"Well, if that ain't just like you, Huck Finn. You CAN get up the

infant-schooliest ways of going at a thing. Why, hain't you ever read

any books at all?--Baron Trenck, nor Casanova, nor Benvenuto Chelleeny,

nor Henri IV., nor none of them heroes? Who ever heard of getting a

prisoner loose in such an old-maidy way as that? No; the way all the

best authorities does is to saw the bed-leg in two, and leave it just so,

and swallow the sawdust, so it can't be found, and put some dirt and

grease around the sawed place so the very keenest seneskal can't see no

sign of it's being sawed, and thinks the bed-leg is perfectly sound.

Then, the night you're ready, fetch the leg a kick, down she goes; slip

off your chain, and there you are. Nothing to do but hitch your rope

ladder to the battlements, shin down it, break your leg in the moat

--because a rope ladder is nineteen foot too short, you know--and there's

your horses and your trusty vassles, and they scoop you up and fling you

across a saddle, and away you go to your native Langudoc, or Navarre, or

wherever it is. It's gaudy, Huck. I wish there was a moat to this cabin.

If we get time, the night of the escape, we'll dig one."

I says:

"What do we want of a moat when we're going to snake him out from under

the cabin?"

But he never heard me. He had forgot me and everything else. He had his

chin in his hand, thinking. Pretty soon he sighs and shakes his head;

then sighs again, and says:

"No, it wouldn't do--there ain't necessity enough for it."

"For what?" I says.

"Why, to saw Jim's leg off," he says.

"Good land!" I says; "why, there ain't NO necessity for it. And what

would you want to saw his leg off for, anyway?"

"Well, some of the best authorities has done it. They couldn't get the

chain off, so they just cut their hand off and shoved. And a leg would

be better still. But we got to let that go. There ain't necessity

enough in this case; and, besides, Jim's a nigger, and wouldn't

understand the reasons for it, and how it's the custom in Europe; so

we'll let it go. But there's one thing--he can have a rope ladder; we

can tear up our sheets and make him a rope ladder easy enough. And we

can send it to him in a pie; it's mostly done that way. And I've et

worse pies."

"Why, Tom Sawyer, how you talk," I says; "Jim ain't got no use for a rope

ladder."

"He HAS got use for it. How YOU talk, you better say; you don't know

nothing about it. He's GOT to have a rope ladder; they all do."

"What in the nation can he DO with it?"

"DO with it? He can hide it in his bed, can't he?" That's what they all

do; and HE'S got to, too. Huck, you don't ever seem to want to do

anything that's regular; you want to be starting something fresh all the

time. S'pose he DON'T do nothing with it? ain't it there in his bed, for

a clew, after he's gone? and don't you reckon they'll want clews? Of

course they will. And you wouldn't leave them any? That would be a

PRETTY howdy-do, WOULDN'T it! I never heard of such a thing."

"Well," I says, "if it's in the regulations, and he's got to have it, all

right, let him have it; because I don't wish to go back on no

regulations; but there's one thing, Tom Sawyer--if we go to tearing up

our sheets to make Jim a rope ladder, we're going to get into trouble

with Aunt Sally, just as sure as you're born. Now, the way I look at it,

a hickry-bark ladder don't cost nothing, and don't waste nothing, and is

just as good to load up a pie with, and hide in a straw tick, as any rag

ladder you can start; and as for Jim, he ain't had no experience, and so

he don't care what kind of a--"

"Oh, shucks, Huck Finn, if I was as ignorant as you I'd keep still

--that's what I'D do. Who ever heard of a state prisoner escaping by a

hickry-bark ladder? Why, it's perfectly ridiculous."

"Well, all right, Tom, fix it your own way; but if you'll take my advice,

you'll let me borrow a sheet off of the clothesline."

He said that would do. And that gave him another idea, and he says:

"Borrow a shirt, too."

"What do we want of a shirt, Tom?"

"Want it for Jim to keep a journal on."

"Journal your granny--JIM can't write."

"S'pose he CAN'T write--he can make marks on the shirt, can't he, if we

make him a pen out of an old pewter spoon or a piece of an old iron

barrel-hoop?"

"Why, Tom, we can pull a feather out of a goose and make him a better

one; and quicker, too."

"PRISONERS don't have geese running around the donjon-keep to pull pens

out of, you muggins. They ALWAYS make their pens out of the hardest,

toughest, troublesomest piece of old brass candlestick or something like

that they can get their hands on; and it takes them weeks and weeks and

months and months to file it out, too, because they've got to do it by

rubbing it on the wall. THEY wouldn't use a goose-quill if they had it.

It ain't regular."

"Well, then, what'll we make him the ink out of?"

"Many makes it out of iron-rust and tears; but that's the common sort and

women; the best authorities uses their own blood. Jim can do that; and

when he wants to send any little common ordinary mysterious message to

let the world know where he's captivated, he can write it on the bottom

of a tin plate with a fork and throw it out of the window. The Iron Mask

always done that, and it's a blame' good way, too."

"Jim ain't got no tin plates. They feed him in a pan."

"That ain't nothing; we can get him some."

"Can't nobody READ his plates."

"That ain't got anything to DO with it, Huck Finn. All HE'S got to do is

to write on the plate and throw it out. You don't HAVE to be able to

read it. Why, half the time you can't read anything a prisoner writes on

a tin plate, or anywhere else."

"Well, then, what's the sense in wasting the plates?"

"Why, blame it all, it ain't the PRISONER'S plates."

"But it's SOMEBODY'S plates, ain't it?"

"Well, spos'n it is? What does the PRISONER care whose--"

He broke off there, because we heard the breakfast-horn blowing. So we

cleared out for the house.

Along during the morning I borrowed a sheet and a white shirt off of the

clothes-line; and I found an old sack and put them in it, and we went

down and got the fox-fire, and put that in too. I called it borrowing,

because that was what pap always called it; but Tom said it warn't

borrowing, it was stealing. He said we was representing prisoners; and

prisoners don't care how they get a thing so they get it, and nobody

don't blame them for it, either. It ain't no crime in a prisoner to

steal the thing he needs to get away with, Tom said; it's his right; and

so, as long as we was representing a prisoner, we had a perfect right to

steal anything on this place we had the least use for to get ourselves

out of prison with. He said if we warn't prisoners it would be a very

different thing, and nobody but a mean, ornery person would steal when he

warn't a prisoner. So we allowed we would steal everything there was

that come handy. And yet he made a mighty fuss, one day, after that,

when I stole a watermelon out of the nigger-patch and eat it; and he made

me go and give the niggers a dime without telling them what it was for.

Tom said that what he meant was, we could steal anything we NEEDED. Well,

I says, I needed the watermelon. But he said I didn't need it to get out

of prison with; there's where the difference was. He said if I'd a

wanted it to hide a knife in, and smuggle it to Jim to kill the seneskal

with, it would a been all right. So I let it go at that, though I

couldn't see no advantage in my representing a prisoner if I got to set

down and chaw over a lot of gold-leaf distinctions like that every time I

see a chance to hog a watermelon.

Well, as I was saying, we waited that morning till everybody was settled

down to business, and nobody in sight around the yard; then Tom he

carried the sack into the lean-to whilst I stood off a piece to keep

watch. By and by he come out, and we went and set down on the woodpile

to talk. He says:

"Everything's all right now except tools; and that's easy fixed."

"Tools?" I says.

"Yes."

"Tools for what?"

"Why, to dig with. We ain't a-going to GNAW him out, are we?"

"Ain't them old crippled picks and things in there good enough to dig a

nigger out with?" I says.

He turns on me, looking pitying enough to make a body cry, and says:

"Huck Finn, did you EVER hear of a prisoner having picks and shovels, and

all the modern conveniences in his wardrobe to dig himself out with? Now

I want to ask you--if you got any reasonableness in you at all--what kind

of a show would THAT give him to be a hero? Why, they might as well lend

him the key and done with it. Picks and shovels--why, they wouldn't

furnish 'em to a king."

"Well, then," I says, "if we don't want the picks and shovels, what do we

want?"

"A couple of case-knives."

"To dig the foundations out from under that cabin with?"

"Yes."

"Confound it, it's foolish, Tom."

"It don't make no difference how foolish it is, it's the RIGHT way--and

it's the regular way. And there ain't no OTHER way, that ever I heard

of, and I've read all the books that gives any information about these

things. They always dig out with a case-knife--and not through dirt, mind

you; generly it's through solid rock. And it takes them weeks and weeks

and weeks, and for ever and ever. Why, look at one of them prisoners in

the bottom dungeon of the Castle Deef, in the harbor of Marseilles, that

dug himself out that way; how long was HE at it, you reckon?"

"I don't know."

"Well, guess."

"I don't know. A month and a half."

"THIRTY-SEVEN YEAR--and he come out in China. THAT'S the kind. I wish

the bottom of THIS fortress was solid rock."

"JIM don't know nobody in China."

"What's THAT got to do with it? Neither did that other fellow. But

you're always a-wandering off on a side issue. Why can't you stick to

the main point?"

"All right--I don't care where he comes out, so he COMES out; and Jim

don't, either, I reckon. But there's one thing, anyway--Jim's too old to

be dug out with a case-knife. He won't last."

"Yes he will LAST, too. You don't reckon it's going to take thirty-seven

years to dig out through a DIRT foundation, do you?"

"How long will it take, Tom?"

"Well, we can't resk being as long as we ought to, because it mayn't take

very long for Uncle Silas to hear from down there by New Orleans. He'll

hear Jim ain't from there. Then his next move will be to advertise Jim,

or something like that. So we can't resk being as long digging him out

as we ought to. By rights I reckon we ought to be a couple of years; but

we can't. Things being so uncertain, what I recommend is this: that we

really dig right in, as quick as we can; and after that, we can LET ON,

to ourselves, that we was at it thirty-seven years. Then we can snatch

him out and rush him away the first time there's an alarm. Yes, I reckon

that 'll be the best way."

"Now, there's SENSE in that," I says. "Letting on don't cost nothing;

letting on ain't no trouble; and if it's any object, I don't mind letting

on we was at it a hundred and fifty year. It wouldn't strain me none,

after I got my hand in. So I'll mosey along now, and smouch a couple of

case-knives."

"Smouch three," he says; "we want one to make a saw out of."

"Tom, if it ain't unregular and irreligious to sejest it," I says,

"there's an old rusty saw-blade around yonder sticking under the

weather-boarding behind the smoke-house."

He looked kind of weary and discouraged-like, and says:

"It ain't no use to try to learn you nothing, Huck. Run along and smouch

the knives--three of them." So I done it.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

AS soon as we reckoned everybody was asleep that night we went down the

lightning-rod, and shut ourselves up in the lean-to, and got out our pile

of fox-fire, and went to work. We cleared everything out of the way,

about four or five foot along the middle of the bottom log. Tom said we

was right behind Jim's bed now, and we'd dig in under it, and when we got

through there couldn't nobody in the cabin ever know there was any hole

there, because Jim's counter-pin hung down most to the ground, and you'd

have to raise it up and look under to see the hole. So we dug and dug

with the case-knives till most midnight; and then we was dog-tired, and

our hands was blistered, and yet you couldn't see we'd done anything

hardly. At last I says:

"This ain't no thirty-seven year job; this is a thirty-eight year job,

Tom Sawyer."

He never said nothing. But he sighed, and pretty soon he stopped

digging, and then for a good little while I knowed that he was thinking.

Then he says:

"It ain't no use, Huck, it ain't a-going to work. If we was prisoners it

would, because then we'd have as many years as we wanted, and no hurry;

and we wouldn't get but a few minutes to dig, every day, while they was

changing watches, and so our hands wouldn't get blistered, and we could

keep it up right along, year in and year out, and do it right, and the

way it ought to be done. But WE can't fool along; we got to rush; we

ain't got no time to spare. If we was to put in another night this way

we'd have to knock off for a week to let our hands get well--couldn't

touch a case-knife with them sooner."

"Well, then, what we going to do, Tom?"

"I'll tell you. It ain't right, and it ain't moral, and I wouldn't like

it to get out; but there ain't only just the one way: we got to dig him

out with the picks, and LET ON it's case-knives."

"NOW you're TALKING!" I says; "your head gets leveler and leveler all

the time, Tom Sawyer," I says. "Picks is the thing, moral or no moral;

and as for me, I don't care shucks for the morality of it, nohow. When I

start in to steal a nigger, or a watermelon, or a Sunday-school book, I

ain't no ways particular how it's done so it's done. What I want is my

nigger; or what I want is my watermelon; or what I want is my

Sunday-school book; and if a pick's the handiest thing, that's the thing

I'm a-going to dig that nigger or that watermelon or that Sunday-school

book out with; and I don't give a dead rat what the authorities thinks

about it nuther."

"Well," he says, "there's excuse for picks and letting-on in a case like

this; if it warn't so, I wouldn't approve of it, nor I wouldn't stand by

and see the rules broke--because right is right, and wrong is wrong, and

a body ain't got no business doing wrong when he ain't ignorant and knows

better. It might answer for YOU to dig Jim out with a pick, WITHOUT any

letting on, because you don't know no better; but it wouldn't for me,

because I do know better. Gimme a case-knife."

He had his own by him, but I handed him mine. He flung it down, and

says:

"Gimme a CASE-KNIFE."

I didn't know just what to do--but then I thought. I scratched around

amongst the old tools, and got a pickaxe and give it to him, and he took

it and went to work, and never said a word.

He was always just that particular. Full of principle.

So then I got a shovel, and then we picked and shoveled, turn about, and

made the fur fly. We stuck to it about a half an hour, which was as long

as we could stand up; but we had a good deal of a hole to show for it.

When I got up stairs I looked out at the window and see Tom doing his

level best with the lightning-rod, but he couldn't come it, his hands was

so sore. At last he says:

"It ain't no use, it can't be done. What you reckon I better do? Can't

you think of no way?"

"Yes," I says, "but I reckon it ain't regular. Come up the stairs, and

let on it's a lightning-rod."

So he done it.

Next day Tom stole a pewter spoon and a brass candlestick in the house,

for to make some pens for Jim out of, and six tallow candles; and I hung

around the nigger cabins and laid for a chance, and stole three tin

plates. Tom says it wasn't enough; but I said nobody wouldn't ever see

the plates that Jim throwed out, because they'd fall in the dog-fennel

and jimpson weeds under the window-hole--then we could tote them back and

he could use them over again. So Tom was satisfied. Then he says:

"Now, the thing to study out is, how to get the things to Jim."

"Take them in through the hole," I says, "when we get it done."

He only just looked scornful, and said something about nobody ever heard

of such an idiotic idea, and then he went to studying. By and by he said

he had ciphered out two or three ways, but there warn't no need to decide

on any of them yet. Said we'd got to post Jim first.

That night we went down the lightning-rod a little after ten, and took

one of the candles along, and listened under the window-hole, and heard

Jim snoring; so we pitched it in, and it didn't wake him. Then we

whirled in with the pick and shovel, and in about two hours and a half

the job was done. We crept in under Jim's bed and into the cabin, and

pawed around and found the candle and lit it, and stood over Jim awhile,

and found him looking hearty and healthy, and then we woke him up gentle

and gradual. He was so glad to see us he most cried; and called us

honey, and all the pet names he could think of; and was for having us

hunt up a cold-chisel to cut the chain off of his leg with right away,

and clearing out without losing any time. But Tom he showed him how

unregular it would be, and set down and told him all about our plans, and

how we could alter them in a minute any time there was an alarm; and not

to be the least afraid, because we would see he got away, SURE. So Jim

he said it was all right, and we set there and talked over old times

awhile, and then Tom asked a lot of questions, and when Jim told him

Uncle Silas come in every day or two to pray with him, and Aunt Sally

come in to see if he was comfortable and had plenty to eat, and both of

them was kind as they could be, Tom says:

"NOW I know how to fix it. We'll send you some things by them."

I said, "Don't do nothing of the kind; it's one of the most jackass ideas

I ever struck;" but he never paid no attention to me; went right on. It

was his way when he'd got his plans set.

So he told Jim how we'd have to smuggle in the rope-ladder pie and other

large things by Nat, the nigger that fed him, and he must be on the

lookout, and not be surprised, and not let Nat see him open them; and we

would put small things in uncle's coat-pockets and he must steal them

out; and we would tie things to aunt's apron-strings or put them in her

apron-pocket, if we got a chance; and told him what they would be and

what they was for. And told him how to keep a journal on the shirt with

his blood, and all that. He told him everything. Jim he couldn't see no

sense in the most of it, but he allowed we was white folks and knowed

better than him; so he was satisfied, and said he would do it all just as

Tom said.

Jim had plenty corn-cob pipes and tobacco; so we had a right down good

sociable time; then we crawled out through the hole, and so home to bed,

with hands that looked like they'd been chawed. Tom was in high spirits.

He said it was the best fun he ever had in his life, and the most

intellectural; and said if he only could see his way to it we would keep

it up all the rest of our lives and leave Jim to our children to get out;

for he believed Jim would come to like it better and better the more he

got used to it. He said that in that way it could be strung out to as

much as eighty year, and would be the best time on record. And he said

it would make us all celebrated that had a hand in it.

In the morning we went out to the woodpile and chopped up the brass

candlestick into handy sizes, and Tom put them and the pewter spoon in

his pocket. Then we went to the nigger cabins, and while I got Nat's

notice off, Tom shoved a piece of candlestick into the middle of a

corn-pone that was in Jim's pan, and we went along with Nat to see how it

would work, and it just worked noble; when Jim bit into it it most mashed

all his teeth out; and there warn't ever anything could a worked better.

Tom said so himself. Jim he never let on but what it was only just a

piece of rock or something like that that's always getting into bread,

you know; but after that he never bit into nothing but what he jabbed his

fork into it in three or four places first.

And whilst we was a-standing there in the dimmish light, here comes a

couple of the hounds bulging in from under Jim's bed; and they kept on

piling in till there was eleven of them, and there warn't hardly room in

there to get your breath. By jings, we forgot to fasten that lean-to

door! The nigger Nat he only just hollered "Witches" once, and keeled

over on to the floor amongst the dogs, and begun to groan like he was

dying. Tom jerked the door open and flung out a slab of Jim's meat, and

the dogs went for it, and in two seconds he was out himself and back

again and shut the door, and I knowed he'd fixed the other door too.

Then he went to work on the nigger, coaxing him and petting him, and

asking him if he'd been imagining he saw something again. He raised up,

and blinked his eyes around, and says:

"Mars Sid, you'll say I's a fool, but if I didn't b'lieve I see most a

million dogs, er devils, er some'n, I wisht I may die right heah in dese

tracks. I did, mos' sholy. Mars Sid, I FELT um--I FELT um, sah; dey was

all over me. Dad fetch it, I jis' wisht I could git my han's on one er

dem witches jis' wunst--on'y jis' wunst--it's all I'd ast. But mos'ly I

wisht dey'd lemme 'lone, I does."

Tom says:

"Well, I tell you what I think. What makes them come here just at this

runaway nigger's breakfast-time? It's because they're hungry; that's the

reason. You make them a witch pie; that's the thing for YOU to do."

"But my lan', Mars Sid, how's I gwyne to make 'm a witch pie? I doan'

know how to make it. I hain't ever hearn er sich a thing b'fo'."

"Well, then, I'll have to make it myself."

"Will you do it, honey?--will you? I'll wusshup de groun' und' yo' foot,

I will!"

"All right, I'll do it, seeing it's you, and you've been good to us and

showed us the runaway nigger. But you got to be mighty careful. When we

come around, you turn your back; and then whatever we've put in the pan,

don't you let on you see it at all. And don't you look when Jim unloads

the pan--something might happen, I don't know what. And above all, don't

you HANDLE the witch-things."

"HANNEL 'm, Mars Sid? What IS you a-talkin' 'bout? I wouldn' lay de

weight er my finger on um, not f'r ten hund'd thous'n billion dollars, I

wouldn't."

CHAPTER XXXVII.

THAT was all fixed. So then we went away and went to the rubbage-pile in

the back yard, where they keep the old boots, and rags, and pieces of

bottles, and wore-out tin things, and all such truck, and scratched

around and found an old tin washpan, and stopped up the holes as well as

we could, to bake the pie in, and took it down cellar and stole it full

of flour and started for breakfast, and found a couple of shingle-nails

that Tom said would be handy for a prisoner to scrabble his name and

sorrows on the dungeon walls with, and dropped one of them in Aunt

Sally's apron-pocket which was hanging on a chair, and t'other we stuck

in the band of Uncle Silas's hat, which was on the bureau, because we

heard the children say their pa and ma was going to the runaway nigger's

house this morning, and then went to breakfast, and Tom dropped the

pewter spoon in Uncle Silas's coat-pocket, and Aunt Sally wasn't come

yet, so we had to wait a little while.

And when she come she was hot and red and cross, and couldn't hardly wait

for the blessing; and then she went to sluicing out coffee with one hand

and cracking the handiest child's head with her thimble with the other,

and says:

"I've hunted high and I've hunted low, and it does beat all what HAS

become of your other shirt."

My heart fell down amongst my lungs and livers and things, and a hard

piece of corn-crust started down my throat after it and got met on the

road with a cough, and was shot across the table, and took one of the

children in the eye and curled him up like a fishing-worm, and let a cry

out of him the size of a warwhoop, and Tom he turned kinder blue around

the gills, and it all amounted to a considerable state of things for

about a quarter of a minute or as much as that, and I would a sold out

for half price if there was a bidder. But after that we was all right

again--it was the sudden surprise of it that knocked us so kind of cold.

Uncle Silas he says:

"It's most uncommon curious, I can't understand it. I know perfectly

well I took it OFF, because--"

"Because you hain't got but one ON. Just LISTEN at the man! I know you

took it off, and know it by a better way than your wool-gethering memory,

too, because it was on the clo's-line yesterday--I see it there myself.

But it's gone, that's the long and the short of it, and you'll just have

to change to a red flann'l one till I can get time to make a new one.

And it 'll be the third I've made in two years. It just keeps a body on

the jump to keep you in shirts; and whatever you do manage to DO with 'm

all is more'n I can make out. A body 'd think you WOULD learn to take

some sort of care of 'em at your time of life."

"I know it, Sally, and I do try all I can. But it oughtn't to be

altogether my fault, because, you know, I don't see them nor have nothing

to do with them except when they're on me; and I don't believe I've ever

lost one of them OFF of me."

"Well, it ain't YOUR fault if you haven't, Silas; you'd a done it if you

could, I reckon. And the shirt ain't all that's gone, nuther. Ther's a

spoon gone; and THAT ain't all. There was ten, and now ther's only nine.

The calf got the shirt, I reckon, but the calf never took the spoon,

THAT'S certain."

"Why, what else is gone, Sally?"

"Ther's six CANDLES gone--that's what. The rats could a got the candles,

and I reckon they did; I wonder they don't walk off with the whole place,

the way you're always going to stop their holes and don't do it; and if

they warn't fools they'd sleep in your hair, Silas--YOU'D never find it

out; but you can't lay the SPOON on the rats, and that I know."

"Well, Sally, I'm in fault, and I acknowledge it; I've been remiss; but I

won't let to-morrow go by without stopping up them holes."

"Oh, I wouldn't hurry; next year 'll do. Matilda Angelina Araminta

PHELPS!"

Whack comes the thimble, and the child snatches her claws out of the

sugar-bowl without fooling around any. Just then the nigger woman steps

on to the passage, and says:

"Missus, dey's a sheet gone."

"A SHEET gone! Well, for the land's sake!"

"I'll stop up them holes to-day," says Uncle Silas, looking sorrowful.

"Oh, DO shet up!--s'pose the rats took the SHEET? WHERE'S it gone,

Lize?"

"Clah to goodness I hain't no notion, Miss' Sally. She wuz on de

clo'sline yistiddy, but she done gone: she ain' dah no mo' now."

"I reckon the world IS coming to an end. I NEVER see the beat of it in

all my born days. A shirt, and a sheet, and a spoon, and six can--"

"Missus," comes a young yaller wench, "dey's a brass cannelstick miss'n."

"Cler out from here, you hussy, er I'll take a skillet to ye!"

Well, she was just a-biling. I begun to lay for a chance; I reckoned I

would sneak out and go for the woods till the weather moderated. She

kept a-raging right along, running her insurrection all by herself, and

everybody else mighty meek and quiet; and at last Uncle Silas, looking

kind of foolish, fishes up that spoon out of his pocket. She stopped,

with her mouth open and her hands up; and as for me, I wished I was in

Jeruslem or somewheres. But not long, because she says:

"It's JUST as I expected. So you had it in your pocket all the time; and

like as not you've got the other things there, too. How'd it get there?"

"I reely don't know, Sally," he says, kind of apologizing, "or you know I

would tell. I was a-studying over my text in Acts Seventeen before

breakfast, and I reckon I put it in there, not noticing, meaning to put

my Testament in, and it must be so, because my Testament ain't in; but

I'll go and see; and if the Testament is where I had it, I'll know I

didn't put it in, and that will show that I laid the Testament down and

took up the spoon, and--"

"Oh, for the land's sake! Give a body a rest! Go 'long now, the whole

kit and biling of ye; and don't come nigh me again till I've got back my

peace of mind."

I'd a heard her if she'd a said it to herself, let alone speaking it out;

and I'd a got up and obeyed her if I'd a been dead. As we was passing

through the setting-room the old man he took up his hat, and the

shingle-nail fell out on the floor, and he just merely picked it up and

laid it on the mantel-shelf, and never said nothing, and went out. Tom

see him do it, and remembered about the spoon, and says:

"Well, it ain't no use to send things by HIM no more, he ain't reliable."

Then he says: "But he done us a good turn with the spoon, anyway,

without knowing it, and so we'll go and do him one without HIM knowing

it--stop up his rat-holes."

There was a noble good lot of them down cellar, and it took us a whole

hour, but we done the job tight and good and shipshape. Then we heard

steps on the stairs, and blowed out our light and hid; and here comes the

old man, with a candle in one hand and a bundle of stuff in t'other,

looking as absent-minded as year before last. He went a mooning around,

first to one rat-hole and then another, till he'd been to them all. Then

he stood about five minutes, picking tallow-drip off of his candle and

thinking. Then he turns off slow and dreamy towards the stairs, saying:

"Well, for the life of me I can't remember when I done it. I could show

her now that I warn't to blame on account of the rats. But never mind

--let it go. I reckon it wouldn't do no good."

And so he went on a-mumbling up stairs, and then we left. He was a

mighty nice old man. And always is.

Tom was a good deal bothered about what to do for a spoon, but he said

we'd got to have it; so he took a think. When he had ciphered it out he

told me how we was to do; then we went and waited around the spoon-basket

till we see Aunt Sally coming, and then Tom went to counting the spoons

and laying them out to one side, and I slid one of them up my sleeve, and

Tom says:

"Why, Aunt Sally, there ain't but nine spoons YET."

She says:

"Go 'long to your play, and don't bother me. I know better, I counted 'm

myself."

"Well, I've counted them twice, Aunty, and I can't make but nine."

She looked out of all patience, but of course she come to count--anybody

would.

"I declare to gracious ther' AIN'T but nine!" she says. "Why, what in

the world--plague TAKE the things, I'll count 'm again."

So I slipped back the one I had, and when she got done counting, she

says:

"Hang the troublesome rubbage, ther's TEN now!" and she looked huffy and

bothered both. But Tom says:

"Why, Aunty, I don't think there's ten."

"You numskull, didn't you see me COUNT 'm?"

"I know, but--"

"Well, I'll count 'm AGAIN."

So I smouched one, and they come out nine, same as the other time. Well,

she WAS in a tearing way--just a-trembling all over, she was so mad. But

she counted and counted till she got that addled she'd start to count in

the basket for a spoon sometimes; and so, three times they come out

right, and three times they come out wrong. Then she grabbed up the

basket and slammed it across the house and knocked the cat galley-west;

and she said cle'r out and let her have some peace, and if we come

bothering around her again betwixt that and dinner she'd skin us. So we

had the odd spoon, and dropped it in her apron-pocket whilst she was

a-giving us our sailing orders, and Jim got it all right, along with her

shingle nail, before noon. We was very well satisfied with this

business, and Tom allowed it was worth twice the trouble it took, because

he said NOW she couldn't ever count them spoons twice alike again to save

her life; and wouldn't believe she'd counted them right if she DID; and

said that after she'd about counted her head off for the next three days

he judged she'd give it up and offer to kill anybody that wanted her to

ever count them any more.

So we put the sheet back on the line that night, and stole one out of her

closet; and kept on putting it back and stealing it again for a couple of

days till she didn't know how many sheets she had any more, and she

didn't CARE, and warn't a-going to bullyrag the rest of her soul out

about it, and wouldn't count them again not to save her life; she druther

die first.

So we was all right now, as to the shirt and the sheet and the spoon and

the candles, by the help of the calf and the rats and the mixed-up

counting; and as to the candlestick, it warn't no consequence, it would

blow over by and by.

But that pie was a job; we had no end of trouble with that pie. We fixed

it up away down in the woods, and cooked it there; and we got it done at

last, and very satisfactory, too; but not all in one day; and we had to

use up three wash-pans full of flour before we got through, and we got

burnt pretty much all over, in places, and eyes put out with the smoke;

because, you see, we didn't want nothing but a crust, and we couldn't

prop it up right, and she would always cave in. But of course we thought

of the right way at last--which was to cook the ladder, too, in the

pie. So then we laid in with Jim the second night, and tore up the sheet

all in little strings and twisted them together, and long before daylight

we had a lovely rope that you could a hung a person with. We let on it

took nine months to make it.

And in the forenoon we took it down to the woods, but it wouldn't go into

the pie. Being made of a whole sheet, that way, there was rope enough

for forty pies if we'd a wanted them, and plenty left over for soup, or

sausage, or anything you choose. We could a had a whole dinner.

But we didn't need it. All we needed was just enough for the pie,

and so we throwed the rest away. We didn't cook none of the pies in the

wash-pan--afraid the solder would melt; but Uncle Silas he had a noble

brass warming-pan which he thought considerable of, because it belonged

to one of his ancesters with a long wooden handle that come over from

England with William the Conqueror in the Mayflower or one of them early

ships and was hid away up garret with a lot of other old pots and things

that was valuable, not on account of being any account, because they

warn't, but on account of them being relicts, you know, and we snaked her

out, private, and took her down there, but she failed on the first pies,

because we didn't know how, but she come up smiling on the last one. We

took and lined her with dough, and set her in the coals, and loaded her

up with rag rope, and put on a dough roof, and shut down the lid, and put

hot embers on top, and stood off five foot, with the long handle, cool

and comfortable, and in fifteen minutes she turned out a pie that was a

satisfaction to look at. But the person that et it would want to fetch a

couple of kags of toothpicks along, for if that rope ladder wouldn't

cramp him down to business I don't know nothing what I'm talking about,

and lay him in enough stomach-ache to last him till next time, too.

Nat didn't look when we put the witch pie in Jim's pan; and we put the

three tin plates in the bottom of the pan under the vittles; and so Jim

got everything all right, and as soon as he was by himself he busted into

the pie and hid the rope ladder inside of his straw tick, and scratched

some marks on a tin plate and throwed it out of the window-hole.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

MAKING them pens was a distressid tough job, and so was the saw; and Jim

allowed the inscription was going to be the toughest of all. That's the

one which the prisoner has to scrabble on the wall. But he had to have

it; Tom said he'd GOT to; there warn't no case of a state prisoner not

scrabbling his inscription to leave behind, and his coat of arms.

"Look at Lady Jane Grey," he says; "look at Gilford Dudley; look at old

Northumberland! Why, Huck, s'pose it IS considerble trouble?--what you

going to do?--how you going to get around it? Jim's GOT to do his

inscription and coat of arms. They all do."

Jim says:

"Why, Mars Tom, I hain't got no coat o' arm; I hain't got nuffn but dish

yer ole shirt, en you knows I got to keep de journal on dat."

"Oh, you don't understand, Jim; a coat of arms is very different."

"Well," I says, "Jim's right, anyway, when he says he ain't got no coat

of arms, because he hain't."

"I reckon I knowed that," Tom says, "but you bet he'll have one before he

goes out of this--because he's going out RIGHT, and there ain't going to

be no flaws in his record."

So whilst me and Jim filed away at the pens on a brickbat apiece, Jim

a-making his'n out of the brass and I making mine out of the spoon, Tom

set to work to think out the coat of arms. By and by he said he'd struck

so many good ones he didn't hardly know which to take, but there was one

which he reckoned he'd decide on. He says:

"On the scutcheon we'll have a bend OR in the dexter base, a saltire

MURREY in the fess, with a dog, couchant, for common charge, and under

his foot a chain embattled, for slavery, with a chevron VERT in a chief

engrailed, and three invected lines on a field AZURE, with the nombril

points rampant on a dancette indented; crest, a runaway nigger, SABLE,

with his bundle over his shoulder on a bar sinister; and a couple of

gules for supporters, which is you and me; motto, MAGGIORE FRETTA, MINORE

OTTO. Got it out of a book--means the more haste the less speed."

"Geewhillikins," I says, "but what does the rest of it mean?"

"We ain't got no time to bother over that," he says; "we got to dig in

like all git-out."

"Well, anyway," I says, "what's SOME of it? What's a fess?"

"A fess--a fess is--YOU don't need to know what a fess is. I'll show him

how to make it when he gets to it."

"Shucks, Tom," I says, "I think you might tell a person. What's a bar

sinister?"

"Oh, I don't know. But he's got to have it. All the nobility does."

That was just his way. If it didn't suit him to explain a thing to you,

he wouldn't do it. You might pump at him a week, it wouldn't make no

difference.

He'd got all that coat of arms business fixed, so now he started in to

finish up the rest of that part of the work, which was to plan out a

mournful inscription--said Jim got to have one, like they all done. He

made up a lot, and wrote them out on a paper, and read them off, so:

1. Here a captive heart busted. 2. Here a poor prisoner, forsook by the

world and friends, fretted his sorrowful life. 3. Here a lonely heart

broke, and a worn spirit went to its rest, after thirty-seven years of

solitary captivity. 4. Here, homeless and friendless, after thirty-seven

years of bitter captivity, perished a noble stranger, natural son of

Louis XIV.

Tom's voice trembled whilst he was reading them, and he most broke down.

When he got done he couldn't no way make up his mind which one for Jim to

scrabble on to the wall, they was all so good; but at last he allowed he

would let him scrabble them all on. Jim said it would take him a year to

scrabble such a lot of truck on to the logs with a nail, and he didn't

know how to make letters, besides; but Tom said he would block them out

for him, and then he wouldn't have nothing to do but just follow the

lines. Then pretty soon he says:

"Come to think, the logs ain't a-going to do; they don't have log walls

in a dungeon: we got to dig the inscriptions into a rock. We'll fetch a

rock."

Jim said the rock was worse than the logs; he said it would take him such

a pison long time to dig them into a rock he wouldn't ever get out. But

Tom said he would let me help him do it. Then he took a look to see how

me and Jim was getting along with the pens. It was most pesky tedious

hard work and slow, and didn't give my hands no show to get well of the

sores, and we didn't seem to make no headway, hardly; so Tom says:

"I know how to fix it. We got to have a rock for the coat of arms and

mournful inscriptions, and we can kill two birds with that same rock.

There's a gaudy big grindstone down at the mill, and we'll smouch it, and

carve the things on it, and file out the pens and the saw on it, too."

It warn't no slouch of an idea; and it warn't no slouch of a grindstone

nuther; but we allowed we'd tackle it. It warn't quite midnight yet, so

we cleared out for the mill, leaving Jim at work. We smouched the

grindstone, and set out to roll her home, but it was a most nation tough

job. Sometimes, do what we could, we couldn't keep her from falling over,

and she come mighty near mashing us every time. Tom said she was going

to get one of us, sure, before we got through. We got her half way; and

then we was plumb played out, and most drownded with sweat. We see it

warn't no use; we got to go and fetch Jim So he raised up his bed and

slid the chain off of the bed-leg, and wrapt it round and round his neck,

and we crawled out through our hole and down there, and Jim and me laid

into that grindstone and walked her along like nothing; and Tom

superintended. He could out-superintend any boy I ever see. He knowed

how to do everything.

Our hole was pretty big, but it warn't big enough to get the grindstone

through; but Jim he took the pick and soon made it big enough. Then Tom

marked out them things on it with the nail, and set Jim to work on them,

with the nail for a chisel and an iron bolt from the rubbage in the

lean-to for a hammer, and told him to work till the rest of his candle

quit on him, and then he could go to bed, and hide the grindstone under

his straw tick and sleep on it. Then we helped him fix his chain back on

the bed-leg, and was ready for bed ourselves. But Tom thought of

something, and says:

"You got any spiders in here, Jim?"

"No, sah, thanks to goodness I hain't, Mars Tom."

"All right, we'll get you some."

"But bless you, honey, I doan' WANT none. I's afeard un um. I jis' 's

soon have rattlesnakes aroun'."

Tom thought a minute or two, and says:

"It's a good idea. And I reckon it's been done. It MUST a been done; it

stands to reason. Yes, it's a prime good idea. Where could you keep

it?"

"Keep what, Mars Tom?"

"Why, a rattlesnake."

"De goodness gracious alive, Mars Tom! Why, if dey was a rattlesnake to

come in heah I'd take en bust right out thoo dat log wall, I would, wid

my head."

Why, Jim, you wouldn't be afraid of it after a little. You could tame

it."

"TAME it!"

"Yes--easy enough. Every animal is grateful for kindness and petting,

and they wouldn't THINK of hurting a person that pets them. Any book

will tell you that. You try--that's all I ask; just try for two or three

days. Why, you can get him so in a little while that he'll love you; and

sleep with you; and won't stay away from you a minute; and will let you

wrap him round your neck and put his head in your mouth."

"PLEASE, Mars Tom--DOAN' talk so! I can't STAN' it! He'd LET me shove

his head in my mouf--fer a favor, hain't it? I lay he'd wait a pow'ful

long time 'fo' I AST him. En mo' en dat, I doan' WANT him to sleep wid

me."

"Jim, don't act so foolish. A prisoner's GOT to have some kind of a dumb

pet, and if a rattlesnake hain't ever been tried, why, there's more glory

to be gained in your being the first to ever try it than any other way

you could ever think of to save your life."

"Why, Mars Tom, I doan' WANT no sich glory. Snake take 'n bite Jim's

chin off, den WHAH is de glory? No, sah, I doan' want no sich doin's."

"Blame it, can't you TRY? I only WANT you to try--you needn't keep it up

if it don't work."

"But de trouble all DONE ef de snake bite me while I's a tryin' him.

Mars Tom, I's willin' to tackle mos' anything 'at ain't onreasonable, but

ef you en Huck fetches a rattlesnake in heah for me to tame, I's gwyne to

LEAVE, dat's SHORE."

"Well, then, let it go, let it go, if you're so bull-headed about it. We

can get you some garter-snakes, and you can tie some buttons on their

tails, and let on they're rattlesnakes, and I reckon that 'll have to

do."

"I k'n stan' DEM, Mars Tom, but blame' 'f I couldn' get along widout um,

I tell you dat. I never knowed b'fo' 't was so much bother and trouble

to be a prisoner."

"Well, it ALWAYS is when it's done right. You got any rats around here?"

"No, sah, I hain't seed none."

"Well, we'll get you some rats."

"Why, Mars Tom, I doan' WANT no rats. Dey's de dadblamedest creturs to

'sturb a body, en rustle roun' over 'im, en bite his feet, when he's

tryin' to sleep, I ever see. No, sah, gimme g'yarter-snakes, 'f I's got

to have 'm, but doan' gimme no rats; I hain' got no use f'r um, skasely."

"But, Jim, you GOT to have 'em--they all do. So don't make no more fuss

about it. Prisoners ain't ever without rats. There ain't no instance of

it. And they train them, and pet them, and learn them tricks, and they

get to be as sociable as flies. But you got to play music to them. You

got anything to play music on?"

"I ain' got nuffn but a coase comb en a piece o' paper, en a juice-harp;

but I reck'n dey wouldn' take no stock in a juice-harp."

"Yes they would. THEY don't care what kind of music 'tis. A jews-harp's

plenty good enough for a rat. All animals like music--in a prison they

dote on it. Specially, painful music; and you can't get no other kind

out of a jews-harp. It always interests them; they come out to see

what's the matter with you. Yes, you're all right; you're fixed very

well. You want to set on your bed nights before you go to sleep, and

early in the mornings, and play your jews-harp; play 'The Last Link is

Broken'--that's the thing that 'll scoop a rat quicker 'n anything else;

and when you've played about two minutes you'll see all the rats, and the

snakes, and spiders, and things begin to feel worried about you, and

come. And they'll just fairly swarm over you, and have a noble good

time."

"Yes, DEY will, I reck'n, Mars Tom, but what kine er time is JIM havin'?

Blest if I kin see de pint. But I'll do it ef I got to. I reck'n I

better keep de animals satisfied, en not have no trouble in de house."

Tom waited to think it over, and see if there wasn't nothing else; and

pretty soon he says:

"Oh, there's one thing I forgot. Could you raise a flower here, do you

reckon?"

"I doan know but maybe I could, Mars Tom; but it's tolable dark in heah,

en I ain' got no use f'r no flower, nohow, en she'd be a pow'ful sight o'

trouble."

"Well, you try it, anyway. Some other prisoners has done it."

"One er dem big cat-tail-lookin' mullen-stalks would grow in heah, Mars

Tom, I reck'n, but she wouldn't be wuth half de trouble she'd coss."

"Don't you believe it. We'll fetch you a little one and you plant it in

the corner over there, and raise it. And don't call it mullen, call it

Pitchiola--that's its right name when it's in a prison. And you want to

water it with your tears."

"Why, I got plenty spring water, Mars Tom."

"You don't WANT spring water; you want to water it with your tears. It's

the way they always do."

"Why, Mars Tom, I lay I kin raise one er dem mullen-stalks twyste wid

spring water whiles another man's a START'N one wid tears."

"That ain't the idea. You GOT to do it with tears."

"She'll die on my han's, Mars Tom, she sholy will; kase I doan' skasely

ever cry."

So Tom was stumped. But he studied it over, and then said Jim would have

to worry along the best he could with an onion. He promised he would go

to the nigger cabins and drop one, private, in Jim's coffee-pot, in the

morning. Jim said he would "jis' 's soon have tobacker in his coffee;"

and found so much fault with it, and with the work and bother of raising

the mullen, and jews-harping the rats, and petting and flattering up the

snakes and spiders and things, on top of all the other work he had to do

on pens, and inscriptions, and journals, and things, which made it more

trouble and worry and responsibility to be a prisoner than anything he

ever undertook, that Tom most lost all patience with him; and said he was

just loadened down with more gaudier chances than a prisoner ever had in

the world to make a name for himself, and yet he didn't know enough to

appreciate them, and they was just about wasted on him. So Jim he was

sorry, and said he wouldn't behave so no more, and then me and Tom shoved

for bed.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

IN the morning we went up to the village and bought a wire rat-trap and

fetched it down, and unstopped the best rat-hole, and in about an hour we

had fifteen of the bulliest kind of ones; and then we took it and put it

in a safe place under Aunt Sally's bed. But while we was gone for

spiders little Thomas Franklin Benjamin Jefferson Elexander Phelps found

it there, and opened the door of it to see if the rats would come out,

and they did; and Aunt Sally she come in, and when we got back she was

a-standing on top of the bed raising Cain, and the rats was doing what

they could to keep off the dull times for her. So she took and dusted us

both with the hickry, and we was as much as two hours catching another

fifteen or sixteen, drat that meddlesome cub, and they warn't the

likeliest, nuther, because the first haul was the pick of the flock.

I never see a likelier lot of rats than what that first haul was.

We got a splendid stock of sorted spiders, and bugs, and frogs, and

caterpillars, and one thing or another; and we like to got a hornet's

nest, but we didn't. The family was at home. We didn't give it right

up, but stayed with them as long as we could; because we allowed we'd

tire them out or they'd got to tire us out, and they done it. Then we

got allycumpain and rubbed on the places, and was pretty near all right

again, but couldn't set down convenient. And so we went for the snakes,

and grabbed a couple of dozen garters and house-snakes, and put them in a

bag, and put it in our room, and by that time it was supper-time, and a

rattling good honest day's work: and hungry?--oh, no, I reckon not! And

there warn't a blessed snake up there when we went back--we didn't half

tie the sack, and they worked out somehow, and left. But it didn't

matter much, because they was still on the premises somewheres. So we

judged we could get some of them again. No, there warn't no real

scarcity of snakes about the house for a considerable spell. You'd see

them dripping from the rafters and places every now and then; and they

generly landed in your plate, or down the back of your neck, and most of

the time where you didn't want them. Well, they was handsome and

striped, and there warn't no harm in a million of them; but that never

made no difference to Aunt Sally; she despised snakes, be the breed what

they might, and she couldn't stand them no way you could fix it; and

every time one of them flopped down on her, it didn't make no difference

what she was doing, she would just lay that work down and light out. I

never see such a woman. And you could hear her whoop to Jericho. You

couldn't get her to take a-holt of one of them with the tongs. And if

she turned over and found one in bed she would scramble out and lift a

howl that you would think the house was afire. She disturbed the old man

so that he said he could most wish there hadn't ever been no snakes

created. Why, after every last snake had been gone clear out of the

house for as much as a week Aunt Sally warn't over it yet; she warn't

near over it; when she was setting thinking about something you could

touch her on the back of her neck with a feather and she would jump right

out of her stockings. It was very curious. But Tom said all women was

just so. He said they was made that way for some reason or other.

We got a licking every time one of our snakes come in her way, and she

allowed these lickings warn't nothing to what she would do if we ever

loaded up the place again with them. I didn't mind the lickings, because

they didn't amount to nothing; but I minded the trouble we had to lay in

another lot. But we got them laid in, and all the other things; and you

never see a cabin as blithesome as Jim's was when they'd all swarm out

for music and go for him. Jim didn't like the spiders, and the spiders

didn't like Jim; and so they'd lay for him, and make it mighty warm for

him. And he said that between the rats and the snakes and the grindstone

there warn't no room in bed for him, skasely; and when there was, a body

couldn't sleep, it was so lively, and it was always lively, he said,

because THEY never all slept at one time, but took turn about, so when

the snakes was asleep the rats was on deck, and when the rats turned in

the snakes come on watch, so he always had one gang under him, in his

way, and t'other gang having a circus over him, and if he got up to hunt

a new place the spiders would take a chance at him as he crossed over.

He said if he ever got out this time he wouldn't ever be a prisoner

again, not for a salary.

Well, by the end of three weeks everything was in pretty good shape. The

shirt was sent in early, in a pie, and every time a rat bit Jim he would

get up and write a little in his journal whilst the ink was fresh; the

pens was made, the inscriptions and so on was all carved on the

grindstone; the bed-leg was sawed in two, and we had et up the sawdust,

and it give us a most amazing stomach-ache. We reckoned we was all going

to die, but didn't. It was the most undigestible sawdust I ever see; and

Tom said the same. But as I was saying, we'd got all the work done now,

at last; and we was all pretty much fagged out, too, but mainly Jim. The

old man had wrote a couple of times to the plantation below Orleans to

come and get their runaway nigger, but hadn't got no answer, because

there warn't no such plantation; so he allowed he would advertise Jim in

the St. Louis and New Orleans papers; and when he mentioned the St. Louis

ones it give me the cold shivers, and I see we hadn't no time to lose.

So Tom said, now for the nonnamous letters.

"What's them?" I says.

"Warnings to the people that something is up. Sometimes it's done one

way, sometimes another. But there's always somebody spying around that

gives notice to the governor of the castle. When Louis XVI. was going to

light out of the Tooleries a servant-girl done it. It's a very good way,

and so is the nonnamous letters. We'll use them both. And it's usual

for the prisoner's mother to change clothes with him, and she stays in,

and he slides out in her clothes. We'll do that, too."

"But looky here, Tom, what do we want to WARN anybody for that

something's up? Let them find it out for themselves--it's their

lookout."

"Yes, I know; but you can't depend on them. It's the way they've acted

from the very start--left us to do EVERYTHING. They're so confiding and

mullet-headed they don't take notice of nothing at all. So if we don't

GIVE them notice there won't be nobody nor nothing to interfere with us,

and so after all our hard work and trouble this escape 'll go off

perfectly flat; won't amount to nothing--won't be nothing TO it."

"Well, as for me, Tom, that's the way I'd like."

"Shucks!" he says, and looked disgusted. So I says:

"But I ain't going to make no complaint. Any way that suits you suits

me. What you going to do about the servant-girl?"

"You'll be her. You slide in, in the middle of the night, and hook that

yaller girl's frock."

"Why, Tom, that 'll make trouble next morning; because, of course, she

prob'bly hain't got any but that one."

"I know; but you don't want it but fifteen minutes, to carry the

nonnamous letter and shove it under the front door."

"All right, then, I'll do it; but I could carry it just as handy in my

own togs."

"You wouldn't look like a servant-girl THEN, would you?"

"No, but there won't be nobody to see what I look like, ANYWAY."

"That ain't got nothing to do with it. The thing for us to do is just to

do our DUTY, and not worry about whether anybody SEES us do it or not.

Hain't you got no principle at all?"

"All right, I ain't saying nothing; I'm the servant-girl. Who's Jim's

mother?"

"I'm his mother. I'll hook a gown from Aunt Sally."

"Well, then, you'll have to stay in the cabin when me and Jim leaves."

"Not much. I'll stuff Jim's clothes full of straw and lay it on his bed

to represent his mother in disguise, and Jim 'll take the nigger woman's

gown off of me and wear it, and we'll all evade together. When a

prisoner of style escapes it's called an evasion. It's always called so

when a king escapes, f'rinstance. And the same with a king's son; it

don't make no difference whether he's a natural one or an unnatural one."

So Tom he wrote the nonnamous letter, and I smouched the yaller wench's

frock that night, and put it on, and shoved it under the front door, the

way Tom told me to. It said:

Beware. Trouble is brewing. Keep a sharp lookout. UNKNOWN FRIEND.

Next night we stuck a picture, which Tom drawed in blood, of a skull and

crossbones on the front door; and next night another one of a coffin on

the back door. I never see a family in such a sweat. They couldn't a

been worse scared if the place had a been full of ghosts laying for them

behind everything and under the beds and shivering through the air. If a

door banged, Aunt Sally she jumped and said "ouch!" if anything fell, she

jumped and said "ouch!" if you happened to touch her, when she warn't

noticing, she done the same; she couldn't face noway and be satisfied,

because she allowed there was something behind her every time--so she was

always a-whirling around sudden, and saying "ouch," and before she'd got

two-thirds around she'd whirl back again, and say it again; and she was

afraid to go to bed, but she dasn't set up. So the thing was working

very well, Tom said; he said he never see a thing work more satisfactory.

He said it showed it was done right.

So he said, now for the grand bulge! So the very next morning at the

streak of dawn we got another letter ready, and was wondering what we

better do with it, because we heard them say at supper they was going to

have a nigger on watch at both doors all night. Tom he went down the

lightning-rod to spy around; and the nigger at the back door was asleep,

and he stuck it in the back of his neck and come back. This letter said:

Don't betray me, I wish to be your friend. There is a desprate gang of

cut-throats from over in the Indian Territory going to steal your runaway

nigger to-night, and they have been trying to scare you so as you will

stay in the house and not bother them. I am one of the gang, but have

got religgion and wish to quit it and lead an honest life again, and will

betray the helish design. They will sneak down from northards, along the

fence, at midnight exact, with a false key, and go in the nigger's cabin

to get him. I am to be off a piece and blow a tin horn if I see any

danger; but stead of that I will BA like a sheep soon as they get in and

not blow at all; then whilst they are getting his chains loose, you slip

there and lock them in, and can kill them at your leasure. Don't do

anything but just the way I am telling you; if you do they will suspicion

something and raise whoop-jamboreehoo. I do not wish any reward but to

know I have done the right thing. UNKNOWN FRIEND.

CHAPTER XL.

WE was feeling pretty good after breakfast, and took my canoe and went

over the river a-fishing, with a lunch, and had a good time, and took a

look at the raft and found her all right, and got home late to supper,

and found them in such a sweat and worry they didn't know which end they

was standing on, and made us go right off to bed the minute we was done

supper, and wouldn't tell us what the trouble was, and never let on a

word about the new letter, but didn't need to, because we knowed as much

about it as anybody did, and as soon as we was half up stairs and her

back was turned we slid for the cellar cupboard and loaded up a good

lunch and took it up to our room and went to bed, and got up about

half-past eleven, and Tom put on Aunt Sally's dress that he stole and

was going to start with the lunch, but says:

"Where's the butter?"

"I laid out a hunk of it," I says, "on a piece of a corn-pone."

"Well, you LEFT it laid out, then--it ain't here."

"We can get along without it," I says.

"We can get along WITH it, too," he says; "just you slide down cellar and

fetch it. And then mosey right down the lightning-rod and come along.

I'll go and stuff the straw into Jim's clothes to represent his mother in

disguise, and be ready to BA like a sheep and shove soon as you get

there."

So out he went, and down cellar went I. The hunk of butter, big as a

person's fist, was where I had left it, so I took up the slab of

corn-pone with it on, and blowed out my light, and started up stairs very

stealthy, and got up to the main floor all right, but here comes Aunt

Sally with a candle, and I clapped the truck in my hat, and clapped my

hat on my head, and the next second she see me; and she says:

"You been down cellar?"

"Yes'm."

"What you been doing down there?"

"Noth'n."

"NOTH'N!"

"No'm."

"Well, then, what possessed you to go down there this time of night?"

"I don't know 'm."

"You don't KNOW? Don't answer me that way. Tom, I want to know what you

been DOING down there."

"I hain't been doing a single thing, Aunt Sally, I hope to gracious if I

have."

I reckoned she'd let me go now, and as a generl thing she would; but I

s'pose there was so many strange things going on she was just in a sweat

about every little thing that warn't yard-stick straight; so she says,

very decided:

"You just march into that setting-room and stay there till I come. You

been up to something you no business to, and I lay I'll find out what it

is before I'M done with you."

So she went away as I opened the door and walked into the setting-room.

My, but there was a crowd there! Fifteen farmers, and every one of them

had a gun. I was most powerful sick, and slunk to a chair and set down.

They was setting around, some of them talking a little, in a low voice,

and all of them fidgety and uneasy, but trying to look like they warn't;

but I knowed they was, because they was always taking off their hats, and

putting them on, and scratching their heads, and changing their seats,

and fumbling with their buttons. I warn't easy myself, but I didn't take

my hat off, all the same.

I did wish Aunt Sally would come, and get done with me, and lick me, if

she wanted to, and let me get away and tell Tom how we'd overdone this

thing, and what a thundering hornet's-nest we'd got ourselves into, so we

could stop fooling around straight off, and clear out with Jim before

these rips got out of patience and come for us.

At last she come and begun to ask me questions, but I COULDN'T answer

them straight, I didn't know which end of me was up; because these men

was in such a fidget now that some was wanting to start right NOW and lay

for them desperadoes, and saying it warn't but a few minutes to midnight;

and others was trying to get them to hold on and wait for the

sheep-signal; and here was Aunty pegging away at the questions, and me

a-shaking all over and ready to sink down in my tracks I was that scared;

and the place getting hotter and hotter, and the butter beginning to melt

and run down my neck and behind my ears; and pretty soon, when one of

them says, "I'M for going and getting in the cabin FIRST and right NOW,

and catching them when they come," I most dropped; and a streak of butter

come a-trickling down my forehead, and Aunt Sally she see it, and turns

white as a sheet, and says:

"For the land's sake, what IS the matter with the child? He's got the

brain-fever as shore as you're born, and they're oozing out!"

And everybody runs to see, and she snatches off my hat, and out comes the

bread and what was left of the butter, and she grabbed me, and hugged me,

and says:

"Oh, what a turn you did give me! and how glad and grateful I am it ain't

no worse; for luck's against us, and it never rains but it pours, and

when I see that truck I thought we'd lost you, for I knowed by the color

and all it was just like your brains would be if--Dear, dear, whyd'nt you

TELL me that was what you'd been down there for, I wouldn't a cared. Now

cler out to bed, and don't lemme see no more of you till morning!"

I was up stairs in a second, and down the lightning-rod in another one,

and shinning through the dark for the lean-to. I couldn't hardly get my

words out, I was so anxious; but I told Tom as quick as I could we must

jump for it now, and not a minute to lose--the house full of men, yonder,

with guns!

His eyes just blazed; and he says:

"No!--is that so? AIN'T it bully! Why, Huck, if it was to do over

again, I bet I could fetch two hundred! If we could put it off till--"

"Hurry! HURRY!" I says. "Where's Jim?"

"Right at your elbow; if you reach out your arm you can touch him. He's

dressed, and everything's ready. Now we'll slide out and give the

sheep-signal."

But then we heard the tramp of men coming to the door, and heard them

begin to fumble with the pad-lock, and heard a man say:

"I TOLD you we'd be too soon; they haven't come--the door is locked.

Here, I'll lock some of you into the cabin, and you lay for 'em in the

dark and kill 'em when they come; and the rest scatter around a piece,

and listen if you can hear 'em coming."

So in they come, but couldn't see us in the dark, and most trod on us

whilst we was hustling to get under the bed. But we got under all right,

and out through the hole, swift but soft--Jim first, me next, and Tom

last, which was according to Tom's orders. Now we was in the lean-to,

and heard trampings close by outside. So we crept to the door, and Tom

stopped us there and put his eye to the crack, but couldn't make out

nothing, it was so dark; and whispered and said he would listen for the

steps to get further, and when he nudged us Jim must glide out first, and

him last. So he set his ear to the crack and listened, and listened, and

listened, and the steps a-scraping around out there all the time; and at

last he nudged us, and we slid out, and stooped down, not breathing, and

not making the least noise, and slipped stealthy towards the fence in

Injun file, and got to it all right, and me and Jim over it; but Tom's

britches catched fast on a splinter on the top rail, and then he hear the

steps coming, so he had to pull loose, which snapped the splinter and

made a noise; and as he dropped in our tracks and started somebody sings

out:

"Who's that? Answer, or I'll shoot!"

But we didn't answer; we just unfurled our heels and shoved. Then there

was a rush, and a BANG, BANG, BANG! and the bullets fairly whizzed around

us! We heard them sing out:

"Here they are! They've broke for the river! After 'em, boys, and turn

loose the dogs!"

So here they come, full tilt. We could hear them because they wore boots

and yelled, but we didn't wear no boots and didn't yell. We was in the

path to the mill; and when they got pretty close on to us we dodged into

the bush and let them go by, and then dropped in behind them. They'd had

all the dogs shut up, so they wouldn't scare off the robbers; but by this

time somebody had let them loose, and here they come, making powwow

enough for a million; but they was our dogs; so we stopped in our tracks

till they catched up; and when they see it warn't nobody but us, and no

excitement to offer them, they only just said howdy, and tore right ahead

towards the shouting and clattering; and then we up-steam again, and

whizzed along after them till we was nearly to the mill, and then struck

up through the bush to where my canoe was tied, and hopped in and pulled

for dear life towards the middle of the river, but didn't make no more

noise than we was obleeged to. Then we struck out, easy and comfortable,

for the island where my raft was; and we could hear them yelling and

barking at each other all up and down the bank, till we was so far away

the sounds got dim and died out. And when we stepped on to the raft I

says:

"NOW, old Jim, you're a free man again, and I bet you won't ever be a

slave no more."

"En a mighty good job it wuz, too, Huck. It 'uz planned beautiful, en it

'uz done beautiful; en dey ain't NOBODY kin git up a plan dat's mo'

mixed-up en splendid den what dat one wuz."

We was all glad as we could be, but Tom was the gladdest of all because

he had a bullet in the calf of his leg.

When me and Jim heard that we didn't feel so brash as what we did before.

It was hurting him considerable, and bleeding; so we laid him in the

wigwam and tore up one of the duke's shirts for to bandage him, but he

says:

"Gimme the rags; I can do it myself. Don't stop now; don't fool around

here, and the evasion booming along so handsome; man the sweeps, and set

her loose! Boys, we done it elegant!--'deed we did. I wish WE'D a had

the handling of Louis XVI., there wouldn't a been no 'Son of Saint Louis,

ascend to heaven!' wrote down in HIS biography; no, sir, we'd a whooped

him over the BORDER--that's what we'd a done with HIM--and done it just

as slick as nothing at all, too. Man the sweeps--man the sweeps!"

But me and Jim was consulting--and thinking. And after we'd thought a

minute, I says:

"Say it, Jim."

So he says:

"Well, den, dis is de way it look to me, Huck. Ef it wuz HIM dat 'uz

bein' sot free, en one er de boys wuz to git shot, would he say, 'Go on

en save me, nemmine 'bout a doctor f'r to save dis one?' Is dat like

Mars Tom Sawyer? Would he say dat? You BET he wouldn't! WELL, den, is

JIM gywne to say it? No, sah--I doan' budge a step out'n dis place 'dout

a DOCTOR, not if it's forty year!"

I knowed he was white inside, and I reckoned he'd say what he did say--so

it was all right now, and I told Tom I was a-going for a doctor. He

raised considerable row about it, but me and Jim stuck to it and wouldn't

budge; so he was for crawling out and setting the raft loose himself; but

we wouldn't let him. Then he give us a piece of his mind, but it didn't

do no good.

So when he sees me getting the canoe ready, he says:

"Well, then, if you re bound to go, I'll tell you the way to do when you

get to the village. Shut the door and blindfold the doctor tight and

fast, and make him swear to be silent as the grave, and put a purse full

of gold in his hand, and then take and lead him all around the back

alleys and everywheres in the dark, and then fetch him here in the canoe,

in a roundabout way amongst the islands, and search him and take his

chalk away from him, and don't give it back to him till you get him back

to the village, or else he will chalk this raft so he can find it again.

It's the way they all do."

So I said I would, and left, and Jim was to hide in the woods when he see

the doctor coming till he was gone again.

CHAPTER XLI.

THE doctor was an old man; a very nice, kind-looking old man when I got

him up. I told him me and my brother was over on Spanish Island hunting

yesterday afternoon, and camped on a piece of a raft we found, and about

midnight he must a kicked his gun in his dreams, for it went off and shot

him in the leg, and we wanted him to go over there and fix it and not say

nothing about it, nor let anybody know, because we wanted to come home

this evening and surprise the folks.

"Who is your folks?" he says.

"The Phelpses, down yonder."

"Oh," he says. And after a minute, he says:

"How'd you say he got shot?"

"He had a dream," I says, "and it shot him."

"Singular dream," he says.

So he lit up his lantern, and got his saddle-bags, and we started. But

when he sees the canoe he didn't like the look of her--said she was big

enough for one, but didn't look pretty safe for two. I says:

"Oh, you needn't be afeard, sir, she carried the three of us easy

enough."

"What three?"

"Why, me and Sid, and--and--and THE GUNS; that's what I mean."

"Oh," he says.

But he put his foot on the gunnel and rocked her, and shook his head, and

said he reckoned he'd look around for a bigger one. But they was all

locked and chained; so he took my canoe, and said for me to wait till he

come back, or I could hunt around further, or maybe I better go down home

and get them ready for the surprise if I wanted to. But I said I didn't;

so I told him just how to find the raft, and then he started.

I struck an idea pretty soon. I says to myself, spos'n he can't fix that

leg just in three shakes of a sheep's tail, as the saying is? spos'n it

takes him three or four days? What are we going to do?--lay around there

till he lets the cat out of the bag? No, sir; I know what I'LL do. I'll

wait, and when he comes back if he says he's got to go any more I'll get

down there, too, if I swim; and we'll take and tie him, and keep him, and

shove out down the river; and when Tom's done with him we'll give him

what it's worth, or all we got, and then let him get ashore.

So then I crept into a lumber-pile to get some sleep; and next time I

waked up the sun was away up over my head! I shot out and went for the

doctor's house, but they told me he'd gone away in the night some time or

other, and warn't back yet. Well, thinks I, that looks powerful bad for

Tom, and I'll dig out for the island right off. So away I shoved, and

turned the corner, and nearly rammed my head into Uncle Silas's stomach!

He says:

"Why, TOM! Where you been all this time, you rascal?"

"I hain't been nowheres," I says, "only just hunting for the runaway

nigger--me and Sid."

"Why, where ever did you go?" he says. "Your aunt's been mighty uneasy."

"She needn't," I says, "because we was all right. We followed the men

and the dogs, but they outrun us, and we lost them; but we thought we

heard them on the water, so we got a canoe and took out after them and

crossed over, but couldn't find nothing of them; so we cruised along

up-shore till we got kind of tired and beat out; and tied up the canoe

and went to sleep, and never waked up till about an hour ago; then we

paddled over here to hear the news, and Sid's at the post-office to see

what he can hear, and I'm a-branching out to get something to eat for us,

and then we're going home."

So then we went to the post-office to get "Sid"; but just as I

suspicioned, he warn't there; so the old man he got a letter out of the

office, and we waited awhile longer, but Sid didn't come; so the old man

said, come along, let Sid foot it home, or canoe it, when he got done

fooling around--but we would ride. I couldn't get him to let me stay and

wait for Sid; and he said there warn't no use in it, and I must come

along, and let Aunt Sally see we was all right.

When we got home Aunt Sally was that glad to see me she laughed and cried

both, and hugged me, and give me one of them lickings of hern that don't

amount to shucks, and said she'd serve Sid the same when he come.

And the place was plum full of farmers and farmers' wives, to dinner; and

such another clack a body never heard. Old Mrs. Hotchkiss was the worst;

her tongue was a-going all the time. She says:

"Well, Sister Phelps, I've ransacked that-air cabin over, an' I b'lieve

the nigger was crazy. I says to Sister Damrell--didn't I, Sister

Damrell?--s'I, he's crazy, s'I--them's the very words I said. You all

hearn me: he's crazy, s'I; everything shows it, s'I. Look at that-air

grindstone, s'I; want to tell ME't any cretur 't's in his right mind 's a

goin' to scrabble all them crazy things onto a grindstone, s'I? Here

sich 'n' sich a person busted his heart; 'n' here so 'n' so pegged along

for thirty-seven year, 'n' all that--natcherl son o' Louis somebody, 'n'

sich everlast'n rubbage. He's plumb crazy, s'I; it's what I says in the

fust place, it's what I says in the middle, 'n' it's what I says last 'n'

all the time--the nigger's crazy--crazy 's Nebokoodneezer, s'I."

"An' look at that-air ladder made out'n rags, Sister Hotchkiss," says old

Mrs. Damrell; "what in the name o' goodness COULD he ever want of--"

"The very words I was a-sayin' no longer ago th'n this minute to Sister

Utterback, 'n' she'll tell you so herself. Sh-she, look at that-air rag

ladder, sh-she; 'n' s'I, yes, LOOK at it, s'I--what COULD he a-wanted of

it, s'I. Sh-she, Sister Hotchkiss, sh-she--"

"But how in the nation'd they ever GIT that grindstone IN there, ANYWAY?

'n' who dug that-air HOLE? 'n' who--"

"My very WORDS, Brer Penrod! I was a-sayin'--pass that-air sasser o'

m'lasses, won't ye?--I was a-sayin' to Sister Dunlap, jist this minute,

how DID they git that grindstone in there, s'I. Without HELP, mind you

--'thout HELP! THAT'S wher 'tis. Don't tell ME, s'I; there WUZ help,

s'I; 'n' ther' wuz a PLENTY help, too, s'I; ther's ben a DOZEN a-helpin'

that nigger, 'n' I lay I'd skin every last nigger on this place but I'D

find out who done it, s'I; 'n' moreover, s'I--"

"A DOZEN says you!--FORTY couldn't a done every thing that's been done.

Look at them case-knife saws and things, how tedious they've been made;

look at that bed-leg sawed off with 'm, a week's work for six men; look

at that nigger made out'n straw on the bed; and look at--"

"You may WELL say it, Brer Hightower! It's jist as I was a-sayin' to

Brer Phelps, his own self. S'e, what do YOU think of it, Sister

Hotchkiss, s'e? Think o' what, Brer Phelps, s'I? Think o' that bed-leg

sawed off that a way, s'e? THINK of it, s'I? I lay it never sawed

ITSELF off, s'I--somebody SAWED it, s'I; that's my opinion, take it or

leave it, it mayn't be no 'count, s'I, but sich as 't is, it's my

opinion, s'I, 'n' if any body k'n start a better one, s'I, let him DO it,

s'I, that's all. I says to Sister Dunlap, s'I--"

"Why, dog my cats, they must a ben a house-full o' niggers in there every

night for four weeks to a done all that work, Sister Phelps. Look at

that shirt--every last inch of it kivered over with secret African writ'n

done with blood! Must a ben a raft uv 'm at it right along, all the

time, amost. Why, I'd give two dollars to have it read to me; 'n' as for

the niggers that wrote it, I 'low I'd take 'n' lash 'm t'll--"

"People to HELP him, Brother Marples! Well, I reckon you'd THINK so if

you'd a been in this house for a while back. Why, they've stole

everything they could lay their hands on--and we a-watching all the time,

mind you. They stole that shirt right off o' the line! and as for that

sheet they made the rag ladder out of, ther' ain't no telling how many

times they DIDN'T steal that; and flour, and candles, and candlesticks,

and spoons, and the old warming-pan, and most a thousand things that I

disremember now, and my new calico dress; and me and Silas and my Sid and

Tom on the constant watch day AND night, as I was a-telling you, and not

a one of us could catch hide nor hair nor sight nor sound of them; and

here at the last minute, lo and behold you, they slides right in under

our noses and fools us, and not only fools US but the Injun Territory

robbers too, and actuly gets AWAY with that nigger safe and sound, and

that with sixteen men and twenty-two dogs right on their very heels at

that very time! I tell you, it just bangs anything I ever HEARD of.

Why, SPERITS couldn't a done better and been no smarter. And I reckon

they must a BEEN sperits--because, YOU know our dogs, and ther' ain't no

better; well, them dogs never even got on the TRACK of 'm once! You

explain THAT to me if you can!--ANY of you!"

"Well, it does beat--"

"Laws alive, I never--"

"So help me, I wouldn't a be--"

"HOUSE-thieves as well as--"

"Goodnessgracioussakes, I'd a ben afeard to live in sich a--"

"'Fraid to LIVE!--why, I was that scared I dasn't hardly go to bed, or

get up, or lay down, or SET down, Sister Ridgeway. Why, they'd steal the

very--why, goodness sakes, you can guess what kind of a fluster I was

in by the time midnight come last night. I hope to gracious if I warn't

afraid they'd steal some o' the family! I was just to that pass I didn't

have no reasoning faculties no more. It looks foolish enough NOW, in the

daytime; but I says to myself, there's my two poor boys asleep, 'way up

stairs in that lonesome room, and I declare to goodness I was that uneasy

't I crep' up there and locked 'em in! I DID. And anybody would.

Because, you know, when you get scared that way, and it keeps running on,

and getting worse and worse all the time, and your wits gets to addling,

and you get to doing all sorts o' wild things, and by and by you think to

yourself, spos'n I was a boy, and was away up there, and the door ain't

locked, and you--" She stopped, looking kind of wondering, and then she

turned her head around slow, and when her eye lit on me--I got up and

took a walk.

Says I to myself, I can explain better how we come to not be in that room

this morning if I go out to one side and study over it a little. So I

done it. But I dasn't go fur, or she'd a sent for me. And when it was

late in the day the people all went, and then I come in and told her the

noise and shooting waked up me and "Sid," and the door was locked, and we

wanted to see the fun, so we went down the lightning-rod, and both of us

got hurt a little, and we didn't never want to try THAT no more. And

then I went on and told her all what I told Uncle Silas before; and then

she said she'd forgive us, and maybe it was all right enough anyway, and

about what a body might expect of boys, for all boys was a pretty

harum-scarum lot as fur as she could see; and so, as long as no harm

hadn't come of it, she judged she better put in her time being grateful

we was alive and well and she had us still, stead of fretting over what

was past and done. So then she kissed me, and patted me on the head, and

dropped into a kind of a brown study; and pretty soon jumps up, and says:

"Why, lawsamercy, it's most night, and Sid not come yet! What HAS become

of that boy?"

I see my chance; so I skips up and says:

"I'll run right up to town and get him," I says.

"No you won't," she says. "You'll stay right wher' you are; ONE'S enough

to be lost at a time. If he ain't here to supper, your uncle 'll go."

Well, he warn't there to supper; so right after supper uncle went.

He come back about ten a little bit uneasy; hadn't run across Tom's

track. Aunt Sally was a good DEAL uneasy; but Uncle Silas he said there

warn't no occasion to be--boys will be boys, he said, and you'll see this

one turn up in the morning all sound and right. So she had to be

satisfied. But she said she'd set up for him a while anyway, and keep a

light burning so he could see it.

And then when I went up to bed she come up with me and fetched her

candle, and tucked me in, and mothered me so good I felt mean, and like I

couldn't look her in the face; and she set down on the bed and talked

with me a long time, and said what a splendid boy Sid was, and didn't

seem to want to ever stop talking about him; and kept asking me every now

and then if I reckoned he could a got lost, or hurt, or maybe drownded,

and might be laying at this minute somewheres suffering or dead, and she

not by him to help him, and so the tears would drip down silent, and I

would tell her that Sid was all right, and would be home in the morning,

sure; and she would squeeze my hand, or maybe kiss me, and tell me to say

it again, and keep on saying it, because it done her good, and she was in

so much trouble. And when she was going away she looked down in my eyes

so steady and gentle, and says:

"The door ain't going to be locked, Tom, and there's the window and the

rod; but you'll be good, WON'T you? And you won't go? For MY sake."

Laws knows I WANTED to go bad enough to see about Tom, and was all

intending to go; but after that I wouldn't a went, not for kingdoms.

But she was on my mind and Tom was on my mind, so I slept very restless.

And twice I went down the rod away in the night, and slipped around

front, and see her setting there by her candle in the window with her

eyes towards the road and the tears in them; and I wished I could do

something for her, but I couldn't, only to swear that I wouldn't never do

nothing to grieve her any more. And the third time I waked up at dawn,

and slid down, and she was there yet, and her candle was most out, and

her old gray head was resting on her hand, and she was asleep.

CHAPTER XLII.

THE old man was uptown again before breakfast, but couldn't get no track

of Tom; and both of them set at the table thinking, and not saying

nothing, and looking mournful, and their coffee getting cold, and not

eating anything. And by and by the old man says:

"Did I give you the letter?"

"What letter?"

"The one I got yesterday out of the post-office."

"No, you didn't give me no letter."

"Well, I must a forgot it."

So he rummaged his pockets, and then went off somewheres where he had

laid it down, and fetched it, and give it to her. She says:

"Why, it's from St. Petersburg--it's from Sis."

I allowed another walk would do me good; but I couldn't stir. But before

she could break it open she dropped it and run--for she see something.

And so did I. It was Tom Sawyer on a mattress; and that old doctor; and

Jim, in HER calico dress, with his hands tied behind him; and a lot of

people. I hid the letter behind the first thing that come handy, and

rushed. She flung herself at Tom, crying, and says:

"Oh, he's dead, he's dead, I know he's dead!"

And Tom he turned his head a little, and muttered something or other,

which showed he warn't in his right mind; then she flung up her hands,

and says:

"He's alive, thank God! And that's enough!" and she snatched a kiss of

him, and flew for the house to get the bed ready, and scattering orders

right and left at the niggers and everybody else, as fast as her tongue

could go, every jump of the way.

I followed the men to see what they was going to do with Jim; and the old

doctor and Uncle Silas followed after Tom into the house. The men was

very huffy, and some of them wanted to hang Jim for an example to all the

other niggers around there, so they wouldn't be trying to run away like

Jim done, and making such a raft of trouble, and keeping a whole family

scared most to death for days and nights. But the others said, don't do

it, it wouldn't answer at all; he ain't our nigger, and his owner would

turn up and make us pay for him, sure. So that cooled them down a

little, because the people that's always the most anxious for to hang a

nigger that hain't done just right is always the very ones that ain't the

most anxious to pay for him when they've got their satisfaction out of

him.

They cussed Jim considerble, though, and give him a cuff or two side the

head once in a while, but Jim never said nothing, and he never let on to

know me, and they took him to the same cabin, and put his own clothes on

him, and chained him again, and not to no bed-leg this time, but to a big

staple drove into the bottom log, and chained his hands, too, and both

legs, and said he warn't to have nothing but bread and water to eat after

this till his owner come, or he was sold at auction because he didn't

come in a certain length of time, and filled up our hole, and said a

couple of farmers with guns must stand watch around about the cabin every

night, and a bulldog tied to the door in the daytime; and about this time

they was through with the job and was tapering off with a kind of generl

good-bye cussing, and then the old doctor comes and takes a look, and

says:

"Don't be no rougher on him than you're obleeged to, because he ain't a

bad nigger. When I got to where I found the boy I see I couldn't cut the

bullet out without some help, and he warn't in no condition for me to

leave to go and get help; and he got a little worse and a little worse,

and after a long time he went out of his head, and wouldn't let me come

a-nigh him any more, and said if I chalked his raft he'd kill me, and no

end of wild foolishness like that, and I see I couldn't do anything at

all with him; so I says, I got to have HELP somehow; and the minute I

says it out crawls this nigger from somewheres and says he'll help, and

he done it, too, and done it very well. Of course I judged he must be a

runaway nigger, and there I WAS! and there I had to stick right straight

along all the rest of the day and all night. It was a fix, I tell you!

I had a couple of patients with the chills, and of course I'd of liked to

run up to town and see them, but I dasn't, because the nigger might get

away, and then I'd be to blame; and yet never a skiff come close enough

for me to hail. So there I had to stick plumb until daylight this

morning; and I never see a nigger that was a better nuss or faithfuller,

and yet he was risking his freedom to do it, and was all tired out, too,

and I see plain enough he'd been worked main hard lately. I liked the

nigger for that; I tell you, gentlemen, a nigger like that is worth a

thousand dollars--and kind treatment, too. I had everything I needed,

and the boy was doing as well there as he would a done at home--better,

maybe, because it was so quiet; but there I WAS, with both of 'm on my

hands, and there I had to stick till about dawn this morning; then some

men in a skiff come by, and as good luck would have it the nigger was

setting by the pallet with his head propped on his knees sound asleep; so

I motioned them in quiet, and they slipped up on him and grabbed him and

tied him before he knowed what he was about, and we never had no trouble.

And the boy being in a kind of a flighty sleep, too, we muffled the oars

and hitched the raft on, and towed her over very nice and quiet, and the

nigger never made the least row nor said a word from the start. He ain't

no bad nigger, gentlemen; that's what I think about him."

Somebody says:

"Well, it sounds very good, doctor, I'm obleeged to say."

Then the others softened up a little, too, and I was mighty thankful to

that old doctor for doing Jim that good turn; and I was glad it was

according to my judgment of him, too; because I thought he had a good

heart in him and was a good man the first time I see him. Then they all

agreed that Jim had acted very well, and was deserving to have some

notice took of it, and reward. So every one of them promised, right out

and hearty, that they wouldn't cuss him no more.

Then they come out and locked him up. I hoped they was going to say he

could have one or two of the chains took off, because they was rotten

heavy, or could have meat and greens with his bread and water; but they

didn't think of it, and I reckoned it warn't best for me to mix in, but I

judged I'd get the doctor's yarn to Aunt Sally somehow or other as soon

as I'd got through the breakers that was laying just ahead of me

--explanations, I mean, of how I forgot to mention about Sid being shot

when I was telling how him and me put in that dratted night paddling

around hunting the runaway nigger.

But I had plenty time. Aunt Sally she stuck to the sick-room all day and

all night, and every time I see Uncle Silas mooning around I dodged him.

Next morning I heard Tom was a good deal better, and they said Aunt Sally

was gone to get a nap. So I slips to the sick-room, and if I found him

awake I reckoned we could put up a yarn for the family that would wash.

But he was sleeping, and sleeping very peaceful, too; and pale, not

fire-faced the way he was when he come. So I set down and laid for him

to wake. In about half an hour Aunt Sally comes gliding in, and there I

was, up a stump again! She motioned me to be still, and set down by me,

and begun to whisper, and said we could all be joyful now, because all

the symptoms was first-rate, and he'd been sleeping like that for ever so

long, and looking better and peacefuller all the time, and ten to one

he'd wake up in his right mind.

So we set there watching, and by and by he stirs a bit, and opened his

eyes very natural, and takes a look, and says:

"Hello!--why, I'm at HOME! How's that? Where's the raft?"

"It's all right," I says.

"And JIM?"

"The same," I says, but couldn't say it pretty brash. But he never

noticed, but says:

"Good! Splendid! NOW we're all right and safe! Did you tell Aunty?"

I was going to say yes; but she chipped in and says: "About what, Sid?"

"Why, about the way the whole thing was done."

"What whole thing?"

"Why, THE whole thing. There ain't but one; how we set the runaway

nigger free--me and Tom."

"Good land! Set the run--What IS the child talking about! Dear, dear,

out of his head again!"

"NO, I ain't out of my HEAD; I know all what I'm talking about. We DID

set him free--me and Tom. We laid out to do it, and we DONE it. And we

done it elegant, too." He'd got a start, and she never checked him up,

just set and stared and stared, and let him clip along, and I see it

warn't no use for ME to put in. "Why, Aunty, it cost us a power of work

--weeks of it--hours and hours, every night, whilst you was all asleep.

And we had to steal candles, and the sheet, and the shirt, and your

dress, and spoons, and tin plates, and case-knives, and the warming-pan,

and the grindstone, and flour, and just no end of things, and you can't

think what work it was to make the saws, and pens, and inscriptions, and

one thing or another, and you can't think HALF the fun it was. And we

had to make up the pictures of coffins and things, and nonnamous letters

from the robbers, and get up and down the lightning-rod, and dig the hole

into the cabin, and made the rope ladder and send it in cooked up in a

pie, and send in spoons and things to work with in your apron pocket--"

"Mercy sakes!"

"--and load up the cabin with rats and snakes and so on, for company for

Jim; and then you kept Tom here so long with the butter in his hat that

you come near spiling the whole business, because the men come before we

was out of the cabin, and we had to rush, and they heard us and let drive

at us, and I got my share, and we dodged out of the path and let them go

by, and when the dogs come they warn't interested in us, but went for the

most noise, and we got our canoe, and made for the raft, and was all

safe, and Jim was a free man, and we done it all by ourselves, and WASN'T

it bully, Aunty!"

"Well, I never heard the likes of it in all my born days! So it was YOU,

you little rapscallions, that's been making all this trouble, and turned

everybody's wits clean inside out and scared us all most to death. I've

as good a notion as ever I had in my life to take it out o' you this very

minute. To think, here I've been, night after night, a--YOU just get

well once, you young scamp, and I lay I'll tan the Old Harry out o' both

o' ye!"

But Tom, he WAS so proud and joyful, he just COULDN'T hold in, and his

tongue just WENT it--she a-chipping in, and spitting fire all along, and

both of them going it at once, like a cat convention; and she says:

"WELL, you get all the enjoyment you can out of it NOW, for mind I tell

you if I catch you meddling with him again--"

"Meddling with WHO?" Tom says, dropping his smile and looking surprised.

"With WHO? Why, the runaway nigger, of course. Who'd you reckon?"

Tom looks at me very grave, and says:

"Tom, didn't you just tell me he was all right? Hasn't he got away?"

"HIM?" says Aunt Sally; "the runaway nigger? 'Deed he hasn't. They've

got him back, safe and sound, and he's in that cabin again, on bread and

water, and loaded down with chains, till he's claimed or sold!"

Tom rose square up in bed, with his eye hot, and his nostrils opening and

shutting like gills, and sings out to me:

"They hain't no RIGHT to shut him up! SHOVE!--and don't you lose a

minute. Turn him loose! he ain't no slave; he's as free as any cretur

that walks this earth!"

"What DOES the child mean?"

"I mean every word I SAY, Aunt Sally, and if somebody don't go, I'LL go.

I've knowed him all his life, and so has Tom, there. Old Miss Watson

died two months ago, and she was ashamed she ever was going to sell him

down the river, and SAID so; and she set him free in her will."

"Then what on earth did YOU want to set him free for, seeing he was

already free?"

"Well, that IS a question, I must say; and just like women! Why, I

wanted the ADVENTURE of it; and I'd a waded neck-deep in blood to

--goodness alive, AUNT POLLY!"

If she warn't standing right there, just inside the door, looking as

sweet and contented as an angel half full of pie, I wish I may never!

Aunt Sally jumped for her, and most hugged the head off of her, and cried

over her, and I found a good enough place for me under the bed, for it

was getting pretty sultry for us, seemed to me. And I peeped out, and in

a little while Tom's Aunt Polly shook herself loose and stood there

looking across at Tom over her spectacles--kind of grinding him into the

earth, you know. And then she says:

"Yes, you BETTER turn y'r head away--I would if I was you, Tom."

"Oh, deary me!" says Aunt Sally; "IS he changed so? Why, that ain't TOM,

it's Sid; Tom's--Tom's--why, where is Tom? He was here a minute ago."

"You mean where's Huck FINN--that's what you mean! I reckon I hain't

raised such a scamp as my Tom all these years not to know him when I SEE

him. That WOULD be a pretty howdy-do. Come out from under that bed,

Huck Finn."

So I done it. But not feeling brash.

Aunt Sally she was one of the mixed-upest-looking persons I ever see

--except one, and that was Uncle Silas, when he come in and they told it

all to him. It kind of made him drunk, as you may say, and he didn't

know nothing at all the rest of the day, and preached a prayer-meeting

sermon that night that gave him a rattling ruputation, because the oldest

man in the world couldn't a understood it. So Tom's Aunt Polly, she told

all about who I was, and what; and I had to up and tell how I was in such

a tight place that when Mrs. Phelps took me for Tom Sawyer--she chipped

in and says, "Oh, go on and call me Aunt Sally, I'm used to it now, and

'tain't no need to change"--that when Aunt Sally took me for Tom Sawyer I

had to stand it--there warn't no other way, and I knowed he wouldn't

mind, because it would be nuts for him, being a mystery, and he'd make an

adventure out of it, and be perfectly satisfied. And so it turned out,

and he let on to be Sid, and made things as soft as he could for me.

And his Aunt Polly she said Tom was right about old Miss Watson setting

Jim free in her will; and so, sure enough, Tom Sawyer had gone and took

all that trouble and bother to set a free nigger free! and I couldn't

ever understand before, until that minute and that talk, how he COULD

help a body set a nigger free with his bringing-up.

Well, Aunt Polly she said that when Aunt Sally wrote to her that Tom and

SID had come all right and safe, she says to herself:

"Look at that, now! I might have expected it, letting him go off that

way without anybody to watch him. So now I got to go and trapse all the

way down the river, eleven hundred mile, and find out what that creetur's

up to THIS time, as long as I couldn't seem to get any answer out of you

about it."

"Why, I never heard nothing from you," says Aunt Sally.

"Well, I wonder! Why, I wrote you twice to ask you what you could mean

by Sid being here."

"Well, I never got 'em, Sis."

Aunt Polly she turns around slow and severe, and says:

"You, Tom!"

"Well--WHAT?" he says, kind of pettish.

"Don t you what ME, you impudent thing--hand out them letters."

"What letters?"

"THEM letters. I be bound, if I have to take a-holt of you I'll--"

"They're in the trunk. There, now. And they're just the same as they

was when I got them out of the office. I hain't looked into them, I

hain't touched them. But I knowed they'd make trouble, and I thought if

you warn't in no hurry, I'd--"

"Well, you DO need skinning, there ain't no mistake about it. And I

wrote another one to tell you I was coming; and I s'pose he--"

"No, it come yesterday; I hain't read it yet, but IT'S all right, I've

got that one."

I wanted to offer to bet two dollars she hadn't, but I reckoned maybe it

was just as safe to not to. So I never said nothing.

CHAPTER THE LAST

THE first time I catched Tom private I asked him what was his idea, time

of the evasion?--what it was he'd planned to do if the evasion worked all

right and he managed to set a nigger free that was already free before?

And he said, what he had planned in his head from the start, if we got

Jim out all safe, was for us to run him down the river on the raft, and

have adventures plumb to the mouth of the river, and then tell him about

his being free, and take him back up home on a steamboat, in style, and

pay him for his lost time, and write word ahead and get out all the

niggers around, and have them waltz him into town with a torchlight

procession and a brass-band, and then he would be a hero, and so would

we. But I reckoned it was about as well the way it was.

We had Jim out of the chains in no time, and when Aunt Polly and Uncle

Silas and Aunt Sally found out how good he helped the doctor nurse Tom,

they made a heap of fuss over him, and fixed him up prime, and give him

all he wanted to eat, and a good time, and nothing to do. And we had him

up to the sick-room, and had a high talk; and Tom give Jim forty dollars

for being prisoner for us so patient, and doing it up so good, and Jim

was pleased most to death, and busted out, and says:

"DAH, now, Huck, what I tell you?--what I tell you up dah on Jackson

islan'? I TOLE you I got a hairy breas', en what's de sign un it; en I

TOLE you I ben rich wunst, en gwineter to be rich AGIN; en it's come

true; en heah she is! DAH, now! doan' talk to ME--signs is SIGNS, mine I

tell you; en I knowed jis' 's well 'at I 'uz gwineter be rich agin as I's

a-stannin' heah dis minute!"

And then Tom he talked along and talked along, and says, le's all three

slide out of here one of these nights and get an outfit, and go for

howling adventures amongst the Injuns, over in the Territory, for a

couple of weeks or two; and I says, all right, that suits me, but I ain't

got no money for to buy the outfit, and I reckon I couldn't get none from

home, because it's likely pap's been back before now, and got it all away

from Judge Thatcher and drunk it up.

"No, he hain't," Tom says; "it's all there yet--six thousand dollars and

more; and your pap hain't ever been back since. Hadn't when I come away,

anyhow."

Jim says, kind of solemn:

"He ain't a-comin' back no mo', Huck."

I says:

"Why, Jim?"

"Nemmine why, Huck--but he ain't comin' back no mo."

But I kept at him; so at last he says:

"Doan' you 'member de house dat was float'n down de river, en dey wuz a

man in dah, kivered up, en I went in en unkivered him and didn' let you

come in? Well, den, you kin git yo' money when you wants it, kase dat

wuz him."

Tom's most well now, and got his bullet around his neck on a watch-guard

for a watch, and is always seeing what time it is, and so there ain't

nothing more to write about, and I am rotten glad of it, because if I'd a

knowed what a trouble it was to make a book I wouldn't a tackled it, and

ain't a-going to no more. But I reckon I got to light out for the

Territory ahead of the rest, because Aunt Sally she's going to adopt me

and sivilize me, and I can't stand it. I been there before.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

A CONNECTICUT YANKEE IN KING ARTHUR'S COURT

by

MARK TWAIN

(Samuel L. Clemens)

PREFACE

The ungentle laws and customs touched upon in this tale are

historical, and the episodes which are used to illustrate them

are also historical. It is not pretended that these laws and

customs existed in England in the sixth century; no, it is only

pretended that inasmuch as they existed in the English and other

civilizations of far later times, it is safe to consider that it is

no libel upon the sixth century to suppose them to have been in

practice in that day also. One is quite justified in inferring

that whatever one of these laws or customs was lacking in that

remote time, its place was competently filled by a worse one.

The question as to whether there is such a thing as divine right

of kings is not settled in this book. It was found too difficult.

That the executive head of a nation should be a person of lofty

character and extraordinary ability, was manifest and indisputable;

that none but the Deity could select that head unerringly, was

also manifest and indisputable; that the Deity ought to make that

selection, then, was likewise manifest and indisputable; consequently,

that He does make it, as claimed, was an unavoidable deduction.

I mean, until the author of this book encountered the Pompadour,

and Lady Castlemaine, and some other executive heads of that kind;

these were found so difficult to work into the scheme, that it

was judged better to take the other tack in this book (which

must be issued this fall), and then go into training and settle

the question in another book. It is, of course, a thing which

ought to be settled, and I am not going to have anything particular

to do next winter anyway.

MARK TWAIN

A CONNECTICUT YANKEE IN KING ARTHUR'S COURT

A WORD OF EXPLANATION

It was in Warwick Castle that I came across the curious stranger

whom I am going to talk about. He attracted me by three things:

his candid simplicity, his marvelous familiarity with ancient armor,

and the restfulness of his company--for he did all the talking.

We fell together, as modest people will, in the tail of the herd

that was being shown through, and he at once began to say things

which interested me. As he talked along, softly, pleasantly,

flowingly, he seemed to drift away imperceptibly out of this world

and time, and into some remote era and old forgotten country;

and so he gradually wove such a spell about me that I seemed

to move among the specters and shadows and dust and mold of a gray

antiquity, holding speech with a relic of it! Exactly as I would

speak of my nearest personal friends or enemies, or my most familiar

neighbors, he spoke of Sir Bedivere, Sir Bors de Ganis, Sir Launcelot

of the Lake, Sir Galahad, and all the other great names of the

Table Round--and how old, old, unspeakably old and faded and dry

and musty and ancient he came to look as he went on! Presently

he turned to me and said, just as one might speak of the weather,

or any other common matter--

"You know about transmigration of souls; do you know about

transposition of epochs--and bodies?"

I said I had not heard of it. He was so little interested--just

as when people speak of the weather--that he did not notice

whether I made him any answer or not. There was half a moment

of silence, immediately interrupted by the droning voice of the

salaried cicerone:

"Ancient hauberk, date of the sixth century, time of King Arthur

and the Round Table; said to have belonged to the knight Sir Sagramor

le Desirous; observe the round hole through the chain-mail in

the left breast; can't be accounted for; supposed to have been

done with a bullet since invention of firearms--perhaps maliciously

by Cromwell's soldiers."

My acquaintance smiled--not a modern smile, but one that must

have gone out of general use many, many centuries ago--and muttered

apparently to himself:

"Wit ye well, _I saw it done_." Then, after a pause, added:

"I did it myself."

By the time I had recovered from the electric surprise of this

remark, he was gone.

All that evening I sat by my fire at the Warwick Arms, steeped

in a dream of the olden time, while the rain beat upon the windows,

and the wind roared about the eaves and corners. From time to

time I dipped into old Sir Thomas Malory's enchanting book, and

fed at its rich feast of prodigies and adventures, breathed in

the fragrance of its obsolete names, and dreamed again. Midnight

being come at length, I read another tale, for a nightcap--this

which here follows, to wit:

HOW SIR LAUNCELOT SLEW TWO GIANTS, AND MADE A CASTLE FREE

Anon withal came there upon him two great giants,

well armed, all save the heads, with two horrible

clubs in their hands. Sir Launcelot put his shield

afore him, and put the stroke away of the one

giant, and with his sword he clave his head asunder.

When his fellow saw that, he ran away as he were

wood [*demented], for fear of the horrible strokes,

and Sir Launcelot after him with all his might,

and smote him on the shoulder, and clave him to

the middle. Then Sir Launcelot went into the hall,

and there came afore him three score ladies and

damsels, and all kneeled unto him, and thanked

God and him of their deliverance. For, sir, said

they, the most part of us have been here this

seven year their prisoners, and we have worked all

manner of silk works for our meat, and we are all

great gentle-women born, and blessed be the time,

knight, that ever thou wert born; for thou hast

done the most worship that ever did knight in the

world, that will we bear record, and we all pray

you to tell us your name, that we may tell our

friends who delivered us out of prison. Fair

damsels, he said, my name is Sir Launcelot du

Lake. And so he departed from them and betaught

them unto God. And then he mounted upon his

horse, and rode into many strange and wild

countries, and through many waters and valleys,

and evil was he lodged. And at the last by

fortune him happened against a night to come to

a fair courtilage, and therein he found an old

gentle-woman that lodged him with a good-will,

and there he had good cheer for him and his horse.

And when time was, his host brought him into a

fair garret over the gate to his bed. There

Sir Launcelot unarmed him, and set his harness

by him, and went to bed, and anon he fell on

sleep. So, soon after there came one on

horseback, and knocked at the gate in great

haste. And when Sir Launcelot heard this he rose

up, and looked out at the window, and saw by the

moonlight three knights come riding after that

one man, and all three lashed on him at once

with swords, and that one knight turned on them

knightly again and defended him. Truly, said

Sir Launcelot, yonder one knight shall I help,

for it were shame for me to see three knights

on one, and if he be slain I am partner of his

death. And therewith he took his harness and

went out at a window by a sheet down to the four

knights, and then Sir Launcelot said on high,

Turn you knights unto me, and leave your

fighting with that knight. And then they all

three left Sir Kay, and turned unto Sir Launcelot,

and there began great battle, for they alight

all three, and strake many strokes at Sir

Launcelot, and assailed him on every side. Then

Sir Kay dressed him for to have holpen Sir

Launcelot. Nay, sir, said he, I will none of

your help, therefore as ye will have my help

let me alone with them. Sir Kay for the pleasure

of the knight suffered him for to do his will,

and so stood aside. And then anon within six

strokes Sir Launcelot had stricken them to the earth.

And then they all three cried, Sir Knight, we

yield us unto you as man of might matchless. As

to that, said Sir Launcelot, I will not take

your yielding unto me, but so that ye yield

you unto Sir Kay the seneschal, on that covenant

I will save your lives and else not. Fair knight,

said they, that were we loath to do; for as for

Sir Kay we chased him hither, and had overcome

him had ye not been; therefore, to yield us unto

him it were no reason. Well, as to that, said

Sir Launcelot, advise you well, for ye may

choose whether ye will die or live, for an ye be

yielden, it shall be unto Sir Kay. Fair knight,

then they said, in saving our lives we will do

as thou commandest us. Then shall ye, said Sir

Launcelot, on Whitsunday next coming go unto the

court of King Arthur, and there shall ye yield

you unto Queen Guenever, and put you all three

in her grace and mercy, and say that Sir Kay

sent you thither to be her prisoners. On the morn

Sir Launcelot arose early, and left Sir Kay

sleeping; and Sir Launcelot took Sir Kay's armor

and his shield and armed him, and so he went to

the stable and took his horse, and took his leave

of his host, and so he departed. Then soon after

arose Sir Kay and missed Sir Launcelot; and

then he espied that he had his armor and his

horse. Now by my faith I know well that he will

grieve some of the court of King Arthur; for on

him knights will be bold, and deem that it is I,

and that will beguile them; and because of his

armor and shield I am sure I shall ride in peace.

And then soon after departed Sir Kay, and

thanked his host.

As I laid the book down there was a knock at the door, and my

stranger came in. I gave him a pipe and a chair, and made him

welcome. I also comforted him with a hot Scotch whisky; gave him

another one; then still another--hoping always for his story.

After a fourth persuader, he drifted into it himself, in a quite

simple and natural way:

THE STRANGER'S HISTORY

I am an American. I was born and reared in Hartford, in the State

of Connecticut--anyway, just over the river, in the country. So

I am a Yankee of the Yankees--and practical; yes, and nearly

barren of sentiment, I suppose--or poetry, in other words. My

father was a blacksmith, my uncle was a horse doctor, and I was

both, along at first. Then I went over to the great arms factory

and learned my real trade; learned all there was to it; learned

to make everything: guns, revolvers, cannon, boilers, engines, all

sorts of labor-saving machinery. Why, I could make anything

a body wanted--anything in the world, it didn't make any difference

what; and if there wasn't any quick new-fangled way to make a thing,

I could invent one--and do it as easy as rolling off a log. I became

head superintendent; had a couple of thousand men under me.

Well, a man like that is a man that is full of fight--that goes

without saying. With a couple of thousand rough men under one,

one has plenty of that sort of amusement. I had, anyway. At last

I met my match, and I got my dose. It was during a misunderstanding

conducted with crowbars with a fellow we used to call Hercules.

He laid me out with a crusher alongside the head that made everything

crack, and seemed to spring every joint in my skull and made it

overlap its neighbor. Then the world went out in darkness, and

I didn't feel anything more, and didn't know anything at all

--at least for a while.

When I came to again, I was sitting under an oak tree, on the

grass, with a whole beautiful and broad country landscape all

to myself--nearly. Not entirely; for there was a fellow on a horse,

looking down at me--a fellow fresh out of a picture-book. He was

in old-time iron armor from head to heel, with a helmet on his

head the shape of a nail-keg with slits in it; and he had a shield,

and a sword, and a prodigious spear; and his horse had armor on,

too, and a steel horn projecting from his forehead, and gorgeous

red and green silk trappings that hung down all around him like

a bedquilt, nearly to the ground.

"Fair sir, will ye just?" said this fellow.

"Will I which?"

"Will ye try a passage of arms for land or lady or for--"

"What are you giving me?" I said. "Get along back to your circus,

or I'll report you."

Now what does this man do but fall back a couple of hundred yards

and then come rushing at me as hard as he could tear, with his

nail-keg bent down nearly to his horse's neck and his long spear

pointed straight ahead. I saw he meant business, so I was up

the tree when he arrived.

He allowed that I was his property, the captive of his spear.

There was argument on his side--and the bulk of the advantage

--so I judged it best to humor him. We fixed up an agreement

whereby I was to go with him and he was not to hurt me. I came

down, and we started away, I walking by the side of his horse.

We marched comfortably along, through glades and over brooks which

I could not remember to have seen before--which puzzled me and

made me wonder--and yet we did not come to any circus or sign of

a circus. So I gave up the idea of a circus, and concluded he was

from an asylum. But we never came to an asylum--so I was up

a stump, as you may say. I asked him how far we were from Hartford.

He said he had never heard of the place; which I took to be a lie,

but allowed it to go at that. At the end of an hour we saw a

far-away town sleeping in a valley by a winding river; and beyond

it on a hill, a vast gray fortress, with towers and turrets,

the first I had ever seen out of a picture.

"Bridgeport?" said I, pointing.

"Camelot," said he.

My stranger had been showing signs of sleepiness. He caught

himself nodding, now, and smiled one of those pathetic, obsolete

smiles of his, and said:

"I find I can't go on; but come with me, I've got it all written

out, and you can read it if you like."

In his chamber, he said: "First, I kept a journal; then by and by,

after years, I took the journal and turned it into a book. How

long ago that was!"

He handed me his manuscript, and pointed out the place where

I should begin:

"Begin here--I've already told you what goes before." He was

steeped in drowsiness by this time. As I went out at his door

I heard him murmur sleepily: "Give you good den, fair sir."

I sat down by my fire and examined my treasure. The first part

of it--the great bulk of it--was parchment, and yellow with age.

I scanned a leaf particularly and saw that it was a palimpsest.

Under the old dim writing of the Yankee historian appeared traces

of a penmanship which was older and dimmer still--Latin words

and sentences: fragments from old monkish legends, evidently.

I turned to the place indicated by my stranger and began to read

--as follows:

THE TALE OF THE LOST LAND

CHAPTER I

CAMELOT

"Camelot--Camelot," said I to myself. "I don't seem to remember

hearing of it before. Name of the asylum, likely."