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CHAPTER
V
ABOUT
half-past
ten
the
cracked
bell
of
the
small
church
began
to
ring,
and
presently
the
people
began
to
gather
for
the
morning
sermon.
The
Sunday-school
children
distributed
themselves
about
the
house
and
occupied
pews
with
their
parents,
so
as
to
be
under
supervision.
Aunt
Polly
came,
and
Tom
and
Sid
and
Mary
sat
with
her--Tom
being
placed
next
the
aisle,
in
order
that
he
might
be
as
far
away
from
the
open
window
and
the
seductive
outside
summer
scenes
as
possible.
The
crowd
filed
up
the
aisles:
the
aged
and
needy
postmaster,
who
had
seen
better
days;
the
mayor
and
his
wife--for
they
had
a
mayor
there,
among
other
unnecessaries;
the
justice
of
the
peace;
the
widow
Douglass,
fair,
smart,
and
forty,
a
generous,
good-hearted
soul
and
well-to-do,
her
hill
mansion
the
only
palace
in
the
town,
and
the
most
hospitable
and
much
the
most
lavish
in
the
matter
of
festivities
that
St.
Petersburg
could
boast;
the
bent
and
venerable
Major
and
Mrs.
Ward;
lawyer
Riverson,
the
new
notable
from
a
distance;
next
the
belle
of
the
village,
followed
by
a
troop
of
lawn-clad
and
ribbon-decked
young
heart-breakers;
then
all
the
young
clerks
in
town
in
a
body--for
they
had
stood
in
the
vestibule
sucking
their
cane-heads,
a
circling
wall
of
oiled
and
simpering
admirers,
till
the
last
girl
had
run
their
gantlet;
and
last
of
all
came
the
Model
Boy,
Willie
Mufferson,
taking
as
heedful
care
of
his
mother
as
if
she
were
cut
glass.
He
always
brought
his
mother
to
church,
and
was
the
pride
of
all
the
matrons.
The
boys
all
hated
him,
he
was
so
good.
And
besides,
he
had
been"
thrown
up
to
them"
so
much.
His
white
handkerchief
was
hanging
out
of
his
pocket
behind,
as
usual
on
Sundays--accidentally.
Tom
had
no
handkerchief,
and
he
looked
upon
boys
who
had
as
snobs.
The
congregation
being
fully
assembled,
now,
the
bell
rang
once
more,
to
warn
laggards
and
stragglers,
and
then
a
solemn
hush
fell
upon
the
church
which
was
only
broken
by
the
tittering
and
whispering
of
the
choir
in
the
gallery.
The
choir
always
tittered
and
whispered
all
through
service.
There
was
once
a
church
choir
that
was
not
ill-bred,
but
I
have
forgotten
where
it
was,
now.
It
was
a
great
many
years
ago,
and
I
can
scarcely
remember
anything
about
it,
but
I
think
it
was
in
some
foreign
country.
The
minister
gave
out
the
hymn,
and
read
it
through
with
a
relish,
in
a
peculiar
style
which
was
much
admired
in
that
part
of
the
country.
His
voice
began
on
a
medium
key
and
climbed
steadily
up
till
it
reached
a
certain
point,
where
it
bore
with
strong
emphasis
upon
the
topmost
word
and
then
plunged
down
as
if
from
a
spring-board:
Shall
I
be
car-ri-ed
toe
the
skies,
on
flow'ry
BEDS
of
ease,
Whilst others fight to win the prize, and sail thro' BLOODY seas?
He
was
regarded
as
a
wonderful
reader.
At
church"
sociables"
he
was
always
called
upon
to
read
poetry;
and
when
he
was
through,
the
ladies
would
lift
up
their
hands
and
let
them
fall
helplessly
in
their
laps,
and"
wall"
their
eyes,
and
shake
their
heads,
as
much
as
to
say,"
Words
cannot
express
it;
it
is
too
beautiful,
TOO
beautiful
for
this
mortal
earth."
After
the
hymn
had
been
sung,
the
Rev.
Mr.
Sprague
turned
himself
into
a
bulletin-board,
and
read
off"
notices"
of
meetings
and
societies
and
things
till
it
seemed
that
the
list
would
stretch
out
to
the
crack
of
doom--a
***
custom
which
is
still
kept
up
in
America,
even
in
cities,
away
here
in
this
age
of
abundant
newspapers.
Often,
the
less
there
is
to
justify
a
traditional
custom,
the
harder
it
is
to
get
rid
of
it.
And
now
the
minister
prayed.
A
good,
generous
prayer
it
was,
and
went
into
details:
it
pleaded
for
the
church,
and
the
little
children
of
the
church;
for
the
other
churches
of
the
village;
for
the
village
itself;
for
the
county;
for
the
State;
for
the
State
officers;
for
the
United
States;
for
the
churches
of
the
United
States;
for
Congress;
for
the
President;
for
the
officers
of
the
Government;
for
poor
sailors,
tossed
by
stormy
seas;
for
the
oppressed
millions
groaning
under
the
heel
of
European
monarchies
and
Oriental
despotisms;
for
such
as
have
the
light
and
the
good
tidings,
and
yet
have
not
eyes
to
see
nor
ears
to
hear
withal;
for
the
heathen
in
the
far
islands
of
the
sea;
and
closed
with
a
supplication
that
the
words
he
was
about
to
speak
might
find
grace
and
favor,
and
be
as
seed
sown
in
fertile
ground,
yielding
in
time
a
grateful
harvest
of
good.
Amen.
There
was
a
rustling
of
dresses,
and
the
standing
congregation
sat
down.
The
boy
whose
history
this
book
relates
did
not
enjoy
the
prayer,
he
only
endured
it--if
he
even
did
that
much.
He
was
restive
all
through
it;
he
kept
tally
of
the
details
of
the
prayer,
unconsciously
--for
he
was
not
listening,
but
he
knew
the
ground
of
old,
and
the
clergyman's
regular
route
over
it--and
when
a
little
trifle
of
new
matter
was
interlarded,
his
ear
detected
it
and
his
whole
nature
resented
it;
he
considered
additions
unfair,
and
scoundrelly.
In
the
midst
of
the
prayer
a
fly
had
lit
on
the
back
of
the
pew
in
front
of
him
and
tortured
his
spirit
by
calmly
rubbing
its
hands
together,
embracing
its
head
with
its
arms,
and
polishing
it
so
vigorously
that
it
seemed
to
almost
part
company
with
the
body,
and
the
slender
thread
of
a
neck
was
exposed
to
view;
scraping
its
wings
with
its
hind
legs
and
smoothing
them
to
its
body
as
if
they
had
been
coat-tails;
going
through
its
whole
toilet
as
tranquilly
as
if
it
knew
it
was
perfectly
safe.
As
indeed
it
was;
for
as
sorely
as
Tom's
hands
itched
to
grab
for
it
they
did
not
dare--he
believed
his
soul
would
be
instantly
destroyed
if
he
did
such
a
thing
while
the
prayer
was
going
on.
But
with
the
closing
sentence
his
hand
began
to
curve
and
steal
forward;
and
the
instant
the"
Amen"
was
out
the
fly
was
a
prisoner
of
war.
His
aunt
detected
the
act
and
made
him
let
it
go.
The
minister
gave
out
his
text
and
droned
along
monotonously
through
an
argument
that
was
so
prosy
that
many
a
head
by
and
by
began
to
nod
--and
yet
it
was
an
argument
that
dealt
in
limitless
fire
and
brimstone
and
thinned
the
predestined
elect
down
to
a
company
so
small
as
to
be
hardly
worth
the
saving.
Tom
counted
the
pages
of
the
sermon;
after
church
he
always
knew
how
many
pages
there
had
been,
but
he
seldom
knew
anything
else
about
the
discourse.
However,
this
time
he
was
really
interested
for
a
little
while.
The
minister
made
a
grand
and
moving
picture
of
the
assembling
together
of
the
world's
hosts
at
the
millennium
when
the
lion
and
the
lamb
should
lie
down
together
and
a
little
child
should
lead
them.
But
the
pathos,
the
lesson,
the
moral
of
the
great
spectacle
were
lost
upon
the
boy;
he
only
thought
of
the
conspicuousness
of
the
principal
character
before
the
on-looking
nations;
his
face
lit
with
the
thought,
and
he
said
to
himself
that
he
wished
he
could
be
that
child,
if
it
was
a
tame
lion.
Now
he
lapsed
into
suffering
again,
as
the
dry
argument
was
resumed.
Presently
he
bethought
him
of
a
treasure
he
had
and
got
it
out.
It
was
a
large
black
beetle
with
formidable
jaws--a"
pinchbug,"
he
called
it.
It
was
in
a
percussion-cap
box.
The
first
thing
the
beetle
did
was
to
take
him
by
the
finger.
A
natural
fillip
followed,
the
beetle
went
floundering
into
the
aisle
and
lit
on
its
back,
and
the
hurt
finger
went
into
the
boy's
mouth.
The
beetle
lay
there
working
its
helpless
legs,
unable
to
turn
over.
Tom
eyed
it,
and
longed
for
it;
but
it
was
safe
out
of
his
reach.
Other
people
uninterested
in
the
sermon
found
relief
in
the
beetle,
and
they
eyed
it
too.
Presently
a
vagrant
poodle
dog
came
idling
along,
sad
at
heart,
lazy
with
the
summer
softness
and
the
quiet,
weary
of
captivity,
sighing
for
change.
He
spied
the
beetle;
the
drooping
tail
lifted
and
wagged.
He
surveyed
the
prize;
walked
around
it;
smelt
at
it
from
a
safe
distance;
walked
around
it
again;
grew
bolder,
and
took
a
closer
smell;
then
lifted
his
lip
and
made
a
gingerly
***
at
it,
just
missing
it;
made
another,
and
another;
began
to
enjoy
the
diversion;
subsided
to
his
stomach
with
the
beetle
between
his
paws,
and
continued
his
experiments;
grew
weary
at
last,
and
then
indifferent
and
absent-minded.
His
head
nodded,
and
little
by
little
his
chin
descended
and
touched
the
enemy,
who
seized
it.
There
was
a
sharp
yelp,
a
flirt
of
the
poodle's
head,
and
the
beetle
fell
a
couple
of
yards
away,
and
lit
on
its
back
once
more.
The
neighboring
spectators
shook
with
a
gentle
inward
joy,
several
faces
went
behind
fans
and
handkerchiefs,
and
Tom
was
entirely
happy.
The
dog
looked
foolish,
and
probably
felt
so;
but
there
was
resentment
in
his
heart,
too,
and
a
craving
for
revenge.
So
he
went
to
the
beetle
and
began
a
wary
attack
on
it
again;
jumping
at
it
from
every
point
of
a
circle,
lighting
with
his
fore-paws
within
an
inch
of
the
creature,
making
even
closer
snatches
at
it
with
his
teeth,
and
jerking
his
head
till
his
ears
flapped
again.
But
he
grew
tired
once
more,
after
a
while;
tried
to
amuse
himself
with
a
fly
but
found
no
relief;
followed
an
ant
around,
with
his
nose
close
to
the
floor,
and
quickly
wearied
of
that;
yawned,
sighed,
forgot
the
beetle
entirely,
and
sat
down
on
it.
Then
there
was
a
wild
yelp
of
agony
and
the
poodle
went
sailing
up
the
aisle;
the
yelps
continued,
and
so
did
the
dog;
he
crossed
the
house
in
front
of
the
altar;
he
flew
down
the
other
aisle;
he
crossed
before
the
doors;
he
clamored
up
the
home-stretch;
his
anguish
grew
with
his
progress,
till
presently
he
was
but
a
woolly
comet
moving
in
its
orbit
with
the
gleam
and
the
speed
of
light.
At
last
the
frantic
sufferer
sheered
from
its
course,
and
sprang
into
its
master's
lap;
he
flung
it
out
of
the
window,
and
the
voice
of
distress
quickly
thinned
away
and
died
in
the
distance.
By
this
time
the
whole
church
was
red-faced
and
suffocating
with
suppressed
laughter,
and
the
sermon
had
come
to
a
dead
standstill.
The
discourse
was
resumed
presently,
but
it
went
lame
and
halting,
all
possibility
of
impressiveness
being
at
an
end;
for
even
the
gravest
sentiments
were
constantly
being
received
with
a
smothered
burst
of
unholy
mirth,
under
cover
of
some
remote
pew-back,
as
if
the
poor
parson
had
said
a
rarely
facetious
thing.
It
was
a
genuine
relief
to
the
whole
congregation
when
the
ordeal
was
over
and
the
benediction
pronounced.
Tom
Sawyer
went
home
quite
cheerful,
thinking
to
himself
that
there
was
some
satisfaction
about
divine
service
when
there
was
a
bit
of
variety
in
it.
He
had
but
one
marring
thought;
he
was
willing
that
the
dog
should
play
with
his
pinchbug,
but
he
did
not
think
it
was
upright
in
him
to
carry
it
off.
CHAPTER
VI
MONDAY
morning
found
Tom
Sawyer
miserable.
Monday
morning
always
found
him
so--because
it
began
another
week's
slow
suffering
in
school.
He
generally
began
that
day
with
wishing
he
had
had
no
intervening
holiday,
it
made
the
going
into
captivity
and
fetters
again
so
much
more
odious.
Tom
lay
thinking.
Presently
it
occurred
to
him
that
he
wished
he
was
sick;
then
he
could
stay
home
from
school.
Here
was
a
vague
possibility.
He
canvassed
his
system.
No
ailment
was
found,
and
he
investigated
again.
This
time
he
thought
he
could
detect
colicky
symptoms,
and
he
began
to
encourage
them
with
considerable
hope.
But
they
soon
grew
feeble,
and
presently
died
wholly
away.
He
reflected
further.
Suddenly
he
discovered
something.
One
of
his
upper
front
teeth
was
loose.
This
was
lucky;
he
was
about
to
begin
to
groan,
as
a
"starter,"
as
he
called
it,
when
it
occurred
to
him
that
if
he
came
into
court
with
that
argument,
his
aunt
would
pull
it
out,
and
that
would
hurt.
So
he
thought
he
would
hold
the
tooth
in
reserve
for
the
present,
and
seek
further.
Nothing
offered
for
some
little
time,
and
then
he
remembered
hearing
the
doctor
tell
about
a
certain
thing
that
laid
up
a
patient
for
two
or
three
weeks
and
threatened
to
make
him
lose
a
finger.
So
the
boy
eagerly
drew
his
sore
toe
from
under
the
sheet
and
held
it
up
for
inspection.
But
now
he
did
not
know
the
necessary
symptoms.
However,
it
seemed
well
worth
while
to
chance
it,
so
he
fell
to
groaning
with
considerable
spirit.
But
Sid
slept
on
unconscious.
Tom
groaned
louder,
and
fancied
that
he
began
to
feel
pain
in
the
toe.
No
result
from
Sid.
Tom
was
panting
with
his
exertions
by
this
time.
He
took
a
rest
and
then
swelled
himself
up
and
fetched
a
succession
of
admirable
groans.
Sid
snored
on.
Tom
was
aggravated.
He
said,"
Sid,
Sid!"
and
shook
him.
This
course
worked
well,
and
Tom
began
to
groan
again.
Sid
yawned,
stretched,
then
brought
himself
up
on
his
elbow
with
a
snort,
and
began
to
stare
at
Tom.
Tom
went
on
groaning.
Sid
said:
"Tom!
Say,
Tom!"[
No
response.]"
Here,
Tom!
TOM!
What
is
the
matter,
Tom?"
And
he
shook
him
and
looked
in
his
face
anxiously.
Tom
moaned
out:
"Oh,
don't,
Sid.
Don't
joggle
me."
"Why,
what's
the
matter,
Tom?
I
must
call
auntie."
"No--never
mind.
It'll
be
over
by
and
by,
maybe.
Don't
call
anybody."
"But
I
must!
DON'T
groan
so,
Tom,
it's
awful.
How
long
you
been
this
way?"
"Hours.
Ouch!
Oh,
don't
stir
so,
Sid,
you'll
kill
me."
"Tom,
why
didn't
you
wake
me
sooner?
Oh,
Tom,
DON'T!
It
makes
my
flesh
crawl
to
hear
you.
Tom,
what
is
the
matter?"
"I
forgive
you
everything,
Sid.[
Groan.]
Everything
you've
ever
done
to
me.
When
I'm
gone--"
"Oh,
Tom,
you
ain't
dying,
are
you?
Don't,
Tom--oh,
don't.
Maybe--"
"I forgive everybody, Sid. [Groan.] Tell 'em so, Sid. And Sid, you
give
my
window-sash
and
my
cat
with
one
eye
to
that
new
girl
that's
come
to
town,
and
tell
her--"
But
Sid
had
snatched
his
clothes
and
gone.
Tom
was
suffering
in
reality,
now,
so
handsomely
was
his
imagination
working,
and
so
his
groans
had
gathered
quite
a
genuine
tone.
Sid
flew
down-stairs
and
said:
"Oh,
Aunt
Polly,
come!
Tom's
dying!"
"Dying!"
"Yes'm.
Don't
wait--come
quick!"
"Rubbage!
I
don't
believe
it!"
But
she
fled
up-stairs,
nevertheless,
with
Sid
and
Mary
at
her
heels.
And
her
face
grew
white,
too,
and
her
lip
trembled.
When
she
reached
the
bedside
she
gasped
out:
"You,
Tom!
Tom,
what's
the
matter
with
you?"
"Oh,
auntie,
I'm--"
"What's
the
matter
with
you--what
is
the
matter
with
you,
child?"
"Oh,
auntie,
my
sore
toe's
mortified!"
The
old
lady
sank
down
into
a
chair
and
laughed
a
little,
then
cried
a
little,
then
did
both
together.
This
restored
her
and
she
said:
"Tom,
what
a
turn
you
did
give
me.
Now
you
shut
up
that
nonsense
and
climb
out
of
this."
The
groans
ceased
and
the
pain
vanished
from
the
toe.
The
boy
felt
a
little
foolish,
and
he
said:
"Aunt
Polly,
it
SEEMED
mortified,
and
it
hurt
so
I
never
minded
my
tooth
at
all."
"Your
tooth,
indeed!
What's
the
matter
with
your
tooth?"
"One
of
them's
loose,
and
it
aches
perfectly
awful."
"There,
there,
now,
don't
begin
that
groaning
again.
Open
your
mouth.
Well--your
tooth
IS
loose,
but
you're
not
going
to
die
about
that.
Mary,
get
me
a
silk
thread,
and
a
chunk
of
fire
out
of
the
kitchen."
Tom
said:
"Oh,
please,
auntie,
don't
pull
it
out.
It
don't
hurt
any
more.
I
wish
I
may
never
stir
if
it
does.
Please
don't,
auntie.
I
don't
want
to
stay
home
from
school."
"Oh,
you
don't,
don't
you?
So
all
this
row
was
because
you
thought
you'd
get
to
stay
home
from
school
and
go
a-fishing?
Tom,
Tom,
I
love
you
so,
and
you
seem
to
try
every
way
you
can
to
break
my
old
heart
with
your
outrageousness."
By
this
time
the
dental
instruments
were
ready.
The
old
lady
made
one
end
of
the
silk
thread
fast
to
Tom's
tooth
with
a
loop
and
tied
the
other
to
the
bedpost.
Then
she
seized
the
chunk
of
fire
and
suddenly
thrust
it
almost
into
the
boy's
face.
The
tooth
hung
dangling
by
the
bedpost,
now.
But
all
trials
bring
their
compensations.
As
Tom
wended
to
school
after
breakfast,
he
was
the
envy
of
every
boy
he
met
because
the
gap
in
his
upper
row
of
teeth
enabled
him
to
expectorate
in
a
new
and
admirable
way.
He
gathered
quite
a
following
of
lads
interested
in
the
exhibition;
and
one
that
had
cut
his
finger
and
had
been
a
centre
of
fascination
and
homage
up
to
this
time,
now
found
himself
suddenly
without
an
adherent,
and
shorn
of
his
glory.
His
heart
was
heavy,
and
he
said
with
a
disdain
which
he
did
not
feel
that
it
wasn't
anything
to
spit
like
Tom
Sawyer;
but
another
boy
said,"
Sour
grapes!"
and
he
wandered
away
a
dismantled
hero.
Shortly
Tom
came
upon
the
juvenile
pariah
of
the
village,
Huckleberry
Finn,
son
of
the
town
drunkard.
Huckleberry
was
cordially
hated
and
dreaded
by
all
the
mothers
of
the
town,
because
he
was
idle
and
lawless
and
vulgar
and
bad--and
because
all
their
children
admired
him
so,
and
delighted
in
his
forbidden
society,
and
wished
they
dared
to
be
like
him.
Tom
was
like
the
rest
of
the
respectable
boys,
in
that
he
envied
Huckleberry
his
gaudy
outcast
condition,
and
was
under
strict
orders
not
to
play
with
him.
So
he
played
with
him
every
time
he
got
a
chance.
Huckleberry
was
always
dressed
in
the
cast-off
clothes
of
full-grown
men,
and
they
were
in
perennial
bloom
and
fluttering
with
rags.
His
hat
was
a
vast
ruin
with
a
wide
crescent
lopped
out
of
its
brim;
his
coat,
when
he
wore
one,
hung
nearly
to
his
heels
and
had
the
rearward
buttons
far
down
the
back;
but
one
suspender
supported
his
trousers;
the
seat
of
the
trousers
bagged
low
and
contained
nothing,
the
fringed
legs
dragged
in
the
dirt
when
not
rolled
up.
Huckleberry
came
and
went,
at
his
own
free
will.
He
slept
on
doorsteps
in
fine
weather
and
in
empty
hogsheads
in
wet;
he
did
not
have
to
go
to
school
or
to
church,
or
call
any
being
master
or
obey
anybody;
he
could
go
fishing
or
swimming
when
and
where
he
chose,
and
stay
as
long
as
it
suited
him;
nobody
forbade
him
to
fight;
he
could
sit
up
as
late
as
he
pleased;
he
was
always
the
first
boy
that
went
barefoot
in
the
spring
and
the
last
to
resume
leather
in
the
fall;
he
never
had
to
wash,
nor
put
on
clean
clothes;
he
could
swear
wonderfully.
In
a
word,
everything
that
goes
to
make
life
precious
that
boy
had.
So
thought
every
harassed,
hampered,
respectable
boy
in
St.
Petersburg.
Tom
hailed
the
romantic
outcast:
"Hello,
Huckleberry!"
"Hello
yourself,
and
see
how
you
like
it."
"What's
that
you
got?"
"Dead
cat."
"Lemme
see
him,
Huck.
My,
he's
pretty
stiff.
Where'd
you
get
him?"
"Bought
him
off'n
a
boy."
"What
did
you
give?"
"I
give
a
blue
ticket
and
a
bladder
that
I
got
at
the
slaughter-house."
"Where'd
you
get
the
blue
ticket?"
"Bought
it
off'n
Ben
Rogers
two
weeks
ago
for
a
hoop-stick."
"Say--what
is
dead
cats
good
for,
Huck?"
"Good
for?
Cure
warts
with."
"No!
Is
that
so?
I
know
something
that's
better."
"I
bet
you
don't.
What
is
it?"
"Why,
***-water."
"***-water!
I
wouldn't
give
a
dern
for
***-water."
"You
wouldn't,
wouldn't
you?
D'you
ever
try
it?"
"No,
I
hain't.
But
Bob
Tanner
did."
"Who
told
you
so!"
"Why,
he
told
Jeff
Thatcher,
and
Jeff
told
Johnny
Baker,
and
Johnny
told
Jim
Hollis,
and
Jim
told
Ben
Rogers,
and
Ben
told
a
***,
and
the
***
told
me.
There
now!"
"Well,
what
of
it?
They'll
all
lie.
Leastways
all
but
the
***.
I
don't
know
HIM.
But
I
never
see
a
***
that
WOULDN'T
lie.
Shucks!
Now
you
tell
me
how
Bob
Tanner
done
it,
Huck."
"Why,
he
took
and
dipped
his
hand
in
a
rotten
stump
where
the
rain-water
was."
"In
the
daytime?"
"Certainly."
"With
his
face
to
the
stump?"
"Yes.
Least
I
reckon
so."
"Did
he
say
anything?"
"I
don't
reckon
he
did.
I
don't
know."
"Aha!
Talk
about
trying
to
cure
warts
with
***-water
such
a
blame
fool
way
as
that!
Why,
that
ain't
a-going
to
do
any
good.
You
got
to
go
all
by
yourself,
to
the
middle
of
the
woods,
where
you
know
there's
a
***-water
stump,
and
just
as
it's
midnight
you
back
up
against
the
stump
and
jam
your
hand
in
and
say:
'Barley-corn,
barley-corn,
***-meal
shorts,
***-water,
***-water,
swaller
these
warts,'
and
then
walk
away
quick,
eleven
steps,
with
your
eyes
shut,
and
then
turn
around
three
times
and
walk
home
without
speaking
to
anybody.
Because
if
you
speak
the
charm's
busted."
"Well,
that
sounds
like
a
good
way;
but
that
ain't
the
way
Bob
Tanner
done."
"No,
sir,
you
can
bet
he
didn't,
becuz
he's
the
wartiest
boy
in
this
town;
and
he
wouldn't
have
a
wart
on
him
if
he'd
knowed
how
to
work
***-water.
I've
took
off
thousands
of
warts
off
of
my
hands
that
way,
Huck.
I
play
with
frogs
so
much
that
I've
always
got
considerable
many
warts. Sometimes I take 'em off with a bean."
"Yes,
bean's
good.
I've
done
that."
"Have
you?
What's
your
way?"
"You
take
and
split
the
bean,
and
cut
the
wart
so
as
to
get
some
blood,
and
then
you
put
the
blood
on
one
piece
of
the
bean
and
take
and
dig a hole and bury it 'bout midnight at the crossroads in the dark of
the
moon,
and
then
you
burn
up
the
rest
of
the
bean.
You
see
that
piece
that's
got
the
blood
on
it
will
keep
drawing
and
drawing,
trying
to
fetch
the
other
piece
to
it,
and
so
that
helps
the
blood
to
draw
the
wart,
and
pretty
soon
off
she
comes."
"Yes,
that's
it,
Huck--that's
it;
though
when
you're
burying
it
if
you
say 'Down bean; off wart; come no more to bother me!' it's better.
That's
the
way
Joe
Harper
does,
and
he's
been
nearly
to
Coonville
and
most everywheres. But say--how do you cure 'em with dead cats?"
"Why, you take your cat and go and get in the graveyard 'long about
midnight
when
somebody
that
was
wicked
has
been
buried;
and
when
it's
midnight
a
devil
will
come,
or
maybe
two
or
three,
but
you
can't
see
'em, you can only hear something like the wind, or maybe hear 'em talk;
and when they're taking that feller away, you heave your cat after 'em
and say, 'Devil follow corpse, cat follow devil, warts follow cat, I'm
done with ye!' That'll fetch ANY wart."
"Sounds
right.
D'you
ever
try
it,
Huck?"
"No,
but
old
Mother
Hopkins
told
me."
"Well,
I
reckon
it's
so,
then.
Becuz
they
say
she's
a
witch."
"Say!
Why,
Tom,
I
KNOW
she
is.
She
witched
pap.
Pap
says
so
his
own
self.
He
come
along
one
day,
and
he
see
she
was
a-witching
him,
so
he
took
up
a
rock,
and
if
she
hadn't
dodged,
he'd
a
got
her.
Well,
that
very night he rolled off'n a shed wher' he was a layin drunk, and broke
his
arm."
"Why,
that's
awful.
How
did
he
know
she
was
a-witching
him?"
"Lord,
pap
can
tell,
easy.
Pap
says
when
they
keep
looking
at
you
right
stiddy,
they're
a-witching
you.
Specially
if
they
mumble.
Becuz
when
they
mumble
they're
saying
the
Lord's
Prayer
backards."
"Say,
Hucky,
when
you
going
to
try
the
cat?"
"To-night.
I
reckon
they'll
come
after
old
Hoss
Williams
to-night."
"But
they
buried
him
Saturday.
Didn't
they
get
him
Saturday
night?"
"Why,
how
you
talk!
How
could
their
charms
work
till
midnight?--and
THEN
it's
Sunday.
Devils
don't
slosh
around
much
of
a
Sunday,
I
don't
reckon."
"I never thought of that. That's so. Lemme go with you?"
"Of course--if you ain't afeard."
"Afeard! 'Tain't likely. Will you meow?"
"Yes--and
you
meow
back,
if
you
get
a
chance.
Last
time,
you
kep'me
a-meowing
around
till
old
Hays
went
to
throwing
rocks
at
me
and
says
'Dern that cat!' and so I hove a brick through his window--but don't
you tell."
"I won't. I couldn't meow that night, becuz auntie was watching me,
but I'll meow this time. Say--what's that?"
"Nothing
but
a
tick."
"Where'd
you
get
him?"
"Out in the woods."
"What'll you take for him?"
"I don't know. I don't want to sell him."
"All right. It's a mighty small tick, anyway."
"Oh, anybody can run a tick down that don't belong to them. I'm
satisfied with it. It's a good enough tick for me."
"Sho, there's ticks a plenty. I could have a thousand of 'em if I
wanted to."
"Well, why don't you? Becuz you know mighty well you can't. This is a
pretty early tick, I reckon. It's the first one I've seen this year."
"Say, Huck--I'll give you my tooth for him."
"Less see it."
Tom
got
out
a
bit
of
paper
and
carefully
unrolled
it.
Huckleberry
viewed it wistfully. The temptation was very strong. At last he said:
"Is it genuwyne?"
Tom
lifted
his
lip
and
showed
the
vacancy.
"Well, all right," said Huckleberry, "it's a trade."
Tom enclosed the tick in the percussion-cap box that had lately been
the pinchbug's prison, and the boys separated, each feeling wealthier
than before.
When Tom reached the little isolated frame schoolhouse, he strode in
briskly, with the manner of one who had come with all honest speed.
He hung his hat on a peg and flung himself into his seat with
business-like alacrity. The master, throned on high in his great
splint-bottom arm-chair, was dozing, lulled by the drowsy hum of study.
The interruption roused him.
"Thomas Sawyer!"
Tom knew that when his name was pronounced in full, it meant trouble.
"Sir!"
"Come up here. Now, sir, why are you late again, as usual?"
Tom was about to take refuge in a lie, when he saw two long tails of
yellow hair hanging down a back that he recognized by the electric
sympathy of love; and by that form was THE ONLY VACANT PLACE on the
girls'side
of
the
schoolhouse.
He
instantly
said:
"I STOPPED TO TALK WITH HUCKLEBERRY FINN!"
The
master's
pulse
stood
still,
and
he
stared
helplessly.
The
buzz
of
study ceased. The pupils wondered if this foolhardy boy had lost his
mind. The master said:
"You--you did what?"
"Stopped
to
talk
with
Huckleberry
Finn."
There was no mistaking the words.
"Thomas Sawyer, this is the most astounding confession I have ever
listened to. No mere ferule will answer for this offence. Take off your
jacket."
The master's arm performed until it was tired and the stock of
switches notably diminished. Then the order followed:
"Now, sir, go and sit with the girls! And let this be a warning to you."
The
titter
that
rippled
around
the
room
appeared
to
abash
the
boy,
but
in
reality
that
result
was
caused
rather
more
by
his
worshipful
awe
of
his unknown idol and the dread pleasure that lay in his high good
fortune.
He
sat
down
upon
the
end
of
the
pine
bench
and
the
girl
hitched herself away from him with a toss of her head. Nudges and winks
and whispers traversed the room, but Tom sat still, with his arms upon
the
long,
low
desk
before
him,
and
seemed
to
study
his
book.
By and by attention ceased from him, and the accustomed school murmur
rose upon the dull air once more. Presently the boy began to steal
furtive glances at the girl. She observed it, "made a mouth" at him and
gave him the back of her head for the space of a minute. When she
cautiously faced around again, a peach lay before her. She thrust it
away. Tom gently put it back. She thrust it away again, but with less
animosity.
Tom
patiently
returned
it
to
its
place.
Then
she
let
it
remain. Tom scrawled on his slate, "Please take it--I got more." The
girl glanced at the words, but made no sign. Now the boy began to draw
something on the slate, hiding his work with his left hand. For a time
the girl refused to notice; but her human curiosity presently began to
manifest itself by hardly perceptible signs. The boy worked on,
apparently unconscious. The girl made a sort of noncommittal attempt to
see, but the boy did not betray that he was aware of it. At last she
gave in and hesitatingly whispered:
"Let me see it."
Tom partly uncovered a dismal caricature of a house with two gable
ends to it and a corkscrew of smoke issuing from the chimney. Then the
girl's interest began to fasten itself upon the work and she forgot
everything else. When it was finished, she gazed a moment, then
whispered:
"It's nice--make a man."
The artist erected a man in the front yard, that resembled a derrick.
He could have stepped over the house; but the girl was not
hypercritical; she was satisfied with the monster, and whispered:
"It's a beautiful man--now make me coming along."
Tom drew an hour-glass with a full moon and straw limbs to it and
armed the spreading fingers with a portentous fan. The girl said:
"It's ever so nice--I wish I could draw."
"It's easy," whispered Tom, "I'll learn you."
"Oh, will you? When?"
"At noon. Do you go home to dinner?"
"I'll stay if you will."
"Good--that's a whack. What's your name?"
"Becky Thatcher. What's yours? Oh, I know. It's Thomas Sawyer."
"That's the name they lick me by. I'm Tom when I'm good. You call me
Tom, will you?"
"Yes."
Now Tom began to scrawl something on the slate, hiding the words from
the girl. But she was not backward this time. She begged to see. Tom
said:
"Oh, it ain't anything."
"Yes it is."
"No it ain't. You don't want to see."
"Yes I do, indeed I do. Please let me."
"You'll tell."
"No I won't--deed and deed and double deed won't."
"You won't tell anybody at all? Ever, as long as you live?"
"No, I won't ever tell ANYbody. Now let me."
"Oh, YOU don't want to see!"
"Now that you treat me so, I WILL see." And she put her small hand
upon
his
and
a
little
scuffle
ensued,
Tom
pretending
to
resist
in
earnest but letting his hand slip by degrees till these words were
revealed: "I LOVE YOU."
"Oh, you bad thing!" And she hit his hand a smart rap, but reddened
and looked pleased, nevertheless.
Just
at
this
juncture
the
boy
felt
a
slow,
fateful
grip
closing
on
his
ear, and a steady lifting impulse. In that wise he was borne across the
house
and
deposited
in
his
own
seat,
under
a
peppering
fire
of
giggles
from the whole school. Then the master stood over him during a few
awful moments, and finally moved away to his throne without saying a
word. But although Tom's ear tingled, his heart was jubilant.
As
the
school
quieted
down
Tom
made
an
honest
effort
to
study,
but
the
turmoil
within
him
was
too
great.
In
turn
he
took
his
place
in
the
reading class and made a botch of it; then in the geography class and
turned lakes into mountains, mountains into rivers, and rivers into
continents, till chaos was come again; then in the spelling class, and
got "turned down," by a succession of mere baby words, till he brought
up at the foot and yielded up the pewter medal which he had worn with
ostentation for months.
