Well, all day him and the king was hard at it, rigging up a stage and
a curtain and a row of candles for footlights; and that night the
house was jam full of men in no time. When the place couldn’t hold no
more, the duke he quit tending door and went around the back way and
come onto the stage and stood up before the curtain and made a little
speech, and praised up this tragedy, and said it was the most
thrillingest one that ever was; and so he went on a-bragging about the
tragedy, and about Edmund Kean the Elder, which was to play the main
principal part in it; and at last when he’d got everybody’s
expectations up high enough, he rolled up the curtain, and the next
minute the king come a-prancing out on all fours, naked; and he was
painted all over, ring-streaked-and-striped, all sorts of colors, as
splendid as a rainbow. And—but never mind the rest of his outfit; it
was just wild, but it was awful funny. The people most killed
themselves laughing; and when the king got done capering and capered
off behind the scenes, they roared and clapped and stormed and
haw-hawed till he come back and done it over again, and after that
they made him do it another time. Well, it would make a cow laugh to
see the shines that old idiot cut.
Then the duke he lets the curtain down, and bows to the people, and
says the great tragedy will be performed only two nights more, on
accounts of pressing London engagements, where the seats is all sold
already for it in Drury Lane; and then he makes them another bow, and
says if he has succeeded in pleasing them and instructing them, he
will be deeply obleeged if they will mention it to their friends and
get them to come and see it.
Twenty people sings out:
“What, is it over? Is that _all_?”
The duke says yes. Then there was a fine time. Everybody sings out,
“Sold!” and rose up mad, and was a-going for that stage and them
tragedians. But a big, fine-looking man jumps up on a bench and
shouts:
“Hold on! Just a word, gentlemen.” They stopped to listen. “We are
sold—mighty badly sold. But we don’t want to be the laughing-stock of
this whole town, I reckon, and never hear the last of this thing as
long as we live. _No_. What we want is to go out of here quiet, and
talk this show up, and sell the _rest_ of the town! Then we’ll all be
in the same boat. Ain’t that sensible?” (“You bet it is!—the jedge is
right!” everybody sings out.) “All right, then—not a word about any
sell. Go along home, and advise everybody to come and see the
tragedy.”
Next day you couldn’t hear nothing around that town but how splendid
that show was. House was jammed again that night, and we sold this
crowd the same way. When me and the king and the duke got home to the
raft we all had a supper; and by and by, about midnight, they made Jim
and me back her out and float her down the middle of the river, and
fetch her in and hide her about two mile below town.
The third night the house was crammed again—and they warn’t
new-comers this time, but people that was at the show the other two
nights. I stood by the duke at the door, and I see that every man that
went in had his pockets bulging, or something muffled up under his
coat—and I see it warn’t no perfumery, neither, not by a long sight.
I smelt sickly eggs by the barrel, and rotten cabbages, and such
things; and if I know the signs of a dead cat being around, and I bet
I do, there was sixty-four of them went in. I shoved in there for a
minute, but it was too various for me; I couldn’t stand it. Well, when
the place couldn’t hold no more people the duke he give a fellow a
quarter and told him to tend door for him a minute, and then he
started around for the stage door, I after him; but the minute we
turned the corner and was in the dark he says:
“Walk fast now till you get away from the houses, and then shin for
the raft like the dickens was after you!”
I done it, and he done the same. We struck the raft at the same time,
and in less than two seconds we was gliding down-stream, all dark and
still, and edging towards the middle of the river, nobody saying a
word. I reckoned the poor king was in for a gaudy time of it with the
audience, but nothing of the sort; pretty soon he crawls out from
under the wigwam, and says:
“Well, how’d the old thing pan out this time, duke?” He hadn’t been
up-town at all.
We never showed a light till we was about ten mile below the village.
Then we lit up and had a supper, and the king and the duke fairly
laughed their bones loose over the way they’d served them people. The
duke says:
“Greenhorns, flatheads! _I_ knew the first house would keep mum and let
the rest of the town get roped in; and I knew they’d lay for us the
third night, and consider it was _their_ turn now. Well, it _is_ their
turn, and I’d give something to know how much they’d take for it. I
_would_ just like to know how they’re putting in their opportunity.
They can turn it into a picnic if they want to—they brought plenty
provisions.”
Them rapscallions took in four hundred and sixty-five dollars in that
three nights. I never see money hauled in by the wagon-load like that
before.
By and by, when they was asleep and snoring, Jim says:
“Don’t it s’prise you de way dem kings carries on, Huck?”
“No,” I says, “it don’t.”
“Why don’t it, Huck?”
“Well, it don’t, because it’s in the breed. I reckon they’re all
alike.”
“But, Huck, dese kings o’ ourn is reglar rapscallions; dat’s jist what
dey is; dey’s reglar rapscallions.”
“Well, that’s what I’m a-saying; all kings is mostly rapscallions, as
fur as I can make out.”
“Is dat so?”
“You read about them once—you’ll see. Look at Henry the Eight; this
’n’ ’s a Sunday-school Superintendent to _him_. And look at Charles
Second, and Louis Fourteen, and Louis Fifteen, and James Second, and
Edward Second, and Richard Third, and forty more; besides all them
Saxon heptarchies that used to rip around so in old times and raise
Cain. My, you ought to seen old Henry the Eight when he was in bloom.
He _was_ a blossom. He used to marry a new wife every day, and chop
off her head next morning. And he would do it just as indifferent as
if he was ordering up eggs. ’Fetch up Nell Gwynn,’ he says. They fetch
her up. Next morning, ’Chop off her head!’ And they chop it off.
’Fetch up Jane Shore,’ he says; and up she comes. Next morning, ’Chop
off her head’—and they chop it off. ’Ring up Fair Rosamun.’ Fair
Rosamun answers the bell. Next morning, ’Chop off her head.’ And he
made every one of them tell him a tale every night; and he kept that
up till he had hogged a thousand and one tales that way, and then he
put them all in a book, and called it Domesday Book—which was a good
name and stated the case. You don’t know kings, Jim, but I know them;
and this old rip of ourn is one of the cleanest I’ve struck in
history. Well, Henry he takes a notion he wants to get up some trouble
with this country. How does he go at it—give notice?—give the
country a show? No. All of a sudden he heaves all the tea in Boston
Harbor overboard, and whacks out a declaration of independence, and
dares them to come on. That was _his_ style—he never give anybody a
chance. He had suspicions of his father, the Duke of Wellington. Well,
what did he do? Ask him to show up? No—drownded him in a butt of
mamsey, like a cat. S’pose people left money laying around where he
was—what did he do? He collared it. S’pose he contracted to do a
thing, and you paid him, and didn’t set down there and see that he
done it—what did he do? He always done the other thing. S’pose he
opened his mouth—what then? If he didn’t shut it up powerful quick
he’d lose a lie every time. That’s the kind of a bug Henry was; and if
we’d ’a’ had him along ’stead of our kings he’d ’a’ fooled that town a
heap worse than ourn done. I don’t say that ourn is lambs, because
they ain’t, when you come right down to the cold facts; but they ain’t
nothing to _that_ old ram, anyway. All I say is, kings is kings, and
you got to make allowances. Take them all around, they’re a mighty
ornery lot. It’s the way they’re raised.”
“But dis one do _smell_ so like de nation, Huck.”
“Well, they all do, Jim. _We_ can’t help the way a king smells; history
don’t tell no way.”
“Now de duke, he’s a tolerble likely man in some ways.”
“Yes, a duke’s different. But not very different. This one’s a
middling hard lot for a duke. When he’s drunk there ain’t no
near-sighted man could tell him from a king.”
“Well, anyways, I doan’ hanker for no mo’ un um, Huck. Dese is all I
kin stan’.”
“It’s the way I feel, too, Jim. But we’ve got them on our hands, and
we got to remember what they are, and make allowances. Sometimes I
wish we could hear of a country that’s out of kings.”
What was the use to tell Jim these warn’t real kings and dukes? It
wouldn’t ’a’ done no good; and, besides, it was just as I said: you
couldn’t tell them from the real kind.
I went to sleep, and Jim didn’t call me when it was my turn. He often
done that. When I waked up just at daybreak he was sitting there with
his head down betwixt his knees, moaning and mourning to himself. I
didn’t take notice nor let on. I knowed what it was about. He was
thinking about his wife and his children, away up yonder, and he was
low and homesick; because he hadn’t ever been away from home before in
his life; and I do believe he cared just as much for his people as
white folks does for their’n. It don’t seem natural, but I reckon it’s
so. He was often moaning and mourning that way nights, when he judged
I was asleep, and saying, “Po’ little ’Lizabeth! po’ little Johnny!
it’s mighty hard; I spec’ I ain’t ever gwyne to see you no mo’, no
mo’!” He was a mighty good nigger, Jim was.
But this time I somehow got to talking to him about his wife and young
ones; and by and by he says:
“What makes me feel so bad dis time ’uz bekase I hear sumpn over
yonder on de bank like a whack, er a slam, while ago, en it mine me er
de time I treat my little ’Lizabeth so ornery. She warn’t on’y ’bout
fo’ year ole, en she tuck de sk’yarlet fever, en had a powful rough
spell; but she got well, en one day she was a-stannin’ aroun’, en I
says to her, I says:
“‘Shet de do’.’
“She never done it; jis’ stood dah, kiner smilin’ up at me. It make me
mad; en I says ag’in, mighty loud, I says:
“‘Doan’ you hear me? Shet de do’!”
“She jis stood de same way, kiner smilin’ up. I was a-bilin’! I says:
“‘I lay I _make_ you mine!’
“En wid dat I fetch’ her a slap side de head dat sont her a-sprawlin’.
Den I went into de yuther room, en ’uz gone ’bout ten minutes; en when
I come back dah was dat do’ a-stannin’ open _yit_, en dat chile
stannin’ mos’ right in it, a-lookin’ down and mournin’, en de tears
runnin’ down. My, but I _wuz_ mad! I was a-gwyne for de chile, but
jis’ den—it was a do’ dat open innerds—jis’ den, ’long come de wind
en slam it to, behine de chile, ker-_blam!_—en my lan’, de chile
never move’! My breff mos’ hop outer me; en I feel so—so—I doan’
know _how_ I feel. I crope out, all a-tremblin’, en crope aroun’ en
open de do’ easy en slow, en poke my head in behine de chile, sof’ en
still, en all uv a sudden I says _pow!_ jis’ as loud as I could yell.
_She never budge!_ Oh, Huck, I bust out a-cryin’ en grab her up in my
arms, en say, ‘Oh, de po’ little thing! De Lord God Amighty fogive po’
ole Jim, kaze he never gwyne to fogive hisself as long’s he live!’ Oh,
she was plumb deef en dumb, Huck, plumb deef en dumb—en I’d ben
a-treat’n her so!”