,” I says, “dern the civil war. Tom Sawyer, I might a knowed you’d get up something that’s full of danger and fuss and worry and expense and all that—it wouldn’t suit you, if it warn’t.”

“And glory,” he says, excited, “you’re forgetting the glory—forgetting the main thing.”

“Oh, cert’nly,” I says, “it’s got to have that in, you needn’t tell a person that. The first time I ketch old Jimmy Grimes fetching home a jug that hain’t got any rot-gut in it, I’ll say the next mericle that’s going to happen is Tom Sawyer fetching home a plan that hain’t got any glory in.”

I said it very sarcastic. I just meant it to make him squirm, and it done it. He stiffened up, and was very distant, and said I was a jackass.

Jim was a studying and studying, and pretty soon he says—

“Mars Tom, what do dat word mean—civil?”

“Well, it means—it means—well, anything that’s good, and kind, and polite, and all that—Christian, as you may say.”

“Mars Tom, doan dey fight in de wars, en kill each other?”

“Of course.”

“Now den, does you call dat civil, en kind en polite, en does you call it Christian?”

“Well—you see—well, you know—don’t you understand, it’s only just a name.”

“Hi-yah! I was a layin’ for you, Mars Tom, en I got you dis time, sho’. Jist a name! Dat’s so. Civil war! Dey ain’ no sich war. De

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“How do you know, till it’s been tried?”

“How does I know? I knows becase Prov’dence ain’ gwyne to let dat kind o’ people fight—he ain’ never hearn o’ no sich war.”

“He has heard of it, too; it’s an old thing; there’s been a million of them.”

Jim couldn’t speak, he was so astonished. And so hurt, too. He judged it was a sin for Tom to say such a thing. But Tom told him it was so, and everybody knowed it that had read the histories. So Jim had to believe it, but he didn’t want to, and said he didn’t believe Providence would allow it any more; and then he got doubtful and troubled and ontrustful, and asked Tom to lay low and not sejest it. And he was so anxious that he couldn’t be comforted till Tom promised him he wouldn’t.

So Tom done it; but he was disappointed. And for a while he couldn’t keep from talking about it and hankering after it. It shows what a good heart he had; he had been just dead set on getting up a civil war, and had even planned out the preparations for it on the biggest scale, and yet he throwed it all aside and give it up to accommodate a nigger. Not many boys would a done such a thing as that. But that was just his style; when he liked a person there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for them. I’ve seen Tom Sawyer do a many a noble thing, but the noblest of all, I think, was the time he countermanded the civil war. That was his word—and not a half a mouthful for him, either, but I don’t fat up with such, they give me the dry gripes. He had the preparations all made, and was going to have a billion men in the field, first and last, besides munitions of war. I don’t know what that is—brass bands, I reckon; sounds like it, anyway, and I knowed Tom Sawyer well enough to know that if he got up a war and was in a hurry and overlooked some of the things, it wouldn’t be the brass bands, not by a blame

[begin page 138]

So then I says, “What’s the next plan, Tom?”

And he said his next idea was to get up a revolution. Jim licked his chops over that, and says—

“Hit’s a pow’ful big word, Mars Tom, en soun’ mighty good. What ’s a revolution?”

“Well, it’s where there ain’t only nine-tenths of the people satisfied with the gov’ment, and the others is down on it and rises up full of patriotic devotion and knocks the props from under it and sets up a more different one. There’s nearly about as much glory in a revolution as there is in a civil war, and ain’t half the trouble and expense if you are on the right side, because you don’t have to have so many men. It’s the economicalest thing there is. Anybody can get up a revolution.”

“Why lookyhere, Tom,” I says, “how can one-tenth of the people pull down a gov’ment if the others don’t want them to? There ain’t any sense in that. It can’t be done.”

“It can’t, can’t it? Much you know about history, Huck Finn. Look at the French revolution; and look at ourn. I reckon that ’ll show you. Just a handful started it, both times. You see, they don’t

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“Every time?”

“Of course; it’s all there is to a revolution—you knock out the gov’ment and start a fresh kind.”

“Tom Sawyer,” I says, “where are you going to get a king to knock out? There ain’t any.”

“Huck Finn, you don’t have to have any to knock out, this time—you put one in.”

He said it would take all summer, and break up school and everything, and so I was willing for us to start the revolution; but Jim says—

“Mars Tom, I’s gwyne to object. I hadn’t nothing agin kings ontel I had dat one on my han’s all las’ summer. Dat one’s enough for me. He was de beatenes’ ole cuss—now warn’t he, Huck? Warn’t he de wust lot you ever see?—awluz drunk en carryin’ on, him en de duke, en tryin’ to rob Miss Mary en de Hair-lip—no sah, I got enough; I ain’ gwyne to have nothing more to do wid kings.”

Tom said that that warn’t no regular king, and couldn’t be took as a sample; and tried his level best to argufy Jim into some kind of reasonableness, but it warn’t any use; he was set, and when he was set once, he was set for good. He said we would have all the trouble and worry and expense, and when we got the revolution done our old king would show up and hog the whole thing. Well, it begun to sound likely, the way Jim put it, and it got me to feeling oneasy, and I reckoned we was taking too much of a resk; so I pulled out

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So Tom he give up the revolution, and said the next best thing would be to start an insurrection. Well, me and Jim was willing to that, but when we come to look it over we couldn’t seem to think up anything to insurrect about. Tom explained what it was, but there didn’t seem to be any way to work it. He had to give in, himself, that there wasn’t anything definite about an insurrection. It wasn’t either one thing nor t’other, but only just the middle stage of a tadpole. With its tail on, it was only just a riot; tail gone, it was an insurrection; tail gone and legs out, it was a revolution. We worried over it a little, but we see we couldn’t do anything with it, so we let it go; and was sorry about it, too, and low spirited, for it was a beautiful name.

“Now then,” I says, “what’s the next?”

Tom said the next was the last we had in stock, but was the best one of all, in some ways, because the hide and heart of it was

[begin page 141]

“All right, what is your idea?”

“It’s a noble good one, Huck. It’s for us to get up a conspiracy.”

“Is it easy, Mars Tom? Does you reckon we can do it?”

“Yes, anybody can.”

“How does you go at it, Mars Tom? What do de word mean?”

“It means laying for somebody—private. You get together at night, in a secret place, and plan out some trouble against somebody; and you have masks on, and passwords, and all that. Georges Cadoudal got up a conspiracy. I don’t remember what it was about, now, but anyway he done it, and we can do it, too.”

“Is it cheap, Mars Tom?”

“Cheap? Well, I should reckon! Why, it don’t cost a cent. That is, unless you do it on a big scale, like Bartholomew’s Day.”

“What is dat, Mars Tom? What did dey do?”

“I don’t know. But it was on a big scale, anyway. It was in France. I think it was the Presbyterians cleaning out the missionaries.”

Jim was disappointed, and says, kind of irritated—

“So, den, blame de conspiracy, down she goes. We got plenty Presbyterians, but we ain’t got no missionaries.”

“Missionaries, your granny—we don’t need them.”

“We don’t, don’t we? Mars Tom, how you gwyne to run yo’ conspiracy if you ain’ got but one end to it?”

“Why, hang it, can’t we have somebody in the place of missionaries?”

“But would dat be right, Mars Tom?”

“Right? Right hasn’t got anything to do with it. The wronger a conspiracy is, the better it is. All we’ve got to do is to have somebody in the place of the missionaries, and then—”

“But Mars Tom, will dey take de place, onless you explains to

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“Oh, shut up! You make me tired. I never see such a nigger to argue, and argue, and argue, when you don’t know anything what you are talking about. If you’ll just hold still a minute I’ll get up a conspiracy that ’ll make Bartholomew sick—and not a missionary in it, either.”

Jim knowed it wouldn’t do for him to chip in any more for a spell, but he went on a mumbling to himself, the way a nigger does, and saying he wouldn’t give shucks for a conspiracy that was made up out of just any kinds of odds and ends that come handy and hadn’t anything lawful about it. But Tom didn’t let on to hear; and it’s the best way, to let a nigger or a child go on and grumble itself out, then it’s satisfied.

Tom bent his head down, and propped his chin in his hands, and begun to forget us and the world; and pretty soon when he got up and begun to walk the sand and bob his head and wag it, I knowed the conspiracy was beginning to bile; so I stretched out in the sun and went to sleep, for I warn’t going to be needed in that part of the business. I got an hour’s nap, and then Tom was ready, and had it all planned out.

I see in a minute that he had struck a splendid idea. It was to get the people in a sweat about the ablitionists. It was the very time for it. We knowed that for more than two weeks past there was whispers going around about strangers being seen in the woods over on the Illinois side, and then disappearing, and then seen again; and everybody reckoned it was ablitionists laying for a chance to run off some of our niggers to freedom. They hadn’t run off any yet, and most likely they warn’t even thinking about it and warn’t ablitionists anyway; but in them days a stranger couldn’t show himself and not start an uneasiness unless he told all about his

[begin page 143]

And they had tightened up the rules, and a nigger couldn’t be out after dark at night, pass or no pass. And all the young men was parceled out into paterollers, and they watched the streets all night, ready to stop any stranger that come along.

Tom said it was a noble good time for a conspiracy—it was just as if it was made for it on a contract. He said all we had to do was to start it, and it would run itself. He believed if we went at it right and conscientious, and done our duty the best we could, we could have the town in a terrible state in three days. And I believed he was right, because he had a good judgment about conspiracies and those kind of things, mysteries being in his line and born to it, as you may say.

For a beginning, he said we must have a lot of randyvoozes—secret places to meet at and conspire; and he reckoned we better kind of surround the town with them, partly for style and partly so as there would always be one of them handy, no matter what part of town we might be in. So, for one he appointed our old hanted house, in the lonesome place three miles above town where Crawfish creek comes in out of Catfish hollow. And for another, mine and Jim’s little cave up in the rocks in the deep woods on Jackson’s island. And for another, the big cave on the main land three miles below town—Injun Joe’s cave, where we found the money that the robbers had hid. And for another, the old deserted slaughterhouse on Slaughterhouse Point at the foot of town, where the creek comes in. The polecats couldn’t stand that place, it smelt like the very nation; and so me and Jim tried to get him to change, but he wouldn’t. He said it was a good strattyjick point, and besides was a good place to retreat to and hide, because dogs couldn’t follow us there, on account of our scent not being able to beat the competition, and even if the dogs could follow us the enemy couldn’t follow the dogs because they would suffocate. We seen that it was a good idea and sound, so then we give in.

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“Lookyhere—what busted up Guy Fawkes? And what busted up Titus Oates?”

He looked at me very hard. But I warn’t going to give myself away. Then he looked at Jim very hard—but Jim warn’t going to, either. So then there wasn’t anything more said about it.

Tom appointed our cave on Jackson’s island for the high chief headquarters, and said common business could be done in the other randyvoozes, but the Council of State wouldn’t ever meet anywhere but there—and said it was sacred. And he said there would have to be two Councils of State to run a conspiracy as important as this one—a Council of Ten and a Council of Three; black gowns for the Ten and red for the Three, and masks for all. And he said all of us would be the Council of Ten, and he would be the Council of Three. Because the Council of Three was supreme and could abrogate anything the other Council done. That was his word—one of his pile-drivers. I sejested it would save wages to leave out the Council of Ten, and there warn’t hardly enough stuff for it anyway; but he only said—

“If I didn’t know any more about conspiracies than you do, Huck Finn, I wouldn’t expose myself.”

So then he said we would go to the Council Chamber now, and hold the first meeting without any gowns or masks, and pass a resolution of oblivion next meeting and justify it; then it would go on the minutes all regular, and nobody could be put under attainder on account of it. It was his way, and he was born so, I reckon. Everything had to be regular, or he couldn’t stand it. Why, I could steal six watermelons while he was chawing over authorities and arranging so it would be regular.

We found our old cave just as me and Jim had left it the time we got scared out and started down the river on the raft. Tom called up the Council of Ten, and made it a speech about the seriousness of the occasion, and hoped every member would reconnize it and put his hand sternly to the wheel and do his duty without fear or favor. Then he made it take an oath to run the conspiracy the best it

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So then he elected himself President of the Council and Secretary, and opened the business. He says—

“There’s a lot of details—no end of them—but they don’t all come first, they belong in their places; they’ll fall in all right, as we go along. But there’s a first detail, and that is the one for us to take hold of now. What does the Council reckon it is?”

I was stumped, and said so. Jim he said the same.

“Well, then, I’ll tell you. What is it the people are a-worrying about? What is it they are afraid of? You can answer that, I reckon.”

“Why, they’re afraid there’s going to be some niggers run off.”

“That is right. Now, then, what is our duty as a conspiracy?”

Jim didn’t know, and I didn’t.

“Huck Finn, if you would think a minute you would know. There’s a lack—we’ve got to supply it. Ain’t that plain enough? We’ve got to run off a nigger.”

“My lan’, Mars Tom! W’y, dey’ll hang us.”

“Well, what do you want? What is a conspiracy for? Do you reckon it’s to propagate immortality? We’ve got to run risks, or it ain’t any conspiracy at all, and no honor in it. The honor of a conspiracy is to do the thing you are after, but do it right and smart and not get hung. Well, we will fix that. Now then, come back to business. The first thing is, to pick out the nigger, and the next is, to arrange about running him off.”

“Why, Tom, we can’t ever do it. There ain’t a nigger in the town that ’ll listen to it a minute. It would scare him out of his life, and he would run straight to his master and tell on us.”

He looked as if he was ashamed of me; and says—

“Now, Huck Finn, do you reckon I didn’t know that?”

I couldn’t understand what he was getting at. I says—

“Well, then, Tom Sawyer, if there ain’t a nigger in the town that will let us run him off, how can we manage?”

“Very easy. We’ll put one there.”

“Oh, cert’nly—that’s very easy. Where are we going to get him?”

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Me and Jim laughed; but Tom said he had thought it all out, and it would work. So then he told us the plan, and it was a very good one, sure enough. He would black up for a runaway nigger and hide in the hanted house, and I would betray him and sell him to old Bradish, up in Catfish hollow, which was a nigger trader in a little small way, and the orneriest hound in town, and then we would run him off and the music would begin, Tom said. And I reckoned it would.

But of course, just as everything was fixed all ship-shape and satisfactry, Jim’s morals begun to work again. It was always happening to him. He said he belonged to the church, and couldn’t do things that warn’t according to religion. He reckoned the conspiracy was all right, he wasn’t worried about that, but oughtn’t we to take out a licence?

It was natural for him to think that, you know, becuz he knowed that if you wanted to start a saloon, or peddle things, or trade in niggers, or drive a dray, or give a show, or own a dog, or do most any blame thing you could think of, you had to take out a licence, and so he reckoned it would be the same with a conspiracy, and would be sinful to run it without one, becuz it would be cheating the gover’ment. He was troubled about it, and said he had been praying for light. And then he says, in that kind of pitiful way a nigger has that is feeling ignorant and distressed—

“De prar hain’t ben answered straight en squah, but as fur as I can make out fum de symptoms, hit’s agin de conspiracy onless we git de licence.”

Well, I could see Jim’s side, and knowed I oughtn’t to fret at a poor nigger that didn’t mean no harm, but was only going according to his lights the best he could, and yet I couldn’t help being aggeravated to see our new scheme going to pot like the civil war and the revolution and no way to stop it as far as I could see—for Jim was set; you could see it; and of course when he was set, that was the end; arguments couldn’t budge him. I warn’t going to try; breath ain’t given to us for to be wasted. I reckoned Tom would try, becuz the conspiracy was the last thing we had in stock and he

[begin page 147]

But Tom never done anything of the kind. No, he come out of it beautiful. I hardly ever seen him rise to such grandure of wisdom as he done that time. I’ve seen him in delicate places often and often, when there warn’t no time to swap horses, and seen him pull through all right when anybody would a said he couldn’t, but I reckon they warn’t any delicater than this one. He was catched sudden—but no matter, he was all there. When I seen him open his mouth I says to myself wherever one of them words hits it’s agoing to raise a blister. But it warn’t so. He says, perfectly cam and gentle—

“Jim, I’ll never forget you for thinking of that, and reminding us. I clean forgot the licence, and if it hadn’t been for you we might never thought of it till it was too late and we’d gone into a conspiracy that warn’t rightly and lawfully sanctified.” Then he speaks out in his official voice, very imposing, and says, “Summons the Council of Three.” So then he mounted his throne in state, which was a nail-kag, and give orders to grant a licence to us to conspire in the State of Missouri and adjacent realms and apinages for a year, about anything we wanted to; and commanded the Grand Secretary to set it down in the minutes and put the great seal to it.

Jim was satisfied, then, and full of thankfulness, and couldn’t find words enough to say it; though I thought then and think yet that the licence warn’t worth a dern. But I didn’t say anything.

There was only one more worry on Jim’s mind, and it didn’t take long to fix that. He was afeared it wouldn’t be honest for me to sell Tom when Tom didn’t belong to me; he was afeared it looked like swindling. So Tom didn’t argue about it. He said wherever there was a doubt, even if it was ever so little a one, but yet had a look of being unmoral, he wanted it removed out of the plan, for he would not be connected with a conspiracy that was not pure. It looked to me like this conspiracy was a-degenerating into a Sunday school. But I never said anything.

[begin page 148]

I never said anything; but I reckoned to myself that if I got the money and Tom forgot and didn’t interfere, me and Bat Bradish would settle that somehow amongst ourselves.

We paddled over to town, and Jim went home and me and Tom went to the carpenter shop and got a lot of smooth pine blocks that Tom wanted, and then to a shop and got an awl and a gouge and a little chisel, and took them to Tom’s aunt Polly’s and hid them up garret, and I stayed for supper and for all night; and in the middle of the night we slipped out and trapsed all over town to see the paterollers; and it was dim and quiet and still, except a dog or two and a cat that warn’t satisfied, and nobody going about, but everybody asleep and the lights out except where there was sickness, then there would be a pale glow on the blinds; and a pateroller stood on every corner, and said “Who goes there?” and we said “Friends,” and they said “Halt, and give the countersign,” and we said we didn’t have any, and they come and looked, and said, “Oh, it’s you; well, you better get along home, no time for young trash like you to be out of bed.”

And then we watched for a chance and slipped up stairs into the printing office, and put down the blinds and lit a candle, and there was old Mr. Day, the traveling jour. printer, asleep on the floor

[begin page 149]

Tom warn’t willing to do business on Sunday, but Monday morning we went up garret and got out all our old nigger-show things, and Tom tried on his wig and the tow-linen shirt and ragged britches and one suspender, and straw hat with the roof caved in and part of the brim gone, and they was better than ever, becuz the shirt hadn’t been washed since the cows come home and the rats had been sampling the other things.

Then Tom wrote out the handbill, “$100 Reward, Elegant Deef and Dumb Nigger Lad run away from the subscriber,” and so on, and described himself to a dot the way he would look when he was blacked and dressed up for business, and said the nigger could be returned to “Simon Harkness, Lone Pine, Arkansaw;” and there warn’t no such place, and Tom knowed it very well.

Then we hunted out the old chain and padlock and two keys that we used to play the Prisoner of the Basteel with, and some lampblack and some grease, and put them with the other things— “properties,” Tom called them, which was a large name for truck which was not rightly property at all, for you could buy the whole outfit for forty cents and get cheated.

We had to have a basket, and there wasn’t any that was big enough except aunt Polly’s willow one, which she was so proud of and particular about, and it wasn’t any use asking her to lend us that, becuz she wouldn’t; so we went down stairs and got it while she was pricing a catfish that a nigger had to sell, and fetched it up

[begin page 150]

We hid the outfit up stairs in the hanted house that morning, and come back to town with the basket, and it was very useful to carry provisions to Jim’s big boat in, and cooking utensils. I stayed in the boat to take care of the things, and Tom done the shopping—not buying two basketfuls in one shop, but going to another shop every time, or people would have asked questions. Last of all, Tom fetched the pine blocks and printing ink and stuff from up garret, and then we pulled over to the island and stowed the whole boatload in the cave, and knowed we was well fixed for the conspiracy now.

We got back home before night and hid the basket in the woodshed, and got up in the night and hung it on the front door knob, and aunt Polly found it there in the morning and asked Tom how it come there, and he said he reckoned it was angels, and

[begin page 151]

But Tom was in a hurry about the handbills, and we took the first chance and got away and paddled down the river seven miles in the dugout to Hookerville, where there was a little printing office that had a job once in four years, and got a hundred and fifty Reward bills printed, and paddled back in the dead water under the banks, and got home before sundown and hid the bills up garret and had a licking, not much of a one, and then supper and family worship, and off to bed dog tired; but satisfied, becuz we had done every duty.

We went straight to sleep, for it ain’t any trouble to go to sleep when you are tired and have done everything there was time to do, and done it the best you could, and so nothing on your conscience and nothing to trouble about. And we didn’t take any pains about waking up, becuz the weather was good, and if it stayed so we couldn’t do anything more till there was a change; and if a change come it would wake us. And it did.

It come on to storm about one in the morning, and the thunder and lightning woke us up. The rain come down in floods and floods; and ripped and raced along the shingles enough to deefen you, and would come slashing and thrashing against the windows, and make you feel so snug and cosy in the bed, and the wind was a howling around the eaves in a hoarse voice, and then it would die down a little and pretty soon come in a booming gust, and sing, and then wheeze, and then scream, and then shriek, and rock the house and make it shiver, and you would hear the shutters slamming all down the street, and then there’d be a glare like the world afire, and the thunder would crash down, right at your head and seem to tear everything to rags, and it was just good to be alive and tucked up comfortable to enjoy it; but Tom shouts “Turn out, Huck, we can’t ever have it righter than this,” and although he shouted it I could hardly hear him through the rattle and bang and roar and racket.

I wished I could lay a little bit longer, but I knowed I couldn’t, for Tom wouldn’t let me; so I turned out and we put on our clothes

[begin page 152]

It was a-drenching away just the same, and blowing and storming and thundering, a wild night and just the weather for ockult business like ourn, Tom said. I said yes; and said we ought to brought all the bills, becuz we wouldn’t have another such a night soon. But he said—

“What do we want of any more? Where do they stick up bills, Huck?”

“Why, on the board that leans up against the postoffice door, where they stick up strayeds and stolens, and temperance meetings, and taxes, and niggers for sale, and stores to rent, and all them things, and a good place, too, and don’t cost nothing, but an advertisement does, and don’t anybody read it, either.”

“Of course. They don’t put up two bills, do they?”

“No. Only one. You can’t read two at a time, except people that is cross-eyed, and there ain’t enough of them for to make it worth the trouble.”

“Well, then, that’s why I fetched only one.”

“What did you get 150 for, then? Are we going to stick up a new one every night for six months?”

“No, we ain’t ever going to stick up any but the one. One’s a plenty.”

“Why, Tom, what did you spend all that money for, then? Why didn’t you get only one printed?”

“On account of its being the regular number. If I had got only one, the printer would a gone soliloquising around to himself, saying ‘This is curious; he could get 150 for the same money, and he takes only one; there’s something crooked about this, and I better get him arrested.’ ”

Well, that was Tom Sawyer all over; always thought of everything. A long head; the longest I ever see on a boy.

Then come a glare that didn’t leave a thimbleful of darkness

[begin page 153]

So we got home hoping Sid hadn’t stirred; and kind of calculating on it, too, seeing how we was being looked out for in inscrutable ways and how many signs there was that Providence was satisfied with the conspiracy as far as we had got. But there come a little hitch, now. We was on the roof of the L, and clawing along the comb in the dark, and I was in the lead and was half way to our window, and had set down frog-fashion, very gentle and soft, to feel for a nail that was along there, becuz I had set down on it hard, sometimes, when I warn’t wanting to, and it was that kind of a nail

[begin page 154]

We clumb into our window and set down and whispered it over. We had to do something, and we didn’t know what. Tom said, as a general thing he wouldn’t care for this, but it wasn’t a good time, now, to be attracting attention. He said if Sid could have a holiday out on his uncle Fletcher’s farm, thirty miles in the country, for about four weeks, it would clear the decks and be the very thing, and the conspiracy would glide along and be in smooth water and safe, by that time. He didn’t reckon Sid was suspicioning anything yet, but would start in to watch us, and pretty soon he would. I says—

“When are you going to ask your aunt Polly to let him have the holiday, Tom—in the morning?”

“Why, I ain’t going to ask her at all. That’s not the way. She would ask me what was interesting me in Sid’s comfort all of a sudden, and she would suspicion something. No, we must cunjer up some way to make her invent the idea herself and send him away.”

“Well,” I says, “I’ll let you have the job—it ain’t in my line.”

“I’ll study it over,” he says, “I reckon it can be fixed.”

I was going to pull off my clothes, but he says, “Don’t do that, we’ll sleep with them on.”

“What for?”

“It’s nothing but shirt and nankeen pants, and they’ll dry in three hours.”

“What do we want them dry for, Tom?”

But he was listening at Sid’s door, to hear if he was snoring. Then he slipped in there and got Sid’s clothes and fetched them and hung them out of the window till they was soaked, then he carried them back and come to bed. So then I understood. We snuggled up together, and pulled up the blankets, and wasn’t overly comfortable, but of course we had to stand it. After a long thinking spell, Tom says—

[begin page 155]

“How?”

“Aunt Polly wouldn’t let Sid and Mary stay in the house if we had measles here; she would send them to uncle Fletcher’s—it’s the only place.”

I didn’t like the idea, it made me half sick; and I says—

“Tom, don’t you do it; it’s a fool idea. Why, you might die.”

“Die, you pelican? I never heard such foolishness. Measles never kills anybody except grown people and babies. You never heard of a case.”

I was worried, and tried to talk him out of it, and done my best, but it didn’t do any good. He was full of it, and bound to try it, and wanted me to help him; so I give it up and said I would. So he planned it out how we was to manage it, and then we went to sleep.

We got up dry, but Sid’s things was wet; and when he said he was going to tell on us, Tom told him he could go and tell, as fast as he wanted to, and see if him and his wet clothes could beat our dry ones testifying. Sid said he hadn’t been out, but knowed we had, becuz he seen us. Tom says—

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself. You are always walking in your sleep and dreaming all kinds of strange things that didn’t happen, and now you are at it again. Can’t you see, perfectly plain, it’s nothing but a dream? If you didn’t walk, how comes your clothes wet? and if we did, how comes ourn dry?—you answer me that.”

Sid was all puzzled and mixed up, and couldn’t make it out. He felt of our clothes, and thought and thought; but he had to give it up. He said he judged he could see, now, it was only a dream, but it was the amazingest vividest one he ever had. So the conspiracy was saved, and out of a close place, too, and Tom said anybody could see it was approved of. And he was awed about it, and said it was enough to awe anybody and make them better, to see the inscrutable ways that that conspiracy was watched over and took care of, and I felt the same. Tom resolved to be humbler and gratefuller

[begin page 156]

“Goodness gracious, what are you doing here! Clear out, you little idiot, don’t you know we’ve got the measles?”

Tom wanted to explain that he come to ask how Joe was, but she shoo’d and shoo’d him to the door and out, and wouldn’t listen, and says—

“Oh, do go away and save yourself. You’ve frightened the life out of me, and your aunt Polly will never forgive me, and yet it’s nobody’s fault but yourn, for not going to the front door, where anybody would that had any sense of discretion,” and then she slammed the door and shut Tom out.

But that give him an idea. So in about an hour he sent me to the front door to knock and fetch her there; and she would have to go, becuz the children was with the neighbors on account of the measles, and the captain out at his business; and so, whilst I kept her there asking her all about Joe for the Widow Douglas, Tom got in the back way again and got into bed with Joe, and covered up, and when she come back and found him there, she had to drop down in a chair or she would a fainted; and she shut him up in another room until she sent word to aunt Polly.

So aunt Polly was frightened stiff, and shook so she could hardly pack Sid and Mary’s things. But she had them out of the house in a half an hour and into the tavern to stay there over night and take the stage for her brother Fletcher’s at four in the morning, and then went and fetched Tom home, and wouldn’t let me come in the house; and she hugged him and hugged him, and cried, and said she would lick him within an inch of his life when he got well.

So then I went up on the hill to the Widow’s, and told Jim, but he said it was a right down smart plan, and he hadn’t ever seen a

[begin page 157]

After a day or two Tom had to go to bed and have the doctor. Me and Jim couldn’t work the conspiracy without Tom, so we had to let it lay still and wait, and I reckoned it was going to be dull times for me for a spell. But no, Tom warn’t hardly to bed before Joe Harper’s medicine fetched his measles out onto the surface, and then the doctor found it warn’t measles at all, but scarlet fever. When aunt Polly heard it she turned that white she couldn’t get her breath, and was that weak she couldn’t see her hand before her face, and if they hadn’t grabbed her she would have fell. And it just made a panic in the town, too, and there wasn’t a woman that had children but was scared out of her life.

But it crossed off the dull times for me, and done that much good; for I had had scarlet fever, and come in an ace of going deef and dumb and blind and baldheaded and idiotic, so they said; and so aunt Polly was very glad to let me come and help her.

We had a good doctor, one of them old fashioned industrious kind that don’t go fooling around waiting for a sickness to show up and call game and start fair, but gets in ahead, and bleeds you at one end and blisters you at the other, and gives you a dipperful of castor oil and another one of hot salt water with mustard in it, and so gets all your machinery agoing at once, and then sets down with nothing on his mind and plans out the way to handle the case.

Along as Tom got sicker and sicker they shut off his feed, and closed up the doors and windows and made the room snug and hot and healthy, and as soon as the fever was warmed up good and satisfactry, they shut off his water and let him have a spoonful of panada every two hours to squench his thirst with. Of course that is dreadful when you are burning up, and nice cool water there for other people to drink and you can’t touch it but need it more than anybody else; so Tom arranged to wink when he couldn’t stand it any longer, and I watched my chance and give him a good solid drink when aunt Polly’s back was turned; and after that it was more

[begin page 158]

Tom was sick two weeks, and got very bad, and then one night he begun to sink, and sunk pretty fast. All night long he got worse and worse, and was out of his head, and babbled and babbled, and give the conspiracy plumb away, but aunt Polly was that beside herself with misery and grief that she couldn’t take notice, but only just hung over him, and cried, and kissed him and kissed him, and bathed his face with a wet rag, and said oh, she could not bear to lose him, he was the darling of her heart and she couldn’t ever live without him, the world wouldn’t ever be the same again and life would be so empty and lonesome and not worth while; and she called him by all the pet names she could think of, and begged him to notice her and say he knowed her, but he couldn’t, and once when his hand went groping about and found her face and stroked it and he took it for me, and said “good old Huck,” she was broken-hearted, and cried so hard and mourned so pitiful I had to look away, I couldn’t bear it. And in the morning when the doctor come and looked at him and says, kind of tender and low, “He doeth all things for the best, we must not repine,” she—but I can’t tell it, it would a made anybody cry to see her. Then the doctor motioned, and the preacher was there and had been praying, and we all went and stood around the bed, waiting and still, and aunt Polly crying, and nobody saying anything. Tom was laying with his eyes shut, and very quiet. Then he opened them, but didn’t seem to notice, much, or see anything; but they kind of wandered about, and fell on me; and steadied there. And one of them begun to sag down, went shut, and t’other one begun to work and twist, and twist and work, and kind of squirm; and at last he got it, though pretty lame and out of true—it was a wink. I jumped for the fresh cold water, tin pail and all, and says “Hold up his head!” and put it to his lips, and he drunk and drunk and drunk—the very first I had had a chance to give him in a whole day and night. The doctor said, “Poor boy, give him all he wants, he is past hurting, now.”

It warn’t so. It saved him. He begun to pull back to life again

[begin page 159]

All the first week that Tom was sick he wasn’t very sick, and then for a while he was, and after that he wasn’t, again, but was getting well; so he lost only the between-time. Both of the other times he worked on the conspiracy—first to get it all shaped out so me and Jim could finish it if he died, and leave it behind him for his monument; and the other time to boss it himself. So the minute I come down to help take care of him he said he wanted some type, and to learn how to set them up; and told me to go to Mr. Baxter about it. He was the foreman of the printing office, and had Mr. Day and a boy under him and was one of the most principal men in the town, and looked up to by everybody. There warn’t nothing agoing for the highsting up of the human race but he was under it and a-shoving up the best he could—being a pillow of the church and taking up the collection, Sundays, and doing it wide open and square, with a plate, and setting it on the table when he got done where everybody could see, and never putting his hand anear it, never pawing around in it the way old Paxton always done, letting on to see how much they had pulled in; and he was Inside Sentinel of the Masons, and Outside Sentinel of the Odd Fellows, and a kind a head bung-starter or something of the Foes of the Flowing

[begin page 160]

And when I come he was setting at his table with his pen, and leaning low down over a narrow long strip of print with wide margins, and he was crossing out most everything that was in it and freckling-up the margins with his pen and cussing. And I told him Tom was sick and maybe going to die, and—

There he shut me off sudden, and says, prompt and warm—

“Him die? We can’t have it. There’s only one Tom Sawyer, and the mould’s busted. Can I do anything? Speak up.”

I says—

“Tom says, can he have—”

“Yes; he can have anything he wants. Speak out,” he says, all alive and hearty and full of intrust.

“He’d like to have about a handful of old type that you hain’t got any use for, and—”

Then he broke in again and sung out to Mr. Day, and says—

“Tell the devil to go to hell and fetch a hatful; and quick about it.”

It give me the cold shivers to hear him. In about a minute Mr. Day says—

“The devil says hell’s empty, sir.”

“All right, fetch a hatful of pie.”

That made my mouth water, and I was glad I come. Then the boy fetched a couple of oyster cans full of old type; it had to be old, there warn’t any new in the place; and Mr. Baxter told him to fetch a stick and a rule. And last, he told him to fetch an old half-case,

[begin page 161]

He learnt Tom, and Tom set up all the type in the oyster cans and then put all the letters where they belonged in the case, setting up in bed and using up about two days at it. Bright? Tom Sawyer? I should reckon so. Inside of five days he had learnt himself the whole trade, and could set up type as well as anybody; and I can prove what I am saying. Becuz, that day he set up this, and I took it over and Mr. Baxter printed it, and when he took up the print he was astonished, and said so; and give me a copy for myself, and one for Tom, and I’ve got mine yet.

When Mr. Baxter printed it and took it up and looked at it the tears come in his eyes, and he says—

“Derned if any comp. in christiandum can lay over it but old Day, and he can’t when he’s sober.”

It made Tom mighty proud when I told him, and well it might. But the strain of composing of it out of his head thataway, and setting it up without anybody’s help, and the general excitement of it and anxiousness it cost him to get it ackurate, was too many for him and knocked him silly and laid him out, and the sickness went

[begin page 162]

“Huck, he’s convalescent.”

I warn’t prepared, and fell flat in my tracks where I was. But when they throwed water on me and I come to and they told me what the doctor was trying to mean when the word fell out of him, I see it warn’t so bad as I reckoned.

Now some boys quits repenting as soon as they are getting well, and goes to getting worldly again, and judging they hadn’t ought to have got flustered so soon, it wasn’t necessary, but it warn’t so with Tom, he said he had a close shave and ought to be grateful to Providence, and was; and man’s help warn’t worth much, and man’s wisdom warn’t anything at all—look at ourn, he says.

“Look at ourn, Huck. We went for measles. It shows how little we knowed and how blind we was. What good was measles, when you come to look at it? None. As soon as it’s over you wash up the things and air out the house and send for the children home again, and a person has been sick all for nothing. But you take the scarlet fever and what do you find? You scour out the place, and burn up every rag when it’s over and you’re well again, and from that very day no Sid and no Mary can come anear it for six solid useful weeks. Now who thought of scarlet fever for us, Huck, and arranged it, when we was ignorant and didn’t know any better than to go for measles? Was it us? You know it warn’t. Now let that learn you. This conspiracy is being took care of by a wiser wisdom than ourn, Huck. Whenever you find yourself getting untrustful and worried, don’t you be afraid, but recollect about the scarlet fever, and remember that where that help come from there’s more to be had. All you want is faith; then everything will come out right, and better than you can do it yourself.”

Well, it did look so; there wasn’t any way to get around it. It was the scarlet fever that saved the game and kept Sid up country, and it wasn’t us that thought of it.

It was real summer by now, and Tom was well and hearty, and the weather and everything suitable and ready for us to go ahead. So we took our little printing office over to the island to have it

[begin page 163]

Then he dabbed it over with black ink, and dampened some white printer’s paper and laid it on, and a piece of blanket on that and a heavy smooth block on top of that and give it a good hammering with his mallet, and then took off the paper and it was

[begin page 164]

Tom said that when he set up type in the stick it read from left to right and upside down, but he hadn’t reckoned Mr. Baxter would leave it so, but would fix it right before he printed it, and of course he done it, becuz it was right when it come back printed, but we couldn’t learn that juglery out of our own heads, we would have to wait and get him to tell us the secret; and we reckoned he would, if we swore we wouldn’t tell anybody; and Tom was willing to do that, and so was I.

Tom was ever so disappointed, after all his hard work, and I was very sorry for him, to see him setting there all tired and idle and low spirited; but all of a sudden he got excited and glad, and said it was the luckiest thing that ever happened, and the very thing for a conspiracy, becuz it was so strange and grisly and mysterious, and looked so devilish; and said it would scare the people twice as much as it would if it was in its right mind, and all ship-shape and regular, the common old way; and says—

“Huck, it’s a new thing, and we’ve discovered it, and will go down to prosperity along with Guttingburg and Fowst, and be celebrated everywheres, and can take out a patent on it and not let anybody use it except for conspiracies, and not even then unless they have a pure character and are the best people in the business.”

So it come out right, after all. And it’s mostly so, when things is looking the darkest, Tom said, you only have to wait, and be trustful, and keep your shirt on.

And I asked him who was the Sons of Freedom, and he said the people would think it was the ablitionists, and it would scare the

[begin page 165]

He said we must have a horn of a solemn deep sound, for the Sons of Freedom to make the signal with; so we chopped down a hickory sapling and skinned it and got a wide strip of bark that was plenty long enough, and went home to supper, and carried it to Jim that night, and he twisted it into a tapering long horn, and we took it into the Widow Douglas’s woods on the front slope of the hill towards the town and Jim clumb the highest tree and hid it there. Then home and to bed; and slid out, away in the night, and down to the river street, and slipped into Slater’s alley when the paterollers was asleep, and so up back behind the blocks and come out through that crack that was betwixt the julery shop and the postoffice, and tacked our bill onto the board, and back the way we come, and home again.

At breakfast in the morning a person could see that aunt Polly was kind of excited about something, becuz she was nervous and absent minded, and kept getting up and going to the window and looking out, and muttering to herself; and once she sweetened her coffee with salt and it made her choke and strangle; and she would take up her toast and start to butter it and forget what she was doing and lay it down; and when Tom put the little Webster spelling book in the place of it when she was staring haggard towards the window she buttered that and took a bite, and lost her temper and throwed the book across the house, and says—

“There, hang the thing, I’m that upset I don’t know what I’m a doing. And reason enough. Oh, dear, you little know what danger you’re in, poor things, and what danger we’re all in.”

“Why, what is it, aunt Polly,” Tom says, like he was surprised.

“Don’t you see the people flocking down street and flocking back, and talking so excited, and most of them gone half crazy? Why

[begin page 166]

“Goodness, aunt Polly, it ain’t as bad as that, I reckon.”

“What do you know about it, you numscull! Hain’t Oliver Benton been here, and Plunket the editor, and Jake Flacker, and told me all about it, and do you reckon you are going to lay abed asleep and then come down here a-reckoning and a-reckoning and a-reckoning, and suppose that that is going to count for anything when a person has been listening to grown people that don’t go reckoning around, but digs up the cold facts and examines them and knows?”

She wouldn’t let him say a word, but said if we was done breakfast, clear out and get hold of everything that was going on, and come and tell her, so she could prepare for the worst. We was glad of the chance; and when we got out in the street we see that everything was working prime, and couldn’t be no better; and Tom said if he had died he would always regretted it.

Down at the postoffice you couldn’t get anear it. Everybody was there, and scrowging in to get a look at the bill, going in red and coming out pale and telling all about it to them that was on the outside edge pawing and shouldering to get in.

Jake Flacker the detective was the biggest man in town, now, and everybody was cringing to him and trying to get something out of him, but he was mum, and only wagged his head as much as to say, “Never you mind, just leave this thing to me, don’t you worry;” and people whispered around and said, “I bet you he knows them rascals, and every move they make in the game, and can put his hand on them whenever he wants to—look at that eye of his’n; you can’t hide nothing from an eye like that.” And Colonel Elder said the bill was a most remarkable one and proved that these warn’t no common ornery canail, but blackhearted biggots of the highest intelligents. It pleased Tom to hear him say that, for he was the most looked up to of any man in town, and come from old Virginia and belonged to the quality. Colonel Elder said the bill was done in a new and ockult and impossible way, and showed what we was

[begin page 167]

And that warn’t all the shuddering they done. They shivered every time the signals was mentioned. They said they would wake up some night with their throats cut and them awful sounds dinging in their ears. And then somebody noticed that the kind of sound it was going to be warn’t named distinct in the bill. Mostly they reckoned it was a horn, but said there warn’t no proof of it; it might be blows on a anvil, Pete Kruger the German blacksmith said; and Abe Wallace the sexton said yes, and it might be blows on a bell, too. And then they all up and cussed the uncertainty of it, and said they could stand it better, and maybe get some sleep, too, if they knowed what it was.

Colonel Elder spoke up again, and said yes, that was bad, but the uncertainty about the date was worse.

“That’s so,” they said; “we don’t know when they’re coming— the bill don’t say. Maybe it’s weeks, maybe it’s days,—”

“And maybe it’s to-night,” says the Colonel, and that made them shiver again. “We must take time by the firelock, friends; we must get ready; not next week, not to-morrow, but to-day.” They give a little shout, and said the Colonel was right. He went on and made them a speech and braced them up, then Claghorn the justice of the peace made one, and by this time everything was booming and the most of the town was there and they turned it into a public meeting; and whilst the iron was hot, Plunket the editor got up and spoke, and praised up Colonel Elder, which was in the last war and at the battle of New Orleans, and knowed all about soldiering, and was the man they needed now. And he moved to elect him Provo Marshal and set up martial law in the town, and they done it. And then the Colonel he thanked them for the honor they done him, and ordered Captain Haskins and Captain Sam Rumford to call out their companies and go into camp in the public square, and put details all about town to guard it, and issue ball cartridge, and have them in uniform, and all that. So then the meeting broke up, and we started along.

[begin page 168]

“How are we going to get around, nights? Won’t the soldiers watch us and meddle with us? We are tied, Tom, we can’t do a thing.”

“No,” he says, “it’s going to be better for us than ever, now.”

“How?” ’

“They’ll want spies, and they can’t get them. They know it. And Jake Flacker’s no good. He don’t know enough to follow the fence and find the corner. I’ve got a ruputation, on account of beating the Dunlaps and getting the di’monds, and I’ll manage for us—you’ll see.”

He done it, too. The Colonel was glad to have him, and wanted him to get some more, if he could, and he would put them under him. So Tom said all he wanted was me and Jim. He said he wanted Jim to spy amongst the niggers. The Colonel said it was a good idea, and everybody knowed Jim and could trust him; so he give Tom passes, for us and him, and that fixed us all right.

Then we went home and told about everything except spying and the passes; and soon we heard drums and a fife away off, and it come nearer, and pretty soon Sam Rumford’s company went a marching by—tramp, tramp, tramp, all the feet a-rumbling down just as regular, and Sam a-howling the orders, “ Shoul- - - der—arms! by the left file, for- - - -word!” and so on, and the fifes a-screaming and the drums a-banging and a-crashing so you couldn’t hear yourself think, by George it was splendid and stirred a person up, and there was more children along than soldiers; and the uniforms was beautiful, and so was the flag, and every time Sam Rumford whirled his sword in the air and yelled, it catched the sun and made the prettiest flash you ever see. But aunt Polly she stood there white and quivery, and looked perfectly gashly. And she says—

“Goodness only knows what is coming to us. I am so thankful Sid and Mary—oh, Tom, if you was only with them.”

It was Tom’s turn to shiver—and mine, too; and we done it. The next thing, she would be arranging for him to go out somewheres in

[begin page 169]

We fetched them home, and away in the night we went spying around and showing the passes when the soldiers stopped us, and stuck one on Judge Thatcher’s door and fifteen others, and on aunt Polly’s; becuz Tom said if we didn’t stick them on anybody’s door but aunt Polly’s the people might suspicion something. We had lots of them left, but Tom said he reckoned we would need them.

[begin page 170]

I never see a person do such a noble job of cussing as the Colonel; and Tom he said the same. And he had up the captains to headquarters and said it was scandlous, and said he couldn’t have things going on like this, and they’d got to keep better watch, and they promised they would.

Tom told me to set down the name of everybody I heard talking against people that had our protection-paper on their doors, and he done the same.

Aunt Polly was comforted to have the paper on her door, and not scared any more, like she was; but Mrs. Lawson the lawyer’s wife come in, in the morning, and made her feel bad about it. She let on she didn’t know aunt Polly had one, and said thank goodness she hadn’t any, and didn’t want it, but at the same time whoever wished to be protected by ablition secret gangs and warn’t ashamed of it was welcome for all her. And when aunt Polly colored up a little and couldn’t say anything, she got up and says “but maybe I’m indiscreet, please forgive me,” and went out very grand, and aunt Polly’s comfort was most all gone.

That night we stuck the papers on all the doors we took the names of, and stuck one on Mrs. Lawson’s, too. It shut up a lot of people’s mouths, and made Mrs. Lawson quiet; and comfortabler, too, than she was before, I reckon. And we found Jake Flacker standing watch asleep down by the lumber yard, and stuck one on

[begin page 171]

And he said wait till next morning and we would see something more that was fresh. And it was so. Everybody that had a paper had wrote his name on it to keep people from stealing it, for it was all over town how they was being smouched. Aunt Polly had her name on her paper, wrote large and plain, and the same with Mrs. Lawson.

When Saturday come all the town that hadn’t the papers was tuckered out and looked seedy, becuz they had set up the most of three nights listening for the signals, and then laid down to sleep in their clothes when they couldn’t keep awake any more. Then, just as the excitement was wavering a little and getting ready to go down, on account of no signals yet, the paper come out and started it all up again; for it was full of it, and just wild about it; and it had extracts from papers in Illinois and St Louis about it, and showed how it was traveling and making the town celebrated; and so everybody was proud as well as worried, and read the paper all through, and Tom said they hadn’t ever done that before. So he was proud, too, and said it was a good conspiracy, and we would go ahead, now, and give it another boom.

So everything was all right, now, and we went around in the night and stuck up the reward-bill for the runaway nigger-boy; and Jim was along, on spy-business. Then we laid the plans for next afternoon—like this. Towards evening me and Tom would go up to the hanted house on Crawfish Branch, and whilst Tom was in there dressing to play nigger, I would go on up to Bat Bradish’s and tell him I knowed where the nigger was that was advertised, and would show him the place if he would give me some of the money

[begin page 172]

So next afternoon towards dusk we come in sight of the hanted house, and was about to step out of the woods into the open, but Tom pulled me back, and said somebody was coming down the Branch. And it was so. It was Bat Bradish. So Tom told me to go and meet up with him and tell him, and then get him out of the way until Tom could go and dress in the hanted house. I left Tom waiting in the bushes and went out and when I got to where Bat was I told him about the nigger. But stead of jumping at the chance he looked kind of bothered; and scratched his head and cussed a little, and said he had just got one runaway nigger a half an hour ago, and couldn’t manage two in these skittish times; did I reckon I could keep watch of mine a few days and then come?

I didn’t know anything else to do, and of course it could take some of the tuck out of the conspiracy and Tom wouldn’t like that, so I done the best I could the way things stood and told him I reckoned I could manage it. That cheered him up and he said I wouldn’t lose anything by it, he would look out for that; and said the nigger he had got was a splendid one and had a five hundred dollar reward on him, and he had bought the chance off of the man that found him for two hundred cash and would clear about three hundred, and a profitable good job, too. He was going down to town now to see the sheriff and make his arrangements. As soon as he was out of sight down the Cold Spring road I whistled to Tom and he come and I told him the bad news.

[begin page 173]

“Tom Sawyer, that’s a five-hundred-dollar nigger; you ain’t a five-hundred-dollar nigger, I don’t care how you dress up.”

He couldn’t get around that, you know; there warn’t any way. But he didn’t like to let on that I had laid him out; so he talked random a minute, trying to work out, then he said we couldn’t tell anything about it till we had seen the nigger. And said, come along.

I didn’t think there was any sense in it, but I was willing to let him down as easy as I could, so we struck out up the hollow. It was dark, now, but we knowed the way well enough. It was a log house, and no light in it; but there was a light in the lean-to, and we could see through the chinks. Sure enough it was a man, and a hearty good strong one—a thousand-dollar nigger, and worth it anywhere. He was stretched out on the ground, chained, and snoring hard.

[begin page 174]

So we went to the hanted house and struck up over Cardiff Hill, and Tom says—

“I reckon this ’ll learn you to have trust next time, Huck Finn.”

“What will?”

“Well, there was a plan and a program, wasn’t there?”

“There was, yes—and it got busted.”

“Did, did it? According to the plan and the program a runaway nigger was going to escape from there to-night—ain’t that so?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s going to happen.”

“Shucks—what are you talking?”

“It was going to be a white nigger wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“All right, that’s going to happen.”

“Tom, you don’t mean it.”

“Yes I do.”

“Honest Injun, Tom, is that man white?”

“Honest Injun, Huck, he is.”

“Why, it’s the most astonishing thing I ever see.”

[begin page 175]

“Why Tom, it’s the strangest thing that ever—”

“Happened? I told you it was the most mysterious and inscrutablest design in the whole conspiracy. I reckon you believe me now. We don’t know what the change is made for Huck, but we know one thing—it was for the best.”

He said it very solemn, and it made me feel thataway. Well, it was all very wonderful and strange. It made us kind of quiet a while, then I says—

“Tom, how’d you know he is white?”

“Oh, a lot of things. They couldn’t fooled old Bat if he had good eyesight. Huck, for one thing, the inside of that nigger’s hands are black.”

“Well, what’s the matter of that?”

“Why, you idiot, the inside of a nigger’s hands ain’t black.”

“That’s so, Tom, I didn’t think of it.”

“And he talked some words in his sleep; he talked white, not nigger; hasn’t learnt to talk nigger in his sleep, yet.”

“Tom, what makes you think he’s going to get out to-night.”

“Evidence of it in his shoe.”

“Something fell out of it; was that it?”

“Two things fell out; I put one back. It was a key. But I tried it in his padlock first, and it fitted.”

“By gracious!”

“He’s playing our scheme to a dot, don’t you see?”

“Why, Tom, it just beats anything that ever was. Say—what was the other thing that fell out?”

“I didn’t put that back—I’ve got it yet.”

“Lemme see it, Tom; what is it?”

But he put me off, and said it was too dark to see it; so I knowed he was working one of his mysteries and I’d got to wait till it suited him to come out with it. I asked him how he come to look in the nigger’s shoe. He sniffed, and says—

“Huck Finn, hain’t you got any reasoning powers at all? Where

[begin page 176]

“Why, Tom?”

“Didn’t I just tell you why? Becuz it was the likely place. A white nigger that’s playing a swindle knows his new marster might take a notion to search him; so he don’t hide his suspiciousest things in his pockets, does he?”

“Well, now, I wouldn’t a thought of that, but I reckon it’s so, Tom. You think of everything and you notice everything.”

“A detective’s got to. I noticed everything in that lean-to, and can tell all about it, from the musket on the hooks with no flint in the lock to Bat’s old silver-plated watch hanging under the shelf with the minute-hand broke off the same length as the hour-hand and you can’t come within two weeks of telling what time of day it is, to save you; and I noticed—”

All of a sudden I thought of something—

“Tom!”

“Well?”

“We are just foolish.”

“How?”

“To be fooling along here like this. The thing for us to do is to rush to the sheriff’s and tell him, so he can slip up here and catch this humbug and jail him for swindling Bat.”

He stopped where he was, and says, very sarcastic—

“You think so, do you?”

It made me feel sheepish, but I said “Yes,” anyway, though I didn’t say it very confident.

“Huck Finn,” he says, kind of sorrowful, “ you can’t ever seem to see the noblest opportunities. Here is this conspiracy weaving along just perfect, and you want to turn him in in this ignorant way and spoil it all.”

[begin page 177]

“Well, just look at it a minute,” he says, “and I reckon you’ll see. How would a detective act? I’ll ask you that. Would he go in that simple girly way and catch this humbug and make him tell where the other one is, and then catch the other one and make him hand out the two hundred dollars, and have the whole thing over and done with before morning and not a rag of glory in it anywhere? I never see such a mud turtle as you, Huck Finn.”

“Well, then,” I says, “ whatwould he do? It looks like the common sense way, to me, Tom Sawyer.”

“Common sense!” he says, as scornful as he could. “What’s common sense got to do with detecting, you leatherhead? It ain’t got anything to do with it. What is wanted is genius and penetration and marvelousness. A detective that had common sense couldn’t ever make a ruputation—couldn’t even make his living.”

“Well, then,” I says, “what is the right way?”

“There’s only one. Let these frauds go ahead and play their game and get away, then follow them up by clews—that’s the way. It may take weeks and weeks, but is full of glory. Clews is the thing.”

“All right,” I says, ruther aggravated, “have it your own way, but I think it’s an assful way.”

“What is there assful about it, Huck Finn?”

“It’s assful because you mayn’t ever catch them at all, and when you do they’ve spent all of Bat’s two hundred and he can’t get it back. Where’s the sense in that?”

“Don’t I tell you there ain’t any sense in detecting,—I never see such a clam. It’s nobler—and higher—and grander; and who cares for the money, anyway?—the glory’s the thing.”

“All right,” I says, “go it—I ain’t interfering. What’s your plan?”

“Now you’re getting into your right mind. Come along, and I’ll tell you as we climb. These two frauds think they are safe—they don’t know there’s any detectives around, in a little back settlement like ourn. They’d never think of such a thing. It makes them our meat. Why? Becuz the nigger will wash up, and both of them will

[begin page 178]

“You might get the wrong ones.”

“You leave it to me—I’ll show you.”

“Is that the whole plan, Tom?”

“You’ll find it’s a plenty. You lay for strangers and tell me—that’s all I want.”

So then we went ahead and clumb the tree and found Jim there and told him the whole thing, and he said it was splendid, and believed it was the best conspiracy that ever was, and was coming along judicious and satisfactory. And about half past one in the morning he blowed the signals and it was a perfectly horrible noise, enough to make a person turn in his grave; and then we pulled out for town to sample the effects.

It couldn’t a been better, it couldn’t a been finer. Tom said so his own self, and Jim said the same. The whole town was out in the streets, taking on like it was the Last Day. There was lights in all the houses, and people ranting up and down and carrying on and prophecying, and that scared they didn’t know what they was about. And the drums was rumbling and the fifes tooting and the soldiers tramp-tramping, and Colonel Elder and Sam Rumford shouting the orders, and the dogs howling—it was all beautiful and glorious.

When it got to be about an hour before dawn Tom said he must get back to Bat’s place, now, so as to get footprints and other clews while they was fresh, so he could begin to track out the escaped nigger. He knowed his aunt Polly would be uneasy about him, but

[begin page 179]

And by gracious! Right before the lean-to was Bat Bradish stretched out on the ground, and seemed to be dead, and was all bloody; and his old musket was laying there with blood and hair on the barrel; and the lean-to was open and the nigger gone, and things upset and smashed around in a great way, and plenty of footprints and clews and things, all a person could want. Tom told me to rush for the undertaker—not the new one, give the job to the old one, Jake Trumbull, which was a friend of ourn—and said he would come along and catch up with me as soon as he had got the clews tallied up.

He was always quick, Tom was. I warn’t out of sight at the turn of the river road when I looked back and see him waving his hat for me. So I run back, and he says—

“We needn’t go for help, Huck, it’s been ’tended to.”

“What makes you reckon so, Tom?”

“I don’t reckon anything about it, I know it. Jim’s been here.”

And sure enough he had. Tom had found his tracks. Of course he had come the short way over the hill and beat us, becuz we come the long way, up the river road. I was dog-tired, and glad we didn’t have to go for anybody. I went behind the house, out of sight of the dead man, and set down and rested whilst Tom examined around amongst the clews. It warn’t but a few minutes till he come and said he was through, and said there’d been four men there besides Bat and Jim, and he had their prints, but nobody’s prints was inside the lean-to except Bat’s and the white nigger’s and another man’s—the nigger’s pal, he reckoned. He said Jim and two of the men was gone for help by the short way over the hill, and the nigger and his pal had made for the creek, and we would take out after them—come along.

It was an easy trail, through mangy poor little grass-patches with

[begin page 180]

“They don’t know the country very well, you see; or they’re too excited; or they’ve got pointed a little wrong on account of it’s being dark. Anyway, if they don’t slew to the left pretty soon they’ll get into trouble.”

“Looks like it,” I says; “they’re aiming for the jumping-off place.”

The jumping-off place was twelve foot high, and had low bushes on it, and even in the daytime an ignorant person wouldn’t know it was there till he was over it. We chased the tracks plumb to the edge. Then we pulled off to the left and clumb down and got the trail again at the jumping-off place and followed it fifty yards to the Branch. The Branch was uncommon high but had begun to fall; so there was a flat wide belt of half-dry mud at the edge, shriveling and stinking, and Tom says—

“Good luck, Huck, the pal hurt his left leg when he fell over the jumping-off place, it only makes a dragging-print here, and the nigger had to help him along. It’s a clew, don’t you know!”

He would trade pie for a clew, any time. Next, he says—

“They’ve got old Cap. Haines’s canoe; hooked it, I reckon.”

Said he knowed it by the print the bow made in the mud. It might be—I didn’t know. I had stole the canoe lots of times, but never noticed. I says—

“Now we can go home. They’re safe in Illinois by this time and we ain’t going to hear of them no more.”

But he said no, it might be and it mightn’t be; he wouldn’t jump to no conclusions about it—best way was to go ahead and find out; and says—

“The only way to ascertain a thing is to ascertain; guessing ain’t any good. And besides—look at it all around. Suppose this pal’s leg is broke? Is he going to strike for Illinois and the everlasting woods? No; he’ll want a doctor. They haven’t been in town—they’d have been in jail in two minutes, becuz they’re strangers; it ain’t any healthy place for strangers in these conspiracy times. They’ve come

[begin page 181]

“Well then, they’ve gone to town, Tom.”

“In Cap. Haines’s canoe?—from close to the murder?—a canoe that they stole, you can bet on it—it’s the kind of folks they are. I don’t think they’ve gone to town.”

“Well, I don’t, nuther, come to think. What will they do, Tom?”

We was tramping along down the Branch, all this time. Tom thought a while, then says—

“Huck, if they had plenty of time, they could manage, but I reckon they haven’t. Nearest town up-stream, twenty-five miles— an all-day trip with one paddle; nearest town down-stream, twenty-one miles—five hours; but it wouldn’t do any good; the news of the murder will be there to-day, and even if they sunk Haines’s canoe and stole another, people would still want to know where they got that leg.” After studying a little, he says “I hope they’ve done that. I hope they’ve had the time. We’d have them before night, dead sure!”

“Good!” says I.

We went tramping along, Tom a-watching for clews. Pretty soon he shook his head and pulled a long breath, and says—

“No, it won’t work, Huck; they’re around here somewheres— they hadn’t the time.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, the nigger overslept or something, the pal didn’t turn up till hours after he oughter, and so the thing didn’t come off till towards dawn.”

“What makes you think that, Tom?”

“Becuz Bat was warm yet, when we got there; I felt of him, under his waistcoat.”

It give me the cold shivers; I wouldn’t a done it.

“Go on,” I says.

“The nigger has got to wash up and change to white folks’ clothes before he can go and smuggle a doctor to his pal, and like

[begin page 182]

Well, when we had gone along down about a half a mile and was abreast the stretch of bushes back of the hanted house, right there we struck the trail again. Tom says—

“Ain’t it curious? They got in ahead of us on our scheme all around: play counterfeit-nigger like we was going to do, and jump our dressing-room, too. They’ve been around here before, Huck.”

The canoe warn’t anywhere in sight; they had hid her or turned her loose, we didn’t know which, and didn’t care anyway, it warn’t any matter. We crope through the bushes and there was the trail plowing straight for the house through the high weeds where the garden used to was. The windows was still boarded up the way me and Tom done it the summer before, the time we let on to be a gang of counterfeiters and used to go there and cut out tin money in the night and contribbit it to the mishonary business Sundays, and she was looking awful lonesome and mournful, the way she always done. Tom said we’d got to get down on our hands and knees and crawl through the weeds, and go very, very slow, and not make the least noise or they might hear us. I says—

“Who? Me? I reckon I see myself a doing it. If you want to go and get into trouble with them hellions,” I says, “it’s your instincts and it’s all right, and I’ll wait for you; but nary a peg do I budge.”

So he took his course with his little compass and started, and I watched, out of the shadder of the bushes. He done it first rate. You would see the tops of the weeds wiggle a little, and after a quiet spell they would wiggle again, a little further along—the slowest business; but always I could keep track of him, and always he was getting ahead. So he got there by and by, and I waited the dullest longest time, and got afraid they had grabbed him and choked him

[begin page 183]

“Come along, it’s all right—they’re there. I crep’ through the hole where the hogs get under the house, and it was dark as pitch in there and in the house, and I stuck my head up through the busted place in the floor—”

“What a fool!”

“Fool yourself!—they couldn’t see me; and couldn’t if it had been light—our old counterfeiter-chest was in the way. And I didn’t see them, either, but I’ve heard them talk. I was ’most as close to them as I am to you, now. If I had had a walking stick I could a punched them with it. But I wouldn’t.”

“Well, then, you’ve got some sense left, but not enough to hurt, Tom Sawyer. What did they say?”

“Talked about the scrimmage.”

“Like enough—but what did they say?”

“Lots.”

Then he said he was too tired to walk down to town, and no hurry anyway—we must jump in the river and float down on our backs—which was satisfactry to me; but I knowed I had got all I was going to get about that talk for just now. Them old roosters had laid another mystery, and he warn’t ready to have it hatched out yet.

Just where the Branch goes into the river we struck a mortal piece of good luck. Some person had come ashore and left his skiff pulled up, with the oars in the rollocks, and warn’t anywhere in sight; so we borrowed it, Tom saying something grateful about Providence, and we got in and pulled out a good piece and laid down in her and lit the pipes and let her float. It was very comfortable after all the hard work we’d been through. By and by Tom says—

“It warn’t in the plan, but of course it’s there for the best.”

“What ain’t in the plan?”

“The murder. It’s a kind of a pity, becuz there warn’t any real harm in Bat Bradish, but as long as it had to be somebody I reckon it’s as well it’s him, and it does give this conspiracy a noble lift, now

[begin page 184]

“Looks so to me, Tom.”

“Huck, it’s just like a revolution in some ways—a person that hadn’t had any experience couldn’t tell it from a revolution. You see, it starts in for one thing, and comes out another; starts in in a little small way to worry a village, and murders a nigger-trader. Yes, sir, it’s got all the marks of a revolution; and the way it’s prospering along now, I believe it could be nursed up and turned into a revolution. All it wants now is capital, and something to revolute about.”

Well, he was started, and so I let him alone. It was the best way. He would think it out, and gild it up, and put the ruffles on it, and I could lay still and rest, and that suited me.

Just as we struck into town and went ashore by the Cold Spring where the flour mill is, here comes Higgins’s Bill, the one-legged nigger, hopping along on his crutch, very much excited and all out of breath and says—

“Marse Tom, ole Jim want you en Huck to come to de jail quick as you kin—dey’s got him, en jammed him in, seh.”

“What for?”

“Killin’ ole Bat Bradish.”

I says—

“Great jeeminy!”

But Tom’s face lit up pious and happy—it made me shiver to see it; and he give Bill a dime, and says, quite ca’m—

“All right; run along; we are a coming.” Bill cleared out and we hurried up, and Tom says, kind of grateful, “Ain’t it beautiful, the way it’s developing out?—we couldn’t ever thought of that, and it’s the splendidest design yet. Now you’ll be trustful, I reckon, and quit fretting and losing confidence.”

“Tom Sawyer,” I says, “ what in the nation is there splendid about it?” I was mad, and grieved, and most crying. “There’s our old Jim, the best friend we ever had, and the best hearted, and the

[begin page 185]

“Shut up!” he says, “ you can’t tell a blessing from a bat in the eye, I never see such an idiot—always flying at everything Providence does, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Who’s running this conspiracy?—you? Blame it, you are hendering it every way you can think of. Old Jim get hung? Who’s going to let him get hung, you tadpole?”

“Well, but—”

“Hush up! there ain’t any well about it. It’s going to come out all right, and the grandest thing that ever was, and just oceans of glory for us all—and here you are finding fault with your blessings, you catfish. Old Jim get hung! He’s going to be a hero, that’s what he’s going to be. Yes, and a brass band and a torchlight procession on top of it, or I ain’t no detective.”

It made me feel good and satisfied again, I couldn’t help it. It was always just so. He had so much confidence it was catching, and a person always had to knock under and come to his notions.

We had our passes, and was officials, so we shouldered through the crowd at the jail door and the sheriff let us in, though he wouldn’t let anybody else. Tom told me private not to know anything, and he wasn’t going to know anything himself—he would do the talking for us both, to the sheriff. He done it. The sheriff didn’t get anything out of him. Old Jim was scared most to death, and was sure he was going to be hung; but Tom was ca’m, and told him he needn’t worry, it warn’t going to happen; and so it warn’t ten minutes till Jim was ca’m, too, and all cheered up and comfortable. Tom told Jim the officers wouldn’t ask him any questions, and if visitors got in and asked him questions he must say he couldn’t answer anybody but his lawyer. Then Jim went ahead and told us his tale.

He didn’t find aunt Polly at home, of course she was out getting her share of the scare; so he was after us pretty soon, and hurried up, reckoning he could catch up with us, but we went the long way by the river road and he went the short one over Cardiff Hill; so it

[begin page 186]

“It could be better. Still, it ain’t bad, the way it is.”

“Good lan’, Mars Tom, how you’s a talkin’! Here I is, wid de man’s blood all over me, en you—”

“That’s all right, as far as it goes—a good point, a very good point; but it don’t go far enough.”

“How does you mean, Marse Tom?”

“By itself it ain’t any evidence of a motive. What we want’s, a motive.”

“What’s a motive, Marse Tom?”

“A reason for killing the man.”

“My goodness, Marse Tom, I never killed him.”

“I know. That’s the weak place. It’s easy to show that you probably killed him, and of course that is pretty good, but it can’t hang a man—a white one, anyway. It would be ever so much stronger if you had a motive to kill him, you see.”

“Marse Tom, is I in my right mine, or is it you? Blame my cats if I kin understan’.”

“Why, plague take it, it’s plain enough. Look at it. I’m going to save you—that’s all right, and perfectly easy. But where’s the glory of saving a person merely just from jail. To save him from the gallows is the thing. It’s got to be murder in the first degree—you get the idea? You’ve got to have a motive for killing the man—then we’re all right! Jim, if you can think up a rattling good motive, I can get you put up for murder in the first degree just as easy as turning your hand over.”

[begin page 187]

“Why, Marse Tom—why, bless yo’ heart, honey, I ain’t in no sweat to hunt up dish-yer—”

“Hold still, I tell you, and think of a motive! I could have thought up a dozen while you are fooling away all this time. Look here, did Bat Bradish like you?—did you like Bat?”

That seemed to jostle Jim. Tom saw it, and followed it right up. Jim dodged this and that and t’other way, but it didn’t do any good, Tom chased him up and found out it was Bradish that was at the bottom of it the time old Miss Watson come so near selling Jim down the river and Jim heard about it and run away and me and him floated down to Arkansaw on the raft. It was Bradish that persuaded her to sell Jim and give him the job of doing it for her. So at last Tom says—

“That’s enough. That’s a motive. We are all right, now, it’s murder in the first degree, and we’ll have a grand time out of it and when we get through you’ll be a hero, Jim. I wouldn’t take a thousand dollars for your chances.”

But Jim didn’t like it a bit, and said he would sell out for ten cents, and glad to. Tom was very well satisfied, now, and said we would tell the district attorney—which is the lawyer for the prostitution—all about the motive, and then things would go right along. Then he arranged with the sheriff for Jim to have pipes and good vittles and everything he wanted, and said good-bye to Jim, promising we would come every day and amuse him some more. Then we left.

The town was booming. Everybody was raging about the murder, and didn’t doubt but Jim was in with the Sons of Freedom and been paid by the gang to murder the nigger-trader, and there’d be more—every man that owned niggers was in danger of his life; it

[begin page 188]

Of course they was going to lynch Jim, everybody said it; and they just packed all the streets around the jail, and talked excited, and couldn’t hardly wait to commence. But Cap’n Ben Haskins, sheriff, was inside, and the mob that started in there without an invite would have a sickly time, and knowed it; and Colonel Elder was outside, and that warn’t healthy for a mob, and they knowed it. So me and Tom went along; we warn’t worried about Jim. Tom let the motive leak out where it would get to the attorney for the prostitution; then we got in the back way at his aunt Polly’s and got something to eat and didn’t have any trouble becuz she was out enjoying the excitements and hunting for Tom; and from there we went up in the woods on the hill to get some sleep where we wouldn’t be in the way, and Tom made his plans.

He said we would ’tend the inquest to-day, and be on hand at the Grand Jury to-morrow, but our evidence wouldn’t go for anything against Cap. Haines’s and Buck Fisher’s, and Jim would be brought in for first degree all right. His trial would come off in about a month. It would take that long for the pal’s leg to get so he could walk on it. Then we must have it fixed so that when the trial was just going against Jim we could snatch the two frauds into court and

[begin page 189]

I didn’t like it; I was scared of it; it was too risky; something might happen; any little hitch, and Jim’s a goner! A nigger don’t stand any show. I said we ought to tell the sheriff and let him go and get the men now—and jail them, and then we’d have them when we wanted them.

But Tom wouldn’t listen to it for a minute. There warn’t anything stunning about it. He wanted to get the men into the court without them suspicioning anything—and then make the grand pow-wow, the way he done in Arkansaw. That Arkansaw business had just pisoned him, I could see it plain; he wouldn’t ever be satisfied to do things in a plain common way again.

Well, we couldn’t keep awake any longer, so we reckoned we would sleep an hour, and then step down to the inquest. And of course when we woke it was too late. When we got down there it was over, and everybody gone—corpse and all. But it warn’t much matter, we could go to the Grand Jury to-morrow.

Why, we had slept away past the middle of the afternoon and it was coming on sundown. Time to go home for supper; but Tom said no, he wanted to make sure of his men; so we would wait till night and he would step to the hanted house and listen again. I was very willing for him to do it, it would make me feel easier; so we struck down the Branch and slid past, and down to the river and up it a quarter of a mile under the bluff and went in swimming and stayed in till an hour after dark, then come back and Tom crope through the weeds to the house, and I waited.

I waited and waited, and it was awful lonesome and still and creepy there in the dark, and the hanted house so close. It wasn’t actually very long, but it seemed so, you know. At last Tom come a tearing through the weeds and says—

“Oh, poor Jim, poor Jim, he’ll be hung— they’re gone!”

I just fell flat, where I was. Everything was swimming, it seemed to me I was going to faint. Then I let go and cried, I couldn’t help it and didn’t want to. And Tom was crying, too, and said—

“What did I ever do it for?—Huck what did I do it for! I had

[begin page 190]

He took it so hard, and said so many hard things about himself that I hadn’t the heart to say any myself, though I was going to, and had them on my tongue’s end, but you know how it is, that way. I begun to try to comfort him, but he couldn’t bear it, and said call him names, call him the roughest ones I knowed, it was the only thing could do him any good; and then he broke out and abused himself for taking for granted the man’s leg was broke, and maybe it was only sprained—of course it was only sprained, it was perfectly plain, now. Then he had a sudden idea, and said—

“Come!”

So we went tearing down the road for town; said maybe the men would make for the next town below, and we would catch the steamboat and beat them. As we passed the Cold Spring the boat went by; when we got to the wharf she was pulling in the stage, but we jumped for it and made it. People yelled at us to know where we was bound for, but we never took any notice, and went up on the harricane roof and away aft, and set down in the sparks to watch for the canoe, and forgot all about the Grand Jury, but Tom said it wasn’t any matter, nothing could save Jim but to find the men.

Tom couldn’t talk straight and connected, he was gone clean off of his head by the disastersomeness of what was come to Jim on accounts of him letting the men get away; and pretty soon he seen, himself, that his mind was upside down, becuz he says—

“Huck, I’m so miserable it has knocked all the judgment out of me. Don’t you know there ain’t any sense in us being on this boat?”

“Why, Tom?”

“Becuz it’s in the plan I made on the broken-leg theory, and the leg ain’t broke. The man don’t have to hunt a doctor, and he can go wherever he wants to. And they have gone to Illinois and the

[begin page 191]

Well, I could see it now, myself; I didn’t think of it before. But I didn’t say anything mean; his mind warn’t to blame for getting out of true, when you come to think. Anybody’s would. I was starting in to encourage him up, but he busted out bitter and aggravated, and says—

“The luck has turned against us, there ain’t any getting around it—look at this!”

It was rain. I was sorry enough for him to cry.

“It’s going to wipe out the trail.” He begun to get perfectly desprate, and said if any harm come to Jim he would square up the best he could—he would blow his brains out, he wouldn’t miss them.

I couldn’t bear to see him in so much trouble, so I tried to soothe him up, and told him we couldn’t know where the men went to, becuz we didn’t know the men, and so how could we know how they would act? Mightn’t they belong to Burrell’s Gang?

“Yes—prob’ly do. What of it?”

“Wouldn’t they be safe if they was with the Gang?”

“Perfectly. Go on.”

“Fox island is their den, ain’t it?”

“Yes.”

“How far from here?”

“Hundred and seventy mile.”

“They can make it in four nights in a canoe and lay up and hide daytimes, and so how do we know they ain’t making for home?”

“Lemme hug you, Huck! There’s one level head left, anyway. If we can head them off before they get there, and have a sheriff with

[begin page 192]

So we both rushed. He was all right again and hopeful, and I was glad I thought of that idea, though I didn’t take no stock in it, much. I knowed Tom’s notion that the men had broke for Illinois was worth six of it. He would know it, too, when his mind got settled, then we would go home, and if that pal’s leg was much hurt there would be new trails in a day or two, and not so very deep in the woods, either.

It was as dark as pitch on the foc’sle, and I fell over a man, and he storms out—

“What in hell are you doin’!” and grabbed me by the leg.

I sunk right down where I was, pulpy and sick, and begun to whimper, for it was the King’s voice! Another voice says—

“Seems to be only a boy, you old hog—he didn’t do it a-purpose. You’ve got no bowels—and never had any.”

By George, it was the Duke!

And there I was!

The King spoke up again—

“A boy, are ye? Why didn’t you say so? I took you for a cow. What do you want here—hey? Who are ye? What’s your name?”

Of course I didn’t want to answer, but I knowed I had to. But I tried to make my voice different—

“Bill Parsons, please sir.”

“Ger-reat Scott!” says the Duke, setting up, and poking his face in mine, “what’s brought you here, Huck Finn?”

He talked ruther thick, and I judged he was drunk; but that was all right, becuz if the Duke was more good-natureder one time than another it was when he was drunk. I had to tell them about myself, I knowed there warn’t any way to get around it; so I done it as judicious as I could, caught sudden thataway, and unloaded

[begin page 193]

“Now tell some truth for a change.”

I started painting again, but the Duke stopped me, and says—

“Wait, Huckleberry, you better let me help, I reckon.”

My time was come, and I knowed it. He was sharp, and he would begin to chase me up with questions and follow me right to my hole. Of course I knowed his game, and was scared. The time I let Jim get away, down there in Arkansaw, it took a pile of money out of him and the King’s pocket, and they had me, now. They wouldn’t let up till they found out where Jim was—that was certain. The Duke begun; then the King begun to shove in questions, but the Duke shut him up and told him he was only botching the business, and didn’t know enough to come in when it rained. It made the King pretty grouty.

It warn’t long till they had it out of me—Jim was in jail, in our town.

“What for?”

Now the minute the Duke asked that, I see my way perfectly clear. If Jim was to get clear they could come with their sham papers and run him South and sell him, but if I showed them he was going to get hung, and hung for sure, they wouldn’t bother about him no more, and we would be shut of them. I was glad I had that idea, and I made up my mind to put the murder on Jim and do it strong.

“What for?” the Duke says.

“Murder,” I says, perfectly ca’m.

“Great guns!”

“Yes,” I says, “he done it, and he done right—but he done it, ain’t any doubt about that.”

“It’s an awful pity, becuz he warn’t a bad nigger at bottom; but how do you know he done it?”

“Becuz old Cap. Haines and Buck Fisher come on him in the very act. He had hit a nigger-trader over the head with his own musket, and stumbled and fell on him, and was getting up when the men come running. It was dark, but they heard the row and

[begin page 194]

“Too bad. Is the man really dead?”

“I reckon so. They buried him this afternoon.”

“It’s awful. Does Jim give in that he done it?”

“No. Only just says it ain’t any use for a nigger to talk when there’s two white men against him.”

“Well, that’s so—hey, Majesty?”

“Head’s level for a nigger—yes.”

“Why, maybe he didn’t kill the man. Any suspicious characters around?”

“Nary.”

“Hasn’t anybody seen any?”

“No. And besides, if there’d been any, where’s their motive? They wouldn’t kill a man just for fun, would they?”

“Well, no. And maybe Jim hadn’t any motive, either.”

“Why, your grace, the motive’s the very worst thing against him. Everybody knows what he done to Jim once, and two men heard Jim tell him he was going to lay him out for it one of these days. It was only talk, and I know it, but that ain’t any difference, it’s white man’s talk and Jim’s only a nigger.”

“It does look bad for Jim.”

“Poor old Jim, he knows it. Everybody says he’ll be hung, and of course he hain’t got any friends, becuz he’s free.”

Nobody said anything, now, and I judged I had put it home good and strong, and they would quit bothering about Jim, and me and Tom would be let alone to go ahead and find the men and get Jim out of his scrape. So I was feeling good and satisfied. After a little bit the Duke says—

“I’ve been a thinking. I’ll have a word with you, Majesty.”

Him and the King stepped to the side and mumbled together, and come back, and the Duke says—

“You like Jim, and you’re sorry for him. Now which would you druther—let him get sold down South, or get hung?”

It was sudden. It knocked me silly. I couldn’t seem to understand what his idea was. Before I could come to myself, he says—

“It’s for you to say. Now and then and off and on me and the King have struck Jim’s trail and lost it again; for we’ve got a requisition for Jim from the Governor of Kentucky onto the Governor of Missouri and his acceptans of the same—all bogus, you know, but the seals and the paper, which is genuwyne—and on them papers we can go and grab Jim wherever we find him and there ain’t anybody can prevent us. First and last we’ve followed that trail but first and last we’ve followed it to Elexandry, sixty mile above here. Lost it again, and give it up for good and all, and took this boat there towards the middle of the afternoon to-day—”

“Not knowin’ that a righteous overrulin’ Providence—”

“Shut up, you old rum-barrel, and don’t interrupt. It’s with you, Huck, to save him or hang him. Which is it?”

“Oh, goodness knows, your grace, I’m anxious enough—tell me how.”

“It’s easy. Spose Jim murdered a man down yonder in Tennessee or Mississippi or Arkansaw fourteen months ago when you and Jim was helping me and the King run the raft, and me and the King was going to sell Jim for our nigger, becuz he was ourn, by rights of discovery, we having found him floating down the river without any owner—”

“Yes, and he’s ourn yit,” says the King, in that snarly way of his’n.

“Stick your feet in your mouth and stop some of your gas from escapin’, Majesty. Spose Jim done that, Huck—murdered a planter or somebody down there. Take it in? Get the idea?”

“Not by a blame’ sight I don’t. Jim never done it. Jim warn’t scasely ever out of my sight a day on a stretch; and if he—”

[begin page 196]

“No, I don’t.”

“Shucks! Why, blame it, you couldn’t try him up here till after you had tried him down there, could you? Got to take his murders in the order of preseedence, hain’t you? ’Course. Any idiot knows that much. Very good. Now then, here’s the scheme that’ll give us back our nigger and save your black chum’s life. To-morrow in Sent Louis we’ll go to a friend of ourn that’s in a private business up a back alley and got up our papers for us, and he’ll change them so as to fit the case the way it stands now; change them from nigger ‘escaped from service’ to murder—murder done by Jim down South, you know. Then we’ll come straight up here to-morrow or next day and show the papers and take Jim down South and sell him—not in Kentucky, of course, but ’way down towards the mouth of the river, where Missouri couldn’t ever get on his track when she found she’d been played. See it now, don’t you?”

By gracious I felt that good, I reckon the angels don’t feel no better when they looks down Sabberday morning and sees the Catholic kids getting roped into the Presbyterium Sunday school. Well, the world, it’s curious, thataway. One minute your heart is away down and miserable, and don’t seem to be no way out of your troubles, and next minute some little thing or another happens you warn’t looking for and just lifts her to your teeth with a bounce, and all your worries is gone and you feel as happy and splendid as Sodom and Gomorrah or any other of them patriarchs. I says to myself, it’s nuts for Tom Sawyer, this is. And it’s nuts for Jim, too. Jim’s life’s safe by this game, if they play it good, and if he ain’t in England and free again three months after they sell him it’ll be becuz we’ve forgot how to run niggers out of slavery and better quit the business.

So I told them to count me in, the ’rangement was satisfactry to me. They was very much pleased, and shuck me by the hand; the first time they ever come down onto my level like that, I reckon.

[begin page 197]

“You can be a prime help, Huck, and you won’t lose nothing by it, nuther. All you got to do is, keep mum—don’t talk.”

“All right, I won’t.”

“Tell Jim, if you want to; tell him to look awful scared and guilty when he sees us and finds we are sheriff’s officers and hears what we’ve come for—it’ll have a good effect; but he mustn’t show that he has seen us before. And you mustn’t. You want to be particular about that.”

“I won’t let on to know you, your grace—I’ll be particular.”

“That’s the idea. Say—what are you doing on this boat?”

It took me ruther sudden, and I didn’t know what to say, so I said I was traveling for my health. But they was feeling good, now, and unparticular; so they laughed and asked me where was the resort, and I said the town down yonder where the lights is showing; so they let me go, then, and told me good-bye and said there was going to be trouble in the chicken coops of that resort before morning, but they reckoned I would pull through all right.

I cleared for the pilot house, feeling first rate; then I remembered I had forgot to watch for the canoe, but I didn’t care; I knowed there hadn’t been any or the pilot and Tom would a seen it and chased it down. The mud-clerk was up there collecting our passages, and me and Tom come down on the texas roof, and I whispers and says—

“What do you think—the King and the Duke’s down on the foc’sle!”

“Go ’long—you don’t mean it!”

“Wish I may never die. You want to have a sight of them?”

“Well, I should reckon! Come along.”

So we flew down. They was celebrated in our town on accounts of me and Jim’s adventures with them, and there wasn’t a person but would give his shirt for a look at them—including Tom. The time Tom saw them down in Arkansaw it was night, and they was tarred and feathered and the public was riding them on a rail in a

[begin page 198]

But we didn’t make it. The boat was sidling in to the wharfboat, and of course the mates had cleared the foc’sle and there warn’t anybody there but a crowd of deckhands, now, bustling with the freight. They was red and vivid in the shine of the fire-doors and the torch-basket, but it was pitch dark everywheres else and you couldn’t see anything. So we hopped ashore and took out to the upper end of the town and found a long lumber raft there and went out and set down on the outside edge of it with our legs in the water and listened to the quietness and the little waves slapping soft against it, and begun to talk, and watch out for the canoe, and it was ever so summery and bammy and comfortable, and the mosquitoes a singing and the frogs a going it, the way they do, such nights.

So then I told Tom the scheme and said we must keep mum, and not tell anybody but Jim. It cheered him up and nearly made him gay; and he said Jim was safe now; if we didn’t find the men the Duke’s plan would save him, sure, and we would have good times running him out of slavery again, and then we would take him over to England and hand him over to the Queen ourselves to help in the kitchen and wait on table and be a body-guard and celebrated; and we would have the trip, and see the Tower and Shackspur’s grave and find out what kind of a country we all come from before we struck for taxation and misrepresentation and raised Cain becuz we couldn’t get it.

But he said he’d got his lesson, and warn’t going to throw any more chances away for glory’s sake; no, let glory go, he was for business, from this out. He was going to save Jim the quickest way, never mind about the showiest.

It sounded good, and I loved to hear it. He hadn’t ever been in his right mind before; I could see it plain. Sound? He was as sound as a nut, now. Why, he even said he wished the King and the Duke would come and take Jim out of jail and out of town in the night, so

[begin page 199]

He said the new scheme was a hundred times the most likeliest, but he warn’t going to set down and take it easy on that account, becuz who knows but the Duke and the King will get into jail down there, which is always to be expected, and mightn’t get out till it was too late for Jim’s business—

“Don’t, Tom!” says I, breaking in, “don’t let’s talk about it, don’t let’s even think about it.”

“We’ve got to, Huck; it’s in the chances, and we got to give all the doubts a full show from this out—there ain’t going to be any more taking things for granted. We’ll hunt for the men a couple of days while we’re waiting—we won’t throw any chance away.” After a spell he drawed a sorrowful deep breath and says, “it was a prime good chance before the rain—I wish we hadn’t come down here.”

We watched faithful, all night till most daylight, and warn’t going to go to sleep at all, but we did; and when we woke up it was noon and we was disgusted; and peeled and had a swim, and went down to town and et about 64 battercakes and things and felt crowded and better; and inquired around and didn’t hear of the canoe, and a steamboat come along late and we got home at dark and Jim was slated for first degree and Bat was in the ground, and everybody was talking about the watchful inscrutableness of Providence, and thankful for it and astonished at it, but didn’t das’t to say so right out.

And after 64 more we went to jail and comforted Jim up and told him about the new plan, and it joggled him considerable, and he couldn’t tell straight off whether to be glad or not, and says—

“By jimminies, I don’t mo’n git outer one scrape tell I gits in a wuss one.” But when he see how down-hearted it made Tom to hear him say that, he was sorry, and put his old black hand on Tom’s head and says, “but I don’t mine, I don’t mine, honey, don’t you worry; I knows you’s gwyne to do de bes’ you kin, en it don’t

[begin page 200]

Of course it was awful to him, the idea of the King and the Duke getting a grip on him again, and he could scasely bear to talk about it; still, he knowed me and Tom wouldn’t let him be a slave long if industriousness and enterprise and c’ruption was worth anything; so he quieted down, and reckoned if the Queen was satisfied with him after she tried him and found he was honest and willing, she would raise his wages next year; and Tom said she was young and inexperienced and would, he knowed it. So it was all satisfactry, and Tom went along home, and told me to come too, and I done it.

His aunt Polly give him a hiding, but it didn’t hurt—nor me, neither; we didn’t care for it. She was in a towering way, but when we explained we had been over on t’other side of the river fishing, about a couple of days and nights, and didn’t know the horn-signal had blowed and scared the town to death and there’d been a murder and a funeral and Jim done it, she forgot she was mad at us, and wouldn’t a sold out her chance for a basket of money, she being just busting to tell the news.

So she started in, and never got a dern thing right, but enjoyed herself, and it took her two solid hours; and when she got done painting up the show it was worth four times the facts, and I reckon Tom was sorry he didn’t get her to run the conspiracy herself. But she was right down sorry for Jim, and said Bat must a tried to kill Jim or he never would a blowed his brains out with the musket.

“Did blow them out, did he, aunt Polly?”

“Such as he had—yes.”

Then company come in to spend the evening, and amongst them was Flacker the detective, and he had been working up his clews and knowed all about the murder, same as if he’d seen it; and they all set with their mouths open a listening and holding their breath and wondering at his talents and marvelousness whilst he went on.

Why, it was just rot and rubbage—clean, straight foolishness, but them people couldn’t see it. According to him, the Sons of Freedom was a sham—it was Burrell’s Gang, and he had the clews

[begin page 201]

Why that was me and Tom—I never see such an idiot. But the company was charmed to death with that stuff, and said it was the

[begin page 202]

“And the gifts! you may well say that,” says Tom’s aunt Polly; and then they all said it.

She was soft on detectives, becuz Tom had an ambitiousness thataway, and she was proud about what he done that time down at his uncle Silas’s.

We was over the river before daylight next morning, and as soon as the dawn come we begun to search for them foot-tracks. Tom had the measures of the two men’s tracks—length and width; and he had the heels exact, just as they was printed in the ground in the lean-to, becuz he had run tallow into them from the candle and made thin moulds, and then traced them around on a leaf which he tore out of Bat’s grocery-store book and done it with Bat’s pen. The prints was like anybody else’s to me, except the pal’s left heel, which had a little of the north-east corner gone, and it oughter been the other one, to do us any good, I reckoned, becuz it was the left one he dragged after he hurt it falling down the jumping-off place, and the corner wouldn’t show, now, if he was still a-dragging it; but Tom said I was a sap-head, and said if it dragged couldn’t we see the drag-mark. Well, that was so; so then I didn’t say no more.

We started work about a mile above the ferry on the Illinois shore. There was a low place where you could land a lame man there, and it was the only one above the ferry—the rest was all bluff bank ten foot high, like a wall, at this stage of the river. There

[begin page 203]

We stuck to it all day, and went back next day and ransacked again—rummaged the whole country betwixt the landings, plum till dark. It warn’t any good. Next day we went down and rummaged Jackson’s island—no tracks there but Flacker’s; and he had lugged off our print-works, and some of our feed, too. So then we crossed to our shore and went to the cave, but that warn’t any use, becuz the soldiers was there that Colonel Elder sent on accounts of the pow-wow the conspiracy made, and if any strangers had tried to get in there it would a been hark from the tomb for them.

We had to give it up, then, and paddled along home. Tom was down in the mouth again, becuz Jim would have to go down South with the King and the Duke, now, and could have a terrible rough time before we could run him out of slavery and break for England. But pretty soon he jumps up, all excited and glad, and says—

“We’re fools, Huck, just fools!”

“Tain’t no news,” I says, “but what’s the matter now?”

“Why, we’re in luck—that’s what’s the matter.”

“Skin it to me,” I says, “I’m a listening.”

“Well, you see, we didn’t find the men, and ain’t ever going to; so Jim hangs, for dead sure, now, if he stays here—ain’t it so? And so it’s splendid that he’s going to be sold South, and I’m glad you run across the Duke and the King. It’s the best thing that ever happened, becuz—”

“Shucks,” I says, “is it any more splendider now than it was two minutes ago? You was ’most sick about it, then. How is it such good luck?”

“Becuz he ain’t agoing to be sold South.”

[begin page 204]

“How you going to prevent it?”

“Easy. We’re just fools for not thinking of it sooner. We’ll go down the river with them on the same boat, and when we get to Cairo we’re in a free State, and we’ll say, now then, the most you can get for Jim down South is a thousand dollars—you can get that right here for him!”

So then I did jump up and crack my heels, and says—

“It’s splendid, Tom. I’m in for half of the money.”

“No you ain’t.”

“Yes I am.”

“No you ain’t. If it hadn’t been for the conspiracy Jim wouldn’t been at that place, and wouldn’t be in no trouble now. It’s my fault, and I foot the bill.”

“It ain’t fair,” I says. “How did I come to hog half of the robber’s money and get so rotten flush? Was it my smartness? No, it was yourn. By rights you ought to took it all, and you wouldn’t.”

And I stuck to him till he give in.

“Now then,” I says, “we ain’t such fools as you think, for not thinking about this sooner. We couldn’t buy Jim here, becuz he’s free and there ain’t anybody to buy him of. We couldn’t buy him of anybody but the King and the Duke, and can’t buy him of them till he’s on free ground where we can run him up the Ohio and into Canada and over to England—so we’ve thought of it plenty soon enough, and ain’t fools, nuther.”

“All right, then, we ain’t fools, but ain’t it lucky that we went down the river when there warn’t the least sense in it, and yet it was the very thing that met us up with the King and the Duke, and we can see, now, Jim would be hung, sure, if it hadn’t happened. Huck—something else in it, ain’t there?”

He said it pretty solemn. So I knowed he had treed the hand of Providence again, and said so.

“I reckon you’ll learn to trust, before long,” he says.

I started to say “I wisht I could get the credit for everything

[begin page 205]

“We got to neglect the conspiracy, Huck, our hands is too full to run it right.”

I was graveled, and was agoing to say “Long’s we ain’t running it anyway—’least don’t get none of the credit of it—it ain’t worth the trouble it is to us,” but pulled it in and crowded it down like I done before. Best way, I reckon.

After supper we went to the jail and took Jim a pie and one thing and another and told him how we was going to buy him at Cairo and run him to England, and by Jackson he busted out and cried; and the pie went down the wrong way and we had to beat him and bang him or he would a choked to death and might as well a been hung.

Jim was all right, now, and joyful, and his mournfulness all went away, and took his banjo, and ’stead of singing “Ain’t got long to stay here,” the way he done since he got into jail, he sung “Jinny git de hoecake done,” and the gayest songs he knowed; and laughed and laughed about the King and the Duke and the Burning Shame till he ’most died; it was good to see him; and then danced a nigger breakdown, and said he hadn’t been so young in his heart since he was a boy.

And he was willing for his wife and children to come and see him now, if their marsters would let them—and the sheriff; he couldn’t bear the idea of it before. So we said we would try for it, and hoped we’d have them there in the morning so he could see them and say good-bye before the King and the Duke come up on the boat.

That night we packed our things, and in the morning I went to Judge Thatcher and drawed eight hundred dollars, and he was surprised, but he didn’t get no information out of me; and Tom drawed the same, and then we went to ’range about Jim’s wife and children, and their marsters was very good and kind, but couldn’t spare them now, but would let them come before long—maybe

[begin page 206]

Then we went to the jail and Jim was dreadful sorry, but knowed it couldn’t be helped and he had to get along the way things was; but he didn’t take on, becuz niggers is used to that.

We chattered along pretty comfortable till we heard the boat coming, but after that we was too excited to talk, but only fidgeted up and down; and every time the bolts and chains on the jail door rattled I catched my breath and says to myself, that’s them a-coming! But it wasn’t.

They didn’t come at all. We was disappointed, and so was Jim, but it warn’t any matter, they was prob’ly in the calaboose for getting drunk and raising a row, and would turn up to-morrow. So then we hid the money and went a-fishing.

Next day Jim’s trial was set for three weeks ahead.

No Duke and no King, yet.

So we allowed we would wait one more day, and then if they didn’t come we would go down to Sent Louis and go to the calaboose and find out how long they was in for.

Well, they didn’t come; so we went down. And by George they warn’t in the calaboose, and hadn’t been!

It was perfectly awful. Tom was that sick he had to set down on something—he couldn’t stand.

What to do we didn’t know; becuz the calaboose was the only address them bilks ever had.

Then we went and tried the jail. No use—they hadn’t been there, either.

It was getting to look right down scary; I knowed it, and Tom knowed it. But we’d got to keep moving, we couldn’t rest. It was a powerful big town—some said it had sixty thousand people in it, prob’ly a lie; but we searched it high and low for four days just the same, particularly the worst parts, like what they call Hell’s Half-Acre. But we couldn’t run across them; they was gone—clean gone, just the same as if they had been blowed out, like a candle.

We got downer and downer in the mouth, we couldn’t make it out nohow. Something had gone and happened to them, of course,

[begin page 207]

We had to give it up, and we went back home. And not talking much; there warn’t anything to talk about, but plenty to think. And mainly what to say to Jim, and how to let on to be hopeful.

Well, we went to the jail every day, and pretended we warn’t uneasy, and let on to be pretty gay, and done it the best we could, but it was pretty poor and wouldn’t fooled anybody but old Jim, which believed in us. We kept it up more than two weeks, and it was the hardest work we ever had and the sorrowfulest. And always we said it was going to come out all right, but towards the last we couldn’t say it hearty and strong, and that made Jim suspicion something, and he turned in and went to bracing us up and trying to make us cheerful, and it ’most broke us down, and was the hardest of all for us to bear, becuz it showed he had as good as found out we hadn’t any real hope, and so he was forgetting to be troubled about himself he was so sorry for us.

But there was one part of the day that we warn’t ever in the jail. It was when the boat come. We was always there, and seen everybody that come ashore. And every now and then, along at first, as the boat sidled in I would think I saw them bilks in the jam on the foc’sle and nudge Tom and say “There they are!” but it was a mistake; and so towards the last we only went becuz we couldn’t help it, and looked at the passengers without any intrust, and turned around and went away without saying anything when they had all come ashore. It seemed kind of strange: last month I would a broke my neck getting away from the King and the Duke, but now I would druther see them than the angels.

Tom was pale, and hadn’t any appetite for his vittles, and didn’t sleep good, and hadn’t any spirits and wouldn’t talk, and his aunt Polly was worried out of her life about him, and believed the Sons of Freedom and their bills and their horn had scared Tom into a sickness; and every day she loaded him up with any kind of medicine she could get aholt of; and she watched him through the

[begin page 208]

Me and Tom had to be witnesses, and Jim’s lawyer was a young man and new to the village, and hadn’t any business, becuz of course the others didn’t want the job for a free nigger, though we offered to pay them high. They hated to go back on Tom, but they was plenty right enough, they had to get their living and the prejudices was pretty strong, which was natural. Tom reconnized that; he wouldn’t be lawyer for a free nigger himself, unless it was Jim.

The morning of the trial Tom’s aunt Polly stopped him and warn’t going to let him go; she said it warn’t any place for boys, and besides, they wouldn’t be allowed—everybody was going and there wouldn’t be room; but Tom says—

“There’ll be room for me and Huck. We’re going to be witnesses.”

She was that astonished you could a knocked her down with a brickbat; and shoved her spectacles up on her forehead and says—

“You two! What do you know about it, I’d like to know!”

But we didn’t stop to talk, but cleared out and left her finishing fixing up; becuz she was coming, of course—everybody was.

The court-house was jammed. Plenty of ladies, too—seven or eight benches of them; and aunt Polly and the Widow Douglas and Miss Watson and Mrs. Lawson, they all set together, and the Thatchers and a lot more back of them—all of the quality. And Jim was there, and the sheriff.

Then the judge come in and set down very solemn, and opened court; and Mr. Lawson made a speech and said he was going to

[begin page 209]

Jim’s young lawyer made a speech and said he was going to prove an allyby—prove it by two witnesses; and that it warn’t done by Jim but by a stranger unknown. It made everybody smile; and I was sorry for that young man, becuz he was nervous and scared, and knowed he hadn’t any case, and so couldn’t talk out bold and strong like Mr. Lawson done. And he knowed everybody was making fun of him, too, and didn’t think much of him for being a free nigger’s lawyer and a nobody to boot.

Flacker he went on the stand and give his idea of how it all happened; and mapped it out and worked his clews, and everybody held their breath and was full of wonderment to hear him make it so plain and clear, and nothing in the world to do it with but just his intellects.

Then Cap. Haines and Buck Fisher told how they catched Jim as good as in the very act; and how poor old Bat was laying there dead, and Jim just getting up, having caved his head in with the musket and slipped and fell on him.

And then the musket was showed, with rust and hair on the barrel, and the people shuddered; and when they held up the bloody clothes they shuddered some more.

Then I told all I knowed and got back out of the way; and hadn’t done no good, becuz there wasn’t anybody there believed any of it, and the most of them looked it.

Then they called Tom Sawyer, and people around me mumbled and said, “’Course—couldn’t happen ’thout him being in it; couldn’t do an eclipse successful if Tom Sawyer was took sick and couldn’t superintend.” And his aunt Polly and the women perked up and got ready to wonder what kind of ’sistance he was going to contribbit and who was going to get the benefit of it.

“Thomas Sawyer, where was you on the Saturday night before the Sunday that this deed was done?”

“Running a conspiracy.”

[begin page 210]

“Running a conspiracy, your honor.”

“This sounds like a dangerous candor. Tell your story; and be careful and not reveal things that can hurt you.”

So Tom went on and told the whole thing, how we got up the conspiracy and run it for all it was worth; and Colonel Elder and Captain Sam set there looking ashamed and pretty mad, for ’most everybody was laughing; and when he showed that it was us that was the Sons of Freedom and got up the scare-bills and stuck them on the doors, and not Burrell, which Flacker said it was, they laughed again, and it was Flacker’s turn to look sick, and he done it.

So he went on telling it, straight out and square, and no lies, all the way down to where Jim come down out of the tree after he blowed the signal-horn and we all went into the town and sampled the excitement—and you could see the people was believing it all, becuz it sounded honest and didn’t have a made-up look; and so the alliby was getting to look right down favorable, and people was nodding their heads at one another as much as to say so, and looking more friendlier at Jim, too, and Mr. Lawson warn’t looking so comfortable as he was before; but at last come the question—

“You say the prisoner was to go and report to your aunt, and then follow you. What time was that?”

And by Jackson Tom couldn’t tell him. We hadn’t noticed. Tom had to guess; it was all he could do, and guessing warn’t worth much. It was mighty bad—and it showed in people’s faces. Mr. Lawson was looking comfortable again.

“Why were you three going to Bradish’s house?”

Then Tom told them that part of the conspiracy; how he was going to play runaway nigger and I was going to play him onto Bradish, but Bradish had already got one—and so on; and how Tom examined the nigger in the night and see that he warn’t a nigger at all, and had a key in his shoe, and he judged he was going to escape, and he wanted to be there and get the clews and hunt him down after he got away. And the people and the judge listened

[begin page 211]

And he told how me and him got there at daylight and see Bat laying dead, and he told me to go for the undertaker, and then found Jim’s track and called me back and said it was all right, Jim had been there and of course he was gone to tell about the murder.

A lot of them smiled at that, and Mr. Lawson laughed right out.

But Tom went right along, and told how we followed the tracks to the hanted house and he crope in under there and listened and heard the murderers talk, but didn’t see them.

“Didn’t see them?”

“No, sir;” and he told why.

“Imaginary ones, maybe,” says Mr. Lawson, and laughed; and a lot of the others laughed, too, and a fellow close to me says to a friend, “he better stopped when he was well off—he’s got to embroiderin’, now.” “Yes,” says the other one, “he’s spiling it.”

“Go on,” says the judge; “tell what you heard.”

“It was like this. One was a thrashing around a little now and then and growling, and the other one was groaning; and by and by the one that thrashed around says in a low voice, ‘Shut up, you old cry-baby, and let a person get some sleep.’ Then the groaner says, ‘If your leg was hurt as bad as mine, you’d be a cry-baby too, I reckon, and it’s all your fault, anyway; when Bradish come and catched us escaping, if you had a helped me ’stead of trying to prevent me, I would a busted his head right there in the lean-to, ’stead of outside, and he wouldn’t a had a chance to yell and fetch them men a-running, and we wouldn’t a had to take a short cut and hurt my leg and have to lay up here and p’raps get catched before the day’s over—and yet here you are a-growling about cry-babies, and it shows you hain’t got no real heart, and no Christian sentiments and bringing up.’ Then the other one says, ‘The whole blame’s your own, for coming three or four hours late—drunk, as usual.’ ‘I warn’t drunk, neither; I got lost—ain’t no crime in that, I don’t reckon.’ ‘All right,’ says the other one, ‘have it your own way, but shut up and keep still now; you want to be thinking up your last

[begin page 212]

When Tom got done it was dead still, just the way it always is when people has been listening to a yarn they don’t take no stock in and are sorry for the person that has told it. It was kind of miserable, that stillness. At last the judge he cleared his throat and says, very grave—

“If this is true, how is it you didn’t come straight and tell the sheriff? How do you explain that?”

Tom was working at a button with his fingers and looking down at the floor. It was too many for him, that question, and I knowed it. How was he going to tell them he didn’t do it becuz he was going to work the thing out on detective principles and git glory out of it? And how was he going to tell them he wanted to make the glory bigger by making it seem Jim killed the man, and even crowded him into a motive, and then went and told about the motive where Mr. Lawson could get on it—and so just by reason of him and his foolishness the murderers got away and now Jim was going to be hung for what they done. No, sir, he couldn’t say a word. And so when the judge waited a while, everybody’s eyes on Tom a fooling with his button, and then asked him again why he didn’t go and tell the sheriff, he swallowed two or three times, and the tears come in his eyes, and he says, very low—

“I don’t know, sir.”

It was still again, for a minute, then the lawyers made their speeches, and Mr. Lawson was terrible sarcastic on Tom and his fairy tale, as he called it, and so then the jury fetched Jim in guilty in the first degree in two minutes, and old Jim stood up and the judge begun to make his speech telling him why he’d got to die; and Tom he set there with his head down, crying.

And just then, by George, the Duke and the King come

[begin page 213]

“Pardon a moment, your honor,” and Tom glanced up; and the Duke says—

“We’ve got a little matter of business which—”

Tom jumps up and shouts—

“I reconnize the voices—it’s the murderers!”

Well, you never see such a stir. Everybody rose up and begun to stretch their necks to get a view, and the sheriff he stormed at them and made them set down; and the King and the Duke looked perfectly astonished, and turned pretty white, I tell you; and the judge says—

“Why do you make such a charge as this?”

“Becuz I know it, your honor,” Tom says.

“How do you know it—you said, yourself, you didn’t see the men?”

“It ain’t any difference, I’ve got the proofs.”

“Where?”

He fetched out the leaf from Bat’s book and showed the drawing, and says—

“If this one hasn’t changed his shoes, this is the print of the left one.”

And it was, sure enough, and the King looked very sick.

“Very good indeed,” says the judge. “Proceed.”

Tom fetched a set of false teeth out of his pocket, and says—

“If they don’t fit the other one’s mouth he ain’t the white nigger that was in the lean-to.”

It was not much short of fifty years ago—and a frosty morning. Up the naked long slant of Schoolhouse Hill the boys and girls of Petersburg village were struggling from various directions against the fierce wind, and making slow and difficult progress. The wind was not the only hindrance, nor the worst; the slope was steel-clad in frozen snow, and the foothold offered was far from trustworthy. Every now and then a boy who had almost gained the schoolhouse stepped out with too much confidence, thinking himself safe, lost his footing, struck upon his back and went skimming down the hill behind his freed sled, the straggling schoolmates scrambling out of his way and applauding as he sailed by; and in a few seconds he was at the bottom with all his work to do over again. But this was fun; fun for the boy, fun for the witnesses, fun all around; for boys and girls are ignorant and do not know trouble when they see it.

Sid Sawyer, the good boy, the model boy, the cautious boy, did not lose his footing. He brought no sled, he chose his steps with care, and he arrived in safety. Tom Sawyer brought his sled and he, also, arrived without adventure, for Huck Finn was along to help, although he was not a member of the school in these days; he merely came in order to be with Tom until school “took in.”

[begin page 215]

All the twenty-five or thirty boys and girls arrived at last, red and panting, and still cold, notwithstanding their yarn comforters and mufflers and mittens; and the girls flocked into the little schoolhouse and the boys packed themselves together in the shelter of its lee.

It was noticed now that a new boy was present, and this was a matter of extraordinary interest, for a new boy in the village was a rarer sight than a new comet in the sky. He was apparently about fifteen; his clothes were neat and tasty above the common, he had a good and winning face, and he was surpassingly handsome—handsome beyond imagination! His eyes were deep and rich and beautiful, and there was a modesty and dignity and grace and graciousness and charm about him which some of the boys, with a pleased surprise, recognised at once as familiar—they had encountered it in books about fairy-tale princes and that sort. They stared at him with a trying backwoods frankness, but he was tranquil and did not seem troubled by it. After looking him over, Henry Bascom pushed forward in front of the others and began in an insolent tone to question him:

“Who are you? What’s your name?”

The boy slowly shook his head, as if meaning by that that he did not understand.

“Do you hear? Answer up!”

Another slow shake.

[begin page 216]

Tom Sawyer said—

“That’s no way, Henry Bascom—it’s against the rules. If you want your fuss, and can’t wait till recess, which is regular, go at it right and fair; put a chip on your shoulder and dare him to knock it off.”

“All right; he’s got to fight, and fight now, whether he answers or not; and I’m not particular about how it’s got at.” He put a flake of ice on his shoulder and said, “There—knock it off if you dare!”

The boy looked inquiringly from face to face, and Tom stepped up and answered by signs. He touched the boy’s right hand, then flipped off the ice with his own, put it back in its place, and indicated that that was what the boy must do. The lad smiled, put out his hand, and touched the ice with his finger. Bascom launched a blow at his face which seemed to miss; the energy of it made Bascom slip on the ice, and he departed on his back for the bottom of the hill, with cordial laughter and mock applause from the boys to cheer his way.

The bell began to ring, and the little crowd swarmed into the schoolhouse and hurried to their places. The stranger found a seat apart, and was at once a target for the wondering eyes and eager whisperings of the girls. School now “began.” Archibald Ferguson, the old Scotch schoolmaster, rapped upon his desk with his ruler, rose upon his dais and stood, with his hands together, and said “Let us pray.” After the prayer there was a hymn, then the buzz of study began, and the multiplication class was called up. It recited, up to “twelve times twelve;” then the arithmetic class followed and exposed its slates to much censure and little commendation; next came the grammar class of parsing parrots, who knew everything about grammar except how to utilize its rules in common speech.

“Spelling class!” The schoolmaster’s wandering eye now fell upon the new boy, and he countermanded that order. “Hm—a stranger? Who is it? What is your name, my boy?”

The lad rose and bowed, and said—

“Pardon, monsieur—je ne comprends pas.”

Ferguson looked astonished and pleased, and said, in French—

[begin page 217]

“Not a word, sir.”

“You must try to learn it.”

“Gladly, sir.”

“It is your purpose to attend my school regularly?”

“If I may have the privilege, sir.”

“That is well. Take English only, for the present. The grammar has about thirty rules. It will be necessary to learn them by heart.”

“I already know them, sir, but I do not know what the words mean.”

“What is it you say? You know the rules of the grammar, and yet don’t know English? How can that be? When did you learn them?”

“I heard your grammar class recite the rules before entering upon the rest of their lesson.”

The teacher looked over his glasses at the boy a while, in a puzzled way, then said—

“If you know no English words, how did you know it was a grammar lesson?”

“From similarities to the French—like the word grammar itself.”

“True! You have a headpiece! You will soon get the rules by heart.”

“I know them by heart, sir.”

“Impossible! You are speaking extravagantly; you do not know what you are saying.”

[begin page 218]

“I should not have spoken so, and am sorry. Overlook it, my boy; recite me a rule of grammar—as well as you can—never mind the mistakes.”

The boy began with the first rule and went along with his task quite simply and comfortably, dropping rule after rule unmutilated from his lips, while the teacher and the school sat with parted lips and suspended breath, listening in mute wonder. At the finish the boy bowed again, and stood, waiting. Ferguson sat silent a moment or two in his great chair, then said—

“On your honor—those rules were wholly unknown to you when you came into this house?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Upon my word I believe you, on the veracity that is written in your face. No—I don’t—I can’t. It is beyond the reach of belief. A memory like that—an ear for pronunciation like that, is of course im— why, no one in the earth has such a memory as that!”

The boy bowed, and said nothing. Again the old Scot felt rebuked, and said—

“Of course I don’t mean—I don’t really mean—er—tell me: if you could prove in some way that you have never until now—for instance, if you could repeat other things which you have heard here. Will you try?”

With engaging simplicity and serenity, and with apparently no intention of being funny, the boy began on the arithmetic lesson, and faithfully put into his report everything the teacher had said and everything the pupils had said, and imitated the voices and style of all concerned—as follows:

“Well, I give you my word it’s enough to drive a man back to the land of his fathers, and make him hide his head in the charitable heather and never more give out that he can teach the race! Five slates—five of the chiefest intelligences in the school—and look at them! Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled—Harry Slater! Yes, sir. Since when, is it, that 17, and 45, and 68 and 21 make 155, ye unspeakable creature? I—I—if you please, sir, Sally Fitch hunched me and I reckon it made me make a figure 9 when I was intending to make a— There’s not a 9 in the sum, you blockhead!—and ye’ll get a black mark for the lie you’ve told; a foolish lie, ill wrought and clumsy in the invention; you have no talent—stick to the truth. Becky Thatcher!Yes, sir, please. Make the curtsy over again, and do it better. Yes, sir. Lower, still! Yes, sir. Very good. Now I’ll just ask you how you make out that 58 from 156 leaves 43? If you please, sir, I subtracted the 8 from the 6, which leaves—which leaves—Ithinkit leaves 3—and then— Peace! Ye banks and braes

[begin page 219]

The show was become unendurable. The boy had forgotten not a word, nor a tone, nor a look, nor a gesture, nor any shade or trifle of detail—he was letter-perfect, and the house could shut its eyes anywhere in the performance and know which individual was being imitated. The boy’s deep gravity and sincerity made the exhibition more and more trying the longer he went on. For a time, in decorous, disciplined and heroic silence, house and teacher sat bursting to laugh, with the tears running down, the regulations requiring noiseless propriety and solemnity; but when the stranger recited the answer to the triple sum and then put his hands together and raised his despairing eyes toward heaven in exact imitation of Mr. Ferguson’s manner, the teacher’s face broke up; and with that concession the house let go with a crash and laughed its fill thenceforth. But the boy went tranquilly on and on, unheeding the screams and throes and explosions, clear to the finish; then made his bow and straightened up and stood, bland and waiting.

It took some time to quiet the school; then Mr. Ferguson said—

“It is the most extraordinary thing I have seen in my life. In this world there is not another talent like yours, lad; be grateful for it, and for the noble modesty with which you bear about such a treasure. How long would you be able to keep in your memory the things which you have been uttering?”

“I cannot forget anything that I see or hear, sir.”

“At all?”

“No, sir.”

“It seems incredible—just impossible. Let me experiment a little

[begin page 220]

“No, sir.”

He took the dictionary and began to skim the pages swiftly, one after another. Evidently he dwelt upon no page, but merely gave it a lick from top to bottom with his eye and turned it over. The school-work rambled on after a fashion, but it consisted of blunders, mainly, for the fascinated eyes and minds of school and teacher were oftener on the young stranger than elsewhere. At the end of twenty minutes the boy laid the book down. Mr. Ferguson noticed this, and said, with a touch of disappointment in his tone—

“I am sorry. I saw that it did not interest you.”

The boy rose and said—

“Oh, sir, on the contrary!” This in French; then in English, “I have now the words of your language, but the forms not—perhaps, how you call?—the pronunciation also.”

“You have the words? How many of the words do you know?”

“All, sir.”

“No—no—there are 645 octavo pages—you couldn’t have examined a tenth of them in this short time. A page in two seconds?—it is impossible.”

The boy bowed respectfully, and said nothing.

“There—I am in fault again. I shall learn of you—courtesy. Give me the book. Begin. Recite—recite!”

It was another miracle. The boy poured out, in a rushing stream, the words, the definitions, the accompanying illustrative phrases and sentences, the signs indicating the parts of speech—everything; he skipped nothing, he put in all the details, and he even got the pronunciations substantially right, since it was a pronouncing-dictionary. Teacher and school sat in a soundless and motionless spell of awe and admiration, unconscious of the flight of time, unconscious of everything but the beautiful stranger and his stupendous performance. After a long while the juggler interrupted his recitation to say—in rather cumbrous and booky English—

“It is of necessity—what you call ‘of course,’ n’est-ce pas?—that I now am enabled to apply the machinery of the rules of the

[begin page 221]

Silence. The master roused himself as if from a dream, and lifted his hands and said—

“It is not a parrot—it thinks! Boy, ye are a marvel! With listening an hour and studying half as long, you have learned the English language. You are the only person in America that knows all its words. Let it rest, where it is—the construction will come of itself. Take up the Latin, now, and the Greek, and short-hand writing, and the mathematics. Here are the books. You shall have thirty minutes to each. Then your education will be complete. But tell me! How do you manage these things? What is your method? You do not read the page, you only skim it down with your eye, as one wipes a column of sums from a slate. You understand my English?”

“Yes, master—perfectly. I have no method—meaning I have no mystery. I see what is on the page—that is all.”

“But you see it at a glance.”

“But is not the particulars of the page—” He stopped to apply the rule and correct the sentence: “are not the particulars of the page the same as the particulars of the school? I see all the pupils at once; do I not know, then, how each is dressed, and his attitude and expression, and the color of his eyes and hair, and the length of his nose, and if his shoes are tied or not? Why shall I glance twice?”

Margaret Stover, over in the corner, drew her untied shoe back out of sight.

[begin page 222]

The boy took up the book and began to turn the pages, much as if he were carefully counting them. The school glanced with an evil joy at Henry Bascom, and was pleased to note that he was not happy. He was the only Latin pupil in the school, and his pride in this distinction was a thing through which his mates were made to endure much suffering.

The school droned and buzzed along, with the bulk of its mind and its interest not on its work but fixed in envy and discouragement upon the new scholar. At the end of half an hour it saw him lay down his Latin book and take up the Greek; it glanced contentedly at Henry Bascom, and a satisfied murmur dribbled down the benches. In turn the Greek and the mathematics were mastered, then “The New Short-Hand Method, called Phonography” was taken up. But the phonographic study was short-lived—it lasted but a minute and twenty seconds; then the boy played with several other books. The master noticed this, and by and by said—

“So soon done with the Phonography?”

“It is only a set of compact and simple principles, sir. They are applicable with ease and certainty—like the principles of the mathematics. Also, the examples assist; innumerable combinations of English words are given, and the vowels eliminated. It is admirable, this system, for precision and clarity; one could write Greek and Latin with it, making word-combinations with the vowels excised, and still be understood.”

“Your English is improving by leaps and bounds, my boy.”

“Yes, sir. I have been reading these English books. They have furnished me the forms of the language—the moulds in which it is cast—the idioms.”

“I am past wondering! I think there is no miracle that a mind like

[begin page 223]

The boy took the chalk, and the trial began. The master read very slowly; then a little faster; then faster still; then as fast as he could. The boy kept up, without apparent difficulty. Then the master threw in Latin sentences, English sentences, French ones, and now and then a hardy problem from Euclid to be ciphered out. The boy was competent, all the while.

“It is amazing, my child, amazing—stupefying! Do me one more miracle, and I strike my flag. Here is a page of columns of figures. Add them up. I have seen the famous lightning-calculator do it in three minutes and a quarter, and I know the answer. I will hold the watch. Beat him!”

The boy glanced at the page, made his bow and said,—

“The total is 4,865,493 if the blurred twenty-third figure in the fifth column is a 9; if it is a 7, the total is less by 2.”

“Right, and he is beaten by incredible odds; but you hadn’t time to even see the blurred figure, let alone note its place. Wait till I find it—the twenty-third, did you say? Here it is, but I can’t tell which it is—it may be a 9, it may be a 7. But no matter, one of your answers is right, according to which name we give the figure. Dear me, can my watch be right? It is long past the noon recess, and everybody has forgotten his dinner. In my thirty years of schoolteaching experience this has not happened before. Truly it is a day of miracles. Children, we dull moles are in no condition to further plod and grub after the excitements and bewilderments of this intellectual conflagration—school is dismissed. My wonderful scholar, tell me your name.”

The school crowded forward in a body to devour the stranger at close quarters with their envying eyes; all except Bascom, who remained apart and sulked.

“Quarante-quatre, sir. Forty-four.”

“Why—why—that is only a number, you know, not a name.”

The boy bowed. The master dropped the subject.

“When did you arrive in our town?”

[begin page 224]

“Have you friends or relatives among us?”

“No, sir—none. Mr. Hotchkiss allows me to lodge in his house.”

“You will find the Hotchkisses good people, excellent people. Had you introductions to them?”

“No, sir.”

“You see I am curious; but we are all that, in this monotonous little place, and we mean no harm. How did you make them understand what you wanted?”

“Through my signs and their compassion. It was cold, and I was a stranger.”

“Good—good—and well stated, without waste of words. It describes the Hotchkisses; it’s a whole biography. Whence did you come—and how?”

Forty-four bowed. The master said, affably—

“It was another indiscretion—you will not remember it against—no, I mean you will forget it, in consid—what I am trying to say is, that you will overlook it—that is it, overlook it. I am glad you are come, grateful that you are come.”

“I thank you—thank you deeply, sir.”

“My official character requires that I precede you in leaving this house, therefore I do it. This is an apology. Adieu.”

“Adieu, my master.”

The school made way, and the old gentleman marched out between the ranks with a grave dignity proper to his official state.

The girls went vivaciously chattering away, eager to get home and tell of the wonders they had seen; but outside of the schoolhouse the boys grouped themselves together and waited; silent, expectant, and nervous. They paid but little attention to the bitter weather, they were apparently under the spell of a more absorbing interest. Henry Bascom stood apart from the others, in the

[begin page 225]

“Look out for him—he’ll be waiting. The bully, I mean—Hen Bascom. He’s treacherous and low down.”

“Waiting?”

“Yes—for you.”

“What for?”

“To lick you—whip you.”

“On what account?”

“Why, he’s the bully this year, and you’re a fresh.”

“Is that a reason?”

“Plenty—yes. He’s got to take your measure, and do it to-day—he knows that.”

“It’s a custom, then?”

“Yes. He’s got to fight you, whether he wants to or not. But he wants to. You’ve knocked his Latin layout galley-west.”

“Galley west? Je ne—”

“It’s just a word, you know. Means you’ve knocked his props from under him.”

“Knocked his props from under him?”

“Yes—trumped his ace.”

“Trumped his—”

“Ace. That’s it—pulled his leg.”

“I assure you this is an error. I have not pulled his leg.”

“But you don’t understand. Don’t you see? You’ve graveled him, and he’s disgruntled.”

The new boy’s face expressed his despair. Tom reflected a moment, then his eye lighted with hope, and he said, with confidence—

“Now you’ll get the idea. You see, he held the age on Latin—just a lone hand, don’t you know, and it made him Grand Turk and Whoopjamboreehoo of the whole school, and he went in procession all by himself, like Parker’s hog. Well, you’ve walked up to the captain’s office with your Latin, now, and pulled in high, low, jack and the game, and it’s taken the curl out of his tail. There—that’s the idea.”

[begin page 226]

“It is still a little vague. It was but a poor dictionary—that French-English—and over-rich in omissions. Do you perhaps mean that he is jealous?”

“Score one! That’s it. Jealous—the very word. Now then, there’ll be a ring, and you’ll fight. Can you box? do you know the trick of it?”

“No.”

“I’ll show you. You’ll learn in two minutes and less; it don’t begin with grammar for difficulties. Put up your fists—so. Now then, hit me . . . . . You notice how I turned that off with my left? Again . . . . . . See?—turned it with my right. Dance around; caper—like this. Now I’m coming for you—look sharp . . . . . . That’s the ticket—I didn’t arrive. Once more . . . . . . Good! You’re all right. Come on. It’s a cold day for Henry.”

They stepped outside, now. As they walked past Bascom he suddenly thrust out his foot, to trip Forty-four. But the foot was no obstruction, it did not interrupt Forty-four’s stride. Necessarily, then, Bascom was himself tripped. He fell heavily, and everybody laughed privately. He got up, all a-quiver with passion, and cried out—

“Off with your coat, Know-it-all—you’re going to fight or eat dirt, one or t’other. Form a ring, fellows!”

He threw off his coat. The ring was formed.

“May I keep my coat on? Do the rules allow it?”

“Don’t!” said Tom; “it’s a disadvantage. Pull it off.”

“Keep it on, you wax doll, if you want to,” said Henry, “it won’t do you any good either way. Time!”

Forty-four took position, with his fists up, and stood without moving, while the lithe and active Bascom danced about him, danced up toward him, feinted with his right, feinted with his left, danced away again, danced forward again—and so-on and so-on, Tom and others putting in frequent warnings for Forty-four: “Look out for him—look o-u-t!” At last Forty-four opened his guard for an instant, and in that instant Henry plunged, and let drive with all

[begin page 227]

“Let us not go on with it. What good can come of it?”

The boys murmured dissent; this was an election for Bully; they were personally interested, they had hopes, and their hopes were getting the color of certainties. Henry said—

“You’ll stay where you are, Miss Nancy. You don’t leave this ground till I know who wears the belt.”

“Ah, but you already know—or ought to; therefore, where is the use of going on? You have not struck me, and I have no wish to strike you.”

“Oh, you haven’t, haven’t you? How kind! Keep your benevolences to yourself till somebody asks you for them. Time!”

The new boy began to strike out, now; and every time he struck, Henry went down. Five times. There was great excitement among the boys. They recognised that they were going to lose a tyrant and perhaps get a protector in his place. In their happiness they lost their fears and began to shout—

“Give it him, Forty-four! Let him have it! Land him again! Another one! Give it him good!”

Henry was pluck. He went down time after time, but got patiently up and went at his work again, and did not give up until his strength was all gone. Then he said—

“The belt’s yours—but I’ll get even with you, yet, girly, you see if I don’t.” Then he looked around upon the crowd, and called eight of them by name, ending with Huck Finn, and said: “You’re

[begin page 228]

For the first time, a flash of temper showed in the new boy’s eye. It was only a flash; it was gone in a moment; then he said, without passion—

“I will not allow that.”

“You won’t allow it! Who’s asking you? Who cares what you allow and what you don’t allow? To show you how much I care, I’ll begin on them now.”

“I cannot have it. You must not be foolish. I have spared you, till now; I have struck you only lightly. If you touch one of the boys, I will hit you hard.”

But Henry’s temper was beyond his control. He jumped at the nearest boy on his black-list, but he did not reach him; he went down under a sounding slap from the flat of the new boy’s hand, and lay motionless where he fell.

“I saw it! I saw that!” This shout was from Henry’s father, the nigger-trader—an unloved man, but respected for his muscle and his temper. He came running from his sleigh, with his whip in his hand and raised to strike. The boys fell back out of his way, and as he reached Forty-four he brought down the whip with an angry “I’ll learn you!” Forty-four dodged deftly out of its course and seized the trader’s wrist with his right hand. There was a sound of crackling bones and a groan, and the trader staggered away, saying—

“Name of God, my wrist is crushed!”

Henry’s mamma arrived from the sleigh, now and broke into frenzies of lamentation over her collapsed son and her crippled husband, while the schoolboys looked on, dazed, and rather frightened at the woman’s spectacular distress, but fascinated with the show and glad to be there and see it. It absorbed their attention so entirely that when Mrs. Bascom presently turned and demanded the extradition of Forty-four so that she might square accounts with him they found that he had disappeared without their having noticed it.

Within an hour afterward people began to drop in at the Hotchkiss house; ostensibly to make a friendly call, really to get sight of the miraculous boy. The news they brought soon made the Hotchkisses proud of their prize and glad that they had caught him. Mr. Hotchkiss’s pride and joy were frank and simple; every new marvel that any comer added to the list of his lodger’s great deeds made him a prouder and happier man than he was before, he being a person substantially without jealousies and by nature addicted to admirations. Indeed he was a broad man in many ways; hospitable to new facts and always seeking them; to new ideas, and always examining them; to new opinions and always adopting them; a man ready to meet any novelty half way and give it a friendly trial. He changed his principles with the moon, his politics with the weather, and his religion with his shirt. He was recognized as being limitlessly good-hearted, quite fairly above the village average intellectually, a diligent and enthusiastic seeker after truth, and a sincere believer in his newest belief, but a man who had missed his vocation—he should have been a weather-vane. He was tall and handsome and courteous, with winning ways, and expressive eyes, and had a white head which looked twenty years older than the rest of him.

His good Presbyterian wife was as steady as an anvil. She was not a creature of change. When she gave shelter to an opinion she did not make a transient guest of it, but a permanency. She was fond and proud of her husband, and believed he would have been great if he had had a proper chance—if he had lived in a metropolis, instead of a village; if his merits had been exposed to the world instead of being hidden under a bushel. She was patient with his excursions after the truth. She expected him to be saved—thought she knew that that would happen, in fact. It could only be as a

[begin page 230]

Hannah Hotchkiss exulted in the wonders brought by the visitors, and the more they brought the happier she was in the possession of that boy; but she was very human in her make-up, and she felt a little aggravated over the fact that the news had to come from the outside; that these people should know these things about her lodger before she knew them herself; that she must sit and do the wondering and exclaiming when in all fairness she ought to be doing the telling and they the applauding; that they should be able to contribute all the marvels and she none. Finally the widow Dawson remarked upon the circumstance that all the information was being furnished from the one side; and added—

“Didn’t he do anything out of the common here, sister Hotchkiss—last night or this morning?”

Hannah was ashamed of her poverty. The only thing she was able to offer was colorless compared with the matters which she had been listening to.

“Well, no—I can’t say that he did; unless you consider that we couldn’t understand his language but did understand his signs about as easy as if they had been talk. We were astonished at it, and spoke of it afterwards.”

Her young niece, Annie Fleming, spoke up and said—

[begin page 231]

“It’s true, as sure as I live; it had passed out of my mind, child.”

She was happier, now. Then her husband made a contribution—

“I call to mind, now, that just as we stepped into his room to show him its arrangements I knocked my elbow against the ward-robe and the candle fell and went out, and—”

“Certainly!” exclaimed Hannah, “and the next moment he had struck a match and was lighting—”

“Not the stub I had dropped,” cried Hotchkiss, “but a whole candle! Now the marvel is that there was only one whole candle in the room—”

“And it was clear on the other side of the room,” interrupted Hannah, “and moreover only just the end of it was showing, where it lay on the top of the bookcase, and he had noticed it with that lightning eye of his—”

“Of course, of course!” exclaimed the company, with admiration.

“—and gone right to it in the dark without disturbing a chair. Why, sister Dawson, a cat couldn’t have done it any quicker or better or surer! Just think of it!”

A chorus of rewarding astonishment broke out which made Hannah’s whole constitution throb with pleasure; and when sister Dawson laid her hand impressively upon Hannah’s hand, and then walled her eyes toward the ceiling, as much as to say, “it’s beyond words, beyond words!” the pleasure rose to ecstasy.

“Wait!” said Mr. Hotchkiss, breaking out with the kind of laugh which in the back settlements gives notice that something humorous is coming, “I can tell you a wonder that beats that to pieces—beats anything and everything that has been told about him up to date. He paid four weeks’ board in advance—cash down! Petersburg can believe the rest, but you’ll never catch it taking that statement at par.”

The joke had immense success; the laugh was hearty all around. Then Hotchkiss issued another notifying laugh, and added—

[begin page 232]

This was too grand and fine to be humorous; it was impressive, almost awe-inspiring. The gold pieces were passed from hand to hand and contemplated in mute reverence. Aunt Rachel, elderly slave woman, was passing cracked nuts and cider. She offered a contribution, now.

“Now, den, dat ’splain it! I uz a wonderin’ ’bout dat cannel. You is right, Miss Hannah, dey uz only one in de room, en she uz on top er de bookcase. Well, she dah yit—she hain’t been tetched.”

“Not been touched?”

“No, m’am; she hain’t been tetched. A ornery po’ yaller taller cannel, ain’t she?”

“Of course.”

“Yes’m. I mould’ dat cannel myself. Kin we ’ford wax cannels—half a dollar a pound?”

“Wax! The idea!”

“Dat new cannel’s wax!”

“Oh, come!”

“Fo’ Gawd she is. White as Miss Guthrie’s store-teeth.”

A delicate flattery-shot, neatly put. The widow Guthrie, 56 and dressed for 25, was pleased, and exhibited a girlish embarrassment that was very pretty. She was excusably vain of her false teeth, the only ones in the town; a costly luxury, and a fine and showy contrast with the prevailing mouth-equipment of both old and young—the kind of sharp contrast which white-washed palings make with a charred stump-fence.

Everybody wanted to see the wax candle; Annie Fleming was hurried away to fetch it, and aunt Rachel resumed—

“Miss Hannah, dey’s sump’n pow’ful odd ’bout our young gentman. In de fust place, he ain’t got no baggage. Ain’t dat so?”

“It hasn’t come yet, but I reckon it’s coming. I’ve been expecting it all day, of course.”

[begin page 233]

“What makes you think that, Rachel?”

“Caze he ain’t got no use for it, Miss Hannah.”

“Why?”

“I’s gwyne tell you. Warn’t he dress’ beautiful when he come?”

“Yes.” Then she added—to the company: “Plain, but of finer materials than anybody here is used to. Nicely made, too, and spick and span new.”

“You’s got it down ’cording to de facts. Now den, I went to his room dis mawnin to fetch his clo’es so Jeff could bresh ’em en black his boots, en dey warn’t no clo’es dah. Nary a rag. En no boots en no socks, nuther. He uz soun’ asleep, en I search de place all over. Tuck his breakfus after you-all uz done—didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Prim en slick en combed up nice as a cat, warn’t he?”

“Yes. I think so. I had only a glimpse of him.”

“Well, he was; en dey ain’t no comb ner bresh ner nothing in dat room. How you reckon he done it?”

“I don’t know.”

“En I don’t. But dem is de facts. Did you notice his clo’es, honey?”

“No. Only that they were neat and handsome.”

“Now den, I did. Dey warn’t de same dat he come in.”

“Why, Rachel—”

“Nemmine, I knows what I’s a talkin’ ’bout. Dey warn’t de same. Every rag of ’em jist a little diffunt; not much, but diffunt. His overcoat uz on a cheer by him, en it uz entirely diffunt. Las’ night it uz long en brown, dis mawnin’ it uz short en blue; en dah he sot, wid shoes on, not boots—I swah to it!”

The explosions of astonishment that followed this charmed Mrs. Hotchkiss’s ear; the family’s shares in the wonder-market were accumulating satisfactorily.

“Now, den, Miss Hannah, dat ain’t all. I fotch him some mo’ batter-cakes, en whilst I uz a butterin’ ’em for him I happens to look around, en dah uz ole Sanctified Sal, as Marse Oliver calls her, a

[begin page 234]

“Rachel, it was shame of you to leave her there; you knew perfectly well what could happen.”

“I knowed it warn’t right, Miss Hannah, but I couldn’t he’p it, I uz scairt to see de cat so ca’m. But don’t you worry, honey. You ’member ’bout de dog? De dog didn’t fly at him, de dog uz glad to see him. Jist de same wid de cat. Me en Jeff seen it. She jump’ up in his lap, en he stroke her, en she uz happy, en raise her back up en down comfortable, en wave her tail, en scrape her head along under his chin, en den jump on de table en set down, en den dey talk together.”

“Talk together!”

“Yes’m. I wisht I may die if it ain’t so.”

“The foreign talk that he began with, last night?”

“No’m. Cat-talk.”

“Nonsense!”

“Shore’s you born. Cat-talk. Bofe of ’em talked cat-talk—sof’ en petting—jist like a ole cat en a young cat—cats dat’s relations. Well, she tuck a chance at de vittles, en didn’t like ’em, so den he tuck truck outer his pocket en fed it to her—en you bet you she didn’t go back on dat! No’m—’deed she didn’t. She laid into it like she hain’t had nothin’ to eat for four years. He tuck it all outer de same pocket. Now, den, Miss Hannah, I reckon you knows how much Sanctified Sal kin hold? Well, he loaded her chock up to de chin—yes’m, till her eyes fairly bug out. She couldn’t wag her tail she’s so full. Look like she’d swallered a watermillion she uz dat crammed. Tuck it all outer dat one pocket. Now, den, Miss Hannah, dey ain’t no pocket, en dey ain’t no saddle-bags dat kin hold enough to load up Sanctified Sal, en you knows it. Well, he tuck it all outer de one pocket—I swah to it.”

[begin page 235]

“Well, a mouse come a-running, en run up his leg en into his bosom, en Sanctified Sal was nodding, but she seen it en forgot she uz loaded, en made a jump for it en fell off the table, en laid there on her back a-waving her hands in the air, en waved a couple of times or so en went to sleep jist so—couldn’t keep her eyes open. Den he loaded up de mouse—outer dat same pocket; en put his head down en dey talked mouse-talk together.”

“Oh, stop—your imagination’s running away with you.”

“Fo’ Gawd it’s true. Me en Jeff heard ’em. Den he put de mouse down en started off, en de mouse was bound she’d foller him; so he put her in de cubberd en shet de do’; den he cler’d out de back way.”

“How does it come you didn’t tell us these things sooner, Rachel?”

“Me tell you! Hm! You reckon you’d a b’lieved me? You reckon you’d a b’lieved Jeff? We b’lieves in bewitchments, caze we knows dey’s so; but you-all only jist laughs at ’em. Does you reckon you’d a b’lieved me, Miss Hannah?—does you?”

“Well—no.”

“Den you’d a laughed at me. Does a po’ nigger want to git laughed at any mo’ d’n white folks? No, Miss Hannah, dey don’t. We’s got our feelins, same as you-all, alldough we’s ign’ant en black.”

Her tongue was hung in the middle and was easier to start than to stop. It would have gone on wagging, now, but that the wax candle had long ago been waiting for exhibition. Annie Fleming sat with it in her hand, with one ear drinking in aunt Rachel’s fairytales, and the other one listening for the click of the gate-latch; for she had lost her tender little inexperienced heart to the new boy without suspecting it; awake and asleep she had been dreaming of his beautiful face ever since she had had her first glimpse of it and she was longing to see it again and feel that enchanting and

[begin page 236]

The candle was passed from hand to hand, now, and its material admired and verified; then Annie carried it away.

It was well past mid-afternoon, and the days were short. Annie and her aunt were to sup and spend the night with sister Guthrie on the hill, a good mile distant. What should be done? Was it worth while to wait longer for the boy? The company were reluctant to go without seeing him; sister Guthrie hoped she might have the distinction of his presence in her house with the niece and the aunt, and would like to wait a little longer and invite him; so it was agreed to hold on a while.

Annie returned, now, and there was disappointment in her face and a pain at her heart, though no one detected the one nor suspected the other. She said—

“Aunty, he has been here, and is gone again.”

“Then he must have come the back way. It’s too bad. But are you sure? How do you know?”

“Because he has changed his clothes.”

“Are there clothes there?”

“Yes; and not the ones he had this morning, nor the ones he wore last night.”

“Dah, now, what I tell you? En dat baggage not come yit!”

“Can we see them?”

“Can’t we see them?”

[begin page 237]

Everybody wanted to see the clothes, everybody begged. So, sentries were posted to look out for the boy’s approach and give notice—Annie to watch the front door and Rachel the back one— and the rest went up to Forty-four’s chamber. The clothes were there, new and handsome. The coat lay spread upon the bed. Mrs. Hotchkiss took it by the skirts and held it up to display it—a flood of gold and silver coin began to pour out of the inverted pockets; the woman stood aghast and helpless; the coin piled higher and higher on the floor—

“Put it down!” shouted her husband; “drop it, can’t you!” But she was paralysed; he snatched the coat and threw it on the bed, and the flood ceased. “Now we are in a fine fix; he can come at any moment and catch us; and we’ll have to explain, if we can, how we happen to be here. Quick, all you accessories after the fact and before it—turn to; we must gather it up and put it back.”

So all those chief citizens got down on their hands and knees and scrambled all around and everywhere for the coins, raking under the bed and the sofa and the wardrobe for estrays, a most undignified spectacle. The work was presently finished, but that did not restore happiness, for there was a new trouble, now: after the coat’s pockets had been stuffed there was still half a peck of coin left. It was a shameful predicament. Nobody could get command of his wits for a moment or two; then sister Dawson made a suggestion—

“No real harm is done, when you come to look at it. It is natural that we should have some curiosity about the belongings of such a wonderful stranger, and if we try to satisfy it, not meaning any harm or disrespect—”

“Right,” interrupted Miss Pomeroy, the schoolm’am; “he’s only a boy, and he wouldn’t mind, and he wouldn’t think it anything odd if people as old as we are should take a little liberty which he mightn’t like in younger folks.”

“And besides,” said Judge Taylor the magistrate, “he hasn’t suffered any loss, and isn’t going to suffer any. Let us put the whole of the money in his table drawer and close it, and lock the room door; and when he comes we will all tell him just how it was, and

[begin page 238]

It was agreed that this was probably as good a plan as could be contrived in the difficult circumstances of the case; so the company took all the comfort from it they could, and were glad to get out of the place and clear for their homes without waiting longer for the boy, in case he shouldn’t arrive before they got their wraps on. They said Hotchkiss could do the explaining and apologising, and depend upon them to indorse and stand by all his statements.

“And besides,” said Mrs. Wheelright, “how do we know it is real money? He may be a juggler out of India; in that case the drawer is empty, or full of sawdust by this time.”

“I am afraid it’s not going to happen,” said Hotchkiss; “the money was rather heavy for sawdust. The thing that mainly interests me is, that I shan’t sleep very well with that pile of money in the house—I shan’t sleep at all if you people are going to tell about it, and so I’ll ask you to keep the secret until morning; then I will make the boy send it to the bank, and you may talk as freely as you please, then.”

Annie put on her things and she and her aunt departed with the rest. Darkness was approaching; the lodger was not come. What could the matter be? Mrs. Hotchkiss said he was probably coasting with his schoolmates and paying no attention to more important things—boy-like. Rachel was told to keep his supper warm and let him take his own time about coming for it; “boys will be boys, and late by nature, nights and mornings; let them be boys while they can, it’s the best of life and the shortest.”

It had turned warm, and clouds were gathering fast, with a promise of snow—a promise which would be kept. As Doctor Wheelright, the stately old First-Family Virginian and imposing Thinker of the village was going out at the front door, he unloaded a Thought. It seemed to weigh a good part of a ton, and it impressed everybody—

“It is my opinion—after much and careful reflection, sir—that the indications warrant the conjecture that in several ways this youth is an extraordinary person.”

[begin page 239]

As the darkness closed down an hour later, what is to this day called the Great Storm began. It was in reality a Blizzard, but that expressive word had not then been invented. It was this storm’s mission to bury the farms and villages of a long narrow strip of country for ten days, and do it as compactly and as thoroughly as the mud and ashes had buried Pompeii nearly eighteen centuries before. The Great Storm began its work modestly, deceptively. It made no display, there was no wind and no noise; whoever was abroad and crossed the lamp-glares flung from uncurtained windows noticed that the snow came straight down, and that it laid its delicate white carpet softly, smoothly, artistically, thickening the substance swiftly and equably; the passenger noticed also that this snow was of an unusual sort, it not coming in an airy cloud of great feathery flakes, but in a fog of white dust-forms—mere powder; just powder; the strangest snow imaginable. By 8 in the evening this snow-fog had become so dense that lamp-glares four steps away were not visible, and without the help of artificial light a passenger could see no object till he was near enough to touch it with his hand. Whosoever was abroad now was practically doomed, unless he could soon stumble upon somebody’s house. Orientation was impossible; to be abroad was to be lost. A man could not leave his own door, walk ten steps and find his way back again.

The wind rose, now, and began to sing through this ghastly fog; momently it rose higher and higher, soon its singing had developed into roaring, howling, shrieking. It gathered up the snow from the ground and drove it in massy walls ahead of it and distributed it here and there across streets and open lots and against houses, in drifts fifteen feet deep.

[begin page 240]

At 8, just as the wind began to softly moan and whimper and wheeze, Mr. Hotchkiss laid his spiritualistic book down, snuffed the candle, threw an extra log on the fire, then parted his coat tails and stood with his back to the blaze and began to turn over in his mind some of the information which he had been gathering about the manners and customs and industries of the spirit land, and to repeat and try to admire some of the poetry which Byron had sent thence through the rapping-mediums. He did not know that there was a storm outside. He had been absorbed in his book for an hour and a half. Aunt Rachel appeared, now, with an armful of wood, which she flung in the box and said—

“Well, seh, it’s de wust I ever see; and Jeff say de same.”

“Worst what?”

“Storm, seh.”

“Is there a storm?”

“My! didn’t you know it, seh?”

“No.”

“Why, it’s de beatenes’ storm—tain’t like nothin’ you ever see, Marse Oliver—so fine—like ashes a-blowin’; why, you can’t see no distance scasely. Me en Jeff was at de prar meetin’, en come back a little bit ago, en come mighty near miss’n de house; en when we look out, jist dis minute it’s a heap wuss’n ever. Jeff he uz a sayin’—” She glanced around; an expression of fright came into her face and she exclaimed, “Why, I reckoned of cose he uz here—en he ain’t!”

[begin page 241]

“Young Marse Fawty-fo’.”

“Oh, he’s playing somewhere; he’ll be along presently.”

“You hain’t seen him, seh?”

“No.”

“O, my Gawd!”

She fled away, and in five minutes was back again, sobbing and panting.

“He ain’t in his room, his supper ain’t tetched, he ain’t anywhers; I been all over de house. O, Marse Oliver de chile’s lost, we ain’t never gwyne to see him no mo’.”

“Oh, nonsense, you needn’t be afraid—boys don’t mind a storm.”

Uncle Jeff arrived at this moment, and said—

“But Marse Oliver dis ain’t no common storm—has you been to look at it?”

“No.”

Hotchkiss was alarmed, at last, and ran with the others to the front door and snatched it open. The wind piped a high note, and they disappeared in a world of snow which was discharged at them as if from steam-shovels.

“Shut it, shut it!” gasped the master. It was done. A blast of wind came, that rocked the house. There was a faint and choking cry outside. Hotchkiss blenched, and said, “What can we do? It’s death to go out there. But we must do something—it may be the boy.”

“Wait, Marse Oliver, I’ll fetch a clo’es line, en Jeff he—” She was gone, and in a moment brought it and began to tie an end around uncle Jeff’s waist. “Now, den, out wid you! me en Marse Oliver ’ll hole on to de yuther end.”

Jeff was ready; the door was opened for the plunge, and the plunge was made; but in the same instant a suffocating assault of snow closed the eyes and took away the breath of the master and Rachel and they sank gasping to the floor and the line escaped from their hands. They threw themselves on their faces, with their feet toward the door; their breath returned, and Rachel moaned, “He’s gone, now!” By the light from the hall lamp over the door she caught a dim vision of the new boy, coming from toward the dining

[begin page 242]

The boy came through against the wind and shut the front door. The master and Rachel rose out of their smother of snow, and the former said—

“I’m so grateful! I never expected to see you again.”

By this time Rachel’s sobs and groans and lamentations were rising above the clamors of the storm, and the boy asked what the trouble was. Hotchkiss told him about Jeff.

“I will go and fetch him, sir. Get into the parlor, and close the door.”

“You will venture out? Not a step—stay where you are! I wouldn’t allow—”

The boy interrupted—not with words, but only a look—and the man and the servant passed into the parlor and closed the door. Then they heard the front door close, and stood looking at each other. The storm raged on; every now and then a gust of wind burst against the house with a force which made it quake, and in the intervals it wailed like a lost soul; the listeners tallied the gusts and the intervals, losing heart all the time, and when they had counted five of each, their hopes died.

Then they opened the parlor door—to do they didn’t know what—the street door sprang open at the same moment, and two snow-figures entered: the boy carrying the unconscious old negro man in his arms. He delivered his burden to Rachel, shut the door, and said—

“A man has found refuge in the open shed over yonder; a slender, tall, wild-looking man with thin sandy beard. He is groaning. It is not much of a shelter, that shed.”

He said it indifferently, and Hotchkiss shuddered.

“Oh, it is awful, awful!” he said, “he will die.”

“Why is it awful?” asked the boy.

“Why? It—it—why of course it’s awful!”

“Perhaps it is as you say; I do not know. Shall I fetch him?”

“Great guns, no! Don’t dream of such a thing—one miracle of the sort is enough.”

[begin page 243]

“Want him? I—why, I don’t want him—that isn’t it—I mean, why, don’t you understand?—it’s a pity he should die, poor fellow; but we are not in a position to—”

“I will fetch him.”

“Stop, stop, are you mad!—come back!”

But the boy was gone.

“Rachel, why the devil did you let him get out? Can’t you see that the lad’s a rank lunatic?”

“O, Marse Oliver, gim it to me, I deserve it! I’s so thankful to git my ole Jeff back I ain’t got no sense en can’t take notice of nothin’. I’s so shamed, en O, my Gawd, I—”

“We had him, and now we’ve lost him again; and this time for good; and it’s all your fault, for being a—”

The door fell open, a snow image plunged in upon the floor, the boy’s voice called, “There he is—there’s others, yet,” and the door closed again.

“Oh, well,” cried Hotchkiss with a note of despair, “we’ve got to give him up, there’s no saving him. Rachel!” He was flapping the snow from the new take, with a “tidy.” “Bless my soul, it’s Crazy Meadows! Rouse up, Jeff! lend a hand, both of you—drag him to my fire.” It was done. “Now, then, blankets, food, hot water, whisky—fly around! we’ll save him, he isn’t more than half dead, yet.”

The three worked over Crazy Meadows half an hour, and brought him around. Meantime they had kept alert ears open, listening; but their listening was unblessed, no sounds came but the rumbling and blustering of the storm. Crazy Meadows gazed around confusedly, gradually got his bearings, recognized the faces, and said—

“I am saved! Hotchkiss, it seems impossible. How did it happen?”

“A boy did it—the most marvelous boy on the planet. It was lucky you had a lantern.”

“Lantern? I hadn’t any lantern.”

“Yes, you had. You don’t know. The boy described your build and beard.”

[begin page 244]

“Marse Oliver,” said Rachel, “didn’t Miss Hannah say de young marster kin see in de dark?”

“Why, certainly—now that you mention it. But how could he see through that blanket of snow? My gracious, I wish he would come! Oh, but he’ll never come, poor young chap, he’ll never come—never any more.”

“Marse Oliver, don’t you worry, de good Lawd kin take care of him.”

“In this storm, you old idiot? You don’t know what you’re talking about. Wait—I’ve got an idea! Quick—get around the table; now then, take hold of hands. Banish all obstructive influences—you want to be particular about that; the spirits can’t do anything against doubt and incredulity. Silence, now, and concentrate your minds. Poor boy, if he is dead he will come and say so.”

He glanced up, and perceived that there was a hiatus in the circle; Crazy Meadows said, without breach of slave-State politeness, and without offence to the slaves present, since they had been accustomed to the franknesses of slave-State etiquette all their lives—

“I’ll go any reasonable length to prove my solicitude for the fate of my benefactor, for I am not an ungrateful man, and not a soured one, either, if the children do chase me and stone me for the fun they get out of it; but I’ve got to draw the line. I’m willing to sit at a table with niggers for just this once, for your sake, Oliver Hotchkiss, but that is as far as I can go—I’ll get you to excuse me from taking them by the hand.”

The gratitude of the two negroes was deep and honest; this speech promised relief for them; their situation had been a cruelly embarrassing one; they had sat down with these white men because they had been ordered to do it, and it was habit and heredity to obey, but their seats had not been more comfortable than a hot stove would have been. They hoped and expected that their master would be reasonable and rational, now, and send them away, but it didn’t happen. He could manage his seance without Meadows, and would do it. He didn’t mind holding hands with negroes, for he was a sincere and enthusiastic abolitionist; in fact had been

[begin page 245]

By command the slaves joined hands with their master and sat trembling and silent, for they were miserably afraid of spectres and spirits. Hotchkiss bowed his head solemnly to the table, and said in a reverent tone:

“Are there any spirits present? If so, please rap three times.”

After a pause the response came—three faint raps. The negroes shrunk together till their clothes were loose upon their bodies, and begged pathetically to be released.

“Sit still! and don’t let your hands shake like that.”

It was Lord Byron’s spirit. Byron was the most active poet on the other side of the grave in those days, and the hardest one for a medium to get rid of. He reeled off several rods of poetry now, of his usual spiritual pattern—rhymy and jingly and all that, but not good, for his mind had decayed since he died. At the end of three-quarters of an hour he went away to hunt for a word that would rhyme with silver—good luck and a long riddance, Crazy Meadows said, for there wasn’t any such word. Then Napoleon came and explained Waterloo all over again and how it wasn’t his fault—a thing which he was always doing in the St. Helena days, and latterly around the festive rapping-table. Crazy Meadows scoffed at him, and said he didn’t even get the dates right, let alone the facts; and he laughed his wild mad laugh—a reedy and raspy and horrid explosion which had long been a fright to the village and its dogs, and had brought him many a volley of stones from the children.

Shakspeare arrived and did some rather poor things, and was followed by a throng of Roman statesmen and generals whose English was the only remarkable thing about their contributions; then at last, about eleven o’clock, came some thundering raps which made the table and the company jump.

“Who is it, please?”

[begin page 246]

“Ah, how sad!—we are deeply grieved, but of course we feared it and expected it. Are you happy?”

“Happy? Certainly.”

“We are so glad! It is the greatest comfort to us. Where are you?”

“In hell!”

“O, de good Lawd!—please, Marse Oliver, lemme go, oh, please lemme go—oh, Marse Oliver, me en Rachel can’t stan’ it!”

“Hold still, you fool!”

“Oh, please, please, Marse Oliver!”

“Will you keep still, you puddnhead! Ah, now, if we can only persuade him to materialize! I’ve never seen one yet. Forty-four, dear lost lad, would you mind appearing to us?”

“Oh, don’t, Marse Oliver!—please, don’t!”

“Shut up! Do materialize! Do appear to us, if only for a moment!”

Presto! There sat the boy, in their midst! The negroes shrieked, and went over on their backs on the floor and continued to shriek. Crazy Meadows fell over backwards, too, but gathered himself up in silence and stood apart with heaving breast and flaming eyes, staring at the boy. Hotchkiss rubbed his hands together in gratitude and delight, and his face was transfigured with the glory-light of triumph.

“Now let the doubter doubt and the scoffer scoff if they want to—but they’ve had their day! Ah, Forty-four, dear Forty-four, you’ve done our cause a noble service.”

“What cause?”

“Spiritualism. Stop that screeching and screaming, will you!”

The boy stooped and touched the negroes, and said—

“There—go to sleep. Now go to bed. In the morning you will think it was a dream.” They got up and wandered somnambulistically away. He turned and looked at Crazy Meadows, whose lids at once sank down and hid his wild eyes. “Go and sleep in my bed; in the morning it will be a dream to you, too.” Meadows drifted away like one in a trance, and followed after the vanished negroes. “What is spiritualism, sir?”

[begin page 247]

“Twenty-eight have perished in your village by the storm.”

“Heavens! Can that be true?”

“I saw them; they are under the snow—scattered over the town.”

“Saw them?”

The boy took no notice of the inquiry in the emphasised word.

“Yes—twenty-eight.”

“What a misfortune!”

“Is it?”

“Why—how can you ask?”

“I don’t know. I could have saved them if I had known it was desirable. After you wanted that man saved I gathered the idea that it was desirable, so I searched the town and saved the rest that were straggling—thirteen.”

“How noble! And how beautiful it was to die in such a work. Oh, sainted spirit, I worship your memory!”

“Whose memory?”

“Yours; and I—”

“Do you take me for dead?”

“Dead? Of course. Aren’t you?”

“Certainly not.”

Hotchkiss’s joy was without limit or measure. He poured it eloquently out until he was breathless; then paused, and added pathetically—

“It is bad for spiritualism—yes, bad, bad—but let it go—go and welcome, God knows I’m glad to have you back, even on those costly terms! And by George, we’ll celebrate! I’m a teetotaler—been a teetotaler for years—months, anyway—a month—but at a time like this—”

The kettle was still on the fire, the bottle which had revived Meadows was still at hand, and in a couple of minutes he had brewed a pair of good punches—“anyway, good enough for a person out of practice,” he said.

The boy began to sip, and said it was pleasant, and asked what it was.

[begin page 248]

The boy was inspecting his pipe with interest.

“What shall I do with it, sir?”

“Do with it? Do you mean to say you don’t smoke? I never saw such a boy. Next you’ll say you don’t break the Sabbath.”

“But what is the material?”

“That? Tobacco—of course.”

“Oh, I see. Sir Walter Raleigh discovered it among the Indians; I read about it in the school. Yes, I understand now.”

He applied the candle and began to smoke, Hotchkiss gazing at him puzzled.

“You’ve read about it! Upon my word! Now that I come to think about it, you don’t seem to know anything except what you’ve read about in that school. Why how in the world could you be born and raised in the State of Missouri and never—”

“But I wasn’t. I am a foreigner.”

“You don’t say!—and speak just like an educated native—not even an accent. Where were you raised?”

The boy answered naïvely—

“Partly in heaven, partly in hell.”

Hotchkiss’s glass fell from one hand, his pipe from the other, and he sat staring stupidly at the boy, and breathing short. Presently he murmured dubiously—

“I reckon the punch—out of practice, you know—maybe both of us—and—” He paused, and continued to gaze and blink; then shook his thoughts together and said, “Can’t tell anything about it—it is too undeveloped for me; but it’s all right, we’ll make a night of it. It’s my opinion, speaking as a prohibitionist—” He stooped and picked up his glass and his pipe, and went rambling on in a

[begin page 249]

“Now I know all about it,” said the boy. “It is all here—tobacco, and liquors, and such things. Champagne is placed at the head of everything; and Cuban tobacco at the head of the tobaccos.”

“Oh, yes, they are the gems of the planet in those lines. Why—I don’t recognise this book; did you bring it in to-night?”

“Yes.”

“Where from?”

“The British Museum.”

Hotchkiss began to blink again, and look uneasy.

“It is a new work,” added the boy. “Published yesterday.”

The blinking continued. Hotchkiss started to take a sip of punch, but reconsidered the motion; shook his head and put the glass down. Upon pretext of examining the print and the binding, he opened the book; then closed it at once and pushed it away. He had seen the Museum stamp—bearing date of the preceding day. He fussed nervously at his pipe a moment; then held it to the candle with a hand that trembled and made some of the tobacco spill out, then asked timidly—

“How did you get the book?”

“I went after it myself.”

“Your—self. Mercy! When?”

“While you were stooping for your pipe and glass.”

Hotchkiss moaned.

“Why do you make that noise?”

“Be—because I—I am afraid.”

The boy reached out and touched the trembling hand and said gently—

“There—it is gone.”

[begin page 250]

“It tingles all through me—all through me. De—licious! Every fibre—the root of every hair—it is enchantment! Oh magician of the magicians, talk to me—talk! tell me everything.”

“Certainly, if you like.”

“Now, that is lovely! First I will rout out old Rachel and we’ll have a bite and be comfortable and freshen up; I am pretty sharp-set after all these hours, and I reckon you are, too.”

“Wait. It is not necessary. I will order something.”

Smoking dishes began to descend upon the table; it was covered in a moment.

“It’s the Arabian Nights come again! And I am not scared, now. I don’t know why—it was that magic touch, I think. But you didn’t fetch them yourself, this time; I was noticing, and you didn’t go away.”

“No, I sent my servants.”

“I didn’t see them.”

“You can if you wish.”

“I’d give anything!”

The servants became visible; all the room was crowded with them. Trim and shapely little fellows they were; velvety little red fellows, with short horns on their heads and spiked tails at the other end; and those that stood, stood in metal plates, and those that sat—on chairs, in a row upon settees, and on top of the bookcase with their legs dangling—had metal plates under them—“to keep from scorching the furniture,” the boy quietly explained, “these have come but this moment, and of course are hot, yet.”

Hotchkiss asked, a little timidly—

“Are they little devils?”

“Yes.”

“Real ones?”

“Oh, yes—quite.”

“They—are they safe?”

“Perfectly.”

“I don’t need to be afraid?”

“Oh, not at all.”

[begin page 251]

“No, only French. But they could be taught it in a few minutes.”

“It is wonderful. Are they—you won’t mind my asking—relatives?”

“Of mine? No; sons of my father’s subordinates. You are dismissed, young gentlemen, for the present.”

The little fiends vanished.

“Your father is—er—”

“Satan!”

“Good land!”

Hotchkiss sank into his chair weak and limp, and began to pour out broken words and disjointed sentences whose meanings were not always clear but whose general idea was comprehensible. To this effect: from custom bred of his upbringing and his associations he had often talked about Satan with a freedom which was regrettable, but it was really only talk, mere idle talk, he didn’t mean anything by it; in fact there were many points about Satan’s character which he greatly admired, and although he hadn’t said so, publicly, it was an oversight and not intentional—but from this out he meant to open his mouth boldly, let people say what they might and think what they chose—

The boy interrupted him, gently and quietly—

“I don’t admire him.”

Hotchkiss was hard aground, now; his mouth was open, and remained so, but no words came; he couldn’t think of anything judicious to say. Presently he ventured to throw out a feeler—cautiously, tentatively, feelingly, persuasively:

“You see—well, you know—it would be only natural, if I was a devil—a good, kind, honorable devil, I mean—and my father was a good, kind, honorable devil against whom narrow and perhaps wrongful or at least exaggerated prejudices—”

[begin page 252]

Hotchkiss was badly confused, but profoundly relieved.

“I—er—I—well, you know, I suspected as much, I—I—indeed I hadn’t a doubt of it; and—although it—on the whole—oh, good land, I can’t understand it, of course, but I give you my word of honor I like you all the better for it, I do indeed! I feel good, now—good, and comfortable, and in fact happy. Join me—take something! I wish to drink your health; and—and your family’s.”

“With pleasure. Now eat—refresh yourself. I will smoke, if you don’t mind. I like it.”

“Certainly; but eat, too; aren’t you hungry?”

“No, I do not get hungry.”

“Is that actually so?”

“Yes.”

“Ever? Never?”

“No.”

“Ah, it is a pity. You miss a great deal. Now tell me about yourself, won’t you?”

“I shall be glad to do it, for I have a purpose in coming to the earth, and if you should find the matter interesting, you can be useful to me.”

Then the talking and eating began, simultaneously.

“I was born before Adam’s fall—”

“Wh-at!”

“It seems to surprise you. Why?”

“Because it caught me unprepared. And because it is six thousand years ago, and you look to be only about fifteen years old.”

“True—that is my age, within a fraction.”

“Only fifteen, and yet—”

“Counting by our system of measurement, I mean—not yours.”

“How is that?”

“A day, with us, is as a thousand years with you.”

Hotchkiss was awed. A seriousness which was near to solemnity settled upon his face. After a meditative pause he said—

“Surely it cannot be that you really and not figuratively mean—”

“Yes—really, not figuratively. A minute of our time is 41⅔ years

[begin page 253]

Hotchkiss was stunned. He shook his head in a hopeless way, and said, resignedly—

“Go on—I can’t realize it—it is astronomy to me.”

“Of course you cannot realize these things, but do not be troubled; measurements of time and eternity are merely conveniences, they are not of much importance. It is about a week ago that Adam fell—”

“A week?— Ah, yes, your week. It is awful—that compression of time! Go on.”

“I was in heaven; I had always lived in heaven, of course; until a week ago, my father had always lived there. But I saw this little world created. I was interested; we were all interested. There is much more interest attaching to the creation of a planet than attaches to the creation of a sun, on account of the life that is going to inhabit it. I have seen many suns created—many indeed, that you are not yet acquainted with, they being so remotely situated in the deeps of space that their light will not reach here for a long time yet; but the planets—I cared the most for them; we all did; I have seen millions of them made, and the Tree planted in the Garden, and the man and the woman placed in its shade, with the animals about them. I saw your Adam and Eve only once; they were happy, then, and innocent. This could have continued forever, but for my father’s conduct. I read it all in the Bible in Mr. Ferguson’s school. As it turned out, Adam’s happiness lasted less than a day—”

“Less than one day?”

“By our reckoning, I mean; by yours he lived nine hundred and twenty years—the bulk of it unhappily.”

“I see; yes, it is true.”

“It was my father’s fault. Then hell was created, in order that Adam’s race might have a place to go to, after death—”

“They could go to heaven, too.”

“That was later. Two days ago. Through the sacrifice made for them by the son of God, the Savior.”

“Is hell so new?”

[begin page 254]

“It is strange.”

“No—for the others were not tempted.”

“How was that?”

“There was no tempter until my father ate of the fruit himself and became one. Then he tempted other angels and they ate of it also; then Adam and the woman.”

“How did your father come to eat of it this time?”

“I did not know at the time.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because I was away when it happened; I was away some days, and did not hear of it at all and of the disaster to my father until I got back; then I went to my father’s place to speak with him of it; but his trouble was so new, and so severe, and so amazing to him that he could do nothing but grieve and lament—he could not bear to talk about the details; I merely gathered that when he made the venture it was because his idea of the nature of the fruit was a most erroneous one.”

“Erroneous?”

“Quite erroneous.”

“You do not know in what way it was erroneous?”

“Yes, I think I know now. He probably—in fact unquestionably—supposed that the nature of the fruit was to reveal to human beings the knowledge of good and evil—that, and nothing more; but not to Satan the great angel; he had that knowledge before. We always had it—always. Now why he was moved to taste it himself is not clear; I shall never know until he tells me. But his error was—”

“Yes, what was his error?”

“His error was in supposing that a knowledge of the difference between good and evil was all that the fruit could confer.”

“Did it confer more than that?”

“Consider the passage which says man is prone to evil as the sparks to fly upward. Is that true? Is that really the nature of man?—I mean your man—the man of this planet?”

[begin page 255]

“It is not true of the men of any other planet. It explains the mystery. My father’s error stands revealed in all its nakedness. The fruit’s office was not confined to conferring the mere knowledge of good and evil, it conferred also the passionate and eager and hungry disposition todoevil. Prone as sparks to fly upward; in other words, prone as water to run down hill—a powerful figure, and means that man’s disposition is wholly evil, uncompromisingly evil, inveterately evil, and that he is as undisposed to do good as water is undisposed to run up hill. Ah, my father’s error brought a colossal disaster upon the men of this planet. It poisoned the men of this planet—poisoned them in mind and body. I see it, plainly.”

“It brought death, too.”

“Yes—whatever that may be. I do not quite understand it. It seems to be a sleep. You do not seem to mind sleep. By my reading I gather that you are not conscious of either death or sleep; that nevertheless you fear the one and do not fear the other. It is very stupid. Illogical.”

Hotchkiss put down his knife and fork and explained the difference between sleep and death; and how a person was not sorry when asleep, but sorry when dead, because—because—

He found it was not so easy to explain why as he had supposed it was going to be; he floundered a while, then broke down. But presently he tried again, and said that death was only a sleep, but that the objection to it was that it was so long; then he remembered that time stands still when one sleeps, and so the difference between a night and a thousand years is really no difference at all so far as the sleeper is personally affected.

However, the boy was thinking, profoundly, and heard none of it; so nothing was lost. By and by the boy said, earnestly—

“The fundamental change wrought in man’s nature by my father’s conduct must remain—it is permanent; but a part of its burden of evil consequences can be lifted from your race, and I will undertake it. Will you help?”

He was applying in the right quarter. Lifting burdens from a whole race was a fine and large enterprize, and suited Oliver

[begin page 256]

“I cannot map out a definite plan yet; I must first study this race. Its poisoned condition and prominent disposition to do evil differentiate it radically from any men whom I have known before, therefore it is a new race to me and must be exhaustively studied before I shall know where and how to begin. Indefinitely speaking, our plan will be confined to ameliorating the condition of the race in some ways in this life; we are not called upon to concern ourselves with its future fate; that is in abler hands than ours.”

“I hope you will begin your studies right away.”

“I shall. Go to bed, and take your rest. During the rest of the night and to-morrow I will travel about the globe and personally examine some of the nationalities, and learn languages and read the world’s books in the several tongues, and to-morrow night we will talk together here. Meantime the storm has made you a prisoner. Will you have one of my servants to wait on you?”

A genuine little devil all for his own! It was a lovely idea, and swelled Hotchkiss’s vanity to the bursting point. He was lavish with his thanks.

“But he won’t understand what I say to him.”

“He will learn in five minutes. Would you like any particular one?”

“If I could have the cunning little rascal that sat down in the fire after he got cooled off—”

There was a flash of scarlet and the little fiend was present and smiling; and he had with him some books from the school; among them the French-English dictionary and the phonographic shorthand system.

“There. Use him night and day. He knows what he is here for. If he needs help he will provide it. He requires no lights; take them, and go to bed; leave him to study his books. In five minutes he will

[begin page 257]

He vanished.

Hotchkiss stood smiling all sorts of pleasant smiles of intricate and variegated pattern at his little devil, with the idea of making him understand how welcome he was; and he said to himself, “It’s a bitter climate for him, poor little rascal, the fire will go down and he will freeze; I wish I knew how to tell him to run home and warm himself whenever he wants to.”

He brought blankets and made signs to him that these were for him to wrap up in; then he began to pile wood on the fire, but the red stranger took that work promptly off his hands, and did the work like an expert—which he was. Then he sat down on the fire and began to study his book, and his new master took the candle and went away to bed, meditating a name for him. “He is a dear little devil,” he said, “and must have a nice one.” So he named him Edward Nicholson Hotchkiss—after a brother that was dead.

In the morning the world was still invisible, for the powdery snow was still sifting thickly down—noiselessly, now, for the wind had ceased to blow. The new devil appeared in the kitchen and scared aunt Rachel and uncle Jeff out of it, and they fled to the master’s room with the tale. Hotchkiss explained the situation and told them there was no harm in this devil, but a great deal of good; and that he was the property of the wonderful boy, who had strongly recommended him.

“Is he a slave, Marse Oliver?” asked Rachel.

“Yes.”

[begin page 258]

“Yes, genuine.”

“Den how kin he be good?”

“Well, he is, anyway. We have been misinformed about devils. There’s a great deal of ignorant prejudice around, concerning them. I want you to be friends with this one.”

“But how kin we, Marse Oliver?” asked uncle Jeff; “we’s afraid of him. We’d like to be friends wid him, becase we’s afraid of him, en if he stays on de place, ’course we gwyne to do de bes’ we kin; but when he come a skippin’ into de kitchen all red hot like a stack of fire-coals, bless you I didn’t want nothin’ to do wid him. Still, if he’s willin’ to be friends it ain’t gwyne to answer for us to hold back, for Gawd on’y knows what he might do.”

“S’pose things don’t go to suit him, Marse Oliver,” said Rachel, “what he gwyne do den?”

“Really, you needn’t worry, Rachel, he has a kind disposition, and moreover he wants to be useful—I know it.”

“Why, Marse Oliver, he’ll take en tear up all de hymn-books en—”

“No he won’t; he’s perfectly civil and obliging, and he’ll do anything he is asked to do.”

“Is dat so?”

“I know it.”

“But what kin he do, Marse Oliver? he’s so little, en den he don’t know our ways.”

“Oh, he can do anything—shovel snow, for instance.”

“My! kin he do dat?” asked Jeff. “If he’ll do dat, I’s his friend, for one—right on de spot!”

“Yes, and he can run errands—any errand you want, Rachel.”

“Dat’ud come mighty handy, Marse Oliver,” said Rachel, relenting; “he can’t run none now, ’course, but if de snow ’uz gone—”

“He’ll run them for you, I know he will; I wish he were here, I—”

Edward Nicholson Hotchkiss appeared in their midst, and the

[begin page 259]

“I’ve been listening. I want to be friends—don’t be afraid. Give me an errand—I’ll show you.”

Rachel’s teeth chattered a little, and her breath came short and she was as pale as bronze; but she found her tongue, and said—

“I’s yo’ friend—I is, I swah it. Be good to me en ole Jeff, honey—don’t hurt us; don’t do us no harm, for yo’ ma’s sake.”

“Hurt you?—no. Give me an errand—I’ll show you.”

“But chile, dey ain’t no errand; de snow’s so deep, en you’d catch cold, anyway, de way you’s been raised. But sakes, if you’d been here yistiddy evenin’—Marse Oliver I clean forgot de cream, en dey ain’t a drop for yo’ breakfast.”

“I’ll fetch it,” said Edward, “go down—you’ll find it on the table.”

He disappeared. The negroes were troubled, and did not know what to make of this. They were afraid of him again; he must be off his balance, for he could not run errands in this weather. Hotchkiss smoothed away their fears with persuasive speeches, and they presently went below, where they found the new servant trying to tame the cat and not succeeding; but the cream was there, and their respect for Edward and his abilities received a great impulse.