"The Lord giveth and the Lord hath taken away--Blessed be the name of

the Lord! But it's so hard--Oh, it's so hard! Only last Saturday my

Joe busted a firecracker right under my nose and I knocked him

sprawling. Little did I know then, how soon--Oh, if it was to do over

again I'd hug him and bless him for it."

"Yes, yes, yes, I know just how you feel, Mrs. Harper, I know just

exactly how you feel. No longer ago than yesterday noon, my Tom took

and filled the cat full of Pain-killer, and I did think the cretur

would tear the house down. And God forgive me, I cracked Tom's head

with my thimble, poor boy, poor dead boy. But he's out of all his

troubles now. And the last words I ever heard him say was to reproach--"

But this memory was too much for the old lady, and she broke entirely

down. Tom was snuffling, now, himself--and more in pity of himself than

anybody else. He could hear Mary crying, and putting in a kindly word

for him from time to time. He began to have a nobler opinion of himself

than ever before. Still, he was sufficiently touched by his aunt's

grief to long to rush out from under the bed and overwhelm her with

joy--and the theatrical gorgeousness of the thing appealed strongly to

his nature, too, but he resisted and lay still.

He went on listening, and gathered by odds and ends that it was

conjectured at first that the boys had got drowned while taking a swim;

then the small raft had been missed; next, certain boys said the

missing lads had promised that the village should "hear something"

soon; the wise-heads had "put this and that together" and decided that

the lads had gone off on that raft and would turn up at the next town

below, presently; but toward noon the raft had been found, lodged

against the Missouri shore some five or six miles below the village

--and then hope perished; they must be drowned, else hunger would have

driven them home by nightfall if not sooner. It was believed that the

search for the bodies had been a fruitless effort merely because the

drowning must have occurred in mid-channel, since the boys, being good

swimmers, would otherwise have escaped to shore. This was Wednesday

night. If the bodies continued missing until Sunday, all hope would be

given over, and the funerals would be preached on that morning. Tom

shuddered.

Mrs. Harper gave a sobbing good-night and turned to go. Then with a

mutual impulse the two bereaved women flung themselves into each

other's arms and had a good, consoling cry, and then parted. Aunt Polly

was tender far beyond her wont, in her good-night to Sid and Mary. Sid

snuffled a bit and Mary went off crying with all her heart.

Aunt Polly knelt down and prayed for Tom so touchingly, so

appealingly, and with such measureless love in her words and her old

trembling voice, that he was weltering in tears again, long before she

was through.

He had to keep still long after she went to bed, for she kept making

broken-hearted ejaculations from time to time, tossing unrestfully, and

turning over. But at last she was still, only moaning a little in her

sleep. Now the boy stole out, rose gradually by the bedside, shaded the

candle-light with his hand, and stood regarding her. His heart was full

of pity for her. He took out his sycamore scroll and placed it by the

candle. But something occurred to him, and he lingered considering. His

face lighted with a happy solution of his thought; he put the bark

hastily in his pocket. Then he bent over and kissed the faded lips, and

straightway made his stealthy exit, latching the door behind him.

He threaded his way back to the ferry landing, found nobody at large

there, and walked boldly on board the boat, for he knew she was

tenantless except that there was a watchman, who always turned in and

slept like a graven image. He untied the skiff at the stern, slipped

into it, and was soon rowing cautiously upstream. When he had pulled a

mile above the village, he started quartering across and bent himself

stoutly to his work. He hit the landing on the other side neatly, for

this was a familiar bit of work to him. He was moved to capture the

skiff, arguing that it might be considered a ship and therefore

legitimate prey for a pirate, but he knew a thorough search would be

made for it and that might end in revelations. So he stepped ashore and

entered the woods.

He sat down and took a long rest, torturing himself meanwhile to keep

awake, and then started warily down the home-stretch. The night was far

spent. It was broad daylight before he found himself fairly abreast the

island bar. He rested again until the sun was well up and gilding the

great river with its splendor, and then he plunged into the stream. A

little later he paused, dripping, upon the threshold of the camp, and

heard Joe say:

"No, Tom's true-blue, Huck, and he'll come back. He won't desert. He

knows that would be a disgrace to a pirate, and Tom's too proud for

that sort of thing. He's up to something or other. Now I wonder what?"

"Well, the things is ours, anyway, ain't they?"

Pretty near, but not yet, Huck. The writing says they are if he ain't

back here to breakfast."

"Which he is!" exclaimed Tom, with fine dramatic effect, stepping

grandly into camp.

A sumptuous breakfast of bacon and fish was shortly provided, and as

the boys set to work upon it, Tom recounted (and adorned) his

adventures. They were a vain and boastful company of heroes when the

tale was done. Then Tom hid himself away in a shady nook to sleep till

noon, and the other pirates got ready to fish and explore.

CHAPTER XVI

AFTER dinner all the gang turned out to hunt for turtle eggs on the

bar. They went about poking sticks into the sand, and when they found a

soft place they went down on their knees and dug with their hands.

Sometimes they would take fifty or sixty eggs out of one hole. They

were perfectly round white things a trifle smaller than an English

walnut. They had a famous fried-egg feast that night, and another on

Friday morning.

After breakfast they went whooping and prancing out on the bar, and

chased each other round and round, shedding clothes as they went, until

they were naked, and then continued the frolic far away up the shoal

water of the bar, against the stiff current, which latter tripped their

legs from under them from time to time and greatly increased the fun.

And now and then they stooped in a group and splashed water in each

other's faces with their palms, gradually approaching each other, with

averted faces to avoid the strangling sprays, and finally gripping and

struggling till the best man ducked his neighbor, and then they all

went under in a tangle of white legs and arms and came up blowing,

sputtering, laughing, and gasping for breath at one and the same time.

When they were well exhausted, they would run out and sprawl on the

dry, hot sand, and lie there and cover themselves up with it, and by

and by break for the water again and go through the original

performance once more. Finally it occurred to them that their naked

skin represented flesh-colored "tights" very fairly; so they drew a

ring in the sand and had a circus--with three clowns in it, for none

would yield this proudest post to his neighbor.

Next they got their marbles and played "knucks" and "ring-taw" and

"keeps" till that amusement grew stale. Then Joe and Huck had another

swim, but Tom would not venture, because he found that in kicking off

his trousers he had kicked his string of rattlesnake rattles off his

ankle, and he wondered how he had escaped cramp so long without the

protection of this mysterious charm. He did not venture again until he

had found it, and by that time the other boys were tired and ready to

rest. They gradually wandered apart, dropped into the "dumps," and fell

to gazing longingly across the wide river to where the village lay

drowsing in the sun. Tom found himself writing "BECKY" in the sand with

his big toe; he scratched it out, and was angry with himself for his

weakness. But he wrote it again, nevertheless; he could not help it. He

erased it once more and then took himself out of temptation by driving

the other boys together and joining them.

But Joe's spirits had gone down almost beyond resurrection. He was so

homesick that he could hardly endure the misery of it. The tears lay

very near the surface. Huck was melancholy, too. Tom was downhearted,

but tried hard not to show it. He had a secret which he was not ready

to tell, yet, but if this mutinous depression was not broken up soon,

he would have to bring it out. He said, with a great show of

cheerfulness:

"I bet there's been pirates on this island before, boys. We'll explore

it again. They've hid treasures here somewhere. How'd you feel to light

on a rotten chest full of gold and silver--hey?"

But it roused only faint enthusiasm, which faded out, with no reply.

Tom tried one or two other seductions; but they failed, too. It was

discouraging work. Joe sat poking up the sand with a stick and looking

very gloomy. Finally he said:

"Oh, boys, let's give it up. I want to go home. It's so lonesome."

"Oh no, Joe, you'll feel better by and by," said Tom. "Just think of

the fishing that's here."

"I don't care for fishing. I want to go home."

"But, Joe, there ain't such another swimming-place anywhere."

"Swimming's no good. I don't seem to care for it, somehow, when there

ain't anybody to say I sha'n't go in. I mean to go home."

"Oh, shucks! Baby! You want to see your mother, I reckon."

"Yes, I DO want to see my mother--and you would, too, if you had one.

I ain't any more baby than you are." And Joe snuffled a little.

"Well, we'll let the cry-baby go home to his mother, won't we, Huck?

Poor thing--does it want to see its mother? And so it shall. You like

it here, don't you, Huck? We'll stay, won't we?"

Huck said, "Y-e-s"--without any heart in it.

"I'll never speak to you again as long as I live," said Joe, rising.

"There now!" And he moved moodily away and began to dress himself.

"Who cares!" said Tom. "Nobody wants you to. Go 'long home and get

laughed at. Oh, you're a nice pirate. Huck and me ain't cry-babies.

We'll stay, won't we, Huck? Let him go if he wants to. I reckon we can

get along without him, per'aps."

But Tom was uneasy, nevertheless, and was alarmed to see Joe go

sullenly on with his dressing. And then it was discomforting to see

Huck eying Joe's preparations so wistfully, and keeping up such an

ominous silence. Presently, without a parting word, Joe began to wade

off toward the Illinois shore. Tom's heart began to sink. He glanced at

Huck. Huck could not bear the look, and dropped his eyes. Then he said:

"I want to go, too, Tom. It was getting so lonesome anyway, and now

it'll be worse. Let's us go, too, Tom."

"I won't! You can all go, if you want to. I mean to stay."

"Tom, I better go."

"Well, go 'long--who's hendering you."

Huck began to pick up his scattered clothes. He said:

"Tom, I wisht you'd come, too. Now you think it over. We'll wait for

you when we get to shore."

"Well, you'll wait a blame long time, that's all."

Huck started sorrowfully away, and Tom stood looking after him, with a

strong desire tugging at his heart to yield his pride and go along too.

He hoped the boys would stop, but they still waded slowly on. It

suddenly dawned on Tom that it was become very lonely and still. He

made one final struggle with his pride, and then darted after his

comrades, yelling:

"Wait! Wait! I want to tell you something!"

They presently stopped and turned around. When he got to where they

were, he began unfolding his secret, and they listened moodily till at

last they saw the "point" he was driving at, and then they set up a

war-whoop of applause and said it was "splendid!" and said if he had

told them at first, they wouldn't have started away. He made a plausible

excuse; but his real reason had been the fear that not even the secret

would keep them with him any very great length of time, and so he had

meant to hold it in reserve as a last seduction.

The lads came gayly back and went at their sports again with a will,

chattering all the time about Tom's stupendous plan and admiring the

genius of it. After a dainty egg and fish dinner, Tom said he wanted to

learn to smoke, now. Joe caught at the idea and said he would like to

try, too. So Huck made pipes and filled them. These novices had never

smoked anything before but cigars made of grape-vine, and they "bit"

the tongue, and were not considered manly anyway.

Now they stretched themselves out on their elbows and began to puff,

charily, and with slender confidence. The smoke had an unpleasant

taste, and they gagged a little, but Tom said:

"Why, it's just as easy! If I'd a knowed this was all, I'd a learnt

long ago."

"So would I," said Joe. "It's just nothing."

"Why, many a time I've looked at people smoking, and thought well I

wish I could do that; but I never thought I could," said Tom.

"That's just the way with me, hain't it, Huck? You've heard me talk

just that way--haven't you, Huck? I'll leave it to Huck if I haven't."

"Yes--heaps of times," said Huck.

"Well, I have too," said Tom; "oh, hundreds of times. Once down by the

slaughter-house. Don't you remember, Huck? Bob Tanner was there, and

Johnny Miller, and Jeff Thatcher, when I said it. Don't you remember,

Huck, 'bout me saying that?"

"Yes, that's so," said Huck. "That was the day after I lost a white

alley. No, 'twas the day before."

"There--I told you so," said Tom. "Huck recollects it."

"I bleeve I could smoke this pipe all day," said Joe. "I don't feel

sick."

"Neither do I," said Tom. "I could smoke it all day. But I bet you

Jeff Thatcher couldn't."

"Jeff Thatcher! Why, he'd keel over just with two draws. Just let him

try it once. HE'D see!"

"I bet he would. And Johnny Miller--I wish could see Johnny Miller

tackle it once."

"Oh, don't I!" said Joe. "Why, I bet you Johnny Miller couldn't any

more do this than nothing. Just one little snifter would fetch HIM."

"'Deed it would, Joe. Say--I wish the boys could see us now."

"So do I."

"Say--boys, don't say anything about it, and some time when they're

around, I'll come up to you and say, 'Joe, got a pipe? I want a smoke.'

And you'll say, kind of careless like, as if it warn't anything, you'll

say, 'Yes, I got my OLD pipe, and another one, but my tobacker ain't

very good.' And I'll say, 'Oh, that's all right, if it's STRONG

enough.' And then you'll out with the pipes, and we'll light up just as

ca'm, and then just see 'em look!"

"By jings, that'll be gay, Tom! I wish it was NOW!"

"So do I! And when we tell 'em we learned when we was off pirating,

won't they wish they'd been along?"

"Oh, I reckon not! I'll just BET they will!"

So the talk ran on. But presently it began to flag a trifle, and grow

disjointed. The silences widened; the expectoration marvellously

increased. Every pore inside the boys' cheeks became a spouting

fountain; they could scarcely bail out the cellars under their tongues

fast enough to prevent an inundation; little overflowings down their

throats occurred in spite of all they could do, and sudden retchings

followed every time. Both boys were looking very pale and miserable,

now. Joe's pipe dropped from his nerveless fingers. Tom's followed.

Both fountains were going furiously and both pumps bailing with might

and main. Joe said feebly:

"I've lost my knife. I reckon I better go and find it."

Tom said, with quivering lips and halting utterance:

"I'll help you. You go over that way and I'll hunt around by the

spring. No, you needn't come, Huck--we can find it."

So Huck sat down again, and waited an hour. Then he found it lonesome,

and went to find his comrades. They were wide apart in the woods, both

very pale, both fast asleep. But something informed him that if they

had had any trouble they had got rid of it.

They were not talkative at supper that night. They had a humble look,

and when Huck prepared his pipe after the meal and was going to prepare

theirs, they said no, they were not feeling very well--something they

ate at dinner had disagreed with them.

About midnight Joe awoke, and called the boys. There was a brooding

oppressiveness in the air that seemed to bode something. The boys

huddled themselves together and sought the friendly companionship of

the fire, though the dull dead heat of the breathless atmosphere was

stifling. They sat still, intent and waiting. The solemn hush

continued. Beyond the light of the fire everything was swallowed up in

the blackness of darkness. Presently there came a quivering glow that

vaguely revealed the foliage for a moment and then vanished. By and by

another came, a little stronger. Then another. Then a faint moan came

sighing through the branches of the forest and the boys felt a fleeting

breath upon their cheeks, and shuddered with the fancy that the Spirit

of the Night had gone by. There was a pause. Now a weird flash turned

night into day and showed every little grass-blade, separate and

distinct, that grew about their feet. And it showed three white,

startled faces, too. A deep peal of thunder went rolling and tumbling

down the heavens and lost itself in sullen rumblings in the distance. A

sweep of chilly air passed by, rustling all the leaves and snowing the

flaky ashes broadcast about the fire. Another fierce glare lit up the

forest and an instant crash followed that seemed to rend the tree-tops

right over the boys' heads. They clung together in terror, in the thick

gloom that followed. A few big rain-drops fell pattering upon the

leaves.

"Quick! boys, go for the tent!" exclaimed Tom.

They sprang away, stumbling over roots and among vines in the dark, no

two plunging in the same direction. A furious blast roared through the

trees, making everything sing as it went. One blinding flash after

another came, and peal on peal of deafening thunder. And now a

drenching rain poured down and the rising hurricane drove it in sheets

along the ground. The boys cried out to each other, but the roaring

wind and the booming thunder-blasts drowned their voices utterly.

However, one by one they straggled in at last and took shelter under

the tent, cold, scared, and streaming with water; but to have company

in misery seemed something to be grateful for. They could not talk, the

old sail flapped so furiously, even if the other noises would have

allowed them. The tempest rose higher and higher, and presently the

sail tore loose from its fastenings and went winging away on the blast.

The boys seized each others' hands and fled, with many tumblings and

bruises, to the shelter of a great oak that stood upon the river-bank.

Now the battle was at its highest. Under the ceaseless conflagration of

lightning that flamed in the skies, everything below stood out in

clean-cut and shadowless distinctness: the bending trees, the billowy

river, white with foam, the driving spray of spume-flakes, the dim

outlines of the high bluffs on the other side, glimpsed through the

drifting cloud-rack and the slanting veil of rain. Every little while

some giant tree yielded the fight and fell crashing through the younger

growth; and the unflagging thunder-peals came now in ear-splitting

explosive bursts, keen and sharp, and unspeakably appalling. The storm

culminated in one matchless effort that seemed likely to tear the island

to pieces, burn it up, drown it to the tree-tops, blow it away, and

deafen every creature in it, all at one and the same moment. It was a

wild night for homeless young heads to be out in.

But at last the battle was done, and the forces retired with weaker

and weaker threatenings and grumblings, and peace resumed her sway. The

boys went back to camp, a good deal awed; but they found there was

still something to be thankful for, because the great sycamore, the

shelter of their beds, was a ruin, now, blasted by the lightnings, and

they were not under it when the catastrophe happened.

Everything in camp was drenched, the camp-fire as well; for they were

but heedless lads, like their generation, and had made no provision

against rain. Here was matter for dismay, for they were soaked through

and chilled. They were eloquent in their distress; but they presently

discovered that the fire had eaten so far up under the great log it had

been built against (where it curved upward and separated itself from

the ground), that a handbreadth or so of it had escaped wetting; so

they patiently wrought until, with shreds and bark gathered from the

under sides of sheltered logs, they coaxed the fire to burn again. Then

they piled on great dead boughs till they had a roaring furnace, and

were glad-hearted once more. They dried their boiled ham and had a

feast, and after that they sat by the fire and expanded and glorified

their midnight adventure until morning, for there was not a dry spot to

sleep on, anywhere around.

As the sun began to steal in upon the boys, drowsiness came over them,

and they went out on the sandbar and lay down to sleep. They got

scorched out by and by, and drearily set about getting breakfast. After

the meal they felt rusty, and stiff-jointed, and a little homesick once

more. Tom saw the signs, and fell to cheering up the pirates as well as

he could. But they cared nothing for marbles, or circus, or swimming,

or anything. He reminded them of the imposing secret, and raised a ray

of cheer. While it lasted, he got them interested in a new device. This

was to knock off being pirates, for a while, and be Indians for a

change. They were attracted by this idea; so it was not long before

they were stripped, and striped from head to heel with black mud, like

so many zebras--all of them chiefs, of course--and then they went

tearing through the woods to attack an English settlement.

By and by they separated into three hostile tribes, and darted upon

each other from ambush with dreadful war-whoops, and killed and scalped

each other by thousands. It was a gory day. Consequently it was an

extremely satisfactory one.

They assembled in camp toward supper-time, hungry and happy; but now a

difficulty arose--hostile Indians could not break the bread of

hospitality together without first making peace, and this was a simple

impossibility without smoking a pipe of peace. There was no other

process that ever they had heard of. Two of the savages almost wished

they had remained pirates. However, there was no other way; so with

such show of cheerfulness as they could muster they called for the pipe

and took their whiff as it passed, in due form.

And behold, they were glad they had gone into savagery, for they had

gained something; they found that they could now smoke a little without

having to go and hunt for a lost knife; they did not get sick enough to

be seriously uncomfortable. They were not likely to fool away this high

promise for lack of effort. No, they practised cautiously, after

supper, with right fair success, and so they spent a jubilant evening.

They were prouder and happier in their new acquirement than they would

have been in the scalping and skinning of the Six Nations. We will

leave them to smoke and chatter and brag, since we have no further use

for them at present.

CHAPTER XVII

BUT there was no hilarity in the little town that same tranquil

Saturday afternoon. The Harpers, and Aunt Polly's family, were being

put into mourning, with great grief and many tears. An unusual quiet

possessed the village, although it was ordinarily quiet enough, in all

conscience. The villagers conducted their concerns with an absent air,

and talked little; but they sighed often. The Saturday holiday seemed a

burden to the children. They had no heart in their sports, and

gradually gave them up.

In the afternoon Becky Thatcher found herself moping about the

deserted schoolhouse yard, and feeling very melancholy. But she found

nothing there to comfort her. She soliloquized:

"Oh, if I only had a brass andiron-knob again! But I haven't got

anything now to remember him by." And she choked back a little sob.

Presently she stopped, and said to herself:

"It was right here. Oh, if it was to do over again, I wouldn't say

that--I wouldn't say it for the whole world. But he's gone now; I'll

never, never, never see him any more."

This thought broke her down, and she wandered away, with tears rolling

down her cheeks. Then quite a group of boys and girls--playmates of

Tom's and Joe's--came by, and stood looking over the paling fence and

talking in reverent tones of how Tom did so-and-so the last time they

saw him, and how Joe said this and that small trifle (pregnant with

awful prophecy, as they could easily see now!)--and each speaker

pointed out the exact spot where the lost lads stood at the time, and

then added something like "and I was a-standing just so--just as I am

now, and as if you was him--I was as close as that--and he smiled, just

this way--and then something seemed to go all over me, like--awful, you

know--and I never thought what it meant, of course, but I can see now!"

Then there was a dispute about who saw the dead boys last in life, and

many claimed that dismal distinction, and offered evidences, more or

less tampered with by the witness; and when it was ultimately decided

who DID see the departed last, and exchanged the last words with them,

the lucky parties took upon themselves a sort of sacred importance, and

were gaped at and envied by all the rest. One poor chap, who had no

other grandeur to offer, said with tolerably manifest pride in the

remembrance:

"Well, Tom Sawyer he licked me once."

But that bid for glory was a failure. Most of the boys could say that,

and so that cheapened the distinction too much. The group loitered

away, still recalling memories of the lost heroes, in awed voices.

When the Sunday-school hour was finished, the next morning, the bell

began to toll, instead of ringing in the usual way. It was a very still

Sabbath, and the mournful sound seemed in keeping with the musing hush

that lay upon nature. The villagers began to gather, loitering a moment

in the vestibule to converse in whispers about the sad event. But there

was no whispering in the house; only the funereal rustling of dresses

as the women gathered to their seats disturbed the silence there. None

could remember when the little church had been so full before. There

was finally a waiting pause, an expectant dumbness, and then Aunt Polly

entered, followed by Sid and Mary, and they by the Harper family, all

in deep black, and the whole congregation, the old minister as well,

rose reverently and stood until the mourners were seated in the front

pew. There was another communing silence, broken at intervals by

muffled sobs, and then the minister spread his hands abroad and prayed.

A moving hymn was sung, and the text followed: "I am the Resurrection

and the Life."

As the service proceeded, the clergyman drew such pictures of the

graces, the winning ways, and the rare promise of the lost lads that

every soul there, thinking he recognized these pictures, felt a pang in

remembering that he had persistently blinded himself to them always

before, and had as persistently seen only faults and flaws in the poor

boys. The minister related many a touching incident in the lives of the

departed, too, which illustrated their sweet, generous natures, and the

people could easily see, now, how noble and beautiful those episodes

were, and remembered with grief that at the time they occurred they had

seemed rank rascalities, well deserving of the cowhide. The

congregation became more and more moved, as the pathetic tale went on,

till at last the whole company broke down and joined the weeping

mourners in a chorus of anguished sobs, the preacher himself giving way

to his feelings, and crying in the pulpit.

There was a rustle in the gallery, which nobody noticed; a moment

later the church door creaked; the minister raised his streaming eyes

above his handkerchief, and stood transfixed! First one and then

another pair of eyes followed the minister's, and then almost with one

impulse the congregation rose and stared while the three dead boys came

marching up the aisle, Tom in the lead, Joe next, and Huck, a ruin of

drooping rags, sneaking sheepishly in the rear! They had been hid in

the unused gallery listening to their own funeral sermon!

Aunt Polly, Mary, and the Harpers threw themselves upon their restored

ones, smothered them with kisses and poured out thanksgivings, while

poor Huck stood abashed and uncomfortable, not knowing exactly what to

do or where to hide from so many unwelcoming eyes. He wavered, and

started to slink away, but Tom seized him and said:

"Aunt Polly, it ain't fair. Somebody's got to be glad to see Huck."

"And so they shall. I'm glad to see him, poor motherless thing!" And

the loving attentions Aunt Polly lavished upon him were the one thing

capable of making him more uncomfortable than he was before.

Suddenly the minister shouted at the top of his voice: "Praise God

from whom all blessings flow--SING!--and put your hearts in it!"

And they did. Old Hundred swelled up with a triumphant burst, and

while it shook the rafters Tom Sawyer the Pirate looked around upon the

envying juveniles about him and confessed in his heart that this was

the proudest moment of his life.

As the "sold" congregation trooped out they said they would almost be

willing to be made ridiculous again to hear Old Hundred sung like that

once more.

Tom got more cuffs and kisses that day--according to Aunt Polly's

varying moods--than he had earned before in a year; and he hardly knew

which expressed the most gratefulness to God and affection for himself.

CHAPTER XVIII

THAT was Tom's great secret--the scheme to return home with his

brother pirates and attend their own funerals. They had paddled over to

the Missouri shore on a log, at dusk on Saturday, landing five or six

miles below the village; they had slept in the woods at the edge of the

town till nearly daylight, and had then crept through back lanes and

alleys and finished their sleep in the gallery of the church among a

chaos of invalided benches.

At breakfast, Monday morning, Aunt Polly and Mary were very loving to

Tom, and very attentive to his wants. There was an unusual amount of

talk. In the course of it Aunt Polly said:

"Well, I don't say it wasn't a fine joke, Tom, to keep everybody

suffering 'most a week so you boys had a good time, but it is a pity

you could be so hard-hearted as to let me suffer so. If you could come

over on a log to go to your funeral, you could have come over and give

me a hint some way that you warn't dead, but only run off."

"Yes, you could have done that, Tom," said Mary; "and I believe you

would if you had thought of it."

"Would you, Tom?" said Aunt Polly, her face lighting wistfully. "Say,

now, would you, if you'd thought of it?"

"I--well, I don't know. 'Twould 'a' spoiled everything."

"Tom, I hoped you loved me that much," said Aunt Polly, with a grieved

tone that discomforted the boy. "It would have been something if you'd

cared enough to THINK of it, even if you didn't DO it."

"Now, auntie, that ain't any harm," pleaded Mary; "it's only Tom's

giddy way--he is always in such a rush that he never thinks of

anything."

"More's the pity. Sid would have thought. And Sid would have come and

DONE it, too. Tom, you'll look back, some day, when it's too late, and

wish you'd cared a little more for me when it would have cost you so

little."

"Now, auntie, you know I do care for you," said Tom.

"I'd know it better if you acted more like it."

"I wish now I'd thought," said Tom, with a repentant tone; "but I

dreamt about you, anyway. That's something, ain't it?"

"It ain't much--a cat does that much--but it's better than nothing.

What did you dream?"

"Why, Wednesday night I dreamt that you was sitting over there by the

bed, and Sid was sitting by the woodbox, and Mary next to him."

"Well, so we did. So we always do. I'm glad your dreams could take

even that much trouble about us."

"And I dreamt that Joe Harper's mother was here."

"Why, she was here! Did you dream any more?"

"Oh, lots. But it's so dim, now."

"Well, try to recollect--can't you?"

"Somehow it seems to me that the wind--the wind blowed the--the--"

"Try harder, Tom! The wind did blow something. Come!"

Tom pressed his fingers on his forehead an anxious minute, and then

said:

"I've got it now! I've got it now! It blowed the candle!"

"Mercy on us! Go on, Tom--go on!"

"And it seems to me that you said, 'Why, I believe that that door--'"

"Go ON, Tom!"

"Just let me study a moment--just a moment. Oh, yes--you said you

believed the door was open."

"As I'm sitting here, I did! Didn't I, Mary! Go on!"

"And then--and then--well I won't be certain, but it seems like as if

you made Sid go and--and--"

"Well? Well? What did I make him do, Tom? What did I make him do?"

"You made him--you--Oh, you made him shut it."

"Well, for the land's sake! I never heard the beat of that in all my

days! Don't tell ME there ain't anything in dreams, any more. Sereny

Harper shall know of this before I'm an hour older. I'd like to see her

get around THIS with her rubbage 'bout superstition. Go on, Tom!"

"Oh, it's all getting just as bright as day, now. Next you said I

warn't BAD, only mischeevous and harum-scarum, and not any more

responsible than--than--I think it was a colt, or something."

"And so it was! Well, goodness gracious! Go on, Tom!"

"And then you began to cry."

"So I did. So I did. Not the first time, neither. And then--"

"Then Mrs. Harper she began to cry, and said Joe was just the same,

and she wished she hadn't whipped him for taking cream when she'd

throwed it out her own self--"

"Tom! The sperrit was upon you! You was a prophesying--that's what you

was doing! Land alive, go on, Tom!"

"Then Sid he said--he said--"

"I don't think I said anything," said Sid.

"Yes you did, Sid," said Mary.

"Shut your heads and let Tom go on! What did he say, Tom?"

"He said--I THINK he said he hoped I was better off where I was gone

to, but if I'd been better sometimes--"

"THERE, d'you hear that! It was his very words!"

"And you shut him up sharp."

"I lay I did! There must 'a' been an angel there. There WAS an angel

there, somewheres!"

"And Mrs. Harper told about Joe scaring her with a firecracker, and

you told about Peter and the Painkiller--"

"Just as true as I live!"

"And then there was a whole lot of talk 'bout dragging the river for

us, and 'bout having the funeral Sunday, and then you and old Miss

Harper hugged and cried, and she went."

"It happened just so! It happened just so, as sure as I'm a-sitting in

these very tracks. Tom, you couldn't told it more like if you'd 'a'

seen it! And then what? Go on, Tom!"

"Then I thought you prayed for me--and I could see you and hear every

word you said. And you went to bed, and I was so sorry that I took and

wrote on a piece of sycamore bark, 'We ain't dead--we are only off

being pirates,' and put it on the table by the candle; and then you

looked so good, laying there asleep, that I thought I went and leaned

over and kissed you on the lips."

"Did you, Tom, DID you! I just forgive you everything for that!" And

she seized the boy in a crushing embrace that made him feel like the

guiltiest of villains.

"It was very kind, even though it was only a--dream," Sid soliloquized

just audibly.

"Shut up, Sid! A body does just the same in a dream as he'd do if he

was awake. Here's a big Milum apple I've been saving for you, Tom, if

you was ever found again--now go 'long to school. I'm thankful to the

good God and Father of us all I've got you back, that's long-suffering

and merciful to them that believe on Him and keep His word, though

goodness knows I'm unworthy of it, but if only the worthy ones got His

blessings and had His hand to help them over the rough places, there's

few enough would smile here or ever enter into His rest when the long

night comes. Go 'long Sid, Mary, Tom--take yourselves off--you've

hendered me long enough."

The children left for school, and the old lady to call on Mrs. Harper

and vanquish her realism with Tom's marvellous dream. Sid had better

judgment than to utter the thought that was in his mind as he left the

house. It was this: "Pretty thin--as long a dream as that, without any

mistakes in it!"

What a hero Tom was become, now! He did not go skipping and prancing,

but moved with a dignified swagger as became a pirate who felt that the

public eye was on him. And indeed it was; he tried not to seem to see

the looks or hear the remarks as he passed along, but they were food

and drink to him. Smaller boys than himself flocked at his heels, as

proud to be seen with him, and tolerated by him, as if he had been the

drummer at the head of a procession or the elephant leading a menagerie

into town. Boys of his own size pretended not to know he had been away

at all; but they were consuming with envy, nevertheless. They would

have given anything to have that swarthy suntanned skin of his, and his

glittering notoriety; and Tom would not have parted with either for a

circus.

At school the children made so much of him and of Joe, and delivered

such eloquent admiration from their eyes, that the two heroes were not

long in becoming insufferably "stuck-up." They began to tell their

adventures to hungry listeners--but they only began; it was not a thing

likely to have an end, with imaginations like theirs to furnish

material. And finally, when they got out their pipes and went serenely

puffing around, the very summit of glory was reached.

Tom decided that he could be independent of Becky Thatcher now. Glory

was sufficient. He would live for glory. Now that he was distinguished,

maybe she would be wanting to "make up." Well, let her--she should see

that he could be as indifferent as some other people. Presently she

arrived. Tom pretended not to see her. He moved away and joined a group

of boys and girls and began to talk. Soon he observed that she was

tripping gayly back and forth with flushed face and dancing eyes,

pretending to be busy chasing schoolmates, and screaming with laughter

when she made a capture; but he noticed that she always made her

captures in his vicinity, and that she seemed to cast a conscious eye

in his direction at such times, too. It gratified all the vicious

vanity that was in him; and so, instead of winning him, it only "set

him up" the more and made him the more diligent to avoid betraying that

he knew she was about. Presently she gave over skylarking, and moved

irresolutely about, sighing once or twice and glancing furtively and

wistfully toward Tom. Then she observed that now Tom was talking more

particularly to Amy Lawrence than to any one else. She felt a sharp

pang and grew disturbed and uneasy at once. She tried to go away, but

her feet were treacherous, and carried her to the group instead. She

said to a girl almost at Tom's elbow--with sham vivacity:

"Why, Mary Austin! you bad girl, why didn't you come to Sunday-school?"

"I did come--didn't you see me?"

"Why, no! Did you? Where did you sit?"

"I was in Miss Peters' class, where I always go. I saw YOU."

"Did you? Why, it's funny I didn't see you. I wanted to tell you about

the picnic."

"Oh, that's jolly. Who's going to give it?"

"My ma's going to let me have one."

"Oh, goody; I hope she'll let ME come."

"Well, she will. The picnic's for me. She'll let anybody come that I

want, and I want you."

"That's ever so nice. When is it going to be?"

"By and by. Maybe about vacation."

"Oh, won't it be fun! You going to have all the girls and boys?"

"Yes, every one that's friends to me--or wants to be"; and she glanced

ever so furtively at Tom, but he talked right along to Amy Lawrence

about the terrible storm on the island, and how the lightning tore the

great sycamore tree "all to flinders" while he was "standing within

three feet of it."

"Oh, may I come?" said Grace Miller.

"Yes."

"And me?" said Sally Rogers.

"Yes."

"And me, too?" said Susy Harper. "And Joe?"

"Yes."

And so on, with clapping of joyful hands till all the group had begged

for invitations but Tom and Amy. Then Tom turned coolly away, still

talking, and took Amy with him. Becky's lips trembled and the tears

came to her eyes; she hid these signs with a forced gayety and went on

chattering, but the life had gone out of the picnic, now, and out of

everything else; she got away as soon as she could and hid herself and

had what her sex call "a good cry." Then she sat moody, with wounded

pride, till the bell rang. She roused up, now, with a vindictive cast

in her eye, and gave her plaited tails a shake and said she knew what

SHE'D do.

At recess Tom continued his flirtation with Amy with jubilant

self-satisfaction. And he kept drifting about to find Becky and lacerate

her with the performance. At last he spied her, but there was a sudden

falling of his mercury. She was sitting cosily on a little bench behind

the schoolhouse looking at a picture-book with Alfred Temple--and so

absorbed were they, and their heads so close together over the book,

that they did not seem to be conscious of anything in the world besides.

Jealousy ran red-hot through Tom's veins. He began to hate himself for

throwing away the chance Becky had offered for a reconciliation. He

called himself a fool, and all the hard names he could think of. He

wanted to cry with vexation. Amy chatted happily along, as they walked,

for her heart was singing, but Tom's tongue had lost its function. He

did not hear what Amy was saying, and whenever she paused expectantly he

could only stammer an awkward assent, which was as often misplaced as

otherwise. He kept drifting to the rear of the schoolhouse, again and

again, to sear his eyeballs with the hateful spectacle there. He could

not help it. And it maddened him to see, as he thought he saw, that

Becky Thatcher never once suspected that he was even in the land of the

living. But she did see, nevertheless; and she knew she was winning her

fight, too, and was glad to see him suffer as she had suffered.

Amy's happy prattle became intolerable. Tom hinted at things he had to

attend to; things that must be done; and time was fleeting. But in

vain--the girl chirped on. Tom thought, "Oh, hang her, ain't I ever

going to get rid of her?" At last he must be attending to those

things--and she said artlessly that she would be "around" when school

let out. And he hastened away, hating her for it.

"Any other boy!" Tom thought, grating his teeth. "Any boy in the whole

town but that Saint Louis smarty that thinks he dresses so fine and is

aristocracy! Oh, all right, I licked you the first day you ever saw

this town, mister, and I'll lick you again! You just wait till I catch

you out! I'll just take and--"

And he went through the motions of thrashing an imaginary boy

--pummelling the air, and kicking and gouging. "Oh, you do, do you? You

holler 'nough, do you? Now, then, let that learn you!" And so the

imaginary flogging was finished to his satisfaction.

Tom fled home at noon. His conscience could not endure any more of

Amy's grateful happiness, and his jealousy could bear no more of the

other distress. Becky resumed her picture inspections with Alfred, but

as the minutes dragged along and no Tom came to suffer, her triumph

began to cloud and she lost interest; gravity and absent-mindedness

followed, and then melancholy; two or three times she pricked up her

ear at a footstep, but it was a false hope; no Tom came. At last she

grew entirely miserable and wished she hadn't carried it so far. When

poor Alfred, seeing that he was losing her, he did not know how, kept

exclaiming: "Oh, here's a jolly one! look at this!" she lost patience

at last, and said, "Oh, don't bother me! I don't care for them!" and

burst into tears, and got up and walked away.

Alfred dropped alongside and was going to try to comfort her, but she

said:

"Go away and leave me alone, can't you! I hate you!"

So the boy halted, wondering what he could have done--for she had said

she would look at pictures all through the nooning--and she walked on,

crying. Then Alfred went musing into the deserted schoolhouse. He was

humiliated and angry. He easily guessed his way to the truth--the girl

had simply made a convenience of him to vent her spite upon Tom Sawyer.

He was far from hating Tom the less when this thought occurred to him.

He wished there was some way to get that boy into trouble without much

risk to himself. Tom's spelling-book fell under his eye. Here was his

opportunity. He gratefully opened to the lesson for the afternoon and

poured ink upon the page.

Becky, glancing in at a window behind him at the moment, saw the act,

and moved on, without discovering herself. She started homeward, now,

intending to find Tom and tell him; Tom would be thankful and their

troubles would be healed. Before she was half way home, however, she

had changed her mind. The thought of Tom's treatment of her when she

was talking about her picnic came scorching back and filled her with

shame. She resolved to let him get whipped on the damaged

spelling-book's account, and to hate him forever, into the bargain.

CHAPTER XIX

TOM arrived at home in a dreary mood, and the first thing his aunt

said to him showed him that he had brought his sorrows to an

unpromising market:

"Tom, I've a notion to skin you alive!"

"Auntie, what have I done?"

"Well, you've done enough. Here I go over to Sereny Harper, like an

old softy, expecting I'm going to make her believe all that rubbage

about that dream, when lo and behold you she'd found out from Joe that

you was over here and heard all the talk we had that night. Tom, I

don't know what is to become of a boy that will act like that. It makes

me feel so bad to think you could let me go to Sereny Harper and make

such a fool of myself and never say a word."

This was a new aspect of the thing. His smartness of the morning had

seemed to Tom a good joke before, and very ingenious. It merely looked

mean and shabby now. He hung his head and could not think of anything

to say for a moment. Then he said:

"Auntie, I wish I hadn't done it--but I didn't think."

"Oh, child, you never think. You never think of anything but your own

selfishness. You could think to come all the way over here from

Jackson's Island in the night to laugh at our troubles, and you could

think to fool me with a lie about a dream; but you couldn't ever think

to pity us and save us from sorrow."

"Auntie, I know now it was mean, but I didn't mean to be mean. I

didn't, honest. And besides, I didn't come over here to laugh at you

that night."

"What did you come for, then?"

"It was to tell you not to be uneasy about us, because we hadn't got

drownded."

"Tom, Tom, I would be the thankfullest soul in this world if I could

believe you ever had as good a thought as that, but you know you never

did--and I know it, Tom."

"Indeed and 'deed I did, auntie--I wish I may never stir if I didn't."

"Oh, Tom, don't lie--don't do it. It only makes things a hundred times

worse."

"It ain't a lie, auntie; it's the truth. I wanted to keep you from

grieving--that was all that made me come."

"I'd give the whole world to believe that--it would cover up a power

of sins, Tom. I'd 'most be glad you'd run off and acted so bad. But it

ain't reasonable; because, why didn't you tell me, child?"

"Why, you see, when you got to talking about the funeral, I just got

all full of the idea of our coming and hiding in the church, and I

couldn't somehow bear to spoil it. So I just put the bark back in my

pocket and kept mum."

"What bark?"

"The bark I had wrote on to tell you we'd gone pirating. I wish, now,

you'd waked up when I kissed you--I do, honest."

The hard lines in his aunt's face relaxed and a sudden tenderness

dawned in her eyes.

"DID you kiss me, Tom?"

"Why, yes, I did."

"Are you sure you did, Tom?"

"Why, yes, I did, auntie--certain sure."

"What did you kiss me for, Tom?"

"Because I loved you so, and you laid there moaning and I was so sorry."

The words sounded like truth. The old lady could not hide a tremor in

her voice when she said:

"Kiss me again, Tom!--and be off with you to school, now, and don't

bother me any more."

The moment he was gone, she ran to a closet and got out the ruin of a

jacket which Tom had gone pirating in. Then she stopped, with it in her

hand, and said to herself:

"No, I don't dare. Poor boy, I reckon he's lied about it--but it's a

blessed, blessed lie, there's such a comfort come from it. I hope the

Lord--I KNOW the Lord will forgive him, because it was such

goodheartedness in him to tell it. But I don't want to find out it's a

lie. I won't look."

She put the jacket away, and stood by musing a minute. Twice she put

out her hand to take the garment again, and twice she refrained. Once

more she ventured, and this time she fortified herself with the

thought: "It's a good lie--it's a good lie--I won't let it grieve me."

So she sought the jacket pocket. A moment later she was reading Tom's

piece of bark through flowing tears and saying: "I could forgive the

boy, now, if he'd committed a million sins!"

CHAPTER XX

THERE was something about Aunt Polly's manner, when she kissed Tom,

that swept away his low spirits and made him lighthearted and happy

again. He started to school and had the luck of coming upon Becky

Thatcher at the head of Meadow Lane. His mood always determined his

manner. Without a moment's hesitation he ran to her and said:

"I acted mighty mean to-day, Becky, and I'm so sorry. I won't ever,

ever do that way again, as long as ever I live--please make up, won't

you?"

The girl stopped and looked him scornfully in the face:

"I'll thank you to keep yourself TO yourself, Mr. Thomas Sawyer. I'll

never speak to you again."

She tossed her head and passed on. Tom was so stunned that he had not

even presence of mind enough to say "Who cares, Miss Smarty?" until the

right time to say it had gone by. So he said nothing. But he was in a

fine rage, nevertheless. He moped into the schoolyard wishing she were

a boy, and imagining how he would trounce her if she were. He presently

encountered her and delivered a stinging remark as he passed. She

hurled one in return, and the angry breach was complete. It seemed to

Becky, in her hot resentment, that she could hardly wait for school to

"take in," she was so impatient to see Tom flogged for the injured

spelling-book. If she had had any lingering notion of exposing Alfred

Temple, Tom's offensive fling had driven it entirely away.

Poor girl, she did not know how fast she was nearing trouble herself.

The master, Mr. Dobbins, had reached middle age with an unsatisfied

ambition. The darling of his desires was, to be a doctor, but poverty

had decreed that he should be nothing higher than a village

schoolmaster. Every day he took a mysterious book out of his desk and

absorbed himself in it at times when no classes were reciting. He kept

that book under lock and key. There was not an urchin in school but was

perishing to have a glimpse of it, but the chance never came. Every boy

and girl had a theory about the nature of that book; but no two

theories were alike, and there was no way of getting at the facts in

the case. Now, as Becky was passing by the desk, which stood near the

door, she noticed that the key was in the lock! It was a precious

moment. She glanced around; found herself alone, and the next instant

she had the book in her hands. The title-page--Professor Somebody's

ANATOMY--carried no information to her mind; so she began to turn the

leaves. She came at once upon a handsomely engraved and colored

frontispiece--a human figure, stark naked. At that moment a shadow fell

on the page and Tom Sawyer stepped in at the door and caught a glimpse

of the picture. Becky snatched at the book to close it, and had the

hard luck to tear the pictured page half down the middle. She thrust

the volume into the desk, turned the key, and burst out crying with

shame and vexation.

"Tom Sawyer, you are just as mean as you can be, to sneak up on a

person and look at what they're looking at."

"How could I know you was looking at anything?"

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Tom Sawyer; you know you're

going to tell on me, and oh, what shall I do, what shall I do! I'll be

whipped, and I never was whipped in school."

Then she stamped her little foot and said:

"BE so mean if you want to! I know something that's going to happen.

You just wait and you'll see! Hateful, hateful, hateful!"--and she

flung out of the house with a new explosion of crying.

Tom stood still, rather flustered by this onslaught. Presently he said

to himself:

"What a curious kind of a fool a girl is! Never been licked in school!

Shucks! What's a licking! That's just like a girl--they're so

thin-skinned and chicken-hearted. Well, of course I ain't going to tell

old Dobbins on this little fool, because there's other ways of getting

even on her, that ain't so mean; but what of it? Old Dobbins will ask

who it was tore his book. Nobody'll answer. Then he'll do just the way

he always does--ask first one and then t'other, and when he comes to the

right girl he'll know it, without any telling. Girls' faces always tell

on them. They ain't got any backbone. She'll get licked. Well, it's a

kind of a tight place for Becky Thatcher, because there ain't any way

out of it." Tom conned the thing a moment longer, and then added: "All

right, though; she'd like to see me in just such a fix--let her sweat it

out!"

Tom joined the mob of skylarking scholars outside. In a few moments

the master arrived and school "took in." Tom did not feel a strong

interest in his studies. Every time he stole a glance at the girls'

side of the room Becky's face troubled him. Considering all things, he

did not want to pity her, and yet it was all he could do to help it. He

could get up no exultation that was really worthy the name. Presently

the spelling-book discovery was made, and Tom's mind was entirely full

of his own matters for a while after that. Becky roused up from her

lethargy of distress and showed good interest in the proceedings. She

did not expect that Tom could get out of his trouble by denying that he

spilt the ink on the book himself; and she was right. The denial only

seemed to make the thing worse for Tom. Becky supposed she would be

glad of that, and she tried to believe she was glad of it, but she

found she was not certain. When the worst came to the worst, she had an

impulse to get up and tell on Alfred Temple, but she made an effort and

forced herself to keep still--because, said she to herself, "he'll tell

about me tearing the picture sure. I wouldn't say a word, not to save

his life!"

Tom took his whipping and went back to his seat not at all

broken-hearted, for he thought it was possible that he had unknowingly

upset the ink on the spelling-book himself, in some skylarking bout--he

had denied it for form's sake and because it was custom, and had stuck

to the denial from principle.

A whole hour drifted by, the master sat nodding in his throne, the air

was drowsy with the hum of study. By and by, Mr. Dobbins straightened

himself up, yawned, then unlocked his desk, and reached for his book,

but seemed undecided whether to take it out or leave it. Most of the

pupils glanced up languidly, but there were two among them that watched

his movements with intent eyes. Mr. Dobbins fingered his book absently

for a while, then took it out and settled himself in his chair to read!

Tom shot a glance at Becky. He had seen a hunted and helpless rabbit

look as she did, with a gun levelled at its head. Instantly he forgot

his quarrel with her. Quick--something must be done! done in a flash,

too! But the very imminence of the emergency paralyzed his invention.

Good!--he had an inspiration! He would run and snatch the book, spring

through the door and fly. But his resolution shook for one little

instant, and the chance was lost--the master opened the volume. If Tom

only had the wasted opportunity back again! Too late. There was no help

for Becky now, he said. The next moment the master faced the school.

Every eye sank under his gaze. There was that in it which smote even

the innocent with fear. There was silence while one might count ten

--the master was gathering his wrath. Then he spoke: "Who tore this book?"

There was not a sound. One could have heard a pin drop. The stillness

continued; the master searched face after face for signs of guilt.

"Benjamin Rogers, did you tear this book?"

A denial. Another pause.

"Joseph Harper, did you?"

Another denial. Tom's uneasiness grew more and more intense under the

slow torture of these proceedings. The master scanned the ranks of

boys--considered a while, then turned to the girls:

"Amy Lawrence?"

A shake of the head.

"Gracie Miller?"

The same sign.

"Susan Harper, did you do this?"

Another negative. The next girl was Becky Thatcher. Tom was trembling

from head to foot with excitement and a sense of the hopelessness of

the situation.

"Rebecca Thatcher" [Tom glanced at her face--it was white with terror]

--"did you tear--no, look me in the face" [her hands rose in appeal]

--"did you tear this book?"

A thought shot like lightning through Tom's brain. He sprang to his

feet and shouted--"I done it!"

The school stared in perplexity at this incredible folly. Tom stood a

moment, to gather his dismembered faculties; and when he stepped

forward to go to his punishment the surprise, the gratitude, the

adoration that shone upon him out of poor Becky's eyes seemed pay

enough for a hundred floggings. Inspired by the splendor of his own

act, he took without an outcry the most merciless flaying that even Mr.

Dobbins had ever administered; and also received with indifference the

added cruelty of a command to remain two hours after school should be

dismissed--for he knew who would wait for him outside till his

captivity was done, and not count the tedious time as loss, either.

Tom went to bed that night planning vengeance against Alfred Temple;

for with shame and repentance Becky had told him all, not forgetting

her own treachery; but even the longing for vengeance had to give way,

soon, to pleasanter musings, and he fell asleep at last with Becky's

latest words lingering dreamily in his ear--

"Tom, how COULD you be so noble!"

CHAPTER XXI

VACATION was approaching. The schoolmaster, always severe, grew

severer and more exacting than ever, for he wanted the school to make a

good showing on "Examination" day. His rod and his ferule were seldom

idle now--at least among the smaller pupils. Only the biggest boys, and

young ladies of eighteen and twenty, escaped lashing. Mr. Dobbins'

lashings were very vigorous ones, too; for although he carried, under

his wig, a perfectly bald and shiny head, he had only reached middle

age, and there was no sign of feebleness in his muscle. As the great

day approached, all the tyranny that was in him came to the surface; he

seemed to take a vindictive pleasure in punishing the least

shortcomings. The consequence was, that the smaller boys spent their

days in terror and suffering and their nights in plotting revenge. They

threw away no opportunity to do the master a mischief. But he kept

ahead all the time. The retribution that followed every vengeful

success was so sweeping and majestic that the boys always retired from

the field badly worsted. At last they conspired together and hit upon a

plan that promised a dazzling victory. They swore in the sign-painter's

boy, told him the scheme, and asked his help. He had his own reasons

for being delighted, for the master boarded in his father's family and

had given the boy ample cause to hate him. The master's wife would go

on a visit to the country in a few days, and there would be nothing to

interfere with the plan; the master always prepared himself for great

occasions by getting pretty well fuddled, and the sign-painter's boy

said that when the dominie had reached the proper condition on

Examination Evening he would "manage the thing" while he napped in his

chair; then he would have him awakened at the right time and hurried

away to school.

In the fulness of time the interesting occasion arrived. At eight in

the evening the schoolhouse was brilliantly lighted, and adorned with

wreaths and festoons of foliage and flowers. The master sat throned in

his great chair upon a raised platform, with his blackboard behind him.

He was looking tolerably mellow. Three rows of benches on each side and

six rows in front of him were occupied by the dignitaries of the town

and by the parents of the pupils. To his left, back of the rows of

citizens, was a spacious temporary platform upon which were seated the

scholars who were to take part in the exercises of the evening; rows of

small boys, washed and dressed to an intolerable state of discomfort;

rows of gawky big boys; snowbanks of girls and young ladies clad in

lawn and muslin and conspicuously conscious of their bare arms, their

grandmothers' ancient trinkets, their bits of pink and blue ribbon and

the flowers in their hair. All the rest of the house was filled with

non-participating scholars.

The exercises began. A very little boy stood up and sheepishly

recited, "You'd scarce expect one of my age to speak in public on the

stage," etc.--accompanying himself with the painfully exact and

spasmodic gestures which a machine might have used--supposing the

machine to be a trifle out of order. But he got through safely, though

cruelly scared, and got a fine round of applause when he made his

manufactured bow and retired.

A little shamefaced girl lisped, "Mary had a little lamb," etc.,

performed a compassion-inspiring curtsy, got her meed of applause, and

sat down flushed and happy.

Tom Sawyer stepped forward with conceited confidence and soared into

the unquenchable and indestructible "Give me liberty or give me death"

speech, with fine fury and frantic gesticulation, and broke down in the

middle of it. A ghastly stage-fright seized him, his legs quaked under

him and he was like to choke. True, he had the manifest sympathy of the

house but he had the house's silence, too, which was even worse than

its sympathy. The master frowned, and this completed the disaster. Tom

struggled awhile and then retired, utterly defeated. There was a weak

attempt at applause, but it died early.

"The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck" followed; also "The Assyrian Came

Down," and other declamatory gems. Then there were reading exercises,

and a spelling fight. The meagre Latin class recited with honor. The

prime feature of the evening was in order, now--original "compositions"

by the young ladies. Each in her turn stepped forward to the edge of

the platform, cleared her throat, held up her manuscript (tied with

dainty ribbon), and proceeded to read, with labored attention to

"expression" and punctuation. The themes were the same that had been

illuminated upon similar occasions by their mothers before them, their

grandmothers, and doubtless all their ancestors in the female line

clear back to the Crusades. "Friendship" was one; "Memories of Other

Days"; "Religion in History"; "Dream Land"; "The Advantages of

Culture"; "Forms of Political Government Compared and Contrasted";

"Melancholy"; "Filial Love"; "Heart Longings," etc., etc.

A prevalent feature in these compositions was a nursed and petted

melancholy; another was a wasteful and opulent gush of "fine language";

another was a tendency to lug in by the ears particularly prized words

and phrases until they were worn entirely out; and a peculiarity that

conspicuously marked and marred them was the inveterate and intolerable

sermon that wagged its crippled tail at the end of each and every one

of them. No matter what the subject might be, a brain-racking effort

was made to squirm it into some aspect or other that the moral and

religious mind could contemplate with edification. The glaring

insincerity of these sermons was not sufficient to compass the

banishment of the fashion from the schools, and it is not sufficient

to-day; it never will be sufficient while the world stands, perhaps.

There is no school in all our land where the young ladies do not feel

obliged to close their compositions with a sermon; and you will find

that the sermon of the most frivolous and the least religious girl in

the school is always the longest and the most relentlessly pious. But

enough of this. Homely truth is unpalatable.

Let us return to the "Examination." The first composition that was

read was one entitled "Is this, then, Life?" Perhaps the reader can

endure an extract from it:

"In the common walks of life, with what delightful

emotions does the youthful mind look forward to some

anticipated scene of festivity! Imagination is busy

sketching rose-tinted pictures of joy. In fancy, the

voluptuous votary of fashion sees herself amid the

festive throng, 'the observed of all observers.' Her

graceful form, arrayed in snowy robes, is whirling

through the mazes of the joyous dance; her eye is

brightest, her step is lightest in the gay assembly.

"In such delicious fancies time quickly glides by,

and the welcome hour arrives for her entrance into

the Elysian world, of which she has had such bright

dreams. How fairy-like does everything appear to

her enchanted vision! Each new scene is more charming

than the last. But after a while she finds that

beneath this goodly exterior, all is vanity, the

flattery which once charmed her soul, now grates

harshly upon her ear; the ball-room has lost its

charms; and with wasted health and imbittered heart,

she turns away with the conviction that earthly

pleasures cannot satisfy the longings of the soul!"

And so forth and so on. There was a buzz of gratification from time to

time during the reading, accompanied by whispered ejaculations of "How

sweet!" "How eloquent!" "So true!" etc., and after the thing had closed

with a peculiarly afflicting sermon the applause was enthusiastic.

Then arose a slim, melancholy girl, whose face had the "interesting"

paleness that comes of pills and indigestion, and read a "poem." Two

stanzas of it will do:

"A MISSOURI MAIDEN'S FAREWELL TO ALABAMA

"Alabama, good-bye! I love thee well!

But yet for a while do I leave thee now!

Sad, yes, sad thoughts of thee my heart doth swell,

And burning recollections throng my brow!

For I have wandered through thy flowery woods;

Have roamed and read near Tallapoosa's stream;

Have listened to Tallassee's warring floods,

And wooed on Coosa's side Aurora's beam.

"Yet shame I not to bear an o'er-full heart,

Nor blush to turn behind my tearful eyes;

'Tis from no stranger land I now must part,

'Tis to no strangers left I yield these sighs.

Welcome and home were mine within this State,

Whose vales I leave--whose spires fade fast from me

And cold must be mine eyes, and heart, and tete,

When, dear Alabama! they turn cold on thee!"

There were very few there who knew what "tete" meant, but the poem was

very satisfactory, nevertheless.

Next appeared a dark-complexioned, black-eyed, black-haired young

lady, who paused an impressive moment, assumed a tragic expression, and

began to read in a measured, solemn tone:

"A VISION

"Dark and tempestuous was night. Around the

throne on high not a single star quivered; but

the deep intonations of the heavy thunder

constantly vibrated upon the ear; whilst the

terrific lightning revelled in angry mood

through the cloudy chambers of heaven, seeming

to scorn the power exerted over its terror by

the illustrious Franklin! Even the boisterous

winds unanimously came forth from their mystic

homes, and blustered about as if to enhance by

their aid the wildness of the scene.

"At such a time, so dark, so dreary, for human

sympathy my very spirit sighed; but instead thereof,

"'My dearest friend, my counsellor, my comforter

and guide--My joy in grief, my second bliss

in joy,' came to my side. She moved like one of

those bright beings pictured in the sunny walks

of fancy's Eden by the romantic and young, a

queen of beauty unadorned save by her own

transcendent loveliness. So soft was her step, it

failed to make even a sound, and but for the

magical thrill imparted by her genial touch, as

other unobtrusive beauties, she would have glided

away un-perceived--unsought. A strange sadness

rested upon her features, like icy tears upon

the robe of December, as she pointed to the

contending elements without, and bade me contemplate

the two beings presented."

This nightmare occupied some ten pages of manuscript and wound up with

a sermon so destructive of all hope to non-Presbyterians that it took

the first prize. This composition was considered to be the very finest

effort of the evening. The mayor of the village, in delivering the

prize to the author of it, made a warm speech in which he said that it

was by far the most "eloquent" thing he had ever listened to, and that

Daniel Webster himself might well be proud of it.

It may be remarked, in passing, that the number of compositions in

which the word "beauteous" was over-fondled, and human experience

referred to as "life's page," was up to the usual average.

Now the master, mellow almost to the verge of geniality, put his chair

aside, turned his back to the audience, and began to draw a map of

America on the blackboard, to exercise the geography class upon. But he

made a sad business of it with his unsteady hand, and a smothered

titter rippled over the house. He knew what the matter was, and set

himself to right it. He sponged out lines and remade them; but he only

distorted them more than ever, and the tittering was more pronounced.

He threw his entire attention upon his work, now, as if determined not

to be put down by the mirth. He felt that all eyes were fastened upon

him; he imagined he was succeeding, and yet the tittering continued; it

even manifestly increased. And well it might. There was a garret above,

pierced with a scuttle over his head; and down through this scuttle

came a cat, suspended around the haunches by a string; she had a rag

tied about her head and jaws to keep her from mewing; as she slowly

descended she curved upward and clawed at the string, she swung

downward and clawed at the intangible air. The tittering rose higher

and higher--the cat was within six inches of the absorbed teacher's

head--down, down, a little lower, and she grabbed his wig with her

desperate claws, clung to it, and was snatched up into the garret in an

instant with her trophy still in her possession! And how the light did

blaze abroad from the master's bald pate--for the sign-painter's boy

had GILDED it!

That broke up the meeting. The boys were avenged. Vacation had come.

NOTE:--The pretended "compositions" quoted in

this chapter are taken without alteration from a

volume entitled "Prose and Poetry, by a Western

Lady"--but they are exactly and precisely after

the schoolgirl pattern, and hence are much

happier than any mere imitations could be.

CHAPTER XXII

TOM joined the new order of Cadets of Temperance, being attracted by

the showy character of their "regalia." He promised to abstain from

smoking, chewing, and profanity as long as he remained a member. Now he

found out a new thing--namely, that to promise not to do a thing is the

surest way in the world to make a body want to go and do that very

thing. Tom soon found himself tormented with a desire to drink and

swear; the desire grew to be so intense that nothing but the hope of a

chance to display himself in his red sash kept him from withdrawing

from the order. Fourth of July was coming; but he soon gave that up

--gave it up before he had worn his shackles over forty-eight hours--and

fixed his hopes upon old Judge Frazer, justice of the peace, who was

apparently on his deathbed and would have a big public funeral, since

he was so high an official. During three days Tom was deeply concerned

about the Judge's condition and hungry for news of it. Sometimes his

hopes ran high--so high that he would venture to get out his regalia

and practise before the looking-glass. But the Judge had a most

discouraging way of fluctuating. At last he was pronounced upon the

mend--and then convalescent. Tom was disgusted; and felt a sense of

injury, too. He handed in his resignation at once--and that night the

Judge suffered a relapse and died. Tom resolved that he would never

trust a man like that again.

The funeral was a fine thing. The Cadets paraded in a style calculated

to kill the late member with envy. Tom was a free boy again, however

--there was something in that. He could drink and swear, now--but found

to his surprise that he did not want to. The simple fact that he could,

took the desire away, and the charm of it.

Tom presently wondered to find that his coveted vacation was beginning

to hang a little heavily on his hands.

He attempted a diary--but nothing happened during three days, and so

he abandoned it.

The first of all the negro minstrel shows came to town, and made a

sensation. Tom and Joe Harper got up a band of performers and were

happy for two days.

Even the Glorious Fourth was in some sense a failure, for it rained

hard, there was no procession in consequence, and the greatest man in

the world (as Tom supposed), Mr. Benton, an actual United States

Senator, proved an overwhelming disappointment--for he was not

twenty-five feet high, nor even anywhere in the neighborhood of it.

A circus came. The boys played circus for three days afterward in

tents made of rag carpeting--admission, three pins for boys, two for

girls--and then circusing was abandoned.

A phrenologist and a mesmerizer came--and went again and left the

village duller and drearier than ever.

There were some boys-and-girls' parties, but they were so few and so

delightful that they only made the aching voids between ache the harder.

Becky Thatcher was gone to her Constantinople home to stay with her

parents during vacation--so there was no bright side to life anywhere.

The dreadful secret of the murder was a chronic misery. It was a very

cancer for permanency and pain.

Then came the measles.

During two long weeks Tom lay a prisoner, dead to the world and its

happenings. He was very ill, he was interested in nothing. When he got

upon his feet at last and moved feebly down-town, a melancholy change

had come over everything and every creature. There had been a

"revival," and everybody had "got religion," not only the adults, but

even the boys and girls. Tom went about, hoping against hope for the

sight of one blessed sinful face, but disappointment crossed him

everywhere. He found Joe Harper studying a Testament, and turned sadly

away from the depressing spectacle. He sought Ben Rogers, and found him

visiting the poor with a basket of tracts. He hunted up Jim Hollis, who

called his attention to the precious blessing of his late measles as a

warning. Every boy he encountered added another ton to his depression;

and when, in desperation, he flew for refuge at last to the bosom of

Huckleberry Finn and was received with a Scriptural quotation, his

heart broke and he crept home and to bed realizing that he alone of all

the town was lost, forever and forever.

And that night there came on a terrific storm, with driving rain,

awful claps of thunder and blinding sheets of lightning. He covered his

head with the bedclothes and waited in a horror of suspense for his

doom; for he had not the shadow of a doubt that all this hubbub was

about him. He believed he had taxed the forbearance of the powers above

to the extremity of endurance and that this was the result. It might

have seemed to him a waste of pomp and ammunition to kill a bug with a

battery of artillery, but there seemed nothing incongruous about the

getting up such an expensive thunderstorm as this to knock the turf

from under an insect like himself.

By and by the tempest spent itself and died without accomplishing its

object. The boy's first impulse was to be grateful, and reform. His

second was to wait--for there might not be any more storms.

The next day the doctors were back; Tom had relapsed. The three weeks

he spent on his back this time seemed an entire age. When he got abroad

at last he was hardly grateful that he had been spared, remembering how

lonely was his estate, how companionless and forlorn he was. He drifted

listlessly down the street and found Jim Hollis acting as judge in a

juvenile court that was trying a cat for murder, in the presence of her

victim, a bird. He found Joe Harper and Huck Finn up an alley eating a

stolen melon. Poor lads! they--like Tom--had suffered a relapse.

CHAPTER XXIII

AT last the sleepy atmosphere was stirred--and vigorously: the murder

trial came on in the court. It became the absorbing topic of village

talk immediately. Tom could not get away from it. Every reference to

the murder sent a shudder to his heart, for his troubled conscience and

fears almost persuaded him that these remarks were put forth in his

hearing as "feelers"; he did not see how he could be suspected of

knowing anything about the murder, but still he could not be

comfortable in the midst of this gossip. It kept him in a cold shiver

all the time. He took Huck to a lonely place to have a talk with him.

It would be some relief to unseal his tongue for a little while; to

divide his burden of distress with another sufferer. Moreover, he

wanted to assure himself that Huck had remained discreet.

"Huck, have you ever told anybody about--that?"

"'Bout what?"

"You know what."

"Oh--'course I haven't."

"Never a word?"

"Never a solitary word, so help me. What makes you ask?"

"Well, I was afeard."

"Why, Tom Sawyer, we wouldn't be alive two days if that got found out.

YOU know that."

Tom felt more comfortable. After a pause:

"Huck, they couldn't anybody get you to tell, could they?"

"Get me to tell? Why, if I wanted that half-breed devil to drownd me

they could get me to tell. They ain't no different way."

"Well, that's all right, then. I reckon we're safe as long as we keep

mum. But let's swear again, anyway. It's more surer."

"I'm agreed."

So they swore again with dread solemnities.

"What is the talk around, Huck? I've heard a power of it."

"Talk? Well, it's just Muff Potter, Muff Potter, Muff Potter all the

time. It keeps me in a sweat, constant, so's I want to hide som'ers."

"That's just the same way they go on round me. I reckon he's a goner.

Don't you feel sorry for him, sometimes?"

"Most always--most always. He ain't no account; but then he hain't

ever done anything to hurt anybody. Just fishes a little, to get money

to get drunk on--and loafs around considerable; but lord, we all do

that--leastways most of us--preachers and such like. But he's kind of

good--he give me half a fish, once, when there warn't enough for two;

and lots of times he's kind of stood by me when I was out of luck."

"Well, he's mended kites for me, Huck, and knitted hooks on to my

line. I wish we could get him out of there."

"My! we couldn't get him out, Tom. And besides, 'twouldn't do any

good; they'd ketch him again."

"Yes--so they would. But I hate to hear 'em abuse him so like the

dickens when he never done--that."

"I do too, Tom. Lord, I hear 'em say he's the bloodiest looking

villain in this country, and they wonder he wasn't ever hung before."

"Yes, they talk like that, all the time. I've heard 'em say that if he

was to get free they'd lynch him."

"And they'd do it, too."

The boys had a long talk, but it brought them little comfort. As the

twilight drew on, they found themselves hanging about the neighborhood

of the little isolated jail, perhaps with an undefined hope that

something would happen that might clear away their difficulties. But

nothing happened; there seemed to be no angels or fairies interested in

this luckless captive.

The boys did as they had often done before--went to the cell grating

and gave Potter some tobacco and matches. He was on the ground floor

and there were no guards.

His gratitude for their gifts had always smote their consciences

before--it cut deeper than ever, this time. They felt cowardly and

treacherous to the last degree when Potter said:

"You've been mighty good to me, boys--better'n anybody else in this

town. And I don't forget it, I don't. Often I says to myself, says I,

'I used to mend all the boys' kites and things, and show 'em where the

good fishin' places was, and befriend 'em what I could, and now they've

all forgot old Muff when he's in trouble; but Tom don't, and Huck

don't--THEY don't forget him, says I, 'and I don't forget them.' Well,

boys, I done an awful thing--drunk and crazy at the time--that's the

only way I account for it--and now I got to swing for it, and it's

right. Right, and BEST, too, I reckon--hope so, anyway. Well, we won't

talk about that. I don't want to make YOU feel bad; you've befriended

me. But what I want to say, is, don't YOU ever get drunk--then you won't

ever get here. Stand a litter furder west--so--that's it; it's a prime

comfort to see faces that's friendly when a body's in such a muck of

trouble, and there don't none come here but yourn. Good friendly

faces--good friendly faces. Git up on one another's backs and let me

touch 'em. That's it. Shake hands--yourn'll come through the bars, but

mine's too big. Little hands, and weak--but they've helped Muff Potter

a power, and they'd help him more if they could."

Tom went home miserable, and his dreams that night were full of

horrors. The next day and the day after, he hung about the court-room,

drawn by an almost irresistible impulse to go in, but forcing himself

to stay out. Huck was having the same experience. They studiously

avoided each other. Each wandered away, from time to time, but the same

dismal fascination always brought them back presently. Tom kept his

ears open when idlers sauntered out of the court-room, but invariably

heard distressing news--the toils were closing more and more

relentlessly around poor Potter. At the end of the second day the

village talk was to the effect that Injun Joe's evidence stood firm and

unshaken, and that there was not the slightest question as to what the

jury's verdict would be.

Tom was out late, that night, and came to bed through the window. He

was in a tremendous state of excitement. It was hours before he got to

sleep. All the village flocked to the court-house the next morning, for

this was to be the great day. Both sexes were about equally represented

in the packed audience. After a long wait the jury filed in and took

their places; shortly afterward, Potter, pale and haggard, timid and

hopeless, was brought in, with chains upon him, and seated where all

the curious eyes could stare at him; no less conspicuous was Injun Joe,

stolid as ever. There was another pause, and then the judge arrived and

the sheriff proclaimed the opening of the court. The usual whisperings

among the lawyers and gathering together of papers followed. These

details and accompanying delays worked up an atmosphere of preparation

that was as impressive as it was fascinating.

Now a witness was called who testified that he found Muff Potter

washing in the brook, at an early hour of the morning that the murder

was discovered, and that he immediately sneaked away. After some

further questioning, counsel for the prosecution said:

"Take the witness."

The prisoner raised his eyes for a moment, but dropped them again when

his own counsel said:

"I have no questions to ask him."

The next witness proved the finding of the knife near the corpse.

Counsel for the prosecution said:

"Take the witness."

"I have no questions to ask him," Potter's lawyer replied.

A third witness swore he had often seen the knife in Potter's

possession.

"Take the witness."

Counsel for Potter declined to question him. The faces of the audience

began to betray annoyance. Did this attorney mean to throw away his

client's life without an effort?

Several witnesses deposed concerning Potter's guilty behavior when

brought to the scene of the murder. They were allowed to leave the

stand without being cross-questioned.

Every detail of the damaging circumstances that occurred in the

graveyard upon that morning which all present remembered so well was

brought out by credible witnesses, but none of them were cross-examined

by Potter's lawyer. The perplexity and dissatisfaction of the house

expressed itself in murmurs and provoked a reproof from the bench.

Counsel for the prosecution now said:

"By the oaths of citizens whose simple word is above suspicion, we

have fastened this awful crime, beyond all possibility of question,

upon the unhappy prisoner at the bar. We rest our case here."

A groan escaped from poor Potter, and he put his face in his hands and

rocked his body softly to and fro, while a painful silence reigned in

the court-room. Many men were moved, and many women's compassion

testified itself in tears. Counsel for the defence rose and said:

"Your honor, in our remarks at the opening of this trial, we

foreshadowed our purpose to prove that our client did this fearful deed

while under the influence of a blind and irresponsible delirium

produced by drink. We have changed our mind. We shall not offer that

plea." [Then to the clerk:] "Call Thomas Sawyer!"

A puzzled amazement awoke in every face in the house, not even

excepting Potter's. Every eye fastened itself with wondering interest

upon Tom as he rose and took his place upon the stand. The boy looked

wild enough, for he was badly scared. The oath was administered.

"Thomas Sawyer, where were you on the seventeenth of June, about the

hour of midnight?"

Tom glanced at Injun Joe's iron face and his tongue failed him. The

audience listened breathless, but the words refused to come. After a

few moments, however, the boy got a little of his strength back, and

managed to put enough of it into his voice to make part of the house

hear:

"In the graveyard!"

"A little bit louder, please. Don't be afraid. You were--"

"In the graveyard."

A contemptuous smile flitted across Injun Joe's face.

"Were you anywhere near Horse Williams' grave?"

"Yes, sir."

"Speak up--just a trifle louder. How near were you?"

"Near as I am to you."

"Were you hidden, or not?"

"I was hid."

"Where?"

"Behind the elms that's on the edge of the grave."

Injun Joe gave a barely perceptible start.

"Any one with you?"

"Yes, sir. I went there with--"

"Wait--wait a moment. Never mind mentioning your companion's name. We

will produce him at the proper time. Did you carry anything there with

you."

Tom hesitated and looked confused.

"Speak out, my boy--don't be diffident. The truth is always

respectable. What did you take there?"

"Only a--a--dead cat."

There was a ripple of mirth, which the court checked.

"We will produce the skeleton of that cat. Now, my boy, tell us

everything that occurred--tell it in your own way--don't skip anything,

and don't be afraid."

Tom began--hesitatingly at first, but as he warmed to his subject his

words flowed more and more easily; in a little while every sound ceased

but his own voice; every eye fixed itself upon him; with parted lips

and bated breath the audience hung upon his words, taking no note of

time, rapt in the ghastly fascinations of the tale. The strain upon

pent emotion reached its climax when the boy said:

"--and as the doctor fetched the board around and Muff Potter fell,

Injun Joe jumped with the knife and--"

Crash! Quick as lightning the half-breed sprang for a window, tore his

way through all opposers, and was gone!

CHAPTER XXIV

TOM was a glittering hero once more--the pet of the old, the envy of

the young. His name even went into immortal print, for the village

paper magnified him. There were some that believed he would be

President, yet, if he escaped hanging.

As usual, the fickle, unreasoning world took Muff Potter to its bosom

and fondled him as lavishly as it had abused him before. But that sort

of conduct is to the world's credit; therefore it is not well to find

fault with it.

Tom's days were days of splendor and exultation to him, but his nights

were seasons of horror. Injun Joe infested all his dreams, and always

with doom in his eye. Hardly any temptation could persuade the boy to

stir abroad after nightfall. Poor Huck was in the same state of

wretchedness and terror, for Tom had told the whole story to the lawyer

the night before the great day of the trial, and Huck was sore afraid

that his share in the business might leak out, yet, notwithstanding

Injun Joe's flight had saved him the suffering of testifying in court.

The poor fellow had got the attorney to promise secrecy, but what of

that? Since Tom's harassed conscience had managed to drive him to the

lawyer's house by night and wring a dread tale from lips that had been

sealed with the dismalest and most formidable of oaths, Huck's

confidence in the human race was well-nigh obliterated.

Daily Muff Potter's gratitude made Tom glad he had spoken; but nightly

he wished he had sealed up his tongue.

Half the time Tom was afraid Injun Joe would never be captured; the

other half he was afraid he would be. He felt sure he never could draw

a safe breath again until that man was dead and he had seen the corpse.

Rewards had been offered, the country had been scoured, but no Injun

Joe was found. One of those omniscient and awe-inspiring marvels, a

detective, came up from St. Louis, moused around, shook his head,

looked wise, and made that sort of astounding success which members of

that craft usually achieve. That is to say, he "found a clew." But you

can't hang a "clew" for murder, and so after that detective had got

through and gone home, Tom felt just as insecure as he was before.

The slow days drifted on, and each left behind it a slightly lightened

weight of apprehension.

CHAPTER XXV

THERE comes a time in every rightly-constructed boy's life when he has

a raging desire to go somewhere and dig for hidden treasure. This

desire suddenly came upon Tom one day. He sallied out to find Joe

Harper, but failed of success. Next he sought Ben Rogers; he had gone

fishing. Presently he stumbled upon Huck Finn the Red-Handed. Huck

would answer. Tom took him to a private place and opened the matter to

him confidentially. Huck was willing. Huck was always willing to take a

hand in any enterprise that offered entertainment and required no

capital, for he had a troublesome superabundance of that sort of time

which is not money. "Where'll we dig?" said Huck.

"Oh, most anywhere."

"Why, is it hid all around?"

"No, indeed it ain't. It's hid in mighty particular places, Huck

--sometimes on islands, sometimes in rotten chests under the end of a

limb of an old dead tree, just where the shadow falls at midnight; but

mostly under the floor in ha'nted houses."

"Who hides it?"

"Why, robbers, of course--who'd you reckon? Sunday-school

sup'rintendents?"

"I don't know. If 'twas mine I wouldn't hide it; I'd spend it and have

a good time."

"So would I. But robbers don't do that way. They always hide it and

leave it there."

"Don't they come after it any more?"

"No, they think they will, but they generally forget the marks, or

else they die. Anyway, it lays there a long time and gets rusty; and by

and by somebody finds an old yellow paper that tells how to find the

marks--a paper that's got to be ciphered over about a week because it's

mostly signs and hy'roglyphics."

"HyroQwhich?"

"Hy'roglyphics--pictures and things, you know, that don't seem to mean

anything."

"Have you got one of them papers, Tom?"

"No."

"Well then, how you going to find the marks?"

"I don't want any marks. They always bury it under a ha'nted house or

on an island, or under a dead tree that's got one limb sticking out.

Well, we've tried Jackson's Island a little, and we can try it again

some time; and there's the old ha'nted house up the Still-House branch,

and there's lots of dead-limb trees--dead loads of 'em."

"Is it under all of them?"

"How you talk! No!"

"Then how you going to know which one to go for?"

"Go for all of 'em!"

"Why, Tom, it'll take all summer."

"Well, what of that? Suppose you find a brass pot with a hundred

dollars in it, all rusty and gray, or rotten chest full of di'monds.

How's that?"

Huck's eyes glowed.

"That's bully. Plenty bully enough for me. Just you gimme the hundred

dollars and I don't want no di'monds."

"All right. But I bet you I ain't going to throw off on di'monds. Some

of 'em's worth twenty dollars apiece--there ain't any, hardly, but's

worth six bits or a dollar."

"No! Is that so?"

"Cert'nly--anybody'll tell you so. Hain't you ever seen one, Huck?"

"Not as I remember."

"Oh, kings have slathers of them."

"Well, I don' know no kings, Tom."

"I reckon you don't. But if you was to go to Europe you'd see a raft

of 'em hopping around."

"Do they hop?"

"Hop?--your granny! No!"

"Well, what did you say they did, for?"

"Shucks, I only meant you'd SEE 'em--not hopping, of course--what do

they want to hop for?--but I mean you'd just see 'em--scattered around,

you know, in a kind of a general way. Like that old humpbacked Richard."

"Richard? What's his other name?"

"He didn't have any other name. Kings don't have any but a given name."

"No?"

"But they don't."

"Well, if they like it, Tom, all right; but I don't want to be a king

and have only just a given name, like a nigger. But say--where you

going to dig first?"

"Well, I don't know. S'pose we tackle that old dead-limb tree on the

hill t'other side of Still-House branch?"

"I'm agreed."

So they got a crippled pick and a shovel, and set out on their

three-mile tramp. They arrived hot and panting, and threw themselves

down in the shade of a neighboring elm to rest and have a smoke.

"I like this," said Tom.

"So do I."

"Say, Huck, if we find a treasure here, what you going to do with your

share?"

"Well, I'll have pie and a glass of soda every day, and I'll go to

every circus that comes along. I bet I'll have a gay time."

"Well, ain't you going to save any of it?"

"Save it? What for?"

"Why, so as to have something to live on, by and by."

"Oh, that ain't any use. Pap would come back to thish-yer town some

day and get his claws on it if I didn't hurry up, and I tell you he'd

clean it out pretty quick. What you going to do with yourn, Tom?"

"I'm going to buy a new drum, and a sure-'nough sword, and a red

necktie and a bull pup, and get married."

"Married!"

"That's it."

"Tom, you--why, you ain't in your right mind."

"Wait--you'll see."

"Well, that's the foolishest thing you could do. Look at pap and my

mother. Fight! Why, they used to fight all the time. I remember, mighty

well."

"That ain't anything. The girl I'm going to marry won't fight."

"Tom, I reckon they're all alike. They'll all comb a body. Now you

better think 'bout this awhile. I tell you you better. What's the name

of the gal?"

"It ain't a gal at all--it's a girl."

"It's all the same, I reckon; some says gal, some says girl--both's

right, like enough. Anyway, what's her name, Tom?"

"I'll tell you some time--not now."

"All right--that'll do. Only if you get married I'll be more lonesomer

than ever."

"No you won't. You'll come and live with me. Now stir out of this and

we'll go to digging."

They worked and sweated for half an hour. No result. They toiled

another half-hour. Still no result. Huck said:

"Do they always bury it as deep as this?"

"Sometimes--not always. Not generally. I reckon we haven't got the

right place."

So they chose a new spot and began again. The labor dragged a little,

but still they made progress. They pegged away in silence for some

time. Finally Huck leaned on his shovel, swabbed the beaded drops from

his brow with his sleeve, and said:

"Where you going to dig next, after we get this one?"

"I reckon maybe we'll tackle the old tree that's over yonder on

Cardiff Hill back of the widow's."

"I reckon that'll be a good one. But won't the widow take it away from

us, Tom? It's on her land."

"SHE take it away! Maybe she'd like to try it once. Whoever finds one

of these hid treasures, it belongs to him. It don't make any difference

whose land it's on."

That was satisfactory. The work went on. By and by Huck said:

"Blame it, we must be in the wrong place again. What do you think?"

"It is mighty curious, Huck. I don't understand it. Sometimes witches

interfere. I reckon maybe that's what's the trouble now."

"Shucks! Witches ain't got no power in the daytime."

"Well, that's so. I didn't think of that. Oh, I know what the matter

is! What a blamed lot of fools we are! You got to find out where the

shadow of the limb falls at midnight, and that's where you dig!"

"Then consound it, we've fooled away all this work for nothing. Now

hang it all, we got to come back in the night. It's an awful long way.

Can you get out?"

"I bet I will. We've got to do it to-night, too, because if somebody

sees these holes they'll know in a minute what's here and they'll go

for it."

"Well, I'll come around and maow to-night."

"All right. Let's hide the tools in the bushes."

The boys were there that night, about the appointed time. They sat in

the shadow waiting. It was a lonely place, and an hour made solemn by

old traditions. Spirits whispered in the rustling leaves, ghosts lurked

in the murky nooks, the deep baying of a hound floated up out of the

distance, an owl answered with his sepulchral note. The boys were

subdued by these solemnities, and talked little. By and by they judged

that twelve had come; they marked where the shadow fell, and began to

dig. Their hopes commenced to rise. Their interest grew stronger, and

their industry kept pace with it. The hole deepened and still deepened,

but every time their hearts jumped to hear the pick strike upon

something, they only suffered a new disappointment. It was only a stone

or a chunk. At last Tom said:

"It ain't any use, Huck, we're wrong again."

"Well, but we CAN'T be wrong. We spotted the shadder to a dot."

"I know it, but then there's another thing."

"What's that?".

"Why, we only guessed at the time. Like enough it was too late or too

early."

Huck dropped his shovel.

"That's it," said he. "That's the very trouble. We got to give this

one up. We can't ever tell the right time, and besides this kind of

thing's too awful, here this time of night with witches and ghosts

a-fluttering around so. I feel as if something's behind me all the time;

and I'm afeard to turn around, becuz maybe there's others in front

a-waiting for a chance. I been creeping all over, ever since I got here."

"Well, I've been pretty much so, too, Huck. They most always put in a

dead man when they bury a treasure under a tree, to look out for it."

"Lordy!"

"Yes, they do. I've always heard that."

"Tom, I don't like to fool around much where there's dead people. A

body's bound to get into trouble with 'em, sure."

"I don't like to stir 'em up, either. S'pose this one here was to

stick his skull out and say something!"

"Don't Tom! It's awful."

"Well, it just is. Huck, I don't feel comfortable a bit."

"Say, Tom, let's give this place up, and try somewheres else."

"All right, I reckon we better."

"What'll it be?"

Tom considered awhile; and then said:

"The ha'nted house. That's it!"

"Blame it, I don't like ha'nted houses, Tom. Why, they're a dern sight

worse'n dead people. Dead people might talk, maybe, but they don't come

sliding around in a shroud, when you ain't noticing, and peep over your

shoulder all of a sudden and grit their teeth, the way a ghost does. I

couldn't stand such a thing as that, Tom--nobody could."

"Yes, but, Huck, ghosts don't travel around only at night. They won't

hender us from digging there in the daytime."

"Well, that's so. But you know mighty well people don't go about that

ha'nted house in the day nor the night."

"Well, that's mostly because they don't like to go where a man's been

murdered, anyway--but nothing's ever been seen around that house except

in the night--just some blue lights slipping by the windows--no regular

ghosts."

"Well, where you see one of them blue lights flickering around, Tom,

you can bet there's a ghost mighty close behind it. It stands to

reason. Becuz you know that they don't anybody but ghosts use 'em."

"Yes, that's so. But anyway they don't come around in the daytime, so

what's the use of our being afeard?"

"Well, all right. We'll tackle the ha'nted house if you say so--but I

reckon it's taking chances."

They had started down the hill by this time. There in the middle of

the moonlit valley below them stood the "ha'nted" house, utterly

isolated, its fences gone long ago, rank weeds smothering the very

doorsteps, the chimney crumbled to ruin, the window-sashes vacant, a

corner of the roof caved in. The boys gazed awhile, half expecting to

see a blue light flit past a window; then talking in a low tone, as

befitted the time and the circumstances, they struck far off to the

right, to give the haunted house a wide berth, and took their way

homeward through the woods that adorned the rearward side of Cardiff

Hill.

CHAPTER XXVI

ABOUT noon the next day the boys arrived at the dead tree; they had

come for their tools. Tom was impatient to go to the haunted house;

Huck was measurably so, also--but suddenly said:

"Lookyhere, Tom, do you know what day it is?"

Tom mentally ran over the days of the week, and then quickly lifted

his eyes with a startled look in them--

"My! I never once thought of it, Huck!"

"Well, I didn't neither, but all at once it popped onto me that it was

Friday."

"Blame it, a body can't be too careful, Huck. We might 'a' got into an

awful scrape, tackling such a thing on a Friday."

"MIGHT! Better say we WOULD! There's some lucky days, maybe, but

Friday ain't."

"Any fool knows that. I don't reckon YOU was the first that found it

out, Huck."

"Well, I never said I was, did I? And Friday ain't all, neither. I had

a rotten bad dream last night--dreampt about rats."

"No! Sure sign of trouble. Did they fight?"

"No."

"Well, that's good, Huck. When they don't fight it's only a sign that

there's trouble around, you know. All we got to do is to look mighty

sharp and keep out of it. We'll drop this thing for to-day, and play.

Do you know Robin Hood, Huck?"

"No. Who's Robin Hood?"

"Why, he was one of the greatest men that was ever in England--and the

best. He was a robber."

"Cracky, I wisht I was. Who did he rob?"

"Only sheriffs and bishops and rich people and kings, and such like.

But he never bothered the poor. He loved 'em. He always divided up with

'em perfectly square."

"Well, he must 'a' been a brick."

"I bet you he was, Huck. Oh, he was the noblest man that ever was.

They ain't any such men now, I can tell you. He could lick any man in

England, with one hand tied behind him; and he could take his yew bow

and plug a ten-cent piece every time, a mile and a half."

"What's a YEW bow?"

"I don't know. It's some kind of a bow, of course. And if he hit that

dime only on the edge he would set down and cry--and curse. But we'll

play Robin Hood--it's nobby fun. I'll learn you."

"I'm agreed."

So they played Robin Hood all the afternoon, now and then casting a

yearning eye down upon the haunted house and passing a remark about the

morrow's prospects and possibilities there. As the sun began to sink

into the west they took their way homeward athwart the long shadows of

the trees and soon were buried from sight in the forests of Cardiff

Hill.

On Saturday, shortly after noon, the boys were at the dead tree again.

They had a smoke and a chat in the shade, and then dug a little in

their last hole, not with great hope, but merely because Tom said there

were so many cases where people had given up a treasure after getting

down within six inches of it, and then somebody else had come along and

turned it up with a single thrust of a shovel. The thing failed this

time, however, so the boys shouldered their tools and went away feeling

that they had not trifled with fortune, but had fulfilled all the

requirements that belong to the business of treasure-hunting.

When they reached the haunted house there was something so weird and

grisly about the dead silence that reigned there under the baking sun,

and something so depressing about the loneliness and desolation of the

place, that they were afraid, for a moment, to venture in. Then they

crept to the door and took a trembling peep. They saw a weed-grown,

floorless room, unplastered, an ancient fireplace, vacant windows, a

ruinous staircase; and here, there, and everywhere hung ragged and

abandoned cobwebs. They presently entered, softly, with quickened

pulses, talking in whispers, ears alert to catch the slightest sound,

and muscles tense and ready for instant retreat.

In a little while familiarity modified their fears and they gave the

place a critical and interested examination, rather admiring their own

boldness, and wondering at it, too. Next they wanted to look up-stairs.

This was something like cutting off retreat, but they got to daring

each other, and of course there could be but one result--they threw

their tools into a corner and made the ascent. Up there were the same

signs of decay. In one corner they found a closet that promised

mystery, but the promise was a fraud--there was nothing in it. Their

courage was up now and well in hand. They were about to go down and

begin work when--

"Sh!" said Tom.

"What is it?" whispered Huck, blanching with fright.

"Sh! ... There! ... Hear it?"

"Yes! ... Oh, my! Let's run!"

"Keep still! Don't you budge! They're coming right toward the door."

The boys stretched themselves upon the floor with their eyes to

knot-holes in the planking, and lay waiting, in a misery of fear.

"They've stopped.... No--coming.... Here they are. Don't whisper

another word, Huck. My goodness, I wish I was out of this!"

Two men entered. Each boy said to himself: "There's the old deaf and

dumb Spaniard that's been about town once or twice lately--never saw

t'other man before."

"T'other" was a ragged, unkempt creature, with nothing very pleasant

in his face. The Spaniard was wrapped in a serape; he had bushy white

whiskers; long white hair flowed from under his sombrero, and he wore

green goggles. When they came in, "t'other" was talking in a low voice;

they sat down on the ground, facing the door, with their backs to the

wall, and the speaker continued his remarks. His manner became less

guarded and his words more distinct as he proceeded:

"No," said he, "I've thought it all over, and I don't like it. It's

dangerous."

"Dangerous!" grunted the "deaf and dumb" Spaniard--to the vast

surprise of the boys. "Milksop!"

This voice made the boys gasp and quake. It was Injun Joe's! There was

silence for some time. Then Joe said:

"What's any more dangerous than that job up yonder--but nothing's come

of it."

"That's different. Away up the river so, and not another house about.

'Twon't ever be known that we tried, anyway, long as we didn't succeed."

"Well, what's more dangerous than coming here in the daytime!--anybody

would suspicion us that saw us."

"I know that. But there warn't any other place as handy after that

fool of a job. I want to quit this shanty. I wanted to yesterday, only

it warn't any use trying to stir out of here, with those infernal boys

playing over there on the hill right in full view."

"Those infernal boys" quaked again under the inspiration of this

remark, and thought how lucky it was that they had remembered it was

Friday and concluded to wait a day. They wished in their hearts they

had waited a year.

The two men got out some food and made a luncheon. After a long and

thoughtful silence, Injun Joe said:

"Look here, lad--you go back up the river where you belong. Wait there

till you hear from me. I'll take the chances on dropping into this town

just once more, for a look. We'll do that 'dangerous' job after I've

spied around a little and think things look well for it. Then for

Texas! We'll leg it together!"

This was satisfactory. Both men presently fell to yawning, and Injun

Joe said:

"I'm dead for sleep! It's your turn to watch."

He curled down in the weeds and soon began to snore. His comrade

stirred him once or twice and he became quiet. Presently the watcher

began to nod; his head drooped lower and lower, both men began to snore

now.

The boys drew a long, grateful breath. Tom whispered:

"Now's our chance--come!"

Huck said:

"I can't--I'd die if they was to wake."

Tom urged--Huck held back. At last Tom rose slowly and softly, and

started alone. But the first step he made wrung such a hideous creak

from the crazy floor that he sank down almost dead with fright. He

never made a second attempt. The boys lay there counting the dragging

moments till it seemed to them that time must be done and eternity

growing gray; and then they were grateful to note that at last the sun

was setting.

Now one snore ceased. Injun Joe sat up, stared around--smiled grimly

upon his comrade, whose head was drooping upon his knees--stirred him

up with his foot and said:

"Here! YOU'RE a watchman, ain't you! All right, though--nothing's

happened."

"My! have I been asleep?"

"Oh, partly, partly. Nearly time for us to be moving, pard. What'll we

do with what little swag we've got left?"

"I don't know--leave it here as we've always done, I reckon. No use to

take it away till we start south. Six hundred and fifty in silver's

something to carry."

"Well--all right--it won't matter to come here once more."

"No--but I'd say come in the night as we used to do--it's better."

"Yes: but look here; it may be a good while before I get the right

chance at that job; accidents might happen; 'tain't in such a very good

place; we'll just regularly bury it--and bury it deep."