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wise-heads had "put this and that together" and decided that the lads had
gone off on that raft and would turn up at the next town below, presently;
but toward noon the raft had been found, lodged against the Missouri shore
some five or six miles below the village-and then hope perished; they must
be drowned, else hunger would have driven them home by nightfall if not
sooner. It was believed that the search for the bodies had been a
fruitless effort merely because the drowning must have occurred in
midchannel, since the boys, being good swimmers, would otherwise have
escaped to shore. This was Wednesday night. If the bodies continued
missing until Sunday, all hope would be given over, and the funerals would
be preached on that morning. Tom shuddered.
Mrs. Harper gave a sobbing good-night and turned to go. Then with a
mutual impulse the two bereaved women flung themselves into each other's
arms and had a good, consoling cry, and then parted. Aunt Polly was tender
far beyond her wont, in her good-night to Sid and Mary. Sid snuffled a bit
and Mary went off crying with all her heart.
Aunt Polly knelt down and prayed for Tom so touchingly, so appealingly,
and with such measureless love in her words and her old trembling voice,
that he was weltering in tears again, long before she was through.
He had to keep still long after she went to bed, for she kept making
broken-hearted ejaculations from time to time, tossing unrestfully, and
turning over. But at last she was still, only moaning a little in her
sleep. Now the boy stole out, rose gradually by the bedside, shaded the
candle-light with his hand, and stood regarding her. His heart was full of
pity for her. He took out his sycamore scroll and placed it by the candle.
But something occurred to him, and he lingered considering. His face
lighted with a happy solution of his thought; he put the bark hastily in
his pocket. Then he bent over and kissed the faded lips, and straightway
made his stealthy exit, latching the door behind him.
He threaded his way back to the ferry landing, found nobody at large
there, and walked boldly on board the boat, for he knew she was tenantless
except that there was a watchman, who always turned in and slept like a
graven image. He untied the skiff at the stern, slipped into it, and was
soon rowing cautiously upstream. When he had pulled a mile above the
village, he started quartering across and bent himself stoutly to his
work. He hit the landing on the other side neatly, for this was a familiar
bit of work to him. He was moved to capture the skiff, arguing that it
might be considered a ship and therefore legitimate prey for a pirate, but
he knew a thorough search would be made for it and that might end in
revelations. So he stepped ashore and entered the woods.
He sat down and took a long rest, torturing himself meanwhile to keep
awake, and then started warily down the home-stretch. The night was far
spent. It was broad daylight before he found himself fairly abreast the
island bar. He rested again until the sun was well up and gilding the
great river with its splendor, and then he plunged into the stream. A
little later he paused, dripping, upon the threshold of the camp, and
heard Joe say:
"No, Tom's true-blue, Huck, and he'll come back. He won't desert. He
knows that would be a disgrace to a pirate, and Tom's too proud for that
sort of thing. He's up to something or other. Now I wonder what?"
"Well, the things is ours, anyway, ain't they?"
Pretty near, but not yet, Huck. The writing says they are if he ain't
back here to breakfast."
"Which he is!" exclaimed Tom, with fine dramatic effect, stepping
grandly into camp.
A sumptuous breakfast of bacon and fish was shortly provided, and as
the boys set to work upon it, Tom recounted (and adorned) his adventures.
They were a vain and boastful company of heroes when the tale was done.
Then Tom hid himself away in a shady nook to sleep till noon, and the
other pirates got ready to fish and explore.
After dinner all the gang turned out to hunt for turtle eggs on the
bar. They went about poking sticks into the sand, and when they found a
soft place they went down on their knees and dug with their hands.
Sometimes they would take fifty or sixty eggs out of one hole. They were
perfectly round white things a trifle smaller than an English walnut. They
had a famous fried-egg feast that night, and another on Friday morning.
After breakfast they went whooping and prancing out on the bar, and
chased each other round and round, shedding clothes as they went, until
they were naked, and then continued the frolic far away up the shoal water
of the bar, against the stiff current, which latter tripped their legs
from under them from time to time and greatly increased the fun. And now
and then they stooped in a group and splashed water in each other's faces
with their palms, gradually approaching each other, with averted faces to
avoid the strangling sprays, and finally gripping and struggling till the
best man ducked his neighbor, and then they all went under in a tangle of
white legs and arms and came up blowing, sputtering, laughing, and gasping
for breath at one and the same time.
When they were well exhausted, they would run out and sprawl on the
dry, hot sand, and lie there and cover themselves up with it, and by and
by break for the water again and go through the original performance once
more. Finally it occurred to them that their naked skin represented
flesh-colored "tights" very fairly; so they drew a ring in the sand and
had a circus-with three clowns in it, for none would yield this proudest
post to his neighbor.
Next they got their marbles and played "knucks" and "ring-taw" and
"keeps" till that amusement grew stale. Then Joe and Huck had another
swim, but Tom would not venture, because he found that in kicking off his
trousers he had kicked his string of rattlesnake rattles off his ankle,
and he wondered how he had escaped cramp so long without the protection of
this mysterious charm. He did not venture again until he had found it, and
by that time the other boys were tired and ready to rest. They gradually
wandered apart, dropped into the "dumps," and fell to gazing longingly
across the wide river to where the village lay drowsing in the sun. Tom
found himself writing "BECKY" in the sand with his big toe; he scratched
it out, and was angry with himself for his weakness. But he wrote it
again, nevertheless; he could not help it. He erased it once more and then
took himself out of temptation by driving the other boys together and
joining them.
But Joe's spirits had gone down almost beyond resurrection. He was so
homesick that he could hardly endure the misery of it. The tears lay very
near the surface. Huck was melancholy, too. Tom was downhearted, but tried
hard not to show it. He had a secret which he was not ready to tell, yet,
but if this mutinous depression was not broken up soon, he would have to
bring it out. He said, with a great show of cheerfulness:
"I bet there's been pirates on this island before, boys. We'll explore
it again. They've hid treasures here somewhere. How'd you feel to light on
a rotten chest full of gold and silver-hey?"
But it roused only faint enthusiasm, which faded out, with no reply.
Tom tried one or two other seductions; but they failed, too. It was
discouraging work. Joe sat poking up the sand with a stick and looking
very gloomy. Finally he said:
"Oh, boys, let's give it up. I want to go home. It's so lonesome."
"Oh no, Joe, you'll feel better by and by," said Tom. "Just think of
the fishing that's here."
"I don't care for fishing. I want to go home."
"But, Joe, there ain't such another swimming-place anywhere."
"Swimming's no good. I don't seem to care for it, somehow, when there
ain't anybody to say I sha'n't go in. I mean to go home."
"Oh, shucks! Baby! You want to see your mother, I reckon."
"Yes, I DO want to see my mother-and you would, too, if you had one. I
ain't any more baby than you are." And Joe snuffled a little.
"Well, we'll let the cry-baby go home to his mother, won't we, Huck?
Poor thing-does it want to see its mother? And so it shall. You like it
here, don't you, Huck? We'll stay, won't we?"
Huck said, "Y-e-s"-without any heart in it.
"I'll never speak to you again as long as I live," said Joe, rising.
"There now!" And he moved moodily away and began to dress himself.
"Who cares!" said Tom. "Nobody wants you to. Go 'long home and get
laughed at. Oh, you're a nice pirate. Huck and me ain't cry-babies. We'll
stay, won't we, Huck? Let him go if he wants to. I reckon we can get along
without him, per'aps."
But Tom was uneasy, nevertheless, and was alarmed to see Joe go
sullenly on with his dressing. And then it was discomforting to see Huck
eying Joe's preparations so wistfully, and keeping up such an ominous
silence. Presently, without a parting word, Joe began to wade off toward
the Illinois shore. Tom's heart began to sink. He glanced at Huck. Huck
could not bear the look, and dropped his eyes. Then he said:
"I want to go, too, Tom. It was getting so lonesome anyway, and now
it'll be worse. Let's us go, too, Tom."
"I won't! You can all go, if you want to. I mean to stay."
"Tom, I better go."
"Well, go 'long-who's hendering you."
Huck began to pick up his scattered clothes. He said:
"Tom, I wisht you'd come, too. Now you think it over. We'll wait for
you when we get to shore."
"Well, you'll wait a blame long time, that's all."
Huck started sorrowfully away, and Tom stood looking after him, with a
strong desire tugging at his heart to yield his pride and go along too. He
hoped the boys would stop, but they still waded slowly on. It suddenly
dawned on Tom that it was become very lonely and still. He made one final
struggle with his pride, and then darted after his comrades, yelling:
"Wait! Wait! I want to tell you something!"
They presently stopped and turned around. When he got to where they
were, he began unfolding his secret, and they listened moodily till at
last they saw the "point" he was driving at, and then they set up a
war-whoop of applause and said it was "splendid!" and said if he had told
them at first, they wouldn't have started away. He made a plausible
excuse; but his real reason had been the fear that not even the secret
would keep them with him any very great length of time, and so he had
meant to hold it in reserve as a last seduction.
The lads came gayly back and went at their sports again with a will,
chattering all the time about Tom's stupendous plan and admiring the
genius of it. After a dainty egg and fish dinner, Tom said he wanted to
learn to smoke, now. Joe caught at the idea and said he would like to try,
too. So Huck made pipes and filled them. These novices had never smoked
anything before but cigars made of grape-vine, and they "bit" the tongue,
and were not considered manly anyway.
Now they stretched themselves out on their elbows and began to puff,
charily, and with slender confidence. The smoke had an unpleasant taste,
and they gagged a little, but Tom said:
"Why, it's just as easy! If I'd a knowed this was all, I'd a learnt
long ago."
"So would I," said Joe. "It's just nothing."
"Why, many a time I've looked at people smoking, and thought well I
wish I could do that; but I never thought I could," said Tom.
"That's just the way with me, hain't it, Huck? You've heard me talk
just that way-haven't you, Huck? I'll leave it to Huck if I haven't."
"Yes-heaps of times," said Huck.
"Well, I have too," said Tom; "oh, hundreds of times. Once down by the
slaughter-house. Don't you remember, Huck? Bob Tanner was there, and
Johnny Miller, and Jeff Thatcher, when I said it. Don't you remember,
Huck, 'bout me saying that?"
"Yes, that's so," said Huck. "That was the day after I lost a white
alley. No, 'twas the day before."
"There-I told you so," said Tom. "Huck recollects it."
"I bleeve I could smoke this pipe all day," said Joe. "I don't feel
sick."
"Neither do I," said Tom. "I could smoke it all day. But I bet you Jeff
Thatcher couldn't."
"Jeff Thatcher! Why, he'd keel over just with two draws. Just let him
try it once. HE'D see!"
"I bet he would. And Johnny Miller-I wish could see Johnny Miller
tackle it once."
"Oh, don't I!" said Joe. "Why, I bet you Johnny Miller couldn't any
more do this than nothing. Just one little snifter would fetch HIM."
"'Deed it would, Joe. Say-I wish the boys could see us now."
"So do I."
"Say-boys, don't say anything about it, and some time when they're
around, I'll come up to you and say, 'Joe, got a pipe? I want a smoke.'
And you'll say, kind of careless like, as if it warn't anything, you'll
say, 'Yes, I got my OLD pipe, and another one, but my tobacker ain't very
good.' And I'll say, 'Oh, that's all right, if it's STRONG enough.' And
then you'll out with the pipes, and we'll light up just as ca'm, and then
just see 'em look!"
"By jings, that'll be gay, Tom! I wish it was NOW!"
"So do I! And when we tell 'em we learned when we was off pirating,
won't they wish they'd been along?"
"Oh, I reckon not! I'll just BET they will!"
So the talk ran on. But presently it began to flag a trifle, and grow
disjointed. The silences widened; the expectoration marvellously
increased. Every pore inside the boys' cheeks became a spouting fountain;
they could scarcely bail out the cellars under their tongues fast enough
to prevent an inundation; little overflowings down their throats occurred
in spite of all they could do, and sudden retchings followed every time.
Both boys were looking very pale and miserable, now. Joe's pipe dropped
from his nerveless fingers. Tom's followed. Both fountains were going
furiously and both pumps bailing with might and main. Joe said feebly:
"I've lost my knife. I reckon I better go and find it."
Tom said, with quivering lips and halting utterance:
"I'll help you. You go over that way and I'll hunt around by the
spring. No, you needn't come, Huck-we can find it."
So Huck sat down again, and waited an hour. Then he found it lonesome,
and went to find his comrades. They were wide apart in the woods, both
very pale, both fast asleep. But something informed him that if they had
had any trouble they had got rid of it.
They were not talkative at supper that night. They had a humble look,
and when Huck prepared his pipe after the meal and was going to prepare
theirs, they said no, they were not feeling very well-something they ate
at dinner had disagreed with them.
About midnight Joe awoke, and called the boys. There was a brooding
oppressiveness in the air that seemed to bode something. The boys huddled
themselves together and sought the friendly companionship of the fire,
though the dull dead heat of the breathless atmosphere was stifling. They
sat still, intent and waiting. The solemn hush continued. Beyond the light
of the fire everything was swallowed up in the blackness of darkness.
Presently there came a quivering glow that vaguely revealed the foliage
for a moment and then vanished. By and by another came, a little stronger.
Then another. Then a faint moan came sighing through the branches of the
forest and the boys felt a fleeting breath upon their cheeks, and
shuddered with the fancy that the Spirit of the Night had gone by. There
was a pause. Now a weird flash turned night into day and showed every
little grass-blade, separate and distinct, that grew about their feet. And
it showed three white, startled faces, too. A deep peal of thunder went
rolling and tumbling down the heavens and lost itself in sullen rumblings
in the distance. A sweep of chilly air passed by, rustling all the leaves
and snowing the flaky ashes broadcast about the fire. Another fierce glare
lit up the forest and an instant crash followed that seemed to rend the
tree-tops right over the boys' heads. They clung together in terror, in
the thick gloom that followed. A few big rain-drops fell pattering upon
the leaves.
"Quick! boys, go for the tent!" exclaimed Tom.
They sprang away, stumbling over roots and among vines in the dark, no
two plunging in the same direction. A furious blast roared through the
trees, making everything sing as it went. One blinding flash after another
came, and peal on peal of deafening thunder. And now a drenching rain
poured down and the rising hurricane drove it in sheets along the ground.
The boys cried out to each other, but the roaring wind and the booming
thunder-blasts drowned their voices utterly. However, one by one they
straggled in at last and took shelter under the tent, cold, scared, and
streaming with water; but to have company in misery seemed something to be
grateful for. They could not talk, the old sail flapped so furiously, even
if the other noises would have allowed them. The tempest rose higher and
higher, and presently the sail tore loose from its fastenings and went
winging away on the blast. The boys seized each others' hands and fled,
with many tumblings and bruises, to the shelter of a great oak that stood
upon the river-bank. Now the battle was at its highest. Under the
ceaseless conflagration of lightning that flamed in the skies, everything
below stood out in clean-cut and shadowless distinctness: the bending
trees, the billowy river, white with foam, the driving spray of
spume-flakes, the dim outlines of the high bluffs on the other side,
glimpsed through the drifting cloud-rack and the slanting veil of rain.
Every little while some giant tree yielded the fight and fell crashing
through the younger growth; and the unflagging thunderpeals came now in
ear-splitting explosive bursts, keen and sharp, and unspeakably appalling.
The storm culminated in one matchless effort that seemed likely to tear
the island to pieces, burn it up, drown it to the tree-tops, blow it away,
and deafen every creature in it, all at one and the same moment. It was a
wild night for homeless young heads to be out in.
But at last the battle was done, and the forces retired with weaker and
weaker threatenings and grumblings, and peace resumed her sway. The boys
went back to camp, a good deal awed; but they found there was still
something to be thankful for, because the great sycamore, the shelter of
their beds, was a ruin, now, blasted by the lightnings, and they were not
under it when the catastrophe happened.
Everything in camp was drenched, the camp-fire as well; for they were
but heedless lads, like their generation, and had made no provision
against rain. Here was matter for dismay, for they were soaked through and
chilled. They were eloquent in their distress; but they presently
discovered that the fire had eaten so far up under the great log it had
been built against (where it curved upward and separated itself from the
ground), that a handbreadth or so of it had escaped wetting; so they
patiently wrought until, with shreds and bark gathered from the under
sides of sheltered logs, they coaxed the fire to burn again. Then they
piled on great dead boughs till they had a roaring furnace, and were
glad-hearted once more. They dried their boiled ham and had a feast, and
after that they sat by the fire and expanded and glorified their midnight
adventure until morning, for there was not a dry spot to sleep on,
anywhere around.
As the sun began to steal in upon the boys, drowsiness came over them,
and they went out on the sandbar and lay down to sleep. They got scorched
out by and by, and drearily set about getting breakfast. After the meal
they felt rusty, and stiff-jointed, and a little homesick once more. Tom
saw the signs, and fell to cheering up the pirates as well as he could.
But they cared nothing for marbles, or circus, or swimming, or anything.
He reminded them of the imposing secret, and raised a ray of cheer. While
it lasted, he got them interested in a new device. This was to knock off
being pirates, for a while, and be Indians for a change. They were
attracted by this idea; so it was not long before they were stripped, and
striped from head to heel with black mud, like so many zebras-all of them
chiefs, of course-and then they went tearing through the woods to attack
an English settlement.
By and by they separated into three hostile tribes, and darted upon
each other from ambush with dreadful war-whoops, and killed and scalped
each other by thousands. It was a gory day. Consequently it was an
extremely satisfactory one.
They assembled in camp toward supper-time, hungry and happy; but now a
difficulty arose-hostile Indians could not break the bread of hospitality
together without first making peace, and this was a simple impossibility
without smoking a pipe of peace. There was no other process that ever they
had heard of. Two of the savages almost wished they had remained pirates.
However, there was no other way; so with such show of cheerfulness as they
could muster they called for the pipe and took their whiff as it passed,
in due form.
And behold, they were glad they had gone into savagery, for they had
gained something; they found that they could now smoke a little without
having to go and hunt for a lost knife; they did not get sick enough to be
seriously uncomfortable. They were not likely to fool away this high
promise for lack of effort. No, they practised cautiously, after supper,
with right fair success, and so they spent a jubilant evening. They were
prouder and happier in their new acquirement than they would have been in
the scalping and skinning of the Six Nations. We will leave them to smoke
and chatter and brag, since we have no further use for them at present.
BUT there was no hilarity in the little town that same tranquil
Saturday afternoon. The Harpers, and Aunt Polly's family, were being put
into mourning, with great grief and many tears. An unusual quiet possessed
the village, although it was ordinarily quiet enough, in all conscience.
The villagers conducted their concerns with an absent air, and talked
little; but they sighed often. The Saturday holiday seemed a burden to the
children. They had no heart in their sports, and gradually gave them up.
In the afternoon Becky Thatcher found herself moping about the deserted
schoolhouse yard, and feeling very melancholy. But she found nothing there
to comfort her. She soliloquized:
"Oh, if I only had a brass andiron-knob again! But I haven't got
anything now to remember him by." And she choked back a little sob.
Presently she stopped, and said to herself:
"It was right here. Oh, if it was to do over again, I wouldn't say
that-I wouldn't say it for the whole world. But he's gone now; I'll never,
never, never see him any more."
This thought broke her down, and she wandered away, with tears rolling
down her cheeks. Then quite a group of boys and girls-playmates of Tom's
and Joe's-came by, and stood looking over the paling fence and talking in
reverent tones of how Tom did so-and-so the last time they saw him, and
how Joe said this and that small trifle (pregnant with awful prophecy, as
they could easily see now!)-and each speaker pointed out the exact spot
where the lost lads stood at the time, and then added something like "and
I was a-standing just so-just as I am now, and as if you was him-I was as
close as that-and he smiled, just this way-and then something seemed to go
all over me, like-awful, you know-and I never thought what it meant, of
course, but I can see now!"
Then there was a dispute about who saw the dead boys last in life, and
many claimed that dismal distinction, and offered evidences, more or less
tampered with by the witness; and when it was ultimately decided who DID
see the departed last, and exchanged the last words with them, the lucky
parties took upon themselves a sort of sacred importance, and were gaped
at and envied by all the rest. One poor chap, who had no other grandeur to
offer, said with tolerably manifest pride in the remembrance:
"Well, Tom Sawyer he licked me once."
But that bid for glory was a failure. Most of the boys could say that,
and so that cheapened the distinction too much. The group loitered away,
still recalling memories of the lost heroes, in awed voices.
When the Sunday-school hour was finished, the next morning, the bell
began to toll, instead of ringing in the usual way. It was a very still
Sabbath, and the mournful sound seemed in keeping with the musing hush
that lay upon nature. The villagers began to gather, loitering a moment in
the vestibule to converse in whispers about the sad event. But there was
no whispering in the house; only the funereal rustling of dresses as the
women gathered to their seats disturbed the silence there. None could
remember when the little church had been so full before. There was finally
a waiting pause, an expectant dumbness, and then Aunt Polly entered,
followed by Sid and Mary, and they by the Harper family, all in deep
black, and the whole congregation, the old minister as well, rose
reverently and stood until the mourners were seated in the front pew.
There was another communing silence, broken at intervals by muffled sobs,
and then the minister spread his hands abroad and prayed. A moving hymn
was sung, and the text followed: "I am the Resurrection and the Life."
As the service proceeded, the clergyman drew such pictures of the
graces, the winning ways, and the rare promise of the lost lads that every
soul there, thinking he recognized these pictures, felt a pang in
remembering that he had persistently blinded himself to them always
before, and had as persistently seen only faults and flaws in the poor
boys. The minister related many a touching incident in the lives of the
departed, too, which illustrated their sweet, generous natures, and the
people could easily see, now, how noble and beautiful those episodes were,
and remembered with grief that at the time they occurred they had seemed
rank rascalities, well deserving of the cowhide. The congregation became
more and more moved, as the pathetic tale went on, till at last the whole
company broke down and joined the weeping mourners in a chorus of
anguished sobs, the preacher himself giving way to his feelings, and
crying in the pulpit.
There was a rustle in the gallery, which nobody noticed; a moment later
the church door creaked; the minister raised his streaming eyes above his
handkerchief, and stood transfixed! First one and then another pair of
eyes followed the minister's, and then almost with one impulse the
congregation rose and stared while the three dead boys came marching up
the aisle, Tom in the lead, Joe next, and Huck, a ruin of drooping rags,
sneaking sheepishly in the rear! They had been hid in the unused gallery
listening to their own funeral sermon!
Aunt Polly, Mary, and the Harpers threw themselves upon their restored
ones, smothered them with kisses and poured out thanksgivings, while poor
Huck stood abashed and uncomfortable, not knowing exactly what to do or
where to hide from so many unwelcoming eyes. He wavered, and started to
slink away, but Tom seized him and said:
"Aunt Polly, it ain't fair. Somebody's got to be glad to see Huck."
"And so they shall. I'm glad to see him, poor motherless thing!" And
the loving attentions Aunt Polly lavished upon him were the one thing
capable of making him more uncomfortable than he was before.
Suddenly the minister shouted at the top of his voice: "Praise God from
whom all blessings flow-SING!-and put your hearts in it!"
And they did. Old Hundred swelled up with a triumphant burst, and while
it shook the rafters Tom Sawyer the Pirate looked around upon the envying
juveniles about him and confessed in his heart that this was the proudest
moment of his life.
As the "sold" congregation trooped out they said they would almost be
willing to be made ridiculous again to hear Old Hundred sung like that
once more.
Tom got more cuffs and kisses that day-according to Aunt Polly's
varying moods-than he had earned before in a year; and he hardly knew
which expressed the most gratefulness to God and affection for himself.
That was Tom's great secret-the scheme to return home with his brother
pirates and attend their own funerals. They had paddled over to the
Missouri shore on a log, at dusk on Saturday, landing five or six miles
below the village; they had slept in the woods at the edge of the town
till nearly daylight, and had then crept through back lanes and alleys and
finished their sleep in the gallery of the church among a chaos of
invalided benches.
At breakfast, Monday morning, Aunt Polly and Mary were very loving to
Tom, and very attentive to his wants. There was an unusual amount of talk.
In the course of it Aunt Polly said:
"Well, I don't say it wasn't a fine joke, Tom, to keep everybody
suffering 'most a week so you boys had a good time, but it is a pity you
could be so hard-hearted as to let me suffer so. If you could come over on
a log to go to your funeral, you could have come over and give me a hint
some way that you warn't dead, but only run off."
"Yes, you could have done that, Tom," said Mary; "and I believe you
would if you had thought of it."
"Would you, Tom?" said Aunt Polly, her face lighting wistfully. "Say,
now, would you, if you'd thought of it?"
"I-well, I don't know. 'Twould 'a' spoiled everything."
"Tom, I hoped you loved me that much," said Aunt Polly, with a grieved
tone that discomforted the boy. "It would have been something if you'd
cared enough to THINK of it, even if you didn't DO it."
"Now, auntie, that ain't any harm," pleaded Mary; "it's only Tom's
giddy way-he is always in such a rush that he never thinks of anything."
"More's the pity. Sid would have thought. And Sid would have come and
DONE it, too. Tom, you'll look back, some day, when it's too late, and
wish you'd cared a little more for me when it would have cost you so
little."
"Now, auntie, you know I do care for you," said Tom.
"I'd know it better if you acted more like it."
"I wish now I'd thought," said Tom, with a repentant tone; "but I
dreamt about you, anyway. That's something, ain't it?"
"It ain't much-a cat does that much-but it's better than nothing. What
did you dream?"
"Why, Wednesday night I dreamt that you was sitting over there by the
bed, and Sid was sitting by the woodbox, and Mary next to him."
"Well, so we did. So we always do. I'm glad your dreams could take even
that much trouble about us."
"And I dreamt that Joe Harper's mother was here."
"Why, she was here! Did you dream any more?"
"Oh, lots. But it's so dim, now."
"Well, try to recollect-can't you?"
"Somehow it seems to me that the wind-the wind blowed the-the-"
"Try harder, Tom! The wind did blow something. Come!"
Tom pressed his fingers on his forehead an anxious minute, and then
said:
"I've got it now! I've got it now! It blowed the candle!"
"Mercy on us! Go on, Tom-go on!"
"And it seems to me that you said, 'Why, I believe that that door-'"
"Go ON, Tom!"
"Just let me study a moment-just a moment. Oh, yes-you said you
believed the door was open."
"As I'm sitting here, I did! Didn't I, Mary! Go on!"
"And then-and then-well I won't be certain, but it seems like as if you
made Sid go and-and-"
"Well? Well? What did I make him do, Tom? What did I make him do?"
"You made him-you-Oh, you made him shut it."
"Well, for the land's sake! I never heard the beat of that in all my
days! Don't tell ME there ain't anything in dreams, any more. Sereny
Harper shall know of this before I'm an hour older. I'd like to see her
get around THIS with her rubbage 'bout superstition. Go on, Tom!"
"Oh, it's all getting just as bright as day, now. Next you said I
warn't BAD, only mischeevous and harum-scarum, and not any more
responsible than-than-I think it was a colt, or something."
"And so it was! Well, goodness gracious! Go on, Tom!"
"And then you began to cry."
"So I did. So I did. Not the first time, neither. And then-"
"Then Mrs. Harper she began to cry, and said Joe was just the same, and
she wished she hadn't whipped him for taking cream when she'd throwed it
out her own self-"
"Tom! The sperrit was upon you! You was a prophesying-that's what you
was doing! Land alive, go on, Tom!"
"Then Sid he said-he said-"
"I don't think I said anything," said Sid.
"Yes you did, Sid," said Mary.
"Shut your heads and let Tom go on! What did he say, Tom?"
"He said-I THINK he said he hoped I was better off where I was gone to,
but if I'd been better sometimes-"
"THERE, d'you hear that! It was his very words!"
"And you shut him up sharp."
"I lay I did! There must 'a' been an angel there. There WAS an angel
there, somewheres!"
"And Mrs. Harper told about Joe scaring her with a firecracker, and you
told about Peter and the Painkiller-"
"Just as true as I live!"
"And then there was a whole lot of talk 'bout dragging the river for
us, and 'bout having the funeral Sunday, and then you and old Miss Harper
hugged and cried, and she went."
"It happened just so! It happened just so, as sure as I'm a-sitting in
these very tracks. Tom, you couldn't told it more like if you'd 'a' seen
it! And then what? Go on, Tom!"
"Then I thought you prayed for me-and I could see you and hear every
word you said. And you went to bed, and I was so sorry that I took and
wrote on a piece of sycamore bark, 'We ain't dead-we are only off being
pirates,' and put it on the table by the candle; and then you looked so
good, laying there asleep, that I thought I went and leaned over and
kissed you on the lips."
"Did you, Tom, DID you! I just forgive you everything for that!" And
she seized the boy in a crushing embrace that made him feel like the
guiltiest of villains.
"It was very kind, even though it was only a-dream," Sid soliloquized
just audibly.
"Shut up, Sid! A body does just the same in a dream as he'd do if he
was awake. Here's a big Milum apple I've been saving for you, Tom, if you
was ever found again-now go 'long to school. I'm thankful to the good God
and Father of us all I've got you back, that's long-suffering and merciful
to them that believe on Him and keep His word, though goodness knows I'm
unworthy of it, but if only the worthy ones got His blessings and had His
hand to help them over the rough places, there's few enough would smile
here or ever enter into His rest when the long night comes. Go 'long Sid,
Mary, Tom-take yourselves off-you've hendered me long enough."
The children left for school, and the old lady to call on Mrs. Harper
and vanquish her realism with Tom's marvellous dream. Sid had better
judgment than to utter the thought that was in his mind as he left the
house. It was this: "Pretty thin-as long a dream as that, without any
mistakes in it!"
What a hero Tom was become, now! He did not go skipping and prancing,
but moved with a dignified swagger as became a pirate who felt that the
public eye was on him. And indeed it was; he tried not to seem to see the
looks or hear the remarks as he passed along, but they were food and drink
to him. Smaller boys than himself flocked at his heels, as proud to be
seen with him, and tolerated by him, as if he had been the drummer at the
head of a procession or the elephant leading a menagerie into town. Boys
of his own size pretended not to know he had been away at all; but they
were consuming with envy, nevertheless. They would have given anything to
have that swarthy suntanned skin of his, and his glittering notoriety; and
Tom would not have parted with either for a circus.
At school the children made so much of him and of Joe, and delivered
such eloquent admiration from their eyes, that the two heroes were not
long in becoming insufferably "stuck-up." They began to tell their
adventures to hungry listeners-but they only began; it was not a thing
likely to have an end, with imaginations like theirs to furnish material.
And finally, when they got out their pipes and went serenely puffing
around, the very summit of glory was reached.
Tom decided that he could be independent of Becky Thatcher now. Glory
was sufficient. He would live for glory. Now that he was distinguished,
maybe she would be wanting to "make up." Well, let her-she should see that
he could be as indifferent as some other people. Presently she arrived.
Tom pretended not to see her. He moved away and joined a group of boys and
girls and began to talk. Soon he observed that she was tripping gayly back
and forth with flushed face and dancing eyes, pretending to be busy
chasing schoolmates, and screaming with laughter when she made a capture;
but he noticed that she always made her captures in his vicinity, and that
she seemed to cast a conscious eye in his direction at such times, too. It
gratified all the vicious vanity that was in him; and so, instead of
winning him, it only "set him up" the more and made him the more diligent
to avoid betraying that he knew she was about. Presently she gave over
skylarking, and moved irresolutely about, sighing once or twice and
glancing furtively and wistfully toward Tom. Then she observed that now
Tom was talking more particularly to Amy Lawrence than to any one else.
She felt a sharp pang and grew disturbed and uneasy at once. She tried to
go away, but her feet were treacherous, and carried her to the group
instead. She said to a girl almost at Tom's elbow-with sham vivacity:
"Why, Mary Austin! you bad girl, why didn't you come to Sunday-school?"
"I did come-didn't you see me?"
"Why, no! Did you? Where did you sit?"
"I was in Miss Peters' class, where I always go. I saw YOU."
"Did you? Why, it's funny I didn't see you. I wanted to tell you about
the picnic."
"Oh, that's jolly. Who's going to give it?"
"My ma's going to let me have one."
"Oh, goody; I hope she'll let ME come."
"Well, she will. The picnic's for me. She'll let anybody come that I
want, and I want you."
"That's ever so nice. When is it going to be?"
"By and by. Maybe about vacation."
"Oh, won't it be fun! You going to have all the girls and boys?"
"Yes, every one that's friends to me-or wants to be"; and she glanced
ever so furtively at Tom, but he talked right along to Amy Lawrence about
the terrible storm on the island, and how the lightning tore the great
sycamore tree "all to flinders" while he was "standing within three feet
of it."
"Oh, may I come?" said Grace Miller.
"Yes."
"And me?" said Sally Rogers.
"Yes."
"And me, too?" said Susy Harper. "And Joe?"
"Yes."
And so on, with clapping of joyful hands till all the group had begged
for invitations but Tom and Amy. Then Tom turned coolly away, still
talking, and took Amy with him. Becky's lips trembled and the tears came
to her eyes; she hid these signs with a forced gayety and went on
chattering, but the life had gone out of the picnic, now, and out of
everything else; she got away as soon as she could and hid herself and had
what her sex call "a good cry." Then she sat moody, with wounded pride,
till the bell rang. She roused up, now, with a vindictive cast in her eye,
and gave her plaited tails a shake and said she knew what SHE'D do.
At recess Tom continued his flirtation with Amy with jubilant
self-satisfaction. And he kept drifting about to find Becky and lacerate
her with the performance. At last he spied her, but there was a sudden
falling of his mercury. She was sitting cosily on a little bench behind
the schoolhouse looking at a picture-book with Alfred Temple-and so
absorbed were they, and their heads so close together over the book, that
they did not seem to be conscious of anything in the world besides.
Jealousy ran red-hot through Tom's veins. He began to hate himself for
throwing away the chance Becky had offered for a reconciliation. He called
himself a fool, and all the hard names he could think of. He wanted to cry
with vexation. Amy chatted happily along, as they walked, for her heart
was singing, but Tom's tongue had lost its function. He did not hear what
Amy was saying, and whenever she paused expectantly he could only stammer
an awkward assent, which was as often misplaced as otherwise. He kept
drifting to the rear of the schoolhouse, again and again, to sear his
eyeballs with the hateful spectacle there. He could not help it. And it
maddened him to see, as he thought he saw, that Becky Thatcher never once
suspected that he was even in the land of the living. But she did see,
nevertheless; and she knew she was winning her fight, too, and was glad to
see him suffer as she had suffered.
Amy's happy prattle became intolerable. Tom hinted at things he had to
attend to; things that must be done; and time was fleeting. But in
vain-the girl chirped on. Tom thought, "Oh, hang her, ain't I ever going
to get rid of her?" At last he must be attending to those things-and she
said artlessly that she would be "around" when school let out. And he
hastened away, hating her for it.
"Any other boy!" Tom thought, grating his teeth. "Any boy in the whole
town but that Saint Louis smarty that thinks he dresses so fine and is
aristocracy! Oh, all right, I licked you the first day you ever saw this
town, mister, and I'll lick you again! You just wait till I catch you out!
I'll just take and-"
And he went through the motions of thrashing an imaginary
boy-pummelling the air, and kicking and gouging. "Oh, you do, do you? You
holler 'nough, do you? Now, then, let that learn you!" And so the
imaginary flogging was finished to his satisfaction.
Tom fled home at noon. His conscience could not endure any more of
Amy's grateful happiness, and his jealousy could bear no more of the other
distress. Becky resumed her picture inspections with Alfred, but as the
minutes dragged along and no Tom came to suffer, her triumph began to
cloud and she lost interest; gravity and absent-mindedness followed, and
then melancholy; two or three times she pricked up her ear at a footstep,
but it was a false hope; no Tom came. At last she grew entirely miserable
and wished she hadn't carried it so far. When poor Alfred, seeing that he
was losing her, he did not know how, kept exclaiming: "Oh, here's a jolly
one! look at this!" she lost patience at last, and said, "Oh, don't bother
me! I don't care for them!" and burst into tears, and got up and walked
away.
Alfred dropped alongside and was going to try to comfort her, but she
said:
"Go away and leave me alone, can't you! I hate you!"
So the boy halted, wondering what he could have done-for she had said
she would look at pictures all through the nooning-and she walked on,
crying. Then Alfred went musing into the deserted schoolhouse. He was
humiliated and angry. He easily guessed his way to the truth-the girl had
simply made a convenience of him to vent her spite upon Tom Sawyer. He was
far from hating Tom the less when this thought occurred to him. He wished
there was some way to get that boy into trouble without much risk to
himself. Tom's spelling-book fell under his eye. Here was his opportunity.
He gratefully opened to the lesson for the afternoon and poured ink upon
the page.
Becky, glancing in at a window behind him at the moment, saw the act,
and moved on, without discovering herself. She started homeward, now,
intending to find Tom and tell him; Tom would be thankful and their
troubles would be healed. Before she was half way home, however, she had
changed her mind. The thought of Tom's treatment of her when she was
talking about her picnic came scorching back and filled her with shame.
She resolved to let him get whipped on the damaged spelling-book's
account, and to hate him forever, into the bargain.
Tom arrived at home in a dreary mood, and the first thing his aunt said
to him showed him that he had brought his sorrows to an unpromising
market:
"Tom, I've a notion to skin you alive!"
"Auntie, what have I done?"
"Well, you've done enough. Here I go over to Sereny Harper, like an old
softy, expecting I'm going to make her believe all that rubbage about that
dream, when lo and behold you she'd found out from Joe that you was over
here and heard all the talk we had that night. Tom, I don't know what is
gone off on that raft and would turn up at the next town below, presently;
but toward noon the raft had been found, lodged against the Missouri shore
some five or six miles below the village-and then hope perished; they must
be drowned, else hunger would have driven them home by nightfall if not
sooner. It was believed that the search for the bodies had been a
fruitless effort merely because the drowning must have occurred in
midchannel, since the boys, being good swimmers, would otherwise have
escaped to shore. This was Wednesday night. If the bodies continued
missing until Sunday, all hope would be given over, and the funerals would
be preached on that morning. Tom shuddered.
Mrs. Harper gave a sobbing good-night and turned to go. Then with a
mutual impulse the two bereaved women flung themselves into each other's
arms and had a good, consoling cry, and then parted. Aunt Polly was tender
far beyond her wont, in her good-night to Sid and Mary. Sid snuffled a bit
and Mary went off crying with all her heart.
Aunt Polly knelt down and prayed for Tom so touchingly, so appealingly,
and with such measureless love in her words and her old trembling voice,
that he was weltering in tears again, long before she was through.
He had to keep still long after she went to bed, for she kept making
broken-hearted ejaculations from time to time, tossing unrestfully, and
turning over. But at last she was still, only moaning a little in her
sleep. Now the boy stole out, rose gradually by the bedside, shaded the
candle-light with his hand, and stood regarding her. His heart was full of
pity for her. He took out his sycamore scroll and placed it by the candle.
But something occurred to him, and he lingered considering. His face
lighted with a happy solution of his thought; he put the bark hastily in
his pocket. Then he bent over and kissed the faded lips, and straightway
made his stealthy exit, latching the door behind him.
He threaded his way back to the ferry landing, found nobody at large
there, and walked boldly on board the boat, for he knew she was tenantless
except that there was a watchman, who always turned in and slept like a
graven image. He untied the skiff at the stern, slipped into it, and was
soon rowing cautiously upstream. When he had pulled a mile above the
village, he started quartering across and bent himself stoutly to his
work. He hit the landing on the other side neatly, for this was a familiar
bit of work to him. He was moved to capture the skiff, arguing that it
might be considered a ship and therefore legitimate prey for a pirate, but
he knew a thorough search would be made for it and that might end in
revelations. So he stepped ashore and entered the woods.
He sat down and took a long rest, torturing himself meanwhile to keep
awake, and then started warily down the home-stretch. The night was far
spent. It was broad daylight before he found himself fairly abreast the
island bar. He rested again until the sun was well up and gilding the
great river with its splendor, and then he plunged into the stream. A
little later he paused, dripping, upon the threshold of the camp, and
heard Joe say:
"No, Tom's true-blue, Huck, and he'll come back. He won't desert. He
knows that would be a disgrace to a pirate, and Tom's too proud for that
sort of thing. He's up to something or other. Now I wonder what?"
"Well, the things is ours, anyway, ain't they?"
Pretty near, but not yet, Huck. The writing says they are if he ain't
back here to breakfast."
"Which he is!" exclaimed Tom, with fine dramatic effect, stepping
grandly into camp.
A sumptuous breakfast of bacon and fish was shortly provided, and as
the boys set to work upon it, Tom recounted (and adorned) his adventures.
They were a vain and boastful company of heroes when the tale was done.
Then Tom hid himself away in a shady nook to sleep till noon, and the
other pirates got ready to fish and explore.
After dinner all the gang turned out to hunt for turtle eggs on the
bar. They went about poking sticks into the sand, and when they found a
soft place they went down on their knees and dug with their hands.
Sometimes they would take fifty or sixty eggs out of one hole. They were
perfectly round white things a trifle smaller than an English walnut. They
had a famous fried-egg feast that night, and another on Friday morning.
After breakfast they went whooping and prancing out on the bar, and
chased each other round and round, shedding clothes as they went, until
they were naked, and then continued the frolic far away up the shoal water
of the bar, against the stiff current, which latter tripped their legs
from under them from time to time and greatly increased the fun. And now
and then they stooped in a group and splashed water in each other's faces
with their palms, gradually approaching each other, with averted faces to
avoid the strangling sprays, and finally gripping and struggling till the
best man ducked his neighbor, and then they all went under in a tangle of
white legs and arms and came up blowing, sputtering, laughing, and gasping
for breath at one and the same time.
When they were well exhausted, they would run out and sprawl on the
dry, hot sand, and lie there and cover themselves up with it, and by and
by break for the water again and go through the original performance once
more. Finally it occurred to them that their naked skin represented
flesh-colored "tights" very fairly; so they drew a ring in the sand and
had a circus-with three clowns in it, for none would yield this proudest
post to his neighbor.
Next they got their marbles and played "knucks" and "ring-taw" and
"keeps" till that amusement grew stale. Then Joe and Huck had another
swim, but Tom would not venture, because he found that in kicking off his
trousers he had kicked his string of rattlesnake rattles off his ankle,
and he wondered how he had escaped cramp so long without the protection of
this mysterious charm. He did not venture again until he had found it, and
by that time the other boys were tired and ready to rest. They gradually
wandered apart, dropped into the "dumps," and fell to gazing longingly
across the wide river to where the village lay drowsing in the sun. Tom
found himself writing "BECKY" in the sand with his big toe; he scratched
it out, and was angry with himself for his weakness. But he wrote it
again, nevertheless; he could not help it. He erased it once more and then
took himself out of temptation by driving the other boys together and
joining them.
But Joe's spirits had gone down almost beyond resurrection. He was so
homesick that he could hardly endure the misery of it. The tears lay very
near the surface. Huck was melancholy, too. Tom was downhearted, but tried
hard not to show it. He had a secret which he was not ready to tell, yet,
but if this mutinous depression was not broken up soon, he would have to
bring it out. He said, with a great show of cheerfulness:
"I bet there's been pirates on this island before, boys. We'll explore
it again. They've hid treasures here somewhere. How'd you feel to light on
a rotten chest full of gold and silver-hey?"
But it roused only faint enthusiasm, which faded out, with no reply.
Tom tried one or two other seductions; but they failed, too. It was
discouraging work. Joe sat poking up the sand with a stick and looking
very gloomy. Finally he said:
"Oh, boys, let's give it up. I want to go home. It's so lonesome."
"Oh no, Joe, you'll feel better by and by," said Tom. "Just think of
the fishing that's here."
"I don't care for fishing. I want to go home."
"But, Joe, there ain't such another swimming-place anywhere."
"Swimming's no good. I don't seem to care for it, somehow, when there
ain't anybody to say I sha'n't go in. I mean to go home."
"Oh, shucks! Baby! You want to see your mother, I reckon."
"Yes, I DO want to see my mother-and you would, too, if you had one. I
ain't any more baby than you are." And Joe snuffled a little.
"Well, we'll let the cry-baby go home to his mother, won't we, Huck?
Poor thing-does it want to see its mother? And so it shall. You like it
here, don't you, Huck? We'll stay, won't we?"
Huck said, "Y-e-s"-without any heart in it.
"I'll never speak to you again as long as I live," said Joe, rising.
"There now!" And he moved moodily away and began to dress himself.
"Who cares!" said Tom. "Nobody wants you to. Go 'long home and get
laughed at. Oh, you're a nice pirate. Huck and me ain't cry-babies. We'll
stay, won't we, Huck? Let him go if he wants to. I reckon we can get along
without him, per'aps."
But Tom was uneasy, nevertheless, and was alarmed to see Joe go
sullenly on with his dressing. And then it was discomforting to see Huck
eying Joe's preparations so wistfully, and keeping up such an ominous
silence. Presently, without a parting word, Joe began to wade off toward
the Illinois shore. Tom's heart began to sink. He glanced at Huck. Huck
could not bear the look, and dropped his eyes. Then he said:
"I want to go, too, Tom. It was getting so lonesome anyway, and now
it'll be worse. Let's us go, too, Tom."
"I won't! You can all go, if you want to. I mean to stay."
"Tom, I better go."
"Well, go 'long-who's hendering you."
Huck began to pick up his scattered clothes. He said:
"Tom, I wisht you'd come, too. Now you think it over. We'll wait for
you when we get to shore."
"Well, you'll wait a blame long time, that's all."
Huck started sorrowfully away, and Tom stood looking after him, with a
strong desire tugging at his heart to yield his pride and go along too. He
hoped the boys would stop, but they still waded slowly on. It suddenly
dawned on Tom that it was become very lonely and still. He made one final
struggle with his pride, and then darted after his comrades, yelling:
"Wait! Wait! I want to tell you something!"
They presently stopped and turned around. When he got to where they
were, he began unfolding his secret, and they listened moodily till at
last they saw the "point" he was driving at, and then they set up a
war-whoop of applause and said it was "splendid!" and said if he had told
them at first, they wouldn't have started away. He made a plausible
excuse; but his real reason had been the fear that not even the secret
would keep them with him any very great length of time, and so he had
meant to hold it in reserve as a last seduction.
The lads came gayly back and went at their sports again with a will,
chattering all the time about Tom's stupendous plan and admiring the
genius of it. After a dainty egg and fish dinner, Tom said he wanted to
learn to smoke, now. Joe caught at the idea and said he would like to try,
too. So Huck made pipes and filled them. These novices had never smoked
anything before but cigars made of grape-vine, and they "bit" the tongue,
and were not considered manly anyway.
Now they stretched themselves out on their elbows and began to puff,
charily, and with slender confidence. The smoke had an unpleasant taste,
and they gagged a little, but Tom said:
"Why, it's just as easy! If I'd a knowed this was all, I'd a learnt
long ago."
"So would I," said Joe. "It's just nothing."
"Why, many a time I've looked at people smoking, and thought well I
wish I could do that; but I never thought I could," said Tom.
"That's just the way with me, hain't it, Huck? You've heard me talk
just that way-haven't you, Huck? I'll leave it to Huck if I haven't."
"Yes-heaps of times," said Huck.
"Well, I have too," said Tom; "oh, hundreds of times. Once down by the
slaughter-house. Don't you remember, Huck? Bob Tanner was there, and
Johnny Miller, and Jeff Thatcher, when I said it. Don't you remember,
Huck, 'bout me saying that?"
"Yes, that's so," said Huck. "That was the day after I lost a white
alley. No, 'twas the day before."
"There-I told you so," said Tom. "Huck recollects it."
"I bleeve I could smoke this pipe all day," said Joe. "I don't feel
sick."
"Neither do I," said Tom. "I could smoke it all day. But I bet you Jeff
Thatcher couldn't."
"Jeff Thatcher! Why, he'd keel over just with two draws. Just let him
try it once. HE'D see!"
"I bet he would. And Johnny Miller-I wish could see Johnny Miller
tackle it once."
"Oh, don't I!" said Joe. "Why, I bet you Johnny Miller couldn't any
more do this than nothing. Just one little snifter would fetch HIM."
"'Deed it would, Joe. Say-I wish the boys could see us now."
"So do I."
"Say-boys, don't say anything about it, and some time when they're
around, I'll come up to you and say, 'Joe, got a pipe? I want a smoke.'
And you'll say, kind of careless like, as if it warn't anything, you'll
say, 'Yes, I got my OLD pipe, and another one, but my tobacker ain't very
good.' And I'll say, 'Oh, that's all right, if it's STRONG enough.' And
then you'll out with the pipes, and we'll light up just as ca'm, and then
just see 'em look!"
"By jings, that'll be gay, Tom! I wish it was NOW!"
"So do I! And when we tell 'em we learned when we was off pirating,
won't they wish they'd been along?"
"Oh, I reckon not! I'll just BET they will!"
So the talk ran on. But presently it began to flag a trifle, and grow
disjointed. The silences widened; the expectoration marvellously
increased. Every pore inside the boys' cheeks became a spouting fountain;
they could scarcely bail out the cellars under their tongues fast enough
to prevent an inundation; little overflowings down their throats occurred
in spite of all they could do, and sudden retchings followed every time.
Both boys were looking very pale and miserable, now. Joe's pipe dropped
from his nerveless fingers. Tom's followed. Both fountains were going
furiously and both pumps bailing with might and main. Joe said feebly:
"I've lost my knife. I reckon I better go and find it."
Tom said, with quivering lips and halting utterance:
"I'll help you. You go over that way and I'll hunt around by the
spring. No, you needn't come, Huck-we can find it."
So Huck sat down again, and waited an hour. Then he found it lonesome,
and went to find his comrades. They were wide apart in the woods, both
very pale, both fast asleep. But something informed him that if they had
had any trouble they had got rid of it.
They were not talkative at supper that night. They had a humble look,
and when Huck prepared his pipe after the meal and was going to prepare
theirs, they said no, they were not feeling very well-something they ate
at dinner had disagreed with them.
About midnight Joe awoke, and called the boys. There was a brooding
oppressiveness in the air that seemed to bode something. The boys huddled
themselves together and sought the friendly companionship of the fire,
though the dull dead heat of the breathless atmosphere was stifling. They
sat still, intent and waiting. The solemn hush continued. Beyond the light
of the fire everything was swallowed up in the blackness of darkness.
Presently there came a quivering glow that vaguely revealed the foliage
for a moment and then vanished. By and by another came, a little stronger.
Then another. Then a faint moan came sighing through the branches of the
forest and the boys felt a fleeting breath upon their cheeks, and
shuddered with the fancy that the Spirit of the Night had gone by. There
was a pause. Now a weird flash turned night into day and showed every
little grass-blade, separate and distinct, that grew about their feet. And
it showed three white, startled faces, too. A deep peal of thunder went
rolling and tumbling down the heavens and lost itself in sullen rumblings
in the distance. A sweep of chilly air passed by, rustling all the leaves
and snowing the flaky ashes broadcast about the fire. Another fierce glare
lit up the forest and an instant crash followed that seemed to rend the
tree-tops right over the boys' heads. They clung together in terror, in
the thick gloom that followed. A few big rain-drops fell pattering upon
the leaves.
"Quick! boys, go for the tent!" exclaimed Tom.
They sprang away, stumbling over roots and among vines in the dark, no
two plunging in the same direction. A furious blast roared through the
trees, making everything sing as it went. One blinding flash after another
came, and peal on peal of deafening thunder. And now a drenching rain
poured down and the rising hurricane drove it in sheets along the ground.
The boys cried out to each other, but the roaring wind and the booming
thunder-blasts drowned their voices utterly. However, one by one they
straggled in at last and took shelter under the tent, cold, scared, and
streaming with water; but to have company in misery seemed something to be
grateful for. They could not talk, the old sail flapped so furiously, even
if the other noises would have allowed them. The tempest rose higher and
higher, and presently the sail tore loose from its fastenings and went
winging away on the blast. The boys seized each others' hands and fled,
with many tumblings and bruises, to the shelter of a great oak that stood
upon the river-bank. Now the battle was at its highest. Under the
ceaseless conflagration of lightning that flamed in the skies, everything
below stood out in clean-cut and shadowless distinctness: the bending
trees, the billowy river, white with foam, the driving spray of
spume-flakes, the dim outlines of the high bluffs on the other side,
glimpsed through the drifting cloud-rack and the slanting veil of rain.
Every little while some giant tree yielded the fight and fell crashing
through the younger growth; and the unflagging thunderpeals came now in
ear-splitting explosive bursts, keen and sharp, and unspeakably appalling.
The storm culminated in one matchless effort that seemed likely to tear
the island to pieces, burn it up, drown it to the tree-tops, blow it away,
and deafen every creature in it, all at one and the same moment. It was a
wild night for homeless young heads to be out in.
But at last the battle was done, and the forces retired with weaker and
weaker threatenings and grumblings, and peace resumed her sway. The boys
went back to camp, a good deal awed; but they found there was still
something to be thankful for, because the great sycamore, the shelter of
their beds, was a ruin, now, blasted by the lightnings, and they were not
under it when the catastrophe happened.
Everything in camp was drenched, the camp-fire as well; for they were
but heedless lads, like their generation, and had made no provision
against rain. Here was matter for dismay, for they were soaked through and
chilled. They were eloquent in their distress; but they presently
discovered that the fire had eaten so far up under the great log it had
been built against (where it curved upward and separated itself from the
ground), that a handbreadth or so of it had escaped wetting; so they
patiently wrought until, with shreds and bark gathered from the under
sides of sheltered logs, they coaxed the fire to burn again. Then they
piled on great dead boughs till they had a roaring furnace, and were
glad-hearted once more. They dried their boiled ham and had a feast, and
after that they sat by the fire and expanded and glorified their midnight
adventure until morning, for there was not a dry spot to sleep on,
anywhere around.
As the sun began to steal in upon the boys, drowsiness came over them,
and they went out on the sandbar and lay down to sleep. They got scorched
out by and by, and drearily set about getting breakfast. After the meal
they felt rusty, and stiff-jointed, and a little homesick once more. Tom
saw the signs, and fell to cheering up the pirates as well as he could.
But they cared nothing for marbles, or circus, or swimming, or anything.
He reminded them of the imposing secret, and raised a ray of cheer. While
it lasted, he got them interested in a new device. This was to knock off
being pirates, for a while, and be Indians for a change. They were
attracted by this idea; so it was not long before they were stripped, and
striped from head to heel with black mud, like so many zebras-all of them
chiefs, of course-and then they went tearing through the woods to attack
an English settlement.
By and by they separated into three hostile tribes, and darted upon
each other from ambush with dreadful war-whoops, and killed and scalped
each other by thousands. It was a gory day. Consequently it was an
extremely satisfactory one.
They assembled in camp toward supper-time, hungry and happy; but now a
difficulty arose-hostile Indians could not break the bread of hospitality
together without first making peace, and this was a simple impossibility
without smoking a pipe of peace. There was no other process that ever they
had heard of. Two of the savages almost wished they had remained pirates.
However, there was no other way; so with such show of cheerfulness as they
could muster they called for the pipe and took their whiff as it passed,
in due form.
And behold, they were glad they had gone into savagery, for they had
gained something; they found that they could now smoke a little without
having to go and hunt for a lost knife; they did not get sick enough to be
seriously uncomfortable. They were not likely to fool away this high
promise for lack of effort. No, they practised cautiously, after supper,
with right fair success, and so they spent a jubilant evening. They were
prouder and happier in their new acquirement than they would have been in
the scalping and skinning of the Six Nations. We will leave them to smoke
and chatter and brag, since we have no further use for them at present.
BUT there was no hilarity in the little town that same tranquil
Saturday afternoon. The Harpers, and Aunt Polly's family, were being put
into mourning, with great grief and many tears. An unusual quiet possessed
the village, although it was ordinarily quiet enough, in all conscience.
The villagers conducted their concerns with an absent air, and talked
little; but they sighed often. The Saturday holiday seemed a burden to the
children. They had no heart in their sports, and gradually gave them up.
In the afternoon Becky Thatcher found herself moping about the deserted
schoolhouse yard, and feeling very melancholy. But she found nothing there
to comfort her. She soliloquized:
"Oh, if I only had a brass andiron-knob again! But I haven't got
anything now to remember him by." And she choked back a little sob.
Presently she stopped, and said to herself:
"It was right here. Oh, if it was to do over again, I wouldn't say
that-I wouldn't say it for the whole world. But he's gone now; I'll never,
never, never see him any more."
This thought broke her down, and she wandered away, with tears rolling
down her cheeks. Then quite a group of boys and girls-playmates of Tom's
and Joe's-came by, and stood looking over the paling fence and talking in
reverent tones of how Tom did so-and-so the last time they saw him, and
how Joe said this and that small trifle (pregnant with awful prophecy, as
they could easily see now!)-and each speaker pointed out the exact spot
where the lost lads stood at the time, and then added something like "and
I was a-standing just so-just as I am now, and as if you was him-I was as
close as that-and he smiled, just this way-and then something seemed to go
all over me, like-awful, you know-and I never thought what it meant, of
course, but I can see now!"
Then there was a dispute about who saw the dead boys last in life, and
many claimed that dismal distinction, and offered evidences, more or less
tampered with by the witness; and when it was ultimately decided who DID
see the departed last, and exchanged the last words with them, the lucky
parties took upon themselves a sort of sacred importance, and were gaped
at and envied by all the rest. One poor chap, who had no other grandeur to
offer, said with tolerably manifest pride in the remembrance:
"Well, Tom Sawyer he licked me once."
But that bid for glory was a failure. Most of the boys could say that,
and so that cheapened the distinction too much. The group loitered away,
still recalling memories of the lost heroes, in awed voices.
When the Sunday-school hour was finished, the next morning, the bell
began to toll, instead of ringing in the usual way. It was a very still
Sabbath, and the mournful sound seemed in keeping with the musing hush
that lay upon nature. The villagers began to gather, loitering a moment in
the vestibule to converse in whispers about the sad event. But there was
no whispering in the house; only the funereal rustling of dresses as the
women gathered to their seats disturbed the silence there. None could
remember when the little church had been so full before. There was finally
a waiting pause, an expectant dumbness, and then Aunt Polly entered,
followed by Sid and Mary, and they by the Harper family, all in deep
black, and the whole congregation, the old minister as well, rose
reverently and stood until the mourners were seated in the front pew.
There was another communing silence, broken at intervals by muffled sobs,
and then the minister spread his hands abroad and prayed. A moving hymn
was sung, and the text followed: "I am the Resurrection and the Life."
As the service proceeded, the clergyman drew such pictures of the
graces, the winning ways, and the rare promise of the lost lads that every
soul there, thinking he recognized these pictures, felt a pang in
remembering that he had persistently blinded himself to them always
before, and had as persistently seen only faults and flaws in the poor
boys. The minister related many a touching incident in the lives of the
departed, too, which illustrated their sweet, generous natures, and the
people could easily see, now, how noble and beautiful those episodes were,
and remembered with grief that at the time they occurred they had seemed
rank rascalities, well deserving of the cowhide. The congregation became
more and more moved, as the pathetic tale went on, till at last the whole
company broke down and joined the weeping mourners in a chorus of
anguished sobs, the preacher himself giving way to his feelings, and
crying in the pulpit.
There was a rustle in the gallery, which nobody noticed; a moment later
the church door creaked; the minister raised his streaming eyes above his
handkerchief, and stood transfixed! First one and then another pair of
eyes followed the minister's, and then almost with one impulse the
congregation rose and stared while the three dead boys came marching up
the aisle, Tom in the lead, Joe next, and Huck, a ruin of drooping rags,
sneaking sheepishly in the rear! They had been hid in the unused gallery
listening to their own funeral sermon!
Aunt Polly, Mary, and the Harpers threw themselves upon their restored
ones, smothered them with kisses and poured out thanksgivings, while poor
Huck stood abashed and uncomfortable, not knowing exactly what to do or
where to hide from so many unwelcoming eyes. He wavered, and started to
slink away, but Tom seized him and said:
"Aunt Polly, it ain't fair. Somebody's got to be glad to see Huck."
"And so they shall. I'm glad to see him, poor motherless thing!" And
the loving attentions Aunt Polly lavished upon him were the one thing
capable of making him more uncomfortable than he was before.
Suddenly the minister shouted at the top of his voice: "Praise God from
whom all blessings flow-SING!-and put your hearts in it!"
And they did. Old Hundred swelled up with a triumphant burst, and while
it shook the rafters Tom Sawyer the Pirate looked around upon the envying
juveniles about him and confessed in his heart that this was the proudest
moment of his life.
As the "sold" congregation trooped out they said they would almost be
willing to be made ridiculous again to hear Old Hundred sung like that
once more.
Tom got more cuffs and kisses that day-according to Aunt Polly's
varying moods-than he had earned before in a year; and he hardly knew
which expressed the most gratefulness to God and affection for himself.
That was Tom's great secret-the scheme to return home with his brother
pirates and attend their own funerals. They had paddled over to the
Missouri shore on a log, at dusk on Saturday, landing five or six miles
below the village; they had slept in the woods at the edge of the town
till nearly daylight, and had then crept through back lanes and alleys and
finished their sleep in the gallery of the church among a chaos of
invalided benches.
At breakfast, Monday morning, Aunt Polly and Mary were very loving to
Tom, and very attentive to his wants. There was an unusual amount of talk.
In the course of it Aunt Polly said:
"Well, I don't say it wasn't a fine joke, Tom, to keep everybody
suffering 'most a week so you boys had a good time, but it is a pity you
could be so hard-hearted as to let me suffer so. If you could come over on
a log to go to your funeral, you could have come over and give me a hint
some way that you warn't dead, but only run off."
"Yes, you could have done that, Tom," said Mary; "and I believe you
would if you had thought of it."
"Would you, Tom?" said Aunt Polly, her face lighting wistfully. "Say,
now, would you, if you'd thought of it?"
"I-well, I don't know. 'Twould 'a' spoiled everything."
"Tom, I hoped you loved me that much," said Aunt Polly, with a grieved
tone that discomforted the boy. "It would have been something if you'd
cared enough to THINK of it, even if you didn't DO it."
"Now, auntie, that ain't any harm," pleaded Mary; "it's only Tom's
giddy way-he is always in such a rush that he never thinks of anything."
"More's the pity. Sid would have thought. And Sid would have come and
DONE it, too. Tom, you'll look back, some day, when it's too late, and
wish you'd cared a little more for me when it would have cost you so
little."
"Now, auntie, you know I do care for you," said Tom.
"I'd know it better if you acted more like it."
"I wish now I'd thought," said Tom, with a repentant tone; "but I
dreamt about you, anyway. That's something, ain't it?"
"It ain't much-a cat does that much-but it's better than nothing. What
did you dream?"
"Why, Wednesday night I dreamt that you was sitting over there by the
bed, and Sid was sitting by the woodbox, and Mary next to him."
"Well, so we did. So we always do. I'm glad your dreams could take even
that much trouble about us."
"And I dreamt that Joe Harper's mother was here."
"Why, she was here! Did you dream any more?"
"Oh, lots. But it's so dim, now."
"Well, try to recollect-can't you?"
"Somehow it seems to me that the wind-the wind blowed the-the-"
"Try harder, Tom! The wind did blow something. Come!"
Tom pressed his fingers on his forehead an anxious minute, and then
said:
"I've got it now! I've got it now! It blowed the candle!"
"Mercy on us! Go on, Tom-go on!"
"And it seems to me that you said, 'Why, I believe that that door-'"
"Go ON, Tom!"
"Just let me study a moment-just a moment. Oh, yes-you said you
believed the door was open."
"As I'm sitting here, I did! Didn't I, Mary! Go on!"
"And then-and then-well I won't be certain, but it seems like as if you
made Sid go and-and-"
"Well? Well? What did I make him do, Tom? What did I make him do?"
"You made him-you-Oh, you made him shut it."
"Well, for the land's sake! I never heard the beat of that in all my
days! Don't tell ME there ain't anything in dreams, any more. Sereny
Harper shall know of this before I'm an hour older. I'd like to see her
get around THIS with her rubbage 'bout superstition. Go on, Tom!"
"Oh, it's all getting just as bright as day, now. Next you said I
warn't BAD, only mischeevous and harum-scarum, and not any more
responsible than-than-I think it was a colt, or something."
"And so it was! Well, goodness gracious! Go on, Tom!"
"And then you began to cry."
"So I did. So I did. Not the first time, neither. And then-"
"Then Mrs. Harper she began to cry, and said Joe was just the same, and
she wished she hadn't whipped him for taking cream when she'd throwed it
out her own self-"
"Tom! The sperrit was upon you! You was a prophesying-that's what you
was doing! Land alive, go on, Tom!"
"Then Sid he said-he said-"
"I don't think I said anything," said Sid.
"Yes you did, Sid," said Mary.
"Shut your heads and let Tom go on! What did he say, Tom?"
"He said-I THINK he said he hoped I was better off where I was gone to,
but if I'd been better sometimes-"
"THERE, d'you hear that! It was his very words!"
"And you shut him up sharp."
"I lay I did! There must 'a' been an angel there. There WAS an angel
there, somewheres!"
"And Mrs. Harper told about Joe scaring her with a firecracker, and you
told about Peter and the Painkiller-"
"Just as true as I live!"
"And then there was a whole lot of talk 'bout dragging the river for
us, and 'bout having the funeral Sunday, and then you and old Miss Harper
hugged and cried, and she went."
"It happened just so! It happened just so, as sure as I'm a-sitting in
these very tracks. Tom, you couldn't told it more like if you'd 'a' seen
it! And then what? Go on, Tom!"
"Then I thought you prayed for me-and I could see you and hear every
word you said. And you went to bed, and I was so sorry that I took and
wrote on a piece of sycamore bark, 'We ain't dead-we are only off being
pirates,' and put it on the table by the candle; and then you looked so
good, laying there asleep, that I thought I went and leaned over and
kissed you on the lips."
"Did you, Tom, DID you! I just forgive you everything for that!" And
she seized the boy in a crushing embrace that made him feel like the
guiltiest of villains.
"It was very kind, even though it was only a-dream," Sid soliloquized
just audibly.
"Shut up, Sid! A body does just the same in a dream as he'd do if he
was awake. Here's a big Milum apple I've been saving for you, Tom, if you
was ever found again-now go 'long to school. I'm thankful to the good God
and Father of us all I've got you back, that's long-suffering and merciful
to them that believe on Him and keep His word, though goodness knows I'm
unworthy of it, but if only the worthy ones got His blessings and had His
hand to help them over the rough places, there's few enough would smile
here or ever enter into His rest when the long night comes. Go 'long Sid,
Mary, Tom-take yourselves off-you've hendered me long enough."
The children left for school, and the old lady to call on Mrs. Harper
and vanquish her realism with Tom's marvellous dream. Sid had better
judgment than to utter the thought that was in his mind as he left the
house. It was this: "Pretty thin-as long a dream as that, without any
mistakes in it!"
What a hero Tom was become, now! He did not go skipping and prancing,
but moved with a dignified swagger as became a pirate who felt that the
public eye was on him. And indeed it was; he tried not to seem to see the
looks or hear the remarks as he passed along, but they were food and drink
to him. Smaller boys than himself flocked at his heels, as proud to be
seen with him, and tolerated by him, as if he had been the drummer at the
head of a procession or the elephant leading a menagerie into town. Boys
of his own size pretended not to know he had been away at all; but they
were consuming with envy, nevertheless. They would have given anything to
have that swarthy suntanned skin of his, and his glittering notoriety; and
Tom would not have parted with either for a circus.
At school the children made so much of him and of Joe, and delivered
such eloquent admiration from their eyes, that the two heroes were not
long in becoming insufferably "stuck-up." They began to tell their
adventures to hungry listeners-but they only began; it was not a thing
likely to have an end, with imaginations like theirs to furnish material.
And finally, when they got out their pipes and went serenely puffing
around, the very summit of glory was reached.
Tom decided that he could be independent of Becky Thatcher now. Glory
was sufficient. He would live for glory. Now that he was distinguished,
maybe she would be wanting to "make up." Well, let her-she should see that
he could be as indifferent as some other people. Presently she arrived.
Tom pretended not to see her. He moved away and joined a group of boys and
girls and began to talk. Soon he observed that she was tripping gayly back
and forth with flushed face and dancing eyes, pretending to be busy
chasing schoolmates, and screaming with laughter when she made a capture;
but he noticed that she always made her captures in his vicinity, and that
she seemed to cast a conscious eye in his direction at such times, too. It
gratified all the vicious vanity that was in him; and so, instead of
winning him, it only "set him up" the more and made him the more diligent
to avoid betraying that he knew she was about. Presently she gave over
skylarking, and moved irresolutely about, sighing once or twice and
glancing furtively and wistfully toward Tom. Then she observed that now
Tom was talking more particularly to Amy Lawrence than to any one else.
She felt a sharp pang and grew disturbed and uneasy at once. She tried to
go away, but her feet were treacherous, and carried her to the group
instead. She said to a girl almost at Tom's elbow-with sham vivacity:
"Why, Mary Austin! you bad girl, why didn't you come to Sunday-school?"
"I did come-didn't you see me?"
"Why, no! Did you? Where did you sit?"
"I was in Miss Peters' class, where I always go. I saw YOU."
"Did you? Why, it's funny I didn't see you. I wanted to tell you about
the picnic."
"Oh, that's jolly. Who's going to give it?"
"My ma's going to let me have one."
"Oh, goody; I hope she'll let ME come."
"Well, she will. The picnic's for me. She'll let anybody come that I
want, and I want you."
"That's ever so nice. When is it going to be?"
"By and by. Maybe about vacation."
"Oh, won't it be fun! You going to have all the girls and boys?"
"Yes, every one that's friends to me-or wants to be"; and she glanced
ever so furtively at Tom, but he talked right along to Amy Lawrence about
the terrible storm on the island, and how the lightning tore the great
sycamore tree "all to flinders" while he was "standing within three feet
of it."
"Oh, may I come?" said Grace Miller.
"Yes."
"And me?" said Sally Rogers.
"Yes."
"And me, too?" said Susy Harper. "And Joe?"
"Yes."
And so on, with clapping of joyful hands till all the group had begged
for invitations but Tom and Amy. Then Tom turned coolly away, still
talking, and took Amy with him. Becky's lips trembled and the tears came
to her eyes; she hid these signs with a forced gayety and went on
chattering, but the life had gone out of the picnic, now, and out of
everything else; she got away as soon as she could and hid herself and had
what her sex call "a good cry." Then she sat moody, with wounded pride,
till the bell rang. She roused up, now, with a vindictive cast in her eye,
and gave her plaited tails a shake and said she knew what SHE'D do.
At recess Tom continued his flirtation with Amy with jubilant
self-satisfaction. And he kept drifting about to find Becky and lacerate
her with the performance. At last he spied her, but there was a sudden
falling of his mercury. She was sitting cosily on a little bench behind
the schoolhouse looking at a picture-book with Alfred Temple-and so
absorbed were they, and their heads so close together over the book, that
they did not seem to be conscious of anything in the world besides.
Jealousy ran red-hot through Tom's veins. He began to hate himself for
throwing away the chance Becky had offered for a reconciliation. He called
himself a fool, and all the hard names he could think of. He wanted to cry
with vexation. Amy chatted happily along, as they walked, for her heart
was singing, but Tom's tongue had lost its function. He did not hear what
Amy was saying, and whenever she paused expectantly he could only stammer
an awkward assent, which was as often misplaced as otherwise. He kept
drifting to the rear of the schoolhouse, again and again, to sear his
eyeballs with the hateful spectacle there. He could not help it. And it
maddened him to see, as he thought he saw, that Becky Thatcher never once
suspected that he was even in the land of the living. But she did see,
nevertheless; and she knew she was winning her fight, too, and was glad to
see him suffer as she had suffered.
Amy's happy prattle became intolerable. Tom hinted at things he had to
attend to; things that must be done; and time was fleeting. But in
vain-the girl chirped on. Tom thought, "Oh, hang her, ain't I ever going
to get rid of her?" At last he must be attending to those things-and she
said artlessly that she would be "around" when school let out. And he
hastened away, hating her for it.
"Any other boy!" Tom thought, grating his teeth. "Any boy in the whole
town but that Saint Louis smarty that thinks he dresses so fine and is
aristocracy! Oh, all right, I licked you the first day you ever saw this
town, mister, and I'll lick you again! You just wait till I catch you out!
I'll just take and-"
And he went through the motions of thrashing an imaginary
boy-pummelling the air, and kicking and gouging. "Oh, you do, do you? You
holler 'nough, do you? Now, then, let that learn you!" And so the
imaginary flogging was finished to his satisfaction.
Tom fled home at noon. His conscience could not endure any more of
Amy's grateful happiness, and his jealousy could bear no more of the other
distress. Becky resumed her picture inspections with Alfred, but as the
minutes dragged along and no Tom came to suffer, her triumph began to
cloud and she lost interest; gravity and absent-mindedness followed, and
then melancholy; two or three times she pricked up her ear at a footstep,
but it was a false hope; no Tom came. At last she grew entirely miserable
and wished she hadn't carried it so far. When poor Alfred, seeing that he
was losing her, he did not know how, kept exclaiming: "Oh, here's a jolly
one! look at this!" she lost patience at last, and said, "Oh, don't bother
me! I don't care for them!" and burst into tears, and got up and walked
away.
Alfred dropped alongside and was going to try to comfort her, but she
said:
"Go away and leave me alone, can't you! I hate you!"
So the boy halted, wondering what he could have done-for she had said
she would look at pictures all through the nooning-and she walked on,
crying. Then Alfred went musing into the deserted schoolhouse. He was
humiliated and angry. He easily guessed his way to the truth-the girl had
simply made a convenience of him to vent her spite upon Tom Sawyer. He was
far from hating Tom the less when this thought occurred to him. He wished
there was some way to get that boy into trouble without much risk to
himself. Tom's spelling-book fell under his eye. Here was his opportunity.
He gratefully opened to the lesson for the afternoon and poured ink upon
the page.
Becky, glancing in at a window behind him at the moment, saw the act,
and moved on, without discovering herself. She started homeward, now,
intending to find Tom and tell him; Tom would be thankful and their
troubles would be healed. Before she was half way home, however, she had
changed her mind. The thought of Tom's treatment of her when she was
talking about her picnic came scorching back and filled her with shame.
She resolved to let him get whipped on the damaged spelling-book's
account, and to hate him forever, into the bargain.
Tom arrived at home in a dreary mood, and the first thing his aunt said
to him showed him that he had brought his sorrows to an unpromising
market:
"Tom, I've a notion to skin you alive!"
"Auntie, what have I done?"
"Well, you've done enough. Here I go over to Sereny Harper, like an old
softy, expecting I'm going to make her believe all that rubbage about that
dream, when lo and behold you she'd found out from Joe that you was over
here and heard all the talk we had that night. Tom, I don't know what is