The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Tom Sawyer Abroad, and Tom Sawyer, Detective 9780520905849

Table of contents :
PREFACE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CONTENTS
ABBREVIATIONS
THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER
INTRODUCTION
THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER
INTRODUCTION
TOM SAWYER ABROAD
INTRODUCTION
TOM SAWYER, DETECTIVE
SUPPLEMENTS
EXPLANATORY NOTES
TEXTUAL APPARATUS

Citation preview

The Works of Mark Jwain VOLUME 4

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER TOM SAWYER ABROAD TOM SAWYER, DETECTIVE

THE WORKS OF MARK TWAIN The following volumes in this edition of Mark Twain’s previously published works have been issued to date: ROUGHING IT edited by Franklin R. Rogers and Paul Baender WHAT Is MAN? AND OTHER PHILOSOPHICAL WRITINGS edited by Paul Baender THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER TOM SAWYER ABROAD TOM SAWYER, DETECTIVE edited by John C. Gerber, Paul Baender, and Terry Firkins THE PRINCE AND THE PAUPER edited by Victor Fischer and Lin Salamo, with the assistance of Mary Jane Jones A CONNECTICUT YANKEE IN KING ARTHUR'S COURT edited by Bernard L. Stein with an introduction by Henry Nash Smith EARLY TALES & SKETCHES, VOLUME 1 (1851–1864) edited by Edgar M. Branch and Robert H. Hirst, with the assistance of Harriet Elinor Smith

The Works of Mark Twain Editorial Board JOHN C. GERBER,

CHAIRMAN

PAUL BAENDER WALTER BLAIR WILLIAM M. GIBSON WILLIAM B. TODD

Series Editor of The Works of Mark Twain and The Mark Twain Papers FREDERICK ANDERSON

The Works of Mark Jwam THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER TOM SAWYER ABROAD TOM SAWYER,DETECTIVE Edited by

JOHN C. GERBER PAUL BAENDER and TERRY FIRKINS

PUBLISHED FOR THE IOWA CENTER FOR TEXTUAL STUDIES BY THE

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA PRESS BERKELEY, LOS ANGELES, LONDON

1980

CENTER FOR EDITIONS OF A M E R I C A N AUTHORS

AN APPROVED TEXT MODERN L A N G U A G E ASSOCIATION OF A M E R I C A

The research reported herein was performed pursuant to a contract with the United States Office of Education, Department of Health, Education, and Welfare, under the provisions of the Cooperative Research Program. Editorial expenses were in part supported by grants from the National Endowment for the Humanities of the National Foundation on the Arts and Humanities administered through the Center for Editions of American Authors of the Modern Language Association. UNIVERSITY OF C A L I F O R N I A B E R K E L E Y AND LOS ANGELES, C A L I F O R N I A U N I V E R S I T Y OF C A L I F O R N I A PRESS, LTD. LONDON, ENGLAND PREVIOUSLY UNPUBLISHED MATERIAL BY MARK TWAIN COPYRIGHT © 1980 BY MARK TWAIN COMPANY ORIGINAL MATERIAL WITH THE EXCEPTION OF THE INTRODUCTIONS COPYRIGHT © 1980 BY THE REGENTS OF THE UNIVERSITY Of CALIFORNIA ISBN: 0-520-03353-1 L I B R A R Y OF CONGRESS CATALOG CARD NUMBER: 76-47974 DESIGNED BYHARLEAN RICHARDSON IN COLLABORATION WITH DAVE COMSTOCK MANUFACTURED

I N T H E U N I T E D STATES O F A M E R I C A

John C. Gcrber was responsible for the introductions and the explanatory notes; Paul Baender for the supplements and for the text and textual apparatus of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer; Terry Firkins for the text and textual apparatus of Tom Sawyer Abroad and "Tom Sawyer, Detective," under the direction of Paul Baender. All collations were done and factual data were checked at Iowa City. Assistants at Iowa City were WANDA BOEKE JUDITH HALE CROSSETT CYNTHIA KUHN FLORENCE RUBENTELD

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PREFACE

THE

. HE THREE NARRATIVES in this volume are the only ones that Mark Twain completed with Tom Sawyer as the main character throughout. Each of them is self-sufficient, and there is no attempt by their inclusion here to make them appear interdependent. Their juxtaposition, however, docs give emphasis to the changes in Mark Twain's attitude toward Tom Sawyer and his famous companions in the twenty years from 1876 to 1896. In The Adventures of Tom Sawyer (1876) he views the boys with undisguised affection. By his own admission he was writing about himself and his boyhood companions. As one might expect, therefore, the humor is warmhearted and gentle. In Tom Sawyer Abroad (1894), however, there is no such link between the characters and their creator. At best the boys (and Jim) represent provincial states of mind, not memories of the author's boyhood or aspects of his personality. The humor has been intellectualized into wit, and the tone has become one of amusement. In "Tom Sawyer, Detective” (1896), the amusement is tinged with indifference. Tom and Huck are now little more than puppets inserted into an old Danish murder mystery for whatever profit their antics may bring. While this change in feeling and treatment from story to story may be attributed to a falling off in Mark Twain's imaginative power, it is more likely the result of his realization by the 1890s that the boys were too frail to carry what had become his deepest convictions. Adequate for entertainment and even social satire, Tom and Huck could not be used successfully to dramatize the forces that determine existence and render it largely meaningless. Against the background of Mark Twain's increasingly cynical ideas about the nature and importance of man, therefore, the three narratives in this volume create a larger narrative with its own culmination, decline, and collapse.

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS O F THE MANY STUDENTS,colleagues, and friends who have helped in the preparation of this volume we can acknowledge by name only those whose assistance has been especially substantial. For providing access to Mark Twain manuscripts and other documents we are grateful to Mary Beaurline and Fredson Bowers of the University of Virginia; Donald Gallup, Curator, Collection of American Literature, Yale University Library; Ralph Gregory, Director, Mark Twain Memorial Shrine, Florida, Missouri; Joseph E. Jeffs and George M. Barringer, Librarians, Georgetown University Library; Robert H. Land, Chief, Reference Department, Library of Congress; Alexandra Mason, Director, Spencer Research Library, Kansas University; Lola L. Szladits, Director, the Henry W. and Albert A. Berg Collection, New York Public Library; and especially Leslie Dunlap, Dean of Library Administration, Dale Bentz, University Librarian, Frank Hanlin, Bibliographer, Frank Paluka, Head of Special Collections, Julia Bartling, Head of Reference Services, and the late Ada Stoflet, Reference Librarian, of the University of Iowa Libraries. The purchase of a Hinman Collator by the University of Iowa Libraries made collation far simpler than it otherwise would have been. Particularly, too, we want to thank F. W. Roberts, Director of the Humanities Research Center, University of Texas, for his generosity and patience in allowing us to examine copies of first editions over long periods of time. Although their publications are noted in footnotes, we should mention here, too, our great indebtedness to the work of Walter Blair and Hamlin Hill on the nature and background of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. For his many shrewd suggestions and other assistance we acknowledge the late Frederick Anderson, Editor, the Mark Twain Papers, The Bancroft Library, University of California (Berkeley); also Michael Frank, Victor Fischer, Alan Gribben, Bruce T. Hamilton, Mariam Kagan, Robert Nordlie, Murray Ross, Kenneth Sanderson, and Bernard L. Stein of the

xii

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Mark Twain Papers. For directing the early collations we thank Warner Barnes and O M Brack, Jr., then of the University of Iowa ; for help with collation, checking, and typing Jenny Abraham, Judith Clark, Dorotha Dilkes, Fritzen Dykstra, Linda Ellinger, Patricia Hutchings, Candice Kaelber, Karen Keres, Felicia Lavallée, Frank Nelson, Joel Stein, and John Yoder. James T. Cox, Jr., Leon Dickinson, James B. Meriwether, the late Claude Simpson, and Robert S. Wachal helped in a variety of important ways, as did our colleagues on the Editorial Board, Walter Blair, William M. Gibson, and William B. Todd. For her editorial assistance in the preparation of all three texts very special recognition is due Judith Hale Crossett. The volume is dedicated to M. W. G.

CONTENTS ABBREVIATIONS INTRODUCTION THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER

XV

3 31

INTRODUCTION

241

TOM SAWYER ABROAD

251

INTRODUCTION

345

TOM SAWYER, DETECTIVE

357

SUPPLEMENTS A "Boy's Manuscript" B W. D. Howells' Comments in the Secretarial Copy of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer C Selected Illustrations from the First American Edition of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer

417 419

EXPLANATORY NOTES The Adventures of Tom Sawyer Tom Sawyer Abroad Tom Sawyer, Detective

467 469 493 497

TEXTUAL APPARATUS The Adventures of Tom Sawyer Tom Sawyer Abroad Tom Sawyer, Detective

501 503 621 675

452 458

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ABBREVIATIONS THE FOLLOWING abbreviations and location symbols have been used in annotations. Unless otherwise indicated, all materials quoted in the documentation are transcribed, from originals in the Mark Twain Papers, The Bancroft Library, University of California, Berkeley. “DV” numbers are catalog numbers in the Mark Twain Papers. Volume numbers for multi-volume works appear before the abbreviation, thus, “2MTA.” MS

Manuscript

MTP

Mark Twain Papers, The Bancroft Library, University of California (Berkeley)

PH

Photocopy

SLC

Samuel Langhorne Clemens

TS

Typescript PREVIOUSLY PUBLISHED TEXTS

BAL

Jacob Blanck, Bibliography of American Literature (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1957), vol. 2

HH&T

Mark Twain's Hannibal, Huck & Tom, ed. Walter Blair (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1969)

LAMT

Edgar M. Branch, The Literary Apprenticeship of Mark Twain (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1950)

LLMT

The Love Letters of Mark Twain, ed. Dixon Wecter (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1949)

MFMT

Clara Clemens, My Father, Mark Twain (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1911)

XVI

ABBREVIATIONS

MTA

Mark Twain's Autobiography, ed. Albert Bigelow Paine (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1924)

MTAra

Bernard DcVoto, Mark Twain's America (Boston: Little, Brown, 1932)

MTAW

Bernard DeVoto, Mark Twain at Work (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1942)

MTB

Albert Bigelow Paine, Mark Twain: A Biography (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1912)

MTBur

Franklin R. Rogers, Mark Twain's Burlesque Patterns (Dallas: Southern Methodist University Press, 1960)

MTBus

Mark Twain, Business Man, cd. Samuel C. Webster (Boston: Little, Brown, 1946)

MTE

Mark Twain in Eruption, ed. Bernard DeVoto (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1940)

MT&EB

Hamlin Hill, Mark Twain and Elisha Bliss (Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 1964)

MT&HF

Walter Blair, Mark Twain & Buck Finn (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1960)

MTHHR

Mark Twain's Correspondence with Henry Huttleston Rogers, ed. Lewis Leary (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1969)

MTHL

Mark Twain-Howells Letters, ed. Henry Nash Smith and William M. Gibson (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1960)

MT&JB

Howard G. Baetzhold, Mark Twain and John Bull (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1970)

MTL

Mark Twain's Letters, ed. Albert Bigelow Paine (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1917)

MTLex

Robert L. Ramsay and Frances G. Emberson, A Mark Twain Lexicon (New York: Russell & Russell, 1963)

MTLBowen Mark Twain's Letters to Will Rowen, ed. Theodore Hornbergcr (Austin: University of Texas, 1941) MTLP

Mark Twain's Letters to His Publishers, ed. Hamlm Hill (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1967)

ABBREVIATIONS

xvii

MTMF

Mark Twain to Mrs. Fairbanks, ed. Dixon Wecter (San Marino, Calif.: Huntington Library Publications, 1949)

MTN

Mark Twain's Notebook, ed. Albert Bigelow Paine (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1935)

MTTB

Mark Twain's Travels with Mr. Brown, ed. Franklin Walker and G. Ezra Dane (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1940)

SCH

Dixon Wecter, Sam Clemens of Hannibal (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1952)

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THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER

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INTRODUCTION A,.NARRATIVE that appeals to readers of eighty as well as eight, The

Adventures of Tom Sawyer has become one of the world's best known and best loved books. Variously called "the idyll of Hannibal," "a phantasy of boyhood," "a children's classic," "a masterpiece of juvenile fiction," and "a prose epic," it was perhaps most aptly described by Mark Twain himself when he wrote that "Tom Sawyer is simply a hymn, put into prose form to give it a worldly air."1 These words of the author catch the polarities of the book: its pastoral atmosphere and its insistent concern with the mundane, especially fame and money. With reason, most readers believe that Adventures of Huckleberry Finn is a superior work of art. But even in Huckleberry Finn there is little that has become so firmly fixed in the public memory as the whitewashing scene in Tom Sawyer, the puppy love of Tom and Becky, the escapades of the three boys on Jackson's Island, and the plight of Tom and Becky in the cave. Tom Sawyer is first of all a reminiscence. More specifically, it is a collection of Mark Twain's memories of his boyhood in Hannibal, Missouri, recalled across the span of thirty years. The boundaries of the town are the boundaries of the action in the book: the bluff along the river to the north, the Mississippi River itself to the east, the bluff again and the cave to the south, and the dusty farms along the roads and creeks to the west. Within the town the action centers around such actual places as the Clemens and Hawkins homes on Hill Street, the little brick church known as "Old Ship of Zion" on the town square, the slaughterhouse and the tanyard and the Temperance House, the old Baptist cemetery, the home of the widow on Holliday's hill, and Bear Creek in which Mark Twain later recalled that as a boy he had almost drowned each summer and each time had "to be drained out and inflated and set going again." As for the people of Hannibal, Mark Twain himself identified at least ten of them as "MTL, p. 477.

4

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER

prototypes of characters in his book. And most of the adventures, he said in the Preface, really happened. Remembered nostalgically by the author, Hannibal gets transformed into St. Petersburg, or heaven, but by no means does it become unrecognizable. Yet Tom Sawyer is far from being purely a reminiscence, for the author freely modified the accounts of his own experience with material from his reading. The relation between Tom and Huck, for example, probably owes more to Mark Twain's reading of Cervantes than to any boyhood friendship in Hannibal. Like Don Quixote Tom is romantic, imaginative, and well-read, and Huck like Sancho Panza is uneducated and matter-of-fact. Possibly the relation between Tom and Huck is colored somewhat, too, by W. E. H. Lecky's dichotomy between the intuitive and the utilitarian. Clemens was reading Lecky's History of European Morals and discussing it with his brother-in-law, Theodore Crane, in the summer of 1874 when he was at work on Tom Sawyer. Certainly Lecky's analysis of medieval asceticism is discernible in Huck's rejection of the habits of hermits. Even Tom's relations with Aunt Polly are due as much to the author's reading as to memories of his mother. In 1851-1852 the young Sam Clemens set type on some of B. P. Shillaber's sketches of Mrs. Partington and her orphaned nephew Ike for his brother Orion's Hannibal Journal— or at least he had a chance to read these sketches in its columns. Later, one of his first published works, "The Dandy Frightening the Squatter," appeared in Shillaber's Carpet Bag in May 1852. And still later, as Mark Twain, the author mentioned Mrs. Partington in Roughing It (1872). So it is undoubtedly more than coincidence that Aunt Polly and Tom turn out to be extraordinarily like Mrs. Partington and Ike. Both widows are good Calvinists whose belief in stern discipline inevitably gets betrayed by their soft hearts. Both nephews successfully "work" their aunts, snitch doughnuts, play tricks on cats, misbehave in church, feign sickness to avoid school, and find inspiration in The Black Avenger, or The Pirates of the Spanish Main.2 2 Walter Blair gives the fullest accounts of the similarities between the two sets of widows and their orphaned nephews in MT&HF, pp. 62-64, and Native American Humor (New York: American Book Company, 1937), pp. 150-152. The conflation in Clemens' mind of Mrs. Partington and his mother persisted throughout his life. In talking to his biographer, A. B. Paine, he attributed to his mother the anecdote about Mrs. Partington's not drowning some new kittens until she warmed the water to make it "more comfortable" (AITB, p. 36).

INTRODUCTION

5

Other episodes—one is tempted to say all other episodes—also show the effects of wide reading. The grave-robbing scene, for example, is similar enough to a scene in Charles Dickens' Tale of Two Cities to be judged a conscious borrowing, and Tom's courtship of Becky may have its source in David Copperfteld. Tom's night-time visit home during the Jackson Island sequence recalls Tennyson's "Enoch Arden," and the treasure-hunting episode has elements in common with Edgar Allan Poe's "The Gold Bug." Though based primarily on Mark Twain's memory of a tramp setting the Hannibal jail on fire, the visit of Tom and Huck to Muff Potter can also be identified with Bret Harte's "M'liss." Other episodes call to mind the works of A. B. Longstreet and George Washington Harris, the Robin Hood tales, and even Carlyle's French Revolution. Moreover, though Mark Twain's initial reaction to Aldrich's The Story of a Bad Boy (1869) was unenthusiastic, the similarities between it and Tom Sawyer are numerous enough to indicate that he borrowed from it freely if unconsciously. The Explanatory Notes indicate more specifically the astonishing range of literary works that contributed to the novel's development. A third point should be made before we turn to matters of composition and publication: Mark Twain did not start Tom Sawyer from scratch. Not only had he previously burlesqued the juvenile fiction of the time and experimented with the point of view of a boy, but orally and in writing he had rehearsed, as Walter Blair puts it, many of the book's specific episodes. In many ways the book was a culmination and not an initiation. It was almost inevitable that Mark Twain in his early works should turn his attention to the juvenile fiction of the time, for such other humorists as B. P. Shillaber and Johnson J. Hooper had already demonstrated that there was a ready audience for burlesques of the ostentatiously good little boy. Mark Twain's first attempt in this line was a piece of Washoe humor he entitled "Those Blasted Children" (1864). Not technically a burlesque, it nevertheless went counter to the prevailing modes in juvenile fiction by portraying youngsters as young savages who must be treated as such. The best cure for stammering, the reader is told, is to saw off the youngster's under-jaw. More conventional as take-offs were "The Story of the Bad Little Boy Who Didn't Come to Grief" (1865) and "The Story of the Good Little Boy Who Did Not Prosper" (1870). In each Mark Twain achieved his effect by simply reversing the traditional formula that virtue is always

6

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER

rewarded and evil punished. His bad little boy becomes universally respected and is elected to the legislature, and his good little boy is blown apart so thoroughly that his pieces come down in four townships and an adjoining county. By their very outrageousness, one can argue, such burlesques demonstrate the extent of Mark Twain's impatience with boy fiction that lacked a basis of reality. In view of his facility in writing Tom Sawyer and, later, Huckleberry Finn, Mark Twain was surprisingly slow in experimenting seriously with material written from the boy's point of view. Some critics mention the "Letters of Thomas Jefferson Snodgrass" (1856-1857) and "Fitz Smythe's Horse" (1866) as antecedents of Tom Sawyer. But the "Letters" were simply imitations—and bad imitations at that—of conventional treatments of the country lout, and the so-called boy-talk in "Fitz Smythe's Horse" is nothing more than a redaction of the talk of garrulous old Simon Wheeler in "The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County." It was not until he wrote "Jim Wolf and the Tom-Cats" (1867) and the anecdote in The Innocents Abroad (1869) about finding a corpse in his father's law office that Mark Twain really attempted stories about boys as serious literary efforts. The first sustained passages in which he tried to tell a story from the point of view of a boy are in the early chapters of The Gilded Age (1873) where he observes Colonel Sellers through the eyes and ears of the young Washington Hawkins, and where he reports the daydreams of Hawkins. If these passages did not disclose to him the extraordinary possibilities of his own boyhood as a source for fiction, they must at least have persuaded him that his imagination particularly flourished when he adopted a boy's viewpoint. Probably the seven Atlantic installments of "Old Times on the Mississippi" (1875) should be added as preparation for Tom Sawyer even though they were written after the novel was about half done. Each work must surely have enriched the other because both deal with youthful experiences, and both are at their best when Mark Twain assumed a boy's point of view. Some of his early work based on personal experience Mark Twain was able to adapt for Tom Sawyer, and occasionally to use almost without change. In his notebook for 1866, for example, he recorded a note on the cat and the pain-killer and information about cures for warts. In a paragraph written for the Aha California in 1867 he told a story similar to Tom's experiences with the Cadets of Temperance.

INTRODUCTION

7

Burlesques he wrote for the Territorial Enterprise in 1864 and the Aha in 1868 tried out material which appeared again in the description of the school on Examination Day. A letter of 1870 provided the start for the account of the Robin Hood games. And a letter to Annie Taylor written in 1856, a letter to his wife Livy (1871), and a scene in The Gilded Age all dealt with material similar to the Sunday School and church activities described in chapters 4 and 5. The Gilded Age also helped him prepare for the courtroom scene and, more generally, for the depiction of the people who made up a small Missouri town. In the early 1870s he narrated the whitewashing scene in London to Henry Irving and W. G. Wills, subsequently writing it out when he got back to his hotel.3 Two letters to his old friend Will Bowen refer to seven of the incidents he later used in Tom Sawyer4 And a story appearing in the Hartford (Connecticut) Courantfor21 April 1873 about a group of boys lost in a Hannibal cave may well have been Mark Twain's first rehearsal in print of the cave incident. 5 Finally, a notation on the first page of the manuscript—"Put in things from Boy-lecture"—may refer to an earlier lecture "in behalf of the boys" which the author thought a good-natured satire. The text of the complete lecture is unknown, but manuscript page 37 was taken from it or from a narrative begun in the first person. By all odds the most immediate source for Tom Sawyer was an unfinished story, probably written in 1870, that Albert Bigelow Paine, Mark Twain's first posthumous literary editor, entitled "Boy's Manuscript" (Supplement A). Possibly a travesty on the author's recent courtship of Livy,6 and reminiscent of such literary sources as Aldrich's Story of a Bad Boy and David Copperfield's pursuit of Dora Spcnlow, the "Manuscript" is almost a dress rehearsal for Tom's love 3 Bernard DeVoto attributes this incident to Mark Twain's first trip to England in 1872 (MTAW, p. 4) but Hamlin Hill argues for the second trip in 1873 (MT&£B, p. 101). A story of a boy's tricking his friends into surrendering their treasures may have been told by Mark Twain as early as 1867 when the Quaker City excursion stopped in Bermuda on its return voyage. At least Julia Newell, one of the excursionists, reported to the Janesville (Wisconsin) Gazette in October 1867 that such a story was told there by one of the "gentlemen" of the Quaker City party. For the most complete account of Mark Twain's rehearsals for Tom Sawyer see MT&HF, pp. 67-70. ^MTI.Kowcn, pp. 16-21. 5 See Pastora San Juan, "A Sotirce for Tom Sawyer," American Literature 38, no. 1 (March 1966): 101-102. 6 See MT&HF, p. 57.

8

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER

affair with Becky. In diary form, it contains such details as watching the sweetheart's window at night, being ill and having to submit to nauseating remedies, showing off at school to attract the sweetheart's attention, and playing up to another girl to make the sweetheart jealous. The tormenting of the tick by Tom and Joe Harper comes out of the "Manuscript" with little alteration. A Bob Sawyer appears briefly, the name quite possibly picked up from the Pickwick Papers. Even the spool cannon, a Barlow knife, the door knob, and the Spanish Main are there. Wisely, Mark Twain did not bother to finish this early version. It was too much of a burlesque, and it was going nowhere. But the time spent on it was ultimately pure gain. Mark Twain wrote Tom Sawyer at three different times: the winter of 1872-1873, the spring and summer of 1874, and the spring and summer of 1875. Revised copy went to the typesetters in January 1876. The English edition appeared on 9 June 1876, a Canadian piracy on 29 July, and the American edition on 8 December. These are the major facts of composition and publication. Behind them lies a story of hope, uncertainty, and frustration. From the outset the author apparently intended Tom Sawyer to be a book for adults since he had little respect for the juvenile fiction of his time.7 As a matter of fact, the narrative starts out as a spoof of juvenile fiction, for in the early scenes Mark Twain causes Tom to commit every crime that the pious heroes of children's books were warned against.8 Moreover, he apparently planned to carry Tom from boyhood into middle age because at the top of the first page of the holograph manuscript, now in the Riggs Memorial Library at Georgetown University, appears an outline of his intentions, later crossed out: I, Boyhood & youth; 2 y &. early Manh; 3 the Battle of Life in many lands; 4 (age 37 to 40,) return to meet grown babies & toothless 7

In 1871 Clemens wrote his brother Orion: "My opinion of a children's article is wholly worthless, for I never saw one that I thought was worth the ink it was written with. . . . I have no love for children's literature" (SLC to Orion Clemens, 15 March 1871). 8 Walter Blair, in "On the Structure of Tom Sawyer," Modern Philology 37, no. 1 (August 1939): 75-80, hereafter "Structure," and Albert E. Stone, Jr., in The Innocent Eye (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1961), pp. 60-63, show that Tom lawyer was one of several fictional works that celebrated the Bad Boy as a distinctively American hero.

INTRODUCTION

9

old drivelers who were the grandees of his boyhood. The Adored Unknown a [illegible cancellation] faded old maid & full of rasping, puritanical vinegar piety. Eventually this entire outline was abandoned, as Mark Twain simply introduced incidents and characters as they occurred to him or as he found a need for them. Often when he could not use an incident immediately he would make a notation on the margin of his manuscript to jog his memory later. A few such reminders were: Burnt up the old sot Cadets of Temp. Learning to smoke Becky has measles T takes B's whipping Some of these items he came back to and some he forgot or rejected.9 Although in the last stages of composition he did reassemble portions of his material to tighten up the story, Mark Twain in general wrote Tom Sawyer in the same erratic and unplanned way that he wrote all of his novels. As the textual editor has determined, the book was begun in the winter of 1872-1873 when the Clemenses were living in a house that they had rented in the Nook Farm suburb of Hartford.10 Mark Twain may well have begun the narrative in November 1872 just after returning, invigorated, from a triumphal visit to England. From the stationery and handwriting we may infer that he completed about a hundred pages of the manuscript before laying it aside—presumably to begin collaboration with Charles Dudley Warner on The Gilded Age in January or February 1873. The second period of composition was more extended and more fruitful. Primarily for her brother-in-law to use as an outdoor study, Livy's sister, Sue Crane, had built a small octagonal summer house on 9 For a discussion of these marginal notations, see Hamlin Hill, "The Composition and the Structure of Tom Sawyer," American Literature 32, no. 4 (January 1961): 381-383, hereafter "Composition and Structure." Their exact locations are indicated in the textual notes. 10 A. B. Paine believed that Mark Twain started Tom Sawyer in 1872 as a play and in his biography of Mark Twain reprinted the first page of a play manuscript containing dialogue like that which begins the novel (MTB, pp. 505-512). Despite Bernard DeVoto's doubts that composition of the novel began so early (MTAW, pp. 4-5), the stationery, ink, and a marginal notation on the original manuscript suggest that the novel, too, must have been started late in 1872 or very early in 1873 (see the textual commentary).

10

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER

the lawn of the Crane home, Quarry Farm, high on a hill just east of Elmira. In this study Mark Twain labored on Tom Sawyer off and on from April to September 1874. On his best days he would start immediately after a late breakfast and write until almost five o'clock in the afternoon, sometimes turning out as many as five thousand words a day. In the evening he would often read what he had written that day to Livy and the Cranes. Despite interruptions he finished some four hundred pages at Quarry Farm. But the interruptions were frequent. In June, for example, the Clemenses' second daughter, Clara, was born. In July he wrote "A True Story," which to his great delight was accepted by William Dean Howells for the Atlantic. During the same month he finished a five-act play entitled Colonel Sellers. In August he and Livy went to visit Clemens' mother and sister in Fredonia, New York. The heat prostrated Livy and so irritated Clemens that at one point he grossly insulted a local banker who had come to call. The Clemenses hurried back to Quarry Farm where it took Livy a month to recuperate.11 All this time, too, they were beset by the worries of furnishing their expensive new house in Hartford. So it is not too surprising that Mark Twain finally had to admit that he could not continue. On 4 September 1874 he wrote to Dr. John Brown in Edinburgh: I have been writing fifty pages of manuscript a day, on an average, for sometime now, on a book (a story) and consequently have been so wrapped up in it and so dead to anything else, that I have fallen mighty short in letter-writing. But night before last I discovered that that day's chapter was a failure, in conception, moral truth to nature, and execution—enough blemish to impair the excellence of almost any chapter—and so I must burn up the day's work and do it all over again. It was plain that I had worked myself out, pumped myself dry.12 Later, in dictating his autobiography, he remembered this halt coming at page 400.13 The textual editor argues that Mark Twain's U

MTL, pp. 220-221, and MTHL, pp. 21-22. MTL, p. 224. 13 "At page 400 of my manuscript the story made a sudden and determined halt and refused to proceed another step. Day after day it still refused. I was disappointed, distressed and immeasurably astonished, for I knew quite well that the talc was not finished and I could not understand why I was not able to go on with it. The reason was very simple—my tank had run dry, it was empty; the stock of materials in it was exhausted; the story could not go on without materials; it could not be wrought out of nothing" (MT£, p. 197). 12

INTRODUCTION

11

memory, as so often, may have been faulty here and that he meant page 500, for there is a distinct break in the manuscript at page 500, whereas there is no break in stationery, ink, or handwriting at page 400.14 Page 400, however, may have stuck in his mind for another reason, for it was roughly at this point in the narrative that he had to make a major decision about the direction the book was to take. The incident involved was Tom's nocturnal visit to St. Petersburg from Jackson's Island. Before he had Tom leave the island, Mark Twain caused him to write two messages on sycamore bark. The first one is to the sleeping Huck and Joe Harper. In it Tom bequeaths to them his "schoolboy treasures of almost inestimable value" if he is not back by breakfast. In the other he writes, according to what he later told Aunt Polly, that he and the others had gone pirating. The first he places in Joe Harper's hat along with the "treasures"; the second he shoves into a jacket pocket, intending, presumably, to leave it at Aunt Polly's. Hamlin Hill suggests that the bark messages indicate that Mark Twain was still debating the possibility of having Tom set off for "the Battle of Life in many lands."15 Certainly they represent curious and even irrelevant details if Mark Twain planned all along to have Tom return to the island before morning. Further indications of indecisiveness on the part of the author appear on page 403 where Mark Twain scribbled contradictory bits of advice to himself about what to do with the message in Tom's jacket. Sid is to find and steal that scroll. He is to show scroll in proof of his intent. No, he leaves the bark there, & Sid gets it. He forgets to leave the bark. A fourth note is so thoroughly canceled as to be unintelligible. Whatever caused Mark Twain to make up his mind we shall never know, but we can guess that it was the sudden inspiration to have the boys attend their own funeral. This was the kind of effect for which Mark Twain would normally sacrifice any plan. Whatever the reasons, he had Tom return to the island in time to reclaim his possessions, and Aunt Polly subsequently to find the second bark in Tom's jacket. 14

Sec the textual commentary. "Composition and Structure," pp. 387-389.

15

12

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER

Composition continued until 2 September when the author's inspiration finally flagged completely. So far as one can tell, the narrative remained untouched for almost eight months. During this time the Clemenses finished furnishing the new house, and despite a variety of family illnesses began the lavish entertaining for which they became famous. Principally the humorist worked on the seven installments of "Old Times on the Mississippi" for the Atlantic, and seems not to have returned to Tom Sawyer until he finished the installment in mid-May.16 The family did not go to Quarry Farm that summer, but despite the interruptions in Hartford he was able to write almost four hundred additional pages and complete the first draft by 5 July. If he had previously decided not to carry Tom into "many lands," it is evident that the idea of having Tom mature had not wholly left him. At least the way he juggled his material during this last period of composition resulted in Tom's seeming less irresponsible as the story proceeds. The manuscript indicates that Mark Twain had at one time considered having Muff Potter burn to death in jail, and that he had definitely planned to have Injun }oe eliminated by a certain Ezra Ward. But he revised these plans so that Tom could perform stoutly at a trial and in the cave. After he had written the trial scene, he inserted it between the episode in which Tom takes Becky's whipping and the picnic, which had previously been in sequence, and followed the trial with the treasure episodes. Then he added the harrowing adventures in the cave to the picnic, and brought the whole story to its rousing finish in the disclosure at the widow's of Tom and Huck's great wealth. Two new passages in which Tom appears especially boyish—the one on the graduation ceremony (chapter 21) and the one on the Cadets of Temperance (chapter 22)—he placed earlier in the book. The passages from Mary Ann Harris Gay's The Pastor's Story and Other Pieces, used as declamations in the graduation ceremony, are simply the inevitable results of his penchant for burlesque.17 Even after this careful rearrangement, Mark Twain was still not sure whether or not to carry Tom into manhood. It seems evident that

1(

'On 20 February he wrote Howells, "So I'll trim up & finish 2 or 3 more river sketches for the magazine (if you still think you want them), & then huckle in on another hook for Bliss, finish it the end of May. . . ." (MTHL, p. 67). He was much too busy that spring, however, to maintain such a schedule.

INTRODUCTION

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Howells urged him to do so, for he partly acquiesced in a letter dated 21 June: I am going to take into serious consideration all you have said, &. then make up my mind by & by. Since there is no plot to the thing, it is likely to follow its own drift, &. so is as likely to drift into manhood as anywhere—I won't interpose.18 Two weeks later Howells pushed harder on the point, motivated no doubt by the desire to have a story suitable for the Atlantic. You must be thinking well of the notion of giving us that story. I really feel very much interested in your making that your chief work,you wont have such another chance,- don't waste it on a boy, and don't hurry the writing for the sake of making a book. Take your time, and deliberately advertise it by Atlantic publication.19 Howells' advice came too late. On 5 July Mark Twain wrote back: I have finished the story &. didn't take the chap beyond boyhood. I believe it would be fatal to do it in any shape but autobiographically —like Gil Bias. I perhaps made a mistake in not writing it in the first person. If I went on, now, & took him into manhood, he would just be like all the one-horse men in literature & the reader would conceive a hearty contempt for him. It is not a boy's book, at all. It will only be read by adults. It is only written for adults. . . . By & by I shall take a boy of twelve & run him on through life (in the first person) but not Tom Sawyer—he would not be a good character for it. Then he added that he was not going to send the narrative to the Atlantic since it could not pay him enough,20 but he did want to ask a tremendous favor: "I wish you would promise to read the MS of Tom Sawyer some time, & see if you don't really decide that I am right in closing with him as a boy—& point out the most glaring defects for 17 For a detailed discussion of these changes, see "Composition and Structure," pp. 388-391, and for the original argument that Tom matures during the course of the narrative, see "Structure," pp. 80-88. Judith Fetterley, however, in "The Sanctioned Rebel," Studies in the Novel 3, no. 3 (Fall 1971): 293-303, contends that Tom simply changes from the boy who flouts conventional values to one who accepts them, and that maturity as such is not the issue. 18 MTHL, pp. 87-88. 19 MTHL, pp. 90-91. 20 The expenses of the new house on Farmington Avenue in Hartford required Mark Twain to make as much money from the book as he could. The initial cost of the house was $122,000. In addition, he was employing six servants whose salaries ran to $1,650 annually—not counting the cost of their keep (MT&EB, p. 121).

14

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER

me."21 Next day, gracious as ever despite his disappointment in losing the story for the Atlantic, Howells told him to send the manuscript when it was ready. He repeated the invitation two days later. To ready the manuscript for Howells Mark Twain went over it with what for him was great care. He later told Howells that "I was careful not to inflict the MS upon you until I had thoroughly & painstakingly revised it."22 Including all of the cancellations, substitutions, and additions, there are well over a thousand changes in wording in the original manuscript. Slightly over half of these seem to have been made after the original creative stage, for they arc interlined, are sometimes written with a different ink and pen, and have other characteristics that give evidence of later rather than immediate editing. Some of these, of course, may have been introduced at earlier periods and several others at Howells' suggestion were introduced later. 23 But it seems safe to say that at least 500 were made when Mark Twain was preparing the text for Howells. In almost all instances the editing shows a careful craftsman at work. The changes eliminate names used only temporarily ("Finn" for "Potter" in chapter 9, "Fletcher" for "Thatcher" in the last third of the book); they tighten up the narrative by ridding it of a number of weak adjectives, vague pronouns, and an occasional "And" at the beginning of sentences; they make the dialogue more easily understood by frequent additions of the names of speakers; and they make the style more graphic by shifts to more connotative words ("snowbanks" of girls for "rows" of girls). In addition, there are changes that make details more believable. For example, Tom gives Becky a brass andiron knob instead of a tooth, and uses a kite line in the cave instead of a fishline. Certain revisions cut down on the offensive or sensational —more or less. The name of the town Becky comes from is changed from Coonville to Constantinople, and Injun foe decides to notch the widow's nose and slit her ears instead of cutting them off. Sometimes Mark Twain was unable to make up his mind, for he changed "PainKiller" to "Pain-Destroyer" and later changed the name back to "Pain-Killer." But the most curious revisions are in figures, for hardly a dimension is allowed to stand as it originally was. The poodle flips the 21

M7m, pp. 91-92. MTH/, p. 122. -•'Sec Supplement H

2Z

INTRODUCTION

15

beetle two yards instead of one; the cemetery is a mile and a half from the village instead of two,- the dog howls ten feet from the hoys in the old tannery instead of six,- having been given the Pain-Killer Peter springs a couple of yards in the air instead of a couple of feet; and Judge Thatcher tells Tom he had locked the cave two weeks before instead of ten days. The most astonishing change of this sort is that the height of the famous fence Tom is supposed to whitewash is increased from four feet to nine! 24 As he worked on the manuscript, Mark Twain's conscience must have gotten the better of him because of the immensity of the favor he had asked of Howells, and so he wrote on 13 July that he would send the manuscript for corrections only if Howells would agree to help him dramatize the story and accept half of the first $6,000 received from its stage presentation. Presumably to facilitate such collaboration he telegraphed his theatrical agent to pick up the manuscript and have a copy made of it. Howells declined the offer to help in the dramatization, saying "I don't see how anybody can do that but yourself." 2:> And there the matter stood until November. With the manuscript of Tom Sawyer out of his hands temporarily, Mark Twain busied himself with other things. For the Atlantic he wrote "The Curious Republic of Gondour" and "A Literary Nightmare." And because his publisher, Elisha Bliss of the American Publishing Company in Hartford, was pushing him for a book, he put together Sketches, New and Old, which was published 25 September. No later than early November he had gotten back both the original manuscript and the amanuensis copy of Tom Sawyer from his theatrical agent, and had forwarded the original to Bliss so that the illustrator could get started. 26 He may have carried the amanuensis copy to 24 Bemard DcVoto lists certain fundamental weaknesses Mark Twain allowed to remain. Judge Thatcher and Lawyer Thatcher, for example, get telescoped as the story goes along into Judge Thatcher, and the school at the graduation exercise is considerably larger than it is in the earlier scenes (MTAW, pp. 9-10). 25 MTHL, p. 96. Walter Blair suggests that Mark Twain may not have expected Howells to accept his invitation to collaborate on a dramatization of Tom Sawyer, for he apparently applied for a copyright in his own name before he heard from Howells. Howells refused on 19 July, and Mark Twain secured a copyright only two days later, on 21 July (HH&T, p. 244). 26 The illustrator for Tom Sawyer was True W. Williams, a Hartford artist, who had already drawn illustrations tor The Innocents Abroad and Sketches, New and Old. Mark Twain thought m a n y of the pictures for Tom Sawyer were "considerably above the American average in conception if not in execution" (MTHL, p. 128).

16

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER

Boston to deliver to Howells in person. Howells worked over it during the second week of November but did not write to Mark Twain about it until the 21st: I finished reading Tom Sawyer a week ago, sitting up till one A.M., to get to the end, simply because it was impossible to leave off. It's altogether the best boy's story I ever read. It will be an immense success. But I think you ought to treat it explicitly as a boy's story. Grown-ups will enjoy it just as much if you do ; and if you should put it forth as a study of boy character from the grown-up point of view, you'd give the wrong key to it. I have made some corrections and suggestions in faltering pencil, which you'll have to look for. They're almost all in the first third. When you fairly swing off, you had better be let alone. . . . I shouldn't think of publishing this story serially. Give me a hint when it's to be out, and I'll start the sheep to jumping in the right places.—I don't seem to think I like the last chapter. I believe I would cut that. 27 Needless to say Howells' letter elated Mark Twain. It must have surprised him, too, since both men previously had insisted in their correspondence that it should be an adult book. Howells' perceptions were extraordinarily shrewd—though one cannot help wondering whether he would have been so firm about its being a boy's book if he still had had a chance of getting it for the Atlantic. In any case, Mark Twain readily agreed, as did Livy, that it should be issued as a book for boys and that the last chapter should be cut. "Something told me," he said, "that the book was done when I got to that point." 28 Howells probably returned the amanuensis copy promptly, but Mark Twain was ill and did not get at it for several weeks. By 18 January, however, he had made most of the changes that Howells had recommended, on both it and the original manuscript (which he had retrieved from the publisher). There [never] was a man in the world so grateful to another as I was to you day before yesterday, when I sat down (in still rather wretched 27

MTHL, pp. 110-111. /V1THL, pp. 112-113. The present conclusion in the amanuensis copy, now in the Mark Twain Shrine at Florida, Missouri, is written in Mark Twain's hand, indicating that it is a substitute for the original last chapter. Further evidence is that in the holograph manuscript it is written on the same paper and with the same pen as the preface, which is dated 1876. Although the original last chapter does not survive, Bernard DeVoto (MT/HV, p. 11) is probably right in suggesting that much of what it contained appears in the first chapter of Hue Ale berry firm. Mark Twain himself said it dealt with Huck's life at the widow's (MTUL, p. 113). 28

INTRODUCTION

17

health) to set myself to the dreary & hateful task of making final revision of Tom Sawyer, & discovered, upon opening the package of MS that your pencil marks were scattered all along. This was splendid, & swept away all labor. Instead of reading the MS, I simply hunted out the pencil marks & made the emendations which they suggested. I reduced the boy-battle to a curt paragraph; I finally concluded to cut the Sunday-school speech down to the first two sentences, (leaving no suggestion of satire, since the book is to be for boys & girls; I tamed the various obscenities until I judged that [they] no longer carried offense. So, at a single sitting I began &. finished a revision which I had supposed would occupy 3 or 4 days & leave me mentally & physically fagged out at the end. 29 The manuscript shows that Mark Twain did indeed shorten the sham fight and the Sunday School speech, and that he "tamed" a score—but not all—of the passages that offended Howells. Interestingly, Howells as well as Livy had passed over Muck's lament that the widow's servants "comb me all to hell," but the expression bothered Mark Twain himself so much that he wrote Howells about it. Howells replied that he would have such swearing "out in an instant."30 Nothing else of great interest was lost in the taming except that Tom is drenched by the Thatcher maid with water instead of slops, the poodle after sitting on the pinch bug no longer flies up the aisle in church with its tail shut down like a hasp, and Tom and Becky no longer show acute reactions to the picture of the naked man Becky discovers in the schoolmaster's anatomy book. This last is a real loss since this was the one scene in which the author allowed himself to show the fascination and fear that the subject of sex had for Victorian children. Becky becomes almost hysterical when she is caught by Tom: "O, what shall I do, what shall I do! I'll be whipped, and I never was whipped in school—But that ain't anything—it ain't half. You'll tell everybody about the picture, and O, O, O!" Thinking it over a little later, Tom edges as close to profundity as he ever does in this book or in any other in which he appears: But that picture is—is—well, now it ain't so curious she feels bad about that. No No, I reckon it ain't. Suppose she was Mary, and Alf Temple caught her looking at such a picture as that, and went around telling. She'd feel mighty bad. She'd feel—well, I'd lick him. I 29 30

MTHL, pp. 121-122. MTHL, p. 124.

18

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER

bet I would. Well, of course I ain't going to tell on this little fool, because that's a good deal too mean.31 Somewhat emended for the young and the prudish, then, the narrative was ready for the typesetters in the latter part of January 1876. The history of the publication of Tom Sawyer must begin with the English edition since it was the first to appear. As a matter of fact, Clemens wanted it to be the first to appear so that Tom Sawyer could not be pirated in England as The Innocents Abroad and most of his shorter pieces had been. Since there was no international copyright law, an American copyright gave him no protection elsewhere. To make sure of an English copyright he needed to have the English edition published before the American; to be wholly safe from English pirates he needed to have the English edition published before the pirates could buy or steal a complete set of American galleys. As early as 5 November 1875 Clemens reported to Bliss that he had had an offer from George Routledge and Sons, and was intending to write to George Bentley. 32 Apparently he got in touch with neither publishing house, however, because on 5 January he wrote to Moncure Conway, then in Boston, saying, "I want you to take my new book to England, and have it published there by some one (according to your plan) before it is issued here, if you will be so good."33 Conway quickly agreed. His "plan" was for Clemens to finance the manufacture and pay the publisher for advertising and distribution of each copy sold. In effect this would have made the author his own publisher. Conway carried the amanuensis copy to London, and on 24 March wrote Clemens that Routledge grudgingly agreed to an arrangement by which Clemens would bear the cost of manufacture and pay Routledge ten percent on the entire amount of sales. He advised Clemens to 31

Pagc ,1,^2 of the original manuscript, Georgetown University. ' MTLP, p. 92. Routledge had published authorized English editions of The Innocents Abroad, (Burlesque} Autobiography, and fjr.ii Romance, Roughing It, and The Gilded Age. George Bentley, editor of Temple Km. had been trying for several years to publish something by Mark Twain. 33 AIT/./', p. 93. Reformer, minister, author, editor, and friend of most of the leading authors in America and England, Moncure Conway was an ideal person to help Clemens with the English publication of his book. Conway a p p a r e n t l y met Clemens in London in 1873, and visited the Clemens home in Hartford in December 1875. 32

INTRODUCTION

19

decline this offer and give the book to Chatto & Windus, who would handle it either on commission or by the conventional royalty method. Clemens followed the suggestion, and on 9 April wrote that on Livy's advice he would take the royalty plan. His contract, signed by Conway on 24 March 1876, called for a royalty in excess of twenty percent.34 Conway recommended that Tom Sawyer not be advertised in England as a boy's book and that the proposed page dimensions of the American edition (85/16" X 69/16") be avoided since they were used in England only for second-class works called "Picture Toy Books." Clemens quickly agreed, and even asked Conway to rewrite the preface to the English edition if he wished. Conway did not change the preface though he did allow Chatto & Windus to adopt their standard page size (79/1B" X 5 !/>")• F°r a while there was a squabble over electrotype cuts. Apparently at the request of Chatto, Clemens asked Bliss for an estimate on the cuts prepared for the American edition, pointing out that the smaller pages of the English edition could not accommodate all of the American illustrations as they were. Frank Bliss wrote back on 11 April that his father had an estimate "all ready for the electros of Tom Sawyer,' but as you changed the size it involves making a new estimate all through, & he is fearful that reducing the size so much, of many of the cuts, will interfere with their printing nicely. . . ."3o Clemens immediately replied that he had not asked for new estimates but only for estimates on (1) the full set, full size, and (2) on such of the cuts as would go into the English page without change.36 Chatto finally ordered the American cuts he could use but went to press with the book before they arrived—and then balked at paying for them.37 Clemens, who had acted as an intermediary in the negotiations, was considerably miffed, though he eventually offered personally to divide the cost of the plates with Chatto. 34 Clemens was to receive ls/9d on a book selling for 7s/6d, ls/5d on a 6s book, ls/2d on a 5s book, lOd on a 3s/6d book, 7d on a 2s/6d book, and 5d on a 2s book (agreement signed by Moncure D. Conway [as Clemens' agent] and Chatto & Windus, 24 May 1876,- PH in MTP). 35 F. E. Bliss to SLC, 11 April 1876. :i(1 SLC to F. E. Bliss, 12 April 1876. •"Conway may have been partly responsible for the h u r r y since in letters of 24 March, 11 April, and 18 April he warned Clemens that the American edition could not appear before the English if the English pirates were to be circumvented (MTU', p. 96).

20

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On the whole, nevertheless, the printing of the English edition went smoothly, and the book was published without illustrations in June 1876. Subsequently Chatto & Windus reissued the book in illustrated boards and still later, in 1885, published a second edition containing most of True Williams's illustrations. There is no evidence that Mark Twain read proofs or made changes in the text for either of these editions. Almost immediately the story was translated into German by Moritz Busch and published in Leipzig by Wilhelm Grunow. The translation was so popular that Bernhard Tauchnitz, also of Leipzig, got in touch with Clemens through Bret Harte and requested that Clemens permit him to make Tom Sawyer the first in a series of Englishlanguage volumes he was planning.38 Clemens agreed, and the Tauchnitz edition, set from the Chatto & Windus text, came out late in 1876. Ever since, Tom Sawyer, along with Huckleberry Finn, has been one of the favorite American novels in Germany.39 Tauchnitz, who voluntarily paid royalties on foreign books which could not be controlled by copyright, was the only one of his publishers whom Mark Twain always considered fair and honest. Unhappily for Clemens, the first edition of Tom Sawyer in North America was a piracy by the Belford Brothers of Toronto. The Belfords, expert in the speedy manufacture of books, issued copies on 29 July, less than two months after the publication date of the English edition. They had not, of course, negotiated with Chatto & Windus and may even have set type from stolen proofsheets. Their cloth-bound copies sold for $2.25 and $1.00, and their paperback editions for 75 quised just audibly.

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145

"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 marvelous 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 sun-tanned 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

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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 school-mates, 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's 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 pic-nic." "O, that's jolly. Who's going to give it?" "My ma's going to let me have one." "O, goody,-1 hope she'll let me come." "Well she will. The pic-nic'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." "O, 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." "O, may I come?" said Gracie Miller.

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"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 lip 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 pic-nic, 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 school-house 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 beside. 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 school-house, again and again, to sear his eye-balls 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, "O hang her, ain't I ever

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going to get rid of her?" At last he must be attending to those things,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 hoy in the whole town but that Saint Louis smarty that thinks he dresses so fine and is aristocracy! O, 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—pummeling 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 absentmindedness 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, and kept exclaiming: "O 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 school-house. 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.

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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 pic-nic 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 19

TlOJ

. OM 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." "O, 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 drowned." "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 1 know it, Tom."

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

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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 2O

T

. HERE WAS SOMETHING about aunt Polly's manner, when she kissed iHl Tom, that swept away his low spirits and made him light-hearted 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 school-yard 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

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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 O, 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 thinskinned and chicken-hearted. Well, of course J 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."

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Torn conned the thing a moment longer and then added: "All right, though; she'd like to see me in just such a fix—let her sweat it out!" Tom joined the mob of skylarking scholars outside. In a few moments the master arrived and school "took in." Tom did not feel a strong interest in his studies. Every time he stole a glance at the girls' side of the room Becky's face troubled him. Considering all things, he did not want to pity her, and yet it was all he could do to help it. He could get up no exultation that was really worthy the name. Presently the spelling-book discovery was made, and Tom's mind was entirely full of his own matters for a while after that. Becky roused up from her lethargy of distress and showed good interest in the proceedings. She did not expect that Tom could get out of his trouble by denying that he spilt the ink on the book himself; and she was right. The denial only seemed to make the thing worse for Tom. Becky supposed she would be glad of that, and she tried to believe she was glad of it, but she found she was not certain. When the worst came to the worst, she had an impulse to get up and tell on Alfred Temple, but she made an effort and forced herself to keep still—because, said she to herself, "he'll tell about me tearing the picture, sure—I wouldn't say a word, not to save his life!" Tom took his whipping and went back to his seat not at all broken-hearted, for he thought it was possible that he had unknowingly upset the ink on the spelling-book himself, in some skylarking bout—he had denied it for form's sake and because it was custom, and had stuck to the denial from principle. A whole hour drifted by; the master sat nodding in his throne, the air was drowsy with the hum of study. By and by, Mr. Dobbins straightened himself up, yawned, then unlocked his desk, and reached for his book, but seemed undecided whether to take it out or leave it. Most of the pupils glanced up languidly, but there were two among them that watched his movements with intent eyes. Mr. Dobbins fingered his book absently for a while, then took it out and settled himself in his chair to read! Tom shot a glance at Becky. He had seen a hunted and helpless rabbit look as she did, with a gun leveled 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

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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 sunk 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

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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 21 VACA.TION 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's 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

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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; snow-banks 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 shame-faced 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 a while 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

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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 brainracking 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 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 every thing 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 car,- the ball-room has lost its charms; and with wasted health and

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imbittercd heart, she turns away with the conviction that earthly pleasures cannot satisfy the longings of the soul!" And so forth and so on. There was a buzz of gratification from time to time during the reading, accompanied by whispered ejaculations of "How sweet!" "How eloquent!" "So true!" etc., and after the thing had closed with a peculiarly afflicting sermon the applause was enthusiastic. Then arose a slim, melancholy girl, whose face had the "interesting" paleness that comes of pills and indigestion, and read a "poem." Two stanzas of it will do: A MISSOURI MAIDEN'S FAREWELL TO ALABAMA.

ALABAMA, good-bye! I love thee well! But yet for awhile 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

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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 unperceived—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 re-made 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; 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

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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 school-girl pattern and hence are much happier than any mere imitations could be.

CHAPTER 22

T

-OM JOINED the new order of Cadets of Temperance, being atloj tracted 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 death-bed 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 practice before the looking-glass. But the Judge had a most discouraging way of fluctuating. At last he was pronounced upon the mend—and then convalescent. Tom was disgusted; and felt a sense of injury, too. He handed in his resignation at once—and that night the Judge suffered a relapse and died. Tom resolved that he would never trust a man like that again. The funeral was a fine thing. The Cadets paraded in a style calculated to kill the late member with envy. Tom was a free boy again, however—there was something in that. He could drink and swear, now—but found to his surprise that he did not want to. The simple fact that he could, took the desire away, and the charm of it. Tom presently wondered to find that his coveted vacation was beginning to hang a little heavily on his hands. He attempted a diary—but nothing happened during three days, and so he abandoned it.

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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.

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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 abr.it 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 23

A,

LT 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 his 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 solitry 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."

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"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 'cm what I could, and now they've all forgot old Muff when he's in trouble,- but Tom don't, and

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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 little furder west—so—that's it; it's a prime comfort to see faces that's friendly when a body's in such a muck of trouble,—and there don't none come here but yourn. Good friendly faces—good friendly faces. Git up on one another's backs and let me touch 'em. That's it. Shake hands—yourn'll come through the bars, but mine's too big. Little hands, and weak—but they've helped Muff Potter a power, and they'd help him more if they could." Tom went home miserable, and his dreams that night were full of horrors. The next day and the day after, he hung about the court room, drawn by an almost irresistible impulse to go in, but forcing himself to stay out. Huck was having the same experience. They studiously avoided each other. Each wandered away, from time to time, but the same dismal fascination always brought them back presently. Tom kept his ears open when idlers sauntered out of the court room, but invariably heard distressing news—the toils were closing more and more relentlessly around poor Potter. At the end of the second day the village talk was to the effect that Injun foe'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.

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Now a witness was called who testified that he found Muff Potter washing in the brook, at an early hour of the morning that the murder was discovered, and that he immediately sneaked away. After some further questioning, counsel for the prosecution said— "Take the witness." The prisoner raised his eyes for a moment, but dropped them again when his own counsel said— "I have no questions to ask him." The next witness proved the finding of the knife near the corpse. Counsel for the prosecution said: "Take the witness." "I have no questions to ask him," Potter's lawyer replied. A third witness swore he had often seen the knife in Potter's possession. "Take the witness." Counsel for Potter declined to question him. The faces of the audience began to betray annoyance. Did this attorney mean to throw away his client's life without an effort? Several witnesses deposed concerning Potter's guilty behavior when brought to the scene of the murder. They were allowed to leave the stand without being cross-questioned. Every detail of the damaging circumstances that occurred in the graveyard upon that morning which all present remembered so well, was brought out by credible witnesses, but none of them were cross-examined by Potter's lawyer. The perplexity and dissatisfaction of the house expressed itself in murmurs and provoked a reproof from the bench. Counsel for the prosecution now said: "By the oaths of citizens whose simple word is above suspicion, we have fastened this awful crime beyond all possibility of question, upon the unhappy prisoner at the bar. We rest our case here." A groan escaped from poor Potter, and he put his face in his hands and rocked his body softly to and fro, while a painful silence reigned in the court room. Many men were moved, and many women's compassion testified itself in tears. Counsel for the defence rose and said: "Your honor, in our remarks at the opening of this trial, we foreshadowed our purpose to prove that our client did this fearful deed while under the influence of a blind and irresponsible delirium pro-

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duced 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 foe'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 foe's face. "Were you anywhere near Horse Williams's 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 foe 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.

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"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 24

T loi

. OM 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

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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 25

T

LHERE COMES A TIME in every rightly constructed boy's life when he IHI 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. "O, 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'rogliphics."

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"Hyro—which?" "Hy'rogliphics—pictures and things, you know, that don't seem to mean anything." "Have you got one of them papers, Tom?" "No." "Well then, how you going to find the marks?" "I don't want any marks. They always bury it under a ha'nted house or on an island, or under a dead tree that's got one limb sticking out. Well, we've tried Jackson's Island a little, and we can try it again some time,- and there's the old ha'nted house up the Still-House branch, and there's lots of dead-limb trees—dead loads of 'em." "Is it under all of them?" "How you talk! No!" "Then how you going to know which one to go for?" "Go for all of 'em!" "Why Tom, it'll take all summer." "Well, what of that? Suppose you find a brass pot with a hundred dollars in it, all rusty and gay, or a rotten chest full of di'monds. How's that?" Huck's eyes glowed. "That's bully. Plenty bully enough for me. lust 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, hut'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." "O, kings have slathers of them." "Well, I don't 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."

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"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." "O, 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 neck-tie 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, Tom. 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 a while. I tell you you better. What's the name of the gal?"

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"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, 1 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."

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"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, Huck. 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."

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"What'll it be?" Tom considered a while; and then said— "The ha'nted house. That's it!" "Blame it, 1 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. Bccuz 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 doorstep, the chimney crumbled to ruin, the window-sashes vacant, a corner of the roof caved in. The boys gazed a while, 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 26 A B3COUT 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."

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"Well, he must 'a' ben 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 noble 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

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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! O, 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 deef 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 scrape-, 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 foe's! There was silence for some time. Then foe said: "What's any more dangerous than that job up yonder—but nothing's come of it."

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"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.

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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 treasure-hunting 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 "O, but ain't you glad now we're here!" Toe'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.

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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 fire-place—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 a while in blissful silence. "Pard, there's thousands of dollars here," said Injun Joe. " 'Twas always said that Murrel's gang used 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?"

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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 a while,- then he agreed with his friend that what daylight was left ought to be economised 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!" "O, 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 27

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^HE ADVENTURE of the day mightily tormented Tom's dreams that IHI 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.]

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"Tom, if we'd a left the blame tools at the dead tree, we'd 'a' got the money. O, 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 ben 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!" "O, 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?"

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"Lemme think." Tom thought a long time. Then he said: "I'll tell you. The back door of that No. 2 is the door that comes out into that little close alley between the tavern and the old rattle-trap of a brick store. Now you get hold of all the door-keys you can find, and I'll nip all of Auntie's and the first dark night we'll go there and try 'em. And mind you keep a lookout for Injun foe, because he said he was going to drop into town and spy around once more for a chance to get his revenge. If you see him, you just follow him,- and if he don't go to that No. 2, that ain't the place." "Lordy I don't want to foller him by myself!" "Why it'll be night, sure. He mightn't ever see you—and if he did, maybe he'd never think anything." "Well, if it's pretty dark I reckon I'll track him. I dono—I dono. I'll try." "You bet I'll follow him, if it's dark, Huck! Why he might 'a' found out he couldn't get his revenge, and be going right after that money." "It's so, Tom, it's so. I'll foller him,- I will, by jingoes!" "Now you're talking". Don't you ever weaken, Huck, and I won't."

CHAPTER 28 THAT NIGHT Tom and Huck were ready for their adventure. They hung about the neighborhood of the tavern until after nine, one watching the alley at a distance and the other the tavern door. Nobody entered the alley or left it; nobody resembling the Spaniard entered or left the tavern door. The night promised to be a fair one; so Tom went home, with the understanding that if a considerable degree of darkness came on, Huck was to come and "maow," whereupon he would slip out and try the keys. But the night remained clear, and Huck closed his watch and retired to bed in an empty sugar-hogshead about twelve. Tuesday the boys had the same ill luck. Also Wednesday. But Thursday night promised better. Tom slipped out in good season with his aunt's old tin lantern, and a large towel to blindfold it with. He hid the lantern in Huck's sugar hogshead and the watch began. An hour before midnight the tavern closed up and its lights (the only ones thereabouts) were put out. No Spaniard had been seen. Nobody had entered or left the alley. Everything was auspicious. The blackness of darkness reigned, the perfect stillness was interrupted only by occasional mutterings of distant thunder. Tom got his lantern, lit it in the hogshead, wrapped it closely in the towel, and the two adventurers crept in the gloom toward the tavern. Huck stood sentry and Tom felt his way into the alley. Then there was a season of waiting anxiety that weighed upon Huck's spirits like a mountain. He began to wish he could see a flash from the lantern—it would frighten him, but it would at least tell him that Tom was alive yet. It seemed hours since Tom had disappeared. Surely he must have fainted; maybe he was dead; maybe his heart had burst under terror and excitement. In his uneasiness Huck found himself drawing closer and closer to the alley; fearing all sorts of dreadful things, and momentarily expecting some catastrophe to happen that would take away

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his breath. There was not much to take away, for he seemed only able to inhale it by thimblefuls, and his heart would soon wear itself out, the way it was beating. Suddenly there was a flash of light and Tom came tearing by him: "Run!" said he,- "run, for your life!" He needn't have repeated it; once was enough; Huck was making thirty or forty miles an hour before the repetition was uttered. The boys never stopped till they reached the shed of a deserted slaughterhouse at the lower end of the village. Just as they got within its shelter the storm burst and the rain poured down. As soon as Tom got his breath he said: "Huck, it was awful! I tried two of the keys, just as soft as I could; but they seemed to make such a power of racket that I couldn't hardly get my breath I was so scared. They wouldn't turn in the lock, either. Well, without noticing what I was doing, I took hold of the knob, and open comes the door! It warn't locked! I hopped in, and shook off the towel, and, great Caesar's ghost!" "What!—what 'd you see, Tom!" "Huck, I most stepped onto Injun Joe's hand!" "No!" "Yes! He was laying there, sound asleep on the floor, with his old patch on his eye and his arms spread out." "Lordy, what did you do? Did he wake up?" "No, never budged. Drunk, I reckon. I just grabbed that towel and started!" "I'd never 'a' thought of the towel, I bet!" "Well, I would. My aunt would make me mighty sick if I lost it." "Say, Tom, did you see that box?" "Huck, I didn't wait to look around. I didn't see the box, I didn't see the cross. I didn't see anything but a bottle and a tin cup on the floor by Injun Joe ; yes, and I saw two barrels and lots more bottles in the room. Don't you see, now, what's the matter with that ha'ntcd room?" "How?" "Why it's ha'nted with whisky! Maybe all the Temperance Taverns have got a ha'nted room, hey Huck?" "Well I reckon maybe that's so. Who'd 'a' thought such a thing? But say, Tom, now's a mighty good time to get that box, if Injun Joe's drunk."

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"It is, that! You try it!" Huck shuddered. "Well, no—I reckon not." "And I reckon not, Huck. Only one bottle alongside of Injun Joe ain't enough. If there'd been three, he'd be drunk enough and I'd do it." There was a long pause for reflection, and then Tom said: "Lookyhere, Huck, less not try that thing any more till we know Injun Joe's not in there. It's too scary. Now if we watch every night, we'll be dead sure to see him go out, some time or other, and then we'll snatch that box quicker'n lightning." "Well, I'm agreed. I'll watch the whole night long, and I'll do it every night, too, if you'll do the other part of the job." "All right, I will. All you got to do is to trot up Hooper street a block and maow—and if I'm asleep, you throw some gravel at the window and that'll fetch me." "Agreed, and good as wheat!" "Now Huck, the storm's over, and I'll go home. It'll begin to be daylight in a couple of hours. You go back and watch that long, will you?" "I said I would, Tom, and I will. I'll ha'nt that tavern every night for a year! I'll sleep all day and I'll stand watch all night." "That's all right. Now where you going to sleep?" "In Ben Rogers's hayloft. He lets me, and so does his pap's nigger man, Uncle Jake. I tote water for Uncle Jake whenever he wants me to, and any time I ask him he gives me a little something to eat if he can spare it. That's a mighty good nigger, Tom. He likes me, bccuz I don't ever act as if I was above him. Sometimes I've set right down and eat with him. But you needn't tell that. A body's got to do things when he's awful hungry he wouldn't want to do as a steady thing." "Well, if I don't want you in the daytime, Huck, I'll let you sleep. I won't come bothering around. Any time you see something's up, in the night, just skip right around and maow."

CHAPTER 29

T

iHE FIRST THING Tom heard on Friday morning was a glad piece of IHI news—Judge Thatcher's family had come back to town the night before. Both Injun Joe and the treasure sunk into secondary importance for a moment, and Becky took the chief place in the boy's interest. He saw her and they had an exhausting good time playing "hi-spy" and "gully-keeper" with a crowd of their schoolmates. The day was completed and crowned in a peculiarly satisfactory way: Becky teased her mother to appoint the next day for the long-promised and long-delayed pic-nic, and she consented. The child's delight was boundless,- and Tom's not more moderate. The invitations were sent out before sunset, and straightway the young folks of the village were thrown into a fever of preparation and pleasurable anticipation. Tom's excitement enabled him to keep awake until a pretty late hour, and he had good hopes of hearing Huck's "maow," and of having his treasure to astonish Becky and the pic-nickers with, next day ; but he was disappointed. No signal came that night. Morning came, eventually, and by ten or eleven o'clock a giddy and rollicking company were gathered at fudge Thatcher's, and everything was ready for a start. It was not the custom for elderly people to mar pic-nics with their presence. The children were considered safe enough under the wings of a few young ladies of eighteen and a few young gentlemen of twenty-three or thereabouts. The old steam ferry boat was chartered for the occasion; presently the gay throng filed up the main street laden with provision baskets. Sid was sick and had to miss the fun ; Mary remained at home to entertain him. The last thing Mrs. Thatcher said to Becky, was— "You'll not get back till late. Perhaps you'd better stay all night with some of the girls that live near the ferry landing, child." "Then I'll stay with Susy Harper, mamma."

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"Very well. And mind and behave yourself and don't be any trouble." Presently, as they tripped along, Tom said to Becky: "Say—I'll tell you what we'll do. 'Stead of going to Joe Harper's, we'll climb right up the hill and stop at widow Douglas's. She'll have ice cream! She has it 'most every day—dead loads of it. And she'll be awful glad to have us." "O, that will be fun!" Then Becky reflected a moment and said: "But what will mamma say?" "How'll she ever know?" The girl turned the idea over in her mind, and said reluctantly: "I reckon it's wrong—but—" "But shucks! Your mother won't know, and so what's the harm? All she wants is that you'll be safe ; and I bet you she'd 'a' said go there if she'd 'a' thought of it. I know she would!" The widow Douglas's splendid hospitality was a tempting bait. It and Tom's persuasions presently carried the day. So it was decided to say nothing to anybody about the night's programme. Presently it occurred to Tom that maybe Huck might come this very night and give the signal. The thought took a deal of the spirit out of his anticipations. Still he could not bear to give up the fun at widow Douglas's. And why should he give it up, he reasoned—the signal did not come the night before, so why should it be any more likely to come to-night? The sure fun of the evening outweighed the uncertain treasure,- and boy like, he determined to yield to the stronger inclination and not allow himself to think of the box of money another time that day. Three miles below town the ferry boat stopped at the mouth of a woody hollow and tied up. The crowd swarmed ashore and soon the forest distances and craggy heights echoed far and near with shoutings and laughter. All the different ways of getting hot and tired were gone through with, and by and by the rovers straggled back to camp fortified with responsible appetites, and then the destruction of the good things began. After the feast there was a refreshing season of rest and chat in the shade of spreading oaks. By and by somebody shouted— "Who's ready for the cave?" Everybody was. Bundles of candles were produced, and straightway

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there was a general scamper up the hill. The mouth of the cave was high up the hillside—an opening shaped like a letter A. Its massive oaken door stood unbarred. Within was a small chamber, chilly as an ice-house, and walled by Nature with solid limestone that was dewy with a cold sweat. It was romantic and mysterious to stand here in the deep gloom and look out upon the green valley shining in the sun. But the impressiveness of the situation quickly wore off, and the romping began again. The moment a candle was lighted there was a general rush upon the owner of it; a struggle and a gallant defense followed, but the candle was soon knocked down or blown out, and then there was a glad clamor of laughter and a new chase. But all things have an end. By and by the procession went filing down the steep descent of the main avenue, the flickering rank of lights dimly revealing the lofty walls of rock almost to their point of junction sixty feet overhead. This main avenue was not more than eight or ten feet wide. Every few steps other lofty and still narrower crevices branched from it on either hand— for McDougal's cave was but a vast labyrinth of crooked aisles that ran into each other and out again and led nowhere. It was said that one might wander days and nights together through its intricate tangle of rifts and chasms, and never find the end of the cave; and that he might go down, and down, and still down, into the earth, and it was just the same—labyrinth underneath labyrinth, and no end to any of them. No man "knew" the cave. That was an impossible thing. Most of the young men knew a portion of it, and it was not customary to venture much beyond this known portion. Tom Sawyer knew as much of the cave as any one. The procession moved along the main avenue some three quarters of a mile, and then groups and couples began to slip aside into branch avenues, fly along the dismal corridors, and take each other by surprise at points where the corridors joined again. Parties were able to elude each other for the space of half an hour without going beyond the "known" ground. By and by, one group after another came straggling back to the mouth of the cave, panting, hilarious, smeared from head to foot with tallow drippings, daubed with clay, and entirely delighted with the success of the day. Then they were astonished to find that they had been taking no note of time and that night was about at hand. The clanging bell had been calling for half an hour. However, this sort of

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close to the day's adventures was romantic and therefore satisfactory. When the ferry-boat with her wild freight pushed into the stream, nobody cared sixpence for the wasted time but the captain of the craft.

Huck was already upon his watch when the ferry-boat's lights went glinting past the wharf. He heard no noise on board, for the young people were as subdued and still as people usually are who are nearly tired to death. He wondered what boat it was, and why she did not stop at the wharf—and then he dropped her out of his mind and put his attention upon his business. The night was growing cloudy and dark. Ten o'clock came, and the noise of vehicles ceased, scattered lights began to wink out, all straggling foot passengers disappeared, the village betook itself to its slumbers and left the small watcher alone with the silence and the ghosts. Eleven o'clock came, and the tavern lights were put out; darkness everywhere, now. Huck waited what seemed a weary long time, but nothing happened. His faith was weakening. Was there any use? Was there really any use? Why not give it up and turn in? A noise fell upon his ear. He was all attention in an instant. The alley door closed softly. He sprang to the corner of the brick store. The next moment two men brushed by him, and one seemed to have something under his arm. It must be that box! So they were going to remove the treasure. Why call Tom now? It would be absurd—the men would get away with the box and never be found again. No, he would stick to their wake and follow them; he would trust to the darkness for security from discovery. So communing with himself, Huck stepped out and glided along behind the men, cat-like, with bare feet, allowing them to keep just far enough ahead not to be invisible. They moved up the river street three blocks, then turned to the left up a cross street. They went straight ahead, then, until they came to the path that led up Cardiff Hill; this they took. They passed by the old Welchman's house, half way up the hill, without hesitating, and still climbed upward. Good, thought Huck, they will bury it in the old quarry. But they never stopped at the quarry. They passed on, up the summit. They plunged into the narrow path between the tall sumach bushes, and were at once hidden in the gloom. Huck closed up and shortened his distance, now, for they would never be able to see him. He trotted along a while,- then slackened his pace, fearing he was gaining too fast; moved on a piece, then stopped altogether,- listened; no sound,- none, save that he seemed to hear the beating of his own

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heart. The hooting of an owl came from over the hill—ominous sound! But no footsteps. Heavens, was everything lost! He was about to spring with winged feet, when a man cleared his throat not four feet from him! Huck's heart shot into his throat, but he swallowed it again; and then he stood there shaking as if a dozen agues had taken charge of him at once, and so weak that he thought he must surely fall to the ground. He knew where he was. He knew he was within five steps of the stile leading into widow Douglas's grounds. Very well, he thought, let them bury it there; it won't be hard to find. Now there was a voice—a very low voice—Injun Joe's: "Damn her, maybe she's got company—there's lights, late as it is." "I can't see any." This was that stranger's voice—the stranger of the haunted house. A deadly chill went to Huck's heart—this, then, was the "revenge" job! His thought was, to fly. Then he remembered that the widow Douglas had been kind to him more than once, and maybe these men were going to murder her. He wished he dared venture to warn her ; but he knew he didn't dare—they might come and catch him. He thought all this and more in the moment that lapsed between the stranger's remark and Injun Joe's next—which was— "Because the bush is in your way. Now—this way—now you see, don't you?" "Yes. Well there is company there, I reckon. Better give it up." "Give it up, and I just leaving this country forever! Give it up and maybe never have another chance. I tell you again, as I've told you before, I don't care for her swag—you may have it. But her husband was rough on me—many times he was rough on me—and mainly he was the justice of the peace that jugged me for a vagrant. And that ain't all. It ain't the millionth part of it! He had me horsewhipped]—horsewhipped in front of the jail, like a nigger!—with all the town looking on! HORSEWHIPPED!—do you understand? He took advantage of me and died. But I'll take it out of her." "Oh, don't kill her 1 Don't do that!" "Kill? Who said anything about killing? I would kill him if he was here; but not her. When you want to get revenge on a woman you don't kill her—bosh! you go for her looks. You slit her nostrils—you notch her cars, like a sow's!" "By God, that's—"

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"Keep your opinion to yourself! It will be safest for you. I'll tie her to the bed. If she bleeds to death, is that my fault? I'll not cry, if she does. My friend, you'll help in this thing—for my sake—that's why you're here—I mightn't be able alone. If you flinch, I'll kill you. Do you understand that? And if I have to kill you, I'll kill her—and then I reckon nobody'll ever know much about who done this business." "Well, if it's got to be done, let's get at it. The quicker the better —I'm all in a shiver." "Do it now? And company there? Look here—I'll get suspicious of you, first thing you know. No—we'll wait till the lights are out— there's no hurry." Huck felt that a silence was going to ensue—a thing still more awful than any amount of murderous talk,- so he held his breath and stepped gingerly back; planted his foot carefully and firmly, after balancing, one-legged, in a precarious way and almost toppling over, first on one side and then on the other. He took another step back, with the same elaboration and the same risks; then another and another, and—a twig snapped under his foot! His breath stopped and he listened. There was no sound—the stillness was perfect. His gratitude was measureless. Now he turned in his tracks, between the walls of sumach bushes— turned himself as carefully as if he were a ship—and then stepped quickly but cautiously along. When he emerged at the quarry he felt secure, and so he picked up his nimble heels and flew. Down, down he sped, till he reached the Welchman's. He banged at the door, and presently the heads of the old man and his two stalwart sons were thrust from windows. "What's the row there? Who's banging? What do you want?" "Let me in—quick! I'll tell everything." "Why who are you?" "Huckleberry Finn—quick, let me in!" "Huckleberry Finn, indeed! It ain't a name to open many doors, I judge! But let him in, lads, and let's see what's the trouble." "Please don't ever tell I told you," were Huck's first words when he got in. "Please don't—I'd be killed, sure—but the widow's been good friends to me sometimes, and I want to tell—I will tell if you'll promise you won't ever say it was me." "Hy George he has got something to tell, or he wouldn't act so!" exclaimed the old man,- "out with it and nobody herc'll ever tell, lad."

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Three minutes later the old man and his sons, well armed, were up the hill, and just entering the sumach path on tip-toe, their weapons in their hands. Huck accompanied them no further. He hid behind a great boulder and fell to listening. There was a lagging, anxious silence, and then all of a sudden there was an explosion of firearms and a cry. Huck waited for no particulars. He sprang away and sped down the hill as fast as his legs could carry him.

CHAPTER 3O

AALs THE EARLIEST suspicion of dawn appeared on Sunday morning, Huck came groping up the hill and rapped gently at the old Welchman's door. The inmates were asleep but it was a sleep that was set on a hair-trigger, on account of the exciting episode of the night. A call came from a window— "Who's there!" Huck's scared voice answered in a low tone: "Do please let me in! It's only Huck Finn!" "It's a name that can open this door night or day, lad!—and welcome!" These were strange words to the vagabond boy's ears, and the pleasantest he had ever heard. He could not recollect that the closing word had ever been applied in his case before. The door was quickly unlocked, and he entered. Huck was given a seat and the old man and his brace of tall sons speedily dressed themselves. "Now my boy I hope you're good and hungry, because breakfast will be ready as soon as the sun's up, and we'll have a piping hot one, too—make yourself easy about that! I and the boys hoped you'd turn up and stop here last night." "I was awful scared," said Huck, "and I run. I took out when the pistols went off, and I didn't stop for three mile. I've come now bccuz I wanted to know about it, you know; and I come before daylight becuz I didn't want to run acrost them devils, even if they was dead." "Well, poor chap, you do look as if you'd had a hard night of it—but there's a bed here for you when you've had your breakfast. No, they ain't dead, lad—we are sorry enough for that. You sec we knew right where to put our hands on them, by your description; so we crept along on tip-toe till we got within fifteen feet of them—dark as a cellar that sumach path was—and just then I found I was going to sneeze. It

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was the meanest kind of luck! I tried to keep it back, but no use—'twas bound to come, and it did come! I was in the lead, with my pistol raised, and when the sneeze started those scoundrels a-rustling to get out of the path, I sung out, Tire, boys!' and blazed away at the place where the rustling was. So did the boys. But they were off in a jiffy, those villains, and we after them, down through the woods. I judge we never touched them. They fired a shot apiece as they started, but their bullets whizzed by and didn't do us any harm. As soon as we lost the sound of their feet we quit chasing, and went down and stirred up the constables. They got a posse together, and went off to guard the river bank, and as soon as it is light the sheriff and a gang are going to beat up the woods. My boys will be with them presently. I wish we had some sort of description of those rascals—'twould help a good deal. But you couldn't see what they were like, in the dark, lad, I suppose?" "O, yes, I saw them down town and follered them." "Splendid! Describe them—describe them, my boy!" "One's the old deef and dumb Spaniard that's ben around here once or twice, and t'other's a mean looking ragged—" "That's enough, lad, we know the men! Happened on them in the woods back of the widow's one day, and they slunk away. Off with you, boys, and tell the sheriff—get your breakfast to-morrow morning!" The Welchman's sons departed at once. As they were leaving the room Huck sprang up and exclaimed: "Oh, please don't tell anybody it was me that blowed on them! Oh, please!" "All right if you say it, Huck, but you ought to have the credit of what you did." "Oh, no, no! Please don't tell!" When the young men were gone, the old Welchman said— "They won't tell—and I won't. But why don't you want it known?" Huck would not explain, further than to say that he already knew too much about one of those men and would not have the man know that he knew anything against him for the whole world—he would be killed for knowing it, sure. The old man promised secrecy once more, and said: "How did you come to follow these fellows, lad? Were they looking suspicious?"

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Huck was silent while he framed a duly cautious reply. Then he said: "Well, you see, I'm a kind of a hard lot,—least everybody says so, and I don't see nothing agin it—and sometimes I can't sleep much, on accounts of thinking about it and sort of trying to strike out a new way of doing. That was the way of it last night. I couldn't sleep, and so I come along up street 'bout midnight, a-turning it all over, and when I got to that old shackly brick store by the Temperance Tavern, I backed up agin the wall to have another think. Well, just then along comes these two chaps slipping along close by me, with something under their arm and I reckoned they'd stole it. One was a-smoking, and t'other one wanted a light; so they stopped right before me and the cigars lit up their faces and I see that the big one was the deef and dumb Spaniard, by his white whiskers and the patch on his eye, and t'other one was a rusty, ragged looking devil." "Could you see the rags by the light of the cigars?" This staggered Huck for a moment. Then he said: "Well, I don't know—but somehow it seems as if I did." "Then they went on, and you—" "Follered 'em—yes. That was it. I wanted to see what was up—they sneaked along so. I dogged 'em to the widder's stile, and stood in the dark and heard the ragged one beg for the widder, and the Spaniard swear he'd spile her looks just as I told you and your two—" "What! The deaf and dumb man said all that!" Huck had made another terrible mistake! He was trying his best to keep the old man from getting the faintest hint of who the Spaniard might be, and yet his tongue seemed determined to get him into trouble in spite of all he could do. He made several efforts to creep out of his scrape, but the old man's eye was upon him and he made blunder after blunder. Presently the Welchman said: "My boy, don't be afraid of me. I wouldn't hurt a hair of your head for all the world. No—I'd protect you—I'd protect you. This Spaniard is not deaf and dumb; you've let that slip without intending it; you can't cover that up now. You know something about that Spaniard that you want to keep dark. Now trust me—tell me what it is, and trust me—I won't betray you." Huck looked into the old man's honest eyes a moment, then bent over and whispered in his ear—

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" 'Tain't a Spaniard—it's Injun Joe!" The Welchman almost jumped out of his chair. In a moment he said: "It's all plain enough, now. When you talked about notching cars and slitting noses I judged that that was your own embellishment, because white men don't take that sort of revenge. But an Injun! That's a different matter, altogether." During breakfast the talk went on, and in the course of it the old man said that the last thing which he and his sons had done, before going to bed, was to get a lantern and examine the stile and its vicinity for marks of blood. They found none, but captured a bulky bundle of—

"Of WHAT!"

If the words had been lightning they could not have leaped with a more stunning suddenness from Ruck's blanched lips. His eyes were staring wide, now, and his breath suspended—waiting for the answer. The Welchman started—stared in return—three seconds—five seconds—ten—then replied— "Of burglar's tools. Why what's the matter with you?" Huck sank back, panting gently, but deeply, unutterably grateful. The Welchman eyed him gravely, curiously—and presently said— "Yes, burglar's tools. That appears to relieve you a good deal. But what did give you that turn? What were you expecting we'd found?" Huck was in a close place—the inquiring eye was upon him—he would have given anything for material for a plausible answer—nothing suggested itself—the inquiring eye was boring deeper and deeper —a senseless reply offered—there was no time to weigh it, so at a venture he uttered it—feebly: "Sunday-school books, maybe." Poor Huck was too distressed to smile, but the old man laughed loud and joyously, shook up the details of his anatomy from head to foot, and ended by saying that such a laugh was money in a man's pocket, because it cut down the doctor's bills like everything. Then he added: "Poor old chap, you're white and jaded—you ain't well a bit—no wonder you're a little flighty and off your balance. But you'll come out of it. Rest and sleep will fetch you all right, I hope." Huck was irritated to think he had been such a goose and betrayed such a suspicious excitement, for he had dropped the idea that the parcel brought from the tavern was the treasure, as soon as he had

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heard the talk at the widow's stile. He had only thought it was not the treasure, however—he had not known that it wasn't—and so the suggestion of a captured bundle was too much for his self-possession. But on the whole he felt glad the little episode had happened, for now he knew beyond all question that that bundle was not the bundle, and so his mind was at rest and exceedingly comfortable. In fact everything seemed to be drifting just in the right direction, now; the treasure must be still in No. 2, the men would be captured and jailed that day, and he and Tom could seize the gold that night without any trouble or any fear of interruption. Just as breakfast was completed there was a knock at the door. Huck jumped for a hiding place, for he had no mind to be connected even remotely with the late event. The Welchman admitted several ladies and gentlemen, among them the widow Douglas, and noticed that groups of citizens were climbing the hill—to stare at the stile. So the news had spread. The Welchman had to tell the story of the night to the visitors. The widow's gratitude for her preservation was outspoken. "Don't say a word about it, madam. There's another that you're more beholden to than you are to me and my boys, maybe, but he don't allow me to tell his name. We wouldn't ever have been there but for him." Of course this excited a curiosity so vast that it almost belittled the main matter—but the Welchman allowed it to eat into the vitals of his visitors, and through them be transmitted to the whole town, for he refused to part with his secret. When all else had been learned, the widow said: "I went to sleep reading in bed and slept straight through all that noise. Why didn't you come and wake me?" "We judged it warn't worth while. Those fellows warn't likely to come again—they hadn't any tools left to work with, and what was the use of waking you up and scaring you to death? My three negro men stood guard at your house all the rest of the night. They've just come back." More visitors came, and the story had to be told and re-told for a couple of hours more. There was no Sabbath school during day-school vacation, but everybody was early at church. The stirring event was well canvassed. News came that not a sign of the two villains had been yet discovered.

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When the sermon was finished, Judge Thatcher's wife dropped alongside of Mrs. Harper as she moved down the aisle with the crowd and said: "Is my Becky going to sleep all day? I just expected she would be tired to death." "Your Becky?" "Yes,"—with a startled look,—"didn't she stay with you last night?" "Why, no." Mrs. Thatcher turned pale, and sank into a pew, just as aunt Polly, talking briskly with a friend, passed by. Aunt Polly said: "Good morning, Mrs. Thatcher. Good morning Mrs. Harper. I've got a boy that's turned up missing. I reckon my Tom staid at your house last night—one of you. And now he's afraid to come to church. I've got to settle with him." Mrs. Thatcher shook her head feebly and turned paler than ever. "He didn't stay with us," said Mrs. Harper, beginning to look uneasy. A marked anxiety came into Aunt Polly's face. "Joe Harper, have you seen my Tom this morning?" "No'm." "When did you see him last?" Joe tried to remember, but was not sure he could say. The people had stopped moving out of church. Whispers passed along, and a boding uneasiness took possession of every countenance. Children were anxiously questioned, and young teachers. They all said they had not noticed whether Tom and Becky were on board the ferry-boat on the homeward trip ; it was dark; no one thought of inquiring if any one was missing. One young man finally blurted out his fear that they were still in the cave! Mrs. Thatcher swooned away; Aunt Polly fell to crying and wringing her hands. The alarm swept from lip to lip, from group to group, from street to street, and within five minutes the bells were wildly clanging and the whole town was up! The Cardiff Hill episode sank into instant insignificance, the burglars were forgotten, horses were saddled, skiffs were manned, the ferry boat ordered out, and before the horror was half an hour old, two hundred men were pouring down high-road and river toward the cave. All the long afternoon the village seemed empty and dead. Many women visited Aunt Polly and Mrs. Thatcher and tried to comfort

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them. They cried with them, too, and that was still better than words. All the tedious night the town waited for news,- but when the morning dawned at last, all the word that came was, "Send more candles—and send food." Mrs. Thatcher was almost crazed; and aunt Polly also, fudge Thatcher sent messages of hope and encouragement from the cave, but they conveyed no real cheer. The old Welchman came home toward daylight, spattered with candle grease, smeared with clay, and almost worn out. He found Huck still in the bed that had been provided for him, and delirious with fever. The physicians were all at the cave, so the widow Douglas came and took charge of the patient. She said she would do her best by him, because, whether he was good, bad, or indifferent, he was the Lord's, and nothing that was the Lord's was a thing to be neglected. The Welchman said Huck had good spots in him, and the widow said— "You can depend on it. That's the Lord's mark. He don't leave it off. He never does. Puts it somewhere on every creature that comes from His hands." Early in the forenoon parties of jaded men began to straggle into the village, but the strongest of the citizens continued searching. All the news that could be gained was that remotenesses of the cavern were being ransacked that had never been visited before,- that every corner and crevice was going to be thoroughly searched,- that wherever one wandered through the maze of passages, lights were to be seen flitting hither and thither in the distance, and shoutings and pistol shots sent their hollow reverberations to the ear down the sombre aisles. In one place, far from the section usually traversed by tourists, the names "BECKY & TOM" had been found traced upon the rocky wall with candle smoke, and near at hand a grease-soiled bit of ribbon. Mrs. Thatcher recognized the ribbon and cried over it. She said it was the last relic she should ever have of her child; and that no other memorial of her could ever be so precious, because this one parted latest from the living body before the awful death came. Some said that now and then, in the cave, a far-away speck of light would glimmer, and then a glorious shout would burst forth and a score of men go trooping down the echoing aisle—and then a sickening disappointment always followed,- the children were not there ; it was only a searcher's light. Three dreadful days and nights dragged their tedious hours along,

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and the village sank into a hopeless stupor. No one had heart for anything. The accidental discovery, just made, that the proprietor of the Temperance Tavern kept liquor on his premises, scarcely fluttered the public pulse, tremendous as the fact was. In a lucid interval, Huck feebly led up to the subject of taverns, and finally asked—dimly dreading the worst—if anything had been discovered at the Temperance Tavern since he had been ill? "Yes," said the widow. Huck started up in bed, wild-eyed: "What! What was it!" "Liquor!—and the place has been shut up. Lie down, child—what a turn you did give me!" "Only tell me one thing—only just one—please! Was it Tom Sawyer that found it?" The widow burst into tears. "Hush, hush, child, hush! I've told you before you must not talk. You are very, very sick!" Then nothing but liquor had been found; there would have been a great pow-wow if it had been the gold. So the treasure was gone forever—gone forever! But what could she be crying about? Curious that she should cry. These thoughts worked their dim way through Huck's mind, and under the weariness they gave him he fell asleep. The widow said to herself: "There—he's asleep, poor wreck. Tom Sawyer find it! Pity but somebody could find Tom Sawyer! Ah, there ain't many left, now, that's got hope enough, or strength enough, either, to go on searching."

CHAPTER 31 R I OW TO RETURN to Tom and Becky's share in the pic-nic. They

tripped along the murky aisles with the rest of the company, visiting the familiar wonders of the cave—wonders dubbed with rather overdescriptive names, such as "The Drawing Room," "The Cathedral," "Aladdin's Palace," and so on. Presently the hide-and-seek frolicking began, and Tom and Becky engaged in it with zeal until the exertion began to grow a trifle wearisome,- then they wandered down a sinuous avenue holding their candles aloft and reading the tangled web-work of names, dates, post-office addresses and mottoes with which the rocky walls had been frescoed (in candle smoke.) Still drifting along and talking, they scarcely noticed that they were now in a part of the cave whose walls were not frescoed. They smoked their own names under an overhanging shelf and moved on. Presently they came to a place where a little stream of water, trickling over a ledge and carrying a limestone sediment with it, had, in the slow-dragging ages, formed a laced and ruffled Niagara in gleaming and imperishable stone. Tom squeezed his small body behind it in order to illuminate it for Becky's gratification. He found that it curtained a sort of steep natural stairway which was enclosed between narrow walls, and at once the ambition to be a discoverer seized him. Becky responded to his call, and they made a smoke-mark for future guidance and started upon their quest. They wound this way and that, far down into the secret depths of the cave, made another mark, and branched off in search of novelties to tell the upper world about. In one place they found a spacious cavern, from whose ceiling depended a multitude of shining stalactites of the length and circumference of a man's leg,- they walked all about it, wondering and admiring, and presently left it by one of the numerous passages that opened into it. This shortly brought them to a bewitching spring, whose basin was encrusted with a frost work of glittering crystals; it was in the midst of a cavern whose walls were supported

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by many fantastic pillars which had been formed by the joining of great stalactites and stalagmites together, the result of the ceaseless water-drip of centuries. Under the roof vast knots of bats had packed themselves together, thousands in a bunch; the lights disturbed the creatures and they came flocking down by hundreds, squeaking and darting furiously at the candles. Tom knew their ways and the danger of this sort of conduct. He seized Becky's hand and hurried her into the first corridor that offered; and none too soon, for a bat struck Becky's light out with its wing while she was passing out of the cavern. The bats chased the children a good distance; but the fugitives plunged into every new passage that offered, and at last got rid of the perilous things. Tom found a subterranean lake, shortly, which stretched its dim length away until its shape was lost in the shadows. He wanted to explore its borders, but concluded that it would be best to sit down and rest a while, first. Now, for the first time, the deep stillness of the place laid a clammy hand upon the spirits of the children. Becky said— "Why, I didn't notice, but it seems ever so long since I heard any of the others." "Come to think, Becky, we are away down below them—and I don't know how far away north, or south, or east, or whichever it is. We couldn't hear them here." Becky grew apprehensive. "I wonder how long we've been down here, Tom. We better start back." "Yes, I reckon we better. P'raps we better." "Can you find the way, Tom? It's all a mixed-up crookedness to me." "I reckon I could find it—but then the bats. If they put both our candles out it will be an awful fix. Let's try some other way, so as not to go through there." "Well. But I hope we won't get lost. It would be so awful!" and the child shuddered at the thought of the dreadful possibilities. They started through a corridor, and traversed it in silence a long way, glancing at each new opening, to see if there was anything familiar about the look of it; but they were all strange. Every time Tom made an examination, Becky would watch his face for an encouraging sign, and he would say cheerily—

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"Oh, it's all right. This ain't the one, but we'll come to it right away!" But he felt less and less hopeful with each failure, and presently began to turn off into diverging avenues at sheer random, in the desperate hope of finding the one that was wanted. He still said it was "all right," but there was such a leaden dread at his heart, that the words had lost their ring and sounded just as if he had said, "All is lost!" Becky clung to his side in an anguish of fear, and tried hard to keep back the tears, but they would come. At last she said: "O, Tom, never mind the bats, let's go back that way! We seem to get worse and worse off all the time." Tom stopped. "Listen!" said he. Profound silence,- silence so deep that even their breathings were conspicuous in the hush. Tom shouted. The call went echoing down the empty aisles and died out in the distance in a faint sound that resembled a ripple of mocking laughter. "Oh, don't do it again, Tom, it is too horrid," said Becky. "It is horrid, but I better, Becky; they might hear us, you know,-" and he shouted again. The "might" was even a chillier horror than the ghostly laughter, it so confessed a perishing hope. The children stood still and listened; but there was no result. Tom turned upon the back track at once, and hurried his steps. It was but a little while before a certain indecision in his manner revealed another fearful fact to Becky—he could not find his way back! "O, Tom, you didn't make any marks!" "Becky I was such a fool! Such a fool! I never thought we might want to come back! No—I can't find the way. It's all mixed up." "Tom, Tom, we're lost! we're lost! We never never can get out of this awful place! O, why did we ever leave the others!" She sank to the ground and burst into such a frenzy of crying that Tom was appalled with the idea that she might die, or lose her reason. He sat down by her and put his arms around her; she buried her face in his bosom, she clung to him, she poured out her terrors, her unavailing regrets, and the far echoes turned them all to jeering laughter. Tom begged her to pluck up hope again, and she said she could not. He fell

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to blaming and abusing himself for getting her into this miserable situation,- this had a better effect. She said she would try to hope again, she would get up and follow wherever he might lead if only he would not talk like that any more. For he was no more to blame than she, she said. So they moved on, again—aimlessly—simply at random—all they could do was to move, keep moving. For a little while, hope made a show of reviving—not with any reason to back it, but only because it is its nature to revive when the spring has not been taken out of it by age and familiarity with failure. By and by Tom took Becky's candle and blew it out. This economy meant so much! Words were not needed. Becky understood, and her hope died again. She knew that Tom had a whole candle and three or four pieces in his pockets—yet he must economise. By and by, fatigue began to assert its claims,- the children tried to pay no attention, for it was dreadful to think of sitting down when time was grown to be so precious; moving, in some direction, in any direction, was at least progress and might bear fruit; but to sit down was to invite death and shorten its pursuit. At last Becky's frail limbs refused to carry her farther. She sat down. Tom rested with her, and they talked of home, and the friends there, and the comfortable beds and above all, the light! Becky cried, and Tom tried to think of some way of comforting her, but all his encouragements were grown threadbare with use, and sounded like sarcasms. Fatigue bore so heavily upon Becky that she drowsed off to sleep. Tom was grateful. He sat looking into her drawn face and saw it grow smooth and natural under the influence of pleasant dreams; and by and by a smile dawned and rested there. The peaceful face reflected somewhat of peace and healing into his own spirit, and his thoughts wandered away to bygone times and dreamy memories. While he was deep in his musings, Becky woke up with a breezy little laugh—but it was stricken dead upon her lips, and a groan followed it. "Oh, how could I sleep! I wish I never never had waked! No, no, I don't, Tom! Don't look so! I won't say it again." "I'm glad you've slept, Becky ; you'll feel rested, now, and we'll find the way out." "We can try, Tom ; but I've seen such a beautiful country in my dream. I reckon we are going there."

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"Maybe not, maybe not. Cheer up, Becky, and let's go on trying." They rose up and wandered along, hand in hand and hopeless. They tried to estimate how long they had been in the cave, but all they knew was that it seemed days and weeks, and yet it was plain that this could not be, for their candles were not gone yet. A long time after this—they could not tell how long—Tom said they must go softly and listen for dripping water—they must find a spring. They found one presently, and Tom said it was time to rest again. Both were cruelly tired, yet Becky said she thought she could go a little farther. She was surprised to hear Tom dissent. She could not understand it. They sat down, and Tom fastened his candle to the wall in front of them with some clay. Thought was soon busy ; nothing was said for some time. Then Becky broke the silence: "Tom, I am so hungry!" Tom took something out of his pocket. "Do you remember this?" said he. Becky almost smiled. "It's our wedding cake, Tom." "Yes—I wish it was as big as a barrel, for it's all we've got." "I saved it from the pic-nic for us to dream on, Tom, the way grown-up people do with wedding cake—but it'll be our—" She dropped the sentence where it was. Tom divided the cake and Becky ate with good appetite, while Tom nibbled at his moiety. There was abundance of cold water to finish the feast with. By and by Becky suggested that they move on again. Tom was silent a moment. Then he said: "Becky, can you bear it if I tell you something?" Becky's face paled, but she said she thought she could. "Well then, Becky, we must stay here, where there's water to drink. That little piece is our last candle!" Becky gave loose to tears and wailings. Tom did what he could to comfort her but with little effect. At length Becky said: "Tom!" "Well, Becky?" "They'll miss us and hunt for us!" "Yes, they will! Certainly they will!" "Maybe they're hunting for us now, Tom?" "Why I reckon maybe they are. 1 hope they are."

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"When would they miss us, Tom?" "When they get back to the boat, I reckon." "Tom, it might be dark, then—would they notice we hadn't come?" "I don't know. But anyway, your mother would miss you as soon as they got home." A frightened look in Becky's face brought Tom to his senses and he saw that he had made a blunder. Becky was not to have gone home that night! The children became silent and thoughtful. In a moment a new burst of grief from Becky showed Tom that the thing in his mind had struck hers also—that the Sabbath morning might be half spent before Mrs. Thatcher discovered that Becky was not at Mrs. Harper's. The children fastened their eyes upon their bit of candle and watched it melt slowly and pitilessly away,- saw the half inch of wick stand alone at last; saw the feeble flame rise and fall, rise and fall, climb the thin column of smoke, linger at its top a moment, and then—the horror of utter darkness reigned! How long afterward it was that Becky came to a slow consciousness that she was crying in Tom's arms, neither could tell. All that they knew was, that after what seemed a mighty stretch of time, both awoke out of a dead stupor of sleep and resumed their miseries once more. Tom said it might be Sunday, now—maybe Monday. He tried to get Becky to talk, but her sorrows were too oppressive, all her hopes were gone. Tom said that they must have been missed long ago, and no doubt the search was going on. He would shout, and maybe some one would come. He tried it; but in the darkness the distant echoes sounded so hideously that he tried it no more. The hours wasted away, and hunger came to torment the captives again. A portion of Tom's half of the cake was left; they divided and ate it. But they seemed hungrier than before. The poor morsel of food only whetted desire. By and by Tom said: "Sh\ Did you hear that?" Both held their breath and listened. There was a sound like the faintest, far-off shout. Instantly Tom answered it, and leading Becky by the hand, started groping down the corridor in its direction. Presently he listened again ; again the sound was heard, and apparently a little nearer.

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"It's them!" said Tom; "they're coming! Come along, Becky—we're all right now!" The joy of the prisoners was almost overwhelming. Their speed was slow, however, because pitfalls were somewhat common, and had to be guarded against. They shortly came to one and had to stop. It might be three feet deep, it might be a hundred—there was no passing it, at any rate. Tom got down on his breast and reached as far down as he could. No bottom. They must stay there and wait until the searchers came. They listened,- evidently the distant shoutings were growing more distant! a moment or two more and they had gone altogether. The heart-sinking misery of it! Tom whooped until he was hoarse, but it was of no use. He talked hopefully to Becky ; but an age of anxious waiting passed and no sounds came again. The children groped their way back to the spring. The weary time dragged on; they slept again, and awoke famished and woe-stricken. Tom believed it must be Tuesday by this time. Now an idea struck him. There were some side passages near at hand. It would be better to explore some of these than bear the weight of the heavy time in idleness. He took a kite-line from his pocket, tied it to a projection, and he and Becky started, Tom in the lead, unwinding the line as he groped along. At the end of twenty steps the corridor ended in a "jumping-off place." Tom got down on his knees and felt below, and then as far around the corner as he could reach with his hands conveniently; he made an effort to stretch yet a little further to the right, and at that moment, not twenty yards away, a human hand, holding a candle, appeared from behind a rock! Tom lifted up a glorious shout, and instantly that hand was followed by the body it belonged to—Injun Joe's! Tom was paralyzed; he could not move. He was vastly gratified the next moment, to see the "Spaniard" take to his heels and get himself out of sight. Tom wondered that Joe had not recognized his voice and come over and killed him for testifying in court. But the echoes must have disguised the voice. Without doubt, that was it, he reasoned. Tom's fright weakened every muscle in his body. He said to himself that if he had strength enough to get back to the spring he would stay there, and nothing should tempt him to run the risk of meeting Injun Joe again. He was careful to keep from Becky what it was he had seen. He told her he had only shouted "for luck."

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But hunger and wretchedness rise superior to fears in the long run. Another tedious wait at the spring and another long sleep brought changes. The children awoke tortured with a raging hunger. Tom believed it must be Wednesday or Thursday or even Friday or Saturday, now, and that the search had been given over. He proposed to explore another passage. He felt willing to risk Injun foe and all other terrors. But Becky was very weak. She had sunk into a dreary apathy and would not be roused. She said she would wait, now, where she was, and die—it would not be long. She told Tom to go with the kite-line and explore if he chose,- but she implored him to come back every little while and speak to her ; and she made him promise that when the awful time came, he would stay by her and hold her hand until all was over. Tom kissed her, with a choking sensation in his throat, and made a show of being confident of finding the searchers or an escape from the cave; then he took the kite-line in his hand and went groping down one of the passages on his hands and knees, distressed with hunger and sick with bodings of coming doom.

CHAPTER 32

T lui

LUESDAY AFTERNOON came, and waned to the twilight. The village of St. Petersburg still mourned. The lost children had not been found. Public prayers had been offered up for them, and many and many a private prayer that had the petitioner's whole heart in it; but still no good news came from the cave. The majority of the searchers had given up the quest and gone back to their daily avocations, saying that it was plain the children could never be found. Mrs. Thatcher was very ill, and a great part of the time delirious. People said it was heartbreaking to hear her call her child, and raise her head and listen a whole minute at a time, then lay it wearily down again with a moan. Aunt Polly had drooped into a settled melancholy, and her gray hair had grown almost white. The village went to its rest on Tuesday night, sad and forlorn. Away in the middle of the night a wild peal burst from the village bells, and in a moment the streets were swarming with frantic half-clad people, who shouted, "Turn out! turn out! they're found! they're found!" Tin pans and horns were added to the din, the population massed itself and moved toward the river, met the children coming in an open carriage drawn by shouting citizens, thronged around it, joined its homeward march, and swept magnificently up the main street roaring huzzah after huzzah! The village was illuminated; nobody went to bed again; it was the greatest night the little town had ever seen. During the first half hour a procession of villagers filed through Judge Thatcher's house, seized the saved ones and kissed them, squeezed Mrs. Thatcher's hand, tried to speak but couldn't—and drifted out raining tears all over the place. Aunt Polly's happiness was complete, and Mrs. Thatcher's nearly so. It would be complete, however, as soon as the messenger dispatched with the great news to the cave should get the word to her husband. Tom lay upon a sofa with an eager auditory about him and told the

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history of the wonderful adventure, putting in many striking additions to adorn it withal; and closed with a description of how he left Becky and went on an exploring expedition; how he followed two avenues as far as his kite-line would reach; how he followed a third to the fullest stretch of the kite-line, and was about to turn back when he glimpsed a far-off speck that looked like daylight,- dropped the line and groped toward it, pushed his head and shoulders through a small hole and saw the broad Mississippi rolling by! And if it had only happened to be night he would not have seen that speck of daylight and would not have explored that passage any more! He told how he went back for Becky and broke the good news and she told him not to fret her with such stuff, for she was tired, and knew she was going to die, and wanted to. He described how he labored with her and convinced her ; and how she almost died for joy when she had groped to where she actually saw the blue speck of daylight; how he pushed his way out at the hole and then helped her out; how they sat there and cried for gladness; how some men came along in a skiff and Tom hailed them and told them their situation and their famished condition; how the men didn't believe the wild tale at first, "because," said they, "you are five miles down the river below the valley the cave is in"—then took them aboard, rowed to a house, gave them supper, made them rest till two or three hours after dark and then brought them home. Before day-dawn, fudge Thatcher and the handful of searchers with him were tracked out, in the cave, by the twine clews they had strung behind them, and informed of the great news. Three days and nights of toil and hunger in the cave were not to be shaken off at once, as Tom and Becky soon discovered. They were bedridden all of Wednesday and Thursday, and seemed to grow more and more tired and worn, all the time. Tom got about, a little, on Thursday, was down town Friday, and nearly as whole as ever Saturday,- but Becky did not leave her room until Sunday, and then she looked as if she had passed through a wasting illness. Tom learned of Huck's sickness and went to see him on Friday, but could not be admitted to the bedroom; neither could he on Saturday or Sunday. He was admitted daily after that, but was warned to keep still about his adventure and introduce no exciting topic. The widow Douglas staid by to sec that he obeyed. At home Tom learned of the Cardiff Hill event; also that the "ragged man's" body had eventually

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been found in the river near the ferry landing; he had been drowned while trying to escape, perhaps. About a fortnight after Tom's rescue from the cave, he started off to visit Huck, who had grown plenty strong enough, now, to hear exciting talk, and Tom had some that would interest him, he thought. Judge Thatcher's house was on Tom's way, and he stopped to see Becky. The Judge and some friends set Tom to talking, and some one asked him ironically if he wouldn't like to go to the cave again. Tom said yes, he thought he wouldn't mind it. The Judge said: "Well, there are others just like you, Tom, I've not the least doubt. But we have taken care of that. Nobody will get lost in that cave any more." "Why?" "Because I had its big door sheathed with boiler iron two weeks ago, and triple-locked—and I've got the keys." Tom turned as white as a sheet. "What's the matter, boy! Here, run, somebody! Fetch a glass of water!" The water was brought and thrown into Tom's face. "Ah, now you're all right. What was the matter with you, Tom?" "Oh, Judge, Injun Joe's in the cave!"

CHAPTER 33 WTHIN A FEW MINUTES the news had spread, and a dozen skiffloads of men were on their way to McDougal's cave, and the ferry-boat, well filled with passengers, soon followed. Tom Sawyer was in the skiff that bore fudge Thatcher. When the cave door was unlocked, a sorrowful sight presented itself in the dim twilight of the place. Injun Joe lay stretched upon the ground, dead, with his face close to the crack of the door, as if his longing eyes had been fixed, to the latest moment, upon the light and the cheer of the free world outside. Tom was touched, for he knew by his own experience how this wretch had suffered. His pity was moved, but nevertheless he felt an abounding sense of relief and security, now, which revealed to him in a degree which he had not fully appreciated before, how vast a weight of dread had been lying upon him since the day he lifted his voice against this bloody-minded outcast. Injun Joe's bowie knife lay close by, its blade broken in two. The great foundation-beam of the door had been chipped and hacked through, with tedious labor,- useless labor, too, it was, for the native rock formed a sill outside it, and upon that stubborn material the knife had wrought no effect; the only damage done was to the knife itself. But if there had been no stony obstruction there the labor would have been useless still, for if the beam had been wholly cut away Injun Joe could not have squeezed his body under the door, and he knew it. So he had only hacked that place in order to be doing something—in order to pass the weary time—in order to employ his tortured faculties. Ordinarily one could find half a dozen bits of candle stuck around in the crevices of this vestibule, left there by tourists,- but there were none now. The prisoner had searched them out and eaten them. He had also contrived to catch a few bats, and these, also, he had eaten, leaving only their claws. The poor unfortunate had starved to death. In one place near at hand, a stalagmite had been slowly growing up from

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the ground for ages, builded by the water-drip from a stalactite overhead. The captive had broken off the stalagmite, and upon the stump had placed a stone wherein he had scooped a shallow hollow to catch the precious drop that fell once in every three minutes with the dreary regularity of a clock-tick—a dessert spoonful once in four and twenty hours. That drop was falling when the Pyramids were new; when Troy fell; when the foundations of Rome were laid; when Christ was crucified; when the Conqueror created the British empire; when Columbus sailed; when the massacre at Lexington was "news." It is falling now,- it will still be falling when all these things shall have sunk down the afternoon of history, and the twilight of tradition, and been swallowed up in the thick night of oblivion. Has everything a purpose and a mission? Did this drop fall patiently during five thousand years to be ready for this flitting human insect's need? and has it another important object to accomplish ten thousand years to come? No matter. It is many and many a year since the hapless half-breed scooped out the stone to catch the priceless drops, but to this day the tourist stares longest at that pathetic stone and that slow dropping water when he comes to see the wonders of McDougal's cave. Injun Joe's Cup stands first in the list of the cavern's marvels; even "Aladdin's Palace" cannot rival it. Injun Joe was buried near the mouth of the cave,- and people flocked there in boats and wagons from the town and from all the farms and hamlets for seven miles around; they brought their children, and all sorts of provisions, and confessed that they had had almost as satisfactory a time at the funeral as they could have had at the hanging. This funeral stopped the further growth of one thing—the petition to the Governor for Injun Joe's pardon. The petition had been largely signed; many tearful and eloquent meetings had been held, and a committee of sappy women been appointed to go in deep mourning and wail around the governor and implore him to be a merciful ass and trample his duty under foot. Injun Joe was believed to have killed five citizens of the village, but what of that? If he had been Satan himself there would have been plenty of weaklings ready to scribble their names to a pardon-petition and drip a tear on it from their permanently impaired and leaky water-works. The morning after the funeral Tom took Huck to a private place to have an important talk. Huck had learned all about Tom's adventure

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from the Wclchman and the widow Douglas, by this time, but Tom said he reckoned there was one thing they had not told him,- that thing was what he wanted to talk about now. Huck's face saddened. He said: "I know what it is. You got into No. 2 and never found anything but whisky. Nobody told me it was you ; but I just knowed it must 'a' ben you, soon as I heard 'bout that whisky business,- and I knowed you hadn't got the money becuz you'd 'a' got at me some way or other and told me even if you was mum to everybody else. Tom, something's always told me we'd never get holt of that swag." "Why Huck, 1 never told on that tavern-keeper. You know his tavern was all right the Saturday I went to the pic-nic. Don't you remember you was to watch there that night?" "Oh, yes! Why it seems 'bout a year ago. It was that very night that I follered Injun Joe to the widder's." "You followed him-" "Yes—but you keep mum. I reckon Injun Joe's left friends behind him, and I don't want 'em souring on me and doing me mean tricks. If it hadn't ben for me he'd be down in Texas now, all right." Then Huck told his entire adventure in confidence to Tom, who had only heard of the Welchmen's part of it before. "Well," said Huck, presently, coming back to the main question, "whoever nipped the whisky in No. 2, nipped the money too, I reckon—anyways it's a goner for us, Tom." "Huck, that money wasn't ever in No. 2!" "What!" Huck searched his comrade's face keenly. "Tom, have you got on the track of that money again?" "Huck, it's in the cave!" Huck's eyes blazed. "Say it again, Tom!" "The money's in the cave!" "Tom,—honest injun, now—is it fun, or earnest?" "Earnest, Huck—just as earnest as ever I was in my life. Will you go in there with me and help get it out?" "I bet I will! I will if it's where we can blaze our way to it and not get lost." "Huck, we can do that without the least little bit of trouble in the world." "Good as wheat! What makes vou think the money's—"

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"Huck, you just wait till we get in there. If we don't find it I'll agree to give you my drum and everything I've got in the world. I will, by jings." "All right—it's a whiz. When do you say?" "Right now, if you say it. Are you strong enough?" "Is it far in the cave? I ben on my pins a little, three or four days, now, but I can't walk more'n a mile, Tom—least I don't think I could." "It's about five mile into there the way anybody but me would go, Huck, but there's a mighty short cut that they don't anybody but me know about. Huck, I'll take you right to it in a skiff. I'll float the skiff down there, and I'll pull it back again all by myself. You needn't ever turn your hand over." "Less start right off, Tom." "All right. We want some bread and meat, and our pipes, and a little bag or two, and two or three kite-strings, and some of these new-fangled things they call lucifer matches. I tell you many's the time I wished I had some when I was in there before." A trifle after noon the boys borrowed a small skiff from a citizen who was absent, and got under way at once. When they were several miles below "Cave Hollow," Tom said: "Now you see this bluff here looks all alike all the way down from the cave hollow—no houses, no wood-yards, bushes all alike. But do you see that white place up yonder where there's been a land-slide? Well, that's one of my marks. We'll get ashore, now." They landed. "Now Huck, where we're a-standing you could touch that hole I got out of with a fishing-pole. See if you can find it." Huck searched all the place about, and found nothing. Tom proudly marched into a thick clump of sumach bushes and said— "Here you are! Look at it, Huck; it's the snuggest hole in this country. You just keep mum about it. All along I've been wanting to be a robber, but I knew I'd got to have a thing like this, and where to run across it was the bother. We've got it now, and we'll keep it quiet, only we'll let Joe Harper and Ben Rogers in—because of course there's got to be a Gang, or else there wouldn't be any style about it. Tom Sawyer's Gang—it sounds splendid, don't it, Huck?" "Well it just does, Tom. And who'll we rob?" "Oh, most anybody. Waylay people—that's mostly the way."

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"And kill them?" "No—not always. Hive them in the cave till they raise a ransom." "What's a ransom?" "Money. You make them raise all they can, off'n their friends; and after you've kept them a year, if it ain't raised then you kill them. That's the general way. Only you don't kill the women. You shut up the women, but you don't kill them. They're always beautiful and rich, and awfully scared. You take their watches and things, but you always take your hat off and talk polite. They ain't anybody as polite as robbers—you'll see that in any book. Well the women get to loving you, and after they've been in the cave a week or two weeks they stop crying and after that you couldn't get them to leave. If you drove them out they'd turn right around and come back. It's so in all the books." "Why it's real bully, Tom. I b'lieve it's better'n to be a pirate." "Yes, it's better in some ways, because it's close to home and circuses and all that." By this time everything was ready and the boys entered the hole, Tom in the lead. They toiled their way to the farther end of the tunnel, then made their spliced kite-strings fast and moved on. A few steps brought them to the spring and Tom felt a shudder quiver all through him. He showed Huck the fragment of candle-wick perched on a lump of clay against the wall, and described how he and Becky had watched the flame struggle and expire. The boys began to quiet down to whispers, now, for the stillness and gloom of the place oppressed their spirits. They went on, and presently entered and followed Tom's other corridor until they reached the "jumping-off place." The candles revealed the fact that it was not really a precipice, but only a steep clay hill twenty or thirty feet high. Tom whispered— "Now I'll show you something, Huck." He held his candle aloft and said— "Look as far around the corner as you can. Do you see that? There —on the big rock over yonder—done with candle smoke." "Tom, it's a cross!" "Now where's your Number Two? 'Under the cross,' hey? Right yonder's where I saw Injun Joe poke up his candle, Huck!" Huck stared at the mystic sign a while, and then said with a shaky voice—

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"Tom, less git out of here!" "What! and leave the treasure?" "Yes—leave it. Injun Joe's ghost is round about there, certain." "No it ain't, Huck, no it ain't. It would ha'nt the place where he died—away out at the mouth of the cave—five mile from here." "No, Tom, it wouldn't. It would hang round the money. I know the ways of ghosts, and so do you." Tom began to fear that Huck was right. Misgivings gathered in his mind. But presently an idea occurred to him— "Lookyhere, Huck, what fools we're making of ourselves! Injun foe's ghost ain't a-going to come around where there's a cross!" The point was well taken. It had its effect. "Tom I didn't think of that. But that's so. It's luck for us, that cross is. I reckon we'll climb down there and have a hunt for that box." Tom went first, cutting rude steps in the clay hill as he descended. Huck followed. Four avenues opened out of the small cavern which the great rock stood in. The boys examined three of them with no result. They found a small recess in the one nearest the base of the rock, with a pallet of blankets spread down in it; also an old suspender, some bacon rhind, and the well gnawed bones of two or three fowls. But there was no money box. The lads searched and re-searched this place, but in vain. Tom said: "He said under the cross. Well, this comes nearest to being under the cross. It can't be under the rock itself, because that sets solid on the ground." They searched everywhere once more, and then sat down discouraged. Huck could suggest nothing. By and by Tom said: "Lookyhere, Huck, there's footprints and some candle grease on the clay about one side of this rock, but not on the other sides. Now what's that for? I bet you the money is under the rock. I'm going to dig in the clay." "That ain't no bad notion, Tom!" said Huck with animation. Tom's "real Barlow" was out at once, and he had not dug four inches before he struck wood. "Hey, Huck!—you hear that?" Huck began to dig and scratch now. Some boards were soon uncovered and removed. They had concealed a natural chasm which led under the rock. Tom got into this and held his candle as far under the

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rock as he could, but said he could not see to the end of the rift. He proposed to explore. He stooped and passed under,- the narrow way descended gradually. He followed its winding course, first to the right, then to the left, Huck at his heels. Tom turned a short curve, by and by, and exclaimed— "My goodness, Huck, lookyhere!" It was the treasure box, sure enough, occupying a snug little cavern, along with an empty powder keg, a couple of guns in leather cases, two or three pairs of old moccasins, a leather belt, and some other rubbish well soaked with the water-drip. "Got it at last!" said Huck, plowing among the tarnished coins with his hand. "My, but we're rich, Tom!" "Huck, I always reckoned we'd get it. It's just too good to believe, but we have got it, sure! Say—let's not fool around here. Let's snake it out. Lemme see if I can lift the box." It weighed about fifty pounds. Tom could lift it, after an awkward fashion, but could not carry it conveniently. "I thought so," he said; "they carried it like it was heavy, that day at the ha'nted house. I noticed that. I reckon I was right to think of fetching the little bags along." The money was soon in the bags and the boys took it up to the cross-rock. "Now less fetch the guns and things," said Huck. "No, Huck—leave them there. They're just the tricks to have when we go to robbing. We'll keep them there all the time, and we'll hold our orgies there, too. It's an awful snug place for orgies." "What's orgies?" "I dono. But robbers always have orgies, and of course we've got to have them, too. Come along, Huck, we've been in here a long time. It's getting late, I reckon. I'm hungry, too. We'll eat and smoke when we get to the skiff." They presently emerged into the clump of sumach bushes, looked warily out, found the coast clear, and were soon lunching and smoking in the skiff. As the sun dipped toward the horizon they pushed out and got under way. Tom skimmed up the shore through the long twilight, chatting cheerily with Huck, and landed shortly after dark. "Now Huck," said Tom, "we'll hide the money in the loft of the widow's wood-shed, and I'll come up in the morning and we'll count it

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and divide, and then we'll hunt up a place out in the woods for it where it will be safe, fust you lay quiet here and watch the stuff till I run and hook Benny Taylor's little wagon; I won't be gone a minute." He disappeared, and presently returned with the wagon, put the two small sacks into it, threw some old rags on top of them, and started off, dragging his cargo behind him. When the boys reached the Welchman's house, they stopped to rest. Just as they were about to move on, the Welchman stepped out and said: "Hallo, who's that?" "Huck and Tom Sawyer." "Good! Come along with me, boys, you are keeping everybody waiting. Here—hurry up, trot ahead—I'll haul the wagon for you. Why, it's not as light as it might be. Got bricks in it?—or old metal?" "Old metal," said Tom. "I judged so; the boys in this town will take more trouble and fool away more time, hunting up six bits worth of old iron to sell to the foundry than they would to make twice the money at regular work. But that's human nature—hurry along, hurry along!" The boys wanted to know what the hurry was about. "Never mind; you'll see, when we get to the widow Douglas's." Huck said with some apprehension—for he was long used to being falsely accused— "Mr. Jones, we haven't been doing nothing." The Welchman laughed.

"Well, I don't know, Huck, my boy. I don't know about that. Ain't you and the widow good friends?" "Yes. Well, she's ben good friends to me, any ways." "All right, then. What do you want to be afraid for?" This question was not entirely answered in Huck's slow mind before he found himself pushed, along with Tom, into Mrs. Douglas's drawing room. Mr. Jones left the wagon near the door and followed. The place was grandly lighted, and everybody that was of any consequence in the village was there. The Thatchers were there, the Harpers, the Rogerses, Aunt Polly, Sid, Mary, the minister, the editor, and a great many more, and all dressed in their best. The widow received the boys as heartily as any one could well receive two such looking beings. They were covered with clay and candle grease. Aunt Polly blushed crimson with humiliation, and frowned and shook her

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head at Tom. Nobody suffered half as much as the two boys did, however. Mr. Jones said: "Tom wasn't at home, yet, so I gave him up ; but I stumbled on him and Huck right at my door, and so I just brought them along in a hurry." "And you did just right," said the widow: "Come with me, boys." She took them to a bed chamber and said: "Now wash and dress yourselves. Here are two new suits of clothes —shirts, socks, everything complete. They're Huck's—no, no thanks Huck—Mr. Tones bought one and I the other. But they'll fit both of you. Get into them. We'll wait—come down when you are slicked up enough." Then she left.

CHAPTER 34

H,

L UCK SAID:

"Tom, we can slope, if we can find a rope. The window ain't high from the ground." "Shucks, what do you want to slope for?" "Well I ain't used to that kind of a crowd. I can't stand it. I ain't going down there, Tom." "O, bother! It ain't anything. I don't mind it a bit. I'll take care of you." Sid appeared. "Tom," said he, "Auntie has been waiting for you all the afternoon. Mary got your Sunday clothes ready, and everybody's been fretting about you. Say—ain't this grease and clay, on your clothes?" "Now Mr. Siddy, you jist 'tend to your own business. What's all this blow-out about, anyway?" "It's one of the widow's parties that she's always having. This time it's for the Welchman and his sons, on account of that scrape they helped her out of the other night. And say—I can tell you something, if you want to know." "Well, what?" "Why old Mr. Jones is going to try to spring something on the people here to-night, but I overheard him tell auntie to-day about it, as a secret, but I reckon it's not much of a secret now. Everybody knows—the widow, too, for all she tries to let on she don't. Oh, Mr. Jones was bound Huck should be here—couldn't get along with his grand secret without Huck, you know!" "Secret about what, Sid?" "About Huck tracking the robbers to the widow's. I reckon Mr. Jones was going to make a grand time over his surprise, but I bet you it will drop pretty flat." Sid chuckled in a very contented and satisfied way.

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"Sid, was it you that told?" "O, never mind who it was. Somebody told—that's enough." "Sid, there's only one person in this town mean enough to do that, and that's you. If you had been in Huck's place you'd 'a' sneaked down the hill and never told anybody on the robbers. You can't do any but mean things, and you can't bear to see anybody praised for doing good ones. There—no thanks, as the widow says"—and Tom cuffed Sid's ears and helped him to the door with several kicks. "Now go and tell auntie if you dare—and to-morrow you'll catch it!" Some minutes later the widow's guests were at the supper table, and a dozen children were propped up at little side tables in the same room, after the fashion of that country and that day. At the proper time Mr. Jones made his little speech, in which he thanked the widow for the honor she was doing himself and his sons, but said that there was another person whose modesty— And so forth and so on. He sprung his secret about Huck's share in the adventure in the finest dramatic manner he was master of, but the surprise it occasioned was largely counterfeit and not as clamorous and effusive as it might have been under happier circumstances. However, the widow made a pretty fair show of astonishment, and heaped so many compliments and so much gratitude upon Huck that he almost forgot the nearly intolerable discomfort of his new clothes in the entirely intolerable discomfort of being set up as a target for everybody's gaze and everybody's laudations. The widow said she meant to give Huck a home under her roof and have him educated; and that when she could spare the money she would start him in business in a modest way. Tom's chance was come. He said: "Huck don't need it. Huck's rich!" Nothing but a heavy strain upon the good manners of the company kept back the due and proper complimentary laugh at this pleasant joke. But the silence was a little awkward. Tom broke it— "Huck's got money. Maybe you don't believe it, but he's got lots of it. Oh, you needn't smile—I reckon I can show you. You just wait a minute." Tom ran out of doors. The company looked at each other with a perplexed interest—and inquiringly at Huck, who was tongue-tied.

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"Sid, what ails Tom?" said aunt Polly. "He—well, there ain't ever any making of that boy out. I never—" Tom entered, struggling with the weight of his sacks, and Aunt Polly did not finish her sentence. Tom poured the mass of yellow coin upon the table and said— "There—what did I tell you? Half of it's Huck's and half of it's mine!" The spectacle took the general breath away. All gazed, nobody spoke for a moment. Then there was a unanimous call for an explanation. Tom said he could furnish it, and he did. The tale was long, but brim full of interest. There was scarcely an interruption from any one to break the charm of its flow. When he had finished, Mr. Jones said— "I thought I had fixed up a little surprise for this occasion, but it don't amount to anything now. This one makes it sing mighty small, I'm willing to allow." The money was counted. The sum amounted to a little over twelve thousand dollars. It was more than any one present had ever seen at one time before, though several persons were there who were worth considerably more than that in property.

CHAPTER 35

T

uHE READER may rest satisfied that Tom's and Huck's windfall made IHI a mighty stir in the poor little village of St. Petersburg. So vast a sum, all in actual cash, seemed next to incredible. It was talked about, gloated over, glorified, until the reason of many of the citizens tottered under the strain of the unhealthy excitement. Every "haunted" house in St. Petersburg and the neighboring villages was dissected, plank by plank, and its foundations dug up and ransacked for hidden treasure—and not by boys, but men—pretty grave, unromantic men, too, some of them. Wherever Tom and Huck appeared they were courted, admired, stared at. The boys were not able to remember that their remarks had possessed weight before; but now their sayings were treasured and repeated; everything they did seemed somehow to be regarded as remarkable; they had evidently lost the power of doing and saying commonplace things; moreover, their past history was raked up and discovered to bear marks of conspicuous originality. The village paper published biographical sketches of the boys. The widow Douglas put Huck's money out at six per cent, and Judge Thatcher did the same with Tom's at aunt Polly's request. Each lad had an income, now, that was simply prodigious—a dollar for every week-day in the year and half of the Sundays. It was just what the minister got—no, it was what he was promised—he generally couldn't collect it. A dollar and a quarter a week would board, lodge and school a boy in those old simple days—and clothe him and wash him, too, for that matter. fudge Thatcher had conceived a great opinion of Tom. He said that no commonplace boy would ever have got his daughter out of the cave. When Becky told her father, in strict confidence, how Tom had taken her whipping at school, the Judge was visibly moved; and when she pleaded grace for the mighty lie which Tom had told in order to shift that whipping from her shoulders to his own, the Judge said with a fine

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outburst that it was a noble, a generous, a magnanimous lie—a lie that was worthy to hold up its head and march down through history breast to breast with George Washington's lauded Truth about the hatchet! Becky thought her father had never looked so tall and so superb as when he walked the floor and stamped his foot and said that. She went straight off and told Tom about it. Judge Thatcher hoped to see Tom a great lawyer or a great soldier some day. He said he meant to look to it that Tom should be admitted to the National military academy and afterwards trained in the best law school in the country, in order that he might be ready for either career or both. Huck Finn's wealth and the fact that he was now under the widow Douglas's protection, introduced him into society—no, dragged him into it, hurled him into it—and his sufferings were almost more than he could bear. The widow's servants kept him clean and neat, combed and brushed, and they bedded him nightly in unsympathetic sheets that had not one little spot or stain which he could press to his heart and know for a friend. He had to eat with knife and fork; he had to use napkin, cup and plate,- he had to learn his book, he had to go to church,- he had to talk so properly that speech was become insipid in his mouth,- whithersoever he turned, the bars and shackles of civilization shut him in and bound him hand and foot. He bravely bore his miseries three weeks, and then one day turned up missing. For forty-eight hours the widow hunted for him everywhere in great distress. The public were profoundly concerned; they searched high and low, they dragged the river for his body. Early the third morning Tom Sawyer wisely went poking among some old empty hogsheads down behind the abandoned slaughter-house, and in one of them he found the refugee. Huck had slept there,- he had just breakfasted upon some stolen odds and ends of food, and was lying off, now, in comfort with his pipe. He was unkempt, uncombed, and clad in the same old ruin of rags that had made him picturesque in the days when he was free and happy. Tom routed him out, told him the trouble he had been causing, and urged him to go home. Huck's face lost its tranquil content, and took a melancholy cast. He said: "Don't talk about it, Tom. I've tried it, and it don't work; it don't work, Tom. It ain't for mc ; I ain't used to it. The widder's good to me, and friendly,- but I can't stand them ways. She makes me git up just at

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the same time every morning; she makes me wash, they comb me all to thunder; she won't let me sleep in the wood-shed; I got to wear them blamed clothes that just smothers me, Tom; they don't seem to any air git through 'em, somehow; and they're so rotten nice that I can't set down, nor lay down, nor roll around anywhers,- I hain't slid on a cellar-door for—well, it pears to be years; I got to go to church and sweat and sweat—I hate them ornery sermons! I can't ketch a fly in there, I can't chaw, I got to wear shoes all Sunday. The widder eats by a bell; she goes to bed by a bell; she gits up by a bell—everything's so awful reglar a body can't stand it." "Well, everybody does that way, Huck." "Tom, it don't make no difference. I ain't everybody, and I can't stand it. It's awful to be tied up so. And grub comes too easy—I don't take no interest in vittles, that way. I got to ask, to go a-fishing; I got to ask, to go in a-swimming—dern'd if I hain't got to ask to do everything. Well, I'd got to talk so nice it wasn't no comfort—I'd got to go up in the attic and rip out a while, every day, to git a taste in my mouth, or I'd a died, Tom. The widder wouldn't let me smoke; she wouldn't let me yell, she wouldn't let me gape, nor stretch, nor scratch, before folks—" [Then with a spasm of special irritation and injury],—"And dad fetch it, she prayed all the time! I never see such a woman! I had to shove, Tom—I just had to. And besides, that school's going to open, and I'd a had to go to it—well, I wouldn't stand that, Tom. Lookyhere, Tom, being rich ain't what it's cracked up to be. It's just worry and worry, and sweat and sweat, and a-wishing you was dead all the time. Now these clothes suits me, and this bar'l suits me, and I ain't ever going to shake 'em any more. Tom, I wouldn't ever got into all this trouble if it hadn't 'a' ben for that money; now you just take my sheer of it along with yourn, and gimme a ten-center sometimes—not many times, becuz I don't give a dern for a thing 'thout it's tollable hard to git—and you go and beg off for me with the widder." "Oh, Huck, you know I can't do that. 'Tain't fair,- and besides if you'll try this thing just a while longer you'll come to like it." "Like it! Yes—the way I'd like a hot stove if I was to set on it long enough. No, Tom, I won't be rich, and I won't live in them cussed smothery houses. I like the woods, and the river, and hogsheads, and I'll stick to 'em, too. Blame it all! just as we'd got guns, and a cave, and all just fixed to rob, here this dern foolishness has got to come up and spile it all!"

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Tom saw his opportunity— "Lookyhere, Huck, being rich ain't going to keep me back from turning robber." "No! Oh, good-licks, are you in real dead-wood earnest, Tom?" "Just as dead earnest as I'm a-sitting here. But Huck, we can't let you into the gang if you ain't respectable, you know." Huck's joy was quenched. "Can't let me in. Tom? Didn't you let me go for a pirate?" "Yes, but that's different. A robber is more high-toned than what a pirate is—as a general thing. In most countries they're awful high up in the nobility—dukes and such." "Now Tom, hain't you always ben friendly to me? You wouldn't shet me out, would you, Tom? You wouldn't do that, now, would you, Tom?" "Huck, I wouldn't want to, and I don't want to—but what would people say? Why they'd say, 'Mph! Tom Sawyer's Gang! pretty low characters in it!' They'd mean you, Huck. You wouldn't like that, and I wouldn't." Huck was silent for some time, engaged in a mental struggle. Finally he said: "Well, I'll go back to the widder for a month and tackle it and see if I can come to stand it, if you'll let me b'long to the gang, Tom." "All right, Huck, it's a whiz! Come along, old chap, and I'll ask the widow to let up on you a little, Huck." "Will you Tom—now will you? That's good. If she'll let up on some of the roughest things, I'll smoke private and cuss private, and crowd through or bust. When you going to start the gang and turn robbers?" "Oh, right off. We'll get the boys together and have the initiation to-night, maybe." "Have the which?" "Have the initiation." "What's that?" "It's to swear to stand by one another, and never tell the gang's secrets, even if you're chopped all to flinders, and kill anybody and all his family that hurts one of the gang." "That's gay—that's mighty gay, Tom, I tell you." "Well I bet it is. And all that swearing's got to be done at midnight, in the lonesomest, awfulest place you can find—a ha'nted house is the best, but they're all ripped up, now."

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THE A D V E N T U R E S OF TOM S A W Y E R

"Well, midnight's good, anyway, Tom." "Yes, so it is. And you've got to swear on a coffin, and sign it with blood." "Now that's something like! Why it's a million times bullier than pirating. I'll stick to the widder till I rot, Tom ; and if I git to be a reglar ripper of a robber, and everybody talking 'bout it, I reckon she'll be proud she snaked me in out of the wet."

CONCLUSION So ENDETH this chronicle. It being strictly a history of a boy, it must stop here,- the story could not go much further without becoming the history of a man. When one writes a novel about grown people, he knows exactly where to stop—that is, with a marriage; but when he writes of juveniles, he must stop where he best can. Most of the characters that perform in this book still live, and are prosperous and happy. Some day it may seem worth while to take up the story of the younger ones again and see what sort of men and women they turned out to be; therefore it will be wisest not to reveal any of that part of their lives at present.

The end.

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TOM SAWYER ABROAD

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INTRODUCTION Tom Sawyer Abroad is by no means another "hymn to boyhood." Rather, it is a witty but elementary attempt at science fiction that borrows generously from Jules Verne. Although separate incidents are ingeniously contrived, there is little overall suspense, and the story, instead of building to a climax, collapses in a shamelessly perfunctory ending. The characters exhibit the same flat and somewhat absurd qualities that they do in the last twelve chapters of Huckleberry Finn. And even though Huck is the narrator, the style only occasionally reaches the level of folk poetry it so frequently attains in Huckleberry Finn. Nevertheless, parts of Tom Sawyer Abroad, such as Huck's pitying remarks about the learned inventor and the description of Jim snoring, arc quite up to the level of the earlier books. Moreover, the discussions of the "erronorts" on such diverse topics as maps and fleas and mirages are just as comic—and just as revealing of provincial states of mind—as almost anything in either Tom Sawyer or Huckleberry Finn. Despite its shortcomings, therefore, Tom Sawyer Abroad should not be casually dismissed as second rate. Compared with the other two works in this volume, it deserves a mid-position, being clearly inferior to The Adventures of Torn Sawyer but just as clearly superior to "Tom Sawyer, Detective." Unlike Tom Sawyer, Tom Sawyer Abroad contains little that is clearly autobiographical. If Mark Twain had any personal experiences with balloons, they were so limited as to be negligible as sources for this narrative. He may have gone up in one when he was in his late teens since in his notebook for 1855 he mentions Carr Place, an amusement park on the outskirts of St. Louis where balloon ascensions were one of the attractions. But he never says specifically that he made an ascension there. Later, though, in a letter to the Aha (California from New York, 6 June 1867, he reports that he contracted

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TOM SAWYER ABROAD

"to go up in a balloon, but the balloon didn't go."1 Possibly one did go, and he with it, in June of 1879. At least correspondence between the author and Lucius Fairchild, Governor of Wisconsin, and the Governor's diary, suggest that not only Clemens and the Governor but also Livy and Livy's friend Clara Spaulding made an ascension together.2 The experience could not have been a notable one, however, for there arc apparently no later references to it, and no direct evidences of it in Tom Sawyer Abroad. For the sources of Tom Sawyer Abroad, therefore, we must turn to Mark Twain's reading, especially to Jules Verne's Five Weeks in a Balloon. Mark Twain first became aware of Verne's book after he had started in his 1868 notebook a story of his own about a French convict who had stolen a balloon in Paris and had come down in Illinois. The entry stops with this memo: "While this was being written, Jules Verne's 'Five Weeks in a Balloon' came out and consequently this sketch wasn't finished." 3 Later, though, possibilities for building on Verne's fantasy must have occurred to the author. One of his bedtime stories as reported in Susy Clemens' "biography" of her father written in 1884-1885 clearly suggests the setting and a detail or two from Five Weeks in a Balloon. The story concerns several children who leave their school house on a cold winter night and get involved in the following remarkable happenings: Then they went and borrowed quite a few baloons & went up in the air Si then went up higher Si higher & higher & higher Si they let out a bird. The children were frozen when they put out a bird. The bird didn't know where he was & he went among the clouds, Si pretty soon he came back sailing back again Si they sailed & sailed Si sailed Si went over oceans Si seas Si pretty soon they landed in Africa. Quite a few plain people Si a few Indians came & some lions &v tigers, 'A1TTB, p. 278. Cyril Clemens' Mark Twain, the Letter Writer (Boston: Meador, 1932), pp. 45-46, contains a facsimile of a letter to Governor Fairchild dated simply "Saturday" in which Clemens makes a tentative appointment for a balloon ride. In addition, in a letter in the Fairchild papers at the Wisconsin State Historical Society, dated 3 May 1879, Clemens regretfully postpones the trip. Fairchild's diary, also at the Historical Society, has this entry: "23 June: Up in the balloon with Mark Twain—Mrs. Twain, Miss Spaulding, & Cuilwoodford'" The closing question mark may mean that the entry was prospective and recorded as a tentative a p p o i n t m e n t rather than the event itself; or it could simply mean that Fairchild was uncertain about that last name. :i MTN, pp. 118-119! 2

INTRODUCTION

243

& the lions nibbled at the frozen children &. couldn't bite them. Then a man came & said they were missionarys on the half shell & they must be thawed out so they thawed them out &. pretty soon they got growed up to be women & men &. were very good missionarys & converted many, & at last were eaten at a barbcquc. 4 In 1892 when he turned again to Five Weeks in a Balloon, this time for material for Tom Sawyer Ahmad, Mark Twain found it an unusually accommodating source. It even permitted him without a wrench to bring back his two popular boys and Jim, for Jules Verne's characters, though older, have an uncanny resemblance to the trio. Verne's Dr. Ferguson is a knowledgeable, imaginative leader like Tom,- Kennedy is his practical-minded friend like Huck ; Joe, like Jim, is the faithful slave. Despite the fact that the balloon in Verne's book is free-floating and headed westward instead of eastward, Mark Twain was easily able to adapt its adventures. Some of the events he borrowed are such obvious ones that no unique debt is involved: fighting a sandstorm, taking advantage of air currents, sighting a caravan, and stopping at an oasis. In addition, however, he incorporated many of Verne's less likely episodes, such as having a foe fall from the car, being shot at by natives, using the ladder for rescues, observing a battle between native groups, seeing a mirage, encountering a lion at an oasis, and hovering over a caravan while it is entombed by sand. One of the three characters in each story jumps from the balloon into a lake.5 As indicated in the explanatory notes, there are other sources for the events in Tom Sawyer Abroad, such as the Bible, The Arabian Nights, Sir Walter Scott's The Talisman, and Jules Verne's Dick Sands, but no source is so diligently mined as Five Weeks in a Balloon. Among Mark Twain's own works, Tom .Sawyer Ahmad rests most heavily, and most obviously, upon Tom Sawyer (1876), Huckleberry Finn (1884), and the fragment, "Huck and Tom among the Indians," ""Unpublished manuscript of Susy Clemens' biography of Mark Twain, pp. 81-82, in the C. Waller Barrett Collection, University of Virginia. An English edition of The Gilded Age (George Routledge and Sons, 1883) shows on its spine a drawing of three men high in the sky in the basket of a balloon, although this design was probably not connected with Mark Twain's renewed interest in Verne in 1884-1885. •'I). iVl. McKeithan presents a f u l l e r treatment of these parallels in Court Triala in Mark Twain and Other Essays (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1958), pp. 156-168.

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written in 1884.6 Tom and Huck and Jim are here more flatly conceived, although they retain much the same relationship with one another. Tom is again the manager, the one with information and imagination; Huck is still the literalist, the person of common sense,and Jim once more is the appealing although stereotyped black, limited in experience and burdened by superstition. The altercations are similar to those in Huckleberry Finn where Huck and Jim argue over King Sollermun and the nature of Frenchmen. Tom despairs of having an intelligent discussion with his companions, and they, on the other hand, often feel that their common sense has effectively silenced Tom. In form Tom Sawyer Abroad like Huckleberry Finn and "Huck and Tom among the Indians" is a picaresque adventure story narrated by Huck Finn. Like A Connecticut Yankee, finished four years before, Tom Sa\\ryer Abroad is a fantasy, fust as in the earlier book, Mark Twain here maneuvers certain conversations so that they become commentaries upon current political and economic phenomena that bothered him. The controversy, for example, over import duties on sand recalls the arguments in A Connecticut Yankee about taxes and inflation. As a matter of fact, in his interests and manner the Tom of Tom Sawyer Abroad is sometimes closer to the Yankee than he is to the earlier Tom Sawyer. The debt of Tom Sawyer Abroad to Mark Twain's travel books is pervasive as well as particular. In writing about Egypt, for example, the author taps the same material he had exploited in the section on Egypt in Innocents Abroad, and the story of Nat Parsons in the cab is simply a variation of the old wheeze about Horace Greeley in chapter 20 of Roughing It. More fundamentally, though, Tom Sawyer Abroad suggests the travel books in its absence of plot, its emphasis on episode, and its combination of sentiment and satire in the presence of foreign scenes. One other earlier work of Mark Twain's to which Tom Sawyer Abroad is apparently indebted remains a mystery. On 10 August 1892 the humorist wrote this tantalizing statement to Fred J. Hall, who was then manager of his publishing firm, Charles L. Webster &. Co.:

6This fragment is in hH&T.pp. 92–140

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I have dropped that novel I wrote you about, because I saw a more effective way of using the main episode—to wit: by telling it through the lips of Huck Finn. So I have started Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer (still 15 years old) and their friend the freed slave Jim around the world in a stray balloon, with Huck as narrator, and somewhere after the end of the great voyage he will work in the said episode and then nobody will suspect that a whole book has been written and the globe circumnavigated merely to get that episode in an effective (and at the same time apparently unintentional) way. 7 Louis J. Budd suspects that the episode is the anti-tariff discussion that takes place when Tom and Huck are set to bring back a load of Sahara sand, or possibly Jim's claim to an indemnity from Egypt.8 But what "that novel" was we do not know. The writing of Tom Sawyer Abmad took place in Bad Nauheim in August of 1892. Clemens had settled his family there in June, and had then taken off for New York on what was to be the first of a dozen trips during the next several years to see what could be done to salvage his investments, especially those in the Paige typesetting machine and in his own publishing firm, Charles L. Webster & Co. He returned to Bad Nauheim in the middle of July for two of the happiest months he was destined to have. The family was well, and the author still had hopes that he could avert financial disaster. In a great burst of energy he wrote Tom Sawyer Abroad and several shorter pieces, and started "Those Extraordinary Twins." He began Tom Sawyer Abroad on 5 August 1892, or shortly before, and finished it in less than a month. 9 His plan was to make it the first in a series of volumes in which he would send Huck and Tom and Jim to various parts of the world. He could add a million words, he wrote Hall, simply "by adding 'Africa/ 'England,' 'Germany,' etc. 7

MTLP, pp. 313-314. Mark Twain: Social Philosopher (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1962), p. 157. 9 In Notebook 26a, TS p. 18, Mark Twain wrote: "Began 'Huck Finn in Africa/ August 5, 1892." But a letter in the Mark Twain Papers from Mark Twain to William W. 1'helps, American Ambassador in Berlin, casts some doubt on tbis date. The letter is dated 5 August and states, "I have begun a book now, in the last four days. . . ." The book alluded to in the letter to Phelps must have been Tom Sawyer Abroad since the only other possibility was "Those Extraordinary Twins." The latter, however, was started earlier and "laid aside" to "ferment" (MTLI', p. 319). 8

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TOM S A W Y E R A B R O A D

to the title page of each successive volume of the series."10 This time, moreover, there were to be no arguments over whether the book was for children or adults. Livy and the girls thought it a story for young folk, but the humorist cannily declared that it was for any boy between eight years and eighty. "I conceive that the right way to write a story for boys is to write so that it will not only interest boys but will strongly interest any man who has ever been a boy. That immensely enlarges the audience."11 Composition went extraordinarily well. By 10 August Mark Twain had written 12,000 words and found "that the humor flows as easily as the adventures and surprises." 12 Less than two weeks later it was more than half finished, and on 4 September he was able to write Hall that it was done. It was to be called Tom Sawyer Abroad, with the subtitle "Part I—In the Great Sahara." 13 In a postscript dated 5 September he added that since the Consul General had just told him that the cholera epidemic in Hamburg would not delay the mails, he would revise it at once and send it off in a few days.14 Almost all of the more than four hundred revisions of wording in the manuscript must have been made in early September 1892, probably in Bad Nauheim. Many of the changes are simply to clarify the action or identify the speaker. Others add vernacular expressions or concreteness (bricked us for chased us, bladder for thing,, mooning for listening), tone down words that might disturb the sensitive (blatherskite for fool), or make the dialect more obvious and consistent (creturs for creatures, helium for helm, yaller for yellow). Again, as in revising Tom Sawyer, Mark Twain had what amounted to a compulsion for altering figures for no evident purpose. Seventeen of the revisions involved changes in distance, time, size, or amount (e.g., Fourteenth for Twelfth, five years for a year, three for a). He did not send the manuscript to Hall, but had a typescript made W

MTLI>, p. 315. MTU>, p. 314. /VITLP, p. 314. 13 He had considered calling it "Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer Abroad" and "Huckleberry Finn Abroad." The entire family considered it as only the first in what would be a series of volumes Since this was the age of the tremendously popular Nick Carter, Oliver Optic, and Horatio Alger series, it is not s u r p r i s i n g that Mark Twain— and his family—should consider the p o s s i h i l i u of a Tom Sawyer or H u c k F i n n series. ";\1TUJ, p. 320. 11

12

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247

in Frankfurt where the family stayed briefly on their way from Bad Nauheim to Florence. The typescript was mailed to Hall in two parts. The first, consisting of 16,000 words, was sent on 14 September while the Clemenses were still in Frankfurt. 15 The second part, estimated by the author to consist of 25,000 words, was copied and mailed from Frankfurt after they had left. 16 By 31 October he could write Hall that "the rest of Sawyer Abroad went to you some time ago." One gets the impression from his certainty in saying this to Hall, and from what follows in the same letter, that the original manuscript was once more in his hands. Tom Sawyer Abroad, his letter continues, "is finished and doesn't need another finish: but I have left it so that I can take it up again if required and carry it on. I tried to leave the improprieties all out; if I didn't Mrs. Dodge can scissor them out." 17 In late November he was still thinking of the narrative in its present form as simply Part I in a series, and was offering to write Part II whenever "St Nick" wanted it.18 But the dream of a series came to nothing. Except for the possibility of a few later revisions, the author's work on the book ended in September 1893. The first publication of Tom Sawyer Abroad was as a six-part serial in St. Nicholas Magazine, November 1893 through April 1894. In 1880 Livy had wanted The Prince and the Pauper published in St. Nicholas, but Clemens, after considering the idea, decided that serialization would cut too seriously into the sales of the book.19 Later, in 1890, the Clemens family spent the summer at Onteora in the Catskills, part of the time in the company of Mrs. Dodge. The specific agreement for the publication of a work by Mark Twain in St. Nicholas had its origin in June or early July of 1892, when Mrs. 15 In Notebook 26a, TS p. 23, he wrote: "Frankfurt a/M. Sept. 13/92. Shall mail tomorrow 27 typewritten pages of "Tom Sawyer Abroad"—16,000 words (113 pages; MS; The whole 280 MS pages make about 40,000 words.)" It is likely that the twentyseven typewritten pages contained the first six chapters. 16 MTLP, p. 320. "MTLP, p. 324. Mary Mapcs Dodge was the editor of St. Nicholas. That the manuscript was sent by the typist to Mark Twain rather than Hall is confirmed by an undated letter to William Walter Phelps in which Mark Twain complains that the box containing the manuscript was misplaced by the shipping company and had not yet reached him. 1S MTU J , p. 326. 1!I SLC to Mary Mapes Dodge, 19 November 1880; Berg Collection, New York Public Library.

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Dodge offered Clemens 85,000 for the serial rights to a story for boys 50,000 words long. Though at the time he had nothing for her, in early August when he was casting about for a publisher for Tom Sawyer Abroad he thought again of her offer. However he felt her rate was too low—by fifty percent. (Even Charles Dudley Warner, he said, got $100 per 1000 words.) He asked Hall to try for a better rate from Henry M. Alden at Harpers, from the editor of Harpers' Youth's Companion, from Samuel S. McClure of the McClure Syndicate, and from William Dean Howells, then an editor for Harper's.20 A month later, because the family insisted that the story must go to a magazine for boys and girls, he narrowed this field. On 4 September he told Hall to ask Harpers for S200 per 1000 words, and to offer Tom Sawyer Abroad to them for their Young People's Magazine21 If Harpers demurred, Hall was to see whether St. Nicholas would pay the $5,000 Mrs. Dodge had mentioned even though Tom Sawyer Abroad was only 40,000 words in length. Apparently Hall could reach no agreement with either Harpers or Mrs. Dodge. By 31 October, with the story still unsold, Clemens was willing to give the story to St. Nicholas for $4,000. This figure proved satisfactory to Mrs. Dodge provided the author was willing to accept payment in two parts and defer publication until the fall of 1893. Clemens accepted both conditions, and so the serial rights went to St. Nicholas. He was particularly pleased when he discovered that the magazine had secured Dan Beard, the illustrator for A Connecticut Yankee, to illustrate the new story. What he had to say, however, about the mayhem Mrs. Dodge committed on his narrative is not recorded. The editor of St. Nicholas had established herself as the arbiter of taste for juvenile readers. Her own Hans Brinker,- or, The Silver Skates, published in 1866, was still enormously popular, as were her other saccharine stories and poems for the young. The results of her strictures about what was good for the young reader could be seen on every page of St. Nicholas. It was hardly surprising, therefore, that she red-pencilled Mark Twain's narrative to the point where it lost such force as it originally had. Jim and the boys were no longer allowed to know about drunkenness, or to slobber or be sick. Jim turned into a "darky," slurs on religion dis-"MT/.P, pp. 314-315. -'A-ITV/', p. 318.

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appeared, and references to death became much less frequent (a bird was not even allowed to sing on a dead limb). 22 Such bowdlerizations would have been bad enough if they had appeared only in St. Nicholas. But Mrs. Dodge's changes carried over into the first two-thirds of the first American book edition published, ironically, by Charles L. Webster & Company. As indicated in the textual commentary, chapters 1-9 were apparently set from the St. Nicholas text whereas chapters 10-13 of the American edition and all of the first English edition, published by Chatto & Windus, were set from authoritative copy. Both first editions appeared on 16 April 1894 2.3 ironica]jy a copy of the American edition was filed for copyright on 18 April 1894, the very day that the Webster firm folded. Tom Sawyer Abroad, therefore, has the dubious distinction of being the last book published by Clemens' own publishing house. Mainly, perhaps, because it had appeared serially in a children's magazine, but also because it was published by a subscription house, reviewers in the major American journals virtually ignored the book. Mark Twain might have been just as pleased if the British reviewers had done the same, for to a man they found it a disappointment. Characteristic of reviews that were to follow, the Saturday Review felt that "the tea" was of the best Mark Twain brand but that the teapot had been "watered." The cleverest feature of the book was the contrast between the natural shrewdness of Tom and what the reviewer saw as the complacent stupidity of Huck and Jim. The Review7 disdained to disclose the ending because "anything more flat and unprofitable or more shabby to the reader was never devised."24 The Athenaeum thought the book "a grievous disappointment" with dull conversation and adventures that proved trivial because the flying ship was so mechanically perfect. 25 The Spectator contented itself with a short warning to its readers that Tom Sawyer 22 For a fuller treatment of these changes see O M Brack, Jr., "Mark Twain in Knee Pants: The Expurgation of Tom Sawyer Abroad," Proof 2 (1972): 145-151. 23 This date is indicated in a typescript of a letter from Clemens to Livy, 16 April 1894, in the Mark Twain Papers. Clemens was upset because his ignorance of the fact that the book was to issue before autumn prevented him from sending Hall the dedication ("To Jean Clemens, with the affectionate admiration of her Papa.") in time. Hall promised, though, t h a t it would get into the second edition. '^uturclay Review 77, no. 2012 (19 May 1894): 535. -'Athenaeum, 26 May 189'1, p. 676.

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Abroad was far from being as amusing as Tom Sawyer's previous adventures.26 And in the Academy, Shakespearean scholar E. K. Chambers, still fuming over Mark Twain's handling of the Arthurian legend in A Connecticut Yankee, would only concede that "it is more decent to parody Jules Verne than Sir Thomas Malory, and Mark Twain may therefore be deemed to have returned in this latest flight of humor to the limits of legitimate burlesque." Nevertheless Chambers thought Tom Sawyer Abroad not particularly funny. 27 Though by no means one of the most frequently published works of Mark Twain, Tom Sawyer Abroad has had a respectable record. In 1930 it ranked fifth in sales among Mark Twain's books.28 Before 1970 there were seven American editions of the narrative by itself, and eighteen editions of it with "Tom Sawyer, Detective" and other selections. In England there were two editions of it by itself, and eight with other selections. In addition it has been translated into the major European languages, and has been especially popular in Germany, France, and Spain. Few contend that it is one of Mark Twain's major works, but it is still enjoyed for the fantasy, for the arguments among the three "erronorts," and for a few set pieces that compare favorably with the author's best work. The section in the first chapter on crusaders is one of the shrewdest disclosures anywhere of the intellectual and moral bankruptcy of arguments in defense of invasion and war. Perhaps Bernard DeVoto has praised the narrative most highly. "It is," he wrote, "a deliberate exploration of the provincial mind and its prejudices, ignorances, assumptions, wisdoms, cunning. It memorably differentiates three stages of the mind, by way of the familiar Tom, Huck, and Nigger lim. It is among the very best of Mark's work, frequently on a level with Huckleberry Finn itself, and must eventually be recognized as what it is."29 26

Spectator 72, no. 3440 (2 June 1894): 764. "Academy 46, no. 1158 (14 July 1894): 27. 28 MTAm, p. 282. 29 The Portable Mark Twain (New York: The Viking Press, 1946), pp. 31-32.

TOM SAWYER ABROAD

Contents CHAPTER 1 255

Tom Seeks New Adventures CHAPTER 2 The Balloon Ascension

263 CHAPTER 3

Tom Explains .

. . 269

CHAPTER 4 Storm

. 276

CHAPTER 5 Land . .

280

CHAPTER 6 It's a Caravan .

286

CHAPTER 7 Tom Respects the Flea .

291

CHAPTER 8 The Disappearing Lake

297

CHAPTER 9 Tom Discourses on the Desert

. 307

CONTENTS

253 CHAPTER 10

The Treasure-Hill

313 CHAPTER 11

The Sand-Storm

319 CHAPTER 12

Jim Standing Siege

327 CHAPTER 13

Going for Tom's Pipe

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%m SawyerAbroad BY HUCK FINN. EDITED BY MARK TWAIN.

CHAPTER 1 d

'O De

YOU RECKON Tom Sawyer was satisfied after all them adventures? I mean the adventures we had down the river the time we set the nigger Jim free and Tom got shot in the leg. No, he wasn't. It only just pisoned him for more. That was all the effects it had. You see, when we three come back up the river in glory, as you may say, from that long travel, and the village received us with a torchlight procession and speeches, and everybody hurrah'd and shouted, and some got drunk, it made us heroes, and that was what Tom Sawyer had always been hankerin' to be. For a while he was satisfied. Everybody made much of him, and he tilted up his nose and stepped around the town like he owned it. Some called him Tom Sawyer the Traveler, and that just swelled him up fit to bust. You see he laid over me and Jim considerable, because we only went down the river on a raft and come back by the steamboat, but Tom went by the steamboat both ways. The boys envied me and Jim a good deal, but land! they just knuckled to the dirt before Tom. Well, I don't know,- maybe he might have been satisfied if it hadn't been for old Nat Parsons, which was postmaster, and powerful long and slim, and kind of good-hearted and silly and baldheaded, on accounts of his age, and most about the talkiest old animal I ever see.

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For as much as thirty years he'd been the only man in the village that had a raputation—I mean, a ruputation for being a traveler, and of course he was mortal proud of it, and it was reckoned that in the course of that thirty years he had told about that journey over a million times and enjoyed it every time, and now comes along a boy not quite fifteen and sets everybody gawking and admiring over his travels, and it just give the poor old thing the jim-jams. It made him sick to listen to Tom and hear the people say "My land!" "Did you ever!" "My goodness sakes alive!" and all them sorts of things, but he couldn't pull away from it, any more than a fly that's got its hind leg fast in the molasses. And always when Tom come to a rest, the poor old cretur would chip in on his same old travels and work them for all they was worth, but they was pretty faded and didn't go for much, and it was pitiful to see. And then Tom would take another innings, and then the old man again—and so on, and so on, for an hour and more, each trying to sweat out the other. You see, Parsons's travels happened like this. When he first got to be postmaster and was green in the business, there was a letter come for somebody he didn't know, and there wasn't any such person in the village. Well, he didn't know what to do nor how to act, and there the letter stayed and stayed, week in and week out, till the bare sight of it give him the dry gripes. The postage wasn't paid on it, and that was another thing to worry about. There wasn't any way to collect that ten cents, and he reckoned the Gov'ment would hold him responsible for it and maybe turn him out besides, when they found he hadn't collected it. Well at last he couldn't stand it any longer. He couldn't sleep nights, he couldn't eat, he was thinned down to a shadder, yet he dasn't ask anybody's advice, for the very person he asked for the advice might go back on him and let the Gov'ment know about that letter. He had the letter buried under the floor, but that didn't do no good; if he happened to see a person standing over the place it give him the cold shivers and loaded him up with suspicions, and he would set up that night till the town was still and dark and then he would sneak there and get it out and bury it in another place. Of course people got to avoiding him, and shaking their heads and whispering, because, the way he was looking and acting, they judged he had killed somebody or done something they d i d n ' t know what, and if he had been a stranger they would a lynched him.

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Well, as I was saying, it got so he couldn't stand it any longer; so he made up his mind to pull out for Washington and just go to the President of the United States and make a clean breast of the whole thing, not keeping back an atom, and then fetch the letter out and lay her down before the whole Gov'ment and say, "Now, there she is, do with me what you're a mind to, though as heaven is my judge I am an innocent man and not deserving of the full penalties of the law, and leaving behind me a family which must starve and yet ain't had a thing to do with it, which is the truth and I can swear to it." So he done it. He had a little wee bit of steamboating, and some stage-coaching, but all the rest of the way was horseback, and took him three weeks to get to Washington. He saw lots of land, and lots of villages, and four cities. He was gone most eight weeks, and there never was such a proud man in the village as when he got back. His travels made him the greatest man in all that region, and the most talked about; and people come from as much as thirty miles back in the country, and from over in the Illinois bottoms, too, just to look at him—and there they'd stand and gawk, and he'd gabble. You never see anything like it. Well, there wasn't any way, now, to settle which was the greatest traveler,- some said it was Nat, some said it was Tom. Everybody allowed that Nat had seen the most longitude, but they had to give in that whatever Tom was short in longitude he had made up in latitude and climate. It was about a stand-off; so both of them had to whoop-up their dangersome adventures, and try to get ahead that way. That bullet-wound in Tom's leg was a tough thing for Nat Parsons to buck against, but he done the best he could; done it at a disadvantage, too, for Tom didn't set still, as he'd orter done, to be fair, but always got up and santered around and worked his limp whilst Nat was painting up the adventure that he had one day in Washington; for Tom he never let go that limp after his leg got well, but practiced it nights at home, and kept it as good as new, right along. Nat's adventure was like this,- and I will say this for him, that he did know how to tell it. He could make anybody's flesh crawl and turn pale and hold his breath when he told it, and sometimes women and girls got so faint they couldn't stick it out. Well, it was this way, as near as I remember: He come a-loping into Washington and put up his horse and

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shoved out to the President's house with his letter, and they told him the President was up to the Capitol and just going to start for Philadelphia—not a minute to lose if he wanted to catch him. Nat most dropped, it made him so sick. His horse was put up, and he didn't know what to do. But just then along comes a nigger driving an old ramshackly hack, and he see his chance. He rushes out and shouts— "A half a dollar if you git me to the capitol in a half an hour, and a quarter extra if you do it in twenty minutes!" "Done!" says the nigger. Nat he jumped in and slammed the door and away they went, a-ripping and a-tearing and a-bumping and a-bouncing over the roughest road a body ever see, and the racket of it was something awful. Nat passed his arms through the loops and hung on for life and death, but pretty soon the hack hit a rock and flew up in the air and the bottom fell out, and when it come down Nat's feet was on the ground, and he see he was in the most desperate danger if he couldn't keep up with the hack. He was horrible scared, but he laid into his work for all he was worth, and hung tight to the arm-loops and made his legs fairly fly. He yelled and shouted to the driver to stop, and so did the crowds along the street, for they could see his legs a-spinning along under the coach and his head and shoulders bobbing inside, through the windows, and knowed he was in awful danger; but the more they all shouted the more the nigger whooped and yelled and lashed the horses and said, "Don't you fret, I's gwyne to git you dah in time, boss, I's gwyne to do it sho'!" for you see he thought they was all hurrying him up, and of course he couldn't hear anything for the racket he was making. And so they went ripping along, and everybody just petrified and cold to see it ; and when they got to the Capitol at last it was the quickest trip that ever was made, and everybody said so. The horses laid down, and Nat dropped, all tuckered out; and then they hauled him out and he was all dust and rags and barefooted; but he was in time, and just in time, and caught the President and give him the letter and everything was all right and the President give him a free pardon on the spot, and Nat give the nigger two extra quarters instead of one, because he could see that if he hadn't had the hack he wouldn't a got there in time, nor anywhere near it.

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It was a powerful good adventure, and Tom Sawyer had to work his bullet-wound mighty lively to hold his own and keep his end up against it. Well, by and by Tom's glory got to paling down graduly, on accounts of other things turning up for the people to talk about, first a horse-race, and on top of that a house afire, and on top of that the circus, and on top of that a big auction of niggers, and on top of that the eclipse, and that started a revival, same as it always does, and by that time there warn't no more talk about Tom to speak of, and you never see a person so sick and disgusted. Pretty soon he got to worrying and fretting right along, day in and day out, and when I asked him what was he in such a state about, he said it most broke his heart to think how time was slipping away, and him getting older and older, and no wars breaking out and no way of making a name for himself that he could see. Now that is the way boys is always thinking, but he was the first one I ever heard come out and say it. So then he set to work to get up a plan to make him celebrated, and pretty soon he struck it, and offered to take me and Jim in. Tom Sawyer was always free and generous that way. There's plenty of boys that's mighty good and friendly when you've got a good thing, but when a good thing happens to come their way they don't say a word to you and try to hog it all. That warn't ever Tom Sawyer's style, I can say that for him. There's plenty of boys that will come hankering and gruvveling around when you've got an apple and beg the core off of you, but when they've got one and you beg for the core and remind them how you give them a core one time, they make a mouth at you and say thank you most to death but there ain't a-going to be no core. But I notice they always git come up with; all you got to do is to wait. Jake Hooker always done that way, and it warn't two years till he got drownded. Well, we went out in the woods on the hill, and Tom told us what it was. It was a Crusade. "What's a crusade?" I says. He looked scornful, the way he always done when he was ashamed of a person, and says— "Huck Finn, do you mean to tell me you don't know what a crusade is?" "No," says I, "I don't. And I don't care, nuther. I've lived till now

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and done without it, and had my health, too. But as soon as you tell me, I'll know, and that's soon enough. I don't see no use in finding out things and clogging my head up with them when I mayn't ever have any occasion for them. There was Lance Williams, he learnt how to talk Choctaw, and there warn't ever a Choctaw here till one come along and dug his grave for him. Now, then, what's a Crusade? But I can tell you one thing before you begin; if it's a patent right, there ain't no money in it. Bill Thompson, he—" "Patent right!" he says. "I never see such an idiot. Why, a crusade is a kind of a war." I thought he must be losing his mind. But no, he was in real earnest, and went right on, perfectly cam: "A crusade is a war to recover the Holy Land from the paynim." "Which Holy Land?" "Why, the Holy Land—there ain't but one." "What do we want of it?" "Why, can't you understand? It's in the hands of the paynim, and it's our duty to take it away from them." "How did we come to let them git holt of it?" "We didn't come to let them git hold of it. They always had it." "Why, Tom, then it must belong to them, don't it?" "Why of course it does. Who said it didn't?" I studied over it, but couldn't seem to git at the rights of it no way. I says— "It's too many for me, Tom Sawyer. If I had a farm, and it was mine, and another person wanted it, would it be right for him to—" "Oh, shucks! you don't know enough to come in when it rains, Huck Finn. It ain't a farm, it's entirely different. You see, it's like this. They own the land, just the mere land, and that's all they do own,- but it was our folks, our Jews and Christians, that made it holy, and so they haven't any business to be there defiling it. It's a shame, and we oughtn't to stand it a minute. We ought to march against them and take it away from them." "Why, it does seem to me it's the most mixed-up thing I ever see. Now if I had a farm, and another person—" "Don't I tell you it hasn't got anything to do with farming? Panning is business,- just common low-down worldly business, that's all it is, it's all you can say for it; but this is higher, this is religious, and totally different."

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"Religious to go and take the land away from the people that owns it?" "Certainly,- it's always been considered so." Jim he shook his head and says— "Mars Tom, I reckon dey's a mistake 'bout it somers—dey mos' sholy is. I's religious mysef; en I knows plenty religious people, but I hain't run acrost none dat acts like dat." It made Tom hot, and he says— "Well, it's enough to make a body sick, such mullet-headed ignorance. If either of you knowed anything about history, you'd know that Richard Cur de Lyon, and the Pope, and Godfrey de Bulloyn, and lots more of the most noble-hearted and pious people in the world hacked and hammered at the paynims for more than two hundred years trying to take their land away from them and swum neck deep in blood the whole time—and yet here's a couple of sap-headed country yahoos out in the backwoods of Missouri setting themselves up to know more about the rights and the wrongs of it than they did! Talk about cheek!" Well, of course that put a more different light on it, and me and Jim felt pretty cheap and ignorant, and wished we hadn't been quite so chipper. I couldn't say nothing, and Jim he couldn't for a while; then he says— "Well, den, I reckon it's all right, becaze ef dey didn't know, dey ain' no use for po' ignorant folks like us to be tryin' to know ; en so ef it's our duty .we got to go en tackle it en do de bes' we kin. Same time, I feel as sorry for dem paynims as—Mars Tom, de hard part gwyne to be to kill folks dat a body hain't 'quainted wid and hain't done him no harm. Dat's it, you see. Ef we uz to go 'mongst 'em, jist us three, and say we's hungry, en ast 'em for a bite to eat, why maybe dey's jist like yuther people en niggers, don't you reckon dey is? Why, dey'd give it, I know dey would; en den—" "Then what?" "Well, Mars Tom, my idea is like dis. It ain't no use, we can't kill dem po' strangers dat ain't doin' us no harm, till we've had practice— I knows it perfectly well, Mars Tom, 'deed I knows it perfectly well. But ef we takes a axe or two, jist you en me en Huck, en slips acrost de river to-night arter de moon's gone down, en kills dat sick fambly dat's over on de Sny, en burns dey house down, en—" "Oh, shut your head! you make me tired. I don't want to argue no

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more with people like you and Huck Finn, that's always wandering from the subject and ain't got any more sense than to try to reason out a thing that's pure theology by the laws that protects real estate." Now that's just where Tom Sawyer warn't fair. Jim didn't mean no harm, and I didn't mean no harm. We knowed well enough that he was right and we was wrong, and all we was after was to get at the how of it, that was all,- and the only reason he couldn't explain it so we could understand it was because we was ignorant—yes, and pretty dull, too, I ain't denying that; but land! that ain't no crime, I should think. But he wouldn't hear no more about it; just said if we had tackled the thing in a proper spirit he would a raised a couple of thousand knights, and put them up in steel armor from head to heel and made me a lieutenant and Jim a sutler, and took the command himself and brushed the whole paynim outfit into the sea like flies and come back across the world in a glory like sunset. But he said we didn't know enough to take the chance when we had it, and he wouldn't ever offer it again. And he didn't. When he once got set, you couldn't budge him. But I didn't care much. I am peaceable, and don't get up no rows with people that ain't doing nothing to me. I allowed if the paynims was satisfied I was, and we would let it stand at that. Now Tom he got all that wild notion out of Walter Scott's books, which he was always reading. And it was a wild notion, because in my opinion he never could a raised the men, and if he did, as like as not he would a got licked. I took the books and read all about it, and as near as I could make out, most of the folks that shook farming to go crusading had a mighty rocky time of it.

CHAPTER 2 WrELL TOM GOT UP one thing after another, but they all had sore places in them somcwheres and he had to shove them aside. So at last he was most about in despair. Then the St. Louis papers begun to talk a good deal about the balloon that was going to sail to Europe, and Tom sort of thought he wanted to go down and sec what it looked like, but couldn't make up his mind. But the papers went on talking, and so he allowed that maybe if he didn't go he mightn't ever have another chance to see a balloon; and next, he found out that Nat Parsons was going down to see it, and that decided him of course. He wasn't going to have Nat Parsons coming back bragging about seeing the balloon and him having to listen to it and keep his head shut. So he wanted me and Jim to go, too, and we went. It was a noble big balloon, and had wings, and fans, and all sorts of things, and wasn't like any balloon that is in the pictures. It was away out towards the edge of town in a vacant lot corner of Twelfth street, and there was a big crowd around it making fun of it and making fun of the man, which was a lean, pale feller with that soft kind of moonlight in his eyes, you know, and they kept saying it wouldn't go. It made him hot to hear them, and he would turn on them and shake his fist and say they was animals and blind, but some day they would find they'd stood face to face with one of the men that lifts up nations and makes civilizations, and was too dull to know it, and right here on this spot their own children and grandchildren would build a monument to him that would last a thousand years but his name would outlast the monument; and then the crowd would bust out in a laugh again and yell at him and ask him what was his name before he was married, and what he would take to don't, and what was his sister's cat's grandmother's name, and all them kinds of things that a crowd says when they've got hold of a feller they see they can plague. Well, the things they said was funny, yes, and

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mighty witty too, I ain't denying that, but all the same it warn't fair nor brave, all them people pitching on one, and they so glib and sharp, and him without any gift of talk to answer back with. But good land! what did he want to sass back for? You see it couldn't do him no good, and it was just nuts for them. They had him, you know. But that was his way,- I reckon he couldn't help it; he was made so, I judge. He was a good enough sort of a crctur, and hadn't no harm in him, and was just a genius, as the papers said, which wasn't his fault, we can't all be sound, we've got to be the way we are made. As near as I can make out, geniuses think they know it all, and so they won't take people's advice, but always go their own way, which makes everybody forsake them and despise them, and that is perfectly natural. If they was humbler, and listened arid tried to learn, it would be better for them. The part the Professor was in was like a boat, and was big and roomy and had water-tight lockers around the inside to keep all sorts of things in, and a body could set on them and make beds on them, too. We went aboard, and there was twenty people there, snooping around and examining, and old Nat Parsons was there, too. The Professor kept fussing around getting ready, and the people went ashore, drifting out one at a time, and old Nat he was the last. Of course it wouldn't do to let him go out behind us. We mustn't budge till he was gone, so we could be last ourselves. But he was gone, now, so it was time for us to follow. I heard a big shout, and turned around—the city was dropping from under us like a shot! It made me sick all through, I was so scared. Jim turned gray, and couldn't say a word, and Tom didn't say nothing, but looked excited. The city went on dropping, down, and down, and down, but we didn't seem to do nothing but hang in the air and stand still. The houses got smaller and smaller, and the city pulled itself together closer and closer, and the men and wagons got to looking like ants and bugs crawling around, and the streets was like cracks and threads; and then it all kind of melted together and there wasn't any city any more, it was only a big scab on the earth, and it seemed to me a body could see up the river and down the river about a thousand miles, though of course it wasn't so much. By and by the earth was a ball—just a round ball, of a dull color, with shiny stripes wriggling and winding around over it which was rivers. And the weather

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was getting pretty chilly. The widder Douglas always told me the world was round like a ball, but I never took no stock in a lot of them superstitions o' hern, and of course I never paid no attention to that one, because I could see, myself, that the world was the shape of a plate, and flat. I used to go up on the hill and take a look all around and prove it for myself, because I reckon the best way to get a sure thing on a fact is to go and examine for yourself and not take it on anybody's say-so. But I had to give in, now, that the widder was right. That is, she was right as to the rest of the world, but she warn't right about the part our village is in: that part is the shape of a plate, and flat, I take my oath. The Professor was standing still all this time like he was asleep, but he broke loose, now, and he was mighty bitter. He says something like this: "Idiots! they said it wouldn't go. And they wanted to examine it and spy around and get the secret of it out of me. But I beat them. Nobody knows the secret but me. Nobody knows what makes it move but me—and it's a new power! A new power, and a thousand times the strongest in the earth. Steam's foolishness to it. They said I couldn't go to Europe. To Europe! why, there's power aboard to last five years, and food for three months; they are fools, what do they know about it? Yes, and they said my air-ship was flimsy—why, she's good for fifty years. I can sail the skies all my life if I want to, and steer where I please, though they laughed at that, and said I couldn't. Couldn't steer! Come here, boy; we'll see. You press these buttons as I tell you." He made Tom steer the ship all about and every which way, and learnt him the whole thing in nearly no time, and Tom said it was perfectly easy. He made him fetch the ship down most to the earth, and had him spin her along so close to the Illinois prairies that a body could talk to the farmers and hear everything they said, perfectly plain,- and he flung out printed bills to them that told about the balloon and said it was going to Europe. Tom got so he could steer straight for a tree till he got nearly to it and then dart up and skin right along over the top of it. Yes, and he learnt Tom how to land her ; and he done it first rate, too, and set her down in the prairie as soft as wool; but the minute we started to skip out, the Professor says, "No you don't!" and shot her up into the air again. It was awful. 1

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begun to beg, and so did Jim ; but it only give his temper a rise, and he begun to rage around and look wild out of his eyes, and I was scared of him. Well, then he got onto his troubles again, and mourned and grumbled about the way he was treated, and couldn't seem to git over it, and especially people's saying his ship was flimsy. He scoffed at that, and at their saying she warn't simple and would be always getting out of order. Get out of order—that graveled him ; he said she couldn't any more get out of order than the solar sister. He got worse and worse, and I never see a person take on so. It give me the cold shivers to see him, and so it did Jim. By and by he got to yelling and screaming, and then he swore the world shouldn't ever have his secret at all, now, it had treated him so mean. He said he would sail his balloon around the globe just to show what it could do, and then he would sink it in the sea, and sink us all along with it, too. Well, it was the awfulest fix to be in—and here was night coming on. He give us something to eat, and made us go to the other end of the boat, and laid down on a locker where he could boss all the works, and put his old pepper-box revolver under his head and said anybody that come fooling around there trying to land her, he would kill him. We set scrunched up together, and thought considerable, but didn't say nothing, only just a word once in a while when a body had to say something or bust, we was 50 scared and worried. The night dragged along slow and lonesome. We was pretty low down, and the moonshine made everything soft and pretty, and the farm houses looked snug and homeful, and we could hear the farm sounds, and wished we could be down there, but laws! we just slipped along over them like a ghost, and never left a track. Away in the night, when all the sounds was late sounds, and the air had a late feel, too, and a late smell—about a two o'clock feel, as near as I could make out,—Tom said the Professor was so quiet this long time he must be asleep, and we better— "Better what?" I says, in a whisper, and feeling sick all over, because I knowcd what he was thinking about. "Better slip back there and tie him and land the ship," he says. I says— "No, sir! Don't you budge, Tom Sawyer."

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And Jim—well, Jim was kind of gasping, he was so scared. He says— "Oh, Mars Torn, don't] Ef you tetches him we's gone—we's gone, sho'! I ain't gwyne anear him, not for nothin' in dis worl'. Mars Tom, he's plum crazy." Tom whispers and says— "That's why we've got to do something. If he wasn't crazy I wouldn't give shucks to be anywhere but here,- you couldn't hire me to get out, now that I've got used to this balloon and over the scare of being cut loose from the solid ground, if he was in his right mind,but it's no good politics sailing around like this with a person that's out of his head and says he's going around the world and then drown us all. We've got to do something, I tell you, and do it before he wakes up, too, or we mayn't ever get another chance. Come!" But it made us turn cold and creepy just to think of it, and we said we wouldn't budge. So Tom was for slipping back there by himself to see if he couldn't get at the steering gear and land the ship. We begged and begged him not to, but it warn't no use,- so he got down on his hands and knees and begun to crawl an inch at a time, we a-holding our breath and watching. After he got to the middle of the boat he crept slower than ever, and it did seem like years to me. But at last we see him get to the Professor's head and sort of raise up soft and look a good spell in his face and listen. Then we see him begin to inch along again towards the Professor's feet where the steering-buttons was. Well, he got there all safe, and was reaching slow and steady towards the buttons, but he knocked down something that made a noise, and we see him slump flat and soft in the bottom and lay still. The Professor stirred, and says "What's that?" But everybody kept dead still and quiet, and he begun to mutter and mumble and nestle, like a person that's going to wake up, and I thought I was going to die I was so worried and scared. Then a cloud come over the moon, and I most cried, I was so glad. She buried herself deeper and deeper in the cloud, and it got so dark we couldn't see Tom no more. Then it begun to sprinkle rain, and we could hear the Professor fussing at his ropes and things and abusing the weather. We was afraid every minute he would touch Tom, and then we would be goners and no help, but Tom was already on his way home, and when we felt his hands on our knees my breath

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stopped sudden and my heart fell down amongst my other works, because I couldn't tell in the dark but it might be the Professor, which I thought it was. Dear! I was so glad to have him back that I was just as near happy as a person could be that was up in the air that way with a deranged man. You can't land a balloon in the dark, and so I hoped it would keep on raining, for I didn't want Tom to go meddling any more and make us so awful uncomfortable. Well, I got my wish. It drizzled and drizzled along the rest of the night, which wasn't long, though it did seem so; and at daybreak it cleared, and the world looked mighty soft and gray and pretty, and the forests and fields so good to see again, and the horses and cattle standing sober and thinking. Next, the sun come a-blazing up gay and splendid, and then we begun to feel rusty and stretchy, and first we knowed we was all asleep.

CHAPTER 3

WrE WENT TO SLEEP about four o'clock and woke up about eight. The Professor was setting back there at his end looking glum. He pitched us some breakfast, but he told us not to come abaft the midship compass. That was about the middle of the boat. Well, when you are sharp set, and you eat and satisfy yourself, everything looks pretty different from what it done before. It makes a body feel pretty near comfortable, even when he is up in a balloon with a genius. We got to talking together. There was one thing that kept bothering me, and by and by I says— "Tom, didn't we start east?" "Yes." "How fast have we been going?" "Well, you heard what the Professor said when he was raging around; sometimes, he said, we was making fifty miles an hour, sometimes ninety, sometimes a hundred—said that with a gale to help he could make three hundred any time, and said if he wanted the gale, and wanted it blowing the right direction, he only had to go up higher or down lower and find it." "Well, then, it's just as I reckoned. The Professor lied." "Why?" "Because if we was going so fast we ought to be past Illinois, oughtn't we?" "Certainly." "Well, we ain't." "What's the reason we ain't?" "I know by the color. We're right over Illinois yet. And you can see for yourself that Indiana ain't in sight." "I wonder what's the matter with you, Huck. You know by the color?" "Yes—of course I do."

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"What's the color got to do with it?" "It's got everything to do with it. Illinois is green, Indiana is pink. You show me any pink down here if you can. No, sir, it's green." "Indiana pink? Why, what a lie!" "It ain't no lie; I've seen it on the map, and it's pink." You never see a person so aggravated and disgusted. He says— "Well, if I was such a numskull as you, Huck Finn, I would jump over. Seen it on the map! Huck Finn, did you reckon the States was the same color out doors that they are on the map?" "Tom Sawyer, what's a map for? Ain't it to learn you facts?" "Of course." "Well, then, how is it going to do that if it tells lies?—that's what I want to know." "Shucks, you muggins, it don't tell lies." "It don't, don't it?" "No, it don't." "All right, then,- if it don't, there ain't no two States the same color. You git around that, if you can, Tom Sawyer." He see I had him, and Jim see it, too, and I tell you I felt pretty good, for Tom Sawyer was always a hard person to git ahead of. Jim slapped his leg and says— "I tell you! dat's smart, dat's right down smart! Ain't no use, Mars Tom, he got you dis time, he done got you dis time, sho'!" He slapped his leg again, and says, "My Ian' but it was a smart one!" I never felt so good in my life; and yet I didn't know I was saying anything much till it was out. I was just mooning along, perfectly careless, and not expecting anything was going to happen, and never thinking of such a thing at all, when all of a sudden out it come. Why, it was just as much a surprise to me as it was to any of them. It was just the same way it is when a person is munching along on a hunk of corn pone and not thinking about anything, and all of a sudden bites onto a di'mond. Now all that he knows, flrst-off, is, that it's some kind of gravel he's bit onto, but he don't find out it's a di'mond till he gits it out and brushes off the sand and crumbs and one thing or another and has a look at it, and then he's surprised and glad. Yes, and proud, too; though when you come to look the thing straight in the eye he ain't entitled to as much credit as he would a been if he'd been hunting di'monds. You can sec the difference easy,

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if you think it over. You see, an accident, that way, ain't fairly as big a thing as a thing that's done a purpose. Anybody could find that di'mond in that corn-pone,- but mind you, it's got to be somebody that's got that kind of corn-pone. That's where that feller's credit comes in, you see,- and that's where mine comes in. I don't claim no great things, I don't reckon I could a done it again, but I done it that time, that's all I claim. And I hadn't no more idea I could do such a thing and warn't any more thinking about it or trying to, than you be, this minute. Why, I was just as cam, a body couldn't be any cammer, and yet all of a sudden out it come. I've often thought of that time, and I can remember just the way everything looked, same as if it was only last week. I can see it all; beautiful rolling country with woods and fields and lakes for hundreds and hundreds of miles all around, and towns and villages scattered everywheres under us, here and there and yonder, and the Professor mooning over a chart on his little table, and Tom's cap flopping in the rigging where it was hung up to dry, and one thing in particular was a bird right alongside, not ten foot off, going our way and trying to keep up, but losing ground all the time, and a railroad train doing the same, down there, sliding along amongst the trees and farms, and pouring out a long cloud of black smoke and now and then a little puff of white; and when the white was gone so long you had most forgot it, you would hear a little faint toot, and that was the whistle,- and we left the bird and the train both behind, way behind, and done it easy, too. But Tom he was huffy, and said me and Jim was a couple of ignorant blatherskites, and then he says— "Suppose there's a brown calf and a big brown dog, and an artist is making a picture of them. What is the main thing that that artist has got to do? He has got to paint them so you can tell 'em apart the minute you look at them, hain't he? Of course. Well, then, do you want him to go and paint both of them brown? Certainly you don't. He paints one of them blue, and then you can't make no mistake. It's just the same with the maps. That's why they make every State a different color; it ain't to deceive you, it's to keep you from deceiving yourself." But I couldn't see no argument about that, and neither could Jim. Jim shook his head, and says— "Why, Mars Tom, ef you knowed what chuckleheads dcm painters is, you'd wait a long time befo' you'd fetch one er dem in to back up

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a fac'. I's gwyne to tell you—den you kin see for youseff. I see one er 'em a-paintin' away, one day, down in old Hank Wilson's back lot, en I went down to see, en he was paintin' dat ole brindle cow wid de near horn gone—you knows de one I means. En I ast him what's he paintin' her for, en he say when he git her painted de picture's wuth a hunderd dollars. Mars Tom, he could a got de cow fer fifteen, en I tole him so. Well, sah, ef you'll b'lieve me, he jes' shuck his head en went on a-dobbin'. Bless you, Mars Tom, dey don't know nothin'." Tom he lost his temper; I notice a person most always does, that's got laid out in an argument. He told us to shut up and don't stir the slush in our skulls any more, hold still and let it cake, and maybe we'd feel better. Then he see a town clock away off down yonder, and he took up the glass and looked at it, and then looked at his silver turnip, and then at the clock, and then at the turnip again, and says— "That's funny—that clock's near about an hour fast." So he put up his turnip. Then he see another clock, and took a look, and it was an hour fast, too. That puzzled him. "That's a mighty curious thing," he says,- "I don't understand that." Then he took the glass and hunted up another clock, and sure enough it was an hour fast, too. Then his eyes begun to spread and his breath to come out kind of gaspy like, and he says— "Ger-reat Scott, it's the longitude]" I says, considerable scared— "Well, what's been and gone and happened now?" "Why, the thing that's happened is, that this old bladder has slid over Illinois and Indiana and Ohio like nothing, and this is the east end of Pennsylvania or New York, or somewheres around there." "Tom Sawyer, you don't mean it!" "Yes, I do, and it's so, dead sure. We've covered about fifteen degrees of longitude since we left St. Louis yesterday afternoon, and them clocks are right. We've come close onto eight hundred mile." I didn't believe it, but it made the cold streaks trickle down my back just the same. In my experience I knowed it wouldn't take much short of two weeks to do it down the Mississippi on a raft. Jim was working his mind, and studying. Pretty soon he says— "Mars Tom, did you say dem clocks uz right?" "Yes, they're right." "Ain't yo' watch right, too?" "She's right for St. Louis, but she's an hour wrong for here."

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"Mars Tom, is you tryin' to let on dat de time ain't de same everywheres?" "No, it ain't the same everywheres, by a long shot." Jim he looked distressed, and says— "It grieve me to hear you talk like dat, Mars Tom,- I's right down 'shamed to hear you talk like dat, arter de way you's been raised. Yassir, it'd break yo' aunt Polly's heart to hear you." Tom was astonished. He looked Jim over, wondering, and didn't say nothing, and Jim he went on: "Mars Tom, who put de people out yonder in St. Louis? De Lord done it. Who put de people here whah we is? De Lord done it. Ain' dey bofe His chillen? 'Cose dey is. Well, den! is He gwyne to 'scriminate 'twix' 'em?" '"Scrimminate! I never heard such ignorant rot. There ain't no discriminating about it. When He makes you and some more of His children black, and makes the rest of us white, what do you call that?" Jim see the pint. He was stuck. He couldn't answer. Tom says— "He does discriminate, you see, when He wants to—but this case here ain't no discrimination of His, it's man's. The Lord made the day, and He made the night; but He didn't invent the hours, and He didn't distribute them around—man done it." "Mars Tom, is dat so? Man done it?" "Certainly." "Who tole him he could?" "Nobody. He never asked." Jim studied a minute, and says— "Well, dat do beat me. I wouldn't a tuck no sich resk. But some people ain't scared o' nothin'. Dey bangs right ahead, dey don't care what happens. So den dey's allays an hour's diffunce everywhah, Mars Tom?" "An hour? No! It's four minutes' difference for every degree—of longitude, you know. Fifteen of 'em's an hour, thirty of 'em's two hours, and so on. When it's one o'clock Tuesday morning in England, it's eight o'clock the night before, in New York." Jim moved a little away along the locker, and you could see he was insulted. He kept shaking his head and muttering, and so I slid along to him and patted him on the leg and petted him up, and got him over the worst of his feelings, and then he says— "Mars Tom talkm' sich talk as dat—Choosday in one place en

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Monday in t'other, bofe in de same day! Huck, dis ain' no place to joke—up here whah we is. Two days in one day! How you gwyne to git two days inter one day—can't git two hours inter one hour, kin you? can't git two niggers inter one nigger-skin, kin you? can't git two gallons o' whisky inter a one-gallon jug, kin you? No, sir, 'twould strain de jug. Yas, en even den you couldn't, I doan b'lieve. Why, looky here, Huck, sposen de Choosday was New Year's—now den! Is you gwyne to tell me it's dis year in one place en las' year in t'other, bofe in de identical same minute? It's de beatenest rubbage—I can't stan' it, I can't stan' to hear tell 'bout it." Then he begun to shiver and turn gray, and Tom says— "Now what's the matter? What's the trouble?" Jim could hardly speak, but he says— "Mars Tom, you ain't jokin', en it's so?" "No, I'm not, and it is so." Jim shivered again, and says— "Den dat Monday could be de Las' Day, en day wouldn't be no Las' Day in England en de dead wouldn't be called. We mustn't go over dah, Mars Tom, please git him to turn back; I wants to be whah—" All of a sudden we see something, and all jumped up, and forgot everything and begun to gaze. Tom says— "Ain't that the—" He catched his breath, then says: "It is, sure as you live—it's the ocean!" That made me and Jim catch our breath, too. Then we all stood putrified but happy, for none of us had ever seen an ocean, or ever expected to. Tom kept muttering— "Atlantic Ocean—Atlantic. Land, don't it sound great!. . . . . And that's it—and \ve are a-looking at it—we! My, it's just too splendid to believe!" Then we see a big bank of black smoke; and when we got nearer, it was a city, and a monster she was, too, with a thick fringe of ships around one edge,- and wondered if it was New York, and begun to jaw and dispute about it, and first we knowed, it slid from under us and went flying behind, and here we was, out over the very ocean itself, and going like a cyclone. Then we woke up, I tell you! We made a break aft, and raised a wail, and begun to beg the Professor to take pity on us and turn back and land us and let us go back to our folks, which would be so grieved and anxious about us,

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and maybe die if anything happened to us, but he jerked out his pistol and motioned us back, and we went, but nobody will ever know how bad we felt. The land was gone, all but a little streak, like a snake, away off on the edge of the water, and down under us was just ocean, ocean, ocean—millions of miles of it, heaving, and pitching and squirming, and white sprays blowing from the wave-tops, and only a few ships in sight, wallowing around and laying over, first on one side and then on t'other, and sticking their bows under and then their sterns; and before long there warn't no ships at all, and we had the sky and the whole ocean all to ourselves, and the roomiest place I ever see and the lonesomest.

CHAPTER 4

A

LND IT GOT LONESOMER and lonesomer. There was the big sky up there, empty and awful deep, and the ocean down there without a thing on it but just the waves. All around us was a ring, a perfectly round ring, where the sky and the water come together,- yes, a monstrous big ring, it was, and we right in the dead centre of it. Plum in the centre. We was racing along like a prairie fire, but it never made any difference, we couldn't seem to git past that centre no way ; I couldn't see that we ever gained an inch on that ring. It made a body feel creepy, it was so curious and unaccountable. Well, everything was so awful still that we got to talking in a very low voice, and kept on getting creepier and lonesomer and less and less talky, till at last the talk run dry altogether and we just set there and "thunk," as Jim calls it, and never said a word, the longest time. The Professor never stirred till the sun was overhead, then he stood up and put a kind of a triangle to his eye, and Tom said it was a sextant and he was taking the sun, to see whereabouts the balloon was. Then he ciphered a little, and looked in a book, and then he begun to carry on again. He said lots of wild things, and amongst others he said he would keep up this hundred-mile gait till the middle of to-morrow afternoon and then he'd land in London. We said we would be humbly thankful. He was turning away, but he whirled around when we said that, and give us a long look, of his blackest kind—one of the maliciousest and suspiciousest looks I ever see. Then he says— "You want to leave me. Don't try to deny it." We didn't know what to say, so we held in and didn't say nothing at all. He went aft and set down, but he couldn't seem to git that thing out of his mind. Every now and then he would rip out something about it, and try to make us answer him, but we dasn't.

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It got lonesomer and lonesomer right along, and it did seem to me I couldn't stand it. It was still worse when night begun to come on. By and by Tom pinched me and whispers— "Look!" I took a glance aft and see the Professor taking a whet out of a bottle. I didn't like the looks of that. By and by he took another drink, and pretty soon he begun to sing. It was dark, now, and getting black and stormy. He went on singing, wilder and wilder, and the thunder begun to mutter and the wind to wheeze and moan amongst the ropes, and altogether it was awful. It got so black we couldn't see him any more, and wished we couldn't hear him, but we could. Then he got still; but he warn't still ten minutes till we got suspicious, and wished he would start up his noise again, so we could tell where he was. By and by there was a flash of lightning, and we see him start to get up, but he was drunk, and staggered and fell down. We heard him scream out in the dark— "They don't want to go to England—all right, I'll change the course. They want to leave me. Well, they shall—and now!" I most died when he said that. Then he was still again,- still so long I couldn't bear it, and it did seem to me the lightning wouldn't ever come again. But at last there was a blessed flash, and there he was, on his hands and knees, crawling, and not four foot from us. My, but his eyes was terrible. He made a lunge for Tom and says, "Overboard you go!" but it was already pitch dark again, and I couldn't see whether he got him or not, and Tom didn't make a sound. There was another long, horrible wait, then there was a flash and I see Tom's head sink down, outside the boat and disappear. He was on the rope ladder that dangled down in the air from the gunnel. The Professor let off a shout and jumped for him, and straight off it was pitch dark again, and Jim groaned out, 'To' Mars Tom, he's a goner!" and made a jump for the Professor, but the Professor warn't there. Then we heard a couple of terrible screams—and then another, not so loud, and then another that was way below, and you could only just hear it, and I hear Jim say, "Po" Mars Tom!" Then it was awful still, and I reckon a person could a counted four hundred thousand before the next flash come. When it come I see Jim on his knees, with his arms on the locker and his face buried in them, and he was crying. Before I could look over the edge, it was all dark

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again, and I was kind of glad, because I didn't want to see. But when the next flash come I was watching, and down there I see somebody a-swinging in the wind on that ladder, and it was Tom! "Come up!" I shouts, "Come up, Tom!" His voice was so weak, and the wind roared so, I couldn't make out what he said, but I thought he asked was the Professor up there. I shouts,— "No, he's down in the ocean! Come up! Can we help you?" Of course, all this in the dark. "Huck, who is you hollerin' at?" "I'm hollering at Tom." "Oh, Huck, how kin you act so, when you knows po' Mars Tom's"—then he let off an awful scream and flung his head and his arms back and let off another one ; because there was a white glare just then, and he had raised up his face just in time to sec Tom's, as white as snow, rise above the gunnel and look him right in the eye. He thought it was Tom's ghost, you see. Tom dumb aboard, and when Jim found it was him and not his ghost, he hugged him and slobbered all over him, and called him all sorts of loving names, and carried on like he was gone crazy, he was so glad. Says I— "What did you wait for, Tom? Why didn't you come up at first?" "I dasn't, Huck. I knowed somebody plunged down past me, but I didn't know who it was, in the dark. It could a been you, it could a been Jim." That was the way with Tom Sawyer—always sound. He warn't coming up till he knowed where the Professor was. The storm let go, about this time, with all its might, and it was dreadful the way the thunder boomed and tore, and the lightning glared out, and the wind sung and screamed in the rigging and the rain come down. One second you couldn't see your hand before you, and the next you could count the threads in your coat sleeve, and see a whole wide desert of waves pitching and tossing, through a kind of veil of rain. A storm like that is the loveliest thing there is, but it ain't at its best when you are up in the sky and lost, and it's wet and lonesome and there's just been a death in the family. We set there huddled up in the bow, and talked low about the poor Professor, and everybody was sorry for him, and sorry the world had

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made fun of him and treated him so harsh, when he was doing the best he could and hadn't a friend nor nobody to encourage him and keep him from brooding his mind away and going deranged. There was plenty of clothes and blankets and everything at the other end, but we thought we druther take the rain than go meddling back there; you see it would seem so crawly to be where it was warm yet, as you might say, from a dead man. Jim said he would soak till he was mush before he would go there and maybe run up against that ghost betwixt the flashes. He said it always made him sick to see a ghost, and he'd druther die than feel of one.

CHAPTER 5 WrE TRIED to make some plans, but we couldn't come to no agreement. Me and Jim was for turning around and going back home, but Tom allowed that by the time daylight come, so we could see our way, we would be so far towards England that we might as well go there and come back in a ship and have the glory of saying we done it. About midnight the storm quit and the moon come out and lit up the ocean, and then we begun to feel comfortable and drowsy,- so we stretched out on the lockers and went to sleep, and never woke up again till sun-up. The sea was sparkling like di'monds, and it was nice weather, and pretty soon our things was all dry again. We went aft to find some breakfast, and the first thing we noticed was that there was a dim light burning in a compass back there under a hood. Then Tom was disturbed. He says— "You know what that means, easy enough. It means that somebody has got to stay on watch and steer this thing the same as he would a ship, or she'll wander around and go wherever the wind wants her to." "Well," I says, "what's she been doing since—er—since we had the accident?" "Wandering," he says, kind of troubled, "Wandering, without any doubt. She's in a wind, now, that's blowing her south of east. We don't know how long that's been going on, either." So then he pinted her east, and said he would hold her there whilst we rousted out the breakfast. The Professor had laid in everything a body could want; he couldn't a been better fixed. There warn't no milk for the coffee, but there was water and everything else you could want, and a charcoal stove and the fixings for it, and pipes and cigars and matches; and wine and liquor, which warn't in our line; and books and maps and charts, and an accordion, and furs and blankets, and no end of rubbish, like glass beads and brass jewelry, which Tom said was a sure sign that he had an idea of visiting around amongst

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savages. There was money, too. Yes, the Professor was well enough fixed. After breakfast Tom learned me and Jim how to steer, and divided all of us up into four-hour watches, turn and turn about; and when his watch was out I took his place, and he got out the Professor's paper and pens and wrote a letter home to his aunt Polly telling her everything that had happened to us, and dated it "In the Welkin, approaching. England," and folded it together and stuck it fast with a red wafer, and directed it, and wrote above the direction in big writing, "From Tom Sawyer the Enonoit," and said it would sweat old Nat Parsons the postmaster when it come along in the mail. I says— "Tom Sawyer, this ain't no welkin, it's a balloon." "Well, now, who said it was a welkin, smarty?" "You've wrote it on the letter, anyway." "What of it? That don't mean that the balloon's the welkin." "Oh, I thought it did. Well, then, what is a welkin?" I see in a minute he was stuck. He raked and scraped around in his mind, but he couldn't find nothing, so he had to say— "/ don't know, and nobody don't know. It's just a word. And it's a mighty good word, too. There ain't many that lays over it. I don't believe there's any that does." "Shucks," I says, "but what does it mean2.—that's the pint." "I don't know what it means, I tell you. It's a word that people uses for—for—well, it's ornamental. They don't put ruffles on a shirt to help keep a person warm, do they?" " 'Course they don't." "But they put them on, don't they?" "Yes." "All right, then,- that letter I wrote is a shirt, and the welkin's the ruffle on it." I judged that that would gravel Jim, and it did. He says— "Now, Mars Tom, it ain't no use to talk like dat, en moreover it's sinful. You knows a letter ain't no shirt, en dey ain't no ruffles on it, nuther. Dey ain't no place to put 'em on, you can't put 'em on, en dey wouldn't stay on ef you did." "Oh, do shut up, and wait til] something's started that you know something about." "Why, Mars Tom, sholy you don't mean to say I don't know about

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shirts, when goodness knows I's toted home de washin' ever sence—" "I tell you this hasn't got anything to do with shirts. I only—" "Why, Mars Tom! You said, yo' own self, dat a letter—" "Do you want to drive me crazy? Keep still. I only used it as a metaphor." That word kind of bricked us up for a minute. Then Jim says, rather timid, because he see Tom was getting pretty tetchy— "Mars Tom, what is a metaphor?" "A metaphor's a—well, it's a—a metaphor's an illustration." He see that that didn't git home,- so he tried again. "When I say birds of a feather flocks together, it's a metaphorical way of saying—" "But dey don't, Mars Tom. No, sir, 'deed dey don't. Dey ain't no feathers dat's more alike den a bluebird's en a jaybird's, but ef you waits tell you catches dem birds a-flockin' together, you'll—" "Oh, give us a rest. You can't get the simplest little thing through your thick skull. Now, don't bother me any more." fim was satisfied to stop. He was dreadful pleased with himself for catching Tom out. The minute Tom begun to talk about birds I judged he was a goner, because Jim knowed more about birds than both of us put together. You see, he had killed hundreds and hundreds of them, and that's the way to find out about birds. That's the way the people does that writes books about birds, and loves them so that they'll go hungry and tired and take any amount of trouble to find a new bird and kill it. Their name is ornithologers, and I could a been an ornithologer myself, because I always loved birds and creatures,- and I started out to learn how to be one, and I see a bird setting on a dead limb of a high tree, singing, with his head tilted back and his mouth open, and before I thought I fired, and his song stopped and he fell straight down from the limb, all limp like a rag, and I run and picked him up, and he was dead, and his body was warm in my hand, and his head rolled about, this way and that, like his neck was broke, and there was a white skin over his eyes, and one little drop of blood on the side of his head, and laws! I couldn't see nothing more for the tears; and I hain't ever murdered no creature since, that warn't doing me no harm, and I ain't going to. But I was aggravated about that welkin. I wanted to know. I got the subject up again, and then Tom explained, the best he could. He said when a person made a big speech the newspapers said the shouts of

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the people made the welkin ring. He said they always said that, but none of them ever told what it was, so he allowed it just meant outdoors and up high. Well, that seemed sensible enough, so I was satisfied, and said so. That pleased Tom and put him in a good humor again, and he says— "Well, it's all right, then, and we'll let bygones be bygones. I don't know for certain what a welkin is, but when we land in London we'll make it ring, anyway, and don't you forget it." He said an Erronort was a person who sailed around in balloons,and said it was a mighty sight finer to be Tom Sawyer the Erronort than to be Tom Sawyer the Traveler, and would be heard of all around the world, if we pulled through all right, and so he wouldn't give shucks to be a Traveler, now. Towards the middle of the afternoon we got everything ready to land, and we felt pretty good, too, and proud; and we kept watching with the glasses, like Clumbus discovering America. But we couldn't see nothing but ocean. The afternoon wasted out and the sun shut down, and still there warn't no land anywheres. We wondered what was the matter, but reckoned it would come out all right, so we went on steering east, but went up on a higher level so we wouldn't hit any steeples or mountains in the dark. It was my watch till midnight, and then it was Jim's ; but Tom stayed up, because he said ship captains done that when they was making the land, and didn't stand no regular watch. Well, when daylight come, }im give a shout, and we jumped up and looked over, and there was the land, sure enough; land all around, as far as you could see, and perfectly level and yaller. We didn't know how long we had been over it. There warn't no trees, nor hills, nor rocks, nor towns, and Tom and Jim had took it for the sea. They took it for the sea in a dead cam ; but we was so high up, anyway, that if it had been the sea and rough, it would a looked smooth, all the same, in the night, that way. We was all in a powerful excitement, now, and grabbed the glasses and hunted everywheres for London, but couldn't find hide nor hair of it, nor any other settlement. Nor any sign of a lake or a river, either. Tom was clean beat. He said it warn't his notion of England, he thought England looked like America, and always had that idea. So he said we better have breakfast, and then drop down and inquire

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the quickest way to London. We cut the breakfast pretty short, we was so impatient. As we slanted along down, the weather begun to moderate, and pretty soon we shed our furs. But it kept on moderating, and in a precious little while it was most too moderate. Why, the sweat begun to fairly bile out of us. We was close down, now, and just blistering! We settled down to within thirty foot of the land. That is, it was land if sand is land; for this wasn't anything but pure sand. Tom and me clumb down the ladder and took a run to stretch our legs, and it felt amazing good; that is, the stretching did, but the sand scorched our feet like hot embers. Next, we see somebody coming, and started to meet him; but we heard Jim shout, and looked around, and he was fairly dancing, and making signs, and yelling. We couldn't make out what he said, but we was scared, anyway, and begun to heel it back to the balloon. When we got close enough, we understood the words, and they made me sick: "Run! run fo' yo' life! hit's a lion, I kin see him thoo de glass! Run, boys, do please heel it de bes' you kin, he's busted outen de menagerie en dcy ain't nobody to stop him!" It made Tom fly, but it took the stiffening all out of my legs. I could only just gasp along the way you do in a dream when there's a ghost a-gaining on you. Tom got to the ladder and shinned up it a piece and waited for me; and as soon as I got a footholt on it he shouted to Jim to soar away. But Jim had clean lost his head, and said he had forgot how. So Tom shinned along up and told me to follow, but the lion was arriving, fetching a most gashly roar with every lope, and my legs shook so I dasn't try to take one of them out of the rounds for fear the other one would give way under me. But Tom was aboard by this time, and he started the balloon up, a little, and stopped it again as soon as the end of the ladder was ten or twelve foot above ground. And there was the lion, a-ripping around under me, and roaring, and springing up in the air at the ladder and only missing it about a quarter of an inch, it seemed to me. It was delicious to be out of his reach, perfectly delicious, and made me feel good and thankful all up one side ; but I was hanging there helpless and couldn't climb, and that made me feel perfectly wretched and miserable all down the other. It is most seldom that a person feels so mixed, like that; and is not to be recommended, either.

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Tom asked me what he better do, but I didn't know. He asked me if I could hold on whilst he sailed away to a safe place and left the lion behind. I said I could if he didn't go no higher than he was now, but if he went higher I would lose my head and fall, sure. So he said, "Take a good grip," and he started. "Don't go so fast," I shouted, "it makes my head swim." He had started like a lightning express. He slowed down, and we glided over the sand slower, but still in a kind of sickening way, for it is uncomfortable to see things gliding and sliding under you like that and not a sound. But pretty soon there was plenty of sound, for the lion was catching up. His noise fetched others. You could see them coming on the lope from every direction, and pretty soon there was a couple of dozen of them under me skipping up at the ladder and snarling and snapping at each other,- and so we went skimming along over the sand, and these fellers doing what they could to help us to not forgit the occasion; and then some tigers come, without an invite, and they started a regular riot down there. We see this plan was a mistake. We couldn't ever git away from them at this gait, and I couldn't hold on forever. So Tom took a think and struck another idea. That was, to kill a lion with the pepper-box revolver and then sail away while the others stopped to fight over the carcase. So he stopped the balloon still, and done it, and then we sailed off while the fuss was going on, and come down a quarter of a mile off, and they helped me aboard,- but by the time we was out of reach again, that gang was on hand once more. And when they see we was really gone and they couldn't get us, they set down on their hams and looked up at us so kind of disappointed that it was as much as a person could do not to see their side of the matter.

CHAPTER 6 I

1 WAS SO WEAK that the only thing I wanted was a chance to lay down, so I made straight for my locker-hunk and stretched myself out there. But a body couldn't git back his strength in no such oven as that, so Tom give the command to soar, and Jim started her aloft. And mind you, it was a considerable strain on that balloon to lift the fleas, and reminded Torn of Mary had a little lamb its fleas was white as snow, but these wasn't; these was the dark-complected kind, the kind that's always hungry and ain't particular, and will eat pie when they can't git Christian. Wherever there's sand, you are a-going to find that bird; and the more sand the bigger the flock. Here it was all sand, and the result was according. I never see such a turnout. We had to go up a mile before we struck comfortable weather; and we had to go up another mile before we got rid of them creturs ; but when they begun to freeze, they skipped overboard. Then we come down a mile again where it was breezy and pleasant and just right, and pretty soon I was all straight again. Tom had been setting quiet and thinking; but now he jumps up and says— "I bet you a thousand to one I know where we are. We're in the Great Sahara, as sure as guns!" He was so excited he couldn't hold still. But I wasn't; I says— "Well, then, where's the Great Sahara? In England, or in Scotland?" "Tain't in either, it's in Africa." Jim's eyes bugged out, and he begun to stare down with no end of interest, because that was where his originals come from,- but I didn't more than half believe it. I couldn't, you know ; it seemed too awful far away for us to have traveled. But Tom was full of his discovery, as he called it, and said the lions and the sand meant the Great Desert, sure. He said he could a found out, before we sighted land, that we was crowding the land somewhercs, if he had thought of one thing; and when we asked him what, he said—

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"These clocks. They're chronometers. You always read about them in sea-voyages. One of them is keeping Grinnage time, and the other one is keeping St. Louis time, like my watch. When we left St. Louis, it was four in the afternoon by my watch and this clock, and it was ten at night by this Grinnage clock. Well, at this time of the year the sun sets about seven o'clock. Now I noticed the time yesterday evening when the sun went down, and it was half past five o'clock by the Grinnage clock, and half past eleven, a.m., by my watch and the other clock. You see, the sun rose and set by my watch in St. Louis, and the Grinnage clock was six hours fast; but we've come so far east that it comes within less than an hour and a half of setting by the Grinnage clock, now, and I'm away out—more than four hours and a half out. You see, that meant that we was closing up on the longitude of Ireland, and would strike it before long if we was pinted right—which we wasn't. No, sir, we've been a-wandering—wandering way-down south of east, and it's my opinion we are in Africa. Look at this map. You see how the shoulder of Africa sticks out to the west. Think how fast we've traveled; if we had gone straight east we would be long past England by this time. You watch for noon, all of you, and we'll stand up, and when we can't cast a shadow we'll find that this Grinnage clock is coming mighty close to marking twelve. Yes, sir, / think we're in Africa; and it's just bully." Jim was gazing down with the glass. He shook his head and says— "Mars Tom, I reckon dey's a mistake somers, I hain't seen no niggers, yit." "That's nothing; they don't live in the Desert. What is that, way off yonder? Gimme a glass." He took a long look, and said it was like a black string stretched across the sand, but he couldn't guess what it was. "Well," I says, "I reckon maybe you've got a chance, now, to find out whereabouts this balloon is, because as like as not that is one of these lines here, that's on the map, that you call meridians of longitude, and we can drop down and look at its number, and—" "Oh, shucks, Huck Finn, I never see such a lunkhead as you. Did you s'pose there's meridians of longitude on the earth?" "Tom Sawyer, they're set down on the map, and you know it perfectly well, and here they are, and you can see for yourself." "Of course they're on the map, but that's nothing; there ain't any on the ground."

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"Tom, do you know that to be so?" "Certainly I do." "Well, then, that map's a liar again. I never see such a liar as that map." He fired up at that, and I was ready for him, and Jim was warming up his opinion, too, and the next minute we'd a broke loose on another argument, if Tom hadn't dropped the glass and begun to clap his hands like a maniac and sing out— "Camels!—camels!" So I grabbed a glass, and Jim, too, and took a look, but I was disappointed, and says— "Camels your granny, they're spiders." "Spiders in a desert, you shad; Spiders walking in a procession? You don't ever reflect, Huck Finn, and I reckon you really haven't got anything to reflect with. Don't you know we're as much as a mile up in the air, and that that string of crawlers is two or three miles away? Spiders, good land! Spiders as big as a cow? P'raps you'd like to go down and milk one of 'em. But they're camels, just the same. It's a caravan, that's what it is, and it's a mile long." "Well, then, le's go down and look at it. I don't believe in it, and ain't going to till I see it and know it." "All right," he says, and give the command: "Lower away." As we come slanting down into the hot weather, we could see that it was camels, sure enough, plodding along, an everlasting string of them, with bales strapped to them, and several hundred men, in long white robes, and a thing like a shawl bound over their heads and hanging down with tassels and fringes; and some of the men had long guns and some hadn't, and some was riding and some was walking. And the weather—well it was just roasting. And how slow they did creep along! We swooped down, now, all of a sudden, and stopped about a hundred yards over their heads. The men all set up a yell, and some of them fell flat on their stomachs, some begun to fire their guns at us, and the rest broke and scampered every which way, and so did the camels. We see that we was making trouble, so we went up again about a mile, to the cool weather, and watched them from there. It took them an hour to get together and form the procession again,- then they started along, but we could sec by the glasses that they wasn't paying

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much attention to anything but us. We poked along, looking down at them with the glasses, and by and by we see a big sand mound, and something like people the other side of it, and there was something like a man laying on top of the mound, that raised his head up every now and then, and seemed to be watching the caravan or us, we didn't know which. As the caravan got nearer, he sneaked down on the other side and rushed to the other men and horses—for that is what they was—and we see them mount in a hurry ; and next, here they come, like a house afire, some with lances and some with long guns, and all of them yelling the best they could. They come a-tearing down onto the caravan, and the next minute both sides crashed together and was all mixed up, and there was such another popping of guns as you never heard, and the air got so full of smoke you could only catch glimpses of them struggling together. There must a been six hundred men in that battle, and it was terrible to see. Then they broke up into gangs and groups, fighting, tooth and nail, and scurrying and scampering around, and laying into each other like everything; and whenever the smoke cleared a little you could see dead and wounded people and camels scattered far and wide and all about, and camels racing off in every direction. At last the robbers see they couldn't win, so their chief sounded a signal, and all that was left of them broke away and went scampering across the plain. The last man to go snatched up a child and carried it off in front of him on his horse, and a woman run screaming and begging after him, and followed him away off across the plain till she was separated a long ways from her people,- but it warn't no use, and she had to give it up, and we see her sink down on the sand and cover her face with her hands. Then Tom took the helium, and started for that yahoo, and we come a-whizzing down and made a swoop, and knocked him out of the saddle, child and all; and he was jarred considerable, but the child wasn't hurt, but laid there working its hands and legs in the air like a tumble-bug that's on its back and can't turn over. The man went staggering off to overtake his horse, and didn't know what had hit him, for we was three or four hundred yards up in the air by this time. We judged the woman would go and get the child, now, but she didn't. We could see her, through the glass, still setting there, with her head bowed down on her knees,- so of course she hadn't seen the

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performance, and thought her child was clean gone with the man. She was nearly a half a mile from her people, so we thought we might go down to the child, which was about a quarter of a mile beyond her, and snake it to her before the caravan people could git to us to do us any harm ; and besides, we reckoned they had enough business on their hands for one while, anyway, with the wounded. We thought we'd chance it, and we did. We swooped down and stopped, and Jim shinned down the ladder and fetched up the cub, which was a nice fat little thing, and in a noble good humor, too, considering it was just out of a battle and been tumbled off of a horse; and then we started for the mother, and stopped back of her and tolerable near by, and Jim slipped down and crept up easy, and when he was close back of her the child goo-goo'd, the way a child does, and she heard it, and whirled and fetched a shriek of joy, and made a jump for the kid and snatched it and hugged it, and dropped it and hugged Jim, and then snatched off a gold chain and hung it around Jim's neck, and hugged him again, and jerked up the child again and mashed it to her breast, a-sobbing and glorifying all the time, and Jim he shoved for the ladder and up it and in a minute we was back up in the sky and the woman was staring up, with the back of her head between her shoulders and the child with its arms locked around her neck. And there she stood, as long as we was in sight a-sailing away in the sky.

CHAPTER 7

Nc

I OON!" SAYS TOM, and so it was. His shadderwas just a blot around his feet. We looked, and the Grinnage clock was so close to twelve the difference didn't amount to nothing. So Tom said London was right north of us or right south of us, one or t'other, and he reckoned by the weather and the sand and the camels it was north; and a good many miles north, too; as many as from New York to the city of Mexico, he guessed. Jim said he reckoned a balloon was a good deal the fastest thing in the world, unless it might be some kinds of birds—a wild pigeon, maybe, or a railroad. But Tom said he had read about railroads in England going nearly a hundred miles an hour for a little ways, and there never was a bird in the world that could do that—except one, and that was a flea. "A flea? Why, Mars Tom, in de fust place he ain't a bird, strickly speakin'—" "He ain't a bird, ain't he? Well, then, what is he?" "I don't rightly know, Mars Tom, but I speck he's only jist a animal. No, I reckon dat won't do, nuther, he ain't big enough for a animal. He mus' be a bug. Yassir, dat's what he is, he's a bug." "I bet he ain't, but let it go. What's your second place?" "Well, in de second place, birds is creturs dat goes a long ways, but a flea don't." "He don't, don't he? Come, now, what is a long distance, if you know?" "Why, it's miles, en lots of 'em—anybody knows dat." "Can't a man walk miles?" "Yassir, he kin." "As many as a railroad?" "Yassir, if you give him time." "Can't a flea?"

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"Well,—I s'pose so—ef you gives him heaps of time." "Now you begin to see, don't you, that distance ain't the thing to judge by, at all; it's the time it takes to go the distance in, that counts, ain't it?" "Well, hit do look sorter so, but I wouldn't a b'lieved it, Mars Tom." "It's a matter of proportion, that's what it is; and when you come to gage a thing's speed by its size, where's your bird and your man and your railroad, alongside of a flea? The fastest man can't run more than about ten miles in an hour—not much over ten thousand times his own length. But all the books says any common ordinary thirdclass flea can jump a hundred and fifty times his own length; yes, and he can make five jumps a second, too,—seven hundred and fifty times his own length, in one little second—for he don't fool away any time stopping and starting—he does them both at the same time ; you'll sec, if you try to put your finger on him. Now that's a common ordinary third-class flea's gait; but you take an Eyetalian first-class, that's been the pet of the nobility all his life and hasn't ever knowed what want or sickness or exposure was, and he can jump more than three hundred times his own length, and keep it up all day, five such jumps every second, which is fifteen hundred times his own length. Well, suppose a man could go fifteen hundred times his own length in a second—say, a mile and a half? It's ninety miles a minute; it's considerable more than five thousand miles an hour. Where's your man, now?—yes, and your bird, and your railroad, and your balloon? Laws, they don't amount to shucks longside of a flea. A flea is just a comet biled down small." }im was a good deal astonished, and so was I. Jim said— "Is dem figgers jist edjackly true, en no jokin' en no lies, Mars Tom?" "Yes, they are,- they're perfectly true." "Well, den, honey, a body's got to respec' a flea. I ain't had no respec' for um befo', scasely, but dey ain' no gittin' roun' it, dey do deserve it, dat's certain." "Well, I bet they do. They've got ever so much more sense, and brains, and brightness, in proportion to their size, than any other cretur in the world. A person can learn them most anything,- and they learn it quicker than any other cretur, too. They've been learnt to haul little carriages in harness, and go this way and that way and

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t'other way according to orders; yes, and to march and drill like soldiers, doing it as exact, according to orders, as soldiers does it. They've been learnt to do all sorts of hard and troublesome things. S'pose you could cultivate a flea up to the size of a man, and keep his natural smartness a-growing and a-growing right along up, bigger and bigger, and keener and keener, in the same proportion—where'd the human race be, do you reckon? That flea would be President of the United States, and you couldn't any more prevent it than you can prevent lightning." "My Ian', Mars Tom, I never knowed dey was so much to de beas'. No, sir, I never had no idea of it, and dat's de fac'." "There's more to him, by a long sight, than there is to any other cretur, man or beast, in proportion to size. He's the interestingest of them all. People have so much to say about an ant's strength, and an elephant's, and a locomotive's. Shucks, they don't begin with a flea. He can lift two or three hundred times his own weight. And none of them can come anywhere near it. And moreover, he has got notions of his own, and is very particular, and you can't fool him ; his instinct, or his judgment, or whatever it is, is perfectly sound and clear, and don't ever make a mistake. People think all humans are alike to a flea. It ain't so. There's folks that he won't go anear, hungry or not hungry, and I'm one of them. I've never had one of them on me in my life." "Mars Tom!" "It's so; I ain't joking." "Well, sah, I hain't ever heard de likes er dat, befo'." Jim couldn't believe it, and I couldn't; so we had to drop down to the sand and git a supply, and see. Tom was right. They went for me and Jim by the thousand, but not a one of them lit on Tom. There warn't no explaining it, but there it was, and there warn't no getting around it. He said it had always been just so, and he'd just as soon be where there was a million of them as not, they'd never touch him nor bother him. We went up to the cold weather for a freeze-out, and stayed a little spell, and then come back to the comfortable weather and went lazying along twenty or twenty-five mile an hour, the way we'd been doing for the last few hours. The reason was, that the longer we was in that solemn, peaceful Desert, the more the hurry and fuss got kind of soothed down in us, and the more happier and contented and

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satisfied we got to feeling, and the more we got to liking the Desert, and then loving it. So we had cramped the speed down, as I was saying, and was having a most noble good lazy time, sometimes watching through the glasses, sometimes stretched out on the lockers reading, sometimes taking a nap. It didn't seem like we was the same lot that was in such a sweat to find land and git ashore, but it was. But we had got over that—clean over it. We was used to the balloon, now, and not afraid any more, and didn't want to be anywheres else. Why, it seemed just like home ; it most seemed as if I had been born and raised in it, and fim and Tom said the same. And always I had had hateful people around me, a-nagging at me, and pestering of me, and scolding, and finding fault, and fussing and bothering, and sticking to me, and keeping after me, and making me do this, and making me do that and t'other, and always selecting out the things I didn't want to do, and then giving me Sam Hill because I shirked and done something else, and just aggravating the life out of a body all the time,- but up here in the sky it was so still, and sunshiny and lovely, and plenty to eat, and plenty of sleep, and strange things to see, and no nagging and pestering, and no good people, and just holiday all the time. Land, I warn't in no hurry to git out and buck at civilization again. Now, one of the worst things about civilization is, that anybody that gits a letter with trouble in it comes and tells you all about it and makes you feel bad, and the newspapers fetches you the troubles of everybody all over the world, and keeps you down-hearted and dismal most all the time, and it's such a heavy load for a person. I hate them newspapers,- and I hate letters,- and if I had my way I wouldn't allow nobody to load his troubles onto other folks he ain't acquainted with, on t'other side of the world, that way. Well, up in a balloon there ain't any of that, and it's the darlingest place there is. We had supper, and that night was one of the prettiest nights I ever see. The moon made it just like daylight, only a heap softer; and once we see a lion standing all alone by himself, just all alone in the earth, it seemed like, and his shadder laid on the sand by him like a puddle of ink. That's the kind of moonlight to have. Mainly we laid on our backs and talked, we didn't want to go to sleep. Tom said we was right in the midst of the Arabian Nights, now. He said it was right along here that one of the cutest things in that book happened; so we looked down and watched while he told about it,

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because there ain't anything that is so interesting to look at as a place that a book has talked about. It was a tale about a camel driver that had lost his camel, and he come along in the Desert and met a man, and says— "Have you run across a stray camel to-day?" And the man says— "Was he blind in his left eye?" "Yes." "Had he lost an upper front tooth?" "Yes." "Was his off hind leg lame?" "Yes." "Was he loaded with millet seed on one side and honey on the other?" "Yes, but you needn't go into no more details—that's the one, and I'm in a hurry. Where did you see him?" "I hain't seen him at all," the man says. "Hain't seen him at all? How can you describe him so close, then?" "Because when a person knows how to use his eyes, everything he sees has got a meaning to it; but most people's eyes ain't any good to them. I knowed a camel had been along, because I seen his track. I knowed he was lame in his off hind leg because he had favored that foot and trod light on it and his track showed it. I knowed he was blind on his left side because he only nibbled the grass on the right side of the trail. I knowed he had lost an upper front tooth because where he bit into the sod his teeth-print showed it. The millet seed sifted out on one side—the ants told me that; the honey leaked out on the other—the flies told me that. I know all about your camel, but I hain't seen him." Jim says— "Go on, Mars Tom, hit's a mighty good tale, and powerful interestin'." "That's all," Tom says. "AW." says Jim, astonished. "What come o' de camel?" "I don't know." "Mars Tom, don't de tale say?" "No." Jim puzzled a minute, then he says—

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"Well! ef dat ain't de beatenes' tale ever I struck. Jist gits to de place whah de intrust is gittin' red hot, en down she breaks. Why, Mars Tom, dey ain't no sense in a tale dat acts like dat. Hain't you got no idea whether de man got de camel back er not?" "No, I haven't." I see, myself, there warn't no sense in the tale, to chop square off, that way, before it come to anything, but I warn't going to say so, because I could see Tom was souring up pretty fast over the way it flatted out and the way Jim had popped onto the weak place in it, and I don't think it's fair for everybody to pile onto a feller when he's down. But Tom he whirls on me and says— "What do you think of the tale?" Of course, then, I had to come out and make a clean breast and say it did seem to me, too, same as it did to fim, that as long as the tale stopped square in the middle and never got to no place, it really warn't worth the trouble of telling. Tom's chin dropped on his breast, and 'stead of being mad, as I reckoned he'd be, to hear me scoff at his tale that way, he seemed to be only sad ; and he says— "Some people can see, and some can't—just as that man said. Let alone a camel, if a cyclone had gone by, you duffers wouldn't a noticed the track." I don't know what he meant by that, and he didn't say ; it was just one of his irrulevances, I reckon—he was full of them, sometimes, when he was in a close place and couldn't see no other way out—but I didn't mind. We'd spotted the soft place in that tale sharp enough, he couldn't git away from that little fact. It graveled him like the nation, too, I reckon, much as he tried not to let on.

CHAPTER 8

W

'£.H HAD AN EARLY breakfast in the morning, and set looking down on the Desert, and the weather was ever so bammy and lovely, although we warn't high up. You have to come down lower and lower after sundown, in the Desert, because it cools off so fast,- and so, by the time it is getting towards dawn you are skimming along only a little ways above the sand. We was watching the shadder of the balloon slide along the ground, and now and then gazing off across the Desert to see if anything was stirring, and then down at the shadder again, when all of a sudden almost right under us we see a lot of men and camels laying scattered about, perfectly quiet, like they was asleep. We shut off the power, and backed up and stood over them, and then we see that they was all dead. It give us the cold shivers. And it made us hush down, too, and talk low, like people at a funeral. We dropped down slow, and stopped, and me and Tom clumb down and went amongst them. There was men, and women, and children. They was dried by the sun, and dark and shriveled and leathery, like the pictures of mummies you see in books. And yet they looked just as human, you wouldn't a believed it; just like they was asleep,- some laying on their backs, with their arms spread on the sand, some on their sides, some on their faces, just as natural, though the teeth showed more than usual. Two or three was setting up. One was a woman, with her head bent over, and a child was laying across her lap. A man was setting with his hands locked around his knees, staring out of his dead eyes at a young girl that was stretched out before him. He looked so mournful, it was pitiful to see. And you never see a place so still as that was. He had straight black hair hanging down by his cheeks, and when a little faint breeze fanned it and made it wag, it made me shudder, because it seemed as if he was wagging his head.

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Some of the people and animals was partly covered with sand, but most of them not, for the sand was thin there, and the bed was gravel, and hard. Most of the clothes had rotted away and left the bodies partly naked,- and when you took hold of a rag, it tore with a touch, like spider-web. Tom reckoned they had been laying there for years. Some of the men had rusty guns by them, some had swords on, and had shawl-belts with long silver-mounted pistols stuck in them. All the camels had their loads on, yet, but the packs had busted or rotted and spilt the freight out on the ground. We didn't reckon the swords was any good to the dead people any more, so we took one apiece, and some pistols. We took a small box, too, because it was so handsome and inlaid so fine; and then we wanted to bury the people; but there warn't no way to do it that we could think of, and nothing to do it with but sand, and that would blow away again, of course. We did start to cover up that poor girl, first laying some shawls from a busted bale on her ; but when we was going to put sand on her, the man's hair wagged again and give us a shock, and we stopped, because it looked like he was trying to tell us he didn't want her covered up so he couldn't see her no more. I reckon she was dear to him, and he would a been so lonesome. Then we mounted high and sailed away, and pretty soon that black spot on the sand was out of sight and we wouldn't ever see them poor people again in this world. We wondered, and reasoned, and tried to guess how they come to be there, and how it had all happened to them, but we couldn't make it out. First we thought maybe they got lost, and wandered around and about till their food and water give out and they starved to death; but Tom said no wild animals nor vultures hadn't meddled with them, and so that guess wouldn't do. So at last we give it up, and judged we wouldn't think about it no more, because it made us low spirited. Then we opened the box, and it had gems and jewels in it, quite a pile, and some little veils of the kind the dead women had on, with fringes made out of curious gold money that we warn't acquainted with. We wondered if we better go and try to find them again and give it back; but Tom thought it over and said no, it was a country that was full of robbers, and they would come and steal it, and then the sin would be on us for putting the temptation in their way. So

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we went on; but I wished we had took all they had, so there wouldn't a been no temptation at all left. We had had two hours of that blazing weather down there, and was dreadful thirsty when we got aboard again. We went straight for the water, but it was spoiled and bitter, besides being pretty near hot enough to scald your mouth. We couldn't drink it. It was Mississippi river water, the best in the world, and we stirred up the mud in it to see if that would help, but no, the mud wasn't any better than the water. Well, we hadn't been so very, very thirsty before, whilst we was interested in the lost people, but we was, now, and as soon as we found we couldn't have a drink, we was more than thirty-five times as thirsty as we was a quarter of a minute before. Why, in a little while we wanted to hold our mouths open and pant like a dog. Tom said keep a sharp lookout, all around, everywheres, because we'd got to find an oasis or there warn't no telling what would happen. So we done it. We kept the glasses gliding around all the time, till our arms got so tired we couldn't hold them any more. Two hours—three hours—just gazing and gazing, and nothing but sand, sand, sand, and you could see the quivery heat-shimmer playing over it. Dear, dear, a body don't know what real misery is till he is thirsty all the way through, and is certain he ain't ever going to come to any water any more. At last I couldn't stand it to look around on them baking plains; I laid down on the locker and give it up. But by and by Tom raised a whoop, and there she was! A lake, wide and shiny, with pam trees leaning over it asleep, and their shadders in the water just as soft and delicate as ever you see. I never see anything look so good. It was a long ways off, but that warn't anything to US; we just slapped on a hundred-mile gait, and calculated to be there in seven minutes,- but she stayed the same old distance away, all the time,- we couldn't seem to gain on her; yes, sir, just as far, and shiny, and like a dream, but we couldn't get no nearer,- and at last, all of a sudden, she was gone! Tom's eyes took a spread, and he says— "Boys, it was a myridge!" Said it like he was glad. I didn't see nothing to be glad about. T says—

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"Maybe. I don't care nothing about its name, the thing I want to know is, what's become of it?" Jim was trembling all over, and so scared he couldn't speak, but he wanted to ask that question himself if he could a done it. Tom says— "What's become of it? Why, you see, yourself, it's gone." "Yes, I know; but where's it gone to?" He looked me over and says— "Well, now, Huck Finn, where would it go to? Don't you know what a myridge is?" "No, I don't. What is it?" "It ain't anything but imagination. There ain't anything to it." It warmed me up a little to hear him talk like that, and I says— "What's the use you talking that kind of stuff, Tom Sawyer? Didn't I see the lake?" "Yes—you think you did." "I don't think nothing about it, I did see it." "I tell you you didn't see it, either—because it warn't there to see." It astonished Jim to hear him talk so, and he broke in and says, kind of pleading and distressed— "Mars Tom, please don't say sich things in sich an awful time as dis. You ain't only reskin' yo' own self, but you's reskin' us—same way like Anna Nias en Suffira. De lake wuz dah—I seen it jis as plain as I sees you en Huck dis minute." I says— "Why, he seen it himself! He was the very one that seen it first. Now, then!" "Yes, Mars Tom, hit's so—you can't deny it. We all seen it, en dat prove it was dah." "Proves it! How does it prove it?" "Same way it does in de courts en everywheres, Mars Tom. One pusson might be drunk or dreamy or suthin', en he could be mistaken,- en two might, maybe ; but I tell you, sah, when three sees a thing, drunk er sober, it's so. Dey ain't no gittin' aroun' dat, en you knows it, Mars Tom." "I don't know nothing of the kind. There used to be forty thousand million people that seen the sun move from one side of the sky to the other every day. Did that prove that the sun done it?"

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" 'Course it did. En besides, dey warn't no 'casion to prove it. A body 'at's got any sense ain't gwyne to doubt it. Dah she is, now— a-sailin' thoo de sky des like she allays done." Tom turned on me, then, and says— "What do you say—is the sun standing still?" "Tom Sawyer, what's the use to ask such a jackass question? Anybody that ain't blind can see it don't stand still." "Well," he says, "I'm lost in the sky with no company but a passel of low-down animals that don't know no more than the head boss of a university did three or four hundred years ago. Why, blame it, Huck Finn, there was Popes, in them days, that knowcd as much as you do." It warn't fair play, and I let him know it. I says— "Throwin' mud ain't arguin', Tom Sawyer." "Who's throwin' mud?" "You done it." "I never. It ain't no disgrace, I reckon, to compare a backwoods Missouri muggins like you to a Pope, even the orneriest one that ever set on the throne. Why, it's an honor to you, you tadpole, the Pope's the one that's hit hard, not you, and you couldn't blame him for cussing about it, only they don't cuss. Not now they don't, I mean." "Sho, Tom, did they ever?" "In the Middle Ages? Why, it was their common diet." "No! You don't really mean they cussed?" That started his mill a-going and he ground out a regular speech, the way he done sometimes when he was feeling his oats, and I got him to write down some of the last half of it for me, because it was like book-talk and tough to remember, and had words in it that I warn't used to and is pretty tiresome to spell: "Yes, they did. I don't mean that they went charging around the way Ben Miller does, and put the cuss-words just the same way he puts them. No, they used the same words, but they put them together different, because they'd been learnt by the very best masters, and they knowed how, which Ben Miller don't, because he just picked it up, here and there and around, and hain't had no competent person to learn him. But they knowcd. It warn't no frivolous random cussing, like Ben Miller's, that starts in anywheres and comes out nowheres, it was scientific cussing, and systematic,- and it was stern, and solemn, and awful, not a thing for you to stand off and laugh at, the way

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people does when that poor ignorant Ben Miller gits a-going. Why, Ben Miller's kind can stand up and cuss a person a week, steady, and it wouldn't phaze him no more than a goose cackling, but it was a mighty different thing in them Middle Ages when a Pope, educated to cuss, got his cussing-things together and begun to lay into a king, or a kingdom, or a heretic, or a Jew, or anybody that was unsatisfactory and needed straightening out. He didn't go at it harum-scaruni; no, he took that king or that other person, and begun at the top, and cussed him all the way down in detail. He cussed him in the hairs of his head, and in the bones of his skull, and in the hearing of his ears, and in the sight of his eyes, and in the breath of his nostrils, and in his vitals, and in his veins, and in his limbs and his feet and his hands, and the blood and flesh and bones of his whole body,- and cussed him in the loves of his heart and in his friendships, and turned him out in the world, and cussed anybody that give him food to eat, or shelter and bed, or water to drink, or rags to cover him when he was freezing. Land, that was cussing worth talking about; that was the only cussing worth shucks that's ever been done in this world— the man it fell on, or the country it fell on, would better a been dead, forty times over. Ben Miller! The idea of him thinking he can cuss! Why, the poorest little one-horse back-country bishop in the Middle Ages could cuss all around him. We don't know nothing about cussing now-a-days." "Well," I says, "you needn't cry about it, I reckon we can git along. Can a bishop cuss, now, the way they useter?" "Yes, they learn it, because it's part of the polite learning that belongs to his lay-out—kind of bells letters, as you may say—and although he ain't got no more use for it than Missouri girls has for French, he's got to learn it, same as they do, because a Missouri girl that can't polly-voo and a bishop that can't cuss ain't got no business in society." "Don't they ever cuss at all, now, Tom?" "Not but very seldom. Praps they do in Peru, but amongst people that knows anything, it's played out, and they don't mind it no more than they do Ben Miller's kind. It's because they've got so far along that they know as much now as the grasshoppers did in the Middle Ages." "The grasshoppers?"

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"Yes. In the Middle Ages, in France, when the grasshoppers started in to eat up the crops, the bishop would go out in the fields and pull a solemn face and give them a most solid good cussing. Just the way they done with a Jew or a heretic or a king, as I was telling you." "And what did the grasshoppers do, Tom?" "Just laughed, and went on and et up the crop, same as they started in to do. The difference betwixt a man and a grasshopper, in the Middle Ages, was that the grasshopper warn't a fool." "Oh, my goodness, oh, my goodness gracious, dah's de lake agin!" yelled Jim, just then. "Now, Mars Tom, what you gwyne to say?" Yes, sir, there was the lake again, away yonder across the Desert, perfectly plain, trees and all, just the same as it was before. I says— "I reckon you're satisfied now, Tom Sawyer." But he says, perfectly cam— "Yes, satisfied there ain't no lake there." Jim says— "Don't talk so, Mars Tom—it sk'yers me to hear you. It's so hot, en you's so thirsty, dat you ain't in yo' right mine, Mars Tom. Oh, but don't she look good! 'clah I doan' know how I's gwyne to wait tell we gits dah, I's so thirsty." "Well, you'll have to wait; and it won't do you no good, either, because there ain't no lake there, I tell you." I says— "Jim, don't you take your eye off of it, and I won't, either." '"Deed I won't; en bless you, honey, I couldn't ef I wanted to." We went a-tearing along towards it, piling the miles behind us like nothing, but never gaining an inch on it—and all of a sudden it was gone again! Jim staggered, and most fell down. When he got his breath he says, gasping like a fish— "Mars Tom, hit's a ghos', dat's what it is, en I hopes to goodness we ain't gwyne to see it no mo'. Dey's ben a lake, en suthin's happened, en de lake's dead, en we's seen its ghos'; we's seen it twyste, and dat's proof. De Desert's ha'nted, it's ha'nted, sho'; oh, Mars Tom, le's git outen it, I druther die than have de night ketch us in it agin en de ghos' er dat lake come a-mournin' aroun' us en we asleep en doan' know de danger we's in." "Ghost, you gander! it ain't anything but air and heat and thirstiness pasted together by a person's imagination. If I—gimme the glass!"

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He grabbed it and begun to gaze, off to the right. "It's a flock of birds," he says. "It's getting towards sundown, and they're making a bee line across our track for somewheres. They mean business—maybe they're going for food or water, or both. Let her go to starboard!—port your helium! Hard down! There—ease up—steady, as you go." We shut down some of the power, so as not to out-speed them, and took out after them. We went skimming along a quarter of a mile behind them, and when we had followed them an hour and a half and was getting pretty discouraged, and thirsty clean to unendurableness, Tom says— "Take the glass, one of you, and see what that is, away ahead of the birds." fim got the first glimpse, and slumped down on a locker, sick. He was most crying, and says— "She's dah agin, Mars Tom, she's dah agin, en I knows I's gwyne to die, 'caze when a body sees a ghos' de third time, dat's what it means. I wisht I'd never come in dis balloon, dat I does." He wouldn't look no more, and what he said made me afraid, too, because I knowed it was true, for that has always been the way with ghosts; so then I wouldn't look any more, either. Both of us begged Tom to turn off and go some other way, but he wouldn't, and said we was ignorant superstitious blatherskites. Yes, and he'll git come up with, one of these days, I says to myself, insulting ghosts that way. They'll stand it for a while, maybe, but they won't stand it always, for anybody that knows about ghosts knows how easy they are hurt, and how revengeful they are. So we was all quiet and still, Jim and me being scared, and Tom busy. By and by Tom fetched the balloon to a standstill, and says— "Now get up and look, you sapheads." We done it, and there was the sure-enough water right under us! — clear, and blue, and cool, and deep, and wavy with the breeze, the loveliest sight that ever was. And all about it was grassy banks, and flowers, and shady groves of big trees, looped together with vines, and all looking so peaceful and comfortable, enough to make a body cry, it was so beautiful. Jim did cry, and rip and dance and carry on, he was so thankful and out of his mind for joy. It was my watch, so I had to stay by the works,

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but Tom and Jim clumb down and drunk a barrel apiece, and fetched me up a lot, and I've tasted a many a good thing in my life, but nothing that ever begun with that water. Then they went down and had a swim, and then Tom come up and spelled me, and me and Jim had a swim, and then Jim spelled Tom, and me and Tom had a footrace and a boxing-mill, and I don't reckon I ever had such a good time in my life. It warn't so very hot, because it was close on to evening, and we hadn't any clothes on, anyway. Clothes is well enough in school, and in towns, and at balls, too, but there ain't no sense in them when there ain't no civilization nor other kinds of bothers and fussiness around. "Lions a-comin'!—lions! Quick, Mars Tom, jump for yo' life, Huck!" Oh, and didn't we! We never stopped for clothes, but waltzed up the ladder just so. Jim lost his head, straight off—he always done it whenever he got excited and scared; and so now, 'stead of just easing the ladder up from the ground a little, so the animals couldn't reach it, he turned on a raft of power, and we went whizzing up and was dangling in the sky before he got his wits together and seen what a foolish thing he was doing. Then he stopped her, but had clean forgot what to do next,- so there we was, so high that the lions looked like pups, and we was drifting off on the wind. But Tom he shinned up and went for the works and begun to slant her down, and back towards the lake, where the animals was gathering like a camp meeting, and I judged he had lost his head, too,- for he knowed I was too scared to climb, and did he want to dump me amongst the tigers and things? But no, his head was level, he knowed what he was about. He swooped down to within thirty or forty foot of the lake, and stopped right over the centre, and sung out— "Leggo, and drop!" I done it, and shot down, feet first, and seemed to go about a mile towards the bottom; and when I come up, he says— "Now lay on your back and float till you're rested and got your pluck back, then I'll dip the ladder in the water and you can climb aboard." I done it. Now that was ever so smart in Tom, because if he had started off

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somewhcres else to drop down on the sand, the menagerie would a come along, too, and might a kept us hunting a safe place till I got tuckered out and fell. And all this time the lions and tigers was sorting out the clothes, and trying to divide them up so there would be some for all, but there was a misunderstanding about it somewheres, on accounts of some of them trying to hog more than their share; so there was another insurrection, and you never see anything like it in the world. There must a been fifty of them, all mixed up together, snorting and roaring and snapping and biting and tearing, legs and tails in the air and you couldn't tell which belonged to which, and the sand and fur a-flying. And when they got done, some was dead, and some was limping off crippled, and the rest was setting around on the battle field, some of them licking their sore places and the others looking up at us and seemed to be kind of inviting us to come down and have some fun, but which we didn't want any. As for the clothes, there warn't any, any more. Every last rag of them was inside of the animals,- and not agreeing with them very well, I don't reckon, for there was considerable many brass buttons on them, and there was knives in the pockets, too, and smoking tobacco, and nails and chalk and marbles and fishhooks and things. But I wasn't caring. All that was bothering me was, that all we had, now, was the Professor's clothes, a big enough assortment, but not suitable to go into company with, if we come across any, because the britches was as long as tunnels, and the coats and things according. Still, there was everything a tailor needed, and Jim was a kind of a jack-legged tailor, and he allowed he could soon trim a suit or two down for us that would answer.

CHAPTER 9 Q ^/TILL, WE THOUGHT we would drop down there a minute, but on another errand. Most of the Professor's cargo of food was put up in cans, in the new way that somebody had just invented, the rest was fresh. When you fetch Missouri beefsteak to the Great Sahara, you want to be particular and stay up in the coolish weather. Ours was all right till we stayed down so long amongst the dead people. That spoilt the water, and it ripened up the beefsteak to a degree that was just right for an Englishman, Tom said, but was most too gay for Americans; so we reckoned we would drop down into the lion market and see how we could make out there. We hauled in the ladder and dropped down till we was just above the reach of the animals, then we let down a rope with a slip-knot in it and hauled up a dead lion, a small tender one, then yanked up a cub tiger. We had to keep the congregation off with the revolver, or they would a took a hand in the proceedings and helped. We carved off a supply from both, and saved the skins, and hove the rest overboard. Then we baited some of the Professor's hooks with the fresh meat and went a-fishing. We stood over the lake just a convenient distance above the water, and catched a lot of the nicest fish you ever see. It was a most amazing good supper we had: lion steak, tiger steak, fried fish and hot corn pone. I don't want nothing better than that. We had some fruit to finish off with. We got it out of the top of a monstrous tall tree. It was a very slim tree that hadn't a branch on it from the bottom plum to the top, and there it busted out like a featherduster. It was a pain tree, of course,- anybody knows a pam tree the minute he sees it, by the pictures. We went for coconuts in this one, but there warn't none. There was only big loose bunches of things like over-sized grapes, and Tom allowed they was dates, because he said they answered the description in the Arabian Nights and the

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other books. Of course they mightn't be, and they might be pison; so we had to wait a spell, and watch and see if the birds et them. They done it; so we done it too, and they was most amazing good. By this time monstrous big birds begun to come and settle on the dead animals. They was plucky creturs; they would tackle one end of a lion that was being gnawed at the other end by another lion. If the lion drove the bird away, it didn't do no good, he was back again the minute the lion was busy. The big birds come out of every part of the sky—you could make them out with the glass whilst they was still so far away you couldn't see them with your naked eye. The dead meat was too fresh to have any smell—at least any that could reach to a bird that was five mile away,- so Tom said the birds didn't find out the meat was there by the smell, they had to find it out by seeing it. Oh, but ain't that an eye for you! Tom said at the distance of five mile a patch of dead lions couldn't look any bigger than a person's finger nail, and he couldn't imagine how the birds could notice such a little thing so far off. It was strange and unnatural to see lion eat lion, and we thought maybe they warn't kin. But Jim said that didn't make no difference. He said a hog was fond of her own children, and so was a spider, and he reckoned maybe a lion was pretty near as unprincipled though maybe not quite. He thought likely a lion wouldn't eat his own father, if he knowed which was him, but reckoned he would eat his brotherin-law if he was uncommon hungry, and cat his mother-in-law any time. But reckoning don't settle nothing. You can reckon till the cows comes home, but that don't fetch you no decision. So we give it up and let it drop. Generly it was very still in the Desert, nights, but this time there was music. A lot of other animals come to dinner: sneaking yelpers that Tom allowed was jackals, and roach-backed ones that he said was hyenas; and all the whole biling of them kept up a racket all the time. They made a picture in the moonlight that was more different than any picture I ever see. We had a line out and made fast to the top of a tree, and didn't stand no watch, but all turned in and slept, but I was up two or three times to look down at the animals and hear the music. It was like having a front seat at a menagerie for nothing, which I hadn't ever had before, and so it seemed foolish to sleep and not make the most of it, I mightn't ever have such a chance again.

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We went a-fishing again in the early dawn, and then lazied around all day in the deep shade on an island, taking turn about to watch and see that none of the animals come a-snooping around there after erronorts for dinner. We was going to leave next day, but couldn't, it was too lovely. The day after, when we rose up towards the sky and sailed off eastward, we looked back and watched that place till it warn't nothing but just a speck in the Desert, and I tell you it was like saying good bye to a friend that you ain't ever going to see any more. Jim was thinking to himself, and at last he says— "Mars Tom, we's mos' to de end er de Desert now, I speck." "Why?" "Well, hit stan' to reason we is. You knows how long we's ben a-skimmin' over it. Mus' be mos' out o' san'. Hit's a wonder to me dat it's hilt out as long as it has." "Shucks, there's plenty sand, you needn't worry." "Oh, I ain't a-worryin', Mars Tom, only wonderin', dat's all. De Lord's got plenty san', I ain't doubtin' dat, but nemmine, He ain' gwyne to was'e it jist on dat account; en I allows dat dis Desert's plenty big enough now, jist de way she is, en you can't spread her out no mo' 'dout was'in' san'." "Oh, go 'long! we ain't much more than fairly started across this Desert yet. The United States is a pretty big country, ain't it? Ain't it, Huck?" "Yes," I says, "there ain't no bigger one, I don't reckon." "Well," he says, "this Desert is about the shape of the United States, and if you was to lay it down on top of the United States, it would cover the land of the free out of sight like a blanket. Therc'd be a little corner sticking out, up at Maine, and away up north-west, and Florida sticking out like a turtle's tail, and that's all. We've took California away from the Mexicans two or three years ago, so that part of the Pacific coast is ours, now, and if you laid the Great Sahara down with her edge on the Pacific she would cover the United States and stick out past New York six hundred miles into the Atlantic ocean." I says— "Good land! have you got the documents for that, Tom Sawyer?" "Yes, and they're right here, and I've been studying them. You can look for yourself. From New York to the Pacific is 2,600 miles. From

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one end of the Great Desert to the other is 3,200. The United States contains 3,600,000 square miles, the Desert contains 4,162,000. With the Desert's bulk you could cover up every last inch of the United States, and in under where the edges projected out, you could tuck England, Scotland, Ireland, France, Denmark, and all Germany. Yes, sir, you could hide the home of the brave and all of them countries clean out of sight under the Great Sahara, and you would still have 2,000 square miles of sand left." "Well," I says, "it clean beats me. Why, Tom, it shows that the Lord took as much pains making this Desert as He did to make the United States and all them other countries. I reckon He must a been a-working at this Desert two or three days before He got it done." Jim says— "Huck, dat doan' stan' to reason. I reckon dis Desert wan't made, at all. Now you take en look at it like dis—you look at it, and see ef I's right. What's a desert good for? Tain't good for nuthin'. Dey ain't no way to make it pay. Hain't dat so, Huck?" "Yes, I reckon." "Hain't it so, Mars Tom?" "I guess so. Go on." "Ef a thing ain't no good, it's made in vain, ain't it?" "Yes." "Now, den! Do de Lord make anything in vain? You answer me dat." "Well—no, He don't." "Den how come He make a desert?" "Well, go on. How did He come to make it?" "Mars Tom, it's my opinion He never made it, at all; dat is, He didn't plan out no desert, never sot out to make one. Now I's gwyne to show you, den you kin see. I b'lieve it uz jes' like when you's buildin' a house,- dey's allays a lot o' truck en rubbish lef over. What does you do wid it? Doan' you take en k'yart it off en dump it onto a olc vacant back lot? 'Course. Now, den, it's my opinion hit was jes' like dat. When de Lord uz gwyne to buil' de worl', He tuck en made a lot o' rocks en put 'em in a pile, en made a lot o' yearth en put it in a pile handy to de rocks, den a lot o' san', en put dat in a pile, handy, too. Den He begin. He measure out some rocks en yearth en san', en stick 'em together en say 'Cat's Germany/ en pas'e a label on it en set it out to dry ; en

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measure out some mo' rocks en yearth en san', en stick 'em together, en say, 'Dat's de United States/ en pas'e a label on it and set it out to dry—en so on, en so on, tell it come supper time Sataday, en He look roun' en see dey's all done, en a mighty good worl' for de time she took. Den He notice dat whilst He's cal'lated de yearth en de rocks jes' right, dey's a mos' tumble lot o' san' lef over, which He can't 'member how it happened. So He look roun' to see if dey's any ok back lot anywheres dat's vacant, en see dis place, en is pow'ful glad, en tell de angels to take en dump de san' here. Now, den, dat's my idea 'bout it—dat de Great Sahara warn't made at all, she jes' happen'." I said it was a real good argument, and I believed it was the best one Jim ever made. Tom he said the same, but said the trouble about arguments is, they ain't nothing but theories, after all, and theories don't prove nothing, they only give you a place to rest on, a spell, when you are tuckered out butting around and around trying to find out something there ain't no way to find out. And he says— "There's another trouble about theories: there's always a hole in them somewheres, sure, if you look close enough. It's just so with this one of fim's. Look what billions and billions of stars there is. How does it come that there was just exactly enough star-stuff, and none left over? How does it come there ain't no sand-pile up there?" But lira was fixed for him and says— "What's de Milky Way?—dat's what / wants to know. What's de Milky Way? Answer me dat!" In my opinion it was just a sockdologer. It's only an opinion, it's only my opinion, and others may think different; but I said it then and I stand to it now—it was a sockdologer. And moreover besides, it landed Tom Sawyer. He couldn't say a word. He had that stunned look of a person that's been shot in the back with a kag of nails. All he said was, as for people like me and Jim, he'd just as soon have intellectual intercourse with a catfish. But anybody can say that—and I notice they always do, when somebody has fetched them a lifter. Tom Sawyer was tired of that end of the subject. So we got back to talking about the size of the Desert again, and the more we compared it with this and that and t'other thing, the more nobler and bigger and grander it got to look, right along. And so, hunting amongst the figgers, Tom found, by and by, that it was just the

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same size as the Empire of China. Then he showed us the spread the Empire of China made on the map and the room she took up in the world. Well, it was wonderful to think of, and I says— "Why, I've heard talk about this Desert plenty of times, but I never knowed, before, how important she was." Then Tom says— "Important! Sahara important! That's just the way with some people. If a thing's big, it's important. That's all the sense they've got. All they can see is size. Why, look at England. It's the most important country in the world; and yet you could put it in China's vest pocket; and not only that, but you'd have the dickens's own time to find it again the next time you wanted it. And look at Russia. It spreads all around and everywheres, and yet ain't no more important in this world than Rhode Island is, and hasn't got half as much in it that's worth saving. My Uncle Abner, which was a Presbyterian preacher and the bluest they made, he always said that if size was a right thing to judge importance by, where would heaven be, alongside of the other place? He always said heaven was the Rhode Island of the Hereafter." Away off, now, we see a low hill, a-standing up just on the edge of the world. Tom broke off his talk, and reached for a glass very much excited, and took a look, and says— "That's it—it's the one I've been looking for, sure. If I'm right, it's the one the dervish took the man into and showed him all the treasures of the world." So we begun to gaze, and he begun to tell about it out of the Arabian Nights.

CHAPTER 1O

T

LOM SAID it happened like this. lOJ

A dervish was stumping it along through the Desert, on foot, one blazing hot day, and he had come a thousand miles and was pretty poor, and hungry, and ornery and tired, and along about where we are now, he run across a camel driver with a hundred camels, and asked him for some ams. But the camel driver he asked to be excused. The dervish says— "Don't you own these camels?" "Yes, they're mine." "Are you in debt?" "Who—me? No." "Well, a man that owns a hundred camels and ain't in debt, is rich—and not only rich, but very rich. Ain't it so?" The camel driver owned up that it was so. Then the dervish says— "God has made you rich, and He has made me poor. He has His reasons, and they are wise, blessed be his Name! But He has willed that His rich shall help His poor, and you have turned away from me, your brother, in my need, and He will remember this, and you will lose by it." That made the camel driver feel shaky, but all the same he was born hoggish after money and didn't like to let go a cent, so he begun to whine and explain, and said times was hard, and although he had took a full freight down to Balsora and got a fat rate for it, he couldn't git no return freight, and so he warn't making no great things out of his trip. So the dervish starts along again, and says— "All right, if you want to take the risk, but I reckon you've made a mistake this time, and missed a chance." Of course the camel driver wanted to know what kind of a chance he had missed, because maybe there was money in it ; so he run after the dervish and begged him so hard and earnest to take pity on him and tell him, that at last the dervish give in, and says—

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"Do you see that hill yonder? Well, in that hill is all the treasures of the earth, and I was looking around for a man with a particular good kind heart and a noble generous disposition, because if I could find just that man, I've got a kind of a salve I could put on his eyes and he could see the treasures and get them out." So then the camel driver was in a sweat; and he cried, and begged, and took on, and went down on his knees, and said he was just that kind of a man, and said he could fetch a thousand people that would say he wasn't ever described so exact before. "Well, then," says the dervish, "all right. If we load the hundred camels, can I have half of them?" The driver was so glad he couldn't hardly hold in, and says— "Now you're shouting." So they shook hands on the bargain, and the dervish got out his box and rubbed the salve on the driver's right eye, and the hill opened and he went in, and there, sure enough, was piles and piles of gold and jewels sparkling like all the stars in heaven had fell down. So him and the dervish laid into it and they loaded every camel till he couldn't carry no more, then they said good bye, and each of them started off with his fifty. But pretty soon the camel driver come arunning and overtook the dervish and says— "You ain't in society, you know, and you don't really need all you've got. Won't you be good, and let me have ten of your camels?" "Well," the dervish says, "I don't know but what you say is reasonable enough." So he done it, and they separated and the dervish started off again with his forty. But pretty soon here comes the camel driver bawling after him again, and whines and slobbers around and begs another ten off of him, saying thirty camel loads of treasures was enough to see a dervish through, because they live very simple, you know, and don't keep house but board around and give their note. But that warn't the end, yet. That ornery hound kept coming and coming till he had begged back all the camels and had the whole hundred. Then he was satisfied, and ever so grateful, and said he wouldn't ever forgit the dervish as long as he lived, and nobody hadn't ever been so good to him before, and liberal. So they shook hands good bye, and separated and started off again. But do you know, it warn't ten minutes till the camel driver was unsatisfied again—he was the low-downest rcptyle in seven counties

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—and he come a-running again. And this time the thing he wanted was to get the dervish to rub some of the salve on his other eye. "Why?" says the dervish. "Oh, you know," says the driver. "Know what?" says the dervish. "Well, you can't fool me," says the driver. "You're trying to keep back something from me, you know it mighty well. You know, I reckon, that if I had the salve on the other eye I could see a lot more things that's valuable. Come—please put it on." The dervish says— "I wasn't keeping anything back from you. I don't mind telling you what would happen if I put it on. You'd never see again. You'd be stone blind the rest of your days." But do you know, that beat wouldn't believe him. No, he begged and begged, and whined and cried, till at last the dervish opened his box and told him to put it on, if he wanted to. So the man done it, and sure enough he was as blind as a bat, in a minute. Then the dervish laughed at him and mocked at him and made fun of him, and says— "Good-bye—a man that's blind hain't got no use for jewelry." And he cleared out with the hundred camels, and left that man to wander around poor and miserable and friendless the rest of his days in the desert. Jim said he'd bet it was a lesson to him. "Yes," Tom says, "and like a considerable many lessons a body gets. They ain't no account, because the thing don't ever happen the same way again—and can't. The time Hen Scovil fell down the chimbly and crippled his back for life, everybody said it would be a lesson to him. What kind of a lesson? How was he going to use it? He couldn't climb chimblies no more, and he hadn't no more backs to break." "All de same, Mars Tom, dey is sich a thing as learnin' by expc'ence. De Good Book say de burnt chile shun de fire." "Well, I ain't denying that a thing's a lesson if it's a thing that can happen twice just the same way. There's lots of such things, and they educate a person, that's what uncle Abner always said; but there's forty million lots of the other kind—the kind that don't happen the same way twice—and they ain't no real use, they ain't no more instructive than the small pox. When you've got it, it ain't no good to find out you ought to been vaccinated, and it ain't no good to get

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vaccinated afterwards, because the small-pox don't come but once. But on the other hand Uncle Abner said that the person that had took a bull by the tail once had learnt sixty or seventy times as much as a person that hadn't; and said a person that started in to carry a cat home by the tail was gitting knowledge that was always going to be useful to him, and warn't ever going to grow dim or doubtful. But I can tell you, Jim, Uncle Abner was down on them people that's all the time trying to dig a lesson out of everything that happens, no matter whether—" But Jim was asleep. Tom looked kind of ashamed, because you know a person always feels bad when he is talking uncommon fine, and thinks the other person is admiring, and that other person goes to sleep that way. Of course he oughtn't to go to sleep, because it's shabby, but the finer a person talks the certainer it is to make you sleepy, and so when you come to look at it it ain't nobody's fault in particular, both of them's to blame. Jim begun to snore—soft and blubbery, at first, then a long rasp, then a stronger one, then a half a dozen horrible ones like the last water sucking down the plug-hole of a bath-tub, then the same with more power to it, and some big coughs and snorts flung in, the way a cow does that is choking to death,- and when the person has got to that point he is at his level best, and can wake up a man that is in the next block with a dipper-full of loddanum in him, but can't wake himself up, although all that awful noise of his'n ain't but three inches from his own ears. And that is the curiosest thing in the world, seems to me. But you rake a match to light the candle, and that little bit of a noise will fetch him. I wish I knowed what was the reason of that, but there don't seem to be no way to find out. Now there was Jim alarming the whole Desert, and yanking the animals out, for miles and miles around, to see what in the nation was going on up there; there warn't nobody nor nothing that was as close to the noise as he was, and yet he was tlie only cretur that wasn't disturbed by it. We yelled at him and whooped at him, it never done no good, but the first time there come a little wee noise that wasn't of a usual kind it woke him up. No, sir, I've thought it all over, and so has Tom, and there ain't no way to find out why a snorer can't hear himself snore. Jim said he hadn't been asleep, he just shut his eyes so he could listen better. Tom said nobody warn't accusing him.

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That made him look like he wished he hadn't said anything. And he wanted to git away from the subject, I reckon, because he begun to abuse the camel driver, just the way a person does when he has got catched in something and wants to take it out of somebody else. He let into the camel driver the hardest he khowed how, and I had to agree with him,- and he praised up the dervish the highest he could, and I had to agree with him there, too. But Tom says— "I ain't so sure. You call that dervish so dreadful liberal and good and unselfish, but I don't quite see it. He didn't hunt up another poor dervish, did he? No, he didn't. If he was so unselfish, why didn't he go in there himself and take a pocket full of jewels and go along and be satisfied? No, sir, the person he was hunting for was a man with a hundred camels. He wanted to get away with all the treasure he could." "Why, Mars Tom, he was willin' to divide, fair and square,he only struck for fifty camels." "Because he knowed how he was going to get all of them by and by." "Mars Tom, he tole de man de truck would make him bline." "Yes, because he knowed the man's character. It was just the kind of a man he was hunting for—a man that never believes in anybody's word or anybody's honorableness, because he ain't got none of his own. I reckon there's lots of people like that dervish. They swindle, right and left, but they always make the other person seem to swindle himself. They keep inside of the letter of the law all the time, and there ain't no way to git hold of them. They don't put the salve on—oh, no, that would be sin ; but they know how to fool you into putting it on, then it's you that blinds yourself. I reckon the dervish and the camel driver was just a pair—a fine, smart, brainy rascal, and a dull, coarse, ignorant one, but both of them rascals, just the same." "Mars Tom, does you reckon dey's any o' dat kind o' salve in de worl' now?" "Yes, uncle Abner says there is. He says they've got it in New York, and they put it on country people's eyes and show them all the railroads in the world, and they go in and git them, and then when they rub the salve on the other eye, the other man bids them good bye and goes off with their railroads. Here's the treasure-hill, now. Lower away!" We landed, but it warn't as interesting as I thought it was going to be,

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because we couldn't find the place where they went in to git the treasure. Still, it was plenty interesting enough, just to see the mere hill itself where such a wonderful thing happened. Jim said he wouldn't a missed it for three dollars, and I felt the same way. And to me and Jim, as wonderful a thing as any, was the way Tom could come into a strange big country like this and go straight and find a little hump like that and tell it in a minute from a million other humps that was almost just like it, and nothing to help him but only his own learning and his own natural smartness. We talked and talked it over together, but couldn't make out how he done it. He had the best head on him I ever see; and all he lacked was age, to make a name for himself equal to Captain Kidd or George Washington. I bet you it would a crowded either of them to find that hill, with all their gifts, but it warn't nothing to Tom Sawyer; he went across Sahara and put his finger on it as easy as you could pick a nigger out of a bunch of angels. We found a pond of salt water close by and scraped up a raft of salt around the edges and loaded up the lion's skin and the tiger's so as they would keep till Jim could tan them.

CHAPTER 11 W>E WENT A-FOOLING along for a day or two, and then just as the full moon was touching the ground on the other side of the Desert, we see a string of little black riggers moving across its big silver face. You could see them as plain as if they was painted on the moon with ink. It was another caravan. We cooled down our speed and tagged along after it just to have company, though it warn't going our way. It was a rattler, that caravan, and a most bully sight to look at, next morning when the sun come a-streaming across the Desert and flung the long shadders of the camels on the gold sand like a thousand grand-daddy-longlegses marching in procession. We never went very near it, because we knowed better, now, than to act like that and scare people's camels and break up their caravans. It was the gayest outfit you ever see, for rich clothes and nobby style. Some of the chiefs rode on dromedaries, the first we ever see, and very tall, and they go plunging along like they was on stilts, and they rock the man that is on them pretty violent and churn up his dinner considerable, I bet you, but they make noble good time and a camel ain't nowheres with them for speed. The caravan camped, during the middle part of the day, and then started again about the middle of the afternoon. Before long the sun begun to look very curious. First it kind of turned to brass, and then to copper, and after that it begun to look like a blood red ball, and the air got hot and close, and pretty soon all the sky in the west darkened up and looked thick and foggy, but fiery and dreadful like it looks through a piece of red glass, you know. We looked down and see a big confusion going on in the caravan and a rushing every which way like they was scared, and then they all flopped down flat in the sand and laid there perfectly still. Pretty soon we see something coming that stood up like an amazing wide wall, and reached from the Desert up into the sky and hid the sun, and it was coming like the nation, too. Then a little faint breeze

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struck us, and then it come harder, and grains of sand begun to sift against our faces and sting like fire, and Tom sung out— "It's a sand-storm—turn your backs to it!" We done it, and in another minute it was blowing a gale and the sand beat against us by the shovelfull and the air was so thick with it we couldn't see a thing. In five minutes the boat was level full and we was setting on the lockers buried up to the chin in sand and only our heads out and could hardly breathe. Then the storm thinned, and we see that monstrous wall go a-sailing off across the Desert, awful to look at, I tell you. We dug ourselves out and looked down, and where the caravan was before, there wasn't anything but just the sand ocean, now and all still and quiet. All them people and camels was smothered and dead and buried—buried under ten foot of sand, we reckoned, and Tom allowed it might be years before the wind uncovered them, and all that time their friends wouldn't ever know what become of that caravan. Tom said— "Now we know what it was that happened to the people we got the swords and pistols from." Yes, sir, that was just it. It was as plain as day, now. They got buried in a sand-storm, and the wild animals couldn't get at them, and the wind never uncovered them again till they was dried to leather and warn't fit to eat. It seemed to me we had felt as sorry for them poor people as a person could for anybody, and as mournful, too, but we was mistaken; this last caravan's death went harder with us, a good deal harder. You see, the others was total strangers, and we never got to feeling acquainted with them at all, except, maybe, a little with the man that was watching the girl, but it was different with this last caravan. We was huvvering around them a whole night and most a whole day, and had got to feeling real friendly with them, and acquainted. 1 have found out that there ain't no surer way to find out whether you like people or hate them, than to travel with them. Just so with these. We kind of liked them from the start, and traveling with them put on the finisher. The longer we traveled with them, and the more we got used to their ways, the better and better we liked them and the gladder and gladder we was that we run across them. We had come to know some of them so well that we called them by name when we was talking about them, and soon got so familiar and sociable that we even dropped the Miss and the Mister and just used their plain

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names without any handle, and it did not seem unpolite, but just the right thing. Of course it wasn't their own names, but names we give them. There was Mr. Elexander Robinson and Miss Adaline Robinson, and Col. Jacob McDougal and Miss Harryet McDougal, and fudge Jeremiah Butler and young Bushrod Butler, and these was big chiefs, mostly, that wore splendid great turbans and simmeters, and dressed like the Grand Mogul, and their families. But as soon as we come to know them good, and like them very much, it warn't Mister, nor Judge, nor nothing, any more, but only Elleck, and Addy, and Jake, and Hattie, and Jerry and Buck, and so on. And you know, the more you join in with people in their joys and their sorrows, the more nearer and dearer they come to be to you. Now we warn't cold and indifferent, the way most travelers is, we was right down friendly and sociable, and took a chance in everything that was going, and the caravan could depend on us to be on hand every time, it didn't make no difference what it was. When they camped, we camped right over them, ten or twelve hundred foot up in the air. When they et a meal, we et ourn, and it made it every so much homeliker to have their company. When they had a wedding, that night, and Buck and Addy got married, we got ourselves up in the very starchiest of the Professor's duds for the blow-out, and when they danced we joined in and shook a foot up there. But it is sorrow and trouble that brings you the nearest, and it was a funeral that done it with us. It was next morning, just in the still dawn. We didn't know the diseased, and he warn't in our set, but that never made no difference, he belonged to the caravan, and that was enough, and there warn't no more sincerer tears shed over him than the ones we dripped on him from up there eleven hundred foot on high. Yes, parting with this caravan was much more bitterer than it was to part with them others, which was comparative strangers, and been dead so long, anyway. We had knowed these in their lives, and was fond of them, too, and now to have death snatch them from right before our faces whilst we was looking, and leave us so lonesome and friendless in the middle of that big Desert, it did hurt so, and we wished we mightn't ever make any more friends on that voyage if we was going to lose them again like that. We couldn't keep from talking about them, and they was all the

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time coming up in our memory, and looking just the way they looked when we was all alive and happy together. We could see the line marching, and the shiny spear-heads a-winking in the sun, we could see the dromedaries lumbering along, we could see the wedding and the funeral, and more oftener than anything else we could see them praying, because they didn't allow nothing to prevent that; whenever the call come, several times a day, they would stop right there, and stand up and face to the east, and lift back their heads, and spread out their arms and begin, and four or five times they would go down on their knees, and then fall forwards and touch their forehead to the ground. Well, it warn't good to go on talking about them, lovely as they was in their life, and dear to us in their life and death both, because it didn't do no good, and made us too down-hearted. Jim allowed he was going to live as good a life as he could, so he could see them again in a better world; and Tom kept still and didn't tell him they was only Mahometans, it warn't no use to disappoint him, he was feeling bad enough just as it was. When we woke up next morning we was feeling a little cheerfuller, and had had a most powerful good sleep, because sand is the comfortablest bed there is, and I don't see why people that can afford it don't have it more. And it's terrible good ballast, too; I never see the balloon so steady before. Tom allowed we had twenty tons of it, and wondered what we better do with it; it was good sand, and it didn't seem good sense to throw it away. Jim says— "Mars Tom, can't we tote it back home en sell it? How long'll it take?" "Depends on the way we go." "Well, sah, she's wuth a quarter of a dollar a load, at home, en I reckon we's got as much as twenty loads, hain't we? How much would dat be?" "Five dollars." "By jings, Mars Tom, le's shove for home right on de spot! Hit's more'n a dollar en a half apiece, hain't it?" "Yes." "Well, ef dat ain't makin' money de easiest ever / struck! She jcs' rained in—never cos' us a lick o' work, Le's mosey right along, Mars Tom."

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But Tom was thinking and ciphering away so busy and excited he never heard him. Pretty soon he says— "Five dollars—sho! Look here, this sand's worth—worth—why, it's worth no end of money." "How is dat, Mars Tom? Go on, honey, go on!" "Well, the minute people knows it's genuwyne sand from the genuwyne Desert of Sahara, they'll just be in a perfect state of mind to git hold of some of it to keep on the what-not in a vial with a label on it for a curiosity. All we got to do, is, to put it up in vials and float around all over the United States and peddle them out at ten cents apiece. We've got all of ten thousand dollars' worth of sand in this boat." Me and Jim went all to pieces with joy, and begun to shout whoopjamboreehoo, and Tom says— "And we can keep on coming back and fetching sand, and coming back and fetching more sand, and just keep it a-going till we've carted this whole Desert over there and sold it out; and there ain't ever going to be any opposition, either, because we'll take out a patent." "My goodness," I says, "we'll be as rich as Creeosote, won't we, Tom?" "Yes—Creesus, you mean. Why, that dervish was hunting in that little hill for the treasures of the earth, and didn't know he was walking over the real ones for a thousand miles. He was blinder than he made the driver." "Mars Tom, how much is we gwyne to be wuth?" "Well, I don't know, yet. It's got to be ciphered, and it ain't the easiest job to do, either, because it's over four million square miles of sand at ten cents a vial." Jim was awful excited, but this faded it out considerable, and he shook his head and says— "Mars Tom, we can't 'ford all dem vials—a king couldn't. We better not try to take de whole Desert, Mars Tom, de vials gwyne to bust us, sho'." Tom's excitement died out, too, now, and I reckoned it was on account of the vials, but it wasn't. He set there thinking, and got bluer and bluer, and at last he says— "Boys, it won't work,- we got to give it up." "Why, Tom?" "On account of the duties." I couldn't make nothing out of that, neither could Jim. I says—

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"What is our duty, Tom? Because if we can't git around it, why can't we just do it? People often has to." But he says— "Oh, it ain't that kind of duty. The kind I mean is a tax. Whenever you strike a frontier—that's the border of a country, you know—you find a custom house there, and the gov'mcnt officers comes and rummages amongst your things and charges a big tax, which they call a duty because it's their duty to bust you if they can, and if you don't pay the duty they'll hog your sand. They call it confiscating, but that don't deceive nobody, it's just hogging, and that's all it is. Now if we try to carry this sand home the way we're pointed now, we got to climb fences till we git tired—just frontier after frontier—Egypt, Arabia, Hindostan, and so on, and they'll all whack on a duty, and so you see, easy enough, we can't go that road." "Why, Tom," I says, "we can sail right over their old frontiers; how are they going to stop us?" He looked sorrowful at me, and says, very grave— "Huck Finn, do you think that would be honest?" I hate them kind of interruptions. I never said nothing, and he went on— "Well, we're shut off the other way, too. If we go back the way we've come, there's the New York custom house, and that is worse than all of them others put together, on account of the kind of cargo we've got." "Why?" "Well, they can't raise Sahara sand in America, of course, and when they can't raise a thing there, the duty is fourteen hundred thousand per cent on it if you try to fetch it in from where they do raise it." "There ain't no sense in that, Tom Sawyer." "Who said there was? What do you talk to me like that, for, Huck Finn? You wait till I say a thing's got sense in it before you go to accusing me of saying it." "All right, consider me crying about it, and sorry. Go on." Jim says— "Mars Tom, do dey jam dat duty onto everything we can't raise in America, en don't make no 'stinction twix' anything?" "Yes, that's what they do." "Mars Tom, ain't de blessin' o' de Lord de mos' valuable thing dey is?"

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"Yes, it is." "Don't de preacher stan' up in de pulpit en call it down on de people?" "Yes." "Whah do it come from?" "From heaven." "Yassir! You's jes' right, 'deed you is, honey—it come from heaven, en dat's a foreign country. Now den! do dey put a tax on dat blessin'?" "No, they don't." '"Course dey don't; en so it stan' to reason dat you's mistaken, Mars Tom. Dey wouldn't put de tax on po' truck like san', dat nobody ain't 'bleeged to have, en leave it off'n de bes' thing dey is, which nobody can't git along widout." Tom Sawyer was stumped; he see Jim had got him where he couldn't budge. He tried to wiggle out by saying they had forgot to put on that tax, but they'd be sure to remember about it, next session of Congress, and then they'd put it on, but that was a poor lame come-off, and he knowed it. He said there warn't nothing foreign that warn't taxed but just that one, and so they couldn't be consistent without taxing it, and to be consistent was the first law of politics. So he stuck to it that they'd left it out unintentional and would be certain to do their best to fix it before they got caught and laughed at. But I didn't feel no more interest in such things, as long as we couldn't git our sand through, and it made me low-spirited, and Jim the same. Tom he tried to cheer us up by saying he would think up another speculation for us that would be just as good as this one and better, but it didn't do no good, we didn't believe there was any as big as this. It was mighty hard; such a little while ago we was so rich, and could a bought a country and started a kingdom and been celebrated and happy, and now we was so poor and ornery again, and had our sand left on our hands. The sand was looking so lovely, before, just like gold and di'monds, and the feel of it was so soft and so silky and nice, but now I couldn't bear the sight of it, it made me sick to look at it, and I knowed I wouldn't ever feel comfortable again till we got shut of it, and didn't have it there no more to remind us of what we had been and what we had got degraded down to. The others was feeling the same way about it that I was. I knowed it, because they cheered up so, the minute I says le's throw this truck overboard.

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Well, it was going to be work, you know, and pretty solid work, too; so Tom he divided it up according to fairness and strength. He said me and him would clear out a fifth apiece, of the sand, and Jim three fifths. Jim he didn't quite like that arrangement. He says— " 'Course I's de stronges', en I's willin' to do a share according but by jings you's kinder pilin' it onto ole Jim, Mars Tom, hain't you?" "Well, I didn't think so, Jim, but you try your hand at fixing it, and let's see." So Jim he reckoned it wouldn't be no more than fair if me and Tom done a tenth apiece. Tom he turned his back to git room and be private, and then he smole a smile that spread around and covered the whole Sahara to the westard, back to the Atlantic edge of it where we come from. Then he turned around again and said it was a good enough arrangement, and we was satisfied if Jim was. Jim said he was. So then Tom measured off our two tenths in the bow and left the rest for Jim, and it surprised Jim a good deal to see how much difference there was and what a raging lot of sand his share come to, and said he was powerful glad, now, that he had spoke up in time and got the first arrangement altered, for he said that even the way it was now, there was more sand than enjoyment in his end of the contract, he believed. Then we laid into it. It was mighty hot work, and tough; so hot we had to move up into cooler weather or we couldn't a stood it. Me and Tom took turn about, and one worked while t'other rested, but there warn't nobody to spell poor old Jim, and he made all that part of Africa damp, he sweated so. We couldn't work good, we was so full of laugh, and Jim he kept fretting and wanting to know what tickled us so, and we had to keep making up things to account for it, and they was pretty poor inventions, but they done well enough, Jim didn't see through them. At last when we got done we was most dead, but not with work but with laughing. By and by Jim was most dead too, but it was with work; then we took turns and spelled him, and he was as thankful as he could be, and would set on the gunnel and swab the sweat, and heave and pant, and say how good we was to a poor old nigger, and he wouldn't ever forgit us. He was always the gratefulest nigger I ever see, for any little thing you done for him. He was only nigger outside; inside he was as white as you be.

CHAPTER 12 T 1 HE NEXT FEW MEALS was pretty sandy, but that don't make no difference when you are hungry, and when you ain't it ain't no satisfaction to eat, anyway, and so a little grit in the meat ain't no particular drawback, as far as I can see. Then we struck the east end of the Desert at last, sailing on a north-east course. Away off on the edge of the sand, in a soft pinky light, we see three little sharp roofs like tents, and Tom says— "It's the Pyramids of Egypt." It made my heart fairly jump. You see, I had seen a many and a many a picture of them, and heard tell about them a hundred times, and yet to come on them all of a sudden, that way, and find they was real, 'stead of imaginations, most knocked the breath out of me with surprise. It's a curious thing, that the more you hear about a grand and big and bully thing or person, the more it kind of dreamies out, as you may say, and gets to be a big dim wavery figger made out of moonshine and nothing solid to it. It's just so with George Washington, and the same with them Pyramids. And moreover besides, the things they always said about them seemed to me to be stretchers. There was a feller come to the Sunday school, once, and had a picture of them, and made a speech, and said the biggest Pyramid covered thirteen acres, and was most five hundred foot high, just a steep mountain, all built out of hunks of stone as big as a bureau, and laid up in perfectly regular layers, like stair-steps. Thirteen acres, you see, for just one building; it's a farm. If it hadn't been in Sunday school, I would a judged it was a lie; and outside I was certain of it. And he said there was a hole in the Pyramid, and you could go in there with candles, and go ever so far up a long slanting tunnel, and come to a large room in the stomach of that stone mountain, and there you would find a big stone chest with a king in it, four thousand years old. I said to myself, then, if that ain't a lie I will eat

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that king if they will fetch him, for even Methusalem warn't that old, and nobody claims it. As we come a little nearer we see the yaller sand come to an end in a long straight edge like a blanket, and onto it was joined, edge to edge, a wide country of bright green, with a snaky stripe crooking through it, and Tom said it was the Nile. It made my heart jump again, for the Nile was another thing that wasn't real to me. Now I can tell you one thing which is dead certain: if you will fool along over three thousand miles of yaller sand, all glimmery with heat so that it makes your eyes water to look at it, and you've been a considerable part of a week doing it, the green country will look so like home and heaven to you that it will make your eyes water again. It was just so with me, and the same with Jim. And when Jim got so he could believe it was the land of Egypt he was looking at, he wouldn't enter it standing up, but got down on his knees and took off his hat, because he said it wasn't fltten for a humble poor nigger to come any other way where such men had been as Moses and Joseph and Pharaoh and the other prophets. He was a Presbyterian, and had a most deep respect for Moses, which was a Presbyterian too, he said. He was all stirred up, and says— "Hit's de Ian' of Egypt, de Ian' of Egypt, en I's 'lowed to look at it wid my own eyes! En dah's de river dat was turn' to blood, en I's lookin' at de very same groun' whah de plagues was, en de lice, en de frogs, en de locus', en de hail, en whah dey marked de door-pos', en de angel o' de Lord come by in de darkness o' de night en slew de fust-born in all de Ian' of Egypt. Ole Jim ain't worthy to see dis day!" And then he just broke down and cried, he was so thankful. So between him and Tom there was talk enough, Jim being excited because the land was so full of history—Joseph and his brethren, Moses in the bulrushers, Jacob coming down into Egypt to buy corn, the silver cup in the sack, and all them interesting things, and Tom just as excited too, because the land was so full of history that was in his line, about Noureddin, and Bedreddm, and such like monstrous giants, that made Jim's wool rise, and a raft of other Arabian Nights folks, which the half of them never done the things they let on they done, I don't believe. Then we struck a disappointment, for one of them early-morning fogs started up, and it warn't no use to sail over the top of it, because we

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would go by Egypt, sure, so we judged it was best to set her by compass straight for the place where the Pyramids was gitting blurred and blotted out, and then drop low and skin along pretty close to the ground and keep a sharp lookout. Tom took the helium, I stood by to let go the anchor, and Jim he straddled the bow to dig through the fog with his eyes and watch out for danger ahead. We went along a steady gait, but not very fast, and the fog got solider and solider, so solid that Jim looked dim and ragged and smoky through it. It was awful still, and we talked low and was anxious. Now and then Jim would say— "Highst her a pint, Mars Tom, highst her!" and up she would skip, a foot or two, and we would slide right over a flat-roofed mud cabin, with people that had been asleep on it just beginning to turn out and gap and stretch; and once when a feller was clear up on his hind legs so he could gap and stretch better, we took him a blip in the back and knocked him off. By and by, after about an hour, and everything dead still and we a-straining our ears for sounds and holding our breath, the fog thinned a little, very sudden, and Jim sung out in an awful scare— "Oh, for de lan's sake, set her back, Mars Tom, here's de biggest giant outen de 'Rabian Nights a-comin' for us!" and he went over backwards in the boat. Tom slammed on the back-action, and as we slowed to a stand-still, a man's face as big as our house at home looked in over the gunnel, same as a house looks out of its windows, and I laid down and died. I must a been clear dead and gone for as much as a minute or more,- then I come to, and Tom had hitched a boat-hook onto the lower lip of the giant and was holding the balloon steady with it whilst he canted his head back and got a good long look up at that awful face. Jim was on his knees with his hands clasped, gazing up at the thing in a begging way, and working his lips but not getting anything out. I took only just a glimpse, and was fading out again, but Tom says— "He ain't alive, you fools, it's the Sphinx!" I never see Tom look so little and like a fly ; but that was because the giant's head was so big and awful. Awful, yes, so it was, but not dreadful, any more, because you could see it was a noble face, and kind of sad, and not thinking about you, but about other things and larger. It was stone, reddish stone, and its nose and ears battered, and that give it an abused look, and you felt sorrier for it for that. We stood off a piece, and sailed around it and over it, and it was just

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grand. It was a man's head, or maybe a woman's, on a tiger's body a hundred and twenty-five foot long, and there was a dear little temple between its front paws. All but the head used to be under the sand, for hundreds of years, maybe thousands, but they had just lately dug the sand away and found that little temple. It took a power of sand to bury that cretur; most as much as it would to bury a steamboat, I reckon. We landed Jim on top of the head, with an American flag to protect him, it being a foreign land, then we sailed off to this and that and t'other distance, to git what Tom called effects and perspectives and proportions, and Jim he done the best he could, striking all the different kinds of attitudes and positions he could study up, but standing on his head and working his legs the way a frog does was the best. The further we got away, the littler Jim got, and the grander the Sphinx got, till at last it was only a clothes-pin on a dome, as you might say. That's the way perspective brings out the correct proportions, Tom said; he said Julus Cesar's niggers didn't know how big he was, they was too close to him. Then we sailed off further and further, till we couldn't see Jim at all, any more, and then that great figger was at its noblest, a-gazing out over the Nile valley so still and solemn and lonesome, and all the little shabby huts and things that was scattered about it clean disappeared and gone, and nothing around it now but a soft wide spread of yaller velvet, which was the sand. That was the right place to stop, and we done it. We set there a-looking and a-thinking for a half an hour, nobody a-saying anything, for it made us feel quiet and kind of solemn to remember it had been looking out over that valley just that same way, and thinking its awful thoughts all to itself for thousands of years, and nobody can't find out what they are to this day. At last I took up the glass and see some little black things a-capering around on that velvet carpet, and some more a-climbing up the cretur's back, and then I see two or three little wee puffs of white smoke, and told Tom to look. He done it, and says— "They're bugs. No—hold on; they—why, I believe they're men. Yes, it's men—men and horses, both. They're hauling a long ladder up onto the Sphinx's back—now ain't that odd? And now they're trying to lean it up a—there's some more puffs of smoke—it's guns! Huck, they're after Jim!"

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We clapped on the power, and went for them a-biling. We was there in no time, and come a-whizzing down amongst them, and they broke and scattered every which way, and some that was climbing the ladder after Jim let go all holts and fell. We soared up and found him laying on top of the head panting and most tuckered out, partly from howling for help and partly from scare. He had been standing a siege a long time—a week, he said, but it warn't so, it only just seemed so to him because they was crowding him so. They had shot at him, and rained the bullets all around him, but he warn't hit, and when they found he wouldn't stand up and the bullets couldn't git at him when he was laying down, they went for the ladder, and then he knowed it was all up with him if we didn't come pretty quick. Tom was very indignant, and asked him why he didn't show the flag and command them to git, in the name of the United States, fim said he done it, but they never paid no attention. Tom said he would have this thing looked into at Washington, and says— "You'll see that they'll have to apologize for insulting the flag, and pay an indemnity, too, on top of it, even if they git off that easy." Jim says— "What's an indemnity, Mars Tom?" "It's cash, that's what it is." "Who gits it, Mars Tom?" "Why, we do." "En who gits de apology?" "The United States. Or, we can take whichever we please. We can take the apology, if we want to, and let the gov'ment take the money." "How much money will it be, Mars Tom?" "Well, in an aggravated case like this one, it will be at least three dollars apiece, and I don't know but more." "Well, den, we'll take de money, Mars Tom, blame de 'pology. Hain't dat yo' notion, too? En hain't it yourn, Huck?" We talked it over a little and allowed that that was as good a way as any, so we agreed to take the money. It was a new business to me, and I asked Tom if countries always apologized when they had done wrong, and he says— "Yes,- the little ones does." We was sailing around examining the Pyramids, you know, and now we soared up and roosted on the flat top of the biggest one, and found

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it was just like what the man said in the Sunday school. It was like four pairs of stairs that starts broad at the bottom and slants up and comes together in a point at the top, only these stair-steps couldn't be clumb the way you climb other stairs; no, for each step was as high as your chin ; and you have to be boosted up from behind. The two other Pyramids warn't far away, and the people moving about on the sand between looked like bugs crawling, we was so high above them. Tom he couldn't hold himself he was so worked up with gladness and astonishment to be in such a celebrated place, and he just dripped history from every pore, seemed to me. He said he couldn't scarcely believe he was standing on the very identical spot the prince flew from on the Bronze Horse. It was in the Arabian Night times, he said. Somebody give the prince a bronze horse with a peg in its shoulder, and he could git on him and fly through the air like a bird, and go all over the world, and steer it by turning the peg, and fly high or low and land wherever he wanted to. When he got done telling it there was one of them uncomfortable silences that comes, you know, when a person has been telling a whopper and you feel sorry for him and wish you could think of some way to change the subject and let him down easy, but git stuck and don't see no way, and before you can pull your mind together and do something, that silence has got in and spread itself and done the business. I was embarrassed, Jim he was embarrassed, and neither of us couldn't say a word. Well, Tom he glowered at me a minute, and says— "Come, out with it. What do you think?" I says— "Tom Sawyer, you don't believe that, yourself." "What's the reason I don't? What's to bender me?" "There's one thing to bender you: it couldn't happen, that's all." "What's the reason it couldn't happen?" "You tell me the reason it could happen." "This balloon is a good enough reason it could happen, I should reckon." "Why is it?" "Why is it? I never saw such an idiot. Ain't this balloon and the bronze horse the same thing under different names?" "No, they're not. One is a balloon and the other's a horse. It's very different. Next you'll be saying a house and a cow is the same thing."

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"By Jackson, Huck's got him agin! Dey ain't no wigglin' outer dat!" "Shut your head, Jim; you don't know what you're talking about. And Huck don't. Look here, Huck, I'll make it plain to you, so you can understand. You see, it ain't the mere form that's got anything to do with their being similar or unsimilar, it's the principle involved; and the principle is the same in both. Don't you see, now?" I turned it over in my mind, and says— "Tom, it ain't no use. Principles is all very well, but they don't git around that one big fact, that the thing that a balloon can do ain't no sort of proof of what a horse can do." "Shucks, Huck, you don't get the idea at all. Now look here a minute—it's perfectly plain. Don't we fly through the air?" "Yes." "Very well. Don't we fly high or fly low, just as we please?" "Yes." "Don't we steer whichever way we want to?" "Yes." "And don't we land when and where we please?" "Yes." "How do we move the balloon and steer it?" "By touching the buttons." "Now I reckon the thing is clear to you at last. In the other case the moving and steering was done by turning a peg. We touch a button, the prince turned a peg. There ain't an atom of difference, you see. I knowed I could git it through your head if I stuck to it long enough." He felt so happy he begun to whistle. But me and Jim was silent, so he broke off surprised, and says— "Looky here, Huck Finn, don't you see it yet?" I says— "Tom Sawyer, I want to ask you some questions." "Go ahead," he says, and I see Jim chirk up to listen. "As I understand it, the whole thing is in the buttons and the peg—the rest ain't of no consequence. A button is one shape, a peg is another shape, but that ain't any matter?" "No, that ain't any matter, as long as they've both got the same power." "All right, then. What is the power that's in a candle and in a match?" "It's the fire."

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"It's the same in both, then?" "Yes, just the same in both." "All right. Suppose I set fire to a carpenter shop with a match, what will happen to that carpenter shop?" "She'll burn up." "And suppose I set fire to this Pyramid with a candle—will she burn up?" "Of course she won't." "All right. Now the fire's the same, both times. Why does the shop burn, and the Pyramid don't?" "Because the Pyramid can't burn." "Aha! and a horse can't fiyl" "My Ian', ef Huck ain't got him agin! Huck's landed him high en dry dis time, I tell you! Hit's de smartes' trap I ever see a body walk inter—en ef I—" But Jim was so full of laugh he got to strangling and couldn't go on, and Tom was that mad to see how neat I had floored him, and turned his own argument agin him and knocked him all to rags and flinders with it that all he could manage to say was that whenever he heard me and Jim try to argue it made him ashamed of the human race. I never said nothing, I was feeling pretty well satisfied. When I have got the best of a person that way, it ain't my way to go around crowing about it the way some people does, for I consider that if I was in his place I wouldn't wish him to crow over me. It's better to be generous, that's what I think.

CHAPTER 13

B.

' Y AND BY we left Jim to float around up there in the neighborhood of the Pyramids, and we dumb down to the hole where you go into the tunnel, and went in with some Arabs and candles, and away in there in the middle of the Pyramid we found a room and a big stone box in it where they used to keep that king, just as the man in the Sunday school said, but he was gone, now, somebody had got him. But I didn't take no interest in the place, because there could be ghosts there, of course,- not fresh ones, but I don't like no kind. So then we come out and got some little donkeys and rode a piece, and then went in a boat another piece, and then more donkeys, and got to Cairo,- and all the way the road was as smooth and beautiful a road as ever I see, and had tall date pams on both sides, and naked children everywhere, and the men was as red as copper, and fine and strong and handsome. And the city was a curiosity. Such narrow streets—why, they were just lanes, and crowded with people with turbans, and women with veils, and everybody rigged out in blazing bright clothes and all sorts of colors, and you wondered how the camels and the people got by each other in such narrow little cracks, but they done it—a perfect jam, you see, and everybody noisy. The stores warn't big enough to turn around in, but you didn't have to go in; the storekeeper sat tailor fashion on his counter, smoking his snaky long pipe, and had his things where he could reach them to sell, and he was just as good as in the street, for the camel-loads brushed him as they went by. Now and then a grand person flew by in a carriage with fancy dressed men running and yelling in front of it and whacking anybody with a long rod that didn't get out of the way. And by and by along comes the Sultan riding horseback at the head of a procession, and fairly took your breath away his clothes was so splendid; and everybody fell flat and laid on his stomach while he went by. I forgot, but a

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feller helped me remember. He was one that had a rod and run in front. There was churches, but they don't know enough to keep Sunday, they keep Friday and break the Sabbath. You have to take off your shoes when you go in. There was crowds of men and boys in the church, setting in groups on the stone floor and making no end of noise—getting their lessons by heart, Tom said, out of the Koran, which they think is a Bible, and people that knows better knows enough to not let on. I never see such a big church in my life before, and most awful high, it was; it made you dizzy to look up ; our village church at home ain't a circumstance to it; if you was to put it in there, people would think it was a dry-goods box. What I wanted to see was a dervish, because I was interested in dervishes on accounts of the one that played the trick on the camel driver. So we found a lot in a kind of a church, and they called themselves Whirling Dervishes,- and they did whirl, too, I never see anything like it. They had tall sugar-loaf hats on, and linen petticoats; and they spun and spun and spun, round and round like tops, and the petticoats stood out on a slant, and it was the prettiest thing I ever see, and made me drunk to look at it. They was all Moslems, Tom said, and when I asked him what a Moslem was, he said it was a person that wasn't a Presbyterian. So there is plenty of them in Missouri, though I didn't know it before. We didn't see half there was to see in Cairo, because Tom was in such a sweat to hunt out places that was celebrated in history. We had a most tiresome time to find the granary where Joseph stored up the grain before the famine, and when we found it it warn't worth much to look at, being such an old tumble-down wreck, but Tom was satisfied, and made more fuss over it than I would make if I stuck a nail in my foot. How he ever found that place was too many for me. We passed as much as forty just like it before we come to it, and any of them would a done for me, but none but just the right one would suit him ; I never see anybody so particular as Tom Sawyer. The minute he struck the right one he reconnized it as easy as I would reconnize my other shirt if I had one, but how he done it he couldn't any more tell than he could fly ; he said so himself. Then we hunted a long time for the house where the boy lived that learned the cadi how to try the case of the old olives and the new ones,

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and said it was out of the Arabian Nights and he would tell me and Jim about it when he got time. Well, we hunted and hunted till I was ready to drop, and I wanted Tom to give it up and come next day and git somebody that knowed the town and could talk Missourian and could go straight to the place; but no, he wanted to find it himself, and nothing else would answer. So on we went. Then at last the remarkablest thing happened I ever see. The house was gone—gone hundreds of years ago—every last rag of it gone but just one mud brick. Now a person wouldn't ever believe that a backwoods Missouri boy that hadn't ever been in that town before could go and hunt that place over and find that brick, but Tom Sawyer done it. I know he done it, because I see him do it. I was right by his very side at the time, and see him see the brick and see him reconnize it. Well, I says to myself, how does he do it? is it knowledge, or is it instink? Now there's the facts, just as they happened: let everybody explain it their own way. I've ciphered over it a good deal, and it's my opinion that some of it is knowledge but the main bulk of it is instink. The reason is this. Tom put the brick in his pocket to give to a museum with his name on it and the facts when he went home, and I slipped it out and put another brick considerable like it in its place, and he didn't know the difference—but there was a difference, you see. I think that settles it—it's mostly instink, not knowledge. Instink tells him where the exact place is for the brick to be in, and so he reconnizes it by the place it's in, not by the look of the brick. If it was knowledge, not instink, he would know the brick again by the look of it the next time he seen it—which he didn't. So it shows that for all the brag you hear about knowledge being such a wonderful thing, instink is worth forty of it for real unerringness. Jim says the same. When we got back Jim dropped down and took us in, and there was a young man there with a red skull cap and tassel on and a beautiful blue silk jacket and baggy trousers with a shawl around his waist and pistols in it that could talk English and wanted to hire to us as guide and take us to Mecca and Medina and Central Africa and evcrywheres for a hah a dollar a day and his keep, and we hired him and left, and piled on the power, and by the time we was through dinner we was over the place where the Israelites crossed the Red Sea when Pharaoh tried to overtake them and was caught by the waters. We stopped, then, and had a good look at the place, and it done Jim good to see it.

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He said he could see it all, now, just the way it happened; he could see the Israelites walking along between the walls of water, and the Egyptians coming, from away off yonder, hurrying all they could, and see them start in as the Israelites went out, and then, when they was all in, see the walls tumble together and drown the last man of them. Then we piled on the power again and rushed away and huvvered over Mount Sinai, and saw the place where Moses broke the tables of stone, and where the children of Israel camped in the plain and worshiped the golden calf, and it was all just as interesting as could be, and the guide knowed every place as well as I know the village at home. But we had an accident, now, and it fetched all the plans to a standstill. Tom's old ornery corn-cob pipe had got so old and swelled and warped that she couldn't hold together any longer, notwithstanding the strings and bandages, but caved in and went to pieces. Tom he didn't know what to do. The Professor's pipe wouldn't answer, it warn't anything but a mershum, and a person that's got used to a cob pipe knows it lays a long ways over all the other pipes in this world, and you can't git him to smoke any other. He wouldn't take mine, I couldn't persuade him. So there he was. He thought it over, and said we must scour around and see if we could roust out one in Egypt or Arabia or around in some of these countries, but the guide said no, it warn't no use, they didn't have them. So Tom was pretty glum for a little while, then he chirked up and said he'd got the idea and knowed what to do. He says— "I've got another corn-cob pipe, and it's a prime one, too, and nearly new. It's laying on the rafter that's right over the kitchen stove at home in the village. Jim, you and the guide will go and get it, and me and Huck will camp here on Mount Sinai till you come back." "But Mars Tom, we couldn't ever find de village. I could find de pipe, 'caze I knows de kitchen, but my Ian', we can't ever find de village, nur Sent Louis, nur none o' dem places. We don't know de way, Mars Tom." That was a fact, and it stumped Tom for a minute. Then he said— "Looky here, it can be done, sure; and I'll tell you how. You set your compass and sail west as straight as a dart, till you find the United States. It ain't any trouble, because it's the first land you'll strike, the other side of the Atlantic. If it's daytime when you strike it, bulge right

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on, straight west from the upper part of the Florida coast, and in an hour and three quarters you'll hit the mouth of the Mississippi—at the speed that I'm going to send you. You'll be so high up in the air that the earth will be curved considerable—sorter like a washbowl turned upside down—and you'll see a raft of rivers crawling around every which way, long before you get there, and you can pick out the Mississippi without any trouble. Then you can follow the river north nearly an hour and three quarters, till you see the Ohio come in; then you want to look sharp, because you're getting near. Away up to your left you'll see another thread coming in—that's the Missouri and is a little above St. Louis. You'll come down low, then, so as you can examine the villages as you spin along. You'll pass about twenty-five in the next fifteen minutes, and you'll reconnize ours when you see it—and if you don't, you can yell down and ask." "Ef it's dat easy, Mars Tom, I reckon we kin do it—yassir, I knows we kin." The guide was sure of it, too, and thought that he could learn to stand his watch in a little while. "Jim can learn you the whole thing in a half an hour," Tom said. "This balloon's as easy to manage as a canoe." Tom got out the chart and marked out the course and measured it, and says— "To go back west is the shortest way, you see. It's only about seven thousand miles. If you went east, and so on around, it's over twice as far." Then he says to the guide, "I want you both to watch the tell-tale all through the watches, and whenever it don't mark three hundred miles an hour, you go higher or drop lower till you find a storm-current that's going your way. There's a hundred miles an hour in this old thing without any wind to help. There's two-hundred-mile gales to be found, any time you want to hunt for them." "We'll hunt for them, sir." "See that you do. Sometimes you may have to go up a couple of miles, and it'll be pison cold, but most of the time you'll find your storm a good deal lower. If you can only strike a cyclone—that's the ticket for you! You'll see by the Professor's books that they travel west in these latitudes; and they travel low, too." Then he ciphered on the time and says—

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"Seven thousand miles, three hundred miles an hour—you can make the trip in a day—twenty-four hours. This is Thursday,- you'll be back here Saturday afternoon. Come, now, hustle out some blankets and food ^nd books and things for me and Huck, and you can start right along. There ain't no occasion to fool around—I want a smoke, and the quicker you fetch that pipe the better." All hands jumped for the things, and in eight minutes our things was out and the balloon was ready for America. So we shook hands good-bye, and Tom give his last orders: "It's 10 minutes to 2 p.m., now, Mount Sinai time. In 24 hours you'll be home, and it'll be 6 to-morrow morning, village time. When you strike the village, land a little back of the top of the hill, in the woods, out of sight; then you rush down, Jim, and shove these letters in the post office, and if you see anybody stirring, pull your slouch down over your face so they won't know you. Then you go and slip in the back way, to the kitchen and git the pipe, and lay this piece of paper on the kitchen table and put something on it to hold it, and then slide out and git away and don't let Aunt Polly catch a sight of you, nor nobody else. Then you jump for the balloon and shove for Mount Sinai three hundred miles an hour. You won't have lost more than an hour. You'll start back at 7 or 8 a.m., village time, and be here in 24 hours, arriving at 2 or 3 p.m., Mount Sinai time." Tom he read the piece of paper to us. He had wrote on it— "THURSDAY APTERNOON. Tom Sawyer the Enonort sends his love to Aunt Polly from MOUNT SlNAl where the Ark was, and so does Huck Finn and she will get it to-morrow morning half past six. * "TOM SAWYER THE ERRONORT." "That'll make her eyes bug out and the tears come," he says. Then he says— "Stand by! One—two—three—away you go!" And away she did go! Why, she seemed to whiz out of sight in a second. Then we found a most comfortable cave that looked out over that whole big plain, and there we camped to wait for the pipe. *This misplacing of the Ark is probably Huck's error, not Tom's. — M.T.

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The balloon come back all right, and brung the pipe,- but Aunt Polly had catched Jim when he was getting it, and anybody can guess what happened: she sent for Tom. So Jim he says— "Mars Tom, she's out on de porch wid her eye sot on de sky a-layin' for you, en she say she ain't gwyne to budge from dah tell she gits hold of you. Dey's gwyne to be trouble, Mars Tom, 'deed dey is." So then we shoved for home, and not feeling very gay, neither.

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TOM SAWYER, DETECTIVE

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INTRODUCTION I

IN 1895, with sales obviously in mind, Mark Twain turned once more to his popular boys. For the locale of the new narrative—"Tom Sawyer, Detective"—he selected the places made famous in Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn; for the action he simply took over a seventeenth-century Danish family tragedy and converted it into a detective story. Making a detective of Tom, we may assume, was done to exploit the enormous market for detective fiction that Sherlock Holmes had developed and that Mark Twain himself had just invaded with Pudd'nhead Wilson.1 But despite such a combination of elements with popular appeal, "Tom Sawyer, Detective" never came near to being a best seller—though it paid well enough for the short time spent on it. Because Mark Twain left no detailed record, the history of its composition must be put together from fragmentary evidence. There is enough of this to merit two major inferences: first, that there was an older version of the story that is no longer extant and, second, that the story as we have it was written during the first three weeks of January 1895. The case for an older version rests on (1) mention in two letters written in the spring of 1893 of a narrative that his daughter Clara later labeled "Tom Sawyer, Detective"; (2) a reference by Mark Twain in the fall of 1893 to a "Tom Sawyer Mystery," a title he never used, so far as we know, for the present form of the story; (3) an allusion to a character by the name of Benny,- and primarily (4) all of these before Mark Twain heard of a Danish murder on which the present story is based. J Mark Twain had been aware of the conventions of detective fiction long before Pudd'nhead Wilson. In the 1870s he had burlesqued the Alan Pinkerton detective stories in .Simon Wheeler, Amateur Detective, w h i c h he wrote first as a play and later as a novel. In 1882, he had again burlesqued the Pinkerton-type story in "The Stolen White Elephant." Franklin R. Rogers produces evidence to indicate that he even dallied with the notion in 1879-1880 of t u r n i n g Huckleberry Finn into a burlesque d e t e c t i v e .story (AITBur. pp. 127-139).

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In a footnote to a letter in My Father, Mark Twain Clara states that her father had "Tom Sawyer, Detective" in mind when he wrote from New York shortly after 5 April 1893: I have been all day mapping out an adventurous summer for Huck and Tom and Jim. As a result I have two closely written pages of notes, enough for the whole book. There will be mysterious murders in the first chapter. The book will be devoted to finding out who committed them. Tomorrow I shall go right at it.2 The "adventurous summer" described by Mark Twain, however, cannot be that of the story as we know it, which has only a single murder and does not have Jim as a character. But Jim was in the present story at one time. A portion of the manuscript, pages 15-20, begins, "Our nigger Jim was with us." What follows is an account of how the boys with their treasure money had freed Jim's wife and "deef and dumb" daughter and how Jim from then on insisted on taking care of the boys wherever they went. The passage, evidently deleted in a missing typescript, has at least two earmarks of being copied from something else. The manuscript for the section is exceptionally clean (only two changes in 485 words), and the handwriting is larger and more free-flowing than usual. At the end of the passage the author's handwriting abruptly reassumes its customary characteristics. Apparently Clara was not simply guessing when she identified a story containing Jim as "Tom Sawyer, Detective." In the same volume she included part of a letter written by her father that seems to bear on the story: Yesterday I worked all day on a plan for a story. I got the plan all written down—two pages of notepaper and it was a satisfactory day's work. I got to work at two in the afternoon and by six-thirty had written 2,500 words, the first chapter and part of the second, and the story already under swift movement. I read over the M.S. and made scarcely a correction in it; it read as I wanted it to, although written so fast. 3 The author could not have continued at this rate on the narrative very long, however, because on 12 April he left New York for Chicago to confer about his typesetting machine. In May he rejoined his family 2 .\ ll:\ 17, p. 106 Hie re is no date on the letter a> printed hut it tells ot d i n i n g v\ ith the Kiplmgs at the home of Mary Mapes Dodge. Paine indicates that the date of this dinner at the Dodge home was 5 April (MTK. p. 964). •!A'IFMT, p. 79. A-, W as her custom in this v o l u m e , Clara fails to date the letter.

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in Europe, and in August returned to New York to see if he could salvage anything from his investments. That fall he was again working on it—and calling it "Tom Sawyer's Mystery." On 6 November he wrote Susy that he had returned to the narrative and that it made him "jolly."4 To Livy four days later he reported more progress: Dear Sweetheart, it is getting toward noon &. my day's work not begun yet. How the time does get away from a body! Still, with all the interruptions, I am making good progress with "Tom Sawyer's Mystery," for I have written 10,000 words, which is one-seventh of a book like Huck Finn or Prince & Pauper. The last two days I have written very slowly & cautiously, & made my steps sure. It is delightful work &. a delightful subject. The story tells itself.5 On the same day he put it somewhat differently to Mrs. A. W. Fairbanks: "I am remaining here a few days longer amusing myself with writing a book while I wait for a business matter to complete itself. . . . I can't put my book down at this stage lest I lose the thread of the story and get side-tracked."6 There were few such agreeable moments for writing, however, for Clemens was spending most of his time with H. H. Rogers, the Standard Oil executive who had become his financial advisor, trying to iron out business affairs. This version of the narrative may not have gone much beyond the 10,000 words mentioned. The appearance of the name Benny in a letter to Livy, then in Paris, on 4 January provides more information that appears to be relevant: No, dear sweetheart, I am not acquainted with the girl yet, &. therefore cannot say what sort of person she is going to be until I find out. I called her Benny because I liked the name. I guess you know a little more about the story by this time, for I judge you had not received the second batch when you wrote. I haven't added anything to the second batch. It is a long time since I have had an idle hour—or allowed Mr. Rogers to have one, for that matter. 7 Dixon Wecter, in his edition of Clemens' letters to Livy, surmised that Benny was a character in a narrative called "Tale of the Dime4

LLMT, p. 276. 'LLMT, p. 277. "AITAIF. p. 272. "LLA1T, pp. 286-287. Mrs. Clemens might well have asked about a character named Benny because Ben was one of the CIcmenscs' nicknames for Clara. f

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Novel Maiden" which he was writing simply to entertain Livy. But Wecter had to admit that there is no girl by that name in any portions of the "Tale" that have been preserved. 8 Since Benny does appear in "Tom Sawyer, Detective," there is reason to believe that she was also in the early version that Mark Twain was calling "Tom Sawyer's Mystery." If so, we can place two portions of that early version in Paris where they would be available when Mark Twain came to write "Tom Sawyer, Detective." There is no indication that he worked further on "Tom Sawyer's Mystery" in 1894. This was the year his publishing firm went bankrupt and the Paige typesetting machine in which he had invested over $200,000 was finally acknowledged to be a failure. During the year he traveled back and forth between Europe and America, always for business reasons. Such time as he had for writing he devoted chiefly to ]oan oj Arc. By the end of 1894, then, he had partly finished a murder story involving Tom and Huck and Jim, but he had not yet heard of the source of the main plot in "Tom Sawyer, Detective." fust at the turn of the year he did hear of it. Its possibilities so excited him that he was able to start and finish "Tom Sawyer, Detective" in three weeks during "vacations" from Joan of Arc. On the second of January he wrote to Rogers that he had "a first-rate subject for a book. It kept me awake all night, and I began it and completed it in my m i n d . The minute I finish loan I will take it up." 9 What had happened was that at a social gathering in Paris he had heard Anna Hegermann-Lindecrone tell the fictionalized story of Sorcn Jensen Quist, a seventeenth-century Danish pastor.10 Obviously he did not wait until he finished ]oan to take it up because he wrote to Rogers on 23 January saying that, by turning out 8,000 words two or three days S

LLMT, p. 286. •'MTHHR, p. 116. 1() The fictionalized version appeared in 1829 in The Minister of Veilby, a novel written by Steen Steenson Blicher, a popular Danish poet and fiction writer. One of the first to notice Mark Twain's debt to Blicher was Valdcmar Thorensen, who queried Mark Twain about his indebtedness before making it public in "Mark Twain og Blicher," Maancds-Magasinet (1909). A reply to Thorensen from Isabel V. Lyon, Mark Twain's secretary, is dated Redding, Connecticut, 9 December 1908: MR. VALDEMAR THORENSEN! Dear sir! Mr. Clemens directs me to write for him in reply to your letter in regard to the similarity between Tom Sawyer D e t e c t i v e and "The Vicar ol Wcilby. Mr. Clemens is not f a m i l i a r w i t h d a n i s h , and does not read gcrman l l u e n t l y , and has not

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before, he had finished "the Huck Finn tale that lies in your safe, and am satisfied with it."11 The tale in the safe was probably the extant typescript now in the Kansas University library,- like the holograph manuscript in the Mark Twain Papers it lacks chapter 11, or well over 8,000 words. Although the Bachellor Syndicate of New York in mid-January had asked for a story of 5,000 words, Clemens told Rogers that the best he could do was to offer them the one he had just completed—"Tom Sawyer, Detective": It makes 27 or 28,000 words, and is really written for grown folk, though I expect young folk to read it, too. It transfers to the banks of the Mississippi the incidents of a strange murder which was committed in Sweden in olden times. I'll have it type-written here and corrected ready for the press,- then I will ship it to you and ask Miss Harrison to hive it in the safe, till I hear from Bachellor (and also from Walker of the Cosmopolitan). . . . I'll refer applicants for a sight of "T.S., D." to you or Miss Harrison. I must find something for you to do in these dull times.12 read the hook you mention, nor any translation or adoption from it that he is aware of. The matter constituting "Tom Sawyer Detective is original with mr. Clemens, who has never been consciously a plagrarist. You may therefore deny most authoritatively that this or any other matter that has appeared under mr. Clemens name is based upon the work of any other. Very truly yours I. V. Lyon seer. (This letter appears in Arne Hall Jensen, Blicher Transatlantisk [Copenhagen, 1953], p. 18n.) Possibly Thorensen's prod was what made Mark Twain relatively unresponsive when A. B. Paine, at the request of J. Christian Bay, queried him about the identity of the story and of the person who had told it to him. Paine reported back to Bay that Mark Twain could remember only that the story had been told him by "the lady of a diplomat," and that the author did not seem to be much interested in the question since he did not consider the narrative a creditable performance. Bay, still curious about the source of the story because of the occasional charges of plagiarism in Danish papers, went back to Paine after Mark Twain had died. In May 1913 Paine was able to report that the lady was an American married to a Northern diplomat. The information was all that Bay needed to identify the woman as the former Anna Lillic Greenough, wife of Johan Hcrrik Hegermann-Lindencrone, the Danish Ambassador to the United States from 1872 to 1880. See J. Christian Bay, "Tom Sawyer, Detective: The Origin of the Plot" in Essays Offered to Herbert Putnam by His Colleagues and Friends on His Thirtieth Anniversary as Librarian of Congress, edited by W. W. Bishop & Andrew Kcogh (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1929), pp. 80-88. " M T / f J / R , p. 121. ' - A I T H / / R , pp. 121-122. Mark Twain was wrong about the story's being Swedish since the events occurred in Vcilby, Denmark. Miss Harrison was {Catherine I. Harrison, H. H. Rogers' secretary. Walker was (ohn Brisben Walker, editor of Cosmopolitan.

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On 7 or 8 February he had typescripts of the complete story sent to Rogers, and two days later reported to Mrs. Fairbanks that he had completed three books, one of them presumably being "Tom Sawyer, Detective."13 In the upper left-hand corner of the first page of the manuscript he wrote "Paris, May 9, 1895" beneath a note: "This has not yet been published, Brer. Pomeroy. It will appear in Harper's during this year. Don't let the indiscreet see this manuscript."14 The following month he was still expecting 1895 publication since in a letter dated 25 June he predicted: "Presently in two or three numbers of Harper's Monthly I'll have a little story called Tom Sawyer, Detective.' Later Harper will issue it in book form, padded and with some other matter."10 Why publication was delayed a year is still not clear—unless it was that Harpers did not want it to overlap with ]oan of Arc, which was running in their magazine from April 1895 to April 1896, or even to follow it too closely. The holograph manuscript is remarkably clean, indicating rapid, confident writing with little editing. In its 124 pages there are fewer than 150 changes in wording, including additions, substitutions, and deletions. Most of these are of the kind that an author makes during the original writing process. A majority of the substitutions, for example, follow the cancellations on the same line and cannot, therefore, be later revisions. Those that look as though they might be later revisions eliminate partial ambiguities, sharpen the dialect, and, in the customary fashion, alter some of the figures (forty miles become fifty miles, one o'clock becomes two o'clock). Twelve of the changes are due to the fact that after referring to each of them the first time Mark Twain mixed up Bud Dixon and Hal Clayton. Instead of exchanging the names the first time they appear, he exchanged them in all later appearances. Everything considered, the manuscript indicates that the writing went fast, and that Mark Twain could easily have composed the entire narrative between 3 and 21 January. In late March 1895 the author reached an agreement to publish the story in either Harper's Monthly or Harper's Weekly and subsequently in book form. He was to receive $2600 for its serialization, 15 13

MTHHR, p. 129, and AtTMF, p. 276. "B'rcr Pomeroy" was probably Frederick William Pomeroy (1857-1924), a British sculptor, in whose Paris residence Clemens resided. 1; 'SLC to unknown correspondent. 25 June 189,5. u

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percent royalty on the retail costs of the first 5,000 copies of the book, and 20 percent royalty on all copies thereafter. Two years after Harpers' first book publication, he was to be permitted to include it in any subscription edition of his books.16 The story first appeared in Harper's New Monthly Magazine for August and September 1896 with illustrations by A. B. Frost that Clemens thought "mighty good." In book form it appeared in Tom Sawyer Abroad, Tom Sawyer, Detective, and Other Stories which was copyrighted by Harper on 25 August and published 17 November 1896, Clemens having told the publishers to "pad" the volume with anything they pleased.17 Chatto & Windus issued it in London as Tom Sawyer Detective as Told by Huck Finn and Other Tales on 8 December, with the title page dated 1897. In a footnote to the American editions Mark Twain indicated that the incidents of the story were not inventions but facts. The statement is not precisely true because, possibly unknowingly, he was using a fictionalized version of the facts as his source. A brief summary of the facts and fictions will indicate how heavily. In 1607 a Danish pastor by the name of Soren Jensen Quist sent his wife with a trusted servant and a herdsman to sell oxen in a neighboring village. She and the herdsman returned but the servant was never seen again. Soon, enemies of the pastor began spreading the story that he had killed the servant. Foremost among these was one Jens Mikkelson, whose courtship of Quist's daughter had been thwarted by the pastor himself. In 1612 a court appearance came to nothing when the herdsman swore he had no evidence against Quist. In 1622, however, human bones were dug up on the pastor's property adjoining the cemetery. Mikkelson renewed his accusations, and this time the herdsman testified against the pastor. Ultimately Quist, who was undoubtedly innocent, was convicted and, in the fall of 1626, was executed. The tragic affair was largely forgotten when Steen Steenson Blicher, a popular Danish poet and fiction writer, revived it in 1829 in a novel entitled The Minister of Veilby. To add excitement and poignancy, Blicher altered the facts somewhat. He had Quist, for example, be16 H. M. Alden to SLC, 3 April 1895, The story appeared in several subscription editions published by the American Publishing Company before Harper bought all the rights to Mark Twain's books in 1904 and subscription publication stopped. 17 MTHHR, p. 243.

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come confused at the trial and, overwhelmed by the evidence, become convinced that he had indeed murdered the servant while in a state of somnabulism. His most sensational change was to have the "murdered" man reappear twenty-one years after the execution. The Minister of Veilby was promptly translated from Danish into German, but there was no English translation until 1928. Mark Twain could have read the German translation, but there is no evidence that contradicts his assertion that he heard the story rather than read it. But if he did only hear it, Madame Hegermann-Lindencrome must have recounted Blicher's plot in superlative fashion, and Mark Twain must have been an unusually attentive listener, for the parallels between "Tom Sawyer, Detective" and the Blicher novel are numerous and exact. Silas Phelps, for example, is a close counterpart of Soren Quist, Benny of Mette Quist, Brace Dunlap of the villainous suitor, and fubiter Dunlap of the suitor's younger brother. In both stories the villain has been thwarted in his suit for the minister's daughter by the minister himself; the younger brother gets himself employed by the minister, annoys him beyond endurance, and is finally struck by him ; the murder of the younger brother is faked; the minister declines a chance to escape and "confesses" because he knows he does strange things while sleepwalking,- and the "murdered" man reappears.18 The main difference is that Soren Quist had no Tom Sawyer to unravel it all and save him from the gallows. The chief reason Mark Twain decided to employ the Danish narrative may have been the ease with which it permitted him to introduce such favorite fictive devices and scenes as male twins, a false deaf mute, the fear of ghosts, swindles perpetrated on the innocent, murder, mistaken identities, and a dramatic trial. It permitted him, too, to cast Tom once again in the role of detective (Tom had previously played detective in discovering the whereabouts of the treasure in Tom Sawyer and had done things "detective fashion" in freeing Jim on Silas Phelps's farm in Huckleberry Finn). The Danish story allowed him again to make Tom an instrument of justice who is showered with tearful gratitude and great sums of money. Mark Twain must have been especially pleased to discover how easily Tom and Huck fit into the famous roles of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Wat'NWcKeithan provides a fuller exposition of these.1 parallels in Court Trials, pp. 169-17S.

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son. All he had to do was to make Tom even shrewder than he had been, and Huck even more of the admiring straight man. That he was thereby turning both of the boys into caricatures may not have occurred to him—or bothered him if it did. The question of how much the "Tom Sawyer Mystery" contributed to "Tom Sawyer, Detective" can never be finally resolved unless the manuscript of the earlier story turns up. We know that Tom and Huck were in the "Mystery" and that Huck was probably the narrator. Jim must have been deleted from the later story when it became evident that he would not be useful in the Blicher plot. Possibly the male twins come from the original story. Almost certainly the business of the diamonds does, for a passage in which fake Dunlap says that he and his friends stole the gems from a St. Louis jewelry store is canceled in the "Tom Sawyer, Detective" manuscript and, more significantly, the importance of the diamonds in the plot fades once the boys get to Arkansas and elements from the Blicher story take over. The five moles on Jubiter Dunlap's left leg (or some such birthmark) must in the "Mystery" have been on his face or other clearly visible part of the "Detective" body since Mark Twain wrote a memo to himself on the first page of the manuscript saying, "Change birth-mark to leg." The purpose of the change was to discard an identifying mark that many might have recognized and substitute one—Jubiter's habit of drawing a cross with his finger on his cheek in moments of stress—that only Tom Sawyer would recognize. It is clear that the Phelpses were not in the earlier detective story. Silas is introduced into "Tom Sawyer, Detective" as a counterpart of Soren Quist. As such he fits admirably since he had already been presented in Huckleberry Finn as a minister with his own church.19 Despite Harper's advertising, American reviewers gave "Tom Sawyer, Detective" little attention. Even the Literary World failed to review it though Harper featured it in the center box of a full-page advertisement in that journal. 20 Such neglect was, perhaps, understandable since the story first appeared in Harper's Monthly in two 19 I am indebted for insights into the possible relations between the two stories to "Mark Twain's Transplanted Murder Mystery," an unpublished manuscript by Arthur Geffen. 20 The advertisement called it "a startlingly dramatic story of the Middle West in the last generation, with drawings by A. B. Frost." Literary World 27, no. 15 (25 July 1896): 240.

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installments, and since it was published in book form only as one of nineteen short works following Tom Sawyer Abroad. Moreover, it was generally considered a longish short story rather than a novel because the title was always enclosed in quotation marks rather than italicized. In the many critical essays designed at the turn of the century to assess Mark Twain's contribution to literature the narrative is recognized only in a short self-serving critique in Harper's Monthly in which the writer proclaimed that the "immortal pair" both as amateur detectives and as participants in foreign travel exhibit "a toughness of deeds and of speech which must interest the whole world."21 In England, "Tom Sawyer, Detective" was first published in book form by Chatto &. Windus as the lead story in a volume that contained such other works as "The Californian's Tale," "How to Tell a Story," and "What Paul Bourget Thinks of Us." The Academy found Tom to be in "particularly good form" and Mark Twain's humor "as fresh and entertaining as ever."22 The Speaker welcomed the revival of the "illustrious and inimitable boy" and regretted that some critics had dealt rather severely with his new adventures. 23 The Speaker's regret did not deter further criticism three weeks later when the Athenaeum lambasted the new adventures for being dull. Even Tom, the Athenaeum felt, was less attractive. 24 Probably the Spectator best summarized the range of English reviews when it said, "Once again we have Tom Sawyer to life, and, though we cannot forget there are weaknesses and absurdities in his adventures as an amateur detective, he is, of course, inimitable." 20 Because the story has usually been printed with other works, especially Tom Sawyer Abroad, it is impossible to estimate its sales or the income that Mark Twain or his estate received from it. By no means, however, was it a commercial failure, for it has appeared by itself in four American editions and two English, and it has been combined with other works, almost always Tom Sawyer Abroad, in at least eighteen American and eight English editions. In addition, it has been translated into such languages as German, French, and Spanish. Ne21

Harpcr's New Monthly Magazine 94, no. 554 (May 1897): [982]. ^Academy 51, no. 1287 (I January 1897): 18. ^Speaker, 30 January 1897,p. 135. 24 Athenaeum, 10 February 1897, p. 244. ^Spectator 79, no. 3603 ( 1 7 July 189 7 ): 89.

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vertheless, it is not a work considered with great admiration, even by Mark Twain himself. On 1 June 1896, shortly before the story appeared in Harper's Monthly, he confided to his notebook what must have been a judgment on the narrative: "What a curious thing a 'detective' story is. And was there ever one that the author needn't be ashamed of, except The Murders in the Rue Morgue'?"26 He need not have been altogether ashamed of it since there are moments, especially at the beginning, where Huck is much like the Huck of old. Bernard DeVoto, moreover, finds in its exhibition of native shrewdness, the process of identification and proof, "something basic in America."27 26

Notehook 30 (1 June 1896), TS p. 32. MTAm, p. 301.

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%m Sawyer, Detective AS TOLD BY HUCK FINN

CHAPTER 1

W'ELL, IT WASthe next spring after me and Tom Sawyer set our old nigger Jim free the time he was chained up for a runaway slave down there on Tom's uncle Silas's farm in Arkansaw. The frost was working out of the ground and out of the air, too, and it was getting closer and closer onto harefoot time every day,- and next it would be marble time, and next mumbletypeg, and next tops and hoops, and next kites, and then right away it would be summer and going in a-swimming. It just makes a boy homesick to look ahead like that and see how far off summer is. Yes, and it sets him to sighing and saddening around, and there's something the matter with him, he don't know what. But anyway, he gets out by himself and mopes and thinks,- and mostly he hunts for a lonesome place high up on the hill in the edge of the woods and sets there and looks away off on the big Mississippi down there a-reaching miles and miles around the points where the timber looks smoky and dim it's so far off and still, and everything's so solemn it seems like everybody you've loved is dead and gone and you most wish you was dead and gone too, and done with it all. Don't you know what that is? It's spring fever. That is what the name of it is. And when you've got it, you want—oh, you don't quite know what it is you do want, but it just fairly makes your heart ache, you want it so! It seems to you that mainly what you want is, to get away ;

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get away from the same old tedious things you're so used to seeing and so tired of, and see something new. That is the idea,- you want to go and be a wanderer,- you want to go wandering far away to strange countries where everything is mysterious and wonderful and romantic. And if you can't do that, you'll put up with considerable less,you'll go anywhere you can go, just so as to get away, and be thankful of the chance, too. Well, me and Tom Sawyer had the spring fever, and had it bad, too,but it warn't any use to think about Tom trying to get away, because, as he said, his aunt Polly wouldn't let him quit school and go traipsing off somers wasting time,- so we was pretty blue. We was setting on the front steps one day about sundown talking this way, when out comes his aunt Polly with a letter in her hand and says— "Tom, I reckon you've got to pack up and go down to Arkansaw —your aunt Sally wants you." I most jumped out of my skin for joy. I reckoned Tom would fly at his aunt and hug her head off,- but if you will believe me he set there like a rock, and never said a word. It made me fit to cry to see him act so foolish, with such a noble chance as this opening up. Why, we might lose it if he didn't speak up and show he was thankful and grateful. But he set there and studied and studied till I was that distressed I didn't know what to do ; then he says, very ca'm—and I could a shot him for it: "Well," he says, "I'm right down sorry, aunt Polly, but I reckon I got to be excused—for the present." His aunt Polly was knocked so stupid and so mad at the cold impudence of it, that she couldn't say a word for as much as a half a minute, and this give me a chance to nudge Tom and whisper: "Ain't you got any sense? Sp'ilmg such a noble chance as this and throwing it away?" But he warn't disturbed. He mumbled back: "Huck Finn, do you want me to let her see how bad I want to go? Why, she'd begin to doubt, right away, and imagine a lot of sicknesses and dangers and objections, and first you know she'd take it all back. You lemme alone,- I reckon I know how to work her." Now I never would a thought of that. But he was right. Tom Sawyer was always right—the levelest head I ever sec, and always at himself

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and ready for anything you might spring on him. By this time his aunt Polly was all straight again, and she left fly. She says: "You'll be excused! You will! Well, I never heard the like of it in all my days! The idea of you talking like that to me! Now take yourself off and pack your traps; and if I hear another word out of you about what you'll be excused from and what you won't, I lay I'll excuse you—with a hickory!" She hit his head a thump with her thimble as we dodged by, and he let on to be whimpering as we struck for the stairs. Up in his room he hugged me, he was so out of his head for gladness because we was going traveling. And he says: "Before we get away she'll wish she hadn't let me go, but she won't know any way to get around it, now. After what she's said, her pride won't let her take it back." Tom was packed in ten minutes, all except what his aunt and Mary would finish up for him,- then we waited ten more for her to get cooled down and sweet and gentle again,- for Tom said it took her ten minutes to unrufflc in times when half of her feathers was up, but twenty when they was all up, and this was one of the times when they was all up. Then we went down, being in a sweat to know what the letter said. She was setting there in a brown study, with it laying in her lap. We set down, and she says: "They're in considerable trouble down there, and they think you and Huck'll be a kind of a diversion for them—'comfort,' they say. Much of that they'll get out of you and Huck Finn, I reckon. There's a neighbor named Brace Dunlap that's been wanting to marry their Benny for three months, and at last they told him pine blank and once for all, he couldn't; so he has soured on them and they're worried about it. I reckon he's somebody they think they better be on the good side of, for they've tried to please him by hiring his no-account brother to help on the farm when they can't hardly afford it and don't want him around anyhow. Who are the Dunlaps?" "They live about a mile from uncle Silas's place, aunt Polly,—all the farmers live about a mile apart, down there—and Brace Dunlap is a long sight richer than any of the others, and owns a whole grist of niggers. He's a widower thirty-six years old, without any children, and is proud of his money and overbearing, and everybody is a little afraid

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of him, and knuckles down to him and tries to keep on the good side of him. I judge he thought he could have any girl he wanted, just for the asking, and it must have set him hack a good deal when he found he couldn't get Benny. Why, Benny's only half as old as he is, and just as sweet and lovely as—well, you've seen her. Poor old uncle Silas—why, it's pitiful, him trying to curry favor that way—so hard pushed and poor, and yet hiring that useless Jubiter Dunlap to please his ornery brother." "What a name—fubiter! Where'd he get it?" "It's only just a nickname. I reckon they've forgot his real name long before this. He's twenty-seven, now, and has had it ever since the first time he ever went in swimming. The school teacher seen a round brown mole the size of a dime on his left leg above his knee and four little bits of moles aro1 nd it, when he was naked, and he said it minded him of fubiter and his moons; and the children thought it was funny, and so they got to calling him Jubiter, and he's Jubiter yet. He's tall, and lazy, and sly, and sneaky, and rather cowardly, too, but kind of good natured, and wears long brown hair and no beard, and hasn't got a cent, and Brace boards him for nothing, and gives him his old clothes to wear, and despises him. [ubiter is a twin." "What's t'other twin like?" "Just exactly like lubiter—so they say,- used to was, anyway, but he hain't been seen for seven years. He got to robbing, when he was nineteen or twenty, and they jailed him,- but he broke jail and got away—up North here, somers. They used to hear about him robbing and burglaring now and then, but that was years ago. He's dead, now. At least that's what they say. They don't hear about him any more." "What was his name?" "Jake." There wasn't anything more said for a considerable while,- the old lady was thinking. At last she says: "The thing that is mostly worrying your aunt Sally is the tempers that that man Jubiter gets your uncle into." Tom was astonished, and so was I. Tom says: "Tempers? Uncle Silas? Land, you must be joking! I didn't know he had any temper." "Works him up into perfect rages, your aunt Sally says,- says he acts as if he would really hit the man, sometimes."

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"Aunt Polly, it beats anything I ever heard of. Why, he's just as gentle as mush." "Well, she's worried, anyway. Says your uncle Silas is like a changed man, on account of all this quarreling. And the neighbors talk about it, and lay all the blame on your uncle, of course, because he's a preacher and hain't got any business to quarrel. Your aunt Sally says he hates to go into the pulpit he's so ashamed; and the people have begun to get cool towards him, and he ain't as popular now as he used to was." "Well, ain't it strange? Why, aunt Polly, he was always so good and kind and moony and absent-minded and chuckle-headed and lovable—why, he was just an angel! What can be the matter of him, do you reckon?"

CHAPTER 2 W'E HAD POWERFUL good luck; because we got a chance in a stemwheeler from away North which was bound for one of them bayous or one-horse rivers away down Louisiana-way, and so we could go all the way down the Upper Mississippi and all the way down the Lower Mississippi to that farm in Arkansaw without having to change steamboats at St. Louis: not so very much short of a thousand miles at one pull. A pretty lonesome boat; there warn't but few passengers, and all old folks, that set around, wide apart, dozing, and was very quiet. We was four days getting out of the "upper river," because we got aground so much. But it warn't dull—couldn't be for boys that was traveling, of course. From the very start me and Tom allowed that there was somebody sick in the stateroom next to ourn, because the meals was always toted in there by the waiters. By and by we asked about it—Tom did—and the waiter said it was a man, but he didn't look sick. "Well, but ain't he sick?" "I don't know,- maybe he is, but 'pears to me he's jest letting on." "What makes you think that?" "Because if he was sick he would pull his clothes off some time or other, don't you reckon he would? Well, this one don't. At least he don't ever pull off his boots, anyway." "The mischief he don't! Not even when he goes to bed?" "No." It was always nuts for Tom Sawyer—a mystery was. If you'd lay out a mystery and a pie before me and him, you wouldn't have to say take your choice, it was a thing that would regulate itself. Because in my nature I have always run to pie, whilst in his nature he has always run to mystery. People are made different. And it is the best way. Tom says to the waiter: "What's the man's name?"

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"Phillips."

"Where'd he come aboard?" "I think he got aboard at Elexandria, up on the Iowa line." "What do you reckon he's a-playing?" "I hain't any notion—I never thought of it." I says to myself, here's another one that runs to pie. "Anything peculiar about him?—the way he acts or talks?" "No—nothing, except he seems so scary, and keeps his doors locked night and day both, and when you knock he won't let you in till he opens the door a crack and sees who it is." "By jimminy, it's intresting! I'd like to get a look at him. Say—the next time you're going in there, don't you reckon you could spread the door and—" "No indeedy! He's always behind it. He would block that game." Tom studied over it, and then he says: "Looky-here. You lend me your apern and let me take him his breakfast in the morning. I'll give you a quarter." The boy was plenty willing enough, if the head steward wouldn't mind. Tom says that's all right, he reckoned he could fix it with the head steward; and he done it. He fixed it so as we could both go in with aperns on and toting vittles. He didn't sleep much, he was in such a sweat to get in there and find out the mystery about Phillips,- and moreover he done a lot of guessing about it all night, which warn't no use, for if you are going to find out the facts of a thing, what's the sense in guessing out what ain't the facts and wasting ammunition? I didn't lose no sleep. I wouldn't give a dern to know what's the matter of Phillips, I says to myself. Well, in the morning we put on the aperns and got a couple of trays of truck, and Tom he knocked on the door. The man opened it a crack, and then he let us in and shut it quick. By Jackson, when we got a sight of him we most dropped the trays! and Tom says: "Why, Jubiter Dunlap, where'd you come from!" Well, the man was astonished, of course; and first-off he looked like he didn't know whether to be scared, or glad, or both, or which, but finally he settled down to being glad; and then his color come back, though at first his face had turned pretty white. So we got to talking together while he et his breakfast. And he says: "But I ain't Jubiter Dunlap. I'd just as soon tell you who I am, though, if you'll swear to keep mum, for I ain't no Phillips, either."

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Tom says: "We'll keep mum, but there ain't any need to tell who you are if you ain't lubiter Dunlap." "Why?" "Because if you ain't him you're t'other twin, Jake. You're the spit'n image of Jubiter." "Well, I am Jake. But looky-here, how do you come to know us Dunlaps?" Tom told about the adventures we'd had down there at his uncle Silas's last summer; and when he see that there warn't anything about his folks,—or him either, for that matter—that we didn't know, he opened out and talked perfectly free and candid. He never made any bones about his own case,- said he'd been a hard lot, was a hard lot yet, and reckoned he'd be a hard lot plum to the end. He said of course it was a dangersome life, and— He give a kind of a gasp, and set his head like a person that's listening. We didn't say anything, and so it was very still for a second or so and there warn't no sounds but the screaking of the woodwork and the chug-chugging of the machinery down below. Then we got him comfortable again, telling him about his people, and how Brace's wife had been dead three years, and Brace wanted to marry Benny and she shook him, and Jubiter was working for uncle Silas, and him and uncle Silas quarreling all the time—and then he let go and laughed. "Land!" he says, "it's like old times to hear all this tittle-tattle, and does me good. It's been seven years and more since I heard any. How do they talk about me these days?" "Who?" "The farmers—and the family." "Why, they don't talk about you at all—at least only just a mention, once in a long time." "The nation!" he says, surprised, "why is that?" "Because they think you are dead long ago." "No! Are you speaking true?—honor bright, now." He jumped up, excited. "Honor bright. There ain't anybody thinks you are alive." "Then I'm saved—I'm saved, sure 1 I'll go home. They'll hide me and save my life. You keep mum. Swear you'll keep mum—swear you'll

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never, never tell on me. Oh, boys, be good to a poor devil that's being hunted day and night, and dasn't show his face! I've never done you any harm—I'll never do you any, as God is in the heavens—swear you'll be good to me and help me save my life!" We'd a swore it if he'd been a dog; and so we done it. Well, he couldn't love us enough for it or be grateful enough, poor cuss; it was all he could do to keep from hugging us. We talked along, and he got out a little handbag and begun to open it, and told us to turn our backs. We done it, and when he told us to turn again he was perfectly different to what he was before. He had on blue goggles and the naturalest-looking long brown whiskers and mustashers you ever see. His own mother wouldn't a knowed him. He asked us if he looked like his brother fubiter, now. "No," Tom said, "there ain't anything left that's like him except the long hair." "All right, I'll get that cropped close to my head before I get there,then him and Brace will keep my secret, and I'll live with them as being a stranger and the neighbors won't ever guess me out. What do you think?" Tom he studied a while, then he says: "Well, of course me and Huck are going to keep mum there, but if you don't keep mum yourself there's going to be a little bit of a risk—it ain't much, maybe, but it's a little. I mean, if you talk won't people notice that your voice is just like Jubiter's, and mightn't it make them think of the twin they reckoned was dead but maybe after all was hid all this time under another name?" "By George," he says, "you're a sharp one! You're perfectly right. I've got to play deef and dumb when there's a neighbor around. If I'd a struck for home and forgot that little detail— However, I wasn't striking for home. I was breaking for any place where I could get away from these fellows that are after me; then I was going to put on this disguise and get some different clothes and—" He jumped for the outside door and laid his ear against it and listened, pale and kind of panting. Presently he whispers— "Sounded like cocking a gun! Lord what a life to lead!" Then he sunk down in a chair all limp and sick-like, and wiped the sweat off of his face.

CHAPTER 3

E

ROM THAT TIME OUT, we was with him most all the time, and one or t'other of us slept in his upper berth. He said he had been so lonesome, and it was such a comfort to him to have company, and somebody to talk to in his troubles. We was in a sweat to find out what his secret was, but Tom said the best way was not to seem anxious, then likely he would drop into it himself in one of his talks, but if we got to asking questions he would get suspicious and shet up his shell. It turned out just so. It warn't no trouble to see that he wanted to talk about it, but always along at first he would scare away from it when he got on the very edge of it, and go to talking about something else. At last he come out with it, though. The way it come about, was this. He got to asking us, kind of indiff erent-like, about the passengers down on deck. We told him about them. But he warn't satisfied; we warn't particular enough. He told us to describe them better. Tom done it. At last, when Tom was describing one of the roughest and raggedest ones, he give a shiver and a gasp and says: "Oh, lordy, that's one of them! They're aboard sure—I just knowed it. I sort of hoped I had got away, but I never believed it. Go on." Presently when Tom was describing another mangy rough deck passenger, he give that shiver again and says— "That's him!—that's the other one. If it would only come a good black stormy night and I could get ashore! You see, they've got spies on me. They've got a right to come up and buy drinks at the bar yonder forrard, and they take that chance to bribe somebody to keep watch on me—porter or boots or somebody. If I was to slip ashore without anybody seeing me they would know it inside of an hour." So then he got to wandering along and pretty soon, sure enough, he was telling! He was poking along through his ups and downs, and when he come to that place he went right along. He says: "It was a confidence-game. We played it on a julery shop in St. Louis.

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What we was after was a couple of noble big di'monds as big as hazelnuts, which everybody was running to see. We was dressed up fine, and we played it on them in broad daylight. We ordered the di'monds sent to the hotel for us to see if we wanted to buy, and when we was examining them we had paste counterfeits all ready, and them was the things that went back to the shop when we said the water wasn't quite fine enough for twelve thousand dollars." "Twelve—thousand—dollars!" Tom says. "Was they really worth all that money, do you reckon?" "Every cent of it." "And you fellows got away with them?" "As easy as nothing. I don't reckon the julery people know they've been robbed, yet. But it wouldn't be good sense to stay around St. Louis, of course, so we considered where we'd go. One was for going one way, one another,- so we throwed up heads or tails and the upper Mississippi won. We done up the di'monds in a paper and put our names on it and put it in the keep of the hotel clerk and told him not to ever let either of us have it again without the others was on hand to see it done; then we went down town, each by his own self—because I reckon maybe we all had the same notion. I don't know for certain, but I reckon maybe we had." "What notion?" Tom says. "To rob the others." "What—one take everything, after all of you had helped to get it?" "Cert'nly." It disgusted Tom Sawyer, and he said it was the orneriest lowdownest thing he ever heard of. But Jake Dunlap said it warn't unusual in the profession. Said when a person was in that line of business he'd got to look out for his own intrust, there warn't nobody else going to do it for him. And then he went on. He says: "You sec, the trouble was, you couldn't divide up two di'monds amongst three. If there'd been three—but never mind about that, there warn't three. I loafed along the back streets studying and studying. And I says to myself, I'll hog them di'monds the first chance I get, and I'll have a disguise all ready, and I'll give the boys the slip, and when I'm safe away I'll put it on, and then let them find me if they can. So I got the false whiskers and the goggles and this countrified suit of clothes, and fetched them along back in a hand-bag; and when I was

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passing a shop where they sell all sorts of things, I got a glimpse of one of my pals through the window. It was Bud Dixon. I was glad, you bet. I says to myself, I'll see what he buys. So I kept shady, and watched. Now what do you reckon it was he bought?" "Whiskers?" says I. "No." "Goggles?" "No." "Oh, keep still, Huck Finn, can't you, you're only just hendering all you can. What was it he bought, Jake?" "You'd never guess in the world. It was only just a screw-driver—just a wee little bit of a screw-driver." "Well, I declare! What did he want with that?" "That's what I thought. It was curious. It clean stumped me. I says to myself, what can he want with that thing? Well, when he come out I stood back out of sight and then tracked him to a second-hand slopshop and see him buy a red flannel shirt and some old ragged clothes —just the ones he's got on now, as you've described. Then I went down to the wharf and hid my things aboard the up-river boat that we had picked out, and then started back and had another streak of luck. I seen our other pal lay in his stock of old rusty second-handers. We got the di'monds and went aboard the boat. "But now we was up a stump, for we couldn't go to bed. We had to set up and watch one another. Pity, that was,- pity to put that kind of a strain on us, because there was bad blood between us from a couple of weeks back, and we was only friends in the way of business. Bad anyway, seeing there was only two di'monds betwixt three men. First we had supper, and then tramped up and down the deck together smoking till most midnight, then we went and set down in my stateroom and locked the doors and looked in the piece of paper to see if the di'monds was all right, then laid it on the lower berth right in full sight; and there we set, and set, and by and by it got to be dreadful hard to keep awake. At last Bud Dixon he dropped off. As soon as he was snoring a good regular gait that was likely to last, and had his chin on his breast and looked permanent, Hal Clayton nodded towards the di'monds and then towards the outside door, and I understood. I reached and got the paper, and then we stood up and waited perfectly still; Bud never stirred,- I turned the key of the outside door very soft

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and slow, then turned the knob the same way and we went tip-toeing out onto the guard and shut the door very soft and gentle. "There warn't nobody stirring, anywhere, and the boat was slipping along, swift and steady, through the big water in the smoky moonlight. We never said a word, but went straight up onto the hurricane deck and plum back aft and set down on the end of the skylight. Both of us knowed what that meant, without having to explain to one another. Bud Dixon would wake up and miss the swag, and would come straight for us, for he ain't afeard of anything or anybody, that man ain't. He would come, and we would heave him overboard, or get killed trying. It made me shiver, because I ain't as brave as some people, but if I showed the white feather—well, I knowed better than do that. I kind of hoped the boat would land somers and we could skip ashore and not have to run the risk of this row, I was so scared of Bud Dixon, but she was an upper-river tub and there warn't no real chance of that. "Well, the time strung along and along, and that feller never come! Why, it strung along till dawn begun to break, and still he never come. 'Thunder,' I says, 'what do you make out of this?—ain't it suspicious?' 'Land!' Hal says, 'do you reckon he's playing us?—open the paper!' I done it, and by gracious there warn't anything in it but a couple of little pieces of loaf sugar! That's the reason he could set there and snooze all night so comfortable. Smart? Well, I reckon! He had had them two papers all fixed and ready, and he had put one of them in place of t'other right under our noses. "We felt pretty cheap. But the thing to do, straight off, was to make a plan,- and we done it. We would do up the paper again, just as it was, and slip in, very elaborate and soft, and lay it on the bunk again and let on we didn't know about any trick and hadn't any idea he was a-laughing at us behind them bogus snores of his'n; and we would stick by him, and the first night we was ashore we would get him drunk and search him, and get the di'monds,- and do for him, too, if it warn't too risky. If we got the swag, we'd got to do for him, or he would hunt us down and do for us, sure. But I didn't have no real hope. I knowed we could get him drunk,—he was always ready for that—but what's the good of it? You might search him a year and never find— "Well, right there I catched my breath and broke off my thought! For an idea went ripping through my head that tore my brains to

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rags—and land, but I felt gay and good! You see, I had had my boots off, to unswell my feet, and just then I took up one of them to put it on, and I catched a glimpse of the heel-bottom, and it just took my breath away. You remember about that puzzlesome little screwdriver?" "You bet I do," says Tom, all excited. "Well, when I catched that glimpse of that boot-heel, the idea that went smashing through my head was, I know where he's hid the di'monds! You look at this boot-heel, now. See, it's bottomed with a steel plate, and the plate is fastened on with little screws. Now there wasn't a screw about that feller anywhere but in his boot-heels; so, if he needed a screw-driver I reckoned I knowed why." "Huck, ain't it bully!" says Tom. "Well, I got my boots on and we went down and slipped in and laid the paper of sugar on the berth and set down soft and sheepish and went to listening to Bud Dixon snore. Hal Clayton dropped off pretty soon, but I didn't; I wasn't ever so wide awake in my life. I was spying out from under the shade of my hat brim, searching the floor for leather. It took me a long time, and I begun to think maybe my guess was wrong, but at last I struck it. It laid over by the bulkhead, and was nearly the color of the carpet. It was a little round plug about as thick as the end of your little finger, and I says to myself there's a di'mond in the nest you've come from. Before long I spied out the plug's mate. "Think of the smartness and the coolness of that blatherskite! He put up that scheme on us and reasoned out what we would do, and we went ahead and done it perfectly exact, like a couple of pudd'nheads. He set there and took his own time to unscrew his heel-plates and cut out his plugs and stick in the di'monds and screw on his plates again. He allowed we would steal the bogus swag and wait all night for him to come up and get drownded, and by George it's just what we done! I think it was powerful smart." "You bet your life it was!" says Tom, just full of admiration.

CHAPTER 4

M4

ELL, ALL DAY WE went through the humbug of watching one another, and it was pretty sickly business for two of us and hard to act out, I can tell you. About night we landed at one of them little Missouri towns high up towards Iowa, and had supper at the tavern, and got a room up stairs with a cot and a double bed in it, but I dumped my bag under a deal table in the dark hall whilst we was moving along it to bed, single file, me last, and the landlord in the lead with a tallow candle. We had up a lot of whisky and went to playing high-low-jack for dimes, and as soon as the whisky begun to take hold of Bud we stopped drinking but we didn't let him stop. We loaded him till he fell out of his chair and laid there snoring. 'We was ready for business, now. I said we better pull our boots off, and his'n too, and not make any noise, then we could pull him and haul him around and ransack him without any trouble. So we done it. I set my boots and Bud's side by side, where they'd be handy. Then we stripped him and searched his seams and his pockets and his socks and the inside of his boots, and everything, and searched his bundle. Never found any di'monds. We found the screw-driver, and Hal says, 'What do you reckon he wanted with that?' I said I didn't know ; but when he wasn't looking I hooked it. At last Hal he looked beat and discouraged and said we'd got to give it up. That was what I was waiting for. I says: " 'There's one place we hain't searched.' " 'What place is that?' he says. " 'His stomach.' " 'By gracious, I never thought of that! Now we're on the home stretch, to a dead moral certainty. How'll we manage?' " 'Well,' I says, 'just stay by him till I turn out and hunt up a drug store and 1 reckon I'll fetch something that'll make them di'monds tired of the company they're keeping.' "He said that's the ticket, and with him looking straight at me I slid

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myself into Bud's boots instead of my own, and he never noticed. They was just a shade large for me, but that was considerable better than being too small. I got my bag as I went a-groping through the hall, and in about a minute I was out the back way and stretching up the river road at a five-mile gait. "And not feeling so very bad, neither—walking on di'monds don't have no such effect. When I had gone fifteen minutes I says to myself there's more'n a mile behind me and everything quiet. Another five minutes and I says there's considerable more land behind me now, and there's a man back there that's begun to wonder what's the trouble. Another five and I says to myself he's getting real uneasy—he's walking the floor, now. Another five, and I says to myself, there's two mile and a half behind me, and he's awful uneasy—beginning to cuss, I reckon. Pretty soon I says to myself, forty minutes gone—he knows there's something up! Fifty minutes—the truth's a-busting on him, now! he is reckoning I found the di'monds whilst we was searching, and shoved them in my pocket and never let on—yes, and he's starting out to hunt for me. He'll hunt for new tracks in the dust, and they'll as likely send him down the river as up. "Just then I see a man coming down on a mule, and before I thought I jumped into the bush. It was stupid! When he got abreast he stopped and waited a little for me to come out; then he rode on again. But I didn't feel gay any more. I says to myself I've botched my chances by that; I surely have, if he meets up with Hal Clayton. "Well, about three in the morning I fetched Elexandria and see this sternwheeler laying there and was very glad, because I felt perfectly safe, now, you know. It was just daybreak. I went aboard and got this stateroom and put on these clothes and went up in the pilot house—to watch, though I didn't reckon there was any need of it. I set there and played with my di'monds and waited and waited for the boat to start, but she didn't. You see, they was mending her machinery, but I didn't know anything about it, not being very much used to steamboats. "Well, to cut the tale short, we never left there till plum noon ; and long before that I was hid in this stateroom; for before breakfast I see a man coming, away off, that had a gait like Hal Clayton's, and it made me just sick. I says to myself, it's him, sure. If he finds out I'm aboard this boat, he's got me like a rat in a trap. All he's got to do is to have me watched, and wait—wait till I slip ashore, thinking he is a thousand

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miles away, then slip after me and dog me to a good place and make me give up the di'monds, and then he'll—oh, I know what he'll do! Ain't it awful—awful! And now to think the other one's aboard, too! Oh, ain't it hard luck, boys—ain't it hard! But you'll help save me, won't you?—oh, boys, be good to a poor devil that's being hunted to death, and save me—I'll worship the very ground you walk on!" We turned in and soothed him down and told him we would plan for him and help him and he needn't be so afeard; and so, by and by he got to feeling kind of comfortable again, and unscrewed his heel-plates and held up his di'monds this way and that admiring them and loving them ; and when the light struck into them they was beautiful, sure; why they seemed to kind of bust, and snap fire out all around. But all the same I judged he was a fool. If I had been him I would 'a' handed the di'monds to them pals and got them to go ashore and leave me alone. But he was made different. He said it was a whole fortune and he couldn't bear the idea. Twice we stopped to fix the machinery and laid a good while, once in the night; but it wasn't dark enough and he was afeard to skip. But the third time we had to fix it there was a better chance. We laid up at a country woodyard about forty mile above uncle Silas's place a little after one at night, and it was thickening up and going to storm. So Jake he laid for a chance to slide. We begun to take in wood. Pretty soon the rain come a-drenching down, and the wind blowed hard. Of course every boat-hand fixed a gunny sack and put it on like a bonnet the way they do when they are toting wood and we got one for Jake and he slipped down aft with his hand-bag and come tramping forrard in the rank of men, and he looked just like the rest, and walked ashore with them and when we see him pass out of the light of the torch-basket and get swallowed up in the dark we got our breath again and just felt grateful and splendid. But it wasn't for long. Somebody told, I reckon; for in about eight or ten minutes them two pals come tearing forrard as tight as they could jump, and darted ashore and was gone. We waited plum till dawn for them to come back, and kept hoping they would, but they never did. We was awful sorry and low spirited. All the hope we had was, that Jake had got such a start that they couldn't get on his track and he would get to his brother's and hide there and be safe. He was going to take the river road, and told us to find out if Brace and Jubiter was to home and no strangers there, and then slip out

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about sundown and tell him. Said he would wait for us in a little bunch of sycamores right back of Tom's uncle Silas's tobacker field, on the river road, a lonesome place. We set and talked a long time about his chances, and Tom said he was all right if the pals struck up the river instead of down, but it wasn't likely, because maybe they knowed where he was from,- more likely they would go right, and dog him all day, him not suspecting, and kill him when it come dark and take the boots. So we was pretty sorrowful.

w,

CHAPTER 5

' E DIDN'T GET DONE tinkering the machinery till away late in the afternoon, and so it was so close to sundown when we got home that we never stopped on our road but made a break for the sycamores as tight as we could go, to tell Jake what the delay was, and have him wait till we could go to Brace's and find out how things was, there. It was getting pretty dim by the time we turned the corner of the woods, sweating and panting with that long run, and see the sycamores thirty yards ahead of us,- and just then we see a couple of men run into the bunch and heard two or three terrible screams for help. "Poor Jake is killed, sure," we says. We was scared through and through, and broke for the tobacker field and hid there, trembling so our clothes would hardly stay on,- and just as we skipped in there a couple of men went tearing by, and into the bunch they went, and in a second out jumps four men and took out up the road as tight as they could go, two chasing two. We laid down, kind of weak and sick, and listened for more sounds, but didn't hear none, for a good while, but just our hearts. We was thinking of that awful thing laying yonder in the sycamores, and it seemed like being that close to a ghost, and it give me the cold shudders. The moon come a-swelling up out of the ground, now, powerful big and round and bright, behind a comb of trees, like a face looking through prison bars, and the black shadders and white places begun to creep around and it was miserable quiet and still and nightbreezy and grave-yardy and scary. All of a sudden Tom whispers: "Look!—what's that?" "Don't!" I says. "Don't take a person by surprise that way. I'm most ready to die, anyway, without you doing that." "Look, I tell you. It's something coming out of the sycamores." "Don't, Tom!" "It's terrible tall!"

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"Oh, lordy-lordy! let's—" "Keep still—it's a-coming this way." He was so excited he could hardly get breath enough to whisper. I had to look, I couldn't help it. So now we was both on our knees with our chins on a fence-rail and gazing—Yes, and gasping, too. It was coming down the road—coming in the shadder of the trees, and you couldn't see it good; not till it was pretty close to us; then it stepped into a bright splotch of moonlight and we sunk right down in our tracks—it was Jake Dunlap's ghost! That was what we said to ourselves. We couldn't stir for a minute or two ; then it was gone. We talked about it in low voices. Tom says: "They're mostly dim and smoky, or like they're made out of fog, but this one wasn't." "No," I says, "I seen the goggles and the whiskers perfectly plain." "Yes, and the very colors in them loud countrified Sunday clothes —plaid breeches, green and black—" "Cotton-velvet westcot, fire-red and yaller squares—" "Leather straps to the bottoms of the breeches-legs and one of them hanging unbuttoned—" "Yes, and that hat—" "What a hat for a ghost to wear!" You see it was the first season anybody wore that kind—a black stiff-brim stove-pipe, very high, and not smooth, with a round top— just like a sugar-loaf. "Did you notice if its hair was the same, Huck?" "No—seems to me I did, then again it seems to me I didn't." "I didn't either, but it had its bag along, I noticed that." "So did I. How can there be a ghost-bag, Tom?" "Sho! I wouldn't be as ignorant as that if I was you, Huck Finn. Whatever a ghost has, turns to ghost-stuff. They've got to have their things, like anybody else. You see, yourself, that its clothes was turned to ghost-stuff. Well, then, what's to bender its bag from turning, too? Of course it done it." That was reasonable. I couldn't find no fault with it. Bill Withers and his brother Jack come along by, talking, and Jack says: "What do you reckon it was he was toting?" "I dunno; but it was pretty heavy."

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"Yes, all he could lug. Nigger stealing corn from old parson Silas, I judged." "So did I. And so I allowed I wouldn't let on to see him." "That's me, too!" Then they both laughed, and went on out of hearing. It showed how unpopular old uncle Silas had got to be, now. They wouldn't 'a' let a nigger steal anybody else's corn and never done anything to him. We heard some more voices mumbling along towards us and getting louder, and sometimes a cackle of a laugh. It was Lem Beebe and Jim Lane. Jim Lane says: "Who?—Jubiter Dunlap?" "Yes." "Oh, I don't know. I reckon so. I seen him spading up some ground along about an hour ago, just before sundown—him and the parson. Said he guessed he wouldn't go to-night, but we could have his dog if we wanted him." "Too tired, I reckon." "Yes—works so hard!" "Oh, you bet!" They cackled at that, and went on by. Tom said we better jump out and tag along after them, because they was going our way and it wouldn't be comfortable to run across the ghost all by ourselves. So we done it, and got home all right. That night was the second of September—a Saturday. I shan't ever forget it. You'll see why, pretty soon.

CHAPTER 6 WE TRAMPED ALONG behind Jim and Lcm till we come to the back stile where old Jim's cabin was that he was captivated in, the time we set him free, and here come the dogs piling around us to say howdy, and there was the lights of the house, too ; so we warn't afeard, any more, and was going to climb over, but Tom says: "Hold on ; set down here a minute. By George!" "What's the matter?" says I. "Matter enough!" he says. "Wasn't you expecting we would be the first to tell the family who it is that's been killed yonder in the sycamores, and all about them rapscallions that done it, and about the di'monds they've smouched off of the corpse, and paint it up fine and have the glory of being the ones that knows a lot more about it than anybody else?" "Why, of course. It wouldn't be you, Tom Sawyer, if you was to let such a chance go by. I reckon it ain't going to suffer none for lack of paint," I says, "when you start in to scollop the facts." "Well, now," he says, perfectly ca'm, "what would you say if I was to tell you I ain't going to start in at all?" I was astonished to hear him talk so. I says: "I'd say it's a lie. You ain't in earnest, Tom Sawyer." "You'll soon see. Was the ghost barefooted?" "No it wasn't. What of it?" "You wait—I'll show you what. Did it have its boots on?" "Yes. I seen them plain." "Swear it?" "Yes, I swear it." "So do I. Now do you know what that means?" "No. What does it mean?" "Means that them thieves didn't get the di'monchl" "limminy! What makes you think that?" "I don't only think it, I know it. Didn't the breeches and goggles and

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whiskers and hand-bag and every blessed thing turn to ghost-stuff? Everything it had on turned, didn't it? It shows that the reason its boots turned, too, was because it still had them on after it started to go ha'nting around, and if that ain't proof that them blatherskites didn't get the boots I'd like to know what you'd call proof." Think of that, now. I never see such a head as that boy had. Why I had eyes and I could see things, but they never meant nothing to me. But Tom Sawyer was different. When Tom Sawyer seen a thing it just got up on its hind legs and talked to him—told him everything it knowed. 1 never see such a head. "Tom Sawyer," I says, "I'll say it again as I've said it a many a time before: I ain't fitten to black your boots. But that's all right—that's neither here nor there. God Amighty made us all, and some He gives eyes that's blind, and some He gives eyes that can see, and I reckon it ain't none of our lookout what He done it for ; it's all right, or He'd a fixed it some other way. Go on—I see plenty plain enough, now, that them thieves didn't get away with the di'monds. Why didn't they, do you reckon?" "Because they got chased away by them other two men before they could pull the boots off of the corpse." "That's so! I see it now. But looky here, Tom, why ain't we to go and tell about it?" "Oh, shucks, Huck Finn, can't you see? Look at it. What's a-going to happen? There's going to be an inquest in the morning. Them two men will tell how they heard the yells and rushed there just in time to not save the stranger. Then the jury'll twaddle and twaddle and twaddle, and finally they'll fetch in a verdict that he got shot or stuck or busted over the head with something, and come to his death by the inspiration of God. And after they've buried him they'll auction off his things for to pay the expenses, and then's our chance." "How, Tom?" "Buy the boots for two dollars!" Well, it most took my breath. "My land! Why Tom, we'll get the di'monds!" "You bet. Some day there'll be a big reward offered for them—a thousand dollars, sure. That's our money! Now we'll trot in and sec the folks. And mind you we don't know anything about any murder, or any di'monds, or any thieves—don't you forget that." I had to sigh a little over the way he had got it fixed. I'd a sold them

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di'monds—yes, sir, for twelve thousand dollars; but I didn't say anything. It wouldn't done any good. I says: "But what are we going to tell your aunt Sally has made us so long getting down here from the village, Tom?" "Oh, I'll leave that to you," he says. "I reckon you can explain it somehow." He was always just that strict and delicate. He never would tell a lie himself. We struck across the big yard, noticing this, that and t'other thing that was so familiar, and we so glad to sec it again,- and when we got to the roofed big passageway betwixt the double log house and the kitchen part, there was everything hanging on the wall just as it used to was, even to uncle Silas's old faded green baize working-gown with the hood to it and the raggedy white patch between the shoulders that always looked like somebody had hit him with a snowball; and then we lifted the latch and walked in. Aunt Sally she was just a-ripping and a-tearing around, and the children was huddled in one corner and the old man he was huddled in the other and praying for help in time of need. She jumped for us with joy and tears running down her face and give us a whacking box on the ear, and then hugged us and kissed us and boxed us again, and just couldn't seem to get enough of it she was so glad to see us,- and she says: "Where have ye been a-loafing to, you good-for-nothing trash! I've been that worried about ye I didn't know what to do. Your traps has been here ever so long, and I've had supper cooked fresh about four times so as to have it hot and good when you come, till at last my patience is just plum wore out, and I declare I—I—why I could skin you alive! You must be starving, poor things!—set down, set down, everybody, don't lose no more time." It was mighty good to be there again behind all that noble corn pone and spare-ribs and everything that you could ever want in this world. Old uncle Silas he peeled off one of his bulliest old-time blessings, with as many layers to it as an onion, and whilst the angels was hauling in the slack of it I was trying to study up what to say about what kept us so long. When our plates was all loadened and we'd got a-going, she asked me and I says: "Well, yon see,—er—Mizzes—" "Huck Finn! Since when am I Mizzes to you? Have I ever been stingy

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of cuffs or kisses for you since the day you stood in this room and I took you for Tom Sawyer and blessed God for sending you to me, though you told me four thousand lies and I believed every one of them like a simpleton? Call me aunt Sally—like you always done." So I done it. And I says: "Well, me and Tom allowed we would come along afoot and take a smell of the woods, and we run across Lem Beebe and Jim Lane and they asked us to go with them blackberrying to-night, and said they could borrow Jubiter Dunlap's dog, because he had told them just that minute—" "Where did they see him?" says the old man,- and when I looked up to see how he come to take an intrust in a little thing like that, his eyes was just burning into me he was that eager. It surprised me so it kind of throwed me off, but I pulled myself together again and says: "It was when he was spading up some ground along with you, towards sundown or along there." He only just said "Um," in a kind of a disappointed way, and didn't take no more intrust. So I went on. I says: "Well then, as I was a-saying—" "That'll do, you needn't go no furder." It was aunt Sally. She was boring right into me with her eyes, and very indignant. "Huck Finn," she says, "how'd them men come to talk about going a-blackberrying in September—in this region?" I see I had slipped up, and I couldn't say a word. She waited, still a-gazing at me, then she says: "And how'd they come to strike that idiot idea of going a-blackberrying in the night?" "Well m'm, they—er—they told us they had a lantern, and—" "Oh, shet up—do! Looky-here; what was they going to do with a dog?—hunt blackberries with it?" "I think, m'm, they—." "Now, Tom Sawyer, what kind of a lie are you fixing your mouth to contribit to this mess of rubbage? Speak out—and I warn you before you begin, that I don't believe a word of it. You and Huck's been up to something you no business to—I know it perfectly well; I know you, both of you. Now you explain that dog, and them blackberries, and the lantern, and the rest of that rot—and mind you talk as straight as a string—do you hear?"

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Tom he looked considerable hurt, and says, very dignified: "It is a pity if Huck is to be talked to thataway, just for making a little bit of a mistake that anybody could make." "What mistake has he made?" "Why, only the mistake of saying blackberries when of course he meant strawberries." "Tom Sawyer, I lay if you aggravate me a little more, I'll—" "Aunt Sally, without knowing it—and of course without intending it—you arc in the wrong. If you'd 'a' studied natural history the way you ought, you would know that all over the world except just here in Arkansaw they always hunt strawberries with a dog—and a lantern—" But she busted in on him there and just piled into him and snowed him under. She was so mad she couldn't get the words out fast enough, and she gushed them out in one everlasting freshet. That was what Tom Sawyer was after. He allowed to work her up and get her started and then leave her alone and let her burn herself out. Then she would be so aggravated with that subject that she wouldn't say another word about it nor let anybody else. Well, it happened just so. When she was tuckered out and had to hold up, he says, quite ca'm: "And yet, all the same, aunt Sally—" "Shetup!" she says, "I don't want to hear another word out of you." So we was perfectly safe, then, and didn't have no more trouble about that delay. Tom done it elegant.

CHAPTER 7 b

UENNY SHE WAS looking pretty sober, and she sighed some, now and then,- but pretty soon she got to asking about Mary, and Sid, and Tom's aunt Polly, and then aunt Sally's clouds cleared off and she got in a good humor and joined in on the questions and was her lovingest best self, and so the rest of the supper went along gay and pleasant. But the old man he didn't take any hand hardly, and was absent-minded and restless, and done a considerable amount of sighing; and it was kind of heart-breaking to see him so sad and troubled and worried. By and by, a spell after supper, come a nigger and knocked on the door and put his head in with his old straw hat in his hand bowing and scraping, and said his Marse Brace was out at the stile and wanted his brother, and was getting tired waiting supper for him, and would Marse Silas please tell him where he was? I never see uncle Silas speak up so sharp and fractious before. He says: "Am I his brother's keeper?" And then he kind of wilted together, and looked like he wished he hadn't spoke so, and then he says, very gentle: "But you needn't say that, Billy,- I was took sudden and irritable, and I ain't very well these days, and not hardly responsible. Tell him he ain't here." And when the nigger was gone he got up and walked the floor, backwards and forrards and backwards and forrards, mumbling and muttering to himself and plowing his hands through his hair. It was real pitiful to see him. Aunt Sally she whispered to us and told us not to take notice of him, it embarrassed him. She said he was always thinking and thinking, since these troubles come on, and she allowed he didn't more'n about half know what he was about when the thinking spells was on him,- and she said he walked in his sleep considerable more now than he used to, and sometimes wandered around over the house and even out doors in his sleep, and if we catchcd him at it we must let him alone and not disturb him. She said she reckoned

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it didn't do him no harm, and maybe it done him good. She said Benny was the only one that was much help to him these days. Said Benny appeared to know just when to try to soothe him and when to leave him alone. So he kept on tramping up and down the floor and muttering, till by and by he begun to look pretty tired; then Benny she went and snuggled up to his side and put one hand in his and one arm around his waist and walked with him ; and he smiled down on her, and reached down and kissed her ; and so, little by little the trouble went out of his face and she persuaded him off to his room. They had very pretty petting ways together, and it was uncommon pretty to see. Aunt Sally she was busy getting the children ready for bed; so by and by it got dull and tedious, and me and Tom took a turn in the moonlight, and fetched up in the watermelon patch and et one, and had a good deal of talk. And Tom said he'd bet the quarreling was all Jubiter's fault, and he was going to be on hand the first time he got a chance, and see,- and if it was so, he was going to do his level best to get uncle Silas to turn him off. And so we talked and smoked and stuffed watermelon as much as two hours, and then it was pretty late, and when we got back the house was quiet and dark and everybody gone to bed. Tom he always seen everything, and now he see that the old green baize work-gown was gone, and said it wasn't gone when we went out,and so we allowed it was curious, and then we went up to bed. We could hear Benny stirring around in her room, which was next to ourn, and judged she was worried a good deal about her father and couldn't sleep. We found we couldn't, neither. So we set up a long time and smoked and talked in a low voice, and felt pretty dull and downhearted. We talked the murder and the ghost over and over again, and got so creepy and crawly we couldn't get sleepy no how and no way. By and by, when it was away late in the night and all the sounds was late sounds and solemn, Tom nudged me and whispers to me to look, and I done it, and there we see a man poking around in the yard like he didn't know just what he wanted to do, but it was pretty dim and we couldn't see him good. Then he started for the stile, and as he went over it the moon come out strong and he had a long-handled shovel over his shoulder and we see the white patch on the old work-gown. So Tom says: "He's a-walking in his sleep. I wish we was allowed to follow him

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and see where he's going to. There, he's turned down by the tobacker field. Out of sight, now. It's a dreadful pity he can't rest no better." We waited a long time, but he didn't come back any more, or if he did he come around the other way,- so at last we was tuckered out and went to sleep and had nightmares, a million of them. But before dawn we was awake again, because meantime a storm had come up and been raging, and the thunder and lightning was awful and the wind was a-thrashing the trees around and the rain was driving down in slanting sheets, and the gullies was running rivers. Tom says: "Looky-here, Huck, I'll tell you one thing that's mighty curious. Up to the time we went out, last night, the family hadn't heard about Jake Dunlap being murdered. Now the men that chased Hal Clayton and Bud Dixon away would spread the thing around in a half an hour, and every neighbor that heard it would shin out and fly around from one farm to t'other and try to be the first to tell the news. Land, they don't have such a big thing as that to tell twice in thirty year! Huck, it's mighty strange; I don't understand it." So then he was in a fidget for the rain to let up, so we could turn out and run across some of the people and see if they would say anything about it to us. And he said if they did we must be horribly surprised and shocked. We was out and gone the minute the rain stopped. It was just broad day, then. We loafed along up the road, and now and then met a person and stopped and said howdy, and told them when we come, and how we left the folks at home, and how long we was going to stay, and all that, but none of them said a word about that thing—which was just astonishing, and no mistake. Tom said he believed if we went to the sycamores we would find that body laying there solitary and alone and not a soul around. Said he believed the men chased the thieves so far into the woods that the thieves prob'ly seen a good chance and turned on them at last, and maybe they all killed each other and so there wasn't anybody left to tell. First we knowed, gabbling along thataway, we was right at the sycamores. The cold chills trickled down my back and I wouldn't budge another step, for all Tom's persuading. But he couldn't hold in; he'd got to see if the boots was safe on that body yet. So he crope in—and the next minute out he come again with his eyes bulging he was so excited, and says: "Huck, it's gone!"

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I was astonished! I says: "Tom, you don't mean it." "It's gone, sure. There ain't a sign of it. The ground is trompled some, but if there was any blood it's all washed away by the storm, for it's all puddles and slush in there." At last I give in, and went and took a look myself; and it was just as Tom said—there wasn't a sign of a corpse. "Dern it," I says, "the di'monds is gone. Don't you reckon the thieves slunk back and lugged him off, Tom?" "Looks like it. It just does. Now where'd they hide him, do you reckon?" "I don't know," I says, disgusted, "and what's more I don't care. They've got the boots, and that's all I cared about. He'll lay around these woods a long time before I hunt him up." Tom didn't feel no more intrust in him neither, only curiosity to know what come of him ; but he said we'd lay low and keep dark and it wouldn't be long till the dogs or somebody rousted him out. We went back home to breakfast ever so bothered and put out and disappointed and swindled. I warn't ever so down on a corpse before.

CHAPTER 8 iIT WARN'T VERY CHEERFUL at breakfast. Aunt Sally she looked old and tired and let the children snarl and fuss at one another and didn't seem to notice it was going on, which wasn't her usual style; me and Tom had a plenty to think about without talking; Benny she looked like she hadn't had much sleep, and whenever she'd lift her head a little and steal a look towards her father you could see there was tears in her eyes; and as for the old man his things stayed on his plate and got cold without him knowing they was there, I reckon, for he was thinking and thinking all the time, and never said a word and never ct a bite. By and by when it was stillest, that nigger's head was poked in at the door again, and he said his Marse Brace was getting powerful uneasy about Marse Jubiter, which hadn't come home yet, and would Marse Silas please— He was looking at uncle Silas, and he stopped there, like the rest of his words was froze,- for uncle Silas he rose up shaky and steadied himself leaning his fingers on the table, and he was panting, and his eyes was set on the nigger, and he kept swallowing, and put his other hand up to his throat a couple of times, and at last he got his words started, and says: "Does he—does he—think—what does he think! Tell him—tell him—" Then he sunk down in his chair limp and weak, and says, so as you could hardly hear him: "Go away—go away!" The nigger looked scared, and cleared out, and we all felt—well I don't know how we felt, but it was awful, with the old man panting there, and his eyes set and looking like a person that was dying. None of us could budge,- but Benny she slid around soft, with her tears running down, and stood by his side, and nestled his old gray head up against her and begun to stroke it and pet it with her hands, and nodded to us to go away, and we done it, going out very quiet, like the dead was there.

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Me and Tom struck out for the woods mighty solemn, and saying how different it was now to what it was last summer when we was here and everything was so peaceful and happy and everybody thought so much of uncle Silas, and he was so cheerful and simple-hearted and pudd'nheaded and good—and now look at him. If he hadn't lost his mind he wasn't much short of it. That was what we allowed. It was a most lovely day, now, and bright and sunshiny,- and the further and further we went over the hill towards the prairie the lovelier and lovelier the trees and flowers got to be and the more it seemed strange and somehow wrong that there had to be trouble in such a world as this. And then all of a sudden I catched my breath and grabbed Tom's arm, and all my livers and lungs and things fell down into my legs. "There it is!" I says. We jumped back behind a bush shivering, and Tom says: '"Sh!—don't make a noise." It was setting on a log right in the edge of the little prairie, thinking. I tried to get Tom to come away, but he wouldn't, and I dasn't budge by myself. He said we mightn't ever get another chance to see one, and he was going to look his fill at this one if he died for it. So I looked too, though it give me the fan-tods to do it. Tom he had to talk, but he talked low. He says: "Poor Jakey, it's got all its things on, just as he said he would. Now you see what we wasn't certain about—its hair. It's not long, now, the way it was; it's got it cropped close to its head, the way he said he would. Huck, I never see anything look any more naturaler than what It does." "Nor I neither," I says; "I'd reconnize it anywheres." "So would I. It looks perfectly solid and genuwyne, just the way it done before it died." So we kept a-gazing. Pretty soon Tom says: "Huck, there's something mighty curious about this one,- don't you know that? It oughtn't to be going around in the daytime." "That's so, Tom—I never heard the like of it before." "No, sir, they don't ever come out only at night—and then not till after twelve. There's something wrong about this one, now you mark my words. I don't believe it's got any right to be around in the daytime. But don't it look natural! lake said he was going to play decf and dumb

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here, so the neighbors wouldn't know his voice. Do you reckon it would do that if we was to holler at it?" "Lordy, Tom, don't talk so! If you was to holler at it I'd die in my tracks." "Don't you worry, I ain't going to holler at it. Look, Huck, it's a-scratching its head—don't you see?" "Well, what of it?" "Why, this. What's the sense of it scratching its head? There ain't anything there to itch,- its head is made out of fog or something like that, and can't itch. A fog can't itch; any fool knows that." "Well, then, if it don't itch and can't itch, what in the nation is it scratching it for? Ain't it just habit, don't you reckon?" "No, sir, I don't. I ain't a bit satisfied about the way this one acts. I've a blame good notion it's a bogus one—I have, as sure as I'm a-setting here. Because, if it—Huck!" "Well, what's the matter now?" "You can't see the bushes through it!" "Why, Tom, it's so, sure! It's as solid as a cow. I sort of begin to think—" "Huck, it's biting off a chaw of tobacker! By George they don't chaw—they hain't got anything to chaw with. Huck!" "I'm a-listening." "It ain't a ghost at all. It's Jake Dunlap his own self!" "Oh, your granny!" I says. "Huck Finn, did we find any corpse in the sycamores?" "No." "Or any sign of one?" "No." "Mighty good reason. Hadn't ever been any corpse there." "Why Tom, you know we heard—" "Yes, we did—heard a howl or two. Does that prove anybody was killed? Course it don't. And we seen four men run, then this one come walking out and we took it for a ghost. No more ghost than you are. It was Jake Dunlap his own self, and it's Jake Dunlap now. He's been and got his hair cropped, the way he said he would, and he's playing himself for a stranger, just the same as he said he would. Ghost! Him?—he's as sound as a nut." Then I see it all, and how we had took too much for granted. I was

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powerful glad he didn't get killed, and so was Tom, and we wondered which he would like the best—for us to never let on to know him, or how? Tom reckoned the best way would be to go and ask him. So he started; but I kept a little behind, because I didn't know but it might be a ghost, after all. When Tom got to where he was, he says: "Me and Huck's mighty glad to see you again, and you needn't be afeard we'll tell. And if you think it'll be safer for you if we don't ever let on to know you when we run across you, say the word and you'll see you can depend on us and would ruther cut our hands off than get you into the least little bit of danger." First-off he looked surprised to see us, and not very glad, either,- but as Tom went on he looked pleasanter, and when he was done he smiled, and nodded his head several times, and made signs with his hands, and says: "Goo-goo,—goo-goo," the way decf and dummies does. Just then we see some of Steve Nickerson's people coming that lived t'other side of the prairie, so Tom says: "You do it elegant; I never see anybody do it better. You're right: play it on us, too ; play it on us same as the others,- it'll keep you in practice and prevent you making blunders. We'll keep away from you and let on we don't know you, but any time we can be any help, you just let us know." Then we loafed along past the Nickersons, and of course they asked if that was the new stranger yonder, and where'd he come from, and what was his name, and which communion was he, Babtis or Methodis, and which politics, whig or democrat, and how long is he staying, and all them other questions that humans always asks when a stranger comes, and dogs does too. But Tom said he warn't able to make anything out of deef and dumb signs, and the same with goo-gooing. Then we watched them go and bullyrag }ake; because we was pretty uneasy for him. Tom said it would take him days to get so he wouldn't forget he was a deef and dummy sometimes, and speak out before he thought. When we had watched long enough to see that Jake was getting along all right and working his signs very good, we loafed along again, allowing to strike the school-house about recess time, which was a three-mile tramp. I was so disappointed not to hear Jake tell about the row in the sycamores and how near he come to getting killed, that 1 couldn't seem

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to get over it; and Tom he felt the same, but said if we was in Jake's fix we would want to go careful and keep still and not take any chances. The boys and girls was all glad to see us again, and we had a real good time all through recess. Coming to school the Henderson boys had come across the new deef and dummy and told the rest; so all the scholars was chuck full of him and couldn't talk about anything else, and was in a sweat to get a sight of him because they hadn't ever seen a deef and dummy in their lives, and it made a powerful excitement. Tom said it was tough to have to keep mum now,- said we would he heroes if we could come out and tell all we knowed; but after all it was still more heroic to keep mum, there warn't two boys in a million could do it. That was Tom Sawyer's idea about it, and I reckoned there warn't anybody could better it.

CHAPTER 9 iIN THE NEXT two or three days Dummy he got to be powerful popular. He went associating around with the neighbors, and they made much of him and was proud to have such a rattling curiosity amongst them. They had him to breakfast, they had him to dinner, they had him to supper,- they kept him loaded up with hog and hominy, and warn't ever tired staring at him and wondering over him, and wishing they knowed more about him he was so uncommon and romantic. His signs warn't no good; people couldn't understand them and he prob'ly couldn't himself, but he done a sight of goo-gooing, and so everybody was satisfied, and admired to hear him go it. He toted a piece of slate around, and a pencil; and people wrote questions on it and he wrote answers,- but there warn't anybody could read his writing but Brace Dunlap. Brace said he couldn't read it very good, but he could manage to dig out the meaning most of the time. He said Dummy said he belonged away off somers, and used to be well off but got busted by swindlers which he had trusted, and was poor now, and hadn't any way to make a living. Everybody praised Brace Dunlap for being so good to that stranger. He let him have a little log-cabin all to himself, and had his niggers take care of it and fetch him all the vittles he wanted. Dummy was at our house some, because old uncle Silas was so afflicted himself, these days, that anybody else that was afflicted was a comfort to him. Me and Tom didn't let on that we had knowed him before, and he didn't let on that he had knowed us before. The family talked their troubles out before him the same as if he wasn't there, but we reckoned it wasn't any harm for him to hear what they said. Generly he didn't seem to notice, but sometimes he did. Well, two or three days went along, and everybody got to getting uneasy about Jubitcr Dunlap. Everybody was asking everybody if they had any idea what had become of h i m . No, they hadn't, they said,- and

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they shook their heads and said there was something powerful strange about it. Another and another day went by; then there was a report got around that praps he was murdered. You bet it made a big stir! Everybody's tongue was clacking away after that. Saturday two or three gangs turned out and hunted the woods to see if they could run across his remainders. Me and Tom helped, and it was noble good times and exciting. Tom he was so brim full of it he couldn't eat nor rest. He said if we could find that corpse we would be celebrated, and more talked about than if we got drownded. The others got tired and give it up; but not Tom Sawyer—that warn't his style. Saturday night he didn't sleep any, hardly, trying to think up a plan,- and towards daylight in the morning he struck it. He snaked me out of bed and was all excited, and says— "Quick, Huck, snatch on your clothes—I've got it! Bloodhound!" In two minutes we was tearing up the river road in the dark towards the village. Old Jeff Hooker had a bloodhound and Tom was going to borrow him. I says— "The trail's too old, Tom—and besides, it's rained, you know." "It don't make any difference, Huck. If the body's hid in the woods anywhere around, the hound will find it. If he's been murdered and buried, they wouldn't bury him deep, it ain't likely, and if the dog goes over the spot he'll scent him, sure. Huck, we're going to be celebrated, sure as you're born!" He was just a-blazing; and whenever he got afire he was most likely to get afire all over. That was the way this time. In two minutes he had got it all ciphered out, and wasn't only just going to find the corpse —no, he was going to get on the track of that murderer and hunt him down, too; and not only that, but he was going to stick to him till— "Well," I says, "you better find the corpse first; I reckon that's a plenty for to-day. For all we know, there ain't any corpse and nobody hain't been murdered. That cuss could 'a' gone off somers and not been killed at all." That graveled him and he says— "Huck Finn, I never see such a person as you to want to spoil everything. As long as you can't see anything hopeful in a thing, you won't let anybody else. What good can it do you to throw cold water on that corpse and get up that selfish theory that there hain't been any murder? None in the world. I don't see how you can act so. I wouldn't

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treat you like that, and you know it. Here we've got a noble good opportunity to make a ruputation, and—" "Oh, go ahead," I says, "I'm sorry, and I take it all back. I didn't mean nothing. Fix it any way you want it. He ain't any consequence to me. If he's killed, I'm as glad of it as you are,- and if he—" "I never said anything about being glad; I only—" "Well, then, I'm as sorry as you are. Any way you druther have it, that is the way I druther have it. He—" "There ain't any druthers about it, Huck Finn,- nobody said anything about druthers. And as for—" He forgot he was talking, and went tramping along, studying. He begun to get excited again, and pretty soon he says— "Huck, it'll be the bulliest thing that ever happened if we find the body after everybody else has quit looking, and then go ahead and hunt up the murderer. It won't only be an honor to us, but it'll be an honor to uncle Silas because it was us that done it. It'll set him up again, you see if it don't." But old Jeff Hooker he throwed cold water on the whole business when we got to his blacksmith shop and told him what we come for. "You can take the dog," he says, "but you ain't a-going to find any corpse, because there ain't any corpse to find. Everybody's quit looking, and they're right. Soon as they come to think, they knowed there warn't no corpse. And I'll tell you for why. What does a person kill another person /or, Tom Sawyer?—answer me that." "Why, he—er—" "Answer up! You ain't no fool. What does he kill him /or?" "Well, sometimes it's for revenge, and—" "Wait. One thing at a time. Revenge, says you,- and right you are. Now who ever had anything agin that poor trifling no-account? Who do you reckon would want to kill himl—that rabbit!" Tom was stuck. I reckon he hadn't thought of a person having to have a reason for killing a person before, and now he see it warn't likely anybody would have that much of a grudge against a lamb like Jubiter Dunlap. The blacksmith says, by and by— "The revenge idea won't work, you see. Well then, what's next? Robbery? B'gosh that must 'a' been it, Tom! Yes, sir-ree, I reckon we've struck it this time. Some feller wanted his gallus-buckles, and so he—" But it was so funny he busted out laughing, and just went on laughing and laughing and laughing till he was most dead, and Tom

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looked so put out and cheap that I knowed he was ashamed he had come, and wished he hadn't. But old Hooker never let up on him. He raked up everything a person ever could want to kill another person about; and any fool could see they didn't any of them fit this case, and he just made no end of fun of the whole business and of the people that had been hunting the body ; and he said— "If they'd had any sense they'd 'a' knowed the lazy cuss slid out because he wanted a loafing spell after all this work. He'll come pottering back in a couple of weeks, and then how'll you fellers feel? But laws bless you, take the dog and go and hunt up his remainders. Do, Tom." Then he busted out and had another of them forty-rod laughs of his'n. Tom couldn't back down after all this, so he said "All right, unchain him," and the blacksmith done it and we started home and left that old man laughing yet. It was a lovely dog. There ain't any dog that's got a lovelier disposition than a bloodhound, and this one knowed us and liked us. He capered and raced around, ever so friendly and powerful glad to be free and have a holiday,- but Tom was so cut up he couldn't take any intrust in him and said he wished he'd stopped and thought a minute before he ever started on such a fool errand. He said old feff Hooker would tell everybody, and we'd never hear the last of it. So we loafed along home down the back lanes, feeling pretty glum and not talking. When we was passing the far corner of our tobacker field we heard the dog set up a long howl in there, and we went to the place and he was scratching the ground with all his might and every now and then canting up his head sideways and fetching another howl. It was a long square the shape of a grave; the rain had made it sink down and show the shape. The minute we come and stood there we looked at one another and never said a word. When the dog had dug down only a few inches he grabbed something and pulled it up and it was an arm and a sleeve. Tom kind of gasped out and says— "Come away, Huck—it's found." I just felt awful. We struck for the road and fetched the first men that come along. They got a spade at the crib and dug out the body, and you never see such an excitement. You couldn't make anything out of the face, but you didn't need to. Everybody said— "Poor Jubitcr,- it's his clothes, to the last rag!"

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Some rushed off to spread the news and tell the justice of the peace and have an inquest, and me and Tom lit out for the house. Tom was all afire and most out of breath when we came tearing in where uncle Silas and aunt Sally and Benny was. Tom sung out— "Me and Huck's found Jubiter Dunlap's corpse all by ourselves with a bloodhound after everybody else had quit hunting and given it up ; and if it hadn't a been for us it never would 'a' been found,- and he was murdered, too—they done it with a club or something like that; and I'm going to start in and find the murderer, next, and I bet I'll do it!" Aunt Sally and Benny sprung up pale and astonished, but uncle Silas fell right forrard out of his chair onto the floor and groans out— "Oh, my God, you've found him now!"

CHAPTER 1O

T IHI

LHEM AWFUL WORDS froze us solid. We couldn't move hand or foot for as much as a half a minute. Then we kind of come to, and lifted the old man up and got him into his chair, and Benny petted him and kissed him and tried to comfort him, and poor old aunt Sally she done the same,- but poor things they was so broke up and scared and knocked out of their right minds that they didn't hardly know what they was about. With Tom it was awful; it most petrified him to think maybe he had got his uncle into a thousand times more trouble than ever, and maybe it wouldn't ever happened if he hadn't been so ambitious to get celebrated, and let the corpse alone the way the others done. But pretty soon he sort of come to himself again and says— "Uncle Silas, don't you say another word like that. It's dangerous, and there ain't a shadder of truth in it." Aunt Sally and Benny was thankful to hear him say that, and they said the same; but the old man he wagged his head sorrowful and hopeless, and the tears run down his face and he says— "No—I done it; poor Jubiter, I done it!" It was dreadful to hear him say it. Then he went on and told about it; and said it happened the day me and Tom come—along about sundown. He said Jubiter pestered him and aggravated him till he was so mad he just sort of lost his mind and grabbed up a stick and hit him over the head with all his might, and Jubiter dropped in his tracks. Then he was scared and sorry, arid got down on his knees and lifted his head up, and begged him to speak and say he wasn't dead; and before long he come to, and when he see who it was holding his head, he jumped like he was most scared to death, and cleared the fence and tore into the woods, and was gone. So he hoped he wasn't hurt bad. "But laws," he says, "it was only just fear that give him that last little spurt of strength, and of course it soon played out and he laid down in the bush and there wasn't anybody to help him, and he died."

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Then the old man cried and grieved, and said he was a murderer and the mark of Cain was on him, and he had disgraced his family and was going to be found out and hung. But Tom said— "No, you ain't going to be found out. You didn't kill him. One lick wouldn't kill him. Somebody else done it." "Oh, yes," he says, "I done it—nobody else. Who else had anything against him? Who else could have anything against him?" He looked up kind of like he hoped some of us could mention somebody that could have a grudge against that harmless no-account, but of course it warn't no use—he had us,- we couldn't say a word. He noticed that, and he saddened down again and I never see a face so miserable and so pitiful to see. Tom had a sudden idea and says— "But hold on!—somebody buried him. Now who—" He shut off sudden. I knowed the reason. It give me the cold shudders when he said them words, because right away I remembered about us seeing uncle Silas prowling around with a long-handled shovel away in the night that night. And I knowed Benny seen him, too, because she was talking about it one day. The minute Tom shut off he changed the subject and went to begging uncle Silas to keep mum, and the rest of us done the same, and said he must, and said it wasn't his business to tell on himself, and if he kept mum nobody would ever know, but if it was found out and any harm come to him it would break the family's hearts and kill them, and yet never do anybody any good. So at last he promised. We was all of us more comfortable, then, and went to work to cheer up the old man. We told him all he'd got to do was to keep still and it wouldn't be long till the whole thing would blow over and be forgot. We all said there wouldn't anybody ever suspect uncle Silas, nor ever dream of such a thing, he being so good and kind and having such a good character; and Tom says, cordial and hearty, he says— "Why, just look at it a minute,- just consider. Here is uncle Silas, all these years a preacher—at his own expense,- all these years doing good with all his might and every way he can think of—at his own expense, all the time; always been loved by everybody, and respected,- always been peaceable and minding his own business, the very last man in this whole deestrict to touch a person, and everybody knows it. Suspect hi ml Why, it ain't any more possible than—"

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"By authority of the State of Arkansaw—I arrest you for the murder of Jubiter Dunlap!" shouts the sheriff at the door. It was awful. Aunt Sally and Benny flung themselves at uncle Silas, screaming and crying, and hugged him and hung to him, and aunt Sally said go away, she wouldn't ever give him up, they shouldn't have him, and the niggers they come crowding and crying to the door and—well, I couldn't stand it; it was enough to break a person's heart; so I got out. They took him up to the little one-horse jail in the village, and we all went along to tell him good-bye, and Tom was feeling elegant, and says to me, "We'll have a most noble good time and heaps of danger some dark night, getting him out of there, Huck, and it'll be talked about everywheres and we will be celebrated/' but the old man busted that scheme up the minute he whispered to him about it. He said no, it was his duty to stand whatever the law done to him, and he would stick to the jail plum through to the end, even if there warn't no door to it. It disappointed Tom, and graveled him a good deal, but he had to put up with it. But he felt responsible and bound to get his uncle Silas free ; and he told aunt Sally, the last thing, not to worry, because he was going to turn in and work night and day and beat this game and fetch uncle Silas out innocent; and she was very loving to him and thanked him and said she knowed he would do his very best. And she told us to help Benny take care of the house and the children, and then we had a good-bye cry all around and went back to the farm, and left her there to live with the jailer's wife a month till the trial in October.

CHAPTER 11

w, KELL, THAT WAS a hard month on us all. Poor Benny, she kept up the best she could, and me and Tom tried to keep things cheerful there at the house, but it kind of went for nothing, as you may say. It was the same up at the jail. We went up every day to see the old people, but it was awful dreary, because the old man warn't sleeping much, and was walking in his sleep considerable, and so he got to looking fagged and miserable, and his mind got shaky, and we all got afraid his troubles would break him down and kill him. And whenever we tried to persuade him to feel cheerfuler, he only shook his head and said if we only knowed what it was to carry around a murderer's load on your heart we wouldn't talk that way. Tom and all of us kept telling him it wasn't murder, but just accidental killing, but it never made any difference—it was murder, and he wouldn't have it any other way. He actu'ly begun to come out plain and square towards trial-time and acknowledge that he tried to kill the man. Why, that was awful, you know. It made things seem fifty times as dreadful, and there warn't no more comfort for aunt Sally and Benny. But he promised he wouldn't say a word about his murder when others was around, and we was glad of that. Tom Sawyer racked the head off of himself all that month trying to plan some way out for uncle Silas, and many's the night he kept me up most all night with this kind of tiresome work, but he couldn't seem to get on the right track no way. As for me, I reckoned a body might as well give it up, it all looked so blue and I was so down-hearted; but he wouldn't. He stuck to the business right along, and went on planning and thinking and ransacking his head. So at last the trial come on, towards the middle of October, and we was all in the court. The place was jammed of course. Poor old uncle Silas, he looked more like a dead person than a live one, his eyes was so hollow and he looked so thin and so mournful. Benny she set on one

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side of him and aunt Sally on the other, and they had veils on, and was full of trouble. But Tom he set by our lawyer, and had his finger in everywheres, of course. The lawyer let him, and the judge let him. He most took the business out of the lawyer's hands sometimes; which was well enough, because that was only a mud-turtle of a back-settlement lawyer and didn't know enough to come in when it rains, as the saying is. They swore in the jury, and then the lawyer for the prostitution got up and begun. He made a terrible speech against the old man, that made him moan and groan, and made Benny and aunt Sally cry. The way he told about the murder kind of knocked us all stupid it was so different from the old man's tale. He said he was going to prove that uncle Silas was seen to kill Jubiter Dunlap by two good witnesses, and done it deliberate, and said he was going to kill him the very minute he hit him with the club; and they seen him hide fubiter in the bushes, and they seen that Jubiter was stone-dead. And said uncle Silas come later and lugged Jubiter down into the tobacker field, and two men seen him do it. And said uncle Silas turned out, away in the night, and buried Jubiter, and a man seen him at it. I says to myself, poor old uncle Silas has been lying about it because he reckoned nobody seen him and he couldn't bear to break aunt Sally's heart and Benny's,- and right he was: as for me, I would 'a' lied the same way, and so would anybody that had any feeling, to save them such misery and sorrow which they warn't no ways responsible for. Well, it made our lawyer look pretty sick; and it knocked Tom silly, too, for a little spell, but then he braced up and let on that he warn't worried—but I knowed he was, all the same. And the people —my, but it made a stir amongst them! And when that lawyer was done telling the jury what he was going to prove, he set down and begun to work his witnesses. First, he called a lot of them to show that there was bad blood betwixt uncle Silas and the diseased,- and they told how they had heard uncle Silas threaten the diseased, at one time and another, and how it got worse and worse and everybody was talking about it, and how diseased got afraid of his life, and told two or three of them he was certain uncle Silas would up and kill him some time or another. Tom and our lawyer asked them some questions; but it warn't no use, they stuck to what they said.

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Next, they called up Lem Beebe, and he took the stand. It come into my mind, then, how Lem and Jim Lane had come along talking, that time, about borrowing a dog or something from Jubiter Dunlap,- and that brought up the blackberries and the lantern; and that brought up Bill and Jack Withers, and how they passed by, talking about a nigger stealing uncle Silas's corn ; and that fetched up our old ghost that come along about the same time and scared us so—and here he was too, and a privileged character, on accounts of his being deef and dumb and a stranger, and they had fixed him a chair inside the railing, where he could cross his legs and be comfortable, whilst the other people was all in a jam so they couldn't hardly breathe. So it all come back to me just the way it was that day,- and it made me mournful to think how pleasant it was up to then, and how miserable ever since. Lem Beebe, sworn, said: "I was a-coming along, that day, second of September, and Jim Lane was with me, and it was towards sundown, and we heard loud talk, like quarreling, and we was very close, only the hazel bushes between (that's along the fence); and we heard a voice say, 'I've told you more'n once I'd kill you,' and knowed it was this prisoner's voice,- and then we see a club come up above the bushes and down out of sight again, and heard a smashing thump and then a groan or two; and then we crope soft to where we could see, and there laid Jubiter Dunlap dead, and this prisoner standing over him with the club; and the next he hauled the dead man into a clump of bushes and hid him, and then we stooped low, to be out of sight, and got away." Well, it was awful. It kind of froze everybody's blood to hear it, and the house was most as still whilst he was telling it as if there warn't nobody in it. And when he was done, you could hear them gasp and sigh, all over the house, and look at one another the same as to say, "Ain't it perfectly terrible—ain't it awful!" Now happened a thing that astonished me. All the time the first witnesses was proving the bad blood and the threats and all that, Tom Sawyer was alive and laying for them,- and the minute they was through, he went for them, and done his level best to catch them in lies and spile their testimony. But now, how different! When Lem first begun to talk, and never said anything about speaking to Jubiter or trying to borrow a dog off of him, he was all alive and laying for Lem, and you could sec he was getting ready to cross-question him to death pretty soon, and then I judged him and me would go on the stand by

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and by and tell what we heard him and Jim Lane say. But the next time I looked at Tom I got the cold shivers. Why, he was in the brownest study you ever see—miles and miles away. He warn't hearing a word Lem Beebc was saying; and when he got through he was still in that brown study, just the same. Our lawyer joggled him, and then he looked up startled, and says, "Take the witness if you want him. Lemme alone—I want to think." Well, that beat me. I couldn't understand it. And Benny and her mother—oh, they looked sick, they was so troubled. They shoved their veils to one side and tried to get his eye, but it warn't any use, and I couldn't get his eye either. So the mud-turtle he tackled the witness, but it didn't amount to nothing,- and he made a mess of it. Then they called up Jim Lane, and he told the very same story over again, exact. Tom never listened to this one at all, but set there thinking and thinking, miles and miles away. So the mud-turtle went in alone again and come out just as flat as he done before. The lawyer for the prostitution looked very comfortable, but the judge looked disgusted. You see, Tom was just the same as a regular lawyer, nearly, because it was Arkansaw law for a prisoner to choose anybody he wanted to help his lawyer, and Tom had had uncle Silas shove him into the case, and now he was botching it and you could see the judge didn't like it much. All that the mud-turtle got out of Lem and Jim was this: he asked them— "Why didn't you go and tell what you saw?" "We was afraid we would get mixed up in it ourselves. And we was just starting down the river a-hunting for all the week besides; but as soon as we come back we found out they'd been searching for the body, so then we went and told Brace Dunlap all about it." "When was that?" "Saturday night, September 9th." The judge he spoke up and says— "Mr. Sheriff, arrest these two witnesses on suspicions of being accessionary after the fact to the murder." The lawyer for the prostitution jumps up all excited, and says— "Your Honor! I protest against this extraordi—" "Set down!" says the judge, pulling his bowic and laying it on his pulpit. "I beg you to respect the Court."

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So he done it. Then he called Bill Withers. Bill Withers, sworn, said: "I was coming along about sundown, Saturday, September 2d, by the prisoner's field, and my brother Jack was with me, and we seen a man toting off something heavy on his back and allowed it was a nigger stealing corn,- we couldn't see distinct; next we made out that it was one man carrying another; and the way it hung, so kind of limp, we judged it was somebody that was drunk; and by the man's walk we said it was parson Silas, and we judged he had found Sam Cooper drunk in the road, which he was always trying to reform him, and was toting him out of danger." It made the people shiver to think of poor old uncle Silas toting off the diseased down to the place in his tobacker field where the dog dug up the body, but there warn't much sympathy around amongst the faces, and I heard one cuss say, "Tis the coldest-blooded work I ever struck, lugging a murdered man around like that, and going to bury him like a animal, and him a preacher at that." Tom he went on thinking, and never took no notice,- so our lawyer took the witness and done the best he could, and it was plenty poor enough. Then Jack Withers he come on the stand and told the same tale, just like Bill done. And after him comes Brace Dunlap, and he was looking very mournful, and most crying; and there was a rustle and a stir all around, and everybody got ready to listen, and lots of the women folks said, "Poor cretur, poor cretur," and you could see a many of them wiping their eyes. Brace Dunlap, sworn, said: "I was in considerable trouble a long time about my poor brother, but I reckoned things warn't near so bad as he made out, and I couldn't make myself believe anybody would have the heart to hurt a poor harmless cretur like that"—[by jings, I was sure I seen Tom give a kind of a faint little start, and then look disappointed again]—"and you know I couldn't think a preacher would hurt him—it warn't natural to think such an onlikely thing—so I never paid much attention, and now I sha'n't ever, ever forgive myself; for if I had a done different, my poor brother would be with me this day, and not laying yonder murdered, and him so harmless." He kind of broke down there and choked up, and waited to get his voice; and people all around said the most pitiful things, and women cried; and it was very still in there, and solemn, and old uncle Silas, poor thing, he give a groan right out so everybody heard him. Then Brace he

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went on, "Saturday, September 2d, he didn't come home to supper. By and by I got a little uneasy, and one of my niggers went over to this prisoner's place, but come back and said he warn't there. So I got uneasier and uneasier, and couldn't rest. I went to bed, but I couldn't sleep; and turned out, away late in the night, and went wandering over to this prisoner's place and all around about there a good while, hoping I would run across my poor brother, and never knowing he was out of his troubles and gone to a better shore—" So he broke down and choked up again, and most all the women was crying now. Pretty soon he got another start and says: "But it warn't no use; so at last I went home and tried to get some sleep, but couldn't. Well, in a day or two everybody was uneasy, and they got to talking about this prisoner's threats, and took to the idea, which I didn't take no stock in, that my brother was murdered; so they hunted around and tried to find his body, but couldn't and give it up. And so I reckoned he was gone off somers to have a little peace, and would come back to us when his troubles was kind of healed. But late Saturday night, the 9th, Lem Beebe and Jim Lane come to my house and told me all—told me the whole awful 'sassination, and my heart was broke. And then I remembered something that hadn't took no hold of me at the time, because reports said this prisoner had took to walking in his sleep and doing all kind of things of no consequence, not knowing what he was about. I will tell you what that thing was that come back into my memory. Away late that awful Saturday night when I was wandering around about this prisoner's place, grieving and troubled, I was down by the corner of the tobacker field and I heard a sound like digging in a gritty soil; and I crope nearer and peeped through the vines that hung on the rail fence and seen this prisoner shoveling—shoveling with a long-handled shovel—heaving earth into a big hole that was most filled up; his back was to me, but it was bright moonlight and I knowed him by his old green baize work-gown with a splattery white patch in the middle of the back like somebody had hit him with a snowball. He was burying, the man he'd murdered!" And he slumped down in his chair crying and sobbing, and most everybody in the house busted out wailing, and crying, and saying, "Oh, it's awful—awful—horrible!" and there was a most tremenduous excitement, and you couldn't hear yourself think; and right in the midst of it up jumps old uncle Silas, white as a sheet, and sings out— "It's true, every word—I murdered him in cold blood!" By Jackson, it petrified them! People rose up wild all over the house, straining and staring for a better look at him, and the judge was hammering with his mallet and the sheriff yelling "Order—order in the court—order!"

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And all the while the old man stood there a-quaking and his eyes a-burning, and not looking at his wife and daughter, which was clinging to him and begging him to keep still, but pawing them off with his hands and saying he would clear his black soul from crime, he would heave off this load that was more than he could bear, and he wouldn't bear it another hour! And then he raged right along with his awful tale, everybody a-staring and gasping, judge, jury, lawyers, and everybody, and Benny and aunt Sally crying their hearts out. And by George, Tom Sawyer never looked at him once! Never once—just set there gazing with all his eyes at something else, I couldn't tell what. And so the old man raged right along, pouring his words out like a stream of fire: "I killed him! I am guilty! But I never had the notion in my life to hurt him or harm him, spite of all them lies about my threatening him, till the very minute I raised the club—then my heart went cold!—then the pity all went out of it, and I struck to kill! In that one moment all my wrongs come into my mind; all the insults that that man and the scoundrel his brother, there, had put upon me, and how they had laid in together to ruin me with the people, and take away my good name, and drive me to some deed that would destroy me and my family that hadn't ever done them no harm, so help me God! And they done it in a mean revenge—for why; Because my innocent pure girl here at my side wouldn't marry that rich, insolent, ignorant coward, Brace Dunlap, who's been sniveling here over a brother he never cared a brass farthing for"—[I see Tom give a jump and look glad this time, to a dead certainty]—"and in that moment I've told you about, I forgot my God and remembered only my heart's bitterness—God forgive me! —and I struck to kill. In one second I was miserably sorry—oh, filled with remorse,- but I thought of my poor family, and I must hide what I'd done for their sakes; and I did hide that corpse in the bushes,- and presently I carried it to the tobacker field; and in the deep night I went with my shovel and buried it where—" Up jumps Tom and shouts— "Now, I've got it!" and waves his hand, oh, ever so fine and starchy, towards the old man, and says— "Set down! A murder was done, but you never had no hand in it!" Well, sir, you could a heard a pin drop. And the old man he sunk down kind of bewildered in his seat and aunt Sally and Benny didn't

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know it, because they was so astonished and staring at Tom with their mouths open and not knowing what they was about. And the whole house the same. / never seen people look so helpless and tangled up, and I hain't ever seen eyes bug out and gaze without a blink the way theirn did. Tom says, perfectly ca'm— "Your Honor, may I speak?" "For God's sake, yes—go on!" says the judge, so astonished and mixed up he didn't know what he was about hardly. Then Tom he stood there and waited a second or two—that was for to work up an "effect," as he calls it—then he started in just as ca'm as ever, and says: "For about two weeks, now, there's been a little bill sticking on the front of this court-house offering two thousand dollars reward for a couple of big di'monds—stole at St. Louis. Them di'monds is worth twelve thousand dollars. But never mind about that till I get to it. Now about this murder. I will tell you all about it—how it happened—who done it—every detail." You could see everybody nestle, now, and begin to listen for all they was worth. "This man here, Brace Dunlap, that's been sniveling so about his dead brother that you know he never cared a straw for, wanted to marry that young girl there, and she wouldn't have him. So he told uncle Silas he would make him sorry. Uncle Silas knowed how powerful he was, and how little chance he had against such a man, and he was scared and worried, and done everything he could think of to smooth him over and get him to be good to him: he even took his no-account brother Jubiter on the farm and give him wages and stinted his own family to pay them,- and Jubiter done everything his brother could contrive to insult uncle Silas, and fret and worry him, and try to drive uncle Silas into doing him a hurt, so as to injure uncle Silas with the people. And it done it. Everybody turned against him and said the meanest kind of things about him, and it graduly broke his heart—yes, and he was so worried and distressed that often he warn't hardly in his right mind. "Well, on that Saturday that we've had so much trouble about, two of these witnesses here, Lem Beebe and Jim Lane, come along by where uncle Silas and Jubiter Dunlap was at work—and that much of what they've said is true, the rest is lies. They didn't hear uncle Silas say he

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would kill Jubiter ; they didn't hear no blow struck; they didn't see no dead man, and they didn't see uncle Silas hide anything in the bushes. Look at them now—how they set there, wishing they hadn't been so handy with their tongues; anyway, they'll wish it before I get done. "That same Saturday evening Bill and Jack Withers did see one man lugging off another one. That much of what they said is true, and the rest is lies. First off they thought it was a nigger stealing uncle Silas's corn—you notice it makes them look silly, now, to find out somebody overheard them say that. That's because they found out by and by who it was that was doing the lugging, and they know best why they swore here that they took it for uncle Silas by the gait—which it wasn't, and they knowed it when they swore to that lie. "A man out in the moonlight did see a murdered person put under ground in the tobacker field—but it wasn't uncle Silas that done the burying. He was in his bed at that very time. "Now, then, before I go on, I want to ask you if you've ever noticed this: that people, when they're thinking deep, or when they're worried, are most always doing something with their hands, and they don't know it, and don't notice what it is their hands are doing. Some stroke their chins; some stroke their noses,- some stroke up under their chin with their hand; some twirl a chain, some fumble a button, then there's some that draws a figure or a letter with their finger on their cheek, or under their chin or on their under lip. That's my way. When I'm restless, or worried, or thinking hard, I draw capital V's on my check or on my under lip or under my chin, and never anything but capital V's—and half the time I don't notice it and don't know I'm doing it." That was odd. That is just what I do ; only I make an O. And I could see people nodding to one another, same as they do when they mean "that's so." "Now then, I'll go on. That same Saturday—no, it was the night before—there was a steamboat laying at Flagler's Landing, forty miles above here, and it was raining and storming like the nation. And there was a thief aboard, and he had them two big di'monds that's advertised out here on this court-house door,- and he slipped ashore with his hand-bag and struck out into the dark and the storm, and he was a-hopmg he could get to this town all right and be safe. But he had two pals aboard the boat, hiding, and he knowed they was going to kill him

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the first chance they got and take the di'monds,- because all three stole them, and then this fellow he got hold of them and skipped. "Well, he hadn't been gone more'n ten minutes before his pals found it out, and they jumped ashore and lit out after him. Prob'ly they burnt matches and found his tracks. Anyway, they dogged along after him all day Saturday and kept out of his sight; and towards sundown he come to the bunch of sycamores down by uncle Silas's field, and he went in there to get a disguise out of his hand-bag and put it on before he showed himself here in the town—and mind you he done that just a little after the time that uncle Silas was hitting Jubiter Dunlap over the head with a club—for he did hit him. "But the minute the pals see that thief slide into the bunch of sycamores, they jumped out of the bushes and slid in after him. "They fell on him and clubbed him to death. "Yes, for all he screamed and howled so, they never had no mercy on him, but clubbed him to death. And two men that was running along the road heard him yelling that way, and they made a rush into the sycamore bunch—which was where they was bound for, anyway —and when the pals saw them they lit out and the two new men after them a-chasing them as tight as they could go. But only a minute or two—then these two new men slipped back very quiet into the sycamores. "Then what did they do? I will tell you what they done. They found where the thief had got his disguise out of his carpet-sack to put on; so one of them strips and puts on that disguise." Tom waited a little here, for some more "effect"—then he says, very deliberate— "The man that put on that dead man's disguise was—]ubiter Dunlap!" "Great Scott!" everybody shouted, all over the house, and old uncle Silas he looked perfectly astonished. "Yes, it was Jubiter Dunlap. Not dead, you see. Then they pulled off the dead man's boots and put Jubiter Dunlap's old ragged shoes on the corpse and put the corpse's boots on Jubiter Dunlap. Then Jubiter Dunlap stayed where he was, and the other man lugged the dead body off in the twilight; and after midnight he went to uncle Silas's house, and took his old green work-robe off of the peg where it always hangs in the passage betwixt the house and the kitchen and put it on, and

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stole the long-handled shovel and went off down into the tobacker field and buried the murdered man." He stopped, and stood a half a minute. Then— "And who do you reckon the murdered man was:. It was—Jake Dunlap, the long-lost burglar!" "Great Scott!" "And the man that buried him was—Brace Dunlap, his brother!" "Great Scott!" "And who do you reckon is this mowing idiot here that's letting on all these weeks to be a deef and dumb stranger? It's—Jubitei Dunlap!" My land, they all busted out in a howl, and you never see the like of that excitement since the day you was born. And Tom he made a jump for Jubiter and snaked off his goggles and his false whiskers, and there was the murdered man, sure enough, just as alive as anybody! And aunt Sally and Benny they went to hugging and crying and kissing and smothering old uncle Silas to that degree he was more muddled and confused and mushed up in his mind than he ever was before, and that is saying considerable. And next, people begun to yell— "Tom Sawyer! Tom Sawyer! Shut up everybody, and let him go on! Go on, Tom Sawyer!" Which made him feel uncommon bully, for it was nuts for Tom Sawyer to be a public character thataway, and a hero, as he calls it. So when it was all quiet, he says— "There ain't much left, only this. When that man there, Brace Dunlap, had most worried the life and sense out of uncle Silas till at last he plum lost his mind and hit this other blatherskite his brother with a club, I reckon he seen his chance. Jubiter broke for the woods to hide, and I reckon the game was for him to slide out, in the night, and leave the country. Then Brace would make everybody believe uncle Silas killed him and hid his body somers,- and that would ruin uncle Silas and drive him out of the country—hang him, maybe,- I dunno. But when they found their dead brother in the sycamores without knowing him, because he was so battered up, they see they had a better thing; disguise both and bury lake and dig him up presently all dressed up in Jubiter's clothes, and hire Jim Lane and Bill Withers and the others to swear to some handy lies—which they done. And there they set, now, and I told them they would be looking sick before I got done, and that is the way they're looking now.

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"Well, me and Huck Finn here, we come down on the boat with the thieves, and the dead one told us all about the di'monds, and said the others would murder him if they got the chance,- and we was going to help him all we could. We was bound for the sycamores when we heard them killing him in there; but we was in there in the early morning after the storm and allowed nobody hadn't been killed, after all. And when we see lubiter Dunlap here spreading around in the very same disguise fake told us he was going to wear, we thought it was Jake his own self—and he was goo-gooing deef and dumb, and that was according to agreement. "Well, me and Huck went on hunting for the corpse after the others quit, and we found it. And was proud, too,- but uncle Silas he knocked us crazy by telling us he killed the man. So we was mighty sorry we found the body, and was bound to save uncle Silas's neck if we could; and it was going to be tough work, too, because he wouldn't let us break him out of prison the way we done with our old nigger Jim, you remember. "I done everything I could the whole month to think up some way to save uncle Silas, but I couldn't strike a thing. So when we come into court to-day I come empty, and couldn't see no chance anywheres. But by and by I had a glimpse of something that set me thinking—just a little wee glimpse—only that, and not enough to make sure; but it set me thinking hard—and watching, when I was only letting on to think; and by and by, sure enough, when uncle Silas was piling out that stuff about him killing Jubiter Dunlap, I catched that glimpse again, and this time I jumped up and shut down the proceedings, because I knowed Jubiter Dunlap was a-setting here before me. I knowed him by a thing which I seen him do—and I remembered it. I'd seen him do it when I was here a year ago." He stopped then, and studied a minute—laying for an "effect"—I knowed it perfectly well. Then he turned off like he was going to leave the platform, and says, kind of lazy and indifferent— "Well, I believe that is all." Why, you never heard such a howl!—and it come from the whole house: "What was it you seen him do? Stay where you arc, you little devil! You think you are going to work a body up till his mouth's a-watering and stop there: What was it he done?"

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That was it, you see—he just done it to get an "effect;" you couldn't 'a' pulled him off of that platform with a yoke of oxen. "Oh, it wasn't anything much," he says. "I seen him looking a little excited when he found uncle Silas was actuly fixing to hang himself for a murder that warn't ever done ; and he got more and more nervous and worried, I a-watching him sharp but not seeming to look at him —and all of a sudden his hands begun to work and fidget, and pretty soon his left crept up and his finger drawed a cross on his cheek, and then I had him!" Well, then they ripped and howled and stomped and clapped their hands till Tom Sawyer was that proud and happy he didn't know what to do with himself. And then the judge he looked down over his pulpit and says— "My boy, did you see all the various details of this strange conspiracy and tragedy that you've been describing?" "No, your Honor, I didn't see any of them." "Didn't see any of them! Why, you've told the whole history straight through, just the same as if you'd seen it with your eyes. How did you manage that?" Tom says, kind of easy and comfortable— "Oh, just noticing the evidence and piecing this and that together, your Honor,- just an ordinary little bit of detective work; anybody could 'a' done it." "Nothing of the kind! Not two in a million could 'a' done it. You are a very remarkable boy." Then they let go and give Tom another smashing round, and he— well, he wouldn't 'a' sold out for a silver mine. Then the judge says— "But arc you certain you've got this curious history straight?" "Perfectly, your Honor. Here is Brace Dunlap—let him deny his share of it if he wants to take the chance,- I'll engage to make him wish he hadn't said anything. . . . Well, you see he's pretty quiet. And his brother's pretty quiet, and them four witnesses that lied so and got paid for it, they're pretty quiet. And as for uncle Silas, it ain't any use for him to put in his oar, I wouldn't believe him under oath!" Well, sir, that fairly made them shout; and even the judge he let go and laughed. Tom he was just feeling like a rainbow. When they was done laughing he looks up at the judge and says— "Your Honor, there's a thief in this house."

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"A thief?"

"Yes, sir. And he's got them twelve-thousand-dollar di'monds on him." By gracious, but it made a stir! Everybody went to shouting— "Which is him? which is him? p'int him out!" And the judge says— "Point him out, my lad. Sheriff, you will arrest him. Which one is it?" Tom says— "This late dead man here—Jubiter Dunlap." Then there was another thundering let-go of astonishment and excitement; but Jubiter, which was astonished enough before, was just fairly putrefied with astonishment this time. And he spoke up, about half crying, and says— c "Now that's a lie!Your Honor, it ain'tfair; I'm plenty bad enough without that. I done the other things—Brace he put me up to it, and persuaded me, and promised he'd make me rich, some day, and I done it, and I'm sorry I done it, and I wisht I hadn't; but I hain't stole no di'monds, and I hain't got no di'monds; I wisht I may never stir if it ain't so. The sheriff can search me and see." Tom says— "Your Honor, it wasn't right to call him a thief, and I'll let up on that a little. He did steal the di'monds, but he didn't know it. He stole them from his brother Jake when he was laying dead, after Jake had stole them from the other thieves; but Jubiter didn't know he was stealing them; and he's been swelling around here with them a month; yes, sir, twelve thousand dollars' worth of di'monds on him—all that riches, and going around here every day just like a poor man. Yes, your Honor, he's got them on him now." The judge spoke up and says— "Search him, sheriff." Well, sir, the sheriff he ransacked him high and low, and everywhere: searched his hat, socks, seams, boots, everything—and Tom he stood there quiet, laying for another of them effects of his'n. Finally the sheriff he give it up, and everybody looked disappointed, and Jubiter says— "There, now! what'd I tell you?" And the judge says—

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"It appears you were mistaken this time, my boy." Then Tom he took an attitude and let on to be studying with all his might, and scratching his head. Then all of a sudden he glanced up chipper, and says— "Oh, now I've got it! I'd forgot." Which was a lie, and I knowed it. Then he says— "Will somebody be good enough to lend me a little small screwdriver? There was one in your brother's hand-bag that you smouchcd, Jubiter, but I reckon you didn't fetch it with you." "No, I didn't. I didn't want it, and I give it away." "That was because you didn't know what it was for." Jubiter had his boots on again, by now, and when the thing Tom wanted was passed over the people's heads till it got to him, he says to Jubiter— "Put up your foot on this chair." And he kneeled down and begun to unscrew the heel-plate, everybody watching; and when he got that big di'mond out of that boot-heel and held it up and let it flash and blaze and squirt sunlight everwhichaway, it just took everybody's breath; and Jubiter he looked so sick and sorry you never see the like of it. And when Tom held up the other di'mond he looked sorrier than ever. Land! he was thinking how he would 'a' skipped out and been rich and independent in a foreign land if he'd only had the luck to guess what the screw-driver was in the carpet-bag for. Well, it was a most exciting time, take it all around, and Tom got cords of glory. The judge took the di'monds, and stood up in his pulpit, and cleared his throat, and shoved his spectacles back on his head, and says— "I'll keep them and notify the owners; and when they send for them it will be a real pleasure to me to hand you the two thousand dollars, for you've earned the money—yes, and you've earned the deepest and most sincerest thanks of this community besides, for lifting a wronged and innocent family out of ruin and shame, and saving a good and honorable man from a felon's death, and for exposing to infamy and the punishment of the law a cruel and odious scoundrel and his miserable creatures!" Well, sir, if there'd been a brass band to bust out some music, then, it would 'a' been just the perfectest thing I ever see, and Tom Sawyer he said the same.

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Then the sheriff he nabbed Brace Dunlap and his crowd, and by and by next month the judge had them up for trial and jailed the whole lot. And everybody crowded back to uncle Silas's little old church, and was ever so loving and kind to him and the family and couldn't do enough for them,- and uncle Silas he preached them the blamedest jumbledest idiotic sermons you ever struck, and would tangle you up so you couldn't find your way home in daylight; but the people never let on but what they thought it was the clearest and brightest and elcgantest sermons that ever was,- and they would set there and cry, for love and pity; but, by George, they give me the jim-jams and the fan-tods and caked up what brains I had, and turned them solid; but by and by they loved the old man's intellects back into him again and he was as sound in his skull as ever he was, which ain't no flattery, I reckon. And so the whole family was as happy as birds, and nobody could be gratefuler and lovingcr than what they was to Tom Sawyer; and the same to me, though I hadn't done nothing. And when the two thousand dollars come, Tom give half of it to me, and never told anybody so, which didn't surprise me, because I knowcd him.

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SUPPLEMENTS

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SUPPLEMENTA "BOY'S MANUSCRIPT" IN SORTING out Mark Twain's manuscripts after he died, Albert Bigelow Paine, the first editor of the Mark Twain Estate, eame upon one written in the form of a hoy's diary. Because the first two pages were missing, Paine gave it the following simple identification on page 3: "Boy's manuscript. Probably written about 1870." Ever since, the diary has been known as "Boy's Manuscript," and Paine's dating has been generally accepted, especially since the ink, paper, and handwriting have been found to be characteristic of that year. Apparently Paine did not realize the significance of the sketch for The Adventures of Tom Sawyer since he not only never printed it, he never mentioned it. After Paine's death, his successor as editor, Bernard DeVoto, included it in MTAW, pp. 25-44. DeVoto was the first to recognize it as the immediate source for many of the characters and episodes in The Adventures of Tom Sawyer (see Introduction, pp. 7-8). Without any literary pretensions, the diary is a fascinating document for those wishing to make a genetic study of the later book and for those tracing the development of Mark Twain as a literary craftsman. The manuscript (DV94) consists of fifty-eight half-sheets numbered 3-60, measuring 5" X 8", and containing an embossment which reads: "BANCROFT". The paper is white, ruled, and wove. The first version of the work here printed is a reading text that omits cancellations, spells out ampersands and an arable numeral ("8"), supplies a period in a heading ("Saturday Night.—"), and corrects two unintentional substantive errors ("state" to "slate" and "out out" to "out of"). This text omits six dash-like lines following narrative sentences which end at right margins, on the assumption that the lines were meant not as dashes but as indications that no paragraph breaks were intended at those points. The second version of the work is a genetic text that represents all textual features of the manuscript except faulty inscriptions and Mark Twain's clarifications of them. Letters, punctuation, and words within angle brackets arc Mark Twain's cancellations. Where other readings replaced the canceled matter, the substitutions follow the c a n c e l l a

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tions. The days at the beginning of diary entries, originally separate lines, were later integrated with the entries. These changes are represented by "" following the days. The form " up" indicates the cancellation of an italic line beneath "up". Letters, punctuation, and single words interlined in the manuscript are preceded and followed by arrows,- arrows precede the first words and follow the last words where two or more successive words were interlined.

Reading Text me that put the apple there. I don't know how long I waited, but it was very long. I didn't mind it, because I was fixing up what I was going to say, and so it was delicious. First I thought I would call her Dear Amy, though I was a little afraid; but soon I got used to it and it was beautiful. Then I changed it to Sweet Amy—which was better—and then I changed it again, to Darling Amy—which was bliss. When I got it all fixed at last, I was going to say, "Darling Amy, if you found an apple on the doorstep, which I think you did find one there, it was me that done it, and I hope you'll think of me sometimes, if you can—only a little"—and I said that over ever so many times and got it all by heart so I could say it right off without ever thinking at all. And directly I saw a blue ribbon and a white frock—my heart began to beat again and my head began to swim and I began to choke—it got worse and worse the closer she came—and so, just in time I jumped behind the lumber and she went by. I only had the strength to sing out "APPLES!" and then I shinned it through the lumber yard and hid. How I did wish she knew my voice! And then I got chicken-hearted and all in a tremble for fear she did know it. But I got easy after a while, when I came to remember that she didn't know me, and so perhaps she wouldn't know my voice cither. When I said my prayers at night, I prayed for her. And I prayed the good God not to let the apple make her sick, and to bless her every way for the sake of Christ the Lord. And then I tried to go to sleep but I was troubled about Jimmy Riley, though she don't know him, and I said the first chance I got I would lick him again. Which I will. Tuesday.—1 played hookey yesterday morning, and stayed around about her street pretending I wasn't doing it for a n y t h i n g , but 1 was

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looking out sideways at her window all the time, because I was sure I knew which one it was—and when people came along I turned away and sneaked off a piece when they looked at me, because I was dead sure from the way they looked that they knew what I was up to—but I watched out, and when they had got far away I went back again. Once I saw part of a dress flutter in that window, and O, how I felt! I was so happy as long as it was in sight—and so awful miserable when it went away—and so happy again when it came back. I could have staid there a year. Once I was watching it so close I didn't notice, and kept getting further and further out in the street, till a man hollered "Hi!" and nearly ran over me with his wagon. I wished he had, because then I would have been crippled and they would have carried me into her house all bloody and busted up, and she would have cried, and I would have been per-fectly happy, because I would have had to stay there till I got well, which I wish I never would get well. But by and bye it turned out that that was the nigger chambermaid fluttering her dress at the window, and then I felt so down-hearted I wished I had never found it out. But I know which is her window now, because she came to it all of a sudden, and I thought rny heart was going to burst with happiness—but I turned my back and pretended I didn't know she was there, and I went to shouting at some boys (there wasn't any in sight,) and "showing off" all I could. But when I sort of glanced around to see if she was taking notice of me she was gone—and then I wished I hadn't been such a fool, and had looked at her when I had a chance. Maybe she thought I was cold towards her? It made me feel awful to think of it. Our torchlight procession came off last night. There was nearly eleven of us, and we had a lantern. It was splendid. It was John Wagner's uncle's lantern. I walked right alongside of John Wagner all the evening. Once he let me carry the lantern myself a little piece. Not when we were going by her house, but if she was where she could see us she could see easy enough that I knowed the boy that had the lantern. It was the best torchlight procession the boys ever got up—all the boys said so. I only wish I could find out what she thinks of it. I got them to go by her house four times. They didn't want to go, because it is in a back street, liut I hired them with marbles. I had twenty-two commas and a white alley when I started out, but I went home dead broke. Suppose I grieved any? No. I said I didn't mind any expense when her happiness was concerned. I shouted all the time we were

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going by her house, and ordered the procession around lively, and so I don't make any doubt but she thinks I was the captain of it—that is, if she knows me and my voice. I expect she does. I've got acquainted with her brother Tom, and I expect he tells her about me. I'm always hanging around him, and giving him things, and following him home and waiting outside the gate for him. I gave him a fish-hook yesterday; and last night I showed him my sore toe where I stumped it—and to-day I let him take my tooth that was pulled out New-Year's to show to his mother. I hope she seen it. I was a-playing for that, anyway. How awful it is to meet her father and mother! They seem like kings and queens to me. And her brother Tom—I can hardly understand how it can be—but he can hug her and kiss her whenever he wants to. I wish I was her brother. But it can't be, I don't reckon. Wednesday.—I don't take any pleasure, nights, now, but carrying on with the boys out in the street before her house, and talking loud and shouting, so she can hear me and know I'm there. And after school I go by about three times, all in a flutter and afraid to hardly glance over, and always letting on that I am in an awful hurry—going after the doctor or something. But about the fourth time I only get in sight of the house, and then I weaken—because I am afraid the people in the houses along will know what I am about. I am all the time wishing that a wild bull or an Injun would get after her so I could save her, but somehow it don't happen so. It happens so in the books, but it don't seem to happen so to me. After 1 go to bed, I think all the time of big boys insulting her and me a-licking them. Here lately, sometimes I feel ever so happy, and then again, and dreadful often, too, I feel mighty bad. Then I don't take any interest in anything. I don't care for apples, I don't care for molasses candy, swinging on the gate don't do me no good, and even sliding on the cellar door don't seem like it used to did. I just go around hankering after something I don't know what. I've put away my kite. I don't care for kites now. I saw the cat pull the tail off of it without a pang. I don't seem to want to go in a-swimming, even when Ma don't allow me to. I don't try to catch flics any more. I don't take any interest in flies. Even when they light right where I could nab them easy, I don't pay any attention to them. And I don't take any interest in property. To-day I took everything out of my pockets, and looked at them—and the very things I thought the most of I don't think the least

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about now. There was a ball, and a top, and a piece of chalk, and two fish hooks, and a buckskin string, and a long piece of twine, and two slate pencils, and a sure-enough china, and three white alleys, and a spool cannon, and a wooden soldier with his leg broke, and a real Barlow, and a hunk of maple sugar, and a jewsharp, and a dead frog, and a jaybird's egg, and a door knob, and a glass thing that's broke off of the top of a decanter (I traded two fish-hooks and a tin injun for it,) and a penny, and a potato-gun, and two grasshoppers which their legs was pulled off, and a spectacle glass, and a picture of Adam and Eve without a rag. I took them all up stairs and put them away. And I know I shall never care anything about property any more. I had all that trouble accumulating a fortune, and now I am not as happy as I was when I was poor. Joe Baldwin's cat is dead, and they are expecting me to go to the funeral, but I shall not go. I don't take any interest in funerals any more. I don't wish to do anything but just go off by myself and think of her. I wish I was dead—that is what I wish I was. Then maybe she would be sorry. Friday.—My mother don't understand it. And I can't tell her. She worries about me, and asks me it I'm sick, and where it hurts me—and I have to say that I ain't sick and nothing don't hurt me, but she says she knows better, because it's the measles. So she gave me ipecac, and calomel, and all that sort of stuff and made me awful sick. And I had to go to bed, and she gave me a mug of hot sage tea and a mug of hot saffron tea, and covered me up with blankets and said that that would sweat me and bring it to the surface. I suffered. But I couldn't tell her. Then she said I had bile. And so she gave me some warm salt water and I heaved up everything that was in me. But she wasn't satisfied. She said there wasn't any bile in that. So she gave me two blue mass pills, and after that a tumbler of Epsorn salts to work them off—which it did work them off. I felt that what was left of me was dying, but still I couldn't tell. The measles wouldn't come to the surface and so it wasn't measles; there wasn't any bile, and so it wasn't bile. Then she said she was stumped—but there was something the matter, and so there was nothing to do but tackle it in a sort of a general way. I was too weak and miserable to care much. And so she put bottles of hot water to my feet, and socks full of hot ashes on my breast, and a poultice on my head. But they didn't work, and so she gave me some rhubarb to

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regulate my bowels, and put a mustard plaster on my back. But at last she said she was satisfied it wasn't a cold on the chest. It must be general stagnation of the blood, and then I knew what was coming. But I couldn't tell, and so, with her name on my lips I delivered myself up and went through the water treatment—douche, sitz, wet-sheet and shower-bath (awful,)—and came out all weak, and sick, and played out. Does she—ah, no, she knows nothing of it. And all the time that I lay suffering, I did so want to hear somebody only mention her name—and I hated them because they thought of everything else to please me but that. And when at last somebody did mention it my face and my eyes lit up so that my mother clasped her hands and said:—"Thanks, O thanks, the pills are operating!" Saturday Night.—This was a blessed day. Mrs. lohnson came to call and as she passed through the hall I saw—O, I like to jumped out of bed! —I saw the flash of a little red dress, and I knew who was in it. Mrs. Johnson is her aunt. And when they came in with Ma to see me I was perfectly happy. I was perfectly happy but I was afraid to look at her except when she was not looking at me. Ma said I had been very sick, but was looking ever so much better now. Mrs. Johnson said it was a dangerous time, because children got hold of so much fruit. Now she said Amy found an apple [I started,] on the doorstep [Oh!] last Sunday, [Oh, geeminy, the very, very one!] and ate it all up, [Bless her heart!] and it gave her the colic. [Dern that apple!] And so she had been sick, too, poor dear, and it was her Billy that did it—though she couldn't know that, of course. I wanted to take her in my arms and tell her all about it and ask her to forgive me, but I was afraid to even speak to her. But she had suffered for my sake, and I was happy. By and bye she came near the bed and looked at me with her big blue eyes, and never flinched. It gave me some spunk. Then she said: "What's your name?—Eddie, or Joe?" I said, "It ain't neither—it's Billy." "Billy what?" "Billy Rogers." "Has your sister got a doll?" "I ain't got any sister." "It ain't a pretty name I don't think—much." "Which?"

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"Why Billy Rogers—Rogers ain't, but Billy is. Did you ever see two cats fighting?—/ have." "Well I reckon I have. I've made 'em fight. More'n a thousand times. I've fit 'em over close-lines, and in boxes, and under barrels—every way.—But the most fun is to tie fire-crackers to their tails and see 'em scatter for home. Your name's Amy, ain't it?—and you're eight years old, ain't you?" "Yes, I'll be nine, ten months and a half from now, and I've got two dolls, and one of 'em can cry and the other's got its head broke and all the sawdust is out of its legs—it don't make no difference, though—I've give all its dresses to the other. Is this the first time you ever been sick?" "No! I've had the scarlet fever and the mumps, and the hoop'n cough, and ever so many things. H'mph! / don't consider it anything to be sick." "My mother don't, either. She's been sick maybe a thousand times—and once, would you believe it, they thought she was going to die." "They always think I'm going to die. The doctors always gives me up and has the family crying and snuffling round here. But I only think it's bully." "Bully is naughty, my mother says, and she don't 'low Tom to say it. Who do you go to school to?" "Peg-leg Bliven. That's what the boys calls him, cause he's got a cork leg." "Goody! I'm going to him, too." "Oh, that's bul—. I like that. When?" "To-morrow. Will you play with me?" "You bet!" Then Mrs. Johnson called her and she said "Good-bye, Billy"—she called me Billy—and then she went away and left me so happy. And she gave me a chunk of molasses candy, and I put it next my heart, and it got warm and stuck, and it won't come off, and I can't get my shirt off, but I don't mind it. I'm only glad. But won't I be out of this and at school Monday? I should think so. Thursday.—They've been plaguing us. We've been playing together three days, and to-day I asked her if she would be my little wife and she

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said she would, and just then Jim Riley and Bob Sawyer jumped up from behind the fence where they'd been listening, and begun to holler at the other scholars and told them all about it. So she went away crying, and I felt had enough to cry myself. I licked Jim Riley, and Bob Sawyer licked me, and Jo Bryant licked Sawyer, and Peg-leg licked all of us. But nothing could make me happy. I was too dreadful miserable on account of seeing her cry. Friday.—She didn't come to school this morning, and I felt awful. 1 couldn't study, I couldn't do anything. I got a black mark because I couldn't tell if a man had five apples and divided them equally among himself and gave the rest away, how much it was—or something like that. I didn't know how many parts of speech there was, and I didn't care. I was head of the spelling class and I spcllt baker with two k's and got turned down foot. I got lathered for drawing a picture of her on the slate, though it looked more like women's hoops with a hatchet on top than it looked like her. But I didn't care for sufferings. Bill Williams bent a pin and I set down on it, but I never even squirmed. |ake Warner hit me with a spit-ball, but I never took any notice of it. The world was all dark to me. The first hour that morning was awful. Something told me she wouldn't be there. I don't know what, but something told me. And my heart sunk away down when I looked among all the girls and didn't find her. No matter what was going on, that first hour, I was watching the door. 1 wouldn't hear the teacher sometimes, and then I got scolded. I kept on hoping and hoping—and starting, a little, every time the door opened—till it was no use—she wasn't coming. And when she came in the afternoon, it was all bright again. But she passed by me and never even looked at me. I felt so bad. I tried to catch her eye, but I couldn't. She always looked the other way. At last she set up close to Jimmy Riley and whispered to him a long, long time—five minutes, I should think. I wished that 1 could die right in my tracks. And I said to myself I would lick Jim Riley till he couldn't stand. Presently she looked at me—for the first time—but she didn't smile. She laid something as far as she could toward the end of the bench and motioned that it was for me. Soon as the teacher turned I rushed there and got it. It was wrote on a piece of copy-book, and so the first line wasn't hers. This is the letter: "Time and Tide \vait for no Man.

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"mister william rogcrs i do not love yon dont come about me any more i will not speak to you" I cried all the afternoon, nearly, and I hated her. She passed by me two or three times, but I never noticed her. At recess 1 licked three of the boys and put my arms round May Warner's neck, and she saw me do it, too, and she didn't play with anybody at all. Once she came near me and said very low, "Billy, I—I'm sorry." But I went away and wouldn't look at her. But pretty soon I was sorry myself. I was scared, then. I jumped up and ran, but school was just taking in and she was already gone to her seat. I thought what a fool I was; and 1 wished it was to do over again, I wouldn't go away. She had said she was sorry—and I wouldn't notice her. I wished the house would fall on me. I felt so mean for treating her so when she wanted to be friendly. How 1 did wish I could catch her eye!—I would look a look that she would understand. But she never, never looked at me. She sat with her head down, looking sad, poor thing. She never spoke but once during the afternoon, and then it was to that hateful Jim Riley. I will pay him for this conduct. Saturday.—Going home from school Friday evening, she went with the girls all around her, and though I walked on the outside, and talked loud, and ran ahead sometimes, and cavorted around, and said all sorts of funny things that made the other girls laugh, she wouldn't laugh, and wouldn't take any notice of me at all. At her gate I was close enough to her to touch her, and she knew it, but she wouldn't look around, but just went straight in and straight to the door, without ever turning. And Oh, how I felt! I said the world was a mean, sad place, and had nothing for me to love or care for in it—and life, life was only misery. It was then that it first came into my head to take my life. 1 don't know why I wanted to do that, except that I thought it would make her feel sorry. I liked that, but then she could only feel sorry a little while, because she would forget it, but I would be dead for always. I did not like that. If she would be sorry as long as I would be dead, it would be different. But anyway, I felt so dreadful that I said at last that it was better to die than to live. So I wrote a letter like this: "Darling Amy "1 take my pen in hand to inform you that I am in good health and hope these fiew lines will find you injoying the same god's blessing I

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love you. I cannot live and see you hate me and talk to that Jim riley which I will lick every time I ketch him and have done so already I do not wish to live any more as we must part. I will piscn myself when I am done writing this and that is the last you will ever see of your poor Billy forever. I enclose my tooth which was pulled out newycars, keep it always to remember me by, I wish it was larger. Your dyeing BILLY ROGERS." I directed it to her and took it and put it under her father's door. Then I looked up at her window a long time, and prayed that she might be forgiven for what I was going to do—and then cried and kissed the ground where she used to step out at the door, and took a pinch of the dirt and put it next my heart where the candy was, and started away to die. But I had forgotten to get any poison. Something else had to be done. I went down to the river, but it would not do, for I remembered that there was no place there but was over my head. I went home and thought I would jump off of the kitchen, but every time, just I had dumb nearly to the eaves I slipped and fell, and it was plain to be seen that it was dangerous—so I gave up that plan. I thought of hanging, and started up stairs, because I knew where there was a new bed-cord, but I recollected my father telling me if he ever caught me meddling with that bed-cord he would thrash me in an inch of my life—and so I had to give that up. So there was nothing for it but poison. I found a bottle in the closet, labeled laudanum on one side and castor oil on the other. I didn't know which it was, but I drank it all. I think it was oil. I was dreadful sick all night, and not constipated, my mother says, and this morning I had lost all interest in things, and didn't care whether I lived or died. But Oh, by nine o'clock she was here, and came right in—how my heart did beat and my face flush when I saw her dress go by the window!—she came right in and came right up to the bed, before Ma, and kissed me, and the tears were in her eyes, and she said, "Oh, Billy, hohow could you be so naughty!—and Bingo is going to die, too, because another dog's bit him behind and all over, and Oh, I shan't have anybody to love!"—and she cried and cried. But I told her I was not going to die and / would love her, always—and then her face brightened up, and she laughed and clapped her hands and said now as Ma was gone out, we'd talk all about it. So I kissed her and she kissed me, and she promised to be my little wife and love me forever and never love anybody else ; and I promised just the same to her. And then 1

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asked her if she had any plans, and she said No, she hadn't thought of that—no doubt I could plan everything. I said I could, and it would be my place, being the husband, to always plan and direct, and look out for her, and protect her all the time. She said that was right. But I said she could make suggestions—she ought to say what kind of a house she would rather live in. So she said she would prefer to have a little cosy cottage, with vines running over the windows and a four-story brick attached where she could receive company and give parties—that was all. And we talked a long time about what profession I had better follow. I wished to be a pirate, but she said that would be horrid. I said there was nothing horrid about it—it was grand. She said pirates killed people. I said of course they did—what would you have a pirate do?—it's in his line. She said, But just think of the blood! I said I loved blood and carnage. She shuddered. She said, well, perhaps it was best, and she hoped I would be great. Great! I said, where was there ever a pirate that wasn't great? Look at Capt. Kydd—look at Morgan—look at Gibbs—look at the noble Lafitte—look at the Black Avenger of the Spanish Main!—names that'll never die. That pleased her, and so she said, let it be so. And then we talked about what she should do. She wanted to keep a milliner shop, because then she could have all the fine clothes she wanted; and on Sundays, when the shop was closed, she would be a teacher in Sunday-school. And she said I could help her teach her class Sundays when I was in port. So it was all fixed that as soon as ever we grow up we'll be married, and I am to be a pirate and she's to keep a milliner shop. Oh, it is splendid. I wish we were grown up now. Time does drag along so! But won't it be glorious! I will be away a long time cruising, and then some Sunday morning I'll step into Sunday School with my long black hair, and my slouch hat with a plume in it, and my long sword and high boots and splendid belt and red satin doublet and breeches, and my black flag with scull and cross-bones on it, and all the children will say, "Look—look—that's Rogers the pirate!" Oh, I wish time would move along faster. Tuesday.—I was disgraced in school before her yesterday. These long summer days are awful. I couldn't study. I couldn't think of anything but being free and far away on the bounding billow. I hate school, anyway. It is .so dull. 1 sat looking out of the window and listening to the buzz, buzz, buzzing of the scholars learning their

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lessons, till I was drowsy and did want to be out of that place so much. I could see idle boys playing on the hill-side, and catching butterflies whose fathers ain't able to send them to school, and I wondered what I had done that God should pick me out more than any other boy and give me a father able to send me to school. But I never could have any luck. There wasn't anything I could do to pass off the time. I caught some flies, but I got tired of that. I couldn't see Amy, because they've moved her seat. I got mad looking out of the window at those boys. By and bye, my chum, Bill Bowen, he bought a louse from Archy Thompson—he's got millions of them—bought him for a white alley and put him on the slate in front of him on the desk and begun to stir him up with a pin. He made him travel a while in one direction, and then he headed him off and made him go some other way. It was glorious fun. I wanted one, but I hadn't any white alley. Bill kept him a-moving—this way—that way—every way—and I did wish I could get a chance at him myself, and I begged for it. Well, Bill made a mark down the middle of the slate, and he says, "Now when he is on my side, I'll stir him up—and I'll try to keep him from getting over the line, but if he does get over it, then you can stir him up as long as he's over there." So he kept stirring him up, and two or three times he was so near getting over the line that I was in a perfect fever,- but Bill always headed him off again. But at last he got on the line and all Bill could do he couldn't turn him—he made a dead set to come over, and presently over he did come, head over heels, upside down, a-reaching for things and a-clawing the air with all his hands! I snatched a pin out of my jacket and begun to waltz him around, and I made him git up and git—it was splendid fun—but at last, I kept him on my side so long that Bill couldn't stand it any longer, he was so excited, and he reached out to stir him up himself. I told him to let him alone, and behave himself. He said he wouldn't. I said "You've got to—he's on my side, now, and you haven't got any right to punch him." He said, "I haven't, haven't I? By George he's my louse—I bought him for a white alley, and I'll do just as I blame please with him!" And then I felt somebody nip me by the ear, and I saw a hand nip Bill by the ear. It was Peg-leg the schoolmaster. He had sneaked up behind, just in his natural mean way, and seen it all and heard it all, and we had been so taken up with our circus that we hadn't noticed that the

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buzzing was all still and the scholars watching Peg-leg and us. He took us up to his throne by the ears and thrashed us good, and Amy saw it all. I felt so mean that I sneaked away from school without speaking to her, and at night when I said my prayers I prayed that I might be taken away from school and kept at home until I was old enough to be a pirate.* Tuesday Week.—For six whole days she has been gone to the country. The first three days, I played hookey all the time, and got licked for it as much as a dozen times. But I didn't care. I was desperate. I didn't care for anything. Last Saturday was the day for the battle between our school and Hog Davis's school (that is the boys's name for their teacher). I'm captain of a company of the littlest boys in our school. I came on the ground without any paper hat and without any wooden sword, and with my jacket on my arm. The Colonel said I was a fool—said I had kept both armies waiting for me a half an hour, and now to come looking like that—and 1 better not let the General see me. I said him and the General both could lump it if they didn't like it. Then he put me under arrest—under arrest of that lim Riley—and I just licked Jim Rilcy and got out of arrest—and then I waltzed into Hog Davis's infant department and the way I made the fur fly was awful. I wished Amy could sec me then. We drove the whole army over the hill and down by the slaughter house and lathered them good, and then they surrendered till next Saturday. I was made a lieutenant-colonel for desperate conduct in the field and now I am almost the youngest lieutenant-colonel we've got. I reckon I ain't no slouch. We've got thirty-two officers and fourteen men in our army, and we can take that Hog Davis crowd and do for them any time, even if they have got two more men than we have, and eleven more officers. But nobody knew what made me fight so—nobody but two or three, I guess. They never thought of Amy. Going home Wart Hopkins overtook me (that's his nickname—because he's all over warts). He'd been out to the cross-roads burying a bean that he'd bloodied with a wart to make them go away and he was going home, now. I was in business with him once, and we had fell out. We had a circus and both of us wanted to be clown, and he wouldn't give up. He was always contrary that way. And he wanted to do the zam, and / wanted to do the zam *Every detail of the above incident is strictly true, as I have excellent reason to remember.—[M.T.

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(which the zam means the zampillerostation), and there it was again. He knocked a barrel from under me when I was a-standing on my head one night, and once when we were playing Jack the Giant Killer I tripped his stilts up and pretty near broke him in two. We charged two pins admission for big boys and one pin for little ones—and when we came to divide up he wanted to shove off all the pins on me that hadn't any heads on. That was the kind of a boy he was—always mean. He always tied the little boys' clothes when they went in a-swimming. I was with him in the nigger-show business once, too, and he wanted to be bones all the time himself. He would sneak around and nip marbles with his toes and carry them off when the boys were playing Knucks, or anything like that,- and when he was playing himself he always poked or he always hunched. He always throwed his nutshells under some small boy's bench in school and let him get lammed. He used to put shoemaker's wax in the teacher's seat and then play hookey and let some other fellow catch it. I hated Wart Hopkins. But now he was in the same fix as myself, and I did want somebody to talk to so bad, who was in that fix. He loved Susan Hawkins and she was gone to the country too. I could see he was suffering, and he could sec I was. I wanted to talk, and he wanted to talk, though we hadn't spoken for a long, long time. Both of us was full. So he said let bygones be bygones—let's make up and be good friends, because we'd ought to be, fixed as we were. I just overflowed, and took him around the neck and went to crying, and he took me around the neck and went to crying, and we were perfectly happy because we were so miserable together. And I said I would always love him and Susan, and he said he would always love me and Amy—beautiful, beautiful Amy, he called her, which made me feel good and proud,- but not quite so beautiful as Susan, he said, and I said it was a lie and he said I was another and a fighting one and darsn't take it up ; and I hit him and he hit me back, and then we had a fight and rolled down a gulley into the mud and gouged and bit and hit and scratched, and neither of us was whipped,and then we got out and commenced it all over again and he put a chip on his shoulder and dared me to knock it off and I did, and so we had it again, and then he went home and I went home, and Ma asked me how I got my clothes all tore off and was so ragged and bloody and bruised up, and I told her I fell down, and then she black-snaked me and 1 was all right. And the very next day I got a letter from Amy! Mrs. (ohnson brought it to me. It said:

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"mister william rogers dear billy i have took on so i am all Wore out a crying becos i Want to see you so bad the cat has got kittens but it Dont make me happy i Want to see you all the Hens lays eggs excep the old Rooster and mother and me Went to church Sunday and had hooklebcary pie for Dinner i think of you Always and love you no more from your amy at present AMY." I read it over and over and over again, and kissed it, and studied out new meanings in it, and carried it to bed with me and read it again first thing in the morning. And I did feel so delicious I wanted to lay there and think of her hours and hours and never get up. But they made me. The first chance I got 1 wrote to her, and this is it: "Darling Amy "I have had lots of fights and I love you all the same. I have changed my dog which his name was Bull and now his name is Amy. I think its splendid and so docs he I reckon because he always comes when I call him Amy though he'd come anyhow rather than be walloped, which I would wallop him if he didn't. I send you my picture. The things on the lower side arc the legs, the head is on the other end, the horable thing which its got in its hand is you though not so pretty by a long sight. I didn't mean to put only one eye in your face but there wasnt room. I have been thinking sometimes I'll be a pirate and sometimes I'll keep grocery on account of candy And I would like ever so much to be a brigadire General or a deck hand on a steamboat because they have fun you know and go everywhcrcs. But a fellow cant be everything I dont reckon. I have traded off my Sunday school book and Ma's hatchet for a pup and I reckon I'm going to ketch it, maybe. Its a good pup though. It nipped a chicken yesterday and goes around raising cain all the time. I love you to destruction Amy and I can't live if you dont come back. I had the branch dammed up beautiful for water-mills, but I dont care for water mills when you are away so I traded the dam to Jo Whipple for a squirt gun though if you was here I wouldnt give a dam for a squirt gun because we could have water mills. So no more from your own true love. My pen is bad my ink is pale Roses is red the violets blue But my love for you shall never change. WILLIAM T. ROGERS. "I'.S. i learm that poetry from Sarah Maekleroy—its beautiful."

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Tuesday Fortnight.—I'm thankful that I'm free. I've come to myself. I'll never love another girl again. There's no dependence in them. If I was going to hunt up a wife I would just go in amongst a crowd of girls and say "Eggs, cheese, butter, bread, Stick, stock, stone—DEAD!" and take the one it lit on just the same as if I was choosing up for fox or haste or three-cornered cat or hide'n'whoop or anything like that. I'd get along just as well as by selecting them out and falling in love with them the way 1 did with—with—I can't write her name, for the tears will come. But she has treated me Shameful. The first thing she did when she got back from the country was to begin to object to me being a pirate—because some of her kin is down on pirates I reckon—though she said it was because I would be away from home so much. A likely story, indeed—if she knowcd anything about pirates she'd know that they go and come just whenever they please, which other people can't. Well I'll be a pirate now, in spite of all the girls in the world. And next she didn't want me to be a deck hand on a steamboat, or else it was a judge she didn't want me to be, because one of them wasn't respectable, she didn't know which—some more bosh from relations I reckon. And then she said she didn't want to keep a milliner shop, she wanted to clerk in a toy-shop, and have an open barouche and she'd like me to sell peanuts and papers on the railroad so she could ride without it costing anything. "What!" I said, "and not be a pirate at all?" She said yes. I was disgusted. I told her so. Then she cried, and said I didn't love her, and wouldn't do anything to please her, and wanted to break her heart and have some other girl when she was dead, and then I cried, too, and told her I did love her, and nobody but her, and I'd do anything she wanted me to and I was sorry, Oh, so sorry. Hut she shook her head, and pouted—and I begged again, and she turned her back—and 1 went on pleading and she wouldn't answer—only pouted—and at last when I was getting mad, she slammed the jewsharp, and the tin locomotive and the spool-cannon and everything I'd given her, on the floor, and flourished out mad and crying like sin, and said I was a mean, good-for-nothing thing and I might go and be a pirate and welcome 1 —she never wanted to see me any more! And I was mad and crying, too, and I said By Ceorge I would be a pirate, and an awful bloody one, too, or my name warn't Bill Rogers!

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And so it's all over between us. But now that it is all over, I feel mighty, mighty bad. The whole school knowed we were engaged, and they think strange to see us flirting with other boys and girls, but we can't help that. I flirt with other girls, but I don't care anything about them. And I see her lip quiver sometimes and the tears come in her eyes when she looks my way when she's flirting with some other boy—and then I do want to rush there and grab her in my arms and be friends again! Saturday.—I am happy again, and forever, this time. I've seen her! I've seen the girl that is my doom. I shall die if I cannot get her. The first time I looked at her I fell in love with her. She looked at me twice in church yesterday, and Oh how I felt! She was with her mother and her brother. When they came out of church I followed them, and twice she looked back and smiled, and I would have smiled too, but there was a tall young man by my side and I was afraid he would notice. At last she dropped a leaf of a flower—rose geranium Ma calls it—and I could see by the way she looked that she meant it for me, and when I stooped to pick it up the tall young man stooped too. I got it, but I felt awful sheepish, and I think he did, too, because he blushed. He asked me for it, and I had to give it to him, though I'd rather given him my bleeding heart, but I pinched off just a little piece and kept it, and shall keep it forever. Oh, she is .so lovely! And she loves me. I know it. I could sec it, easy. Her name's Laura Miller. She's nineteen years old, Christmas. I never, never, never will part with this one! NEVER.

Genetic Text me that put the apple there. I don't know how long I waited, but it was very long. I didn't mind it, because I was fixing up what I was going to say, & so it was delicious. First I thought I would call her Dear Amy, though I was a little afraid,- but soon I got used to it & it was beautiful. Then I changed it to Swect Amy—which was better—&. then I changed it again, to Darling Amy—which was bliss. W h e n I got it all fixed at last, 1 was going to say, "Darling Amy, if you found an apple on the doorstep, which I think you did find one there, it was me that done

436

TOM SAWYER • SUPPLEMENT A

it, & I hope you'll think of me sometimes, if you can—only a little"—& I said that over ever so many times & got it all by heart so 1 could say it right off without ever thinking at all . And directly I saw a blue ribbon & a white frock—my heart began to beat again & my head began to swim & I began to choke—it tgot t worse & worse the closer she came—& so, just in time I jumped behind the lumber & she went by. I only had the strength to sing out "APPLES!" & then I shinned it through the lumber yard & hid. How I did wish she knew my voice! And then I got chickenhearted & all in a tremble for fear she did know it. But I got easy after a while, when I came to remember that she didn't know me, & so perhaps she wouldn't know my voice either. When I said my prayers at night, I prayed for her. And I prayed the good God not to let the apple make her sick, &. to bless her every way for the sake of Christ the Lord. And then I tried to go to sleep but I was troubled about Jimmy Rilcy, though she don't know him, &. I said the first chance I got I would lick him again. Which I will. Tuesday.—I played hookey yesterday morning, & stayed around about her street pretending I wasn't doing it for anything, but I was looking out sideways at her window all the time, because I was sure I knew which one it was—& when people came along I turned away & sneaked off a piece when they looked at me, because I was dead sure from the way they looked that they knew what I was up to—but I watched out, & when they had got far away I went back again. Once I saw part of a dress flutter in that window, &. O, how I felt! I was so happy as long as it was in sight—& so awful miserable when it went away—& 50 happy again when it came back. I could have staid there a year. Once I was watching it so close I didn't notice, & kept getting further & further out in the street, till a man hollered "Hi!" & nearly ran over me with his wagon. I wished he had, because then I would have been crippled & they would have carried me into her house all bloody & busted up, & she would have cried, & I would have been per-fectly happy, because I would have had to stay there till I got well, which I wish 1 never would get well. But by & bye it turned out that that was the nigger chambermaid fluttering her dress at the window, & then I felt so down-hearted I wished I had never found it out. "Hut 1 know which is her window now, because she

"BOY'S MANUSCRIPT"

437

came to it all of a sudden, & I thought my heart was going to burst with happiness—but I turned my back & pretended I didn't know she was there, & I went to shouting at some boys (there wasn't any in sight,) & "showing off" all I could. But when I sort of glanced around to see if she was taking notice of me she was gone—&. then I wished I hadn't been such a fool, & had looked at her when I had a chance. Maybe she thought I was cold towards her? It made me feel awful to think of it. Our torchlight procession came off last night. There was nearly eleven of us, &. we had a lantern. It was splendid. It was John Wagner's uncle's lantern. I walked right alongside of tjohn Wagnen all the evening. Once he let me carry the lantern myself a little piece. Not when we were going by her house, but if she was where she could see us she could see easy enough that I knowed the boy that had the lantern. It was the best torchlight procession the boys ever got up—all the boys said so. I only wish I could find out what she thinks of it. I got them to go by her house four times. They didn't want to go, because it is in a back street, but I hired them with marbles. I had twenty-two commas & a white alley when I started out, but I went home dead broke. Suppose I grieved any? No. I said I didn't mind any expense when her happiness was concerned. I shouted all the time we were going by her house, &. ordered the procession around tlively,i & so I don't make any doubt but she thinks I was the captain of it—that is, if she knows me &, my voice. I expect she does. I've got acquainted with her brother Tom, &. I expect he tells her about me. I'm always hanging around him, & giving him things, & following him home &. waiting outside the gate for him. I gave him a fish-hook yesterday,- & last night I showed him my sore toe where I stumped it—&. to-day I let him take my tooth that was pulled out New-Year's to show to his mother. I hope she seen it. I was a-playing for that, anyway. How awful it is to meet her father & mother!—They seem like kings & queens to me. And her brother Tom—I can hardly understand how it can be—but he can hug her & kiss her whenever he wants to. I wish I was her brother. But it tcan't be, I don't reckon.! Wednesday. — I don't take any pleasure, nights, now, but carrying on with the boys out in the street before her house, & talking loud & shouting, so she can hear me & know I'm there. And after

438

TOM SAWYER • SUPPLEMENT A

school I go by about three times, all in a flutter &. afraid to hardly glance over, S\ always letting on that I am in an awful hurry—going after the doctor or something. But about the fourth time I only get in sight of the house, & then I weaken—because I am afraid the people in the houses along will know what I am about. I am all the time wishing t t would a getw u lbut l Torh an a Injun, after i herlsod I couldb save her, somehow it don't happen so. It happens so in the books, but it don't seem to happen so to me. After I go to bed, I think all the time of big boys insulting her & me a-licking them. Here lately, sometimes I feel ever so happy, & then again, & tdrcadful often, too,i I feel mighty bad. Then I t—& you're 8 years old, ain't you?"i "Yes, till be nine, ten months & a half from now,j & I've got two dolls, &i one of 'em can cry & the other's got its head broke &. all the sawdust is out of its legs—it don't make no difference, though—I've give all its dresses to the other. Is this tthei first time you ever been sick?" "No\ I've had the scarlet fever &. the mumps, & the hoop'n cough, & ever so many things. H'mph! / d o n ' t consider it anything to be sick."

"BOY'S MANUSCRIPT"

441

"My mother don't, cither. She's been sick maybe a thousand times—& once, tsquirmed.i Jake Warner hit me with a spit-ball, but I never took any notice of it. The world was all dark to me. The first hour that morning was awful. Something told me she wouldn't be there. I don't know what, but something told me. And my heart sunk away down when I looked among all the girls &. didn't find her. No matter what was going on, that first hour, I was watching the door. I wouldn't hear the teacher sometimes, & then I got scolded. I kept on hoping & hoping— & starting, a little, every time the door opened—till it was no use—she wasn't coming. And when she came in the afternoon, it was all bright again. But she passed by me & never even looked at me. I felt so bad. I tried to catch her eye, but I couldn't. She always looked the other way. At last she set up close to Jimmy Riley & whispered to him a long, long time—five minutes, 1 should think. I wished that I could die right in my tracks. And I said to myself I would lick Jim Riley till he couldn't stand. Presently she looked at me—for the first time—but slie didn't smile. She laid something as far as she could toward the end of the bench &. motioned that it was for me. Soon as the teacher turned I rushed there & got it. It was twrotei on a piece of copy-book, & so the first line wasn't hers. This is the letter: "Time & Tide wait for no Man. "mister william rogers i do not love you don tpunctu him." tlJiHe said, "I haven't, haven't I? tBy Georgei he's my louse—I bought him for a white alley, & I'll do just as 1t blame j please with him!" tIJiAnd then I felt somebody nip me by the ear, Si I saw a hand nip Bill by the ear. It was Peg-leg the schoolmaster. He had sneaked up behind, -just in his natural mean way,j & seen it all &. heard it all, &v we had been so taken up with our circus that we hadn't noticed that the buzzing was all still &. the scholars watching Peg-leg & us. He took us up to his throne by the ears & thrashed us good, & Amy saw it all. I felt so mean that I sneaked away from school without speaking to her, & at night when I said my prayers I prayed that I might be taken away from school t&U kept at home until I was old enough to be a pirate.* Tuesday Week. — For six whole days she has been gone to the country. The first three days, I played hookey all the time, & got licked *Evcry detail of the above incident is strictly true, as I have -excellenti reason to remember.—[M.T.

"BOY'S MANUSCRIPT"

447

for it as much as a dozen times. But I didn't care. I was de

spcratc. I didn't care for anything. Last Saturday was the day for the battle between our school &. Hog Davis's school (that is the boys's name for their teacher). I'm captain of a company of the littlest boys in our school. I came on the ground without any paper hat & without any wooden sword, & with my rjacketj on my arm. The Colonel said I was a fool—said I had kept both armies waiting for me a half an hour, &. now to come looking like that—&. I better not let the General see me. I said him &. the General both could lump titi if they didn't like it. Then he put me under arrest—under arrest of that Jim Riley—& I just licked Jim Rilcy & got out out arrest—& then I waltzed into Hog Davis's infant department & the way I made the fur fly was awful. I wished Amy could see me then. We drove the whole army over the hill & down by the slaughter house t& lathered them good,! & then they surrendered till next Saturday. I was made a lieutenant-colonel for desperate conduct in the field &. now I am almost the youngest lieutenant-colonel we've got. I reckon I ain't no slouch. We've got thirty-two officers &. fourteen men in our army, & we can take that Hog Davis crowd & do for them any time, even if they have got two more men than we have, & eleven more officers. But nobody knew what made me fight so—nobody but two or three, I guess. They never thought of Amy. Going home, Wart Hopkins overtook me (that's his nickname—because he's all over warts). He'd been out to the cross-roads burying a bean that he'd bloodied with a wart to make them go away &. he was going home, now. I was in business with him once, & we had fell out. We had a circus &. both of us wanted to be clown, & he wouldn't give up. He was always contrary that way. And he wanted to do the zam, & 1 wanted to do the zam (which the zam means the zampillerostation), &. there it was again. He knocked a barrel from under me when I was a-standing on my head one night, &. once when we were playing Jack the Giant Killer I tripped his stilts up & pretty near broke him in two. We charged two pins admission for big boys & one pin for little ones—&. when we came to divide up he wanted to shove off all the pins on me that hadn't any heads ton.i That was the kind of a boy he was—always mean. He always tied the little boys' clothes when they went in a-swimming. I was with him in the nigger-show business once, too, & he wanted to be bones all the time himself. He would sneak around & nip marbles with his toes &

448

TOM SAWYER • SUPPLEMENT A

carry them off when the boys were playing Knucks, or anything like that; & when he was playing himself he always poked or he always hunched. He always throwed his nutshells under some small boy's bench in school &. let him get lammed. He used to put shoemaker's wax in the teacher's seat & then play hookey & let some other fellow catch it. I hated Wart Hopkins. But now he was in the same fix as myself, & tli did want somebody to talk to tso bad,j who was in that fix. He loved Susan Hawkins &. she was gone to the country too. I could sec he was suffering, & he could see I was. I wanted to talk, & he wanted to talk, though we hadn't spoken for a long, long time. Both of us was full. So he said let bygones be bygones—let's make up &. be good friends, because we'd ought to be, fixed as we were. I just overflowed, & took him around the neck & went to crying, & he took me around the neck & went to crying, &. we were perfectly happy because we were so miserable together. And I said I would always love him & Susan, & he said he would always love tine &.i Amy —beautiful, beautiful Amy, he called her, which made me feel good & proud; but not quite so beautiful as Susan, he said, & I said it was a lie &. he said I was another & a fighting one & darsn't take it up; & I hit him & he hit me back, & then we had a fight & rolled down a gulley into the mud & gouged & bit & hit & ?scratchcd,i & neither of us was whipped,- Si then we got out & commenced titi all over again & he put a chip on his shoulder & dared me to knock it off & I did, &. so we had it again, & then he went' home & I went home, & Ma asked me how I got my clothes all ttorei off t&u was so ragged & bloody & bruised up, & I told her I fell down, & then she black-snaked me & I was all right. And the very next day I got a letter from Amy! Mrs. Johnson brought it to me. It said: "mister william rogers dear billy m have took on so i am all Wore out a crying becos i Want to see you so bad the cat has got kittens but it Dont make me happy i Want to sec you all the Hens lays eggs excep the old Rooster & mother &. me Went to church Sunday & had hooklebeary pic for Dinner i think of you Always & love you no more from your amy at present MY." I read it over & over & over again, & kissed it, &. studied out new meanings in it, & carried it to bed with me & read it again first thing in the morning. And 1 did feel so delicious 1 wanted to lay there & t h i n k

"BOY'S MANUSCRIPT"

449

of her hours & hours & never get up. But they made me. The first chance I got I wrote to her, & this is it: "Darling, Amy tlji"! have had lots of fights &. I love you all the same. I have < changed > < T altered i > tchangedi my dog which his name was Bull & now his name is Amy. I think its splendid & so does he I reckon because he always comes when I call him Amy though he'd come anyhow ruther than be walloped, which I would wallop him if he didn't. I send you my picture. The things on the lower side are the legs, the head is on the other end, the horable thing which its got in its hand is you though not so pretty by a long sight. I didn't mean to put only one eye in your face but there wasnt room. I have been thinking sometimes I'll be a pirate & sometimes I'll keep grocery on account of candy And I would like ever so much to be a brigadire General or a deck hand on a steamrboatj because they have fun you know & go everywheres. But a fellow cant be everything I dont reckon. I have traded off my Sunday school book & Ma's hatchet for a pup & I reckon I'm going to ketch it, maybe. Its a good pup though. It nipped a chicken yesterday & goes around raising cain all the time. I love you to destruction Amy Si I can't live if you dont come back. I had the branch dammed up beautiful for water-mills, but I dont care for water mills when you are away so I traded the dam to Jo Whipple for a squirt gun though if you was here I wouldnt give a dam for a squirt gun because we could have water mills. So no more from your own true love. My pen is bad my ink is pale Roses is red the violets blue But my love for you shall tnever change.i WILLIAM T. ROGERS. the book in [?] Tom's coat [?] A was [?] going [?] to be [?]". "take in,"] Mark Twain wrote "up" above "in" in the secretarial copy. He did not cancel "in" or transfer "up" to the original manuscript, and since he did not revise " 'took in' " (155.4) in

TEXTUAL NOTES

153.24

154.10

154.29

156.1

156.4

160.26

161.33

162.34 165.17

527

the secretarial copy, the reading of the original manuscript is kept. she did] The word "She" has been changed editorially to lower case. Mark Twain inserted "Poor girl," in the secretarial copy and transferred the revision to the original manuscript, but he left the pronoun in upper case. stark naked] As in the original manuscript. Mark Twain canceled the cue words in the secretarial copy, together with many other words relating to the incident of the anatomy book frontispiece, upon Howells' recommendation (see Supplement B). The original manuscript is not emended because Mark Twain's failure to cancel "stark naked" could hardly have been an oversight. The other cancellations transferred from the secretarial copy were near the uncanceled phrase, and its meaning makes it seem difficult to have been overlooked during the revision of the passage or in proofreading for the first American edition. what's] Editorially changed from "What's". Mark Twain interlined "Shucks," as a replacement of another word which had been followed by a period (see Alterations in Manuscript 1). He failed to put "What's" in lower case. fly!] As in the original manuscript. The first American edition has a period rather than an exclamation point; this styling is rejected because there were three other apparent misreadings of the manuscript punctuation in the immediate context. there] Editorially changed from "There". Mark Twain inserted "Too late;" but failed to put "There" in lower case. Perhaps because of this oversight, the compositor set the passage as "Too late. There. . . ." in the first American edition. it:] On MS p. 547, which follows the cue word, Mark Twain wrote: "Put all the extracts in small type—small type S.L.C.". For identification of the extracts see the explanatory notes. A VISION. ] At the top left of MS p. 533, which begins with the extract, Mark Twain wrote: "The pen marks are on other side.". His note was designed to avoid ambiguity, for his heavy ink cancellation of part of the extract on the verso penetrated the paper. all] Editorially changed from "All". Mark Twain inserted "He felt that" but failed to put "All" in lower case. Thatcher] Changed by Mark Twain from "Fletcher" in the secretarial copy,- the change was then transferred to the original manuscript. This correction or revision is evidence that Mark Twain wrote chapter 21, and probably chapter 20, after writing

528

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER

chapter 29, where "Thatcher" was the only version of the name he inscribed (see, for example, 194.26). Mark Twain first began using "Fletcher" in the subsequent portion of the manuscript at 206.1 (MS p. 745), in chapter 30. He inserted chapters 20 and 21 before writing MS p. 722, the first page of chapter 30 (see the list of chapter divisions in the headnote to Alterations in Manuscript 1), but the family name did not occur in that chapter until MS p. 745. 167 chapter 23] At the top right of MS p. 573, which begins chapter 23, Mark Twain wrote: "(Dropping cat.)". The reminder referred to the climactic episode of chapter 21, which he inserted before the chapter beginning on MS p. 573. That page was originally numbered 534, and the chapter was originally numbered 21. 169.32 seated] At the top left of MS p. 586, which begins with the cue word, an "x" was inscribed in ink. 174.5 before.] Mark Twain canceled a passage on the portion of MS p. 600 following the cue word. Beside the passage, before canceling it, he wrote: "Brick pile". The point of the reminder is unknown. For the canceled passage see Alterations in Manuscript 1. 175.17 ha'nted] Editorially emended here and hereafter from "hanted". The authority for the change is Mark Twain's insertion of the apostrophe after the "a" in the secretarial copy (see, for example, emendations, list 2, 189.36). 177.34 fight?] As in the original manuscript. The first American edition has an exclamation point, an apparent misreading of the manuscript question mark, which Mark Twain did not clearly inscribe. 182.9 noble] As in the original manuscript. In late impressions of the first American edition the "1" in "noble" became so damaged as to seem an "i". The third American edition, set from a late impression of the first, reads "nobby" as though it was correcting an erroneous spelling. In the marked copy of this edition at Yale the proofreader wrote: " 'nobic' in original—probably typographical error for 'noble' ". But later impressions of the third American edition retained "nobby". 183.26 they] Editorially changed from "They". Mark Twain inserted "When" but failed to put "They" in lower case. 185.33 Half-rotten] Editorially changed from "Half-Rotten". Mark Twain inserted "Half-" but failed to put "Rotten" in lower case. 186.12 used around here] As in the original manuscript. The third American edition reads "used to be around here". In the

TEXTUAL NOTES

187.39

198.37

202.3

207.28

214.29 216.7

222.10

223.21

529

marked copy at Yale the proofreader wrote: "this is doubly monstrous impudence—changing dialect". But Frank E. Bliss replied marginally: "let it stet I think FEB". The altered reading accordingly remained in later impressions of the third American edition. thought.] At the bottom of MS p. 655, which ends with the cue word, Mark Twain wrote and canceled: "Spaniard previously seen.". sow's] As in the original manuscript; the first American edition read "sow". Although the latter reading makes Injun Joe's speech incorrect and therefore apparently dialectal, it is rejected because "sow's" was part of an interlined revision in the original manuscript and was inscribed in such small letters as to be ambiguous. The inscription in the secretarial copy was also unclear,- Mark Twain canceled it and then clearly wrote "sow's!' " (p. 526). a-rustling] As in the original manuscript. The secretarial copy omitted the hyphen, but Mark Twain restored it. He hyphenated these forms throughout "Boy's Manuscript" (Supplement A), a contemporary work, except in one of Amy's letters, where he omitted even necessary punctuation. Although he did not always hyphenate "a" + participle constructions in the original manuscript, his correction of the secretarial copy and his usage in "Boy's Manuscript" have been regarded as sufficient evidence of his preferred styling, and all such constructions are emended in the present edition. "BECKY & TOM"] As in the first American edition. Mark Twain first wrote " 'BECKY' " and later inscribed "&. 'TOM' ". The styling of the first American edition is accepted as a necessary change. they] Editorially changed from "They". Mark Twain inserted "But" but tailed to put "They" in lower case. weak] In the left margin of MS p. 790, beside the cue word, is a penciled correction of the original erroneous spelling, "week". The handwriting of the correction does not appear to be Mark Twain's. Huck] In the left margin of MS p. 816, beside the line containing the cue word, is a penciled correction of the original erroneous word, "Joe". Within the line "Joe" is canceled and replaced by "Huck" in ink. Neither the marginal correction nor the correction within the line appears to be in Mark Twain's handwriting. this] On the verso of MS p. 821, which ends with the cue word,

530

227.19

232.13

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER arc three lines of ink inscription: "Let's start Lc's' | Les' 'start". The first line is in blue ink, the others in black. None of the inscriptions appears to be in Mark Twain's handwriting, and the first seems so deliberate and awkward as to be the writing of a child. The three inscriptions seem to be related to the first two words on MS p. 821 ("Less start", 223.13), possibly as alternative stylings. The boys] At the top left of MS p. 838, which begins with the cue words, is a scarcely legible ink inscription not in Mark Twain's handwriting: "1st [?] part [?] set up". The note may have been a message from one compositor to another. doing] MS p. 856, which begins with the cue word, is a fragment of a half-sheet. The portion following "boys." (232.16) was torn off.

DESCRIPTION OF TEXTS MSI MS2 El

Al

E2

A2

Ya

Yb

YC

Mark Twain's holograph manuscript; Georgetown University, Washington, D.C. A secretarial copy of MS1; Mark Twain Memorial Shrine, Florida, Missouri. First English edition. London: Chatto and Windus, [June] 1876. BAL 3367. Copies: University of Texas [hereafter TxU], Clemens 136, 136a [the first dated 1876, the second 1889]. Set from MS2. First American edition. Hartford: American Publishing Company, [December] 1876. BAL 3369. The six copies machine-collated were TxU, Clemens 148, 149, 150, 153,155, and 157. Clemens 148, 149, and 150 are copies of the first printing,- Clemens 153 and 155 are copies of the second printing; all five are dated 1876. Clemens 157, dated 1891, contains one textual variant, "council" for "counsel" (170.7; see the textual introduction). Set from MSI. The present edition has been set from Al through an emended xerographic copy of Clemens 148. Second English edition. London: Chatto &. Windus, 1897. This edition was first published in 1885; see BAL 3367. Copy: TxU, Clemens 137a. Probably set from El and corrected against Al. Second American edition. Hartford: American Publishing Company, 1894. Not in BAL. Copy: University of Iowa, xPS1306/ Al/1894. Set from Al. "Autograph Edition." Hartford: American Publishing Company, 1899. KAL 3456. Copy: TxU, Groves Collection. First collected edition, set from a late impression of Al. Contains numerous errors; only substantive variants not corrected in Yb or Yc are listed in the historical collation. The Royal and Author's National editions, next below, were printed from the same plates. "Royal Edition." Hartford: American Publishing Company, 1899. See BAL 3456. The symbol designates a copy of this printing at Yale University which contains a proofreader's corrections for entry in text state Yc. In a few places Frank E. Bliss commented on the proofreader's recommendations, but entries in emendations represent only the following authority: YbM: emendation proposed by F. M., a proofreader assigned to correct the edition. "Author's National Edition." New York and London: Harper, 1899-1917. See BAL 3456. Copy: University of Iowa, PS 1300/ E99/V.12. Plates corrected according to most of the recommendations of YbM. Substantive variants in Ya here corrected to A l are not noted in the historical collation, since the restoration establishes the error of the Ya variants.

532

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER

Rejected as being of no textual authority are a Canadian piracy set from El (Toronto: Belford Brothers, 1876; BAL 3609): the German edition, set from El (Leipzig: Bernhard Tauchnitz, 1876; BAL 3610); reprints of excerpts in Mark Twain's Library of Humor (New York: Charles L. Webster & Company, 1888; BAL 3425) and all derivatives from this anthology; the Definitive Edition (New York: Gabriel Wells, 1922; BAL 3691), also issued as the later Harper Uniform, National, Authorized, American Artists, Mississippi, and Collier editions, and as the Stormfield Edition (New York: Harper, 1929; not in BAL). Later reprints examined were based upon earlier printings and are also without textual authority.

EMENDATIONS OF THE COPY-TEXT This collation presents emendations of Mark Twain's holograph manuscript. Accepted readings, their sources identified by symbols in parentheses, are to the left of the dot; rejected readings are to the right. The symbol I-C follows emendations for which the textual editor is the source. Dashes link the first and last texts which agree in a reading, and indicate that there are intervening texts which also agree. Where symbols are separated by commas, either no texts intervene or those which do have different readings. The expression [not in] indicates the absence of words in texts before the source of accepted readings. Words joined by a virgule (reproached/smote) are alternative readings uncanceled in the manuscript. Readings followed by a plus sign represent instances where all texts besides the one accepted or rejected, or besides the present edition, agree in readings. The symbol MS2T represents revisions inscribed by Mark Twain in MS2. If the symbol MSI follows MS2T after a reading, the revision was transferred to MSI; if MS2T and MSI follow different readings in an entry, the revision was not transferred to MSI. In collations of punctuation curved dashes ( ~ ) stand for words before or after the punctuation of the present text. The curved dashes are followed or preceded by the punctuation of the variant texts,- if no punctuation appears, the variant texts have none. An asterisk precedes entries which are discussed in the textual notes. Double asterisks precede an entry associated with the headnote in Supplement B (list 1, 234.2). 1. WORDS AND WORD ORDER

39.9 39.11-12 39.12 39.12 40.14-15 42.1 42.19 43.7 44.27 44.35 45.2 46.10 46.12

boy; (Al-Y) • boy, for (MS1-E1) lids just (Al-Y) • lids (MS1-E1) perplexed for (Al-Y) • perplexed (MSI-El) then said (Al-Y) • said (MSI-El) danger. The (Al-Y) • danger. And the (MSI) ; danger, And the (MS2); danger, and the ( E l ) I ' d ( A l , A 2 , Y) • I (MS1-E1, E2) I'll learn him! (Al-Y) • If I don't, blame my cats. (MSI-El) andyet(MS2T, E1,E2) • and (MSI, A l , A2, Y) thrash (Al-Y) • lam(MSl-El) ashcep(MS2T, El) • sheep (MSI, Al-Y) jingo (Al-Y) • jingoes (MS1-E1) all gladness left him (Al-Y) • the gladness went out of nature, (MS1-E1) Life to him seemed hollow (Al-Y) • It seemed to him that life was hollow (MS1-E1)

534 48.30 50.3 50.28-30 52.14 53.5 53.7 *53.27 *54.18 67.12 .67.12 73.7 *76.10 76.34 77.9 90.35 92.18 95.4 99.27 *100.3-10 102.31 128.35 135.15 138.6 148.1-2 148.14 155.1 155.23 163.8-9 163.10 177.33 179.34 181.21 188.19 193.31

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER Tom wheeled suddenly and said: (Al-Y) • [not in] (MS1-E1) before mentioned (Al-Y) • I have mentioned (MS1-E1) The. ..report. (Al-Y) • [not in] (MS1-E1) hasted (A1-A2) • wended (MS1-E1); hastened (Y) time (Al-Y) • little time (MS1-E1) wending her way toward (Al-Y) • wending toward (MSI, MS2) ; wending towards ( E l ) went (MS2T, El) • rode (MSI, Al, E2, Y) ; strode (A2) reproached (MS2-!--) • reproached/smote (MSI) fought (MS2T, El) • fight (MSI, Al-Y) sailed (MS2T, El) • sail (MSI, Al-Y) Y o u r ( M S 2 + ) • You (MSI) Constantinople (I-C) • Coonville (MSI -+-) Saturday, Huck. ( E l ) • Saturday. (MSI, A1-Y) ; Saturday Huck. (MS2T) Say, Huck, (MS2T, El) • Say—(MSI, Al-Y) it's(El-Y) • its(MSl,MS2) doze(El-Y) • dose (MSI, MS2) andsat (MS24-) • at sat (MSI) agreed, Huck. (MS2T, El) • agreed. (MSI, Al-Y) "Huck . . . Rot." (El-Y) • [not in] (MSI, MS2) their hopes (Al-Y) • their bodies (MS1-E1) Pam-Killer (A1-A2) • Pain-Destroyer (MS1) ; Pain Killer (MS2T); Pain-killer ( E l , Y) retchings (MS2 + ) • wrctchings (MSI) an extremely satisfactory (Al-Y) • a satisfactory (MS1-E1) things; she (MS2T, El) • things—and she (MSI, Al, A2, Y) ; things,- and she (E2) jealousy ( M S 2 + ) • jealously (MSI) longer (MS2 + ) • later/longer (MSI) some(MS2 + ) • some a (MSI) had come (A1,A2, Y) • was come (MS1-E1, E2) quoted in this chapter (Al-Y) • quoted above (MS1-E1) do, Tom. (MS2T, El) • do. (MSI, Al-Y) either, Huck. ( E l ) • cither. (MSI, A1-Y) ; either Huck. (MS2T) t o l o o k ( M S 2 ' ) • too look (MSI) dollars (Al-Y) • ones ( M S l - E l ) daytime, Huck, (MS2T, El) • daytime, (MSI, A l - Y )

EMENDATIONS OF THE COPY-TEXT 207.27 *216.7 221.4 224.34 229.16 **234.2

535

far from (MS2+) • far from from (MSI) weak(MS2 + ) - w e e k (MSI) three (Al-Y) • twenty/ten (MS1) ; twenty (MS2, El) it's (El, E2-Y) • its (MSI, MS2, Al) it's(El,E2-Y) • its (MSI, MS2, Al) thunder (MS2T+) • hell (MSI) 2. PARAGRAPHING, PUNCTUATION, WORD FORMS

*40.3 40.28 42.16 42.35 43.3 43.22 43.23 43.30 43.32 44.9 45.2 48.13 48.18 48.20 48.32 48.37 50.4 52.12 52.13 55.26 55.35 57.17 59.30 60.16 60.21-22 60.36

seize (MS24-) • sieze (MSI) a-laymg(El,E2) • a laying (MSI, MS2, Al, A2, Y) it! (Al-Y) • ~, (MS1-E1) planet. No (MS2T, El, E2) • — no (MSI, Al, A2, Y) Petersburg (MS2, El, E2, YbM, Yc) • Petersburg!} (MSI, Al, A2, Ya) Can! (Al, A2, Y) • ~. (MS1-E1, E2) Can't! (A1,A2, Y) • ~. (MS1-E1, E2) much! (MS2T, E2) • ~. (MSI, Al, A2, Y) ; much! ( E l ) me, (El-Y) • ~. (MSI),- -." (MS2) then? (Al-Y) • ~. (MS1-E1) jingo! (Al-Y) • jingoes, (MS1-E1) Ting-a-ling-ling (Al-Y) • Ting-a-lmg-ting (MSI, MS2) ; Ling-aling-ling ( E l ) what're (El-Y) • what're (MSI, MS2) s'sh't (MS2) • s'sh't (MS1) ; s'sh't ( E l ) ; sh't (Al-Y) a-swimming (E1,E2) • a swimming (MSI, MS2, A1, A2, Y) work?" (MS2 + ) • ~? (MSI) twelve (El-Y) • 12 (MSI, MS2) block (MS2T, El) • ~, (MSI, Al-Y) cow-stable,- he (MS2T) • ~. He (MS1 + ) window. (MS24) • ~? (MSI) Oh! (I-C) • Oh, (MSI, MS2); oh, (El, A2) ; oh! (Al, E2, Y) Poor—" (E1,E2, A2) • ~ " — ( M S I , MS2, Al, Y) Billy (Al, A2, Y) • Bill (MS1-E1, E2) Superintendent (MS2, El, E2) • Superintcndant (MSI, A l ) ; superintendent (A2, Y) three thousand (El-Y) • 3,000 (MSI, MS2) hymn-book. (MS2, E2, Y) • h y m n hook (MSI, Al, A2) ; h y m n book ( E l )

536 61.15 61.17-18 61.19 62.29 62.30 63.20 64.31 66.3 66.13 73.7 73.18 74.21 74.22 74.38 75.1 75.1 75.4 75.20 75.35 76.8 76.10 76.23 76.24 76.26 76.28 76.30 76.31 76.37 77.5 *77.16 *79.5 79.11 79.15 79.18 82.2 82.7 82.11

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER mien (E1,E2, Y) • mein (MSI, MS2, Al, A2) Sunday-school (El-Y) • Sunday school (MSI, MS2) began, (MS2T) • ~ ( M S 1 + ) a-going (I-C) • a going (MSI + ) a-shaking (1-C) • a shaking (MS1-E1); shaking (Al-Y) Bible. (Al, A2, Y) • ~! (MS1-E1, E2) Sunday-school (El, A1,E2,Y) • Sunday school (MSI, MS2, A2) Sunday-school (El, E2-Y) • Sunday school (MSI, MS2, Al) St. (El-Y) • St(MSl,MS2) indeed! (El-Y) • ~?(MS1,MS2) a-flshing (I-C) • a fishing (MSI+) St. (El-Y) • St(MSl,MS2) Petersburg (MS2, El, E2, YbM, Yc) • Petersburgh (MSI, Al, A2, Ya) spunk-water (Al, A2, Y) • spunk water (MS1-E1, E2) Spunk-water (A1,A2, Y) • Spunk water (MS1-E1, E2) spunk-water (Al, A2, Y) • spunk water (MS1-E1, E2) s o ! ( A l , Y ) • ~? (MS1-E1, E2, A2) a-going (I-C) • a going (MSI+ ) way, (MS2T, E1,E2-Y) • ~(MS1,A1) it, Huck(MS2T, E1,E2) • (MSI, Al, A2, Y) J o e ( E l , E 2 ) • Jo (MSI, MS2, Al, A2, Y) Say(Al,A2, Y) • Say (MS1-E1, E2) a-witching (I-C) • a witching ( M S I + ) a-layin' (I-C) • a layin' (MS1-E1, E2, A2) ; a layin (Al, Y) a-witching (I-C) • a witching ( M S I + ) a-witching (I-C) • a witching (MSI+ ) a-saying (I-C) • a saying (MS1-E1); saying (Al-Y) then (Al-Y) • then (MSI-El) a-meowing (I-C) • a meowing ( M S I + ) anybody (El-Y) • Anybody (MSI, MS2) whispered: (El-Y) • ~,(MS1,MS2) whispered: (El-Y) • ~,(MS1,MS2) whispered: (Al-Y) • ~, (MS1) ; ~. (MS2, El) said: (El-Y) • ~, (MSI, MS2) Joe (El-Y) • Jo(MSl,MS2) Joe (El-Y) • J o ( M S l , M S 2 ) Joe's (El-Y) • (o's ( M S I , MS2)

EMENDATIONS OF THE COPY-TEXT 82.13 82.16 82.22 83.16 83.17 85.28 87.21 88.10 89.38 93.14 93.33 93.36 93.37 94.2 94.36 96.31 96.38 99.3 102.2 102.17 103.38 106.18 110.19 111.27 115.6

537

Joe (El-Y) • Jo (MSI, MS2) Joe (Al-Y) • Jo (MS1-E1) Joe (El-Y) • Jo (MSI, MS2) now. (Al, A2, Y) • ~! (MS1-E1, E2) a while (E2, A2) • awhile (MS1-E1, Y) something? (El-Y) • ~. (MSI, MS2) Sunday-school (El-Y) • Sunday School (MSI, MS2) Sunday-school (El-Y) • Sunday school (MS1) ; Sunday School (MS2) somc(MS2 + ) • som (MSI) ensconced (El, E2) • ensconsced (MSI, MS2, Al, A2, Y) people, (MS2T+) • ~ (MSI) S h ( A l , A 2 , Y) • Si (MS1-E1, E2) it, (El-Y) • ~ ( M S 1 , M S 2 ) it. (A1,A2, Y) • ~! (MS1-E1, E2) hiding place. (MS2, El) • hiding place." (MS1) ; hiding-place." (Al, Ya) ; hiding-place. (E2, A2, YbM, Yc) meant to, (MS24 ) • -, ~ (MSI) a-doing (E2, Y) • a doing (MS1-A1, Y) ; doing (A2) a-laying (E2) • a laying (MSI, MS2, Al, A2, Y) ; a lying ( E l ) Sunday-schools (El-Y) • Sunday schools (MSI, MS2) t'other ( E l , E2, A2) • 'tother (MSI, MS2, Al, Y) hookey ( E l , E2,Y) • hooky (MSI, MS2, Al, A2)

it. ( M S 2 4 ) • ~! (MSI) Pain-Killer (I-C) • Pain Killer (MSI, MS2) ; Pain-killer (El-Y) do. (El-Y) • ~?(MS1,MS2) Petersburg (MS2-A1, E2, YbM, Yc) • Petersburg}! (MSI, A2, Ya) 118.2 camp-fire (A1-A2) • camp fire (MS1-E1),-campfire (Y) 118.20 and—"(MS2 + ) • (MSI) 123.36 Tain't (El, E2, Y) • Tain't (MSI, MS2, Al, A2) 124.33 " I ' d ( M S 2 4 ) • ~ (MSI) 127.15 boat's (MS2 + ) • boats (MSI) 127.15 down (El-Y) • ~,(MS1,MS2) 134.35 would, (MS2T4) • ~ (MSI) 136.5 weird (El, E2,Y) • wierd (MSI, MS2, Al, A2) 139 2^ a-standing (MS2, El, E2) • a standing (MSI, A l , A2, Y) 140.13 Sunday-school ( E l - Y ) • Sunday school ( M S I , MS2)

538

THE A D V E N T U R E S OF TOM SAWYER

142.8 morning, (El-Y) • ~ (MSI, MS2) *143.12 she (El-Y) • She (MSI, MS2) 143.22 door—'" (Al, A2, Y) • " (MS1); -'—" (MS2); -—'" (E1,E2) 143.26 a-sitting (I-C) • a sitting (MS1-A2); sitting (Y) 144.1 goodness (Al-Y) • Goodness (MS1-E1) 144.7 a-prophccying (I-C) • n prophecying (MSI + ) 144.20 Pain-Killer (I-C) • Pain Killer (MSI, MS2) ; Pain-killer (El-Y) 144.25 a-sitting (I-C) • a sitting (MSI +) 144.30 ain't (MS2, Al-Y) • aint (MS1) ; ain't ( E l ) 146.18-19 Sunday-school (El-Y) • Sunday school (MSI, MS2) 146.28 pic-nic's (MS2-A1, A2) • pic nic's (MS1) ; picnic's (E2, Y) 148.31 school-house ( E l - Y ) • schoolhouse (MS1) ; school house (MS2) 150.20 Island ( E l , E2) • island (MSI, MS2, Al, A2, Y) 150.23 mean. (Al, A2, Y) • - (MS1) ; ~, (MS2) ; ~ ; (El, E2) 150.24 laugh (MS24 ) • laught (MSI) * 153.24 she did (El-Y) • She did (MSI, MS2) *154.29 what's ( E l , E2) • What's (MSI, MS2, Al, A2, Y) *156.4 there (El, E2) • There (MSI, MS2, Al, A2, Y) 159.31 Stood (Y) • stood (MS1-A2) 161.3 buzz (El-Y) • b u z ( M S l , M S 2 ) * 162.34 a l l ( M S 2 + ) • All (MSI) 165.36 Scriptural (E2, Y) • scriptural (MS1-A1, A2) 168.9 warn't(Al-Y) • wasn't (MS1-E1) 169.1 them (Al, A2, Y) • them (MS1-E1, E2) 169.23 Joe's (MS2^) • Jo's (MSI) 173.30 St. (E1,E2-Y) • St (MSI, MS2, Al) *175.17 ha'nted (El-Y) • hantcd (MSI, MS2) 175.19 Sunday-school (El-Y) • Sunday school (MSI, MS2) 175.21 'twas (Al-Y) • it was (MS1-E1) 176.17 that? Suppose (MS2-) • -r 1j"-(MSl) 178.22 us, (MS2T, E 1 , E 2 , Y) • - ( M S 1 , A 1 , A 2 ) 1 7 9.28 too, (El-Y) • ~. ( M S I ) ; ~(MS2) 180.3 180.4 180.4 180.12 180.14

ha'nted (El-Y) • hantcd (MS1) ; h'anted (MS2T) ha'nted (El-Y) • hanted (MS1) ; h'anted (MS2T) houses, (MS2T, El, E2-Y) • -. (MS1) ; ~ ( A l ) ha'nted ( E l - Y ) • hantcd ( M S I ) ; h'anted (MS2T) nothing's (MS2 •< ) • nothings ( M S I )

EMENDATIONS OF THE COPY-TEXT 180.22 180.25 181.24 182.27 183.9 183.22 183.24 *183.26 184.6 184.8 185.15 *185.33 186.18 186.23 186.24 189.3 189.36 192.16 192.29 192.35 193.21 194.9 195.3 198.29 205.30 205.30 *207.28 212.33 212.33 *214.29 225.4 226.19 227.6 227.8 227.25

539

ha'nted (El-Y) • h'anted (MS2T, MSI) ha'nted (Al-Y) • hanted (MS1) ; haunted (MS2, El) H o o d ? ( M S 2 + ) • ~. (MSI) weird (MS2, E l , E2-Y) • wicrd (MSI, A l ) Sh (Al, A2, Y) • fiht (MSI, El),- Sht (MS2) ; Sh (E2) t'other (El-Y) • 'tother (MSI, MS2) serapc (MS2, El) • scrape (MSI, A l , A2, Y) ; serapc (E2) they came (MS2 + ) • They came (MSI) warn't(Al-Y) • wasn't (MS1-E1) warn't(Al-Y) • wasn't (MS1-E1) 'tain't (El-Y) • t'ain't (MSI, MS2) Half-rotten (El-Y) • Half-Rotten (MS1) ; Half rotten (MS2) Tain't (MS2-A1, E2, Y) • 'Taint (MSI, A2) no!"(MS2) • -~! (MSI, Al, A2, Y) ; ~!' (El, E2) "I'd(MS2) • ~ (MSI, Al, A2, Y) ; '- (El, E2) 'tain't (MS2-A2) • 'taint (MSI, Y) ha'nted (MS2T + ) • hanted (MSI) w a r n ' t ( A l - Y ) • wasn't (MS1-E1) Huck, (MS2T, E1,E2) • - (MSI, A l , A2, Y) ha'nted (MS2T + ) • hanted (MSI) ha'nt(MS2T+) • hant(MSl) pic-nic (M.S2, El, A2) • picnic (MSI, Al, E2, Y) Presently (MS24) • "~ (MSI) all. (A1,A2, Y) • ~! (MS1-E1, E2) warn't(Al-Y) • wasn't (MSI-El) warn't(Al-Y) • weren't (MS1-E1) "BECKY & TOM" (Al-Y) • "BECKY" & "TOM" (MSI, MS2) ; 'BECKY' and TOM' ( E l ) No, (MS2T, El, E2) • — ! (MSI, Al, A2, Y) n o ( E l , E 2 ) • No (MSI, MS2, Al, A2, Y) t h c y ( M S 2 + ) • They (MSI) h a ' n t ( M S 2 T 4 ) • hant (MSI) ha'nted (MS2T + ) • hanted (MSI) Welchman's (Al, A2, YhM) • Welshman's (MS2T, MSI, El, E2, Ya, Yc) Welchman (Al, A2, Y h M ) • Welshman (MS2T, MSI, El, E2, Ya, Yc) A i n ' t (MS2 ' ) • "- ( M S I )

540 229.13 230.9 235.5 235.38

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER jist(Al-Y) • j u s t ( M S l - E l ) to-morrow (El-Y) • to morrow (MS1) ; tomorrow (MS2) a-sitting (I-C) • a sitting (MS1 + ) h a ' n t e d ( M S 2 T - - f ) • hanted (MSI)

WORD DIVISION 1. END-OF-LINE HYPHENATION IN THIS VOLUME

The following possibly ambiguous compounds are hyphenated at the ends of lines in this volume. They are listed as they would appear in this volume if not broken at the ends of lines. 50.7 50.29 55.32 79.3 83.14 91.6 94.15 97.15 116.30 121.28 123.23 125.31 132.13 146.10 148.17 151.34 153.27 154.29 160.13 176.38 192.8 198.29 217.8 220.1

door-knob head-quarters death-damps non-committal chewing-gum greenwood old-fashioned half-breed mid-stream lady-bug home-sickness semi-cylinders down-hearted skylarking absent-mindedness goodheartedness schoolmaster thin-skinned brain-racking hump-backed slaughter-house horsewhipped heart-breaking skiff-loads 2. END-OF-LINE HYPHENATION IN THE COPY-TEXT

The following possibly ambiguous compounds are hyphenated at the ends of lines in Mark Twain's holograph manuscript (MSI). They arc listed as they appear in this volume. 41.30 43.7

forestalled necktie

542 48.22 49.12 51.19 52.22 59.8 66.17 66.18 69.3 69.37 70.15 73.23 74.13 74.18 75.24 78.8 79.8 79.17 87.12 88.7 88.23 89.19 89.20 89.28 90.2 90.37 92.13 96.27 109.12 110.3 110.36 112.32 116.36 116.38 117.17 118.21 121.10 121.28 122.4

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER steamboat whitewash whitewashed hard-fought wardrobe heart-breakers cane-heads pinch-bug home-stretch pinch-bug bedpost doorsteps barefoot injun-meal school-house cork-screw hour-glass woodpecker war-path cross-bones doodle-bug doodle-bug treasure-house bare-legged quarter-staff death-watch to-night new-fangled woodshed tea-spoon hand-springs stuns'l maintogalans'l eye-shot sack-cloth woodpecker grass-blade tumble-bug

WORD DIVISION 122.15 122.30 122.35 123.24 125.25 125.37 126.4 129.13 130.18 131.24 136.13 137.13 143.8 145.4 147.16 147.30 149.8 153.22 154.30 155.22 155.23 158.18 164.12 170.21 178.30 179.1 181.22 182.25 182.31 183.33 187.16 190.5 192.2 194.6 196.4 200.5 206.25 213.21

sunlight wild-wood sun-perch doorsteps home-sickness school-boy sand-bar wise-heads home-stretch flesh-colored tree-tops camp-fire wood-box long-suffering self-satisfaction eye-balls spelling-book's spelling-book chicken-hearted broken-hearted skylarking sign-painter's death-bed cross-questioned daytime to-night to-day treasure-hunting weed-grown Milksop daylight door-keys thimblefuls schoolmates limestone firearms ferry-boat grown-up

543

544 218.15 218.34 220.14 221.1 221.36 223.22 224.21 226.10 234.23 234.29 235.4

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER daylight bedroom outcast water-drip water-works wood-yards candle-wick water-drip Lookyhere ten-center dead-wood

HISTORICAL COLLATION This collation presents substantive variants among texts identified by symbols in the description of texts. Rejected readings in Mark Twain's holograph manuscript have already appeared in emendations, list 1, and citations of pages and lines for these entries are italicized. All texts substantively agree with the present text if their symbols do not appear after rejected readings. Dashes link the first and last texts which agree in a reading, and indicate that there are intervening texts which also agree. Where symbols are separated by commas, either no texts intervene or those which do have different readings. The expression [not in] indicates the absence of words in texts before the source of accepted readings,- the abbreviation [om.j (omitted) indicates words elided in variant texts. Words joined by a virgule (reproached/smote) are alternative readings uncanceled in the manuscript. The symbol MS2T represents revisions inscribed by Mark Twain in MS2; the symbol MS2H represents revisions inscribed by W. D. Howells in MS2. An asterisk precedes entries which are discussed in the textual notes. Double asterisks precede entries which are associated with the headnote and entries in Supplement B. 31 33.12 33.16 39.6 39.9 39.11-12 39.12 39.12 40.14 40.14-15 40.21 40.21 40.33 40.36 42.1 42.10 42.19 43.3 43.7 44.18 44.27

dedication ' [not in] (MS2, El, E2) to pleasantly • pleasantly to (El) Hartford, 1876. • [notm](E2) No answer. • [on;.] (MS2, El, E2) boy ; • boy, for (MSI-El) lids just • lids (MS1-E1) perplexed for • perplexed (MS1-E1) then said • said (MSI-El) around • round (Al-Y) danger. The • danger. And the (MSI); danger, And the (MS2) ; danger, and the (El) fools • fool(MS2, El) an • any (El) woman • a woman (MS2, El) holiday • a holiday (El) I'd • I(MS1-E1,E2) at • of (El) I'll learn him! • If I don't, blame my cats. (MS 1-E1) shabby village • village (MS2, El) and yet • and (MSI, A l , A2, Y) Get • Co ( A l - Y ) thrash • lam (MS1-E1)

546

44.35 44.38 45.2 45.30 46.10 46.12 46.22 46.30 47.9 47.11 *47.14 47.15 47.16-17 47.18 47.27 48.6 48.8 48.10 48.13 48.15 48.16 48.20 48.22 48.30 49.33 50.3 50.3 **50.22 50.28-30 51.9 51.22 52.7 52.12 52.14 52.19 53.5

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER a sheep • sheep (MSI, Al-Y) you better • you'd better ( E l ) imgo • jingoes (MS1-E1) lay • lag (El, E2) all gladness left him • the gladness went out of nature, (MS1-E1) board • broad ( E l ) Life seemed to him hollow • It seemed to him that life was hollow (MS1-E1) go • to go (A2) marvel • marble ( E l ) taw • tow(MS2, El) "And . . . toe." • [om.] ( E l ) Jim • But Jim ( E l ) alley, . . . unwound. • alley. ( E l ) moment • minute (El) half enough • enough (MS2, El) Ting-a-ling-ling • Ling-a-ling-ling ( E l ) Ting-a-ling-ling • Ling-a-ling-ling ( E l ) Ting-a-ling-ling • Ling-a-ling-ling ( E l ) Ting-a-ling-ling • Ling-a-ling-ling (El) Ting-a-ling-ling • Ling-a-ling-ling ( E l ) Ting-a-ling-ling • Ling-a-ling-ling ( E l ) Ting-a-ling-ling • Ling-a-ling-ling ( E l ) steamboat • steamer ( E l ) Tom wheeled suddenly and said: • [not in] (MS1-E1) and • but (El, Ya) beside • besides (MS2, El) before mentioned • I have mentioned (MS1-E1) ten-pins • nine-pins (MS2H, El) The . . . report. • [not in] (MS1-E1) to see • at seeing (Al-Y) around • round (Al-Y) sally • rally (MS2, El) around • round (Al-Y) hasted • wended (MS1-E1); hastened (Y) still smaller • smaller (MS2, L I ) tune • little time (MS1-E1)

HISTORICAL COLLATION 53.7 53.20 53.20 *53.27 54.16 *54.18 *54.31 55.9 55.23 55.35 56.9 57.4 *59.12 59.20 59.24 60.18 60.30 60.37 61.4 62.11 62.34 63.1 64.37 65.4 66.14 67.12 67.12 67.12 68.13 68.38 69.2 69.14 71.13 72.32 72.33 73.7

547

wending her way toward • wending toward (MSI, MS2); wending towards (El) the treasure • his treasure (El) around • round (Al-Y) went • rode (MSI, Al, E2, Y) ; strode (A2) You • You'd (El) reproached • reproached/smote (MSI) and his poor hands still forever, • [om.] (Al-Y) far • far away (MS2, El) About • After (A2) little tear • tear (MS2, El) making any • making (MS2, El) welded • wedded (El) uncomfortable. And he • uncomfortable. He (Al-Y) ; uncomfortable; and he (MS2, El) the shoes • his shoes (MS2, El, E2) Two of • Two of of (Al) the application • application (Al-Y) breast • heart (Al-Y) a Sunday-school • the Sunday-school (A2) ever • even (MS2, El) exaltation • exultation (MS2, El, E2) everywhere • and everywhere (El) gentlemen • gentleman (El, E2) verses then • verses (A1-Y); verses, then (El) button • button hole (A 1, A2, Y) Major • major (MS2); mayor (El) fought • fight (MSI, Al-Y) to • toe(MS2, El) sailed • sail (MSI, Al-Y) its hands • his hands (A2) lit • litup(MS2, El) him • himself (MS2, El, E2) smelt at • smelt of (MS2, El) front teeth • teeth (El) lip • lips (MS2, El, E2) bedside • bed (E2) Your • You (MSI)

548 74.28 75.21 76.8 *76.10 76.14 76.24 76.34 76.37 77.6 77.9 77.17 78.26 79.7 **79.24 80.17 80.18 80.24 81.22 82.27 83.12 83.24 84.28 84.29-30 84.30 85.8 **85.8 86.5 87.20 87.26 88.1 88.13 88.17 88.19 89.12 *90.10 90.35 92.18

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER pretty • a pretty (A2) all by • by (MS2, El) it, if • i t ( A 2 ) Constantinople • Coonville ( M S I + ) when somebody • where somebody (El) come • came (MS2, El) Saturday, Huck. • Saturday. (MSI, A1-Y) ; Saturday Huck. (MS2T) it's • its(MS2, A2) and so • —so (MS2) ; So (El) Say, Huck, • Say—(MSI, Al-Y) a good • good (A2) her • the (MS2, El) partly • party (A2) whack • go (MS2, El) see." And • see "Tom"—and (MS2) ; see, Tom'—and ( E l ) upon • on (El) vise • vice (E2) Saturdays • Saturday (A2) its • it's (A2) round • around (MS2, El) a circus • the circus (A2) all done • all over ( E l ) the apron • her apron (Al-Y) the hands • her hands (E2) rt's • its (MS2, Al, A2) gay • jolly (MS2, El) griefs • grief ( E l ) over • of (MS2, El, E2) kept compressed • compressed (Al, A2, Y) came • come (Al-Ya) gaudier • grandier (MS2) ; grander ( E l ) black-hulled • black (MS2, El) all brown • brown (Al-Y) hiding places • hidingplace (MS2, El) are • art (MS2 + ) it's • its (MSI, MS2) doze • dose ( M S I , MS2)

HISTORICAL COLLATION

549

94.28 same • the same (Y) 94.35 whispers • whisper (Y) 95.4 and sat • at sat (MSI) 95.12 pried • prised (El, £2) 95.25 year • years (Al-Y) 95.35 hit • strike (MS2, El) 96.36 laid, • laid, as (Al-Y) 97.1 accounts • account (Al-Y) 99.7 he whispered • whispered (A2) 99.13 for him! • him! (A2) 99.27 agreed, Huck. • agreed. (MSI, Al-Y) 99.31 in a huff • into a huff (MS2, El) *300.3-30 "Huck . . . Rot." • [not in] (MSI, MS2) 101.22 a b e t • bet (A2) 302.33 their hopes • their bodies (MS1-E1) 102.36 nose • noise (A2) 103.4 know • knew (A2) 103.5 terrible • terribly (A2) 103.13 gently-snoring • gentle-snoring (MS2); gentle snoring (El, E2) 103.16 sense in the atmosphere • atmosphere (El) 103.32 reform • to reform (Y) 103.35 vengeful • revengeful (Al-Y) 105.29 Potter'll • Portcr'll (El) 106.11 work, I reckon • work (El) 106.29 any use • no use (MS2, El) 107.23 about half • half (Y) 108.2 quickly • quick (Al-Y) — 109.6 ill • sick (MS2H, El) 109.11 remedies • medecines (MS2, El) 110.28 asked • asked her (A2) 111.7 pried • prised (E2) 111.8 into • in (Al-Y) 112.12 since • nice (El) 112.20 really was • was really (El, E2) 112.22 Jeff • Jeff Thatcher (MS2, El, E2) 114.9 Lane • Land (El) 114.27 succumb • to succumb (MS2, El) 115.9 further • farther (MS2, El)

550

115.18 117.33 **118.3 118.9 118.36 119.14 119.28-29 120.1 121.7 121.15 122.27 122.36 123.4 123.8 124.18 128.1 128.28 128.30 **128.30 128.34 128.35 129.21 130.18 130.29 131.13 131.15 131.21 132.10 132.11 132.28 133.5 133.28 133.31 133.35 134.2 134.17 134.19-20 135.15

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER provision • provisions (MS2, El) never would • would never (MS2, El, E2) gay • jolly (MS2, El) pick • kick ( E l ) this • his (A2) his own • his (A2) as that • at that (Y) hams • ham (MS2, E1,E2) breath • wreath (El, E2, Ya) and "sniffing • "sniffling (MS2) ; 'sniffling ( E l ) again • gam (E2) provision • provisions (Al-Y) makes • make (E1,E2) among • along (MS2, E2) anybody • anybody's (A2) and so • so (Y) hath taken • taketh (MS2, El) busted • bursted ( E l ) fire-cracker • shooting-cracker (MS2H, E l ) than • then (A2) Pain-Killer • Pain-Destroyer (MSI) otherwise have • have (A2) wearily • warily (Y) back here • back (MS2, El) stooped • stood (El) ; stopped (A2) strangling • straggling (El) dry, hot • hot (A2) joining • then joining (MS2, El) spirits • spirit (A2) fishing • the fishing (MS2, El, E2) laughed at • laughed it (El) darted • he darted (El) around • round ( E l ) them that • them (Al, A2, Y) chattering • chatting (MS2, El) away • way ( M S 2 ^ ) down there • down (Al-Y) retchings • wrctchings (MSI)

HISTORICAL COLLATION 135.21 135.36-37 136.33 137.11 137.38-138.1 138.6 139.1 139.5 139.12 140.22 142.4 142.7 142.22 143.32 144.8 144.23 145.28 147.8

551

lip • lips(El-Y) The solemn hush continued. • [om.] (MS2, El) lightnings • lightning (A 1-Y) lightnings • lightning (E2) and then • and (E2) an extremely satisfactory • a satisfactory (MS1-E1) same tranquil • tranquil (MS2, El) absent • abstracted (MS2, El) his brass • a brass (Y) they • then (MS2, El, E2) town • the town (El-Y) invalided • invalid (MS2, El) would • would have (Y) land's • laud's ( E l ) Land • Laud (El) Miss • Mrs. (E2, Ya) of Joe • Joe ( E l ) lip • lips (MS2 + )

things; she • things—and she (MSI, Al, A2, Y) ; things,- and she (E2) 148.14 jealousy • jealously (MSI) *148.22 and kept • kept (YbM, Yc) 148.25 to comfort • and comfort (MS2, El) 151.9 see, auntie, • see, (Y) 151.16 a sudden • sudden (El, E2) 151.33 comfort come from it • comfort in it (MS2, E l ) ; a comfort come from it (Y) 153.4 Lane • Land (E2) 153.8 ever I • I (E2) *153.21 in • in/up (MS2T) * 154.10 figure, stark naked. • figure. (MS2T, El) 155.1 longer • later/longer (MSI) 155.8 worthy • worth (MS2, El) 155.23 some • some/a (MSI) 156.38 flayig . flogging (MS2, E1 158.11 smaller • smallest (MS2, El) 160.16-17 the banishment • banishment ( E l ) 160.21 least • the least (Y) 148.1-2

552

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER

161.32 solemn tone • tone (MS2, El) 161.34 night • the night (El) 161.38 terror • terrors (El, E2) 162.37 down • and down (Al-Y) 163.4 it and • it it and (A2) 363.8-9 had come • was come (MS1-E1, E2) 163. JO quoted in this chapter • quoted above (MS1-E1) 166.9 getting up • getting up of (MS2, El, Ya) 166.21 lads • fellows (MS2T, El) 167.5 his fears • fears (Al-Y) 169.7 little • litter (Y) 171.27 perceptible • imperceptible (El) 175.29 it's • its ( E l ) 176.6 find • find out (El) 176.18 gay • gray (A2) 176.24 hut's • but what's (A2) 177.20 I • I'11(MS2, El) 177.27 a sure-'nough • sure-'nough (A2) 177.33 do, Tom. • do. (MSI, Al-Y) 179.34 either, Huck. • either. (MSI, A1-Y) ; either Huck. (MS2T) 180.1 What'll • Whar'll (A2) 180.15 except in • in (MS2, El) 180.15 lights • light (El, E2) 180.15 windows • window (El) 180.27 doorstep • doorsteps (Al-Y) 181.21 to look • too look (MSI) *182.9 noble • nobby (Ya, Yc) 185.12 once more • again (MS2, El) 185.25 half a • half a a (A2) "186.12 used around • cruised around (A2) ; used to be around (Ya, Yc) 186.19 it's • its(A2) 187.9 what's • what (A2) 187.21 ground • the ground (MS2, E l ) 188.14 really existed • existed (MS2, El) 188.19 dollars • ones (MS1-E1) 189.4 don't, Huck." • d o n ' t . ' ( E l ) 189.11 have only • only have ( E l )

HISTORICAL COLLATION 189.11 193.10 193.23 193.24 193.31 194.15 195.5 195.37 196.2 196.2 196.17 198.10 198.17-18 198.19 198.29 *198.37 199.3 199.23 199.35 201.8 202.13 204.36 205.15 205.21 205.25 205.25 205.39 206.23 207.27 208.13 210.32 211.4 211.7 211.30 212.14 212.35 213.9 213.25

one • once (Al) and then • then (MS2, El, E2) where • where are (El, E2) lets • let's (Al, A2) daytime, Huck, • daytime, (MSI, A1-Y) next • the next (E2) widow • the Widow (A1-Y) ; Widow (MS2, El) produced • procured (Al-Y) high up • up (Al-Y) Its • I t ' s ( A l , A 2 ) aisles • isles (A1,A2) voice • low voice (MS2, El) he knew • knew (A2) lapsed • elapsed (MS2 + ) the millionth • a millionth (Al-Y) sow's • sow (Al-Y) help • help me (El) and so • so (El, E2) friends • friend (MS2, El) Do please • Please (Al-Y) description • a description (MS2, El, E2) you all • you out all (Al, A2, Y) climbing • climbing up (Al-Y) ever have • have (Al-Y) them be • them he (MS2, El, E2) transmitted • transmitted it (MS2, El) two villains • villains (MS2, El) boding • brooding (MS2, El) far from • far from from (MSI) one thing • just one thing (Al-Y) child • girl (Al-Y) thedesperate • desperate (Al-Y) just as • as ( E l ) never never • never (Al-Y) pockets • pocket (MS2, El, E2) you've • you (MS2, El) go • go on (Al-Y) move • should move (E2)

553

554 213.28 214.14 215.13 216.4 *216.1 216.10 218.15 219.8 220.20 220.26 221.4 221.23 221.30 221.35 222.13 222.17 223.8 223.15 224.15 224.34 226.25 226.38 227.27 229.14 229.16 229.23-24 230.12 232.7 233.12 **234.2 237.11

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER she said she thought • she thought (Al-Y) fall, rise and fall, climb • fall, climb (Al-Y) sounds • sound (MS2, El) believed • believed that (Al-Y) weak • week (MSI) explore • explore it (A2) out at • out of (MS2, El) said yes, • said (Al-Y) the labor • labor (MS2, El) left there • l e f t ( M S 2 , E l ) three • twenty/ten (MS1) ; twenty (MS2, El) town • towns (Al-Y) been appointed • appointed ( E l ) drip • drop (A2) very night • very (MS2) him, and • him. (MS2, El) mile • miles (MS2, El, E2) these • those ( E l ) it's close • its close (A2) it's • its (MSI, MS2,A1) we'll • we (E2) count it • count (MS2, El) good friends • a good friend (MS2, El) blow-out • blowing (A2) it's • its (MSI, MS2, A l ) Oh, Mr. Jones • Mr. Jones (Al-Y) that day • day (MS2, El) treasure • treasures (MS2, El) now under • under (MS2, El) thunder • hell (MSI) The end. • [om.] ( E l , E2) ; THE END. (Al, A2, Y)

ALTERATIONS IN MANUSCRIPT 1 The following table presents all alterations Mark Twain inscribed in his holograph manuscript (MSI) before the preparation of the secretarial copy (MS2), with the exception of revisions inscribed in extensive passages which were in turn canceled after the preparation of MS2. These exceptions will appear in the right columns of the next table, Alterations in Manuscript 2. The present table also contains those few alterations he inscribed in MSI after the preparation of MS2 but which he did not transfer to MS2, possibly because they followed the dispatch of that manuscript to England as printer's copy for the first English edition. Revisions Mark Twain inscribed in MSI which correspond with revisions he inscribed in MS2 will also appear in the table of alterations in manuscript 2. Unless specifically identified as following the preparation of MS2, all alterations in the present table are to be understood as antecedent. Many of the revisions occurred during the original composition. Such alterations as those reported for 42.8 and 45.8, for example, indicate by their nature and placement on the line in MSI that Mark Twain changed his mind immediately after writing the words he canceled. In some instances, however, words following canceled words on the line cannot with certainty be construed as replacements, such as the alteration reported for 42.36, and thus immediacy of revision can only be conjectured. Many interlined revisions may have occurred during the original composition, but their placement again renders immediacy conjectural, even when the appearance of the ink seems the same as that of the original composition. Alterations inscribed in ink and in pens apparently different from those of the original composition must represent later stages of recasting, although how late the stages, or how many, cannot be determined. The term "ink 2" designates revisions whose ink was visually distinguishable in saturation and color from that of the contexts in the original composition during the year of examination for this edition, 1973. The term "ink 1" refers to the ink of the original composition, which seemed black in that year, whereas ink 2 seemed at times a less saturated black but very often brown, perhaps through fading. These visible distinctions may have resulted from the varying amounts of ink in the pens and from the kinds of pens Mark Twain used, not from a difference in kinds of ink, and ink 1 at times rcsembcd ink 2. For example, the beginning of the dedicatory page appeared to be a dense black but the conclusion of the same page a light brown, and yet Mark Twain obviously wrote the page on one occasion with a single pen. The distinction in this instance probably resulted from the diminishing supply of ink in the pcnpoint. In other cases Mark Twain used for his revisions penpoints wider than those of the original composition, with effects of lower saturation or color change through the greater d i f f u s i o n of i n k . The original manuscript is paginated as follows (canceled numbers are

556

THE A D V E N T U R E S OF TOM SAWYER

within angle brackets,- the hyphens and short dashes represent Mark Twain's inscribed ligatures): unnumbered page [dedication] I III [preface] 1 36 37 38 46 55 321 •321/2 322 323—333 334 432 432A 433 447 447A 447C 447D 448 533 534—1 A-l 546 A-13 A-14—547 548 549 A-15 A-16—550 A-17—551 552 A-18 A-19 553 554 555 A-20 559 A-24 560 B-l 572 B-13 573 601 601V2 602 659 670 694 695

698

706 721 722 837 8371>2 838 876

697 705

The chapter divisions of the original manuscript are as follows (canceled numbers and letters are within angle brackets; manuscript page numbers corresponding with the chapter divisions are within parentheses):

ALTERATIONS IN MANUSCRIPT 1

557

1 (1 22) 2 (23 39) 3 (40 70) 4 (71 104) 5 (105 124) 6 (125 174) 7 (175 200) 8 (201 225) 9 (226 253) 10 (254 277) 11 (278 295) 12 (296 318) 13 (319 360) 14 (361 386) 15 (387 408) 16 (409 432) 16 (433 444) (445 447C) 17 (44/D 463) 18 (464 503) 19 (504 512) 20 (513 533) 21 (534—1 A-l 559 A-24) 22 (560 B-l 572 B-13)

23 «534> 573 596) 24 «558> 597 601) 25 (60iy2 623) 26 «582> 624 655) 27 «614> 656 677) 28 «626> 678 691) 29 «640> 692 721) 30 (722 757) 31 (758 791) 32 (792 804)

33 (805 34 (843 35 (854

842) 853) 874)

Only a few irregularities in the pagination were independent of Mark Twain's changes in the division and order of chapters. MS p. 37 (50.2 "a poor"-50.10 "plenty of" in the present edition) was originally numbered 6 and was probably taken from an earlier manuscript (see the textual notes, 39 chapter I and 50.2, and the entries for 50.1 through 50.10 below). The hiatus between MS pp. 46 and 55 resulted from Mark Twain's destruction of

558

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER

the original pp. 45-54 and his substitution of a shortened version of the mock battle on two later pages (45, 46). MS p. 321% was a revision (see footnote 2 to the textual introduction and Alterations in Manuscript 2, 114.18-21). The listing 323—333 is actually a single page, originally numbered 333. Mark Twain mispaginated the leaf, skipping from 322 to 333, then caught the error and inscribed "323—" in pencil before 333. The error and correction are reported in this instance because they affected the numbering of all subsequent pages,- errors of pagination which Mark Twain failed to correct are also listed, but corrections which did not affect subsequent pagination are ignored. MS pp. 447A 447C (138.3-24 of the present edition) were three paragraphs Mark Twain added to chapter 16. He added them after beginning the next chapter, for he first wrote at the bottom of p. 447C "Run to 448", then inscribed a 7 over the 8 and added a D upon realizing that he had misnumbered the next two pages "448, 448". He corrected this error by changing the first 448 to 447D in the same manner as his change at the bottom of p. 447C. The only other irregularities of pagination not in some way associated with changes in the division and order of chapters were the skip from MS p. 659 to 670 instead of 660, which Mark Twain failed to correct, and the insertion of MS p. 837%, a revision. Mark Twain's proposed chapter division at MS p. 433 preceded the writing of chapter 17, which accordingly did not require renumbering. The change listed for chapter 18 was merely a correction; Mark Twain mistakenly repeated 17 and later inscribed an 8 over the 7. The change of chapter 20 to 19 may have been another correction, but it also may be a clue that Mark Twain discarded an entire chapter as well as part of a chapter following MS p. 500 (see the entry for 148.30 below). In his letter to Dr. John Brown (see the textual introduction) he says that a "day's chapter was a failure", and though his resumption of the narrative at MS p. 501 completes chapter 18 and proceeds without a break to chapter 19, he may still have had in mind a chapter 19 which he had withdrawn. The chapters originally labeled A and B were written during the final period of composition, but their independent pagination (A-l A-17, B-l B-13) shows that Mark Twain wrote them without first deciding whether or where to locate them in the book. At one point he thought of placing chapter "A" probably after chapter "B", for he wrote "(after chap. 21.)" at the top of MS p. A-l, chapter B was first changed to 21, and the insertion of chapter A after chapter 23 (which ends with Injun Joe's leap out of the courtroom window) would have grotesquely interrupted the narrative. Then he decided to put chapter A before chapter 21, changing A to 20, inscribing a 0 over the 1 in 21, and adding %. The change of A to 20 was an error, since chapter 20 already existed, 1 and 20 and 20% did not become 21 and 22 until the final penciled renumbering of the chapter headings that needed correction. The first table 'The chapter sequence in the secretarial copy runs as follows: 1-9, 9\'2, 10-20, 20, 20',:,, 21-33. Chapter 16 in the secretarial copy begins with "About midnight. . . ."

ALTERATIONS IN MANUSCRIPT 1

559

represents all irregularities of form and placement in the pagination of chapter 21. MS pp. 548 and 554 lack the "A-" form because they were versos of pages taken from The Pastor's Story and Other Pieces (see the explanatory note at 160.27). The insertion of chapters 21 and 22 entailed the renumbering only of the subsequent pages through MS p. 721, thus indicating that Mark Twain had already inserted the chapters when he began MS p. 722. The group 573 601 in the first table shows an inconsistent relation between the canceled numbers and the final pagination. The cause of the inconsistency was Mark Twain's erroneous pagination of the original sequence. It ran correctly from 534 through 557, but then Mark Twain followed 557 with 555-559. He corrected 555 and 556 to 558 and 559 but failed to change 557-559 to 560-562. He also failed to correct the remainder of that sequence, through MS p. 721. After writing MS p. 601 Mark Twain decided to end what finally became chapter 24 with "apprehension." (see p. 174 of the present edition). He then cut off the portion of the page after "apprehension.", numbered it 6011/,, and added a chapter heading. The only other anomaly in the pagination and chapter order concerns two groups in the first table, 695

697 and 698 705. The segment originally paginated 338-345 was simply an error which Mark Twain failed to correct; the numbers should have been 538-545 and the whole sequence 535-545. The original numbering of these pages (194.20 ["were considered"] 197.9 ["busi-"] in the present edition) reveals that Mark Twain first planned to have the picnic and the cave episode follow chapter 20. That these pages were written before MS pp. 573 694 is supported by the unusual manner of the inscription on MS p. 694. Mark Twain crowded the last three lines onto that page, probably to match the sentence fragment beginning at the top of MS p. 695. MS pp. 692 694 probably replaced a page numbered 534 that originally began the chapter, so as to have the chapter take account of episodes which Mark Twain had inserted. For the same reason he may have destroyed pages that originally followed MS p. 705. Four kinds of changes in MSI are not reported. These are: (1) Mark Twain's insertions of necessary grammatical words and other corrections of obvious errors in the original composition (with the exception of one probable correction that may have been a revision; see the entry for 232.25); (2) words canceled and then followed by the same words,- (3) false starts, (135.32 in the present edition), and the first English edition, but not the second, followed this chapter division (for a discussion of this variant see the textual note at 135.32). Obviously the secretarial copy was prepared before the final clarification of the chapter sequence in the original manuscript. The secretary evidently misinterpreted the erroneous duplication of "20" in the original manuscript, for the chapter later corrected to "21" in the original manuscript was integrated with chapter 20 in the secretarial copy. Mark Twain restored the chapter division in the copy, repeating the erroneous "20".

560

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER

such as word fragments begun with a misspelling which are followed by the full words spelled correctly; (4) illegible canceled words unless they are part of canceled passages otherwise legible. Entries preceded by an asterisk are associated with Alterations in Manuscript 2. Entries preceded by double asterisks are associated with entries in Supplement B. Arrows precede and follow an inserted word; words within angle brackets in extensive canceled passages were canceled before the cancellation of the passages, but question marks within angle brackets indicate that words within a canceled passage were rendered illegible by the cancellation; words followed by question marks within square brackets are conjectural readings of scarcely legible words. 33.2 33.2 33.8

39.5 39.8 39.8 39.9 39.10-11

39.11 39.18 39.18 40.4 40.7 40.7 40.9 40.14 40.14 40.15 40.21 40.25

those] Interlined with a caret. who] Interlined with a caret. story] Mark Twain canceled a few letters preceding 'story'. The cancellation rendered them illegible, but they may have been 'hi' ; thus the original word may have been 'history'. What's gone with that boy] Interlined replacement of 'Where can that boy be'. out] Follows canceled 'under'. under] Follows canceled 'from'. seldom or] Interlined with a caret. the pride of her heart, and were built for "style," not service] Interlined replacement of 'and her pride, her never-ceasing comfort and satisfaction; but apart from their value as a decoration, they were useless'. Mark Twain inscribed 'the' over 'her' before 'pride'. stove lids] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'frying pans'. never] Italic line canceled. did see the beat of that boy] Interlined replacement of'see such a boy'. might] Follows canceled 'never'. your hands] 'your' was an interlined replacement of 'them'. And look at your mouth.] Interlined with a caret. aunt."] A sentence following the cue word was canceled in ink 2: 'He pronounced it ant, being a Westerner.'. whirled] Interlined replacement of 'skipped'. and snatched] Follows canceled 'like a scared girl,'. The lad] Interlined replacement of 'Tom'. fools is] 'is' was an interlined replacement o/ 'are'. make out to] Interlined with a caret.

ALTERATIONS IN MANUSCRIPT 1 40.27 40.29 40.30 40.32 40.34

40.36 41.2 41.3 41.4 41.4-5 41.5 41.7 41.9 41.10 41.13 41.13 41.22 41.37 42.1 42.3

42.4 42.8 *42.35

561

Lord's truth, goodness knows] Interlined replacement of 'facts of it, Lord forgive me'. he's] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'He's'. poor thing, and] Interlined replacement of 'and God forgive me'. most] Interlined with a caret. evening] Interlined replacement of'afternoon'. Mark Twain's footnote—'* South-western for "afternoon." '—was added at the time of his revision to 'evening'. is] Interlined replacement of'arc1. I'll be the ruination of] Interlined with a caret; replacement of 'will just be ruined', which originally followed 'the child'. time.] Precedes canceled 'too'. The sequence originally read 'time, too.'. season] Interlined replacement o/'time'. next day's] Interlined replacement of 'the morrow's'. kindlings] Y added in ink 2. (or rather, half-brother)] Interlined with a caret; the closing parenthesis added in ink 2. quiet] Interlined replacement of 'good'. eating his supper] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'devouring hot biscuits and beefsteak'. many] Interlined with a caret. vanity] Follows 'little' canceled in ink 2. Tom] 'Tom' changed to 'Tom's' followed by 'guilty breast' interlined with a caret and canceled in ink 2. did you?] Interlined with a caret. A period originally following 'head' was replaced by a comma at the time of the insertion. you] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'ye'. look. This time."] Quotation marks canceled after 'look.'; thus 'This time.' was probably an insertion at the time of original composition. Unless otherwise specified, the same kind of interpretation is to be assumed hereafter, where an entry indicates the cancellation of quotation marks and where the text adds words which are in turn followed by quotation marks. She] A replacement in ink 2 of 'And the aged inquisitor'; Mark Twain inscribed 'S' over 't' in 'the'. but] Follows canceled 'and'. No doubt,] 'no doubt,' was an interlined replacement of 'indeed'; the styling of the cue word 'No' hex adopted is ( h a t of Mark Twain's revision in M.S2.

562 42.36 42.37 43.9 43.11 43.32

**44.4

44.5 44.16 45.2 45.5 45.7 45.8 45.8 45.12 45.13 45.19-20 46.12 46.18 46.22 46.28 46.28 46.28 47.30-31 47.36

47.37 48.1 48.2-3 48.3

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER strong] Follows canceled 'pure'. boy,] Y canceled after 'boy' ; comma added after 'boy' at the time of the cancellation. higher] Interlined replacement of 'more'. to him] Interlined with a caret in ink 2. if I wanted to."] Mark Twain added the cue words at or near the time of composition of the context. He failed to cancel the period after 'me' hut in ink 2 deleted quotation marks after 'me' and added them after 'to'. "Aw—take a walk!"] The original reading was ' "Aw, go and blow your nose!" '. In ink 2 Mark Twain interlined a replacement to follow 'Aw': 'what a long tail your cat's got!'. The cue words followed Howells' suggestion for revision in MS2, which miscopied 'your' (before 'cats') as 'our'. I'll] ' '11' was an interlined insertion. Presently] Precedes canceled 'Tom said:'. By] Follows canceled 'Yes'. in the dirt] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'on the ground'. and scratched] Interlined with a caret. and glory] Interlined with a caret. Presently] Follows canceled 'Then'. crying,—] The dash was interlined with a caret. ra ge.] Interlined replacement of'vexation'. sobbing, snuffling, and] Interlined replacement of 'half crying, and now and then'. nine] Follows canceled 'four'. had always been] Interlined replacement of 'was'. skylarking] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'resting'. Ole] Follows canceled'Old'. missis] Interlined replacement of 'mistis'. an'] Interlined replacement of an ampersand. Nothing . . . inspiration!] Interlined insertion in ink 2. apple,] Precedes canceled 'and giving a yell now and then to assist digestion and relieve his'. The first eight words after 'apple,' in the text followed and replaced the cancellation. ding-dong-dong] The second instance of this expression was interlined with a caret. with laborious pomp and circumstance] Replacement in ink 2 of 'magnificently' he low the last line of /Yl.S p. 29. of water] Interlined with a caret in ink 2. and engine-hells combined] Interlined replacement of 'both'.

ALTERATIONS IN MANUSCRIPT 1 48.5 48.6 48.7 48.10

48.11 48.13

48.15 48.17 48.17 48.20 49.20 49.28 49.32 49.37 49.38 50.1

50.2

50.3 50.3

50.4

563

and executing them] Interlined with a carat. Ting-a-ling-ling!"] Interlined with a caret; quotation marks after 'sir!' canceled at the time of the insertion. slowly] Follows canceled 'alon' [?]; the fragment may have been the beginning of 'along'. stab-] Interlined replacement of 'star-'; the hyphens were inscribed because both initial components of 'starboard''stabboard' were at the right margin of the manuscript leaf. circles,] Precedes canceled 'as was proper and becoming'. labbord!] Quotation marks smeared out following the cue word and canceled following Ting-a-ling-ting!' upon the interlined insertion of 'chow-ch-chow-chow!'. See emendations, list 2, 48.13, for the emendation of Ting-a-ling-ting'. Ting-a-ling-ling!] Quotation marks canceled following the cue word. Lively] Italic line inscribed in ink 2. Come] Upper-case 'C' inscribed over 'c'. s'sh't'] 's' added in ink 2; the letter is editorially italicized in the present text. Oh] Comma following the cue word canceled. Well, here—.] follows canceled 'No, Ben'. in the sun] Interlined with a caret. he] Italic line inscribed in ink 2. dead] Follows canceled 'new'. hour after hour] Follows canceled 'all day'. This revision occurs on MS p. 36, where Mark Twain copied the following material from MS p. 37, the leaf from an earlier manuscript (see the textual notes): 'it to swing it with—and so on and so on, all day. And when the middle of the afternoon came, from being'. On MS p. 37 'the middle of the afternoon' was an interlined replacement of 'night'. Tom] Interlined replacement of T. The ink of this and the other changes of first-person references on MS p. 37 must be later than that of the original inscription, but the distinction is visually unclear. He] Inscribed over T. beside the things before mentioned] 'beside the things I have mentioned' was an interlined replacement of 'a kite, and'. The reading of the cue words is accepted in the present text as a further revision in proof. 'I had', also interlined, follows the interlined replacement of 'a kite, and' and is canceled. part] Follows canceled 'a'.

564

50.8 50.10 50.14 50.19

50.20 50.21 51.28 52.5 *52.19

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER the handle of a knife,] Interlined with a caret. He] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'I'd'; the second 'had' in the text sentence was a correlative interlined insertion in ink 2. all] Inscribed over 'it'. whatever] The '-ever' part of the eve word was interlined with a caret. whatever a] Follows canceled 'what a'. would] Interlined with a caret in ink 2. apple] Precedes canceled 'for him'. They] Precedes canceled 'rained pepp'. The fragment was probably the beginning of 'pepper' or 'peppering'. still] Interlined with a caret following transfer of revision from M.S2.

52.29-30 53.9 53.13 53.13 53.19

53.27 *54.7

54.14 54.17 54.26 54.29

54.32-33 54.33 55.5 55.5 55.6 55.13 55.16 55.21

A certain] Interlined with a caret in ink 2. moved] Follows canceled 'entered'. IJThc] Paragraph sign inscribed in ink 2 over illegible matter; follows the inscription of MS2. ran] Precedes canceled 'and picked'. hare foot] Follows canceled 'to', which was probably a fragment of 'toe', not the word 'to'. been] Follows canceled 'had'. exultation] Follows canceled 'joy and', which Mark Twain interlined with a caret. He first canceled the words in M.S'2 then transferred the revision to MSI. But] Precedes canceled 'she'. wasn't] The 's' was inscribed in ink 2 over 'r'. refused] Precedes canceled 'of. die] Follows canceled 'dy'; the fragment may have been the beginning of 'dying'. and how] Interlined replacement of an ampersand. would] Interlined with a caret. cousin] Precedes canceled 'Mary arrived fr' ; the fragment was probably the beginmng of 'from'. Mary] Interlined with a caret. moved] Follows canceled 'strode'; precedes canceled 'dismally out at one'. drowned] Follows canceled 'drowned without'. felicity] Follows canceled 'happiness'. varied] Follow.s canceled 'diff'; the fragment was probably the beginning of ' d i f f e r e n t ' or 'differing'.

ALTERATIONS IN MANUSCRIPT 1 55.22

*55.23

55.24 55.28 55.32 55.38 56.4 56.8 56.8-9 57.3 57.5 57.9 57.11

57.22 58.9 58.10 58.10 58.20 58.21

565

darkness.] In ink 2 Mark Twain added the following passage, most of which is on the verso of MS p. 68: 'A dimly defined, stalwart figure, emerged from behind a bundle of shingles upon the raft, muttering "There's something desperate breeding here," and then dropped stealthily into the boy's wake.'. He then canceled the passage. came] Follows canceled 'climbed'. In ink 2 Mark Twain canceled 'he' upon interlining in ink 2 Tom still followed and watched,'. He restored 'he' with a caret upon canceling the passage just cited. The last cancellation and the restoration were first inscribed in MS2 then transferred to MSI. no sound] Follows canceled 'there was'. he looked] Follows canceled 'then'. friendly] Interlined with a caret. discordant voice] Follows canceled 'profane song'. as of a missile] Interlined with a caret. garments] Comma canceled after 'garments'. he had] 'had' interlined with a caret to produce the reading 'he had had'; the inserted 'had' canceled. it began with] Interlined replacement of 'consisting of. grim] Precedes canceled 'and sanguinary'. part of] Interlined with a caret. shorter.] Precedes the following passage inscribed at the time of original composition but canceled in ink 2: 'shorter— though he was strongly attracted to another chapter that had one verse which he coveted: "Jesus wept"—the shortest in the Testament.'. The inclusion of 'shorter.' in the cancellation is designed to indicate the original relation of 'shorter.' to the canceled matter that followed, and does not mean that 'shorter.' was repeated in the manuscript. Repetitions of cue words in cancellations are done for the same purpose in entries for 60.14, 72.25, 77.9, 80.17, 100.20, 115.32, 173.14, 189.30, 194.29, 195.11, 200.5, 200.7, and 201.13. theirs—] The dash was interlined with a caret. it] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'her'. it] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'her'. pressure] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'impulse'. begin on] Interlined replacement of 'improve'. flMary] The word 'Mary' originally followed 'Sunday-school.' as the beginning of a sentence in the same paragraph. Mark

566

58.23 58.24 58.36 59.1 59.5 59.12

59.25 59.37 59.37 59.38 59.38-60.2

60.14 60.16 60.18-19 60.20 60.22-24 60.24 60.25 60.32 60.34 60.34 61.1 61.2 61.2 61.6 61.6 61.11

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER Twain canceled that inscription of 'Mary', then began a new paragraph with a rcinscription of'Mary'. turned up his slccvcs ; ] Interlined with a caret. on the ground,] Interlined with a caret. a] Follows canceled 'an' ; evidently Mark Twain did not first intend to use the adjective 'dark'. and] Ampersand interlined with a caret. effeminate] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'feminine'. And] Inscribed apparently over 'But'. After 'he was' Mark Twain canceled 'not mo', the letters 'mo' probably being a fragment of 'more'. voluntarily;] Interlined with a caret. traded] Precedes canceled 'three w'. The V was a fragment of 'white'; see the remainder of the text sentence. couple of] Interlined with a caret. or other] Interlined with a caret. He ... longer.] Inscribed on the verso of MS p. 82. The words 'ten or fifteen minutes longer.' follow canceled 'until he finally seemed satisfied.'. recitation.] Precedes canceled 'recitation—two tickets for four verses, or three tickets for five.'. very plainly bound] Interlined with a caret. two thousand] Interlined replacement of'twenty five hundred'. The word 'hundred' was interlined with a caret. —it was the patient work of two years] Interlined with a caret. upon . . . forth] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'injured his mental faculties seriously and permanently'. on great occasions] Follows canceled 'the superintendent'. had] Interlined with a caret in ink 2. Tom's mental stomach] Follows canceled 'Tom's intelle ^]In due'. longed] Precedes canceled 'to taste the'. glory] Interlined replacement of 'pomps'. inevitable] Follows canceled 'infallible'. stands forward on the platform and] Interlined with a caret. at] follows canceled 'before'. whose] Follows canceled'that'. almost] Inscribed at the time of original composition; canceled and restored in ink 2. his] Follows canceled 'wo', which had been interlined with a caret. The fragment was possibly the beginning of 'wore'.

ALTERATIONS IN MANUSCRIPT 1 61.16 61.31 61.34 61.38 62.1 62.3 62.4 62.4 62.6

62.8 62.12 62.12-13 62.13 62.18-19 62.20 62.21 62.22 62.24 62.27

62.33 62.37 63.1 63.3 63.9 63.15 63.21 63.24 63.24-25 63.26 63.27 63.31 64.4

567

and so] Follows canceled 'that'. marred] Follows canceled 'sadly'. Mary] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of his sister'. The words 'his sister' are canceled in both ink and pencil. an] Interlined replacement of 'a rare'. visitors,-] Interlined with a caret. and] Ampersand interlined with a caret. the hitter's] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'his'. lady] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'latter'. too — ] Precedes canceled 'for'. The sequence originally read 'too, for — '. moment.] Precedes canceled 'In'. Mark Twain changed 'the' to upper case upon canceling 'In'. record in sand] Interlined with a caret. was fast washing out] Follows two successive canceled alternatives, 'was well nigh obliterated' and 'was dimming'. sweeping] Interlined replacement of 'washing'. what kind of material he was made of] Follows canceled 'if he was made like of clay and hands'. Constantinople] Interlined replacement in ink 2 o/'Coonville'. the world] Interlined replacement of 'strange things'. county] Interlined with a caret. ranks of] Interlined with a caret. to hear] Originally 'to heard', which Mark Twain corrected by interlining 'have' before 'heard'; he canceled 'have' and the 'd' in 'heard' in ink 2. orders] Follows canceled 'of. young lady] Interlined with a caret. patting] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'kissing'. most] follows canceled 'all the'. majestic] Interlined replacement of 'stalely'. among the star pupils] Interlined with a caret. Walters was] Follows canceled 'He was'. with] Interlined replacement of 'among'. was announced] 'was' interlined with a caret in ink 2. that] Precedes canceled 'the late judicial hero'. altitude] Follows canceled 'abu", which was probably a fragment of 'ability' or 'abilities'. in selling] Follows canceled 'in letting'. look] Interlined with a caret.

568 64.9 64.23 64.25 64.30 64.31 64.31 64.32 65.11 65.14 66.5-6 *66.10

66.24 66.25 66.26 67.5 67.8 67.9 67.16 67.23 67.24 67.34 68.9 68.11 68.26 69.12 69.15 69.21

69.29 69.31

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER but] Interlined with a caret. sir.] Quotation marks canceled after 'sir.'. Two] Inscribed over an unclear original word, which was possibly Ten'. yourself] Interlined with a caret. precious] Follows 'dear' canceled in ink 2. privileges] Interlined with a caret in ink 2. to my] Follows canceled 'to the'. lady] Follows canceled 'smiling'. rest of the] Interlined replacement of 'sad'. being placed] Interlined with a caret in ink 2. widow] Mark Twain interlined 'thrice' with a caret. The cue word was originally 'widowed'. The cancellation of 'thrice' and the change to the cue word followed a revision in MS2 which Mark Twain transferred to MSI. handkerchief] Follows canceled 'pocl' ; the fragment was probably the beginning of 'pocket'. handkerchief,] Mark Twain canceled an Y after 'handkerchief; comma added at the time of the cancellation. he] Interlined with a caret. gave out] Follows canceled 're'; the fragment was probably the beginning of 'read'. bore] Follows canceled 'made' and precedes canceled 'down'. The cancellation of 'down' is in ink 2. plunged] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'sprang'. helplessly] Interlined with a caret. a queer] Interlined replacement of 'an absurd'. less] Precedes canceled'common sense'. light and] Precedes canceled 'yet'. over] Follows canceled 'of. scoundrelly] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'needlessly cruel'. by and by] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'soon'. captivity,] Comma inscribed in ink 2. gingerly] Interlined with a caret. couple of] Interlined with a caret in ink 2. Mark Twain added an V to 'yard' after inserting 'couple of. This revision was also in ink 2. his teeth] 'his' was an interlined replacement of 'its'. fly] Comma canceled after 'fly'.

ALTERATIONS IN MANUSCRIPT 1 69.39 70.3 70.14 71.12 71.17 71.29 72.25 72.25

73.4 73.30 73.37 74.6 74.6 74.21 74.36 75.31 76.16 76.21 76.31

76.38 77.9 77.36 78.7 78.9 79.6 79.8 79.17 79.19

569

and sprang] Ampersand interlined with a caret. was red-faced] Follows canceled 'was suffoca'; thus 'red-faced and' constitutes an insertion. in] Interlined replacement of'about'. he] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'his'. Nothing] Follows canceled Then'. succession] Follows canceled 'suggest'; 'suggest' was either a fragment of 'suggestion' or a false start of 'succession'. gathered quite] Follows canceled 'assumed quite'. tone.] Precedes canceled 'tone by the time he heard Mary and Aunt Polly had arrived in Sid's wake.'. The words 'he heard' were interlined with a caret, c.nd 'coming' was interlined with a caret above 'arrived'. and he] Follows canceled 'bu', probably a fragment of 'but'. exhibition] Interlined replacement of 'expedition'. son] Follows canceled 'orphan'. The word 'orphan' was interlined with a caret in ink 1 but was canceled in ink 2. full-grown] Interlined with a caret. were in perennial] Interlined with a caret in ink 2; 'blooming' was revised to 'bloom' also in ink 2. harassed] Follows canceled 'wor' or 'war': the fragment may have been the beginning of 'worried'. I] Follows canceled 'How?" '. No] Follows canceled 'Y'; the fragment was probably the beginning of You'. something] Interlined with a caret in ink 2. old] Interlined with a caret. a-saying] 'a' was interlined with a caret; the hyphen is supplied editorially in accordance with Mark Twain's preference for this dialectal form. don't] Interlined with a caret. time.] Precedes canceled 'time." flWhen Tom reached the little isolated frame school-house, he strode in briskly'. drowsy] Interlined with a caret. the only vacant place] Italic lines inscribed in ink 2. I STOPPED . . . FINN!] Small capital lines inscribed in ink 2. H"Let] Paragraph sign interlined with a caret. gable ends] Follows canceled 'opposite gables, both'. limbs to it] Follows canceled 'legs to it'. 1!"It:'s] Paragraph sign interlined with a caret.

570

**79.24 80.17

81.5 81.5 81.5 81.7 81.7 81.10 81.10

81.21-22

82.1 82.4 82.4 82.11 82.12 82.29 83.12 83.12 83.14 83.14 83.21 83.22 83.22 83.24 83.26 83.32 83.35 84.23 84.23 84.27 **85.8

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER whack] Interlined replacement of 'go'; revised only in MSI, upon Ho wells' criticism in JVLS2. see."] Precedes canceled 'see, Tom." '; ', Tom." ' was canceled in ink 2 following the inscription of MS2. murmur] Follows canceled 'buzz'. five] Follows canceled 'fif ; the fragment was probably the beginning of 'fifteen' or 'fifty'. studying] Follows canceled 'schol',- thus 'studying' constitutes an insertion. flaming] Interlined replacement of 'hot'. soft] Interlined replacement of 'rich'. was] Follows canceled 'could be'. asleep.] Originally ended a paragraph; a pencil line was inscribed to indicate that the succeeding paragraph should be run in. This . . . Joe] Interlined with a caret. 'Joe' was a replacement of 'He' in the sentence beginning 'Joe took. . . .'. — start] Follows ' — that's a whiz' canceled in ink 2. This] Follows canceled 'While'. While] Follows canceled 'But at last luck seemed'. him] Follows canceled 'off'. The] Follows canceled 'He could not stay his hand.'. whole] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'delighted'. live] italic line inscribed in ink 2. dead] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'live'. I] Italic line inscribed in ink 2. like] Precedes 'best' canceled in ink 2. at] Interlined replacement of 'in'. "Yes, and] Interlined replacement of ' "No, but'. again] Interlined with a caret. shucks] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'nothing'. spotted] Follows canceled 'painted'. to] Precedes canceled 'be'. ever] Italic line inscribed in ink 2. I — ] The dash was an insertion at the time of original composition. love — you!"] Follows canceled 'love you." '. pleaded] Follows canceled 'said'. gay] Interlined replacement of 'jolly'; revised only in MSI, upon Ho wells' criticism in A1.S2.

ALTERATIONS IN MANUSCRIPT 1 86.7 87.1 87.2 87.13 87.18 87.25

87.27 88.14 88.18 88.19 89.4 89.8 89.23 89.29 90.3 90.13 90.33 90.36 91.5 92.12 92.16 92.30-93.1

93.5 93.8 93.10 93.13 93.14 93.14 93.15 93.37 94.8 94.8

571

strangers] Originally 'strange faces'. Mark Twain added 'is' to 'strange' and canceled 'faces'. hither and thither] Interlined replacement of 'here and there'. He] Follows canceled Then'. the more] 'the' was interlined with a caret. he thought,] Interlined with a caret. temporarily] Mark Twain originally italicized the cue word, canceled the italicization before the inscription of MS2, then wrote 'stet—ital.' in ink 2 after the inscription of MS2. constrained] Follows canceled 'strain'. him,] Precedes canceled dash. And] Precedes canceled 'the'. all] Follows canceled 'in'. necessary] Interlined with a caret. now] Follows canceled 'this'. "He] Follows canceled ' "That means the'. tossed the] Follows canceled 'threw the'. presently] Interlined with a caret. "by] Follows canceled 'from'. you.] Quotation marks canceled after 'you.'. you] Follows canceled 'I'll be'. forth,] Paragraph sign after 'forth/ interlined and canceled in ink 2. chirping] Follows 'monotonous' canceled in ink 2. A comma originally followed 'tiresome'; this was also canceled in ink 2. remoter] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'further'. It was on ... village.] Interlined with a caret. After inserting the sentence Mark Twain changed 'two miles' to 'a mile and a half. worm-eaten] Follows canceled 'unpainted'. on the most of them,] Interlined with a caret. moaned] Precedes 'dismally' canceled in ink 2. oppressed] Follows canceled 'dampened'. sharp] The word was canceled and restored in ink 2. heap] Follows 'dirt' interlined and canceled in ink 2. within] Follows canceled 'in'. Tom] Interlined with a caret. any] Interlined with a caret. we] Originally 'well',- the 11' canceled.

572 94.8 94.24 94.24-25 94.27-28

94.33-34

95.1 95.9 95.16 95.30-31

95.34 95.38 95.38 96.1 96.1-2 96.4 96.5 96.6 96.7 96.16 96.17 96.26 96.29 97.8 97.11

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER they] Originally 'they'll'; the ' '11' canceled. "They're . . . anyway.] Interlined replacement of "Lay low and keep down.'. old Muff Potter's] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'pap's'. He ... likely] Interlined replacement of 'I'd druther they was devils, a dern sight. Why he'd skin me'. The revision was probably late, although the ink is visually indistinguishable from that of the original composition, for the second sentence of the canceled passage is based upon Mark Twain's original conception of Pap Finn as Injun Joe's partner, a conception he changed unmistakably in ink 2 at other places in the manuscript. I'd . . . sight.] Interlined replacement of'That's the worst devil in Mozouri.'. The revision was probably late, although the ink is not visually distinguishable from that of the original composition, inasmuch as it is a relocation of a sentence canceled in the revision at 94.27-28. Potter] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'Finn'. but] Precedes canceled 'such as'. Potter] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'Finn'. and . . . know!"] Added in ink 2; the word 'you' before 'and' was originally followed by an exclamation point and quotation marks; these were canceled and replaced by a comma at the time Mark Twain added the clause represented by the cue words. Potter] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of'Finn'. sprang] Interlined replacement of 'sprung up/. his eyes flaming with passion,] Interlined with a caret. Potter's] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'Finn's'. and round] Interlined with a caret. Potter] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'Finn'. saw] Follows canceled 'drove'. Potter] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'Finn'. clouds] Follows two unrelated cancellations, 'two frightened boys' and 'moon'. Potter's] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'Finn's'. Potter] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'Finn'. Potter] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'Finn'. now,] Interlined with a caret in ink 2. Muff Potter,] Interlined with a caret in ink 2. Potter] Interlined replacement in ink 2 o f ' F i n n ' .

ALTERATIONS IN MANUSCRIPT 1 97.16

98.3 98.6 98.8 99.17 99.31 99.34 99.36 100.13 100.20 101.13 101.19 101.20 101.23 101.24 101.29 101.33 101 note 102.3

102.4 102.5 102.12 102.28-29 102.29 102.30-31

573

He muttered:] Interlined with a caret; the passage originally read: '. . .him. If he's as m u c h stunned with the lick'. Mark Twain canceled 'If ... lick' apparently upon inserting 'He muttered:', then began a new paragraph with ' "If he's . . .'. as if] Follows canceled 'for the same'. that lay] Interlined replacement of 'as they neared'; Mark Twain canceled 'ed' of 'neared' upon inserting 'that lay'. before we break down!"] Interlined with a caret; Mark Twain canceled quotation marks after 'tannery,'. So ... course.] Interlined with a caret in ink 2. orter] Follows canceled 'ought to'. the surroundings] Follows canceled ampersand. took] Interlined replacement of 'got'. flesh] Interlined replacement of'arm'. blood.] Precedes canceled 'blood, at a'. ten] Interlined replacement of 'six'. again!"] Precedes canceled 'T|Tom, quaking with fear, yielded, and put his eye to the crack.'. lordy] lower-case T inscribed over upper-case 'L' in ink 2; follows inscription of MS2. stray] Italic line inscribed in ink 2. once more] Follows canceled 'again'. IT'S A STRAY DOG] Small capital lines inscribed in ink 2. I'll] Italic line inscribed in ink 2. Inscribed on the verso of MS p. 265. and . . . too.] Interlined with a caret. The revision was probably late, although the ink is indistinguishable from that of the original composition, for the cancellation of the same words later in the text paragraph was clearly in ink 2. lordy] Italic line inscribed in ink 2. chance."] Precedes 'and Huckleberry began to snuffle, too.' canceled in ink 2. pricked] Follows canceled 'lis'; the fragment was probably the beginning of 'listened'. Tom . . . snap.] Interlined with a caret in ink 2. The man] The' inscribed over 'he' ; 'man' interlined with a caret; both revisions are in ink 2. still, and their hopes too,] Originally 'still when. . . .'. The phrase 'and their bodies too,' was interlined with a caret in ink 2. The text word 'hopes' is accepted as Mark Twain's further revision in proof.

574

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER

102.32 tip-toed] Interlined replacement of 'passed'. 102.38-103.9 "Say . . . Huck."] Inscribed on the verso of MS p. 272 in ink 2. 103.16 He] follows canceled 'Why'. 104.5 against] Interlined replacement of 'upon'. 104.8 brass andiron knob!] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of tooth.'. 104.9 final] Interlined replacement of last'. 105.7 gory] Interlined with a caret. 105.11 off] Interlined with a caret. 105.14 not slow] 'not' interlined with a caret in ink 2. 105.14 evidence] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'facts'. 106.21 pathetic] Interlined replacement of 'dull'. 106.27-29 "Something . . . more."] Interlined replacement of ' "Tell 'em Joe, tell 'em—it ain't any use any more."'. 106.31 they] Interlined with a caret. 106.34 their] Follows canceled 'they'. 106.35 the] Follows canceled 'this'. 106.37 Satan] Follows canceled'the'. 107.1 "Why] Follows canceled ' "What did'. 107.31 'Don't] Follows canceled'you'. 1() 7 .31 what?] Quotation marks canceled after 'what?'. The remaining sentence of .Sid's speech evidently was an addition. It begins at the top of MS p. 291. 108.3 tied] Interlined replacement of 'bandaged'. 108.4 nightly] Interlined with a caret. 108.10 himself.] Precedes 'His conduct is only mentioned as an indication of his character.' canceled in ink 2. 108.11-20 IJIt . . . conscience.] Inscribed in ink 2; most of the insertion is on the verso of MS p. 293. 108.13 was] Interlined replacement of 'would be'. 108.15 too,] Interlined with a caret. 108.15 never acted] Interlined replacement of 'steadily refused to act'. 108.15 witness,] Precedes canceled'too,'. 108.16 even] Interlined with a caret in ink later than that of the 108.11-20 insertion. 108.17 marked] Interlined replacement of 'singular' in ink later than that of the 108.11-20 insertion. 108.21 during this time of sorrow,] Interlined with a caret in ink 2. 108.24 marsh] Follows canceled 'va' ; the word begun with 'va' is

unknown.

ALTERATIONS IN MANUSCRIPT 1 108.28 108.30 108.32 109.16 109.17 109.22 109.23 109.27 109.28 110.9-10 *110.16

110.18 110.19 110.28 110.28 110.30 111.7 111.8 111.8 111.8 111.12 111.30 112.17 112.17 112.19 112.20 112.32 113.5 114.1 114.1 114.2 114.2 114.13 114.22 115.4

575

character] Precedes canceled 'that everybody felt a delicacy about'. both of] Interlined with a caret. not] Follows canceled 'to'. She] follows canceled The'. "Health"] Follows canceled 'villainous quack jour-'. was all] Follows canceled 'were a'. customarily] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'invariably'. thus armed with death,] Interlined with a caret. "hell] Follows canceled ' "death and'. shower baths] Follows canceled ampersand. Pain-Killer] The manuscript originally read 'Pain-Killer'. Mark Twain revised the word to 'Pain-Destroyer', then in MS2 restored 'Pain-Killer', then transferred the restoration to MSI. form] Interlined replacement in ink 2 o/'state'. Pain-Killer] Pattern of revision as at 110.16. Pain-Killer] Pattern of revision as at 110.16. he] Follows canceled 'his'. If] Follows canceled 'But'. pried] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'held'. Pain-Killer] Pattern of revision as at 110.16. yards] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'feet'. into] 'to' added to 'in' in ink 2. his voice] 'his' interlined with a caret. interest] Comma after 'interest' canceled in ink 2. latterly] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'lately'. of late] Interlined with a caret. tried to seem] Follows canceled 'seemed to'. whither] Follows canceled 'down'. doing] Follows canceled 'and all the wh'. The fragment was probably the beginning of 'while'. up] Interlined with a caret. made up] Interlined replacement of 'desperate'. gloomy and] Interlined with a caret. a] Interlined replacement of 'poor'. friendless] Follows canceled 'boy'. cold] Follows 'cold/ canceled m ink 2. had] Follows canceled 'was'. conspicuous] Interlined with a caret in ink 2.

576 115.6 115.10 115.16 115.20 115.20 115.23

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER

Three] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of Two'. and almost wholly] Interlined with a caret in ink 2. log] Interlined with a caret. managed] Follows canceled 'uttered'. sweet glory] Follows canceled luxury'. a few trifles] follows canceled 'some other' and an illegible fragment of a third word. 115.25-26 The . . . rest.] Interlined with a caret in ink 2. 115.26 Tom] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'He'. 115.28 signals] Interlined with a caret. 115.32 names."] Precedes canceled'names and give the countersign." '. 115.34 Tom ... literature.] Added, mostly interlinearly, apparently near the time of original composition. 115.35 well.] Quotation marks canceled after 'well.'. 116.1 skin] Follows canceled'flesh'. 116.21 Huck] Follows ampersand canceled in ink 2. 116.22 gloomy-browed] Follows canceled 'gloomy' and canceled 'stern'. 117.2 meet] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'catch'. 117.10 vague vast] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'mighty'. 117.11 that was] Interlined with a caret. 117.21 avert] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'escape'. 117.26 themselves] Interlined with a caret in ink 2. 117.28 fire] Follows canceled 'great'. 117.28 twenty] Follows canceled 'in'. 117.34 climbing] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'great'. 117.37 last allowance of] Interlined with a caret. 118.1 roasting] Interlined with a caret. **118.3 gay] Interlined replacement of 'jolly'; revised only in MSI, upon Howells' criticism in MS2. 118.4 nuts] Follows 'just' canceled in ink 2; italic line inscribed in ink 2. 118.12 see] Precedes canceled 'if. 118.13 when he's ashore,] Interlined with a caret. 118.25 would," said Huck.] Interlined addition; the text originally read 'would." '. 118.34 pressing] Follows canceled 'now'. 118.35 luxurious] The text word was first 'luxury',- Mark Twain converted the 'y' to T at the time of original composition and added 'ous'.

ALTERATIONS IN MANUSCRIPT 1 119.15 119.29 119.35 119.36 120.4 121.6 121.7 121.13-14

121.15 121.15 121.16 121.21 122.2 122.8 122.19 122.26 122.27 122.29 122.30 122.31 122.31 123.2 123.15 123.18 123.32 124.14 124.16 124.35

125.1 125.3 125.4

577

he,] Mark Twain changed a semicolon to the comma. might] Interlined with a caret in ink 2. purloined] Interlined replacement of 'stolen'. to be] Interlined with a caret. again] Interlined with a caret. Beaded . . . grasses.] Interlined with a caret. breath] Interlined replacement of 'wreath'. A little green worm came crawling] Replacement of 'A caterpillar came creeping'. The first five of the cue words were interlined in ink 2; 'crawling' follows 'creeping' on the line and may have been a replacement at the time of original composition. from time to time] Interlined with a caret. "sniffing around,"] Follows canceled ' "smelling around" '. measuring,] ['recedes canceled 'again'. down] Interlined with a caret in ink 2; follows 'down with its body' canceled at the time of original composition. knew] Follows canceled 'had'. rapture] Follows canceled 'frantic'. were] Follows canceled 'they'. glad-hearted] Follows canceled ampersand. the camp-fire blazing up again] Interlined replacement of 'breakfast on'. felt] Interlined replacement of 'found'. would be] Interlined replacement of 'was'. While] Follows canceled 'When the meal had been devoured'. asked] Follows canceled 'stepped to'. caught] Interlined replacement of 'dead'. hardly] Follows canceled 'less'. hungry to] Follows canceled 'tired to'. profound] Interlined replacement o f ' d e e p ' . drownded] The second 'd' interlined with a caret in ink 2. drownded] Follows canceled 'drowned'. he] Precedes canceled 'checked his tongue just in time to keep the matter in his own system. But he grew grave [?] from this [?] moment [?] yet the feeling was'. accusing] Follows canceled'unavailing'. the departed] Follows canceled 'they'. dazzling] Follows canceled 'sp' ; the fragment may have been the beginning of 'spectacular'.

578 125.9 125.21 125.21 125.32 125.37

126.2 127.7 i= 128.35

129.8 129.10 129.12 129.16 129.19

129.21-24 130.5 130.8 130.14 131.2 131.6 131.7 131.14 131.16 131.17 131.28 132.5 132.30

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER They] Follows canceled 'A while after supper'. look upon] Follows canceled 'regard'. return] Follows canceled 'giving'. white] Interlined replacement of 'creamy'. almost] Follows canceled 'in' ; the letters were probably the beginning of 'inestimable'. Thus 'almost' constitutes an insertion. among the trees] Interlined with a caret. He] Follows canceled Then he stared ['. The illegible part of the cancellation appears to be a fragment, not a complete word. 226.4-5 by and by,] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'presently'. 226.9 some] Follows canceled 'three' [?]. 226.34 toward] Interlined replacement of 'below'. 226.35 skimmed up] Follows canceled 'crept along'. 227.9 that?"] Precedes canceled 'said he.'. *227.15 trouble] Comma canceled after 'trouble' following insertion of a passage first introduced in MS2. 227.29 entirely] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'well'. 227.31 drawing] Interlined replacement of 'great dining'. 227.33 was there] Interlined replacement of 'sat at the long table'. 227.33 The] Follows canceled The widow'. 228.10-11 both of you] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of'you both'. 228.13 T)Then] Paragraph sign interlined in ink 2. 229.20 Mr.] Interlined with a caret. 229.23-25 Oh ... know!"] Insertion in ink 2 mostly on the verso of MS p. 845; quotation marks canceled after 'don't.'.

600 230.4 230.5 230.11 230.17 230.22 230.23 •-232:25

233.2-3 233.3 233.4 233.8 233.13 233.16 233.16

233.25 233.31 233.31

233.33 233.38 234.5 234.11 234.16 *234.18-21

234.21 234.23 234.37 235.21 235.26

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER 'a'] Interlined replacement of 'have'. You] ' 've' canceled after 'You'. a dozen] Follows canceled 'five'. adventure] Comma canceled after'adventure'. nearly] Interlined with a caret. as a target] Follows canceled 'for' ; thus 'as a target' constitutes an insertion. Thatcher] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'Fletcher'. This is a change of a common reading in the late portion of MSI, but generally Mark Twain did not change 'Fletcher' to 'Thatcher' until he revised MS2. The use of 'Fletcher' was probably erroneous, but Mark Twain may have first intended to alter the family name. breast to breast] Follows canceled 'right'. George] Follows canceled 'young'. tall and so superb] Interlined replacement of 'stately and so fine'. admitted] Follows canceled 'educated'. introduced] Follows canceled 'around him'. they] Interlined with a caret in ink 2. unsympathetic] Interlined with a caret.

profoundly] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'greatly'. He] Follows canceled Tom routed him'. unkempt] Follows canceled 'al'; the fragment may have been the beginning of all'. told] Follows a canceled ampersand. up] Interlined with a caret. nor lay] 'nor' interlined with a caret in ink 2. everybody] Follows canceled 'most'. Well, I'd] ' 'd' interlined with a caret. she wouldn't let me yell . . . woman!] Insertion mostly on the verso of MS p. 866. Mark Twain made a further revision in MS2 which he transferred to MSI. had] Italic line inscribed in ink 2. that] Italic line inscribed in ink 2. all!] Follows canceled 'all!' and canceled 'all this dern foolishness'. a month] Follows canceled 'one'. I'll] Follows canceled 'and smoke'.

ALTERATIONS IN MANUSCRIPT 2 The following table presents all alterations Mark Twain inscribed in the secretarial copy of his original manuscript. From Mark Twain's statement to Howells—"I was careful not to inflict the MS upon you until I had thoroughly & painstakingly revised it." (SLC to WDH, 18 January 1876, MTHL, p. 122)— it is clear that many alterations in the secretarial copy (MS2) preceded his inscription of the same alterations in his holograph manuscript (MSI). This order is indisputable in the case of certain long revisions, such as that reported for 198.28-31, where the revision contains internal alterations in MS2 but appears as fair copy in MSI. Insertions, cancellations, and substitutions of single words seldom provide visible evidence as to their order of inscription, and whether Mark Twain first introduced some revisions in MSI well after the original composition and then transferred them to MS2 cannot be affirmed or denied. However, several alterations in MSI appear to have been inscribed at or very near the time of original composition and overlooked in the secretarial copy (see Alterations in Manuscript 1, 40.34, 45.8, 76.31, 76.38, 93.37, 115.28, 118.12, 123.2, 188.20, and 224.22). Mark Twain's inscriptions of these revisions in MS2 are regarded as corrections and are not reported in the present table. With the exception of these cases, all alterations in MS2 are regarded as antecedent to their counterparts in MSI, whose ink appears similar in saturation and color to that of the MS2 alterations. There were at least two and probably more than two stages of Mark Twain's inscriptions in MS2. The first was his correction of scribal errors. This may be isolated as a separate stage in part because the paper stock he used in correcting an evident error at 67.9-13 (p. W2l/2 of MS2) contains the "P & P" embossment and is the same stock used by the secretaries throughout MS2 and in the late portion of the original composition of MSI (see footnote 2 to the textual introduction). The next kind of inscription, if not a separate stage of inscription, was Mark Twain's extensive revision before sending MS2 to Howells. The next definite stage of inscription consists of his revisions in response to Howells' comments. For some of these revisions (pp. 44, 45, 54, and 246% of MS2) Mark Twain used paper containing the "star and crescent" embossment—the latest stock used in either manuscript. Other late alterations employing the same kind of paper, though not in response to comments inscribed by Howells in MS2, were pp. 85, 625, 653, and 654 of MS2. Otherwise Mark Twain interlined his insertions and substitutions of words or inscribed them on the versos of pages. Mark Twain's corrections of scribal errors are not reported. He overlooked many such errors, which were accordingly repeated in the first English edition and, in several instances, in the second English edition. Substantive errors originating in MS2 and not corrected by Mark Twain are fully reported in the historical collation. Single entries in the left column of the table represent both Mark Twain's substantive revisions in MS2 and the substantive readings of the present

602

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER

edition. Where there are two entries for an item in the left column, the first (in square brackets) is the reading of the present edition, and the second is Mark Twain's revision in MS2. Except when MS2 supplies the only surviving portions of cancellations, entries in the right column represent readings in MSI but not necessarily their transcription in MS2. The expression [not in] in the right column indicates the absence of words in MSI that might correspond with words added in MS2. Arrows precede and follow inserted words; words within angle brackets were canceled; revisions preceded by double asterisks are associated with the hcadnote and entries in Supplement B; revisions preceded by a dagger were not transferred to MSI. **39.16 **40.29 41.12 41.34 42.20 |42.35 J43.7 f 43.30

**44.4 **44.5-6 f44.35 45.19 **45.22

45.30 46.20 **47.16 47.33 48.24 48.26 48.26-27 49.5

breath the Old Scratch very missed l]He planet. No and yet much!

grunting breath cussedness very very had missed He planet—no and much. [Mark Twain also inscribed There' following his change of the punctuation; the context indicates that the duplication of There' is redundant, and it was omitted in the first English edition.] Aw—take a walk Aw, what a long tail our cat's got bounce a rock off'n mash your mouth your head a sheep sheep from off jeers, and jeers, and said he wouldn't want any better fun than to lick "such a lummox as him" any time. Tom So And so pump. White pump—white toe sore toe boys others Hi-yi Hi-yi-yi his brush it the result, as before it again IT'Like "Like

ALTERATIONS IN MANUSCRIPT 2 **49.33 **f50.22

51.20-21 **52.13-26

apple, and

603

apple, enjoyed his sore toe, and [ten-pins] nine-pins ten-pins [The revision to 'nine-pins' was inscribed by Howelh; because Mark Twain did not transfer the change to MSI, his letting Howells' inscription stand in MS2 is regarded as his concurrence in a revision only of that manuscript.] almost unspeakable unspeakable cow-stable; he presently . . . cow-stable. He picked his alone. %As way cautiously, keeping a sharp lookout for scouts and ambuscades, and finally gained the stable without detection. He climbed into the loft, and by and by emerged with a paper cocked-hat on his head, with a chicken feather in it, his [This portion of the cancellation survives in both MSI and MS2. Mark Twain failed to change the punctuation and the capitalization 'He' after 'cow-stable' when transferring the revision to MSI, for he did not cancel and reinscribe the passage Tom . . . He' (52.12-13), as he did in MS2. The present edition accepts his styling in MS2 and also accepts his omission of a comma after 'block' (52.12). Mark Twain destroyed the original pp. 45-54 of MSI, but MS2 contains the following portion of the cancellation, which continues directly from the one quoted above:] jacket turned wrong side out, a one-headed, hard-used toy drum slung around his neck, arid a lath sword of indifferent workmanship in his hand. He was mounted on an intractable broomstick [The above portion of the cancellation concludes p. 43 of MS2. Mark Twain destroyed pp. 44-51 of MS2. The next surviving portion of the cancellation begins p. 52 of that manuscript:] generalship as Tom Sawyer did in this battle, and no contest that ever took place

604

**53.3-6

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER among the juveniles of St Petersburg was ever so much talked about, so long remembered and referred to and so fulsomely glorified. Tom disbanded his troops at the market house, after instructing his officers to consult with the Avengers and agree upon a new disagreement and a time and place for the necessary battle, and then he rode pensively toward his home. [From 'cessary' through 'home.' this portion of the cancellation also survives in MSI, at the top of p. 55. Originally the sentence beginning 'As. . . .' continued the paragraph after 'home.'; Mark Twain inserted a paragraph sign in MSI because the sentence beginning 'As.. . .' commenced at the left margin. He did not insert such an instruction in MS2 because the sentence commenced in the middle of a line, and the compositor of the first English edition correctly began a new paragraph with 'As . . .'. In the revision '"military"' (52.15) followed canceled 'com', 'a' (52.17) followed canceled 'his', and Mark Twain interlined 'the smaller fry' (52.19) as a replacement for 'children' and 'for' as a replacement of 'of ('day of, 52.24).] "show off" . . . make his horse cavort, and performances, he kick up and [The above portion of the cancellation survives in both MSI and MS2. Mark Twain destroyed the original p. 54 of MS2, which contained the following portion (continuing directly from the above), extant only in MSI at the bottom of p. 56:] tear around furiously, wondering, the while, if she was admiring his military panoply and his fearless bearing—or better still, if she were being terrified. And presently, still pretending not to know she was by, he sallied out into the street and attacked a cow

ALTERATIONS IN MANUSCRIPT 2

605

**56.1

and put her to flight, observing that he wasn't afraid of a mil[P. 56 of MSI ends with 'mil-', probably a fragment of 'million'. Mark Twain destroyed the original p. 57 of MSI. The following portion of the cancellation survives only in MS2, at the top of p. 55:] but he chased him anyway, and swore he would lick him ; and when the boy escaped, Tom came along back, nodding his head sidewise in a threatening way, and saying, "All right, you lemme catch you out again, I'll show you,- if I don't lick [The remainder of the cancellation survives in both MSI (top of p. 58) and MS2 (p. 55):] you till you can't stand up you can take my head for a foot-ball!" fHe

whooping, yelling, turning "showing off," as before hand-springs and chasing boys and always with a watchful eye on the house [When transferring the revision to MSI Mark Twain added the comma after ' "showing off"'.] exhibited showed went rode exultation joy and exultation above over he came Tom still followed and watched, came water foul slops

56.7 **56.8 56.8 **58.13 58.14 **59.2

UNot drenched but convulsion of delight swept short curls

**53.24-25

53.25 **f53.27 54.7 54.8 55.23

Not

reeking and throes of bliss swept through wealth of short curls

606 59.32 60.24 61.11 61.17-18

61.19

61.27-30

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER her grievous ends his Sunday-school voice had acquired a peculiar intonation

it great edges he had a nasal "whang" in his Sunday school voice

[In M.S2 Mark Twain first interlined 'intonation' as a replacement of ' "whang" ', then canceled that revision upon interlining the revision as listed. The styling 'Sunday-school' is an emendation in the present edition; the compound was not hyphenated in this instance in either manuscript.] He began after this fashion: He said—in the approved Sunday-school-speech fashion, which strives twith such innocent cunningi to get down to the level of a child's understanding that it sometimes reaches a baby's: [Mark Twain omitted a comma after 'began' when transferring the revision to MSI.] good." IJAnd . • . all.

good, instead of playing with dolls on the Sabbath day or robbing the poor little birds of their little ones—for birds have feelings, just like us, and it grieves them just as it would us to take away our little ones. Think how your tdean parents would feel [This portion of the cancellation survives in both MSI and MS2. Mark Twain destroyed the original p. 85 of MS2, but MSI contains the following portion of the cancellation, which continues directly from the one quoted above:] if some great ogre came and took you away and destroyed you? Would they not weep and mourn, and perhaps even die of sorrow? Now always remember, when you find a bird's nest,

ALTERATIONS IN MANUSCRIPT 2

**63.17 63.23 **63.34 64.5 64.5 64.13-14 65.6 65.7-8 66.7

66.10 f67.12 t67.12 68.38 **69.34 **69.39

607

stop and think how the mother will feel. We all love the Sunday-school, don't we? t[Enthusiastic nods and smiles of assent.]i That is right. Let us try to keep loving it. [The above portion of the cancellation concludes p. 89 of MSI. Mark Twain destroyed the original p. 90 of MSI The next surviving portion of the cancellation begins p. 86 0/MS2:] of us are like good little Sarah Smith? Let us each ask ourselves, Are we like her? Let us try every day and every night, for we do not know how soon we must die. Let us all resolve, right now, from this day, to be good, and sweet, and pious, like poor dear little Sarah." mind—how he would make mind. him "spread himself!" elevated therefore elevated eclat effusion next then she then she man, and asked man. Arid he asked It it to speak up and say to say pleasant seductive [Mark Twain omitted a comma after 'seductive' when transferring the revision to MSI.] the thrice widowed the widow fight fought sailed sail and his his aisle, with his tail shut aisle; down like a hasp; light, and fiercely expressing light.

608

71.5 73.1 73.20 73.32 74.28 74.34 75.10 75.35

76.8 76.20 76.23 76.25-26 76.26

|76.34

77.9 77.16

77.22 **78.5 79.12 79.16 80.23 80.24 80.24 80.28

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER at one end the woe that was torturing the other. odious intolerable that nonsense this nonsense outrageousness cussedness glory glory now him, Huck. him. for, Huck?" for?" it, Huck." it." way, Huck. way. [Mark Twain omitted the commas after 'way' and after 'it' in the next entry when transferring the revisions to MSI.] it, Huck— it— it, Huck?" it?" Why, Tom Why, very night night shed wher' he was shed a-layin' drunk, [The styling, 'a-layin' ' is an emendation in the present edition; the word was not hyphenated in either manuscript.] Saturday, Huck Saturday [The comma after 'Saturday' is an emendation in the present edition; Mark Twain failed to provide punctuation when inserting 'Huck' in MS2.] Say, Huck, Say— O, anybody Anybody [Mark Twain failed to put 'Anybody' in lower case after his revision; see the textual notes.] Say Huck — Say — take refuge in a lie gloom the air with a lurid lie Tit's "It's fit's "It's Just at Then this juncture In And in vise vice although though

ALTERATIONS IN MANUSCRIPT 2

81.2 81.4-5 81.18

84.19 84.22 84.24 84.31 84.31 85.28 85.29 87.24 88.5

88.9 88.35 89.17 90.20 90.21 90.23 90.36 91.5 92.16 93.2 93.2 93.10 93.33

93.36

So of sleepy days turned him aside

609

And so day headed him off [Mark Twain first interlined 'turned him' as a replacement of 'headed him' ; he later canceled 'off' and interlined 'aside'.] you can't I can't He And he Then And then and let let her face and her face —pleadingly pleadingly More Nothing but very dog dog return come back [Mark Twain originally interlined 'wandering home' as a replacement of 'back' and transferred the revision to MSI. He then interlined 'return', canceled 'come wandering home', and transferred this final revision to MSI.] hideous and hideous disclosed exposed close close down Presently Tom said: [not in] lively!" lively!" said Tom. shouted said say, Joe— say— Tom he a fainter howl from a the fainter howl of a remoter distance remoter dog inward inwardly outward outwardly faint light people, Tom." people." [Mark Twain omitted the comma after 'people' when transferring the revision to MSI.] [Sh] Sh Sh [The present edition accepts 'Sh' in the first American edition as Mark Twain's reversion in proof to his original styling.]

610

98.20 99.12 99.14 f99.27 101.25 102.14-15 102.16 102.17-18 102.19-20 103.31 103.31 |103.38

104.6 105.10 106.12-13 109.1-2

**t 109.6

109.26 109.29 110.6 110.14 110.14 110.16 110.19 110.28 111.4 111.8 111.11 111.11

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER it, Tom." so Tom!" likely Tom. agreed, Huck. my! snoring, Tom." it, Huck?" used to sleep snores. Besides, I reckon he ain't ever coming back to this town any more." he pleaded promised [Harper,] Harper

see the textual notes.] took up one or two ostentatiously leading its secret troubles

it." so!" likely. agreed. Lordy, snoring." it?" sleeps snores."

and pleaded and promised Harper, [For policy on this revision

he took up one leading its troubles on account of the dismal secret it was carrying, [ill] sick ill [The revision to 'sick' was inscribed by Howelh; because Mark Twain did not transfer the change to MSI, his letting Howells' inscription stand in MS2 is regarded as his concurrence in a revision only of that manuscript.] took gathered together healing healing, stains of it stains KTom Tom by this time now Pam-Killer Pain-Destroyer [Pain-Killer] Pain Killer Pain Destroyer Pain-Destroyer Pain-Killer because becuz Pain-Killer Pain-Destroyer Next And next capered pranced

ALTERATIONS IN MANUSCRIPT 2 111.13 111.37 112.1 **114.18-21

115.14 116.11 116.26 117.3

117.12 118.12 11 122.10 123.3 123.17 125.32

126.3 127.29

Then because Because began ... him.

611

And then becuz Becuz took Joe's hand, wrung it with anguish, and said: "Good-bye Joe, good-bye, old friend; and if you never see me any more, think of me sometimest, Joei; when you're happy and the world's all bright around you, think one little thought of poor Tom, wandering in the cold < friend > world far away,no home, no friends— maybe dead, Joe—and the boy broke entirely down. [The revision apparently began 'Oh, Joe', which Mark Twain canceled. He originally wrote 'appreciation' in the revision then interlined 'sympathy' (114.19) as a replacement.] They presently Then they hardly known unknown stead-y-y-y s-t-e-a-d-y [Stead-y-y-y] Stead-y-y S-t-e-a-d-y [When transferring the revision to MSI Mark Twain added a third '-y', which was consistent with his revision at 116.26.] happening transpiring a pirate you fitted had fitted cocked and cocked bathing and bathing camp. camp again. bark of a sycamore, bark, [When transferring the revision to MK1 Mark Twain added a comma after 'sycamore'.] straightway then to softly lift softly lifting

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER

612

128.18 **t 128.30

|128.35 129.30 129.35 130.1 132.4 134.35

134.37 135.6

136.9 136.17 136.24 136.25 136.37 137.14 138.15 139.5 140.3-4 140.25-26 140.27 141.22 141.24

143.12

Mrs. Harper [fire-cracker] shooting-cracker

she fire-cracker

[The revision to 'shootingcracker' was inscribed by Ho wells/ because Mark Twain did not transfer the change to MSI, his letting Howells' inscription stand in MS2 is regarded as his concurrence in a revision only of that manuscript.] Pain-Destroyer [Pain-Killer] Pain Killer and so appealingly so appealingly and tossing tossing stood lingered, apart and dropped apart, dropped would, Joe. would. [Mark Twain omitted the comma after 'would' when transferring the revision to MSI.] fSay "Say gay, Tom! gay! [When transferring the revision to MSI Mark Twain added the comma after 'gay'.] sullen rumblings mutterings They IJThey But However, water. But water,- but Now and then Every little while lads boys now behold The villagers Now, however, the villagers decided at last ultimately decided [not in] broken at intervals by muffled sobs, the text then the text lavished upon gave The minister said, with a Suddenly the minister shouted at the top of moving emphasis his voice: [Mark Twain added a paragraph sign after 'voice' in MS2. When transferring the revision to MSI he omitted the paragraph sign and added a colon.] Why, Why, Tom 1

ALTERATIONS IN MANUSCRIPT 2 143.14 143.17

you?" Come!" ^JTom

144.1 144.20 144.30-31

Well, [Pain-Killer] Pain Killer We ain't dead — we are only off being pirates Sid . . . it!" Tom began to talk she else; she absorbed were they, drifting things; she seemed to Tom I sins Tom. Did

145.12-15 145.16 146.2 147.9 147.11 147.20 147.29 f!48.1-2 150.14 150.31 151.7 151.18 151.34 f 153.21

153.24 154.9 **fl54.10

154.14 **154.18

** 154.19-20

know [take in] take up see the textual notes.] Poor girl, a handsomely engraved [figure, stark naked.] figure.

613

you? Try hard." Come!—try with all your might." The interest of the party was evidently rising. Tom

Pain Destroyer We aint dead—we are only off being pirates [not in] the boy began talking but she else, and she absorbed, drifting back things—and she seemed I sins. Did know take in [For policy on this revision

[not in] an engraved figure, stark naked. [For the criticism that led to this revision and the next six revisions cross-referenced to Howells' comments, see the entry at 154.15 in Supplement B. For policy on the present revision see the textual notes.] volume book I know you was looking I know it wasn't a nice at anything?" book? I didn't know girls ever—" you know you're going you know very well I didn't

614

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER know what sort of a book—. [Mark Twain substituted a comma for a semicolon after 'me' when transferring the revision to MSI.] school." school. But that ain't anything—it ain't half. You'll tell everybody about the picture, and O, O, O!" chicken-hearted. chicken-hearted. But that picture is—is—well, now it ain't so curious she feels bad about that. No No, I reckon it ain't. Suppose she was Mary, and Alf Temple caught her looking at such a picture as that, and went around telling. She'd feel mighty bad. She'd feel—well, I'd lick him. I bet I would.'°u] Originally 'you've'. Mark Twain canceled ' 've'. that] Interlined with a caret. three] Interlined replacement of 'a'. sight."] Precedes canceled 'yet." '. Because of this cancellation Mark Twain inscribed the period and the quotation marks after the cue word. Huck.] Interlined with a caret. Because of this insertion Mark Twain inscribed the comma which follows 'you' (269.28) over a period. and it's pink."] Inscribed as a continuation of the paragraph which originally ended with 'map' (270.5). Because of this insertion Mark Twain made the following changes in punctuation after 'map': the inscription of a comma over a period; the cancellation of quotation marks. and disgusted] Follows canceled 'and scornful'. Of course."] Upon canceling a dash after 'course' Mark Twain inscribed the period and the quotation marks. You git around that, if you can, Tom Sawyer."] Interlined continuation of the paragraph which originally ended with 'color.' (270.17). Because of this insertion .Murk Twain canceled the quotation marks after 'color.'.

ALTERATIONS IN THE MANUSCRIPT 270.19 270.22 270.26 270.30 271.3 271.14 271.14 271.24 271.25 271.27 271.29 271.33 271.37 272.1 272.2 272.3-4 272.5 272.5 272.7 272.8 272.9 272.15 272.19-20 272.20 272.22

272.23

655

and I tell you] Interlined replacement of an ampersand. dat's smart] 'smart' follows canceled 'pretty'. mooning] Interlined replacement of 'thinking'. is munching] Originally 'that's munching'. Upon canceling 'that's' Mark Twain interlined 'is' with a caret. mind you] Follows canceled 'you'll'. under] Inscribed over smeared 'ar' ; probably the beginning of 'around'. here] Follows a canceled ampersand. way] Originally 'away'. Upon canceling the first 'a' Mark Twain inscribed an italic line below 'way'. huffy] Follows canceled'very'. there's] Originally 'there is'. Upon canceling 'is' Mark Twain inscribed ' Y after 'there'. 'em apart] Interlined replacement of 'one from t'other'. State] Originally 'state'. Mark Twain inscribed 'S' over V. chuckleheads] Interlined replacement of 'fools'. youseff] Originally 'yoseff. Mark Twain interlined 'u' with a caret between 'o' and Y. lot,] Upon canceling 'pasture/ Mark Twain inscribed the eve word at the end of the preceding manuscript line. de near] Follows canceled 'one'. say when] Follows canceled 'say he gwyne to', which appears as an independent line fragment. wuth] Interlined replacement of 'wuff'. tole] Italic line inscribed later than the original inscription. Bless you, Mars Tom, dey don't know nothin'."] Interlined replacement of'Dey'sde hlamedestfoolsleverstruck,artiscsis." '. most] Interlined with a caret. near about an] Interlined replacement of 'an'. sure enough] Interlined with a caret. Then his] Originally Then he'. Mark Twain inscribed T over 'e' in 'he' and then inserted Y. Gcr-reat Scott,] Originally 'Boy—' with long ligatures between the letters. In view of the long ligatures, Mark Twain probably intended the word to be transcribed as 'B-o-y—'. After canceling the initial reading Mark Twain interlined 'Sure as you're born/ with a caret. He then canceled the interlineation and to the left of it inscribed the cue words. I says,] Originally 'says I'. Mark Twain canceled 'says' and then

656

272.25 272.26 272.29

272.31 272.31 272.32 272.35 273.4 273.6 273.6 273.7 273.12 273.12 273.18 273.20 273.22 273.29 273.29 273.39 274.3 274.6 274.7 274.8 274.8 274.12 274.18

TOM SAWYER ABROAD interlined 'says,' with a caret after '!'. (For a discussion of this revision see the textual note at 272.23-24.) bladder] Interlined replacement of 'thing'. and Indiana] Ampersand interlined with a caret. dead sure.] Originally'as sure as you're born.'. In order of their appearance in the manuscript Mark Twain's inscribed alterations were: the replacement of 'as' with interlined 'dead'; the inscription of the period after 'sure'; and the cancellation of 'as yovi're born.'. close onto] Interlined replacement of 'more than'. mile] Originally 'miles'. Mark Twain canceled 's'. (For discussions of this revision see the textual notes at 272.31 and 293.35.) trickle] Interlined replacement of 'wriggle'. and studying] Inscribed over smeared 'and say' ; probably the beginning of 'and saying'. Jim he looked distressed, and says—] Interlined without a caret. arter] Inscribed over smeared 'after'. been] Inscribed over smeared 'bre' ; possibly the beginning of 'bred'. yo'] Inscribed over 'you'; possibly the beginning of 'your'. He] Originally 'he'. Mark Twain inscribed 'H' over 'h'. gwyne] Originally 'gwyned'. Mark Twain canceled 'd'. —but this] Follows canceled '—and some'. hours, and He] Originally 'hours, and he'. Mark Twain inscribed 'H' over 'h' in 'he'. Man] Follows canceled 'Is'. happens] Inscribed over 'has'. dey's] Upon canceling 'dah's' Mark Twain inscribed the cue word at the end of the preceding manuscript line. en] Inscribed over a smeared ampersand. —can't git two hours] Follows a canceled ampersand. Why] Follows canceled quotation marks. Choosday] Interlined replacement of 'Monday'. en] Inscribed over a smeared ampersand. las'] Originally last'. Upon canceling 't' with a smear Mark Twain inscribed the apostrophe after 's'. matter?] Precedes a canceled dash. en de dead wouldn't be called] Interlined with a caret between 'England' (274.18) and the period which originally followed 'England'.

ALTERATIONS IN THE MANUSCRIPT 274.21

274.24-25

274.28 274.29 274.36 275.1 275.7 276 chapter

276.3 276.3 276.5 276.5 276.8 276.11 276.16 276.19 276.22 277.22 277.31

277.32

278.5 278.6 278.6

657

gaze. Tom says—] Precedes a canceled paragraph: 'We twasi whizzing over towns now that laid thicker together than a body ever would believe. Pretty soon Tom says—'. Because of this cancellation Mark Twain inserted Tom says—' after the paragraph which originally ended with 'gaze.'. stood putriflcd but happy, for] Interlined replacement of 'gazed and stared and , for'. Within the interlineation Mark Twain changed 'petrified' to 'putrified' by inscribing 'u' over 'e'. it's] Originally 'ain't it'. Upon canceling 'ain't' Mark Twain inscribed ' 's' after 'it'. believe!"] Interlined replacement of 'think of!" '. a wail, and] Precedes canceled 'a howl, and'. jerked] Interlined replacement of 'fetched'. a few ships] Follows canceled 'two or three ships'. CHAPTER 4] The author heavily inscribed '4' over 'F'. Although Mark Twain is known to have used lettered chapter markings, his revision was probably due to a false start. Mark Twain apparently wrote 'F', the beginning of either 'Four' or 'Five', and then inscribed '4' ov-er it. on it] Precedes canceled ',by and by,'. just] Originally 'jist'. Mark Twain inscribed 'u' over 'i'. of it] Interlined with a caret between 'centre' (276.5) and the period which originally followed 'centre'. Plum] Follows canceled 'And'. I couldn't] Mark Twain inscribed T over 'w'—probably the beginning of 'we'. kept] Follows canceled 'still'. balloon] Interlined replacement of'ship'. hundred-mile] Follows canceled 'gait till'. when we said that,] Interlined replacement of 'now'. foot] Inscribed over 'feet'. but the Professor warn't there.] Inscribed as a continuation of the paragraph which originally ended with 'for the Professor.'. Mark Twain inscribed a comma over the period following 'Professor'. a couple of terrible screams] Originally 'a terrible scream'. Upon interlining 'couple of with a caret Mark Twain inscribed 's' after 'scream'. and the wind roared so, I] Interlined replacement of T. asked] Follows canceled 'said'. up] Interlined with a caret.

658

278.7

TOM SAWYER ABROAD

shouts,—] Originally 'shouts as loud'. Upon canceling 'as loud' with a smear Mark Twain inscribed the comma and the dash after 'shouts'. 278.8 Come] Follows canceled quotation marks. 278.13 head and his] Interlined with a caret. 278.20 crazy] Follows canceled 'raving'. 278.23 Huck.] Precedes canceled quotation marks. 279.9 always] Interlined with a caret. 280 chapter CHAPTER 5] Mark Twain heavily inscribed '5' over '&. 280.12 a compass] Upon canceling 'the' Mark Twain interlined 'a' with a caret. 280.17 —er] Interlined with a caret. 280.20 south of east.] Interlined replacement of 'straight south.'. 280.25 water and] Interlined with a caret. 281.24 —for—] Upon canceling 'wel' with a smear Mark Twain inscribed 'for' over it. 'wel' was probably the beginning of 'well'. 281.33 en dey] Upon canceling an ampersand with a smear Mark Twain inscribed 'en' over it. 282.1 sence—] Follows canceled 'since—'. 282.4 crazy?] Precedes canceled 'with'. Because of this cancellation Mark Twain inscribed an exclamation point after 'crazy'. In the present text the manuscript exclamation point has been emended to a question mark because St. Nicholas, the Webster edition, and the first English edition agree on the stress change. 282.6 bricked us] Interlined replacement of 'closed us'. 282.10 git] Originally 'get'. Mark Twain inscribed T over 'e'. 282.26 setting] Originally 'sitting'. Mark Twain inscribed 'e' over T. 282.34-35 since, that warn't doing me no] Originally 'since that ain't done me no'. Upon canceling 'me no' Mark Twain interlined 'nobody any' with a caret. He then canceled the interlineation—along with 'since that ain't done'—and interlined the cue words with a caret. 282.38 the newspapers said the shouts] Originally 'he always put it in newspapers'. Upon canceling 'always put it in' Mark Twain inscribed V before 'he', interlined 'said the' with a caret, and then wrote 'shouts'. 283.3 so I] Although the cue words appear to be a single interlined replacement of an ampersand, the presence of two carets suggests otherwise. Before canceling the ampersand Mark Twain apparently interlined T with a caret ('and I'). He then canceled the ampersand and interlined 'so' with a caret ('so I').

ALTERATIONS IN THE MANUSCRIPT 283.12 283.17 283.25 283.27 284.2 284.3 284.7 284.9 284.10 284.13 284.15 284.17-18 284.27 284.28 284.38 285.16 285.28 285.29 286 chapter

286.4 286.6 286.9 286.13 286.16 286.28

286.28 286.29 286.29

287.5

659

if] Inscribed over a smeared ampersand. afternoon wasted out and] Interlined with a caret. Well] Follows canceled 'Well, daylight come and still no land.'. yaller.] Interlined replacement of 'yellow.'. slanted] Interlined replacement o f ' s l i d ' . pretty soon we] Interlined replacement of 'first we'. to within thirty foot of] Interlined replacement of 'onto'. dumb down the ladder] Interlined replacement of 'got out'. amazing good;] Interlined replacement of 'mighty good,-'. couldn't] Follows canceled 'didn't'. understood] Inscribed over smeared 'cou'; possibly the beginning of 'could'. Run, boys] Follows canceled quotation marks. gashly] Interlined replacement of 'sickening'. take one] Precedes canceled 'up'. the other.] Interlined replacement of ' 'tother side.'. forgit] Originally 'forget'. Mark Twain inscribed 'i' over 'e'. up at us] Interlined with a caret. see] Follows canceled 'feel'. CHAPTER 6] Originally 'Chapter 7'. Mark Twain canceled 7' and to the right of it wrote '6'. As one of the five penciled revisions in the manuscript the change can be assigned to a later stage of editing. aloft] Follows canceled 'of' ; probably the beginning of 'off'. Tom] Interlined replacement of 'me'. git] Originally 'get'. Mark Twain inscribed 'i' over 'e'. creturs;] Interlined replacement of 'creatures,-'. setting] Originally 'sitting'. Mark Twain inscribed 'e' over 'i'. He said] Follows canceled 'He rushed fo', which appears as an independent line fragment, 'fo' was probably the beginning of 'for'. could a] Interlined replacement of 'had'. before] follows canceled long'. crowding the land somewheres,] Upon canceling 'already east of England/, which appears on MS p. 110 at the end of line 19 and at the beginning of line 20, Mark Twain interlined 'crowding it somewheres/ with a caret above line 20. He then canceled 'crowding it somewheres/ and interlined the cue words with a caret above line 19. Crinnage clock.] I'recedes canceled 'But we've been closing up

660

TOM SAWYER ABROAD

that gap graduly, ever since. My watch and these clocks ought to be about together, now." flWell, it was so. There was only'. 287.7 half past five] Upon canceling the original reading ('seven') Mark Twain interlined 'six' above the end of the line. He then canceled 'six' and interlined the cue words with a caret above the beginning of the next line. 287.8 and half past eleven, a.m.,] Upon canceling 'but only one o'clock in the afternoon', which appears on MS p. I l l at the end of line 18 and on line 19, Mark Twain interlined 'seven' with a caret above line 18. The interlineation was probably a false start. Mark Twain then canceled 'seven' and interlined the cue words with a caret above line 20. 287.9 You] Follows canceled 'You sec, my watch', which appears as an independent line fragment. 287.13 was closing] Follows canceled 'would '. 287.15 way-down] Originally 'away down'. Upon canceling 'away' Mark Twain interlined 'way-' with a caret. 287.21 twelve.] Precedes canceled 'o'clock.'. Because of this cancellation Mark Twain inscribed the period after the cue word. 287.27 yonder? Gimme] Originally 'yonder, gimme'. Upon inscribing a question mark over the comma Mark Twain inscribed 'G' over 'g'. 287.30 you've] Originally 'you go'; probably the beginning of 'you got'. Upon canceling 'go' with a smear Mark Twain inscribed ' 'vc' over it. 288.5 I] Follows canceled 'we'. 288.9 "Camels!—camels!"] Originally' "Camels!" '. Upon canceling the quotation marks Mark Twain added '—camels!" '. 288.13 shad?] Interlined replacement of 'fool?'. 288.16 that that] Mark Twain interlined the second 'that' with a caret. 288.25 with bales strapped to them,] Interlined with a caret. 288.31 a hundred] Follows canceled 'two hu' ; probably the beginning of two hundred'. 289.28 cover her face] Follows canceled 'put her hand'. 289.34 three] Follows canceled 'up'. 291 chapter CHAPTER 7] Mark Twain canceled the original 7' in pencil and later inscribed '7' in ink which is darker than that used for the initial writing. 291.4 right north] Mark Twain interlined 'right' with a caret. 291.6-7 the city of Mexico,] Interlined replacement of St. Louis/. 291.17 don't] Inscribed over smeared 'know'.

ALTERATIONS IN THE MANUSCRIPT 291.17 291.18 292.3 292.8 292.11 292.12-13

292.18 292.24 292.27 292.36 292.37 292.38 293.1 293.5 293.5 293.7 293.15

293.16-17

293.17 293.20 293.33 294.7

661

jist a] Inscribed over smeared 'just an'. a animal] Upon canceling 'an' Mark Twain interlined 'a' with a caret. go] Italic line canceled. The fastest] Follows canceled 'On a standing jump a man can't jump only about twice his own length'. a hundred and] Interlined with a caret. —seven hundred and fifty times his own length, in one little second—] Interlined with a caret. Within the interlineation Mark Twain replaced a dash with the comma after length'. The manuscript reading ('750') has been spelled out in the present edition. or exposure] Interlined with a caret. man,] Interlined replacement of 'bird/. said] Inscribed over smeared 'say'; probably the beginning of 'says'. can learn] Follows canceled 'could learn'. cretur] Originally 'creture'. Mark Twain canceled the second 'e' with a smear. go] Follows canceled 'they'. t'other] Originally ' 'tother'. Mark Twain canceled the apostrophe and then inscribed it between 't' and 'o'. a-growing] Inscribed over smeared 'gr'; probably the beginning of 'growing'. and a-growing] Mark Twain interlined an ampersand with a caret. race be, do you reckon?] Follows canceled 'race be, you answer me that'. and a locomotive's] Upon interlining the cue words with a caret between 'elephant's' (293.15) and the period which originally followed 'elephant's', Mark Twain inscribed a comma below the 's' in 'elephant's'. And none of them can come anywhere near it.] Interlined with a caret. In the present text the manuscript reading ('them') has been emended to 'them' because St. Nicholas, the Webster edition, and the first English edition agree on the stress change. notions] Follows canceled 'refinement and is very', which appears as an independent line fragment. are] Interlined replacement of 'is'. freeze-out, and stayed] Interlined with a caret. git] Originally 'get'. Mark Twain inscribed 'i' over 'e'.

662 294.20 294.21 294.27 295.17 295.18 295.29 295.31 295.36 296.1 296.2 296.8 296.8 296.18 296.26 296.26 296.28 297.8 297.9 297.12 297.16 297.17 297.20 297.22 298.5

298.6 298.9 298.10 298.12

TOM SAWYER ABROAD git] Inscribed over a word rendered illegible by the inscription. buck at] Interlined replacement of 'climb down and go to bucking at'. nobody to load] Follows canceled 'nobody off yonder in', which appears as an independent line fragment. hain't] Interlined replacement of 'haven't'. "Hain't] Interlined replacement of "'Haven't'. hain't] Interlined replacement of 'haven't'. interesting Originally 'interesting'. Mark Twain canceled 'g' and to the left of it inscribed an apostrophe. "Mars] Originally' "Why Mars'. Upon canceling' "Why' Mark Twain inscribed the quotation marks before the cue word. ef] Originally 'if. Mark Twain inscribed 'e' over 'i'. en] Inscribed over a smeared ampersand. could] follows canceled 'knowed Tom'. fast] Precedes a canceled comma. that way,] Interlined with a caret. spotted] Interlined replacement of 'noticed'. place] Interlined replacement of 'spot', not] Inscribed over smeared 'to'. Desert] Follows canceled 'big'. shadder again,] Interlined replacement of 'shadow again,'. backed] Follows canceled 'then'. There was men, and women, and children.] Interlined with a caret. by] Inscribed over 'in'. with their arms spread on the sand,] Interlined with a caret. setting] Originally 'sitting'. Mark Twain inscribed 'e' over 'i'. for years.] Originally 'a year and more.'. In order of their appearance in the manuscript Mark Twain's inscribed revisions are: the replacement of 'a' with interlined 'for',- the inscription of 's' and a period after 'year'; and the cancellation of 'and more.'. rusty] Interlined with a caret. the swords] Originally 'them swords'. Mark Twain canceled 'm' in 'them'. the dead people] Originally 'them'. Upon canceling 'm' Mark Twain interlined 'dead people' with a caret. the people;] Originally 'them/. Upon canceling 'm ; ' Mark Twain interlined 'people/ with a caret.

ALTERATIONS IN THE MANUSCRIPT 298.16 298.32-33 298.34 298.35 298.37 299.1-2 299.15 299.15 299.18

299.23 299.24 299.35 300.6

300.10 301.2 301.19 301.19 301.24-28 301.30 301.32 302.9 302.11 302.28

303.7-8

663

bale on her,-] Mark Twain inscribed the semicolon which follows 'her' over a comma. little veils of the kind the dead women had on, with fringes made out of curious] Inscribed on the verso of MS p. 151. and] Interlined replacement of a word rendered illegible by the cancellation. thought it over and] Interlined with a caret. the sin] Follows canceled 'part and maybe most of. but I wished we had took all they had, so there wouldn't a been no temptation at all left.] Inscribed on a separate half-sheet. said] Precedes a canceled comma. everywheres]Origm^]y'everywherc'.MarJ with the business'. and saved the skins,] Interlined with a caret. of the Professor's] Interlined with a caret. fried] Follows a canceled ampersand. pone.] Interlined replacement of'bread.'. We had . . . good.] Inscribed on a separate half-sheet and pagmated 176A. The insertion can be ascribed to a later stage of editing for two reasons: first, the half-sheet is lighter weight than that used for the original composition; and second, the ink used for the revision is decidedly different in color and saturation from that used for the initial writing. animals.] Precedes a canceled ampersand. Because of this cancellation Mark Twain inscribed the period after the cue word. tackle] Follows canceled 'settle'. any] Interlined replacement of 'no'. though] Interlined replacement of 'but'. animals] Interlined replacement of'menagrie'. ben] Originally 'bee' ; probably the beginning of 'been'. Mark Twain canceled the second 'e' and inscribed 'n' over it. was'in'] Italic line canceled. a pretty] Mark Twain canceled 'an' with a smear, inscribed 'a' over it, and then wrote 'pretty'. Ain't it, Huck?"] Follows canceled quotation marks. it would] Follows canceled 'with the western edge'. so that] Follows a canceled ampersand. Great] Interlined with a caret.

666

309.35 310.2 310.4

310.4 310.6 310.12

310.14-15

310.16-17 310.27 310.33 310.33 310.33 310.33 310.34 310.36 311.1 311.2 311.3 311.5 311.7 311.9

TOM SAWYER ABROAD I says—] Interlined without a caret. 4,162,000.] Follows canceled '4,200,000.'. under where the edges projected out, you] Mark Twain revised the original reading ('under the edges you') by interlining 'where' with a caret after 'under' and 'projected out,' with a caret after 'edges'. tuck] Precedes canceled 'out of sight and entirely hide'. of them] Interlined replacement of 'those'. it done."] Precedes canceled 'But it was worth it. In my opinion it's a Desert to be proud of, both for size and everything. I couldn't make a Desert nor anything, but if I could make a Desert like this it'. Because of this revision Mark Twain inscribed the quotation marks after 'done.'. I reckon dis Desert wan't made, at all] Interlined with a caret. 'Desert' has been editorially emended from 'desert' in accordance with the author's preferred styling (see the textual note at 310.14). The manuscript reading ('made') has been changed to 'made' because St. Nicholas, the Webster edition, and the first English edition agree on the stress change. Dcy ain't no way to make it pay.] Interlined with a caret. it's] Inscribed over smeared 'in'. worl',] Originally 'world'. Mark Twain canceled 'd' with a smear and inscribed an apostrophe and a comma over it. tuck] Interlined replacement of 'took'. made a lot o' rocks] Mark Twain changed 'make' to 'made' by inscribing 'd' over 'k'. rocks en] Mark Twain canceled an ampersand with a smear and inscribed 'en' over it. made a lot o' yearth] Mark Twain changed 'make' to 'made' by inscribing 'd' over 'k'. rocks] Precedes a canceled comma. san',] Originally 'sand'. Mark Twain canceled 'd' with a smear and inscribed an apostrophe and a comma over it. en pas'c] Follows a canceled ampersand. it come] Follows canceled 'He'. whilst] Originally 'whils' '. Mark Twain canceled the apostrophe with a smear and inscribed 't' over it. So He] Mark Twain changed 'he' to 'He' by inscribing 'H' over 'h'. en dump] Mark Twain interlined 'en' with a caret to replace 'it and' which followed canceled 'and'.

ALTERATIONS IN THE MANUSCRIPT 311.9 311.10 311.11 311.11 311.18 311.24 311.25 311.26 311.30 311.32 311.32 312.1

312.15

312.16 312.23 313.1 313.24 313.25 313.26 314.1 314.35 314.36 314.39 315.8-9

315.24 315.28 315.33

667

de san'] Interlined replacement of 'it'. made] Precedes a canceled comma. I said] Originally 'Tom he said'. Upon canceling 'Tom he' Mark Twain interlined T with a caret. I believed] Originally'he believed'. Upon canceling 'he' Mark Twain interlined T with a caret. sure] Italic line canceled. Answer me dat!"] Follows canceled quotation marks. It's only an] Follows canceled 'That'. opinion, and others] Originally 'opinion, others'. Mark Twain interlined an ampersand with a caret. as forpeoplc like me and Jim,] interlined with a caret. fetched] Interlined replacement of 'give'. Sawyer] Interlined with a caret. China.] Originally 'China, and'. Upon canceling an ampersand with a smear Mark Twain inscribed the period which follows 'China' over a comma. saving.] Precedes canceled 'as Rhode Island has.'. Because of this cancellation Mark Twain inscribed the period after the cue word. made] Originally 'make'. Mark Twain inscribed 'd' over 'k'. dervish] Originally 'Dervish'. Mark Twain inscribed 'd' over 'D'. said] Follow.? canceled'says'. so he warn't] Follows canceled 'was'. starts] Inscribed over smeared 'say'; probably the beginning of 'says'. take] Follows canceled'run'. in that] follows canceled Tve'. forgit] Originally 'forget'. Mark Twain inscribed T over 'e'. so] Interlined with a caret. rcptyle] Interlined replacement of 'crctur'. see a lot more things that's valuable. Come—please put in on."] Upon canceling 'see all the treasure in the whole earth. Come—please put it on." ', Mark Twain inscribed the cue words as the last line of MS p. 198 and as the first line of MS p. 199. he'd] Originally 'he'. Mark Twain interlined ' 'd' with a caret. everybody] Follows canceled 'all'. it's a thing] Precedes a canceled comma.

668 315.35

315.37 315.38

316.1-2 316.2 316.10 316.11 316.22 316.22-23 316.24

316.27 316.31 317.1 317.4 317.21 317.23-24 318.11 318.12 319.3 319.12 319.13 319.23 319.23-24

TOM SAWYER ABROAD that's what uncle Abncr always said] Interlined with a caret between 'person' (315.35) and the semicolon which originally followed 'person'. Because of this insertion Mark Twain inscribed a comma below the 'n' in 'person'. no more] Mark Twain interlined 'no' with a caret. pox. When you've got it, it ain't] The final reading of the manuscript ('pox. It ain't') is rejected due to apparent authorial revision in the typescript. Mark Twain revised the original reading of the manuscript ('pox is. After you') by canceling 'is. After you' and then writing 'It ain't'. But on the other hand] Interlined with a caret. said] Follows canceled 'he'. he is talking] Follows canceled 'he thinks'. thinks] Follows canceled 'is adm' ; probably the beginning of 'is admiring' (316.11). dipper-full] Interlined replacement of a word rendered illegible by the cancellation. himself up] Originally 'up himself/. Mark Twain canceled 'up' and the comma and then wrote 'up/ after 'himself. seems to me.] Follows canceled 'seems to me. You can yell at him, he don't notice,- wagons can go raging past, rattling the windows, he don't know nothing ahout it.'. no] Interlined replacement o f ' a n y ' . cretur] Originally 'crcture'. Mark Twain canceled the second 'c' with a smear. anything.] Interlined replacement of 'nothing.'. else] Interlined with a caret between 'somebody' (317.4) and the period which originally followed 'somebody'. word or anybody's] interlined with a caret. swindle himself.] Interlined replacement of 'do it.'. to make] Originally 'and make'. Mark Twain inscribed 'to' over an ampersand. or] Interlined replacement of an ampersand. riggers] Interlined replacement of 'figures steadily [?]'. rich] Originally 'riches'. Mark Twain canceled 'es' with a smear. nobby] Interlined replacement o f ' b u l l y ' . fiery and] Interlined replacement of 'redder and'. like it looks through a piece of red glass, you know.] Interlined with a caret between 'dreadful' (319.23) and the period which follows 'dreadful' in the manuscript. Upon interlining the

ALTERATIONS IN THE MANUSCRIPT

319.29-30 320.7 320.12 320.23 320.32 320.37 321.5 321.7 321.11 321.17 321.19 321.20 321.21 321.22 321.23 321.24 321.33 322.8 322.13-14 322.16 322.17 322.21 322.21 322.27 322.30 322.31 322.37 323.15

669

passage Mark Twain apparently forgot to cancel the period after 'dreadful'. and hid the sun,] Interlined with a caret. buried up] Follows canceled 'up'. and all still and quiet] Interlined with a caret between 'now' (320.12) and the period which originally followed 'now'. people] Precedes a canceled comma. traveling] Follows canceled 'the longer we'. soon] Follows canceled 'even'. Bushrod] Interlined replacement of 'Benjamin'. But as soon] Originally 'But soon'. Mark Twain interlined 'as' with a caret. join] Interlined replacement of a word rendered illegible by the cancellation. ten or] Interlined with a caret. homeliker] Interlined replacement of 'gayer'. wedding] Follows canceled 'dance'. in the very] Interlined replacement of 'the'. joined] Originally 'jined'. Mark Twain inscribed 'o' between '}' and 'i'. there.] Originally 'there. But'. Mark Twain canceled 'But' and then began a new paragraph with the same word. and trouble] Interlined with a caret. to have death] Follows canceled 'to see them', which appears as an independent line fragment. back] Interlined with a caret. it didn't] Follows canceled'it was'. kept still and] Interlined with a caret. it] Interlined replacement of a word rendered illegible by the cancellation. bed] Follows canceled 'best'. there is, and] Interlined replacement of 'in the world, and'. long'll] Originally 'long will'. Upon canceling 'wi' in 'will' Mark Twain inscribed the apostrophe between 'long' and '11'. wuth] Follows canceled 'worth'. How much would] Originally 'How would'. Mark Twain interlined 'much' with a caret. ef] Originally 'if ; Mark Twain inscribed 'e' over 'i'. till] Follows canceled 'as long as'.

670 323.22 323.22-23

323.24 324.7-8 324.13 324.19 324.28

324.32

325.14 326.5

326.19 326.26 326.28 327.15 328.15 328.16 328.25 328.29 328.33-34 329.10 329.16-17 329.18 329.28

TOM SAWYER ABROAD the real ones] Originally 'them'. Upon canceling 'm' in 'them' Mark Twain interlined 'real ones' with a caret. He was blinder than he made the driver."] Inscribed as a continuation of the paragraph which originally ended with 'miles.' (323.22). Because of this insertion Mark Twain canceled the quotation marks after 'miles.'. wuth;"] Interlined replacement of 'worth?" '. a duty] Follows canceled 'it'. and so on,] Follows canceled 'and so on, here you can sec'. I hate] Follows canceled '^ I never said nothing; 1 hate', which appears as an independent line fragment. Tom Sawyer."] Originally Tom." '. Upon canceling the period after Tom' Mark Twain inscribed 'Sawyer." ' over the quotation marks. Go on."] Precedes canceled 'with your '. Because of this cancellation Mark Twain inscribed the period and the quotation marks after 'on'. One word was rendered illegible by the cancellation. see] Inscribed over smeared 'said'. stronges',] Originally 'strongest'. Upon canceling the second 't' with a smear Mark Twain inscribed an apostrophe and a comma to the left of the cancellation. the way] Interlined replacement of 'as'. We couldn't] Follows canceled 'When we got done'. and they] Originally 'but they'. Upon canceling 'but' Mark Twain interlined 'and' with a caret. big dim] Follows canceled 'dim big dim'. enter] Follows canceled 'stand up'. humble] Interlined with a caret. o' de night] Mark Twain interlined 'o' ' in place of a word rendered illegible by his cancellation. brethren] Originally 'brethren'. Mark Twain inscribed 'e' over 'o'. and such like monstrous giants, that made Jim's wool rise,] Interlined with a caret. skip] Originally 'ship'. Mark Twain wrote 'k' over 'h'. the fog thinned a little, very sudden, and] Interlined with a caret. biggest] Follows canceled 'bustinest'. J i m ] Upon canceling 'I was' with a smear Mark Twain inscribed the cue woid over it.

ALTERATIONS IN THE MANUSCRIPT 329.29 329.31 329.32 330.1 330.3 330.9 330.14 330.15 330.19

330.26

330.26 330.30 330.32 330.35 330.37 331.5-6 331.9-10 331.17 331.31 332.4 332.5 332.17 332.18 332.19 332.30 332.34 333.14 333.25 334.6

671

in a begging way,] Follows canceled 'and working his', which appears as an independent line fragment. "He] Interlined replacement of ' "If. look] Interlined with a caret. body] Precedes a canceled comma. All] Follows canceled 'People'. effects] Precedes a canceled comma. it was] Follows canceled 'Jim'. correct proportions,] Interlined replacement of 'facts,'. that] Follows canceled 'it was to sec how that', which appears as an independent line fragment. One word was rendered illegible by the cancellation. made us] Originally 'makes you'. Upon inscribing 'd' over 'k' and canceling Y in 'makes', Mark Twain canceled 'you' and interlined 'us' with a caret. quiet] Interlined replacement of 'thoughtful'. took up the glass and] Interlined with a caret. wee] Interlined with a caret. They're hauling] Originally 'They've got a'. Upon canceling 'got a' Mark Twain replaced V in 'They've' with interlined 'i'. there's] Follows canceled 'Huck,'. howling for help] Interlined replacement of a word rendered illegible by the cancellation. he wouldn't] Follows canceled 'they'. for insulting the flag,] Interlined with a caret. En] Follows canceled quotation marks. other] Interlined with a caret. boosted] Interlined replacement of 'helped'. When] Mark Twain interlined a paragraph sign with a caret before the cue word. silences] Precedes a canceled period. whopper] Precedes a canceled comma. it couldn't] Originally 'it just couldn't'. Upon canceling 'it just' Mark Twain interlined 'it' with a caret before 'couldn't'. reckon."] Follows canceled 'say." '. Don't] Follows canceled quotation marks. knowcd] Interlined replacement of 'thought'. candle] Follows canceled 'ma' ; probably the beginning of 'match'.

672 334.17 335.3 335.3 335.11 335.11-12

335.15 336.6 336.25 336.32 336.34 337.4 337.14 337.17 337.19-20 337.23 337.25-26 337.29 337.31 337.33-34

338.6 338.15 338.17 338.30 338.30 338.33 338.34

TOM SAWYER ABROAD mad to] Originally 'mad of. Upon canceling 'of with a smear Mark Twain inscribed 'to' over it. tunnel] Follows canceled Tyra' ; probably the beginning of 'Pyramid'. went] Follows canceled 'we'. the way] Interlined replacement of 'along'. as smooth and beautiful a road] Originally 'a smoothe and beautiful road'. In order of their appearance in the manuscript Mark Twain's inscribed revisions are: the insertion of V after 'a' ; the cancellation of 'e' in 'smoothe'; and the interlineation of'a' with a caret before 'road'. people] Originally 'peoples'. Mark Twain canceled 's'. setting] Originally 'sitting'. Mark Twain inscribed 'e' over 'i'. hunt] Follows canceled 'sec'. just the] Follows canceled 'the'. struck the] Originally 'struck it'. Upon canceling 'it' with a smear Mark Twain inscribed 'the' over it. Missourian and] Interlined replacement of 'English and'. how does] Follows canceled 'it's amazing—'. main bulk] Interlined replacement of 'heft'. slipped it out and] Interlined with a caret. place is] Precedes a canceled comma. by the look of it] Interlined with a caret. dropped] Follows canceled 'come'. silk] Interlined with a caret. us to Mecca and Medina and Central Africa and cverywhercs for a] Interlined replacement of 'us through the Holy Land for a'. away] Interlined replacement of'over'. Professor's] Mark Twain inscribed T' over 'p'. all the] Interlined replacement of 'any'. 'caze] Interlined replacement of 'because'. Ian',] Originally land'. Upon canceling 'd' with a smear Mark Twain inscribed the apostrophe and the comma after 'n'. for a minute] Interlined with a caret between 'Tom' (338.33) and the period which originally followed Tom'. You] Mark Twain interlined 'If with a caret before the cue word but later canceled the interlineation. The insertion — inscribed in ink which is similar in color and saturation to that used for the initial writing—was probably made at or

ALTERATIONS IN THE MANUSCRIPT

338.37 339.1 339.2 339.7 339.8 339.13 339.23 339.24 339.25 339.32

340.2

340.3

340.10 340.10-11

673

near the time of original composition. However, the cancellation, inscribed in pencil, was apparently made during a later stage of editing. daytime] Follows canceled 'night when you strike it, slow down your speed or'. and in] Follows canceled 'right'. three quarters] Interlined replacement of 'a half. follow] Follows canceled 'drop down low and'. and three quarters,] Interlined replacement of 'and a half/. fifteen] Follows canceled 'few'. seven] Interlined replacement of 'eight'. over] Interlined replacement of 'just'. both] Interlined with a caret. do. Sometimes] Originally 'do." ^"Sometimes'. Mark Twain indicated a fusion of the two paragraphs by drawing an arrow between 'do." ' and ' "Sometimes'. He then canceled the quotation marks after 'do.' and before 'Sometimes'. twenty-four hours.] After the cue words Mark Twain made an extensive insertion on the verso of MS p. 277 but later canceled the entire passage: That is 24 hours by your watch. No, a heap less. It's 6,600 miles to the mouth of the Mississippi in a straight line. Well, the world will be turning over toward you all the time and adding about t53 on 55 miles an hour to your speed. You'll make the Mississippi in less than 19 hours! tMaybc 18.i But coming back to us is a 24 hour trip because you've got the motion of the earth against you, you see. You leave here now—6 p.m.; you'll strike the Mississippi about 5 tomorrow morning (not Mount Sinai time but local time;) you'll be at the village before 7, and leave again before 8, and be here again in 30 hours, maybe a little less, and it will then be about 2 p.m. village time, but 10 p.m. Mount Sinai time. We will have a bonfire that I bet you'll reconnize when you sec it.'. .Since the inks used for inscribing and for canceling the passage are indistinguishable in color and saturation from that used for the initial writing, the revisions were apparently made at or near the time of original composition. Saturday afternoon.] Mark Twain canceled 'afternoon.', interlined 'night' with a caret, canceled 'night', and then inscribed 'afternoon.' to the right of the canceled interlineation. 2] Interlined replacement of a number rendered illegible by the cancellation. In 24 hours you'll be home, and it'll be 6 to-morrow morning,

674

TOM SAWYER ABROAD

village time.] Upon canceling 'In tabout 20i hours you'll be in the village, and it'll be 6 tor 7i o'clock in the morning, village time.', Mark Twain inscribed the cue words on the verso of MS p. 278. Within the inscription he wrote 'home' ('you'll be home') over smeared 'in the' and replaced 'in the' with interlined 'to-morrow' ('to-morrow morning'). Before canceling the above passage, Mark Twain inscribed the following revisions: 'about 20', interlined replacement o/'24'; 'or 7', interlined with a caret. Since the inks used for inscriptions and cancellations are indistinguishable in color and saturation from that used for the initial writing, the revisions were apparently made at or near the time of original composition. 340.11-12 When you strike the village,] Interlined with a caret. Because of this revision Mark Twain inscribed ' 1' over 'L' in 'land' (340.12). 340.12 a little] Follows canceled 'on top'. 340.16 git] Originally 'get'. Mark Twain inscribed Y over 'e'. 340.20 have] Follows canceled 'be'. 340.21-22 back at 7 or 8 a.m., village time, and be here in 24 hours, arriving at 2 or 3 p.m., Mount Sinai time."] Inscribed at the bottom of MS p. 278 and continued at the top of MS p. 279, the cue words replace the following cancellation. Because the canceled matter constitutes an almost indecipherable order of deletions and interlineations, only an approximation of it can be achieved: 'back at 7 tor 81 in the morning village time, and in 24 hours you'll be here with us again at 5 minutes to 2 in the afternoon." her jaw got hitched and she couldn't get it started to work (MS, TS) Huck Finn • You muggins (MS, TS) was all straight again • had got her jaw loose (MS, TS) take yourself off and pack your traps • you walk just as straight as you can march, Tom Sawyer, and pack your traps and dart for Arkansaw (MS, TS) hickory!" IJShe hit his head a thump • hickory! Out of my sight, you rubbage!" H She was just a b'lling! She handed Tom's head a thump (MS, TS) we was going • he was going (Al -: )

HISTORICAL COLLATION 359.24 360.1-2 360.10 361.7-8 *361.8 *362.8-J2

703

a diversion • diversion (Y) him, and knuckles down to him and tries to keep on the good side of him. I • him. I(TS + ) just • [not in] (MS, TS) to get cool • t o c o o l ( A l + ) used to was • was before (MS, TS) A pretty . . . course. • ^[Our old nigger Jim was with us. He wouldn't stay behind. You see, he was the fondest nigger of his wife and his little deef and dumb girl you ever seet—they was owned by a farmer back of our town, maybe you'll remember*; and when we set him free and fetched him back home from Arkansaw that time, me and Tom found that our bag of gold that we had smouched from where the robbers hid it had been out at intrust in Judge Thatcher's hands, and there was six hundred dollars apiece for us coming due,- and so we made up a scheme, just as romantic and bully as Tom could put it up, and Christmas Eve we told Jim to dress up his level best and come around to Tom's aunt Polly's, and at half past eleven we had him into the parlor and made him set down and wait for Christmas to come, and said we had a Christmas gift for him. And you bet he was full of curiosity and eagerness up to the chin, and couldn't keep still, but kept chuckling and looking grateful; and now and then he'd bust out in a thankful laugh and say what he guessed it was going to be: "I bet it's a whole plug o' tobacker!" he says, first-off; and next he guessed it was a new hat; and next a long-handled shovel; and next a pair of red mittens; and so on and so on; and we kept on shaking our heads and he kept on guessing and busting out in them big tearing laughs of hist'nt; and at last, right in the middle of the biggest one the clock struck and a curtain rolled back and there set Jim's wife and child with a big bill on her breast which she read out her own self because we had learned her the words: "THE PROPERTY OE OUR OLD JIM—CHRISTMAS GIFT FROM TOM AND HUCK.' Poor old Jim, he stopped laughing and went right down on his knees and hugged our legs and couldn't say a word, he was crying so, and so glad. And at last he broke out and says: " 'De good Lord God be good to you, dc bes' boys He ever made in dis worl'—en dey ain't no angels dat's any better!'—and if you reckon we didn't go in, then, and have a booming Christmas, you don't know nothing about it; and so you couldn't any more persuade Jim to let us go to Arkansaw or stir anywheres else without him along to wait on us and take

704

364.15 364.16 364.25 365.27 365.28-30

366.10-11 *366.12 366.28 367.2 370.8 370.14 *371.16-17 372.36 373.24 373.26 373.26-27 *376.12 376.24 *376.37 377.24 379.7 *379.16

TOM SAWYER, DETECTIVE care of us, than nothing. So he was along, and so was the rest of the money that was left over from buying the woman and the child, which had cost five hundred and fifty dollars, the two together, and was worth it, the woman was, anyway. Jim he was down on deck, of course, and fed with the crew and slept on the freight-sacks in the engine-room, but me and Tom was cabin passengers, up above. A pretty lonesome boat; there warn't but few passengers, and all old folks, that set around, wide apart, dozing, and was very quiet. We was four days getting out of the upper river, because we got aground so much. But it warn't dull—couldn't be for me and Jim, because there wasn't a rod of it that hadn't been more or less dangersome for us the time we slipped down it on a raft, running away, and scared of being catched any minute. (MS, TS) dangersome • dangesome (MS); dangerous (TS + ) a gasp • gasp(TS + ) tittle-tattle • gossip (MS, TS) George," he says, "you're • George, you're (MS, TS) If ... home. • I reckon the reason I never thought of that was because I hadn't any notion of striking for home till you told me I'm dead. I don't need to be deef and dumb except there. (MS, TS) At last he come out with it, though. • [ o m . ] ( T S 4 ) passengers • people (MS, TS) ups and downs • history (MS, TS) hazelnuts • a hazelnuts (A2) smashing • busting (MS, TS) the coolness • coolness (Al f ) pockets ... everything • pockets and everything (MS, TS) I says to myself, it's him, sure. If • I says to myself, if (Al 4 ) ; [om.] (TS) boat-hand • man (MS, TS) with his hand-bag • [not in] (MS, TS) in the rank of men, and he looked • [orn.](TS4) in low voices • in a low voice (TS) and not smooth, • [not in] (MS, TS) it was • [om.] ( A l - r ) Saturday • Monday (MS, TS) I could • could (E) other way • way (TS)

HISTORICAL COLLATION 379.20 379.35 380.14 "380.30 381.17 381.17 382.2 382.15 383.21 384.10 384.19 384.19 384.23 384.24 387.5 388.8 *388.33 388.38 *389.37 390.7

390.7 390.28 392.28 393.2 395.2 395.15 395.18 395.27 396.4 396.5 *396.7 397.2 398.3 399.2 406.18 410.3

705

off of the corpse." • off." (MS, TS) bet. Some day there'll • bet you. There'll (MS, TS) the raggedy • raggedy (TS 4-) mighty • [om.](Al + ) just • [om.] (A1 + ) a disappointed • disappointed (E) thataway • that away (A1-E); that way (Y) gushed • poured (MS, TS) backwards and forrards and backwards and forrards • backwards and forwards (TS +) pretty • [om.] (TS + ) watermelon • watermelons (Y) as much • much (Y) when we • when he (A2, Y) and so we • so he (Y) had • [om.] (A1,E) hill • hills (Y) that • [om.] ( A 1 + ) said he • [om.] (A1 + ) Him? • Hum? (TS, Al) ; Hum! (A2, Y) tell. • tell, because when we made you the promise on the steamboat we said we would always keep it, and we will. (MS, TS) ever • [om.] (TS + ) dogs • animals (MS-A2, Y) two or three days • the days (MS, TS) Another ... there • By the end of the week there (MS, TS) wished • he wished (A2, Y) laughing yet • laughing fit to kill himself (MS, TS) powerful • was powerful (A 1, E) canting up his head sideways and • [not in] (MS, TS) was. • was. They was just going to start for church. (MS, TS) Huck's • Huck have (MS, TS) a been • been (MS, TS) a half • half (A2, Y) But • [om.] (Al, E) shouts • says (MS, TS) had laid • laid (A2, Y) a half • half (Y)

706 411.16-17 413.4 414.2 414.26

415.18

TOM SAWYER, DETECTIVE Jim, you remember. • Jim. (Al, A2, Y) to shouting • shouting (Al, A2, Y) he took • took (Y) and cleared his throat, and shoved his spectacles back on his head, • and shoved his spectacles back on his head, and cleared his throat, (Al, E) him. • him. THE END. ( A l )

ALTERATIONS IN THE MANUSCRIPT AND THE TYPESCRIPT The following table presents all revisions Mark Twain inscribed in the holographic text—chapters 1-10 of the manuscript and a typescript of that portion. Most of the nearly two hundred alterations consisted in the manuscript of minor verbal changes and deletions or insertions of brief passages which hardly affected the narrative sequence. Approximately ninety per cent were inscribed in ink (hereafter ink 1) which was indistinguishable in color and saturation from that used for the initial writing; the remaining changes were inscribed in ink (hereafter ink 2) which was less saturated and lighter in color than ink 1. Though visible dissimilarities between inks could have resulted from the varying amounts of ink in Mark Twain's pen, the grouping in chapters 2-3 of changes made in ink 2 suggests that these changes occurred during a later stage of editing. Unless otherwise indicated, all revisions were inscribed in the manuscript and all of them were inscribed in ink 1. There were two penciled inscriptions in the manuscript. The first occurred at 360.7, where Mark Twain penciled over the "}" in "Jubiter", presumably for clarification,- because this inscription does not constitute a revision, it is not reported in the following table. The second is reported for 372.37. Many of the alterations occurred during the original composition. Such alterations as those reported for 366.30 and 369.1, for example, indicate by their nature and placement on the line in the manuscript that Mark Twain changed his mind immediately after writing the words he canceled. In some instances, however, words following canceled words on the line cannot with certainty be construed as replacements, such as the revision reported for 375.27, and thus immediacy can only be conjectured. Many interlined alterations may have occurred during the original composition, but their placement again renders immediacy conjectural, even when the appearance of the ink seems the same as that of the original composition. Of Mark Twain's twenty-two revisions in the typescript approximately half altered punctuation and word forms, and the remainder consisted of minor insertions, substitutions, or deletions of single words and short phrases. Fourteen of these changes were inscribed in ink, eight in pencil. Though the changes made in ink occurred at wide intervals from TS p. 5 through TS p. 57, the grouping in chapter 6 of changes made in pencil suggests that there were two stages of editing in the typescript. However, there is no indication of the sequence of these stages. Unless otherwise specified, all revisions in the typescript were inscribed in ink. Four kinds of changes in the holographic text are not reported. These are: (1) Mark Twain's insertions of necessary grammatical words and other corrections of obvious errors in the manuscript or the typescript; (2) words canceled and then followed by the same words,- (3) false starts, such as word fragments begun with a misspelling which are followed by the full words spelled correctly; (4) illegible canceled words unless they are part of canceled passages otherwise legible.

708

TOM SAWYER, DETECTIVE

357.12 lonesome place] Follows canceled 'place'. 357.21 It seems] Follows canceled 'But'. 358.18 fit to cry] Interlined replacement of 'miserable to'. Upon canceling 'miserable to' Mark Twain apparently forgot to interline 'to1 after 'cry'. The revised reading of the manuscript ('fit to cry see') was corrected by the typist ('fit to cry to see'). 358.19 foolish] Interlined with a caret. 358.20 thankful and] Interlined with a caret. 358.22 ca'm] Precedes a canceled comma. In the present text the reading of the manuscript ('c'am') has been emended to 'ca'm' (see the textual note at 358.22). 358.26 knocked so stupid and so mad] Interlined replacement of 'so mad'. 358.27 she couldn't say a word] Originally 'she couldn't get her jaw to work', which was canceled and followed by 'her jaw got hitched and she couldn't get it started to work'. The reading of the present text is accepted as an authorial revision at a later stage (see the textual note at 358.27). 358.28 whisper:] Interlined replacement of say:'. 358.29 noble] Interlined with a caret. 359.2 fly] Follows canceled 'go'. 359.3 all] Interlined with a caret. 359.4 days] Follows canceled 'born'. 359.5-6 what you'll be excused] Follows canceled 'excusing'. 359.7-8 hickory!" ^She hit his head a thump] Apparently at a later stage Mark Twain revised the final reading of the manuscript: 'hickory! Out of my sight, you rubbage!" fShe was just a b'iling! She handed Tom's head a thump'. In the manuscript he had previously changed 'My, she was' to 'She was' by canceling 'My,' and inscribing 'S' over V in 'she'. 359.13 now.] Interlined with a caret. Because of this insertion Mark Twain inscribed a comma over the period which originally followed 'it' (359.131 359.23 considerable] Interlined replacement of 'a little'. 359.32 around] Precedes a canceled comma. 360.7 yet] Interlined with a caret. 360.13 leg above his knee] In the typescript Mark Twain interlined the cue words to replace 'shoulder-blade', which was an erroneous transcription of the manuscript reading ('shoulder blade'). 360.14 moles] Interlined replacement of a word rendered illegible by the cancellation.

ALTERATIONS IN THE MANUSCRIPT 360.15

360.18 360.20 361.1

361.7 362.3 362.6-7

362.8-12

362.13 362.21-22

362.27 363.19 363.19 363.30-31 364.9 364.11

709

minded him of] In the manuscript Mark Twain replaced 'was' with interlined 'mind him of. In the typescript he emended 'mind' to 'minded'. hair and no beard,] Interlined replacement of 'whiskers all over his face/. [ubiter] Follows canceled quotation marks. "Aunt] Originally '"Why, aunt'. Upon canceling '"Why/ Mark Twain inscribed 'A' over 'a' in 'aunt' and inserted the quotation marks before 'Aunt'. the people] Mark Twain interlined 'the' with a caret. or one-horse rivers] In the typescript Mark Twain interlined the cue words with a caret. not so very much short of a thousand miles at one pull] In the typescript Mark Twain inscribed the cue words as a continuation of the paragraph which originally ended with 'St. Louis' (362.6). Because of this insertion he inscribed the colon which follows 'St. Louis' over a period. A pretty . . . course.] Apparently at a later stage Mark Twain revised the final reading of the manuscript (for a copy of this reading, see emendations, list 1, 362.8-12). In the manuscript he had previously inscribed the following changes: the interlineation of'—they was owned by a farmer back of our town, maybe you'll remember',- the cancellation of'just' ('I just bet'), and the cancellation of 'Upper River, because'. In the extant typescript he changed 'his' to 'his'n' (laughs of his'n') by interlining ' 'n' with a caret. A misspelling in the manuscript ('pcrsued') was corrected by the typist ('persuade'). me] Mark Twain canceled 'T with a smear and wrote the cue word over it. The letter was probably the beginning of Tom'. At least he don't ever pull off his boots, anyway."] Mark Twain inserted 'At' at the end of a line and inscribed the remaining cue words on the verso of MS p. 21. Because of this insertion he canceled the quotation marks which originally followed 'one don't.' (362.21). regulate] Inscribed in ink 2, the cue word was an interlined replacement of 'decide'. reckoned he] Interlined with a caret. could] Originally 'would'. Mark Twain inscribed 'c' over 'w'. when we got a sight of him] Interlined with a caret. about] Follows canceled 'him'. The cancellation was inscribed in ink 2. for that] Follows canceled 'as'.

710 364.11 364.13 364.15

364.18

TOM SAWYER, DETECTIVE know,] Precedes a canceled dash. was] Italic line canceled. dangersome] Originally 'dangerous'. Upon canceling 'ous' with a smear and inscribing 'some' over it, Mark Twain, apparently by mistake, wrote 's' over 'r' ('dangesome'). In the present text 'r' has been editorially supplied. (For a discussion of this revision see the textual introduction.)

warn't] Originally 'weren't'. Mark Twain inscribed 'a' over the first 'e' and canceled the second 'e'. 364.19 machinery] Follows canceled'cam-lifter'. 365.5 been] Follows canceled 'a'. The cancellation was inscribed in ink 2. 365.23 if] Inscribed over smeared'won't'. 365.27 You're perfectly right.] Interlined with a caret in ink 2. 366.4 find] Follows canceled 'know'. 366.5 way] Interlined with a caret. 366.24-25 to keep watch on me] Interlined with a caret. 366.26 an] Inscribed over smeared 'two'. 366.30 "It was] Follows canceled '^" 'It was a burglary of a jewelry shop in St. Louis'. 367.3 played it] Mark. Twain interlined 'it' with a caret. 367.4 for us to see if we wanted to buy,] Originally 'for approval,'. Upon canceling 'approval/ Mark Twain inscribed 'us' after 'for' and interlined the remaining cue words with a caret. The revisions were inscribed in ink 2. 367.8 "Twelve—thousand] Marie Twain interlined the dash with a caret. 367.12 the julery] Originally'these'. Upon canceling 'sc' Mark Twain interlined 'julery' with a caret. 367.24 all of you had] Originally 'you had all'. Upon canceling 'all' Mark Twain interlined 'all of with a caret before 'you'. The revisions were inscribed in ink 2. 367.35 ready, and I'll give. . . .] Upon inscribing 'and I'll give. . . .' as a continuation of the sentence which originally ended in the manuscript with 'ready.', Mark Twain apparently forgot to change the period after 'ready'. The typist typed a comma in place of the period. 367.38 a hand-bag] Originally 'a little hand-bag'. Mark Twain canceled 'little' in the typescript. 368.2 It was Hud Dixon.] Interlined with a caret in ink 2. 368.3 I'll see] Follows canceled 'he's got'.

ALTERATIONS IN THE MANUSCRIPT 368.21 368.21 368.25-26 368.27 368.30 368.33

369.1 369.5 369.10

369.13 369.37 370.3 370.9 370.10 370.16 370.18-19 370.23

371.12

371.23 371.30 372.7 372.9 372.25 372.26-27

711

I seen] In the typescript Mark Twain replaced 'saw' with interlined 'seen'. lay] Follows canceled 'buy'. from a couple of weeks back,] Interlined with a caret. two] Follows canceled 'the'. and locked the doors] Interlined with a caret. Bud Dixon] Mark Twain interlined 'with the red shirt' with a caret after the cue words but later canceled the interlineation in ink 2. turned the knob] Follows canceled 'unbolted it', which appears in the manuscript as an independent line fragment. went] Interlined replacement of a word rendered illegible by the cancellation. He would come, and] Interlined with a caret. In the manuscript Mark Twain apparently forgot to change 'We' to 'we' (369.10), but his typist corrected the error. do that.] Follows canceled 'to'. my thought!] Follows canceled 'in'. and I catched] Mark Twain interlined T with a caret. this] Interlined replacement of 'my'. The revision was inscribed in ink 2. Now] Follows canceled 'His boots was the same.'. The revision was inscribed in ink 2. snore.] Precedes canceled 'There wasn't any occasion'. for leather] Interlined with a caret. I spied] Upon canceling 'I spyed', which appears as an independent line fragment, Mark Twain wrote 'I spyed' on the next line. He later canceled the second 'I spyed' and interlined 'I spied' in ink 2. now.] Interlined with a caret. Because of this insertion Mark Twain inscribed the comma which follows 'business' (371.12) over a period. The revisions were made in ink 2. What] Originally 'What's'. Mark Twain canceled ' V. straight] Interlined with a caret. to myself] Interlined with a caret in ink 2. now,] Interlined with a caret in ink 2. I fetched] Interlined replacement of T came to'. The revision was inscribed in ink 2. because [felt perfectly safe, now, you know.] Interlined with a caret. Because of this insertion Mark Twain inscribed the comma which follows 'glad' (372.26) over a period.

712

372.29-30 372.35

TOM SAWYER, DETECTIVE

and played with my di'monds] Interlined with a caret in ink 2. a gait like Hal Clayton's,] Interlined replacement of 'on a red shirt/. The revision was inscribed in ink 2. 372.36 him,] Interlined replacement in ink 2 of 'Bud,'. 372.37 got me] In the typescript Mark Twain canceled a comma after the cue words. The revision was inscribed in pencil. 373.20 forty] Interlined replacement of 'fifty'. 373.21 one] Interlined replacement of 'ten'. 373.25 wood] Precedes canceled 'in that kind of weather,'. The cancellation was made in the typescript. 373.25 we got] Follows canceled 'he'. 374.2 right back] Interlined replacement of 'a quarter of a mile back'. 374.3 a lonesome place.] Inscribed as a continuation of the paragraph which originally ended with 'road' (374.3). Because of this insertion Mark Twain inscribed the comma which follows 'road' over a period. The revisions were made in ink 2. 375 chapter CHAPTER 5] Mark Twain inscribed '5' over a character rendered illegible by his inscription. 375.7 thirty] Interlined replacement of 'a hundred'. 375.9-10 two or three terrible screams for help. "Poor Jake is killed, sure," we says.] Originally 'a bang-bang! and see the red flashes from the pistol.'. Upon canceling 'bang-bang . . . pistol.' Mark Twain wrote 'couple of awful yells.'. He then canceled the revised reading ('a couple . . . yells.') and inscribed the cue words as the last line of MS p. 58 and as an independent line fragment at the top of MS p. 59. 375.13 went,] Precedes canceled 'a-'. The word to the right of the hyphen was rendered illegible by the cancellation. Because of this revision Mark Twain inscribed the comma after 'went'. 375.16 laid down] Follows canceled 'moved deep into the field and'. 375.17 We] Follows canceled The'. 375.20 a-swelling up out of the] Upon canceling 'shoving and shouldering up above', which appears as the first line of MS p. 60, Mark Twain inscribed the cue words at the bottom of MS p. 59. 375.21 behind a comb of] Interlined replacement of 'through the'. 375.26 that way.] Originally 'like that.'. Upon canceling 'like' Mark Twain inscribed 'way.' after 'that.'. Though in the manuscript he apparently forgot to cancel the period after 'that', his typist corrected the error. 375.27 anyway, without you doing that."] Inscribed to the right of canceled 'just the way it is." '.

ALTERATIONS IN THE MANUSCRIPT 375.30 376.4-5 376.5-6 376.7 376.7 376.7 376.12

376.14 376.32 376.36 377.1 377.18 377.20 377.21 378.1 378.2 378.4 378.8-9 378.11 378.19 378.27 379.3 379.5 379.7 379.12

379.13-14

713

terrible tall!"] Interlined replacement of 'a man, by gracious!" '. The revision was inscribed in ink 2. So ... too.] Inscribed on the verso of MS p. 61. was coming] Follows canceled 'was a man, and he'. see it] Mark Twain replaced 'him' with interlined 'it'. it was] Mark Twain replaced 'he' with interlined 'it'. it stepped] Mark Twain replaced 'he' with interlined 'it'. in low voices] In the typescript Mark Twain changed 'in low voices' to 'in a low voice' by canceling the 's' in 'voices' and interlining 'a' with a caret before low'. (Fora discussion of the present reading see the textual note at 376.12.) wasn't] Follows canceled 'was'. clothes was] Originally 'clothes wasn't'. Mark Twain canceled 'n't' with a smear. talking] Follows canceled 'and Bill'. corn] Originally 'corn, I reckon.'. Upon canceling T reckon.' Mark Twain canceled the comma after 'corn'. works] Follows canceled 'he'. on by.] Follows canceled 'on out of hearing.', which appears as an independent line fragment. because] Follows canceled 'and get home'. We tramped] Follows canceled '^Whilst we was tramping along twenty or thirty'. in,] In the typescript Mark Twain inscribed the comma after the cue word. afeard] Follows canceled 'afraid'. be the first] Follows canceled 'tell'. they've smouched off of the corpse,] Interlined with a caret. astonished] Precedes a canceled comma. Now] Follows canceled quotation marks. still] Interlined with a caret. the boots] Originally 'them'. Upon canceling 'm' Mark Twain interlined 'boots' with a caret. nothing] Interlined replacement of 'anything'. before:] Apparently Mark Twain's typist erroneously transcribed the reading of the manuscript ('before,') as 'before.'. Mark Twain then changed the period to a colon by inscribing a dot above it. He gives eyes that's blind] Mark Twain changed 'he' to 'He' by inscribing three lines below 'h'.

714 379.14 379.15 379.15 379.37 380.8

380.10 380.11 380.14 380.16

380.16 380.21 380.28 380.30 381.35 382.9

382.18 383.9 383.12 383.14 383.15 383.20 383.24 383.29 383.29 384.2-3 384.8

TOM SAWYER, DETECTIVE He gives eyes that can see] Mark Twain changed 'he' to 'He' by inscribing three lines below 'h'. He done] Mark Twain changed 'he' to 'He' by inscribing three lines below 'h'. He'd] Mark Twain changed 'he'd' to 'He'd' by inscribing three lines below 'h'. we] In the typescript Mark Twain canceled an italic line below7 the cue word. The revision was inscribed in pencil. himself.] Interlined replacement of 'when he could get around it.'. The revision, inscribed in pencil, was made in the typescript. we so glad] Mark Twain interlined 'we' with a caret. roofed big] Follows canceled 'big'. between] Interlined replacement of 'on'. a-ripping] In addition to correcting an erroneous transcription ('ripping'), Mark Twain's interlineation of'A-' in the typescript altered the original reading of the manuscript ('a ripping'). The revision was inscribed in pencil. a-tearing] In the typescript Mark Twain inscribed a hyphen between 'a' and 'tearing'. The revision was made in pencil. couldn't seem] Follows canceled 'seemed'. You] Follows canceled quotation marks. noble] Interlined replacement of'hot'. I know you] Upon canceling 'if with a smear Mark Twain inscribed T over it. you'd 'a' studied] Originally 'you had studied'. Upon canceling 'had' Mark Twain inscribed ' 'd' after 'you' and interlined ' 'a'' with a caret. so aggravated] Mark Twain interlined 'so' with a caret. a spell] Interlined with a caret. getting] Follows canceled 'most'. and fractious] Interlined with a caret. keeper?"] Mark Twain inscribed a question mark over an exclamation point. And] Mark Twain inscribed a paragraph sign before the cue word. him, it] Follows canceled 'it'. even] Interlined with a caret. in his sleep,] I n t e r l i n e d with a caret. Said Benny] Interlined replacement of 'She'. and reached] Follows canceled 'loving and grateful,'.

ALTERATIONS IN THE MANUSCRIPT 384.13 384.19 384.28 384.30 384.33 384.33 384.36-37 384.39 385.1 385.5 385.6-7 385.10

385.16

385.19 385.34 385.37 386.4 386.8

387.1 388.10 388.12 388.18 388.28

388.34 389.16 389.36

715

and tedious,] Interlined with a caret. and smoked] Interlined with a caret. in a low voice,] Interlined with a caret. crawly] Originally 'crawling'. Upon canceling 'ing' with a smear Mark Twain inscribed 'j' over it. there we] Follows canceled 'there in the moonlight we'. see] Originally 'seen'. Mark Twain canceled 'n'. and he had a long-handled shovel over his shoulder] Interlined with a caret. a-walking] Mark Twain later inserted the hyphen with a caret. he's gorng] Mark Twain replaced 'it's' with interlined 'he's'. before] Interlined replacement of 'by'. and been raging,] Interlined with a caret. that's] In the typescript Mark Twain altered the reading of the manuscript ('that is') by canceling 'is' and inscribing ' Y after 'that'. The revision was made in pencil. year!] In the typescript Mark Twain altered the reading of the manuscript ('year.') by inscribing an exclamation line above the period. The revision was made in pencil. run] Follows canceled 'see'. trickled] Interlined replacement of 'shot'. bulging] Precedes canceled 'out'. by the storm,] Interlined with a caret. Because of this insertion Mark Twain canceled a comma after 'away' (386.41 Dern] In the typescript Mark Twain changed an erroneous transcription ('Darn') to 'Durn' by interlining a 'u' above the 'a'. The revision was inscribed in pencil. (See the textual note at 386.8 for the reading of the present text.) she] Interlined with a caret. had to] Interlined replacement of 'should'. fell] Originally 'seemed to fall'. Upon canceling 'seemed to' Mark Twain inscribed 'e' over 'a' in 'fall'. budge] Interlined replacement of'go'. neither," I says; "I'd] Originally 'neither. I'd'. Upon interlining T says/ with a caret Mark Twain inscribed the comma which follows 'neither' over a period, the quotation marks after 'neither', and the quotation marks before 'I'd'. the like] Interlined with a caret. what's] Originally 'what now'. LJpon canceling 'now' Mark Twain inscribed ' 's' after 'what'. just] Follows canceled 'that'.

716 390.2 390.7 390.15 390.22 390.24

TOM SAWYER, DETECTIVE

which] Follows canceled 'if. afcard] Interlined replacement of 'afraid'. the way] Follows canceled like a deef. just] Originally 'jist'. Mark Twain inscribed 'u' over T. if that was the new stranger] Originally 'who that was'. Upon replacing 'who' with 'if Mark Twain interlined 'the new stranger' with a caret. 390.25 communion] Interlined with a caret. 390.26 and which politics,] Upon canceling 'and was he a whig' Mark Twain inscribed the cue words at the bottom of MS p. 99. 390.26 whig] Follows a canceled ampersand. 390.26-27 staying, and] Interlined replacement of 'staying and who's he staying with, and'. 391.2 and keep still] Interlined with a caret. 391.9 tough] Interlined replacement of 'awful'. 391.10 after all] Interlined with a caret. 391.11 still] Interlined with a caret. 391.13 warn't] Upon canceling, 'weren't' with a smear Mark Twain inscribed 'warn't' over it. 392 chapter CHAPTER 9] Although he did not indicate a chapter break at this point in the manuscript, Mark Twain inscribed 'Chapter 9' in the typescript 392.15 belonged] Follows canceled 'used'. 392.23 we had knowed] Originally 'we knowed'. Mark Twain interlined 'had' with a caret. 392.26 harm] Precedes a canceled comma. 392.30 had any idea] Interlined replacement of 'knowed'. The revision was inscribed in the typescript. 393.16 Tom] Interlined replacement of 'he'. 393.19 the hody's] Interlined replacement of he's'. 393.20 find it.] Mark Twain replaced 'him.' with interlined 'it.'. 393.24 a-blazing] Originally 'a blazing'. Mark Twain later inserted the hyphen. 393.24 and whenever] Follows canceled 'but I was ca'm'. 394.4 He] Follows canceled 'If. 394.14-15 ahead and hunt] Mark Twain canceled an 'h' with a smear and wrote 'ahead' over it. The canceled letter was probably the beginning of hunt'. 394.23 What] Follows canceled 'Look at it your'.

ALTERATIONS IN THE MANUSCRIPT 394.34

717

says] Follows canceled leaned on his', which appeals as an independent line fragment. 394.36 B'gosh] Follows canceled quotation marks. 395.25 field] In the typescript Mark Twain canceled a comma after the cue word. 396.7 he] Inscribed over smeared 'it'. 397.1-2 Them awful words froze us solid. We couldn't move hand or foot for as much as a half a minute. Then we kind of come to, and] Apparently at or near the time of original composition Mark Twain canceled 'CHAPTER 9', interlined the cue words above the canceled chapter heading, and then rewrote 'CHAPTER 9' above the interlineation. The cue words replace 'flWe all'. Chapter 9 in the manuscript is chapter 10 in the present text (see the textual introduction). 397.14 was thankful to hear him say that, and they] Interlined with a caret. 397.15 sorrowful] Follows canceled 'backward'. 397.19 about] Follows canceled 'towards'. 397.23 got down] Follows canceled 'stooped'. 398.18 because] Follows canceled 'that night,'. 398.30 says,] Upon canceling a dash Mark Twain inscribed the comma after the cue word. 399.10 399.11 399.20 399.26

and says] Inscribed over smeared 'once'. me,] Precedes a canceled dash. he was] Mark Twain inscribed 'he' over 'we'. wife] Precedes a canceled comma.

The text of this book is set in Continental, a typeface adapted for photocomposition from the Linotype font Trump Mediaeval, which was designed in 1954 for the Weber typefoundry by Georg Trump, a renowned German artist and typographer. Continental has been praised for the reserve and distinction of its light, clean characters. For display matter and headings, two closely related fonts were chosen to coordinate well with the text type: Weiss italic (a .slightly inclined font with swash capitals) and Weiss Initials Series I (an elegant all-capital font). Both were designed by Ernil Rudolf Weiss in 1933 for the Bauer typefoundry. The paper used is I' & S offset laid regular, manufactured by P. H. Glatfelter Company. It is an acid-free paper of assured longevity which combines high opacity, for legibility and attractive illustrations, with low weight, for comfortable handling. The book was composed by Advanced Typesetting Services of California on Harris Fototronic equipment, printed by Publishers Press, and bound by Mountain States Bindery.