a change. They were
attracted  by this idea; so it was not long before they were stripped, and
striped  from head to heel with black mud, like so many zebras-all of them
chiefs,  of  course-and then they went tearing through the woods to attack
an English settlement.
   By  and  by  they  separated into three hostile tribes, and darted upon
each  other  from  ambush with dreadful war-whoops, and killed and scalped
each  other  by  thousands.  It  was  a  gory  day. Consequently it was an
extremely satisfactory one.
   They  assembled in camp toward supper-time, hungry and happy; but now a
difficulty  arose-hostile Indians could not break the bread of hospitality
together  without  first making peace, and this was a simple impossibility
without smoking a pipe of peace. There was no other process that ever they
had  heard of. Two of the savages almost wished they had remained pirates.
However, there was no other way; so with such show of cheerfulness as they
could  muster  they called for the pipe and took their whiff as it passed,
in due form.
   And  behold,  they  were glad they had gone into savagery, for they had
gained  something;  they  found that they could now smoke a little without
having to go and hunt for a lost knife; they did not get sick enough to be
seriously  uncomfortable.  They  were  not  likely  to fool away this high
promise  for  lack of effort. No, they practised cautiously, after supper,
with  right  fair success, and so they spent a jubilant evening. They were
prouder  and happier in their new acquirement than they would have been in
the  scalping and skinning of the Six Nations. We will leave them to smoke
and chatter and brag, since we have no further use for them at present.


        Chapter XVII

   BUT  there  was  no  hilarity  in  the  little  town that same tranquil
Saturday  afternoon.  The Harpers, and Aunt Polly's family, were being put
into mourning, with great grief and many tears. An unusual quiet possessed
the  village,  although it was ordinarily quiet enough, in all conscience.
The  villagers  conducted  their  concerns  with an absent air, and talked
little; but they sighed often. The Saturday holiday seemed a burden to the
children. They had no heart in their sports, and gradually gave them up.
   In the afternoon Becky Thatcher found herself moping about the deserted
schoolhouse yard, and feeling very melancholy. But she found nothing there
to comfort her. She soliloquized:
   "Oh,  if  I  only  had  a  brass  andiron-knob again! But I haven't got
anything now to remember him by." And she choked back a little sob.
   Presently she stopped, and said to herself:
   "It  was  right  here.  Oh,  if it was to do over again, I wouldn't say
that-I wouldn't say it for the whole world. But he's gone now; I'll never,
never, never see him any more."
   This  thought broke her down, and she wandered away, with tears rolling
down  her  cheeks. Then quite a group of boys and girls-playmates of Tom's
and  Joe's-came by, and stood looking over the paling fence and talking in
reverent  tones  of  how Tom did so-and-so the last time they saw him, and
how  Joe said this and that small trifle (pregnant with awful prophecy, as
they  could  easily  see now!)-and each speaker pointed out the exact spot
where  the lost lads stood at the time, and then added something like "and
I  was a-standing just so-just as I am now, and as if you was him-I was as
close as that-and he smiled, just this way-and then something seemed to go
all  over  me,  like-awful, you know-and I never thought what it meant, of
course, but I can see now!"
   Then  there was a dispute about who saw the dead boys last in life, and
many  claimed that dismal distinction, and offered evidences, more or less
tampered  with  by the witness; and when it was ultimately decided who DID
see  the  departed last, and exchanged the last words with them, the lucky
parties  took  upon themselves a sort of sacred importance, and were gaped
at and envied by all the rest. One poor chap, who had no other grandeur to
offer, said with tolerably manifest pride in the remembrance:
   "Well, Tom Sawyer he licked me once."
   But  that bid for glory was a failure. Most of the boys could say that,
and  so  that cheapened the distinction too much. The group loitered away,
still recalling memories of the lost heroes, in awed voices.
   When  the  Sunday-school  hour was finished, the next morning, the bell
began  to  toll,  instead of ringing in the usual way. It was a very still
Sabbath,  and  the  mournful  sound seemed in keeping with the musing hush
that lay upon nature. The villagers began to gather, loitering a moment in
the  vestibule  to converse in whispers about the sad event. But there was
no  whispering  in the house; only the funereal rustling of dresses as the
women  gathered  to  their  seats  disturbed the silence there. None could
remember when the little church had been so full before. There was finally
a  waiting  pause,  an  expectant  dumbness,  and then Aunt Polly entered,
followed  by  Sid  and  Mary,  and  they by the Harper family, all in deep
black,  and  the  whole  congregation,  the  old  minister  as  well, rose
reverently  and  stood  until  the  mourners were seated in the front pew.
There  was another communing silence, broken at intervals by muffled sobs,
and  then  the  minister spread his hands abroad and prayed. A moving hymn
was sung, and the text followed: "I am the Resurrection and the Life."
   As  the  service  proceeded,  the  clergyman  drew such pictures of the
graces, the winning ways, and the rare promise of the lost lads that every
soul  there,  thinking  he  recognized  these  pictures,  felt  a  pang in
remembering  that  he  had  persistently  blinded  himself  to them always
before,  and  had  as  persistently seen only faults and flaws in the poor
boys.  The  minister  related many a touching incident in the lives of the
departed,  too,  which  illustrated their sweet, generous natures, and the
people could easily see, now, how noble and beautiful those episodes were,
and  remembered  with grief that at the time they occurred they had seemed
rank  rascalities,  well deserving of the cowhide. The congregation became
more  and more moved, as the pathetic tale went on, till at last the whole
company  broke  down  and  joined  the  weeping  mourners  in  a chorus of
anguished  sobs,  the  preacher  himself  giving  way to his feelings, and
crying in the pulpit.
   There was a rustle in the gallery, which nobody noticed; a moment later
the  church door creaked; the minister raised his streaming eyes above his
handkerchief,  and  stood  transfixed!  First one and then another pair of
eyes  followed  the  minister's,  and  then  almost  with  one impulse the
congregation  rose  and  stared while the three dead boys came marching up
the  aisle,  Tom in the lead, Joe next, and Huck, a ruin of drooping rags,
sneaking  sheepishly  in the rear! They had been hid in the unused gallery
listening to their own funeral sermon!
   Aunt  Polly, Mary, and the Harpers threw themselves upon their restored
ones,  smothered them with kisses and poured out thanksgivings, while poor
Huck  stood  abashed  and uncomfortable, not knowing exactly what to do or
where  to  hide  from so many unwelcoming eyes. He wavered, and started to
slink away, but Tom seized him and said:
   "Aunt Polly, it ain't fair. Somebody's got to be glad to see Huck."
   "And  so  they  shall. I'm glad to see him, poor motherless thing!" And
the  loving  attentions  Aunt  Polly  lavished upon him were the one thing
capable of making him more uncomfortable than he was before.
   Suddenly the minister shouted at the top of his voice: "Praise God from
whom all blessings flow-SING!-and put your hearts in it!"
   And they did. Old Hundred swelled up with a triumphant burst, and while
it  shook the rafters Tom Sawyer the Pirate looked around upon the envying
juveniles  about him and confessed in his heart that this was the proudest
moment of his life.
   As  the  "sold" congregation trooped out they said they would almost be
willing  to  be  made  ridiculous again to hear Old Hundred sung like that
once more.
   Tom  got  more  cuffs  and  kisses  that  day-according to Aunt Polly's
varying  moods-than  he  had  earned  before in a year; and he hardly knew
which expressed the most gratefulness to God and affection for himself.


        Chapter XVIII

   That  was Tom's great secret-the scheme to return home with his brother
pirates  and  attend  their  own  funerals.  They  had paddled over to the
Missouri  shore  on  a log, at dusk on Saturday, landing five or six miles
below  the  village;  they  had slept in the woods at the edge of the town
till nearly daylight, and had then crept through back lanes and alleys and
finished  their  sleep  in  the  gallery  of  the  church among a chaos of
invalided benches.
   At  breakfast,  Monday morning, Aunt Polly and Mary were very loving to
Tom, and very attentive to his wants. There was an unusual amount of talk.
In the course of it Aunt Polly said:
   "Well,  I  don't  say  it  wasn't  a  fine joke, Tom, to keep everybody
suffering  'most  a week so you boys had a good time, but it is a pity you
could be so hard-hearted as to let me suffer so. If you could come over on
a  log  to go to your funeral, you could have come over and give me a hint
some way that you warn't dead, but only run off."
   "Yes,  you  could  have  done that, Tom," said Mary; "and I believe you
would if you had thought of it."
   "Would  you,  Tom?" said Aunt Polly, her face lighting wistfully. "Say,
now, would you, if you'd thought of it?"
   "I-well, I don't know. 'Twould 'a' spoiled everything."
   "Tom,  I hoped you loved me that much," said Aunt Polly, with a grieved
tone  that  discomforted  the  boy. "It would have been something if you'd
cared enough to THINK of it, even if you didn't DO it."
   "Now,  auntie,  that  ain't  any  harm," pleaded Mary; "it's only Tom's
giddy way-he is always in such a rush that he never thinks of anything."
   "More's  the  pity. Sid would have thought. And Sid would have come and
DONE  it,  too.  Tom,  you'll look back, some day, when it's too late, and
wish  you'd  cared  a  little  more  for me when it would have cost you so
little."
   "Now, auntie, you know I do care for you," said Tom.
   "I'd know it better if you acted more like it."
   "I  wish  now  I'd  thought,"  said  Tom, with a repentant tone; "but I
dreamt about you, anyway. That's something, ain't it?"
   "It  ain't much-a cat does that much-but it's better than nothing. What
did you dream?"
   "Why,  Wednesday  night I dreamt that you was sitting over there by the
bed, and Sid was sitting by the woodbox, and Mary next to him."
   "Well, so we did. So we always do. I'm glad your dreams could take even
that much trouble about us."
   "And I dreamt that Joe Harper's mother was here."
   "Why, she was here! Did you dream any more?"
   "Oh, lots. But it's so dim, now."
   "Well, try to recollect-can't you?"
   "Somehow it seems to me that the wind-the wind blowed the-the-"
   "Try harder, Tom! The wind did blow something. Come!"
   Tom  pressed  his  fingers  on his forehead an anxious minute, and then
said:
   "I've got it now! I've got it now! It blowed the candle!"
   "Mercy on us! Go on, Tom-go on!"
   "And it seems to me that you said, 'Why, I believe that that door-'"
   "Go ON, Tom!"
   "Just  let  me  study  a  moment-just  a  moment.  Oh, yes-you said you
believed the door was open."
   "As I'm sitting here, I did! Didn't I, Mary! Go on!"
   "And then-and then-well I won't be certain, but it seems like as if you
made Sid go and-and-"
   "Well? Well? What did I make him do, Tom? What did I make him do?"
   "You made him-you-Oh, you made him shut it."
   "Well,  for  the  land's sake! I never heard the beat of that in all my
days!  Don't  tell  ME  there  ain't  anything in dreams, any more. Sereny
Harper  shall  know  of this before I'm an hour older. I'd like to see her
get around THIS with her rubbage 'bout superstition. Go on, Tom!"
   "Oh,  it's  all  getting  just  as  bright as day, now. Next you said I
warn't   BAD,   only  mischeevous  and  harum-scarum,  and  not  any  more
responsible than-than-I think it was a colt, or something."
   "And so it was! Well, goodness gracious! Go on, Tom!"
   "And then you began to cry."
   "So I did. So I did. Not the first time, neither. And then-"
   "Then Mrs. Harper she began to cry, and said Joe was just the same, and
she  wished  she hadn't whipped him for taking cream when she'd throwed it
out her own self-"
   "Tom!  The  sperrit was upon you! You was a prophesying-that's what you
was doing! Land alive, go on, Tom!"
   "Then Sid he said-he said-"
   "I don't think I said anything," said Sid.
   "Yes you did, Sid," said Mary.
   "Shut your heads and let Tom go on! What did he say, Tom?"
   "He said-I THINK he said he hoped I was better off where I was gone to,
but if I'd been better sometimes-"
   "THERE, d'you hear that! It was his very words!"
   "And you shut him up sharp."
   "I  lay  I  did! There must 'a' been an angel there. There WAS an angel
there, somewheres!"
   "And Mrs. Harper told about Joe scaring her with a firecracker, and you
told about Peter and the Painkiller-"
   "Just as true as I live!"
   "And  then  there  was a whole lot of talk 'bout dragging the river for
us,  and 'bout having the funeral Sunday, and then you and old Miss Harper
hugged and cried, and she went."
   "It  happened just so! It happened just so, as sure as I'm a-sitting in
these  very  tracks. Tom, you couldn't told it more like if you'd 'a' seen
it! And then what? Go on, Tom!"
   "Then  I  thought  you prayed for me-and I could see you and hear every
word  you  said.  And  you went to bed, and I was so sorry that I took and
wrote  on  a  piece of sycamore bark, 'We ain't dead-we are only off being
pirates,'  and  put  it on the table by the candle; and then you looked so
good,  laying  there  asleep,  that  I  thought I went and leaned over and
kissed you on the lips."
   "Did  you,  Tom,  DID you! I just forgive you everything for that!" And
she  seized  the  boy  in  a  crushing embrace that made him feel like the
guiltiest of villains.
   "It  was  very kind, even though it was only a-dream," Sid soliloquized
just audibly.
   "Shut  up,  Sid!  A body does just the same in a dream as he'd do if he
was  awake. Here's a big Milum apple I've been saving for you, Tom, if you
was  ever found again-now go 'long to school. I'm thankful to the good God
and Father of us all I've got you back, that's long-suffering and merciful
to  them  that believe on Him and keep His word, though goodness knows I'm
unworthy  of it, but if only the worthy ones got His blessings and had His
hand  to  help  them over the rough places, there's few enough would smile
here  or ever enter into His rest when the long night comes. Go 'long Sid,
Mary, Tom-take yourselves off-you've hendered me long enough."
   The  children  left for school, and the old lady to call on Mrs. Harper
and  vanquish  her  realism  with  Tom's  marvellous dream. Sid had better
judgment  than  to  utter  the thought that was in his mind as he left the
house.  It  was  this:  "Pretty  thin-as long a dream as that, without any
mistakes in it!"
   What  a  hero Tom was become, now! He did not go skipping and prancing,
but  moved  with  a dignified swagger as became a pirate who felt that the
public  eye was on him. And indeed it was; he tried not to seem to see the
looks or hear the remarks as he passed along, but they were food and drink
to  him.  Smaller  boys  than himself flocked at his heels, as proud to be
seen  with him, and tolerated by him, as if he had been the drummer at the
head  of  a procession or the elephant leading a menagerie into town. Boys
of  his  own  size pretended not to know he had been away at all; but they
were  consuming with envy, nevertheless. They would have given anything to
have that swarthy suntanned skin of his, and his glittering notoriety; and
Tom would not have parted with either for a circus.
   At  school  the  children made so much of him and of Joe, and delivered
such  eloquent  admiration  from  their eyes, that the two heroes were not
long  in  becoming  insufferably  "stuck-up."  They  began  to  tell their
adventures  to  hungry  listeners-but  they only began; it was not a thing
likely  to have an end, with imaginations like theirs to furnish material.
And  finally,  when  they  got  out  their pipes and went serenely puffing
around, the very summit of glory was reached.
   Tom  decided  that he could be independent of Becky Thatcher now. Glory
was  sufficient.  He  would live for glory. Now that he was distinguished,
maybe she would be wanting to "make up." Well, let her-she should see that
he  could  be  as indifferent as some other people. Presently she arrived.
Tom pretended not to see her. He moved away and joined a group of boys and
girls and began to talk. Soon he observed that she was tripping gayly back
and  forth  with  flushed  face  and  dancing  eyes, pretending to be busy
chasing  schoolmates, and screaming with laughter when she made a capture;
but he noticed that she always made her captures in his vicinity, and that
she seemed to cast a conscious eye in his direction at such times, too. It
gratified  all  the  vicious  vanity  that  was in him; and so, instead of
winning  him, it only "set him up" the more and made him the more diligent
to  avoid  betraying  that  he knew she was about. Presently she gave over
skylarking,  and  moved  irresolutely  about,  sighing  once  or twice and
glancing  furtively  and  wistfully toward Tom. Then she observed that now
Tom  was  talking  more particularly to Amy Lawrence than to any one else.
She  felt a sharp pang and grew disturbed and uneasy at once. She tried to
go  away,  but  her  feet  were  treacherous, and carried her to the group
instead. She said to a girl almost at Tom's elbow-with sham vivacity:
   "Why, Mary Austin! you bad girl, why didn't you come to Sunday-school?"
   "I did come-didn't you see me?"
   "Why, no! Did you? Where did you sit?"
   "I was in Miss Peters' class, where I always go. I saw YOU."
   "Did  you? Why, it's funny I didn't see you. I wanted to tell you about
the picnic."
   "Oh, that's jolly. Who's going to give it?"
   "My ma's going to let me have one."
   "Oh, goody; I hope she'll let ME come."
   "Well,  she  will.  The picnic's for me. She'll let anybody come that I
want, and I want you."
   "That's ever so nice. When is it going to be?"
   "By and by. Maybe about vacation."
   "Oh, won't it be fun! You going to have all the girls and boys?"
   "Yes,  every  one that's friends to me-or wants to be"; and she glanced
ever  so furtively at Tom, but he talked right along to Amy Lawrence about
the  terrible  storm  on  the island, and how the lightning tore the great
sycamore  tree  "all to flinders" while he was "standing within three feet
of it."
   "Oh, may I come?" said Grace Miller.
   "Yes."
   "And me?" said Sally Rogers.
   "Yes."
   "And me, too?" said Susy Harper. "And Joe?"
   "Yes."
   And  so on, with clapping of joyful hands till all the group had begged
for  invitations  but  Tom  and  Amy.  Then  Tom turned coolly away, still
talking,  and  took Amy with him. Becky's lips trembled and the tears came
to  her  eyes;  she  hid  these  signs  with  a  forced gayety and went on
chattering,  but  the  life  had  gone  out of the picnic, now, and out of
everything else; she got away as soon as she could and hid herself and had
what  her  sex  call "a good cry." Then she sat moody, with wounded pride,
till the bell rang. She roused up, now, with a vindictive cast in her eye,
and gave her plaited tails a shake and said she knew what SHE'D do.
   At   recess  Tom  continued  his  flirtation  with  Amy  with  jubilant
self-satisfaction.  And  he kept drifting about to find Becky and lacerate
her  with  the  performance.  At last he spied her, but there was a sudden
falling  of  his  mercury. She was sitting cosily on a little bench behind
the  schoolhouse  looking  at  a  picture-book  with  Alfred Temple-and so
absorbed  were they, and their heads so close together over the book, that
they  did  not  seem  to  be  conscious  of anything in the world besides.
Jealousy  ran  red-hot  through  Tom's veins. He began to hate himself for
throwing away the chance Becky had offered for a reconciliation. He called
himself a fool, and all the hard names he could think of. He wanted to cry
with  vexation.  Amy  chatted happily along, as they walked, for her heart
was  singing, but Tom's tongue had lost its function. He did not hear what
Amy  was saying, and whenever she paused expectantly he could only stammer
an  awkward  assent,  which  was  as often misplaced as otherwise. He kept
drifting  to  the  rear  of  the schoolhouse, again and again, to sear his
eyeballs  with  the  hateful spectacle there. He could not help it. And it
maddened  him to see, as he thought he saw, that Becky Thatcher never once
suspected  that  he  was  even in the land of the living. But she did see,
nevertheless; and she knew she was winning her fight, too, and was glad to
see him suffer as she had suffered.
   Amy's  happy prattle became intolerable. Tom hinted at things he had to
attend  to;  things  that  must  be  done;  and  time was fleeting. But in
vain-the  girl  chirped on. Tom thought, "Oh, hang her, ain't I ever going
to  get  rid of her?" At last he must be attending to those things-and she
said  artlessly  that  she  would  be "around" when school let out. And he
hastened away, hating her for it.
   "Any  other boy!" Tom thought, grating his teeth. "Any boy in the whole
town  but  that  Saint  Louis smarty that thinks he dresses so fine and is
aristocracy!  Oh,  all right, I licked you the first day you ever saw this
town, mister, and I'll lick you again! You just wait till I catch you out!
I'll just take and-"
   And   he   went   through   the   motions  of  thrashing  an  imaginary
boy-pummelling  the air, and kicking and gouging. "Oh, you do, do you? You
holler  'nough,  do  you?  Now,  then,  let  that  learn  you!" And so the
imaginary flogging was finished to his satisfaction.
   Tom  fled  home  at  noon.  His conscience could not endure any more of
Amy's grateful happiness, and his jealousy could bear no more of the other
distress.  Becky  resumed  her picture inspections with Alfred, but as the
minutes  dragged  along  and  no  Tom came to suffer, her triumph began to
cloud  and  she lost interest; gravity and absent-mindedness followed, and
then  melancholy; two or three times she pricked up her ear at a footstep,
but  it was a false hope; no Tom came. At last she grew entirely miserable
and  wished she hadn't carried it so far. When poor Alfred, seeing that he
was  losing her, he did not know how, kept exclaiming: "Oh, here's a jolly
one! look at this!" she lost patience at last, and said, "Oh, don't bother
me!  I  don't  care for them!" and burst into tears, and got up and walked
away.
   Alfred  dropped  alongside and was going to try to comfort her, but she
said:
   "Go away and leave me alone, can't you! I hate you!"
   So  the  boy halted, wondering what he could have done-for she had said
she  would  look  at  pictures  all through the nooning-and she walked on,
crying.  Then  Alfred  went  musing  into the deserted schoolhouse. He was
humiliated  and angry. He easily guessed his way to the truth-the girl had
simply made a convenience of him to vent her spite upon Tom Sawyer. He was
far  from hating Tom the less when this thought occurred to him. He wished
there  was  some  way  to  get  that boy into trouble without much risk to
himself. Tom's spelling-book fell under his eye. Here was his opportunity.
He  gratefully  opened to the lesson for the afternoon and poured ink upon
the page.
   Becky,  glancing  in at a window behind him at the moment, saw the act,
and  moved  on,  without  discovering  herself. She started homeward, now,
intending  to  find  Tom  and  tell  him;  Tom would be thankful and their
troubles  would  be healed. Before she was half way home, however, she had
changed  her  mind.  The  thought  of  Tom's treatment of her when she was
talking  about  her  picnic came scorching back and filled her with shame.
She  resolved  to  let  him  get  whipped  on  the damaged spelling-book's
account, and to hate him forever, into the bargain.


        Chapter XIX

   Tom arrived at home in a dreary mood, and the first thing his aunt said
to  him  showed  him  that  he  had  brought his sorrows to an unpromising
market:
   "Tom, I've a notion to skin you alive!"
   "Auntie, what have I done?"
   "Well, you've done enough. Here I go over to Sereny Harper, like an old
softy, expecting I'm going to make her believe all that rubbage about that
dream,  when  lo and behold you she'd found out from Joe that you was over
here  and  heard all the talk we had that night. Tom, I don't know what is
to  become  of  a  boy that will act like that. It makes me feel so bad to
think  you could let me go to Sereny Harper and make such a fool of myself
and never say a word."
   This  was  a  new aspect of the thing. His smartness of the morning had
seemed  to  Tom  a  good joke before, and very ingenious. It merely looked
mean  and  shabby now. He hung his head and could not think of anything to
say for a moment. Then he said:
   "Auntie, I wish I hadn't done it-but I didn't think."
   "Oh,  child,  you never think. You never think of anything but your own
selfishness.  You could think to come all the way over here from Jackson's
Island  in the night to laugh at our troubles, and you could think to fool
me  with  a  lie about a dream; but you couldn't ever think to pity us and
save us from sorrow."
   "Auntie,  I  know  now  it  was  mean,  but I didn't mean to be mean. I
didn't,  honest. And besides, I didn't come over here to laugh at you that
night."
   "What did you come for, then?"
   "It  was  to  tell you not to be uneasy about us, because we hadn't got
drownded."
   "Tom,  Tom,  I  would be the thankfullest soul in this world if I could
believe  you  ever  had  as good a thought as that, but you know you never
did-and I know it, Tom."
   "Indeed and 'deed I did, auntie-I wish I may never stir if I didn't."
   "Oh,  Tom,  don't lie-don't do it. It only makes things a hundred times
worse."
   "It  ain't  a  lie,  auntie;  it's the truth. I wanted to keep you from
grieving-that was all that made me come."
   "I'd  give the whole world to believe that-it would cover up a power of
sins,  Tom. I'd 'most be glad you'd run off and acted so bad. But it ain't
reasonable; because, why didn't you tell me, child?"
   "Why,  you  see,  when you got to talking about the funeral, I just got
all  full  of  the  idea  of  our  coming  and hiding in the church, and I
couldn't  somehow  bear  to  spoil  it.  So I just put the bark back in my
pocket and kept mum."
   "What bark?"
   "The  bark  I had wrote on to tell you we'd gone pirating. I wish, now,
you'd waked up when I kissed you-I do, honest."
   The  hard  lines  in  his  aunt's  face relaxed and a sudden tenderness
dawned in her eyes.
   "DID you kiss me, Tom?"
   "Why, yes, I did."
   "Are you sure you did, Tom?"
   "Why, yes, I did, auntie-certain sure."
   "What did you kiss me for, Tom?"
   "Because I loved you so, and you laid there moaning and I was so sorry."
   The  words  sounded like truth. The old lady could not hide a tremor in
her voice when she said:
   "Kiss  me  again,  Tom!-and  be  off with you to school, now, and don't
bother me any more."
   The  moment  he was gone, she ran to a closet and got out the ruin of a
jacket  which  Tom  had gone pirating in. Then she stopped, with it in her
hand, and said to herself:
   "No,  I  don't  dare.  Poor boy, I reckon he's lied about it-but it's a
blessed,  blessed  lie,  there's  such  a comfort come from it. I hope the
Lord-I KNOW the Lord will forgive him, because it was such goodheartedness
in him to tell it. But I don't want to find out it's a lie. I won't look."
   She  put  the  jacket away, and stood by musing a minute. Twice she put
out her hand to take the garment again, and twice she refrained. Once more
she  ventured, and this time she fortified herself with the thought: "It's
a  good  lie-it's  a good lie-I won't let it grieve me." So she sought the
jacket  pocket. A moment later she was reading Tom's piece of bark through
flowing tears and saying: "I could forgive the boy, now, if he'd committed
a million sins!"


        Chapter XX

   There  was  something  about  Aunt Polly's manner, when she kissed Tom,
that swept away his low spirits and made him lighthearted and happy again.
He started to school and had the luck of coming upon Becky Thatcher at the
head  of  Meadow  Lane.  His  mood always determined his manner. Without a
moment's hesitation he ran to her and said:
   "I  acted  mighty  mean  to-day, Becky, and I'm so sorry. I won't ever,
ever do that way again, as long as ever I live-please make up, won't you?"
   The girl stopped and looked him scornfully in the face:
   "I'll  thank  you to keep yourself TO yourself, Mr. Thomas Sawyer. I'll
never speak to you again."
   She  tossed  her head and passed on. Tom was so stunned that he had not
even  presence  of  mind enough to say "Who cares, Miss Smarty?" until the
right time to say it had gone by. So he said nothing. But he was in a fine
rage,  nevertheless.  He moped into the schoolyard wishing she were a boy,
and  imagining  how  he  would  trounce  her  if  she  were.  He presently
encountered  her  and delivered a stinging remark as he passed. She hurled
one  in  return, and the angry breach was complete. It seemed to Becky, in
her  hot  resentment,  that she could hardly wait for school to "take in,"
she  was so impatient to see Tom flogged for the injured spelling-book. If
she  had  had  any  lingering  notion  of  exposing  Alfred  Temple, Tom's
offensive fling had driven it entirely away.
   Poor  girl,  she did not know how fast she was nearing trouble herself.
The  master,  Mr.  Dobbins,  had  reached  middle  age with an unsatisfied
ambition.  The darling of his desires was, to be a doctor, but poverty had
decreed  that  he  should  be  nothing higher than a village schoolmaster.
Every  day  he took a mysterious book out of his desk and absorbed himself
in it at times when no classes were reciting. He kept that book under lock
and  key.  There  was  not an urchin in school but was perishing to have a
glimpse  of it, but the chance never came. Every boy and girl had a theory
about  the  nature of that book; but no two theories were alike, and there
was  no way of getting at the facts in the case. Now, as Becky was passing
by  the  desk,  which stood near the door, she noticed that the key was in
the  lock!  It  was  a  precious moment. She glanced around; found herself
alone,  and  the  next  instant  she  had  the  book  in  her  hands.  The
title-page-Professor  Somebody's  ANATomY-carried  no  information  to her
mind;  so she began to turn the leaves. She came at once upon a handsomely
engraved  and  colored  frontispiece-a  human figure, stark naked. At that
moment a shadow fell on the page and Tom Sawyer stepped in at the door and
caught  a  glimpse of the picture. Becky snatched at the book to close it,
and  had the hard luck to tear the pictured page half down the middle. She
thrust the volume into the desk, turned the key, and burst out crying with
shame and vexation.
   "Tom  Sawyer,  you  are  just  as  mean as you can be, to sneak up on a
person and look at what they're looking at."
   "How could I know you was looking at anything?"
   "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Tom Sawyer; you know you're going
to  tell on me, and oh, what shall I do, what shall I do! I'll be whipped,
and I never was whipped in school."
   Then she stamped her little foot and said:
   "BE  so  mean  if you want to! I know something that's going to happen.
You  just  wait  and you'll see! Hateful, hateful, hateful!"-and she flung
out of the house with a new explosion of crying.
   Tom  stood still, rather flustered by this onslaught. Presently he said
to himself:
   "What  a curious kind of a fool a girl is! Never been licked in school!
Shucks!  What's a licking! That's just like a girl-they're so thin-skinned
and  chicken-hearted. Well, of course I ain't going to tell old Dobbins on
this  little fool, because there's other ways of getting even on her, that
ain't  so  mean;  but what of it? Old Dobbins will ask who it was tore his
book.  Nobody'll  answer.  Then  he'll  do just the way he always does-ask
first one and then t'other, and when he comes to the right girl he'll know
it,  without any telling. Girls' faces always tell on them. They ain't got
any  backbone.  She'll  get licked. Well, it's a kind of a tight place for
Becky  Thatcher,  because  there  ain't any way out of it." Tom conned the
thing  a  moment longer, and then added: "All right, though; she'd like to
see me in just such a fix-let her sweat it out!"
   Tom joined the mob of skylarking scholars outside. In a few moments the
master arrived and school "took in." Tom did not feel a strong interest in
his  studies.  Every time he stole a glance at the girls' side of the room
Becky's face troubled him. Considering all things, he did not want to pity
her,  and  yet  it  was  all  he  could  do to help it. He could get up no
exultation  that  was  really worthy the name. Presently the spelling-book
discovery  was  made,  and Tom's mind was entirely full of his own matters
for  a while after that. Becky roused up from her lethargy of distress and
showed good interest in the proceedings. She did not expect that Tom could
get  out  of  his  trouble  by  denying  that he spilt the ink on the book
himself; and she was right. The denial only seemed to make the thing worse
for  Tom.  Becky  supposed  she  would  be  glad of that, and she tried to
believe  she  was  glad of it, but she found she was not certain. When the
worst  came  to the worst, she had an impulse to get up and tell on Alfred
Temple,  but  she made an effort and forced herself to keep still-because,
said  she  to  herself,  "he'll  tell about me tearing the picture sure. I
wouldn't say a word, not to save his life!"
   Tom   took  his  whipping  and  went  back  to  his  seat  not  at  all
broken-hearted,  for  he  thought  it was possible that he had unknowingly
upset  the ink on the spellingbook himself, in some skylarking bout-he had
denied  it for form's sake and because it was cusTom, and had stuck to the
denial from principle.
   A  whole hour drifted by, the master sat nodding in his throne, the air
was  drowsy  with  the  hum  of study. By and by, Mr. Dobbins straightened
himself  up, yawned, then unlocked his desk, and reached for his book, but
seemed  undecided  whether  to take it out or leave it. Most of the pupils
glanced  up  languidly,  but  there  were  two among them that watched his
movements  with  intent eyes. Mr. Dobbins fingered his book absently for a
while, then took it out and settled himself in his chair to read! Tom shot
a  glance  at  Becky. He had seen a hunted and helpless rabbit look as she
did, with a gun levelled at its head. Instantly he forgot his quarrel with
her.  Quick-something  must  be  done!  done in a flash, too! But the very
imminence  of  the  emergency  paralyzed  his  invention.  Good!-he had an
inspiration! He would run and snatch the book, spring through the door and
fly.  But  his resolution shook for one little instant, and the chance was
lost-the  master opened the volume. If Tom only had the wasted opportunity
back  again!  Too late. There was no help for Becky now, he said. The next
moment  the  master faced the school. Every eye sank under his gaze. There
was  that in it which smote even the innocent with fear. There was silence
while  one  might  count  ten-the  master was gathering his wrath. Then he
spoke: "Who tore this book?"
   There  was  not a sound. One could have heard a pin drop. The stillness
continued; the master searched face after face for signs of guilt.
   "Benjamin Rogers, did you tear this book?"
   A denial. Another pause.
   "Joseph Harper, did you?"
   Another  denial.  Tom's uneasiness grew more and more intense under the
slow  torture  of  these  proceedings.  The  master  scanned  the ranks of
boys-considered a while, then turned to the girls:
   "Amy Lawrence?"
   A shake of the head.
   "Gracie Miller?"
   The same sign.
   "Susan Harper, did you do this?"
   Another  negative.  The next girl was Becky Thatcher. Tom was trembling
from  head  to foot with excitement and a sense of the hopelessness of the
situation.
   "Rebecca   Thatcher"  [Tom  glanced  at  her  face-it  was  white  with
terror]-"did  you  tear-no,  look  me  in  the  face"  [her  hands rose in
appeal]-"did you tear this book?"
   A  thought  shot  like  lightning through Tom's brain. He sprang to his
feet and shouted-"I done it!"
   The  school  stared in perplexity at this incredible folly. Tom stood a
moment,  to  gather his dismembered faculties; and when he stepped forward
to  go  to  his punishment the surprise, the gratitude, the adoration that
shone  upon  him  out of poor Becky's eyes seemed pay enough for a hundred
floggings.  Inspired  by  the  splendor of his own act, he took without an
outcry  the  most  merciless  flaying  that  even  Mr.  Dobbins  had  ever
administered;  and  also received with indifference the added cruelty of a
command  to  remain two hours after school should be dismissed-for he knew
who  would wait for him outside till his captivity was done, and not count
the tedious time as loss, either.
   Tom  went  to  bed that night planning vengeance against Alfred Temple;
for  with  shame and repentance Becky had told him all, not forgetting her
own  treachery;  but even the longing for vengeance had to give way, soon,
to  pleasanter  musings,  and  he  fell asleep at last with Becky's latest
words lingering dreamily in his ear-
   "Tom, how COULD you be so noble!"


        Chapter XXI

   Vacation was approaching. The schoolmaster, always severe, grew severer
and  more  exacting  than  ever,  for  he wanted the school to make a good
showing  on  "Examination"  day.  His  rod and his ferule were seldom idle
now-at  least  among  the smaller pupils. Only the biggest boys, and young
ladies of eighteen and twenty, escaped lashing. Mr. Dobbins' lashings were
very  vigorous  ones,  too;  for  although  he  carried,  under his wig, a
perfectly  bald  and shiny head, he had only reached middle age, and there
was  no sign of feebleness in his muscle. As the great day approached, all
the  tyranny  that  was  in  him  came to the surface; he seemed to take a
vindictive  pleasure  in punishing the least shortcomings. The consequence
was,  that  the  smaller boys spent their days in terror and suffering and
their nights in plotting revenge. They threw away no opportunity to do the
master  a  mischief.  But he kept ahead all the time. The retribution that
followed every vengeful success was so sweeping and majestic that the boys
always  retired  from  the  field  badly  worsted.  At last they conspired
together  and hit upon a plan that promised a dazzling victory. They swore
in the sign-painter's boy, told him the scheme, and asked his help. He had
his  own  reasons  for  being  delighted,  for  the  master boarded in his
father's  family  and  had  given  the  boy  ample  cause to hate him. The
master's  wife would go on a visit to the country in a few days, and there
would  be  nothing  to interfere with the plan; the master always prepared
himself  for  great  occasions  by  getting  pretty  well fuddled, and the
sign-painter's  boy  said  that  when  the  dominie had reached the proper
condition  on  Examination  Evening  he  would "manage the thing" while he
napped in his chair; then he would have him awakened at the right time and
hurried away to school.
   In  the  fulness  of time the interesting occasion arrived. At eight in
the  evening  the  schoolhouse  was  brilliantly lighted, and adorned with
wreaths and festoons of foliage and flowers. The master sat throned in his
great chair upon a raised platform, with his blackboard behind him. He was
looking  tolerably mellow. Three rows of benches on each side and six rows
in  front  of  him were occupied by the dignitaries of the town and by the
parents  of  the  pupils. To his left, back of the rows of citizens, was a
spacious  temporary  platform upon which were seated the scholars who were
to  take  part in the exercises of the evening; rows of small boys, washed
and dressed to an intolerable state of discomfort; rows of gawky big boys;
snowbanks  of  girls  and  young  ladies  clad  in  lawn  and  muslin  and
conspicuously  conscious  of  their bare arms, their grandmothers' ancient
trinkets,  their  bits  of  pink  and blue ribbon and the flowers in their
hair.  All  the  rest  of  the  house  was  filled  with non-participating
scholars.
   The exercises began. A very little boy stood up and sheepishly recited,
"You'd  scarce  expect  one  of  my  age to speak in public on the stage,"
etc.-accompanying  himself with the painfully exact and spasmodic gestures
which  a  machine might have used-supposing the machine to be a trifle out
of order. But he got through safely, though cruelly scared, and got a fine
round of applause when he made his manufactured bow and retired.
   A  little  shamefaced  girl  lisped,  "Mary  had  a little lamb," etc.,
performed a compassion-inspiring curtsy, got her meed of applause, and sat
down flushed and happy.
   Tom  Sawyer  stepped  forward with conceited confidence and soared into
the  unquenchable  and  indestructible  "Give me liberty or give me death"
speech,  with  fine  fury and frantic gesticulation, and broke down in the
middle of it. A ghastly stage-fright seized him, his legs quaked under him
and  he was like to choke. True, he had the manifest sympathy of the house
but  he  had  the  house's  silence,  too,  which  was even worse than its
sympathy.  The  master  frowned,  and  this  completed  the  disaster. Tom
struggled  awhile  and  then  retired,  utterly defeated. There was a weak
attempt at applause, but it died early.
   "The  Boy  Stood on the Burning Deck" followed; also "The Assyrian Came
Down,"  and other declamatory gems. Then there were reading exercises, and
a  spelling  fight.  The  meagre Latin class recited with honor. The prime
feature  of  the  evening was in order, now-original "compositions" by the
young  ladies.  Each  in  her  turn  stepped  forward  to  the edge of the
platform,  cleared  her  throat,  held up her manuscript (tied with dainty
ribbon), and proceeded to read, with labored attention to "expression" and
punctuation.  The  themes  were  the  same  that had been illuminated upon
similar  occasions  by  their mothers before them, their grandmothers, and
doubtless  all  their  ancestors  in  the  female  line  clear back to the
Crusades.  "Friendship"  was  one;  "Memories of Other Days"; "Religion in
History";  "Dream  Land"; "The Advantages of Culture"; "Forms of Political
Government  Compared  and Contrasted"; "Melancholy"; "Filial Love"; "Heart
Longings," etc., etc.
   A  prevalent  feature  in  these  compositions  was a nursed and petted
melancholy;  another  was  a wasteful and opulent gush of "fine language";
another was a tendency to lug in by the ears particularly prized words and
phrases  until  they  were  worn  entirely  out;  and  a  peculiarity that
conspicuously  marked  and  marred them was the inveterate and intolerable
sermon  that  wagged its crippled tail at the end of each and every one of
them. No matter what the subject might be, a brain-racking effort was made
to  squirm  it into some aspect or other that the moral and religious mind
could  contemplate  with  edification.  The  glaring  insincerity of these
sermons  was  not sufficient to compass the banishment of the fashion from
the  schools, and it is not sufficient to-day; it never will be sufficient
while  the world stands, perhaps. There is no school in all our land where
the  young  ladies  do not feel obliged to close their compositions with a
sermon;  and  you  will find that the sermon of the most frivolous and the
least  religious  girl  in  the  school is always the longest and the most
relentlessly pious. But enough of this. Homely truth is unpalatable.
   Let us return to the "Examination." The first composition that was read
was  one  entitled "Is this, then, Life?" Perhaps the reader can endure an
extract from it:
   "In  the  common  walks of life, with what delightful emotions does the
youthful  mind  look  forward  to  some  anticipated  scene  of festivity!
Imagination  is  busy sketching rose-tinted pictures of joy. In fancy, the
voluptuous  votary  of  fashion sees herself amid the festive throng, 'the
observed  of all observers.' Her graceful form, arrayed in snowy robes, is
whirling  through the mazes of the joyous dance; her eye is brightest, her
step is lightest in the gay assembly.
   "In such delicious fancies time quickly glides by, and the welcome hour
arrives for her entrance into the Elysian world, of which she has had such
bright  dreams.  How  fairy-like  does  everything appear to her enchanted
vision!  Each  new scene is more charming than the last. But after a while
she  finds  that beneath this goodly exterior, all is vanity, the flattery
which  once  charmed  her  soul,  now  grates  harshly  upon  her ear; the
ball-room  has  lost  its  charms;  and  with wasted health and imbittered
heart,  she  turns  away with the conviction that earthly pleasures cannot
satisfy the longings of the soul!"
   And  so forth and so on. There was a buzz of gratification from time to
time  during  the  reading,  accompanied by whispered ejaculations of "How
sweet!"  "How  eloquent!"  "So true!" etc., and after the thing had closed
with a peculiarly afflicting sermon the applause was enthusiastic.
   Then  arose  a  slim, melancholy girl, whose face had the "interesting"
paleness  that  comes  of  pills  and  indigestion, and read a "poem." Two
stanzas of it will do:

               A MISSOURI MAIDEN'S FAREWELL TO ALABAMA

             But yet for a while do I leave thee now!
             Sad, yes, sad thoughts of thee my heart doth swell,
             And burning recollections throng my brow!
             For I have wandered through thy flowery woods;

             Have roamed and read near Tallapoosa's stream;
             Have listened to Tallassee's warring floods,
             And wooed on Coosa's side Aurora's beam.
             Yet shame I not to bear an o'er-full heart,

             Nor blush to turn behind my tearful eyes;
             Tis from no stranger land I now must part,
             Tis to no strangers left I yield these sighs.
             Welcome and home were mine within this State,

             Whose vales I leave-whose spires fade fast from me
             And cold must be mine eyes, and heart, and tete,
             When, dear Alabama! they turn cold on thee!"

   There  were very few there who knew what "tete" meant, but the poem was
very satisfactory, nevertheless.
   Next appeared a dark-complexioned, black-eyed, black-haired young lady,
who paused an impressive moment, assumed a tragic expression, and began to
read in a measured, solemn tone:

        "A VISION

   Dark  and tempestuous was night. Around the throne on high not a single
star  quivered;  but  the deep intonations of the heavy thunder constantly
vibrated  upon  the  ear;  whilst the terrific lightning revelled in angry
mood  through  the  cloudy  chambers of heaven, seeming to scorn the power
exerted  over  its terror by the illustrious Franklin! Even the boisterous
winds  unanimously came forth from their mystic homes, and blustered about
as if to enhance by their aid the wildness of the scene.
   At  such  a time, so dark, so dreary, for human sympathy my very spirit
sighed; but instead thereof,

          My dearest friend, my counsellor, my comforter and guide-
          My joy in grief, my second bliss in joy, came to my side.

   She  moved  like one of those bright beings pictured in the sunny walks
of  fancy's  Eden  by  the romantic and young, a queen of beauty unadorned
save  by  her own transcendent loveliness. So soft was her step, it failed
to  make  even  a  sound,  and  but for the magical thrill imparted by her
genial  touch,  as  other unobtrusive beauties, she would have glided away
un-perceived-unsought.  A  strange  sadness rested upon her features, like
icy  tears  upon  the  robe  of December, as she pointed to the contending
elements without, and bade me contemplate the two beings presented."

   This  nightmare occupied some ten pages of manuscript and wound up with
a  sermon so destructive of all hope to non-Presbyterians that it took the
first  prize. This composition was considered to be the very finest effort
of  the  evening. The mayor of the village, in delivering the prize to the
author  of  it, made a warm speech in which he said that it was by far the
most  "eloquent"  thing  he  had ever listened to, and that Daniel Webster
himself might well be proud of it.
   It  may  be  remarked,  in  passing, that the number of compositions in
which the word "beauteous" was over-fondled, and human experience referred
to as "life's page," was up to the usual average.
   Now  the master, mellow almost to the verge of geniality, put his chair
aside, turned his back to the audience, and began to draw a map of America
on the blackboard, to exercise the geography class upon. But he made a sad
business of it with his unsteady hand, and a smothered titter rippled over
the  house.  He  knew what the matter was, and set himself to right it. He
sponged  out  lines  and remade them; but he only distorted them more than
ever, and the tittering was more pronounced. He threw his entire attention
upon  his  work, now, as if determined not to be put down by the mirth. He
felt  that all eyes were fastened upon him; he imagined he was succeeding,
and yet the tittering continued; it even manifestly increased. And well it
might. There was a garret above, pierced with a scuttle over his head; and
down  through  this scuttle came a cat, suspended around the haunches by a
string;  she  had  a  rag  tied  about  her head and jaws to keep her from
mewing;  as  she  slowly  descended  she  curved  upward and clawed at the
string, she swung downward and clawed at the intangible air. The tittering
rose  higher  and  higher-the  cat  was  within six inches of the absorbed
teacher's  head-down,  down,  a little lower, and she grabbed his wig with
her  desperate  claws, clung to it, and was snatched up into the garret in
an  instant with her trophy still in her possession! And how the light did
blaze  abroad  from  the master's bald pate-for the sign-painter's boy had
GILDED it!
   That broke up the meeting. The boys were avenged. Vacation had come.

NOTE:
   The  pretended  "compositions" quoted in this chapter are taken without
alteration  from  a  volume  entitled  "Prose  and  Poetry,  by  a Western
Lady"-but they are exactly and precisely after the schoolgirl pattern, and
hence are much happier than any mere imitations could be.


        Chapter XXII

   Tom  joined  the  new order of Cadets of Temperance, being attracted by
the  showy  character  of  their  "regalia."  He  promised to abstain from
smoking,  chewing,  and  profanity as long as he remained a member. Now he
found  out  a  new  thing-namely, that to promise not to do a thing is the
surest  way in the world to make a body want to go and do that very thing.
Tom  soon  found  himself  tormented with a desire to drink and swear; the
desire  grew  to  be  so  intense that nothing but the hope of a chance to
display  himself in his red sash kept him from withdrawing from the order.
Fourth  of  July was coming; but he soon gave that up-gave it up before he
had  worn his shackles over forty-eight hours-and fixed his hopes upon old
Judge Frazer, justice of the peace, who was apparently on his deathbed and
would  have a big public funeral, since he was so high an official. During
three days Tom was deeply concerned about the Judge's condition and hungry
for news of it. Sometimes his hopes ran high-so high that he would venture
to get out his regalia and practise before the lookingglass. But the Judge
had a most discouraging way of fluctuating. At last he was pronounced upon
the  mend-and  then  convalescent.  Tom was disgusted; and felt a sense of
injury, too. He handed in his resignation at once-and that night the Judge
suffered  a relapse and died. Tom resolved that he would never trust a man
like that again.
   The  funeral was a fine thing. The Cadets paraded in a style calculated
to kill the late member with envy. Tom was a free boy again, however-there
was  something  in  that.  He  could drink and swear, now-but found to his
surprise  that he did not want to. The simple fact that he could, took the
desire away, and the charm of it.
   Tom  presently wondered to find that his coveted vacation was beginning
to hang a little heavily on his hands.
   He  attempted a diary-but nothing happened during three days, and so he
abandoned it.
   The  first  of  all  the  negro minstrel shows came to town, and made a
sensation.  Tom  and Joe Harper got up a band of performers and were happy
for two days.
   Even  the  Glorious  Fourth  was in some sense a failure, for it rained
hard,  there was no procession in consequence, and the greatest man in the
world  (as  Tom  supposed),  Mr.  Benton, an actual United States Senator,
proved  an  overwhelming  disappointment-for  he  was not twenty-five feet
high, nor even anywhere in the neighborhood of it.
   A circus came. The boys played circus for three days afterward in tents
made  of  rag  carpeting-admission, three pins for boys, two for girls-and
then circusing was abandoned.
   A  phrenologist  and  a  mesmerizer  came-and  went  again and left the
village duller and drearier than ever.
   There  were  some  boys-and-girls' parties, but they were so few and so
delightful that they only made the aching voids between ache the harder.
   Becky  Thatcher  was  gone  to her Constantinople home to stay with her
parents during vacation-so there was no bright side to life anywhere.
   The  dreadful  secret of the murder was a chronic misery. It was a very
cancer for permanency and pain.
   Then came the measles.
   During  two  long  weeks  Tom lay a prisoner, dead to the world and its
happenings.  He  was  very  ill, he was interested in nothing. When he got
upon  his feet at last and moved feebly down-town, a melancholy change had
come  over  everything and every creature. There had been a "revival," and
everybody  had  "got religion," not only the adults, but even the boys and
girls.  Tom  went  about, hoping against hope for the sight of one blessed
sinful  face,  but  disappointment  crossed  him  everywhere. He found Joe
Harper  studying  a  Testament,  and turned sadly away from the depressing
spectacle.  He  sought  Ben Rogers, and found him visiting the poor with a
basket of tracts. He hunted up Jim Hollis, who called his attention to the
precious  blessing  of  his  late  measles  as  a  warning.  Every  boy he
encountered added another ton to his depression; and when, in desperation,
he  flew  for  refuge  at  last  to  the bosom of Huckleberry Finn and was
received  with  a  Scriptural quotation, his heart broke and he crept home
and  to  bed realizing that he alone of all the town was lost, forever and
forever.
   And that night there came on a terrific storm, with driving rain, awful
claps  of  thunder  and  blinding sheets of lightning. He covered his head
with  the  bedclothes and waited in a horror of suspense for his doom; for
he  had  not  the shadow of a doubt that all this hubbub was about him. He
believed he had taxed the forbearance of the powers above to the extremity
of  endurance  and that this was the result. It might have seemed to him a
waste  of  pomp  and ammunition to kill a bug with a battery of artillery,
but  there  seemed  nothing  incongruous  about  the  getting  up  such an
expensive thunderstorm as this to knock the turf from under an insect like
himself.
   By  and  by the tempest spent itself and died without accomplishing its
object. The boy's first impulse was to be grateful, and reform. His second
was to wait-for there might not be any more storms.
   The  next  day the doctors were back; Tom had relapsed. The three weeks
he spent on his back this time seemed an entire age. When he got abroad at
last  he  was  hardly  grateful  that  he had been spared, remembering how
lonely  was  his  estate, how companionless and forlorn he was. He drifted
listlessly  down  the  street  and  found  Jim Hollis acting as judge in a
juvenile  court  that  was trying a cat for murder, in the presence of her
victim,  a  bird.  He  found Joe Harper and Huck Finn up an alley eating a
stolen melon. Poor lads! they-like Tom-had suffered a relapse.


        Chapter XXIII

   At  last  the  sleepy atmosphere was stirred-and vigorously: the murder
trial  came on in the court. It became the absorbing topic of village talk
immediately. Tom could not get away from it. Every reference to the murder
sent  a shudder to his heart, for his troubled conscience and fears almost
persuaded  him  that  these  remarks  were  put  forth  in  his hearing as
"feelers";  he  did  not see how he could be suspected of knowing anything
about  the  murder,  but still he could not be comfortable in the midst of
this  gossip. It kept him in a cold shiver all the time. He took Huck to a
lonely  place  to  have a talk with him. It would be some relief to unseal
his  tongue  for  a  little  while;  to divide his burden of distress with
another  sufferer.  Moreover,  he  wanted  to assure himself that Huck had
remained discreet.
   "Huck, have you ever told anybody about-that?"
   "Bout what?"
   "You know what."
   "Oh-'course I haven't."
   "Never a word?"
   "Never a solitary word, so help me. What makes you ask?"
   "Well, I was afeard."
   "Why,  Tom Sawyer, we wouldn't be alive two days if that got found out.
YOU know that."
   Tom felt more comfortable. After a pause:
   "Huck, they couldn't anybody get you to tell, could they?"
   "Get  me  to  tell? Why, if I wanted that half-breed devil to drownd me
they could get me to tell. They ain't no different way."
   "Well,  that's  all right, then. I reckon we're safe as long as we keep
mum. But let's swear again, anyway. It's more surer."
   "I'm agreed."
   So they swore again with dread solemnities.
   "What is the talk around, Huck? I've heard a power of it."
   "Talk?  Well,  it's  just Muff Potter, Muff Potter, Muff Potter all the
time. It keeps me in a sweat, constant, so's I want to hide som'ers."
   "That's  just  the same way they go on round me. I reckon he's a goner.
Don't you feel sorry for him, sometimes?"
   "Most  always-most always. He ain't no account; but then he hain't ever
done  anything  to hurt anybody. Just fishes a little, to get money to get
drunk on-and loafs around considerable; but lord, we all do that-leastways
most  of us-preachers and such like. But he's kind of good-he give me half
a  fish,  once,  when  there warn't enough for two; and lots of times he's
kind of stood by me when I was out of luck."
   "Well, he's mended kites for me, Huck, and knitted hooks on to my line.
I wish we could get him out of there."
   "My! we couldn't get him out, Tom. And besides, 'twouldn't do any good;
they'd ketch him again."
   "Yes-so  they  would.  But  I  hate  to  hear 'em abuse him so like the
dickens when he never done-that."
   "I do too, Tom. Lord, I hear 'em say he's the bloodiest looking villain
in this country, and they wonder he wasn't ever hung before."
   "Yes,  they talk like that, all the time. I've heard 'em say that if he
was to get free they'd lynch him."
   "And they'd do it, too."
   The  boys  had  a long talk, but it brought them little comfort. As the
twilight  drew on, they found themselves hanging about the neighborhood of
the  little  isolated  jail, perhaps with an undefined hope that something
would  happen  that  might  clear  away  their  difficulties.  But nothing
happened;  there  seemed  to  be  no  angels or fairies interested in this
luckless captive.
   The boys did as they had often done before-went to the cell grating and
gave Potter some tobacco and matches. He was on the ground floor and there
were no guards.
   His  gratitude  for  their  gifts  had  always  smote their consciences
before-it  cut  deeper  than  ever,  this  time.  They  felt  cowardly and
treacherous to the last degree when Potter said:
   "You've  been  mighty  good  to  me, boys-better'n anybody else in this
town.  And  I don't forget it, I don't. Often I says to myself, says I, 'I
used  to  mend all the boys' kites and things, and show 'em where the good
fishin'  places  was,  and  befriend 'em what I could, and now they've all
forgot  old  Muff when he's in trouble; but Tom don't, and Huck don't-THEY
don't forget him, says I, 'and I don't forget them.' Well, boys, I done an
awful  thing-drunk and crazy at the time-that's the only way I account for
it-and  now I got to swing for it, and it's right. Right, and BEST, too, I
reckon-hope  so,  anyway.  Well, we won't talk about that. I don't want to
make YOU feel bad; you've befriended me. But what I want to say, is, don't
YOU  ever  get  drunk-then  you won't ever get here. Stand a litter furder
west-so-that's  it; it's a prime comfort to see faces that's friendly when
a  body's  in  such  a muck of trouble, and there don't none come here but
yourn.  Good  friendly  faces-good friendly faces. Git up on one another's
backs  and  let me touch 'em. That's it. Shake hands-yourn'll come through
the  bars,  but  mine's too big. Little hands, and weak-but they've helped
Muff Potter a power, and they'd help him more if they could."
   Tom  went  home  miserable,  and  his  dreams  that  night were full of
horrors.  The  next  day  and the day after, he hung about the court-room,
drawn  by  an almost irresistible impulse to go in, but forcing himself to
stay  out.  Huck  was  having the same experience. They studiously avoided
each  other.  Each  wandered  away, from time to time, but the same dismal
fascination  always  brought  them  back presently. Tom kept his ears open
when   idlers  sauntered  out  of  the  courtroom,  but  invariably  heard
distressing  news-the toils were closing more and more relentlessly around
poor  Potter.  At  the  end  of the second day the village talk was to the
effect  that  Injun Joe's evidence stood firm and unshaken, and that there
was not the slightest question as to what the jury's verdict would be.
   Tom  was  out  late, that night, and came to bed through the window. He
was  in  a  tremendous  state of excitement. It was hours before he got to
sleep.  All  the  village flocked to the court-house the next morning, for
this was to be the great day. Both sexes were about equally represented in
the  packed  audience.  After a long wait the jury filed in and took their
places;  shortly  afterward, Potter, pale and haggard, timid and hopeless,
was  brought  in,  with  chains upon him, and seated where all the curious
eyes  could  stare  at  him;  no less conspicuous was Injun Joe, stolid as
ever.  There was another pause, and then the judge arrived and the sheriff
proclaimed  the  opening  of  the  court.  The usual whisperings among the
lawyers  and  gathering  together  of  papers  followed. These details and
accompanying  delays  worked  up  an atmosphere of preparation that was as
impressive as it was fascinating.
   Now  a  witness  was  called  who  testified  that he found Muff Potter
washing  in the brook, at an early hour of the morning that the murder was
discovered,  and  that  he  immediately  sneaked  away. After some further
questioning, counsel for the prosecution said:
   "Take the witness."
   The  prisoner raised his eyes for a moment, but dropped them again when
his own counsel said:
   "I have no questions to ask him."
   The  next  witness  proved  the  finding  of the knife near the corpse.
Counsel for the prosecution said:
   "Take the witness."
   "I have no questions to ask him," Potter's lawyer replied.
   A third witness swore he had often seen the knife in Potter's possession.
   "Take the witness."
   Counsel  for Potter declined to question him. The faces of the audience
began  to  betray  annoyance.  Did  this  attorney  mean to throw away his
client's life without an effort?
   Several  witnesses  deposed  concerning  Potter's  guilty behavior when
brought  to  the scene of the murder. They were allowed to leave the stand
without being cross-questioned.
   Every  detail  of  the  damaging  circumstances  that  occurred  in the
graveyard  upon  that  morning  which  all  present remembered so well was
brought  out by credible witnesses, but none of them were crossexamined by
Potter's lawyer. The perplexity and dissatisfaction of the house expressed
itself  in  murmurs and provoked a reproof from the bench. Counsel for the
prosecution now said:
   "By the oaths of citizens whose simple word is above suspicion, we have
fastened  this  awful  crime, beyond all possibility of question, upon the
unhappy prisoner at the bar. We rest our case here."
   A  groan escaped from poor Potter, and he put his face in his hands and
rocked  his body softly to and fro, while a painful silence reigned in the
court-room.  Many  men  were  moved, and many women's compassion testified
itself in tears. Counsel for the defence rose and said:
   "Your  honor,  in  our  remarks  at  the  opening  of  this  trial,  we
foreshadowed  our  purpose  to prove that our client did this fearful deed
while  under  the influence of a blind and irresponsible delirium produced
by  drink.  We have changed our mind. We shall not offer that plea." [Then
to the clerk:] "Call Thomas Sawyer!"
   A  puzzled  amazement  awoke  in  every  face  in  the  house, not even
excepting Potter's. Every eye fastened itself with wondering interest upon
Tom  as  he  rose  and  took his place upon the stand. The boy looked wild
enough, for he was badly scared. The oath was administered.
   "Thomas  Sawyer,  where  were you on the seventeenth of June, about the
hour of midnight?"
   Tom  glanced  at  Injun  Joe's iron face and his tongue failed him. The
audience  listened  breathless, but the words refused to come. After a few
moments,  however,  the boy got a little of his strength back, and managed
to put enough of it into his voice to make part of the house hear:
   "In the graveyard!"
   "A little bit louder, please. Don't be afraid. You were-"
   "In the graveyard."
   A contemptuous smile flitted across Injun Joe's face.
   "Were you anywhere near Horse Williams' grave?"
   "Yes, sir."
   "Speak up-just a trifle louder. How near were you?"
   "Near as I am to you."
   "Were you hidden, or not?"
   "I was hid."
   "Where?"
   "Behind the elms that's on the edge of the grave."
   Injun Joe gave a barely perceptible start.
   "Any one with you?"
   "Yes, sir. I went there with-"
   "Wait-wait  a  moment.  Never mind mentioning your companion's name. We
will  produce  him  at  the proper time. Did you carry anything there with
you."
   Tom hesitated and looked confused.
   "Speak out, my boy-don't be diffident. The truth is always respectable.
What did you take there?"
   "Only a-a-dead cat."
   There was a ripple of mirth, which the court checked.
   "We  will  produce  the  skeleton  of  that  cat.  Now, my boy, tell us
everything  that occurred-tell it in your own way-don't skip anything, and
don't be afraid."
   Tom  began-hesitatingly  at  first, but as he warmed to his subject his
words  flowed  more  and more easily; in a little while every sound ceased
but  his  own voice; every eye fixed itself upon him; with parted lips and
bated  breath  the  audience  hung upon his words, taking no note of time,
rapt in the ghastly fascinations of the tale. The strain upon pent emotion
reached its climax when the boy said:
   "...and as the  doctor  fetched  the board around and Muff Potter fell,
Injun Joe jumped with the knife and..."
   Crash!  Quick as lightning the half-breed sprang for a window, tore his
way through all opposers, and was gone!


        Chapter XXIV

   Tom was a glittering hero once more-the pet of the old, the envy of the
young.  His  name  even  went  into  immortal print, for the village paper
magnified  him.  There were some that believed he would be President, yet,
if he escaped hanging.
   As  usual,  the fickle, unreasoning world took Muff Potter to its bosom
and  fondled him as lavishly as it had abused him before. But that sort of
conduct  is  to the world's credit; therefore it is not well to find fault
with it.
   Tom's  days were days of splendor and exultation to him, but his nights
were seasons of horror. Injun Joe infested all his dreams, and always with
doom  in  his  eye.  Hardly  any temptation could persuade the boy to stir
abroad  after  nightfall.  Poor Huck was in the same state of wretchedness
and  terror,  for  Tom  had  told  the whole story to the lawyer the night
before the great day of the trial, and Huck was sore afraid that his share
in  the  business  might leak out, yet, notwithstanding Injun Joe's flight
had  saved  him  the suffering of testifying in court. The poor fellow had
got  the  attorney  to  promise  secrecy,  but  what  of that? Since Tom's
harassed  conscience  had  managed  to  drive him to the lawyer's house by
night  and  wring  a  dread  tale  from lips that had been sealed with the
dismalest  and  most  formidable  of oaths, Huck's confidence in the human
race was well-nigh obliterated.
   Daily  Muff Potter's gratitude made Tom glad he had spoken; but nightly
he wished he had sealed up his tongue.
   Half  the  time  Tom  was afraid Injun Joe would never be captured; the
other  half  he was afraid he would be. He felt sure he never could draw a
safe breath again until that man was dead and he had seen the corpse.
   Rewards  had  been  offered, the country had been scoured, but no Injun
Joe  was  found.  One  of  those  omniscient  and awe-inspiring marvels, a
detective,  came  up from St. Louis, moused around, shook his head, looked
wise, and made that sort of astounding success which members of that craft
usually  achieve.  That is to say, he "found a clew." But you can't hang a
"clew"  for  murder,  and so after that detective had got through and gone
home, Tom felt just as insecure as he was before.
   The  slow days drifted on, and each left behind it a slightly lightened
weight of apprehension.


        Chapter XXV

   There comes a time in every rightlyconstructed boy's life when he has a
raging  desire  to  go  somewhere and dig for hidden treasure. This desire
suddenly  came  upon  Tom  one day. He sallied out to find Joe Harper, but
failed  of  success.  Next  he  sought  Ben  Rogers;  he had gone fishing.
Presently  he  stumbled  upon Huck Finn the Red-Handed. Huck would answer.
Tom   took   him  to  a  private  place  and  opened  the  matter  to  him
confidentially.  Huck  was willing. Huck was always willing to take a hand
in  any enterprise that offered entertainment and required no capital, for
he  had  a  troublesome  superabundance  of that sort of time which is not
money. "Where'll we dig?" said Huck.
   "Oh, most anywhere."
   "Why, is it hid all around?"
   "No,   indeed   it   ain't.  It's  hid  in  mighty  particular  places,
Huck-sometimes  on  islands, sometimes in rotten chests under the end of a
limb  of  an  old  dead tree, just where the shadow falls at midnight; but
mostly under the floor in ha'nted houses."
   "Who hides it?"
   "Why,   robbers,   of  course  -  who'd   you   reckon?   Sunday-school
sup'rintendents?"
   "I  don't know. If 'twas mine I wouldn't hide it; I'd spend it and have
a good time."
   "So  would  I.  But  robbers don't do that way. They always hide it and
leave it there."
   "Don't they come after it any more?"
   "No, they think they will, but they generally forget the marks, or else
they  die. Anyway, it lays there a long time and gets rusty; and by and by
somebody  finds  an  old  yellow  paper that tells how to find the marks-a
paper  that's  got  to  be  ciphered over about a week because it's mostly
signs and hy'roglyphics."
   "HyroQwhich?"
   "Hy'roglyphics-pictures  and  things, you know, that don't seem to mean
anything."
   "Have you got one of them papers, Tom?"
   "No."
   "Well then, how you going to find the marks?"
   "I  don't  want any marks. They always bury it under a ha'nted house or
on an island, or under a dead tree that's got one limb sticking out. Well,
we've  tried Jackson's Island a little, and we can try it again some time;
and  there's  the old ha'nted house up the Still-House branch, and there's
lots of deadlimb trees-dead loads of 'em."
   "Is it under all of them?"
   "How you talk! No!"
   "Then how you going to know which one to go for?"
   "Go for all of 'em!"
   "Why, Tom, it'll take all summer."
   "Well,  what  of  that?  Suppose  you  find  a brass pot with a hundred
dollars in it, all rusty and gray, or rotten chest full of di'monds. How's
that?"
   Huck's eyes glowed.
   "That's  bully.  Plenty bully enough for me. Just you gimme the hundred
dollars and I don't want no di'monds."
   "All  right. But I bet you I ain't going to throw off on di'monds. Some
of  'em's worth twenty dollars apiece-there ain't any, hardly, but's worth
six bits or a dollar."
   "No! Is that so?"
   "Cert'nly-anybody'll tell you so. Hain't you ever seen one, Huck?"
   "Not as I remember."
   "Oh, kings have slathers of them."
   "Well, I don' know no kings, Tom."
   "I reckon you don't. But if you was to go to Europe you'd see a raft of
'em hopping around."
   "Do they hop?"
   "Hop?-your granny! No!"
   "Well, what did you say they did, for?"
   "Shucks, I only meant you'd SEE 'em-not hopping, of course-what do they
want to hop for?-but I mean you'd just see 'em-scattered around, you know,
in a kind of a general way. Like that old humpbacked Richard."
   "Richard? What's his other name?"
   "He didn't have any other name. Kings don't have any but a given name."
   "No?"
   "But they don't."
   "Well,  if  they like it, Tom, all right; but I don't want to be a king
and have only just a given name, like a nigger. But say-where you going to
dig first?"
   "Well,  I  don't  know. S'pose we tackle that old dead-limb tree on the
hill t'other side of Still-House branch?"
   "I'm agreed."
   So  they  got  a  crippled  pick  and  a  shovel,  and set out on their
three-mile  tramp. They arrived hot and panting, and threw themselves down
in the shade of a neighboring elm to rest and have a smoke.
   "I like this," said Tom.
   "So do I."
   "Say,  Huck, if we find a treasure here, what you going to do with your
share?"
   "Well,  I'll  have  pie  and  a glass of soda every day, and I'll go to
every circus that comes along. I bet I'll have a gay time."
   "Well, ain't you going to save any of it?"
   "Save it? What for?"
   "Why, so as to have something to live on, by and by."
   "Oh, that ain't any use. Pap would come back to thish-yer town some day
and get his claws on it if I didn't hurry up, and I tell you he'd clean it
out pretty quick. What you going to do with yourn, Tom?"
   "I'm  going  to  buy  a  new  drum,  and a sure-'nough sword, and a red
necktie and a bull pup, and get married."
   "Married!"
   "That's it."
   "Tom, you-why, you ain't in your right mind."
   "Wait-you'll see."
   "Well,  that's  the  foolishest  thing you could do. Look at pap and my
mother.  Fight!  Why,  they used to fight all the time. I remember, mighty
well."
   "That ain't anything. The girl I'm going to marry won't fight."
   "Tom,  I  reckon  they're  all  alike. They'll all comb a body. Now you
better  think 'bout this awhile. I tell you you better. What's the name of
the gal?"
   "It ain't a gal at all-it's a girl."
   "It's  all  the  same,  I  reckon; some says gal, some says girl-both's
right, like enough. Anyway, what's her name, Tom?"
   "I'll tell you some time-not now."
   "All  right-that'll  do. Only if you get married I'll be more lonesomer
than ever."
   "No  you  won't. You'll come and live with me. Now stir out of this and
we'll go to digging."
   They  worked  and  sweated  for  half  an  hour. No result. They toiled
another half-hour. Still no result. Huck said:
   "Do they always bury it as deep as this?"
   "Sometimes-not always. Not generally. I reckon we haven't got the right
place."
   So  they  chose a new spot and began again. The labor dragged a little,
but  still  they made progress. They pegged away in silence for some time.
Finally  Huck leaned on his shovel, swabbed the beaded drops from his brow
with his sleeve, and said:
   "Where you going to dig next, after we get this one?"
   "I reckon maybe we'll tackle the old tree that's over yonder on Cardiff
Hill back of the widow's."
   "I  reckon that'll be a good one. But won't the widow take it away from
us, Tom? It's on her land."
   "SHE  take  it away! Maybe she'd like to try it once. Whoever finds one
of  these  hid  treasures, it belongs to him. It don't make any difference
whose land it's on."
   That was satisfactory. The work went on. By and by Huck said:
   "Blame it, we must be in the wrong place again. What do you think?"
   "It  is  mighty curious, Huck. I don't understand it. Sometimes witches
interfere. I reckon maybe that's what's the trouble now."
   "Shucks! Witches ain't got no power in the daytime."
   "Well,  that's  so.  I didn't think of that. Oh, I know what the matter
is!  What  a  blamed  lot  of  fools we are! You got to find out where the
shadow of the limb falls at midnight, and that's where you dig!"
   "Then  consound  it,  we've  fooled away all this work for nothing. Now
hang it all, we got to come back in the night. It's an awful long way. Can
you get out?"
   "I  bet  I  will. We've got to do it to-night, too, because if somebody
sees  these  holes they'll know in a minute what's here and they'll go for
it."
   "Well, I'll come around and maow to-night."
   "All right. Let's hide the tools in the bushes."
   The  boys  were there that night, about the appointed time. They sat in
the  shadow waiting. It was a lonely place, and an hour made solemn by old
traditions. Spirits whispered in the rustling leaves, ghosts lurked in the
murky nooks, the deep baying of a hound floated up out of the distance, an
owl  answered  with  his  sepulchral  note. The boys were subdued by these
solemnities,  and  talked  little.  By  and by they judged that twelve had
come;  they  marked  where  the shadow fell, and began to dig. Their hopes
commenced  to  rise. Their interest grew stronger, and their industry kept
pace  with  it. The hole deepened and still deepened, but every time their
hearts jumped to hear the pick strike upon something, they only suffered a
new disappointment. It was only a stone or a chunk. At last Tom said:
   "It ain't any use, Huck, we're wrong again."
   "Well, but we CAN'T be wrong. We spotted the shadder to a dot."
   "I know it, but then there's another thing."
   "What's that?".
   "Why,  we  only guessed at the time. Like enough it was too late or too
early."
   Huck dropped his shovel.
   "That's it," said he. "That's the very trouble. We got to give this one
up.  We  can't  ever tell the right time, and besides this kind of thing's
too  awful,  here  this time of night with witches and ghosts a-fluttering
around so. I feel as if something's behind me all the time; and I'm afeard
to  turn  around,  becuz  maybe  there's  others  in front a-waiting for a
chance. I been creeping all over, ever since I got here."
   "Well,  I've  been pretty much so, too, Huck. They most always put in a
dead man when they bury a treasure under a tree, to look out for it."
   "Lordy!"
   "Yes, they do. I've always heard that."
   "Tom,  I  don't  like  to fool around much where there's dead people. A
body's bound to get into trouble with 'em, sure."
   "I don't like to stir 'em up, either. S'pose this one here was to stick
his skull out and say something!"
   "Don't Tom! It's awful."
   "Well, it just is. Huck, I don't feel comfortable a bit."
   "Say, Tom, let's give this place up, and try somewheres else."
   "All right, I reckon we better."
   "What'll it be?"
   Tom considered awhile; and then said:
   "The ha'nted house. That's it!"
   "Blame  it, I don't like ha'nted houses, Tom. Why, they're a dern sight
worse'n  dead  people.  Dead people might talk, maybe, but they don't come
sliding  around  in  a shroud, when you ain't noticing, and peep over your
shoulder  all  of  a  sudden and grit their teeth, the way a ghost does. I
couldn't stand such a thing as that, Tom-nobody could."
   "Yes,  but,  Huck, ghosts don't travel around only at night. They won't
hender us from digging there in the daytime."
   "Well,  that's  so. But you know mighty well people don't go about that
ha'nted house in the day nor the night."
   "Well,  that's  mostly because they don't like to go where a man's been
murdered,  anyway-but nothing's ever been seen around that house except in
the  night-just  some  blue  lights  slipping  by  the  windows-no regular
ghosts."
   "Well,  where  you  see one of them blue lights flickering around, Tom,
you  can  bet there's a ghost mighty close behind it. It stands to reason.
Becuz you know that they don't anybody but ghosts use 'em."
   "Yes,  that's  so. But anyway they don't come around in the daytime, so
what's the use of our being afeard?"
   "Well,  all  right.  We'll tackle the ha'nted house if you say so-but I
reckon it's taking chances."
   They had started down the hill by this time. There in the middle of the
moonlit valley below them stood the "ha'nted" house, utterly isolated, its
fences  gone  long  ago,  rank  weeds  smothering  the very doorsteps, the
chimney  crumbled  to ruin, the window-sashes vacant, a corner of the roof
caved  in.  The boys gazed awhile, half expecting to see a blue light flit
past  a  window;  then talking in a low tone, as befitted the time and the
circumstances, they struck far off to the right, to give the haunted house
a  wide  berth, and took their way homeward through the woods that adorned
the rearward side of Cardiff Hill.


        Chapter XXVI

   About  noon  the  next  day the boys arrived at the dead tree; they had
come  for  their tools. Tom was impatient to go to the haunted house; Huck
was measurably so, also-but suddenly said:
   "Lookyhere, Tom, do you know what day it is?"
   Tom mentally ran over the days of the week, and then quickly lifted his
eyes with a startled look in them-
   "My! I never once thought of it, Huck!"
   "Well,  I didn't neither, but all at once it popped onto me that it was
Friday."
   "Blame  it, a body can't be too careful, Huck. We might 'a' got into an
awful scrape, tackling such a thing on a Friday."
   "MIGHT! Better say we WOULD! There's some lucky days, maybe, but Friday
ain't."
   "Any  fool  knows  that. I don't reckon YOU was the first that found it
out, Huck."
   "Well,  I never said I was, did I? And Friday ain't all, neither. I had
a rotten bad dream last night-dreampt about rats."
   "No! Sure sign of trouble. Did they fight?"
   "No."
   "Well,  that's  good, Huck. When they don't fight it's only a sign that
there's trouble around, you know. All we got to do is to look mighty sharp
and  keep  out  of  it. We'll drop this thing for to-day, and play. Do you
know Robin Hood, Huck?"
   "No. Who's Robin Hood?"
   "Why,  he  was one of the greatest men that was ever in England-and the
best. He was a robber."
   "Cracky, I wisht I was. Who did he rob?"
   "Only  sheriffs  and  bishops and rich people and kings, and such like.
But  he  never  bothered the poor. He loved 'em. He always divided up with
'em perfectly square."
   "Well, he must 'a' been a brick."
   "I bet you he was, Huck. Oh, he was the noblest man that ever was. They
ain't  any such men now, I can tell you. He could lick any man in England,
with  one  hand  tied behind him; and he could take his yew bow and plug a
ten-cent piece every time, a mile and a half."
   "What's a YEW bow?"
   "I  don't  know. It's some kind of a bow, of course. And if he hit that
dime  only on the edge he would set down and cry-and curse. But we'll play
Robin Hood-it's nobby fun. I'll learn you."
   "I'm agreed."
   So  they  played  Robin  Hood all the afternoon, now and then casting a
yearning  eye  down  upon the haunted house and passing a remark about the
morrow's  prospects and possibilities there. As the sun began to sink into
the  west  they  took  their  way homeward athwart the long shadows of the
trees and soon were buried from sight in the forests of Cardiff Hill.
   On  Saturday, shortly after noon, the boys were at the dead tree again.
They  had  a smoke and a chat in the shade, and then dug a little in their
last  hole, not with great hope, but merely because Tom said there were so
many  cases where people had given up a treasure after getting down within
six  inches  of it, and then somebody else had come along and turned it up
with  a single thrust of a shovel. The thing failed this time, however, so
the  boys  shouldered  their tools and went away feeling that they had not
trifled  with  fortune, but had fulfilled all the requirements that belong
to the business of treasure-hunting.
   When  they  reached  the haunted house there was something so weird and
grisly about the dead silence that reigned there under the baking sun, and
something  so depressing about the loneliness and desolation of the place,
that they were afraid, for a moment, to venture in. Then they crept to the
door  and  took  a  trembling peep. They saw a weed-grown, floorless room,
unplastered,  an  ancient  fireplace, vacant windows, a ruinous staircase;
and  here,  there,  and everywhere hung ragged and abandoned cobwebs. They
presently  entered,  softly,  with  quickened pulses, talking in whispers,
ears  alert  to catch the slightest sound, and muscles tense and ready for
instant retreat.
   In  a  little  while familiarity modified their fears and they gave the
place  a  critical  and  interested examination, rather admiring their own
boldness,  and  wondering  at it, too. Next they wanted to look up-stairs.
This  was  something like cutting off retreat, but they got to daring each
other,  and of course there could be but one result-they threw their tools
into  a corner and made the ascent. Up there were the same signs of decay.
In  one  corner they found a closet that promised mystery, but the promise
was  a fraud-there was nothing in it. Their courage was up now and well in
hand. They were about to go down and begin work when-
   "Sh!" said Tom.
   "What is it?" whispered Huck, blanching with fright.
   "Sh! ... There! ... Hear it?"
   "Yes! ... Oh, my! Let's run!"
   "Keep still! Don't you budge! They're coming right toward the door."
   The  boys  stretched  themselves  upon  the  floor  with  their eyes to
knot-holes in the planking, and lay waiting, in a misery of fear.
   "They've stopped.... No-coming.... Here they are. Don't whisper another
word, Huck. My goodness, I wish I was out of this!"
   Two  men  entered.  Each boy said to himself: "There's the old deaf and
dumb  Spaniard  that's  been  about  town  once  or twice lately-never saw
t'other man before."
   "T'other" was a ragged, unkempt creature, with nothing very pleasant in
his  face.  The  Spaniard  was  wrapped  in  a  serape; he had bushy white
whiskers;  long  white  hair  flowed  from under his sombrero, and he wore
green  goggles.  When  they came in, "t'other" was talking in a low voice;
they  sat  down  on  the  ground, facing the door, with their backs to the
wall,  and  the  speaker  continued  his  remarks.  His manner became less
guarded and his words more distinct as he proceeded:
   "No,"  said  he,  "I've  thought it all over, and I don't like it. It's
dangerous."
   "Dangerous!"  grunted the "deaf and dumb" Spaniard-to the vast surprise
of the boys. "Milksop!"
   This  voice made the boys gasp and quake. It was Injun Joe's! There was
silence for some time. Then Joe said:
   "What's  any  more dangerous than that job up yonder-but nothing's come
of it."
   "That's  different.  Away up the river so, and not another house about.
'Twon't ever be known that we tried, anyway, long as we didn't succeed."
   "Well,  what's  more dangerous than coming here in the daytime!-anybody
would suspicion us that saw us."
   "I know that. But there warn't any other place as handy after that fool
of  a  job.  I  want  to  quit this shanty. I wanted to yesterday, only it
warn't  any  use  trying  to  stir  out  of here, with those infernal boys
playing over there on the hill right in full view."
   "Those  infernal  boys"  quaked  again  under  the  inspiration of this
remark,  and  thought  how  lucky  it  was that they had remembered it was
Friday  and  concluded to wait a day. They wished in their hearts they had
waited a year.
   The  two  men  got  out some food and made a luncheon. After a long and
thoughtful silence, Injun Joe said:
   "Look  here,  lad-you go back up the river where you belong. Wait there
till  you  hear  from me. I'll take the chances on dropping into this town
just once more, for a look. We'll do that 'dangerous' job after I've spied
around  a  little and think things look well for it. Then for Texas! We'll
leg it together!"
   This  was  satisfactory.  Both men presently fell to yawning, and Injun
Joe said:
   "I'm dead for sleep! It's your turn to watch."
   He  curled  down  in  the  weeds  and  soon began to snore. His comrade
stirred him once or twice and he became quiet. Presently the watcher began
to nod; his head drooped lower and lower, both men began to snore now.
   The boys drew a long, grateful breath. Tom whispered:
   "Now's our chance-come!"
   Huck said:
   "I can't-I'd die if they was to wake."
   Tom  urged-Huck  held  back.  At  last  Tom rose slowly and softly, and
started  alone. But the first step he made wrung such a hideous creak from
the crazy floor that he sank down almost dead with fright. He never made a
second  attempt.  The boys lay there counting the dragging moments till it
seemed  to them that time must be done and eternity growing gray; and then
they were grateful to note that at last the sun was setting.
   Now  one  snore  ceased.  Injun Joe sat up, stared around-smiled grimly
upon  his  comrade,  whose head was drooping upon his knees-stirred him up
with his foot and said:
   "Here!  YOU'RE  a  watchman,  ain't  you!  All  right, though-nothing's
happened."
   "My! have I been asleep?"
   "Oh,  partly, partly. Nearly time for us to be moving, pard. What'll we
do with what little swag we've got left?"
   "I  don't  know-leave it here as we've always done, I reckon. No use to
take  it  away  till  we  start  south.  Six hundred and fifty in silver's
something to carry."
   "Well-all right-it won't matter to come here once more."
   "No-but I'd say come in the night as we used to do-it's better."
   "Yes:  but  look  here;  it  may be a good while before I get the right
chance  at  that  job; accidents might happen; 'tain't in such a very good
place; we'll just regularly bury it-and bury it deep."
   "Good  idea," said the comrade, who walked across the room, knelt down,
raised  one  of  the rearward hearthstones and took out a bag that jingled
pleasantly. He subtracted from it twenty or thirty dollars for himself and
as  much  for  Injun Joe, and passed the bag to the latter, who was on his
knees in the corner, now, digging with his bowie-knife.
   The boys forgot all their fears, all their miseries in an instant. With
gloating  eyes  they  watched every movement. Luck!-the splendor of it was
beyond  all imagination! Six hundred dollars was money enough to make half
a   dozen   boys   rich!  Here  was  treasurehunting  under  the  happiest
auspices-there would not be any bothersome uncertainty as to where to dig.
They nudged each other every moment-eloquent nudges and easily understood,
for they simply meant-"Oh, but ain't you glad NOW we're here!"
   Joe's knife struck upon something.
   "Hello!" said he.
   "What is it?" said his comrade.
   "Half-rotten  plank-no,  it's  a  box,  I believe. Here-bear a hand and
we'll see what it's here for. Never mind, I've broke a hole."
   He reached his hand in and drew it out-
   "Man, it's money!"
   The  two  men  examined  the handful of coins. They were gold. The boys
above were as excited as themselves, and as delighted.
   Joe's comrade said:
   "We'll  make quick work of this. There's an old rusty pick over amongst
the  weeds in the corner the other side of the fireplace-I saw it a minute
ago."
   He  ran and brought the boys' pick and shovel. Injun Joe took the pick,
looked  it over critically, shook his head, muttered something to himself,
and  then  began  to  use  it. The box was soon unearthed. It was not very
large;  it  was  iron bound and had been very strong before the slow years
had  injured  it.  The  men  contemplated  the treasure awhile in blissful
silence.
   "Pard, there's thousands of dollars here," said Injun Joe.
   "'Twas  always  said  that  Murrel's  gang  used  to be around here one
summer," the stranger observed.
   "I know it," said Injun Joe; "and this looks like it, I should say."
   "Now you won't need to do that job."
   The half-breed frowned. Said he:
   "You  don't know me. Least you don't know all about that thing. 'Tain't
robbery  altogether-it's  REVENGE!" and a wicked light flamed in his eyes.
"I'll need your help in it. When it's finished-then Texas. Go home to your
Nance and your kids, and stand by till you hear from me."
   "Well-if you say so; what'll we do with this-bury it again?"
   "Yes.  [Ravishing  delight  overhead.]  NO!  by  the  great Sachem, no!
[Profound distress overhead.] I'd nearly forgot. That pick had fresh earth
on  it!  [The boys were sick with terror in a moment.] What business has a
pick  and  a  shovel  here?  What  business  with fresh earth on them? Who
brought  them  here-and  where are they gone? Have you heard anybody?-seen
anybody?  What!  bury  it  again and leave them to come and see the ground
disturbed? Not exactly-not exactly. We'll take it to my den."
   "Why,  of course!  Might  have  thought of that before. You mean Number
One?"
   "No-Number Two-under the cross. The other place is bad-too common."
   "All right. It's nearly dark enough to start."
   Injun  Joe  got  up  and  went  about  from window to window cautiously
peeping out. Presently he said:
   "Who  could  have  brought  those tools here? Do you reckon they can be
up-stairs?"
   The  boys'  breath  forsook  them. Injun Joe put his hand on his knife,
halted  a moment, undecided, and then turned toward the stairway. The boys
thought  of  the  closet,  but  their  strength  was  gone. The steps came
creaking  up the stairs-the intolerable distress of the situation woke the
stricken  resolution of the lads-they were about to spring for the closet,
when  there  was  a  crash  of  rotten timbers and Injun Joe landed on the
ground  amid  the  debris  of  the ruined stairway. He gathered himself up
cursing, and his comrade said:
   "Now what's the use of all that? If it's anybody, and they're up there,
let  them  STAY  there-who  cares? If they want to jump down, now, and get
into trouble, who objects? It will be dark in fifteen minutes-and then let
them  follow  us if they want to. I'm willing. In my opinion, whoever hove
those things in here caught a sight of us and took us for ghosts or devils
or something. I'll bet they're running yet."
   Joe  grumbled awhile; then he agreed with his friend that what daylight
was  left  ought  to  be  economized  in getting things ready for leaving.
Shortly afterward they slipped out of the house in the deepening twilight,
and moved toward the river with their precious box.
   Tom  and  Huck rose up, weak but vastly relieved, and stared after them
through  the  chinks between the logs of the house. Follow? Not they. They
were  content  to  reach  ground  again without broken necks, and take the
townward  track  over the hill. They did not talk much. They were too much
absorbed  in hating themselves-hating the ill luck that made them take the
spade  and  the  pick  there.  But  for  that,  Injun Joe never would have
suspected.  He  would  have  hidden the silver with the gold to wait there
till  his  "revenge"  was  satisfied,  and  then  he  would  have  had the
misfortune  to  find  that money turn up missing. Bitter, bitter luck that
the tools were ever brought there!
   They  resolved  to keep a lookout for that Spaniard when he should come
to town spying out for chances to do his revengeful job, and follow him to
"Number  Two,"  wherever that might be. Then a ghastly thought occurred to
Tom.
   "Revenge? What if he means US, Huck!"
   "Oh, don't!" said Huck, nearly fainting.
   They  talked  it  all  over,  and  as  they entered town they agreed to
believe  that  he might possibly mean somebody else-at least that he might
at least mean nobody but Tom, since only Tom had testified.
   Very,  very  small comfort it was to Tom to be alone in danger! Company
would be a palpable improvement, he thought.


        Chapter XXVII

   The  adventure  of  the day mightily tormented Tom's dreams that night.
Four times he had his hands on that rich treasure and four times it wasted
to nothingness in his fingers as sleep forsook him and wakefulness brought
back  the  hard  reality of his misfortune. As he lay in the early morning
recalling  the  incidents  of  his  great  adventure, he noticed that they
seemed  curiously subdued and far away-somewhat as if they had happened in
another world, or in a time long gone by. Then it occurred to him that the
great adventure itself must be a dream! There was one very strong argument
in  favor  of  this idea-namely, that the quantity of coin he had seen was
too  vast  to  be  real. He had never seen as much as fifty dollars in one
mass  before,  and he was like all boys of his age and station in life, in
that  he  imagined  that all references to "hundreds" and "thousands" were
mere fanciful forms of speech, and that no such sums really existed in the
world. He never had supposed for a moment that so large a sum as a hundred
dollars  was  to  be found in actual money in any one's possession. If his
notions  of  hidden treasure had been analyzed, they would have been found
to  consist  of  a  handful of real dimes and a bushel of vague, splendid,
ungraspable dollars.
   But  the  incidents  of his adventure grew sensibly sharper and clearer
under  the  attrition  of  thinking  them  over, and so he presently found
himself  leaning  to  the  impression that the thing might not have been a
dream,  after  all. This uncertainty must be swept away. He would snatch a
hurried breakfast and go and find Huck. Huck was sitting on the gunwale of
a  flatboat,  listlessly  dangling  his feet in the water and looking very
melancholy.  Tom  concluded  to let Huck lead up to the subject. If he did
not do it, then the adventure would be proved to have been only a dream.
   "Hello, Huck!"
   "Hello, yourself."
   Silence, for a minute.
   "Tom,  if  we'd 'a' left the blame tools at the dead tree, we'd 'a' got
the money. Oh, ain't it awful!"
   "'Tain't  a  dream,  then, 'tain't a dream! Somehow I most wish it was.
Dog'd if I don't, Huck."
   "What ain't a dream?"
   "Oh, that thing yesterday. I been half thinking it was."
   "Dream!  If them stairs hadn't broke down you'd 'a' seen how much dream
it  was!  I've  had  dreams  enough all night-with that patch-eyed Spanish
devil going for me all through 'em-rot him!"
   "No, not rot him. FIND him! Track the money!"
   "Tom,  we'll  never  find  him. A feller don't have only one chance for
such  a  pile-and  that  one's lost. I'd feel mighty shaky if I was to see
him, anyway."
   "Well, so'd I; but I'd like to see him, anyway-and track him out-to his
Number Two."
   "Number  Two-yes,  that's  it.  I been thinking 'bout that. But I can't
make nothing out of it. What do you reckon it is?"
   "I dono. It's too deep. Say, Huck-maybe it's the number of a house!"
   "Goody!  ...  No,  Tom,  that  ain't  it.  If  it  is, it ain't in this
one-horse town. They ain't no numbers here."
   "Well,  that's  so.  Lemme  think  a  minute. Here-it's the number of a
room-in a tavern, you know!"
   "Oh,  that's  the  trick!  They ain't only two taverns. We can find out
quick."
   "You stay here, Huck, till I come."
   Tom  was  off at once. He did not care to have Huck's company in public
places.  He was gone half an hour. He found that in the best tavern, No. 2
had  long  been  occupied by a young lawyer, and was still so occupied. In
the  less  ostentatious  house,  No.  2 was a mystery. The tavern-keeper's
young  son  said it was kept locked all the time, and he never saw anybody
go  into  it  or  come  out  of  it  except  at night; he did not know any
particular reason for this state of things; had had some little curiosity,
but it was rather feeble; had made the most of the mystery by entertaining
himself with the idea that that room was "ha'nted"; had noticed that there
was a light in there the night before.
   "That's what I've found out, Huck. I reckon that's the very No. 2 we're
after."
   "I reckon it is, Tom. Now what you going to do?"
   "Lemme