So court bein' over, the town was dull again and all deserted.
Watermelon rinds and newspapers was all over the court house yard.
Hardly any farmers was in town. The stores seemed empty. And Mitch was
quieter than I ever saw him. He didn't look well. He was reading
Shakespeare; and I saw him go by with Charley King and George Heigold. I
began to feel that I was losin' him.
And one day my pa said, "How would you like to go to St. Louis on the
boat? Your ma and Myrtle are goin' over to visit Aunt Fannie, and Delia
is goin' to take a vacation, and I think I'll take you to St. Louis. I
need a rest too. Mitch and his pa are going along. Colonel Lambkin has
made up a party and John Armstrong will be along. It's the _City of
Peoria_, the same boat you boys tried to run away on. So we're goin'.
Come down town this afternoon and I'll get you a new suit and some shoes
and a hat. Get Mitch too, and I'll fit him out for the trip."
So I got Mitch and he was almost beside himself, he was that happy. And
we both got suits and shoes and hats. And the next morning took the
passenger train for Havaner. When we got to Oakford, John Armstrong got
in, and my pa was tickled to death to see him. John says: "They didn't
convict that feller?" Pa says, "No." "Wal," says John, "are you goin' to
try him again?" My pa says, "I don't know. It costs the county, and the
board may lay down on me. But I'll prosecute him if they stand for the
appropriation."
We were all sittin' together, for we turned the seats that a way. Mr.
Miller and Mitch facin' us, my pa and me in one of the seats, and John
Armstrong across the aisle, after he got on. And John says, "Wal, how
about that boy down that a way? Whar does he live?"
"Who?" says I.
"That boy you was runnin' away to see. Tom Sawyer, warn't it?"
And Mr. Miller said, "If he's at home, we'll see him--but he's away a
lot."
"He lives in St. Louis?" says John.
"No," says Mr. Miller, "but not far from there. That's right, ain't it,
Mitchie?"
Mitch says, "It's not very far, just up the river maybe a hundred miles,
at Hannibal."
"Are you goin' up thar?" says John.
"No," says my pa, "we expect to see him in St. Louis."
Then John says: "You had a big court this time with that murder trial
and all." Pa says, "Yes." "It does beat the world about the murders and
things around here. More'n what there used to be, 'pears to me."
Then Mr. Miller began to talk about the Civil War and he said: "It's a
bad thing for the country and will be for a long time. We got rid of
slavery, but we took on a lot of bad things while doin' it. You see it
killed off so many real Americans, the old stock, and in a few years
with all these foreigners brought in to work at the mines and mills, the
blood'll get mixed. And ideas about America will get mixed; and the
country will forget what it was, and what it was meant to be; and
they'll pass new laws to take care of changes. And pretty soon you won't
know the country. During the war we had to part with liberties to carry
on the war; and pretty soon we'll part with liberties in order to manage
these new stocks. And there's a lot of corruption in the country, people
gettin' rich off'n the tariff, and that'll make trouble."
John Armstrong was a Republican, and he didn't agree with Mr. Miller;
but my pa says, "We'll elect Cleveland this fall and then we'll save the
country."
My pa and Mr. Miller was both Democrats, but John was a Republican and
they had the best of him, bein' two to one. But John says, "Why, they
tell me that Cleveland wears a 6-7/8 hat and a eighteen collar and can
drink more whisky than Joe Pink."
"Well," says my pa, "if you elect Harrison, who'll be President--will he
be President or will Blaine? It will be Blaine, and why didn't you
nominate him and be done with it? It's because you dassent"--Then he
began to sing:
"In Washington City, oh, what a great pity,
There'll be no Harrison there."
Then we kind of changed seats around and Mr. Miller and my pa began to
talk together, while John was talkin' to Mitch and me, and pointin' out
the places of interest along the way. "Over thar," he says, "is whar
Slicky Bill Wilson used to live." "Thar's the Widow Watkins' farm."
"Right down thar is whar they held a camp meetin' onct and converted
more'n 80." And pretty soon we went over a bridge over a clear blue
stream, and John says: "That's Salt Creek, and just down thar about a
mile old Tom Giles used to live who raised quarter horses," and so on.
Then I heard Mr. Miller tell my pa that he was goin' to lose his church
for preachin' that sermon about God bein' in everything; that he was
sure of it. And he didn't know what to do. He couldn't teach school and
walk into the country, and he couldn't get a school to teach in town.
And he was worried and said with a big family like he had on his hands,
he was worried to death. That his father had had a big family and was
poor and worried too, and that he could see his own children poor and
havin' big families. And it looked just like the same story over and
over, world without end.
By and by we got to Kilburn and the engine broke down or somethin' and
we waited and waited. The conductor came in and said we'd better eat
here, because he didn't know when we'd get started. So we all got off
and went into the station where Mrs. Ruddy, the wife of the ticket
agent, had a restaurant. She looked like a hen in the early morning. Her
eyes were so quick and bright, and she kept goin' around askin' us to
have things. There was a jar of jelly on the table all sealed up, and
she said, "Won't you have some of the jell?" Mr. Miller said, "No, thank
you." But Mitch took up the jar and tried to get the top off. It would
have took a monkey wrench to get it off; so after tuggin' at it and not
bein' able to budge it, he put it down. Just then she came up and said,
"Do have some of the jell." Mitch began to laugh. Then pa took the jar
and he couldn't get the top off either, and he put it down. She came
back again and said, "Won't you have some of the jell, Mr. Armstrong?"
"I don't mind if I do," says John, and he took hold of the jar. Findin'
the top on, he tried to get it off. Then Mrs. Ruddy says, "Oh, the top
ain't off." I believe she knew it all the time. The remark sounded just
like a woman. So she went into the kitchen for an opener and came back
and said she couldn't find none. Then she took the jar and got her apron
about it and screwed up her face and tried her best. But the top
wouldn't budge. Mitch picked up the poker by the stove and says, "Hit it
with this, Mrs. Ruddy." And she says, "I'll break the jar. Just wait,
I'll set it in some hot water for a bit and then it'll come off." So she
disappeared with the jar. And while she was gone the conductor came in
and yelled, "All aboard." And pa laid down some money and we ran for the
train. Just as we was all on the platform and the train begin to move,
Mrs. Ruddy came to the station door and said somethin'. John began to
snicker and laugh, and says to pa, "Did you hear what she said--by God,
she says it's off--let's go back and have some jell."
This time when we got to Havaner we rode in the bus, Mitch with the
driver in front; and we rode pretty near down to the river's edge. And
there was the _City of Peoria_, all steamed up, smoke comin' out of her
stacks, and ready to go. We got on and there was Colonel Lambkin,
talking to the captain and the same fat man. And when the Colonel see my
pa, he smiled all over his face and got up and came over and shook his
hand, and put his arm around him and says, "You look a little peaked,
Hardy. We'll give you some rations that'll fatten you up. Whar's your
fiddle?" he says to John. John hadn't brought it; but by and by an
orchestra came on board, a man with a guitar and another with a fiddle,
and so we had music all the way. Colonel Lambkin seemed to just own the
boat. We steamed off after a bit and it was moonlight, and Mitch and me
sat on deck and watched the river, and the shores and everything we
could see. By and by Mitch said: "Do you remember when we were here and
lay on top of that shed and I told you about losin' Zueline, and that
there was somethin' else in my mind?"
"Yes," says I.
"Well," says Mitch, "you know what it was now, don't you?"
"I think so," says I.
"Of course it was that Rainey murder and findin' that pistol. And I'd
like to ask you, Skeet, if you think I dreamed that."
"No," says I.
"Well," says Mitch, "that lawyer did twist me around and he did make a
wonderful speech agin me. It sounded like the characters in Shakespeare
where one says something and you think that ends it; and then the other
says something and it has a different look altogether and seems truer
than what the other one said. But I hope to drop dead this minute,
Skeet, and fall into the river and be et by the fish if every word I
said ain't as true as the gospel."
"I know it," says I. And Mitchie says: "I wanted to tell you that night
what was on my mind; but somehow I couldn't."
Just then we became aware of voices near us, around a kind of corner.
And one voice was a woman's and another was a man's who was talkin' kind
of thick and kept repeatin' hisself. And Mitch says, "Wait--listen." So
we listened. And this man's voice said:
"What can I do, Gwen? I'll leave it to you. Ain't I done the right
thing? Have I harmed any one? But I might have, I know myself, and I
might have harmed some one as easy as that. I know what's what, and even
now I do, and when I have no drinks, I know better, and you'll see I
done the right thing. Why look at it--they rush on me there in all that
hurry and scare and say go out where it is--where his pistol is--right
by the side of the porch and you or some of you pick it up and bring it
back in the house. What did that mean? It meant some one knew where the
pistol was before anybody seen it--and you can't make me believe that
kind of a story would wash."
[Illustration: We Got up and Walked Past 'Em]
Then the woman said, "It did wash."
"It washed because they didn't have me there and try to fetch in this
story. I couldn't a stood cross-questioning a minute. That's why I say I
know what I can do."
Then the woman says: "He's goin' to be tried again and you'd better go
back and be a man. Mrs. Rainey died and it's time Temple Scott was dead
too."
"Listen," says Mitch, "did you hear that--that's Harold Carman. Come."
We got up and walked past 'em--there he was huddled close to a woman,
the moon almost shining in their faces. We heard the orchestra and went
around and found Colonel Lambkin dancing and everybody havin' a
wonderful time. My pa sat there so big and powerful and I was proud to
death of him.
Well, we had wonderful sleeps on board and we all sat at the captain's
table and had the most splendid meals--fish all the time if we wanted
it; and beefsteak, and all kinds of pie and everything. Mitch and me
went into the kitchen; but just to call and say "howdy" to Susie and the
cook.
It was on a morning when we hove in sight of St. Louis. There she was
stretched further than you could see, smoke all over her, rumblin', a
scary looking monster, seemed alive, seemed full of all kinds of
terrible things, but also awful beautiful, too. We got off the boat and
there was two or three policemen there. My pa and Colonel Lambkin
talked to 'em, and then just as Harold Carman came along, the policemen
took him. He scolded and made a fuss at first, but finally went along.
Of course we had told pa what we heard. But pa had seen him on the boat
anyway. So they just shipped him by train back to Petersburg and jailed
him--I think it was for forgin' a note, but anyway it was to testify.
We got over into town, and such a sight--sloughs of people, wagons,
carriages, street cars; sloughs of niggers--an awful noise everywheres.
Everybody in a hurry. And Mitch says: "Tom Sawyer lives near here, and
yet he was never in this town, at least if he was he writes nothing
about it. And look at us. We're here. I told you everything couldn't be
the same with me and you as it was with Tom and Huck. But just look,
Skeet. You could take Petersburg and set it down right here in this
square and nobody could find it. Why, I'll bet you this town is five
miles long, as far as from Petersburg to your grandpa's farm--just
think, five miles of houses." Mitch was terribly excited. And you can't
imagine how funny John Armstrong looked walkin' along in St. Louis. He
seemed out of place and looked strange. But my pa and Colonel Lambkin
was the same as the St. Louis people, and even Mitchie's pa in a general
way.
Well, we went around different places, and finally we went to a hotel
about a thousand times bigger than the hotel at Havaner. The office had
gilt all over it and marble pillars and a dome of blue and red glass. It
must have cost millions. When we went into the dining room John
Armstrong looked shamed a little like a boy standin' up to recite. And
we sat down at a table. Everybody said Colonel to Colonel Lambkin, and
seemed to know him and was awful polite to him; and the waiters laughed
at Mitch and me. And one of 'em stood by John and says: "Baked fish,
corn beef and cabbage, brisket of beef, pork tenderloin, roast goose and
turkey and cranberry sauce." John looked stunned like, and as if he
couldn't remember what the waiter said, and the waiter stood there
waitin' for John to speak, and finally John says, "Wal, bring me
whatever's the handiest for you."
My pa broke into the biggest laugh I ever heard him and turned to the
Colonel and said: "That story you told me keeps goin' through my mind."
And the Colonel laughed and said, "Ain't that a good one?" By this time
the waiter had repeated to John what they had and John said, "Wal, bring
me the pork tenderloin," and so the rest of us had our orders in and
pretty soon we had dinner and went out.
They took us to a ball game. You had to pay to get in. Nobody could look
over or look through the fence. It was all different from what it was at
home. And there was a pitcher there who looked like the pictures of
Edgar Allan Poe, and he could throw a curve clear around the batter
right into the catcher's hand. I saw him. And the score was three to
nothin,' not 18 to 25 as I had seen it at home.
And in the evening there was a torchlight procession for Cleveland, and
bands, and banners, and big pictures of Cleveland. "Look at him," said
John, "can't you see he wears a 18 collar?"
"Yes," says pa, "but no 6-7/8 hat."
"Wal," says John, "they've fixed the picture up." So then we went to
where a man made a speech. I forget his name, but he was a great man.
And he talked for more'n an hour, and finally got down to the fall of
Rome. And he says, "What made Rome fall? They tariff." And John says,
"That ain't the way they tell it to me. They say Caesar made Rome fall.
That's what I've always heard. And I don't believe it was the tariff. It
couldn't be." So pa says, "Listen to him, John." But John was kind of
restless and seemed to get a little mad. Then we went back to the hotel
and went to bed. And the next night the Colonel took all of us to a
minstrel show where they sang "Angel Gabriel." And the next morning we
got on the boat and pulled out. For where do you suppose? Why, up the
Mississippi. Yes, we saw her when we came in, but now we saw her for
miles and miles--wonderful, more'n a mile wide. And Mitch could hardly
speak, nor could I. And where do you suppose we was going? Why, to
Hannibal, to Tom's town. After all our waitin', after trying to run away
to see Tom Sawyer, here we was actually goin' there with our pas, and
John Armstrong, and the Colonel.
It turned out this way. We got to Hannibal, and the Colonel stayed with
the boat and John; and we said good-by and went over into town. The plan
was for us to cross the river from Hannibal over to Illinois, and there
take the Wabash train to Jacksonville and then home from there.
Mitch's pa began to make some inquiries and then we started for some
place. And pretty soon I looked up and saw a big sign "Tom Sawyer."
"Look, Mitch," says I. And he looked and stopped and our pas went on.
This sign was over a butcher shop. And I said: "Can it be true, Mitch,
that Tom Sawyer is keepin' a butcher shop? Is he old enough? And would
he do it? Is it in his line? He's rich and gettin' higher and higher up
in the world. What does this mean?"
[Illustration: Tom Sawyer]
We followed our pas into the shop. And Mr. Miller asked a boy, "Where's
Mr. Sawyer?" And the boy says, "He's in the back room." Just then a door
opened and a man came in, red-faced and plump and friendly. And Mitch's
pa says: "Are you Tom Sawyer?" And the man says, "That's me." And
Mitch's pa says: "I'm Mr. Miller from Petersburg and this is my boy
Mitchie, who wrote to you. And this is Mr. Kirby and his boy." And Tom
Sawyer laughed and says: "I hope I didn't make you any trouble. I kind a
heard I did. But this letter came to me from your boy, and I showed it
to the postmaster, and he laughed; and so I thought I'd have a little
fun, and I had it answered. You don't mind, do you, Mitchie?" And he
kind of put his hand on Mitchie's head. "Oh," says Mitch, "there might
be two persons with the same names." Tom Sawyer laughed and said, "Not
in this town--anyway I had that letter written you, Mitchie, and I'm
sorry now, since you took it in earnest. I meant no harm. There never
was any boy here of that name, and no Huckleberry Finn. It was all made
up, even though it does sound real and boys believe it. How'd you like
to have some bologna?" He gave both of us some. Then we talked a bit and
left.
After that Mitch wasn't interested in anything. He didn't want to see
the town; he just sat in front of the hotel, and our pas went around
lookin' up the places where Mark Twain had been, and talkin' to folks
who knew where Mark Twain got this character and the other for his book.
And finally Mitch said to me: "I had a dream last night, and now I know
what it means. I dreamed the engines on the trains wouldn't work any
more, or wouldn't work very well, and they had to hitch horses to the
engines to pull the trains. So everywhere you'd see an engine and a
train and at the head of the engine a team of horses, pullin' it and the
train. And it means that what was so beautiful and wonderful ain't true
and won't work and after all, you're just where you were, back with
horses, so to speak, and no engines; back in Petersburg, with all the
wonder of Tom Sawyer gone forever." And Mitch began to cry. I didn't
know what to say or to do. It was all true. There wasn't any Tom Sawyer;
and this town--why we couldn't find a thing like it was in the book.
Pretty soon our pas came back and Mitch says, "When you goin' to leave?"
"This afternoon," says my pa. Then Mitch says: "Let's go. I don't feel
well. I want to go home."
Then Mr. Miller tried to comfort Mitch and tell him that life was full
of disappointments; that everything that happens when you're a boy,
happens over when you're a man, just like it, but hurts worse. And that
people must dis-cip-line themselves to stand it, and make the most of
life, and do for others, and love God and keep His commandments. Mitch
didn't say nothin'. He just set quiet, every now and then brushin' a
tear out of his eye.
When our pas had walked away, Mitch says: "Now you see the whole thing,
Skeet. You've lost Tom as much as I have; but I've lost more'n you. I've
lost Zueline. Both in the same summer. I don't know what I'm goin' to
do. I want to go home."
And then Mitch said: "I'm mad at my pa. He ought not to brought me here.
He ought not to have showed us that butcher. It's too much. He ought to
have left us still believin' in the book."