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to become of a boy that will act like that. It makes me feel so bad to
think you could let me go to Sereny Harper and make such a fool of myself
and never say a word."
This was a new aspect of the thing. His smartness of the morning had
seemed to Tom a good joke before, and very ingenious. It merely looked
mean and shabby now. He hung his head and could not think of anything to
say for a moment. Then he said:
"Auntie, I wish I hadn't done it-but I didn't think."
"Oh, child, you never think. You never think of anything but your own
selfishness. You could think to come all the way over here from Jackson's
Island in the night to laugh at our troubles, and you could think to fool
me with a lie about a dream; but you couldn't ever think to pity us and
save us from sorrow."
"Auntie, I know now it was mean, but I didn't mean to be mean. I
didn't, honest. And besides, I didn't come over here to laugh at you that
night."
"What did you come for, then?"
"It was to tell you not to be uneasy about us, because we hadn't got
drownded."
"Tom, Tom, I would be the thankfullest soul in this world if I could
believe you ever had as good a thought as that, but you know you never
did-and I know it, Tom."
"Indeed and 'deed I did, auntie-I wish I may never stir if I didn't."
"Oh, Tom, don't lie-don't do it. It only makes things a hundred times
worse."
"It ain't a lie, auntie; it's the truth. I wanted to keep you from
grieving-that was all that made me come."
"I'd give the whole world to believe that-it would cover up a power of
sins, Tom. I'd 'most be glad you'd run off and acted so bad. But it ain't
reasonable; because, why didn't you tell me, child?"
"Why, you see, when you got to talking about the funeral, I just got
all full of the idea of our coming and hiding in the church, and I
couldn't somehow bear to spoil it. So I just put the bark back in my
pocket and kept mum."
"What bark?"
"The bark I had wrote on to tell you we'd gone pirating. I wish, now,
you'd waked up when I kissed you-I do, honest."
The hard lines in his aunt's face relaxed and a sudden tenderness
dawned in her eyes.
"DID you kiss me, Tom?"
"Why, yes, I did."
"Are you sure you did, Tom?"
"Why, yes, I did, auntie-certain sure."
"What did you kiss me for, Tom?"
"Because I loved you so, and you laid there moaning and I was so sorry."
The words sounded like truth. The old lady could not hide a tremor in
her voice when she said:
"Kiss me again, Tom!-and be off with you to school, now, and don't
bother me any more."
The moment he was gone, she ran to a closet and got out the ruin of a
jacket which Tom had gone pirating in. Then she stopped, with it in her
hand, and said to herself:
"No, I don't dare. Poor boy, I reckon he's lied about it-but it's a
blessed, blessed lie, there's such a comfort come from it. I hope the
Lord-I KNOW the Lord will forgive him, because it was such goodheartedness
in him to tell it. But I don't want to find out it's a lie. I won't look."
She put the jacket away, and stood by musing a minute. Twice she put
out her hand to take the garment again, and twice she refrained. Once more
she ventured, and this time she fortified herself with the thought: "It's
a good lie-it's a good lie-I won't let it grieve me." So she sought the
jacket pocket. A moment later she was reading Tom's piece of bark through
flowing tears and saying: "I could forgive the boy, now, if he'd committed
a million sins!"
There was something about Aunt Polly's manner, when she kissed Tom,
that swept away his low spirits and made him lighthearted and happy again.
He started to school and had the luck of coming upon Becky Thatcher at the
head of Meadow Lane. His mood always determined his manner. Without a
moment's hesitation he ran to her and said:
"I acted mighty mean to-day, Becky, and I'm so sorry. I won't ever,
ever do that way again, as long as ever I live-please make up, won't you?"
The girl stopped and looked him scornfully in the face:
"I'll thank you to keep yourself TO yourself, Mr. Thomas Sawyer. I'll
never speak to you again."
She tossed her head and passed on. Tom was so stunned that he had not
even presence of mind enough to say "Who cares, Miss Smarty?" until the
right time to say it had gone by. So he said nothing. But he was in a fine
rage, nevertheless. He moped into the schoolyard wishing she were a boy,
and imagining how he would trounce her if she were. He presently
encountered her and delivered a stinging remark as he passed. She hurled
one in return, and the angry breach was complete. It seemed to Becky, in
her hot resentment, that she could hardly wait for school to "take in,"
she was so impatient to see Tom flogged for the injured spelling-book. If
she had had any lingering notion of exposing Alfred Temple, Tom's
offensive fling had driven it entirely away.
Poor girl, she did not know how fast she was nearing trouble herself.
The master, Mr. Dobbins, had reached middle age with an unsatisfied
ambition. The darling of his desires was, to be a doctor, but poverty had
decreed that he should be nothing higher than a village schoolmaster.
Every day he took a mysterious book out of his desk and absorbed himself
in it at times when no classes were reciting. He kept that book under lock
and key. There was not an urchin in school but was perishing to have a
glimpse of it, but the chance never came. Every boy and girl had a theory
about the nature of that book; but no two theories were alike, and there
was no way of getting at the facts in the case. Now, as Becky was passing
by the desk, which stood near the door, she noticed that the key was in
the lock! It was a precious moment. She glanced around; found herself
alone, and the next instant she had the book in her hands. The
title-page-Professor Somebody's ANATomY-carried no information to her
mind; so she began to turn the leaves. She came at once upon a handsomely
engraved and colored frontispiece-a human figure, stark naked. At that
moment a shadow fell on the page and Tom Sawyer stepped in at the door and
caught a glimpse of the picture. Becky snatched at the book to close it,
and had the hard luck to tear the pictured page half down the middle. She
thrust the volume into the desk, turned the key, and burst out crying with
shame and vexation.
"Tom Sawyer, you are just as mean as you can be, to sneak up on a
person and look at what they're looking at."
"How could I know you was looking at anything?"
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Tom Sawyer; you know you're going
to tell on me, and oh, what shall I do, what shall I do! I'll be whipped,
and I never was whipped in school."
Then she stamped her little foot and said:
"BE so mean if you want to! I know something that's going to happen.
You just wait and you'll see! Hateful, hateful, hateful!"-and she flung
out of the house with a new explosion of crying.
Tom stood still, rather flustered by this onslaught. Presently he said
to himself:
"What a curious kind of a fool a girl is! Never been licked in school!
Shucks! What's a licking! That's just like a girl-they're so thin-skinned
and chicken-hearted. Well, of course I ain't going to tell old Dobbins on
this little fool, because there's other ways of getting even on her, that
ain't so mean; but what of it? Old Dobbins will ask who it was tore his
book. Nobody'll answer. Then he'll do just the way he always does-ask
first one and then t'other, and when he comes to the right girl he'll know
it, without any telling. Girls' faces always tell on them. They ain't got
any backbone. She'll get licked. Well, it's a kind of a tight place for
Becky Thatcher, because there ain't any way out of it." Tom conned the
thing a moment longer, and then added: "All right, though; she'd like to
see me in just such a fix-let her sweat it out!"
Tom joined the mob of skylarking scholars outside. In a few moments the
master arrived and school "took in." Tom did not feel a strong interest in
his studies. Every time he stole a glance at the girls' side of the room
Becky's face troubled him. Considering all things, he did not want to pity
her, and yet it was all he could do to help it. He could get up no
exultation that was really worthy the name. Presently the spelling-book
discovery was made, and Tom's mind was entirely full of his own matters
for a while after that. Becky roused up from her lethargy of distress and
showed good interest in the proceedings. She did not expect that Tom could
get out of his trouble by denying that he spilt the ink on the book
himself; and she was right. The denial only seemed to make the thing worse
for Tom. Becky supposed she would be glad of that, and she tried to
believe she was glad of it, but she found she was not certain. When the
worst came to the worst, she had an impulse to get up and tell on Alfred
Temple, but she made an effort and forced herself to keep still-because,
said she to herself, "he'll tell about me tearing the picture sure. I
wouldn't say a word, not to save his life!"
Tom took his whipping and went back to his seat not at all
broken-hearted, for he thought it was possible that he had unknowingly
upset the ink on the spellingbook himself, in some skylarking bout-he had
denied it for form's sake and because it was cusTom, and had stuck to the
denial from principle.
A whole hour drifted by, the master sat nodding in his throne, the air
was drowsy with the hum of study. By and by, Mr. Dobbins straightened
himself up, yawned, then unlocked his desk, and reached for his book, but
seemed undecided whether to take it out or leave it. Most of the pupils
glanced up languidly, but there were two among them that watched his
movements with intent eyes. Mr. Dobbins fingered his book absently for a
while, then took it out and settled himself in his chair to read! Tom shot
a glance at Becky. He had seen a hunted and helpless rabbit look as she
did, with a gun levelled at its head. Instantly he forgot his quarrel with
her. Quick-something must be done! done in a flash, too! But the very
imminence of the emergency paralyzed his invention. Good!-he had an
inspiration! He would run and snatch the book, spring through the door and
fly. But his resolution shook for one little instant, and the chance was
lost-the master opened the volume. If Tom only had the wasted opportunity
back again! Too late. There was no help for Becky now, he said. The next
moment the master faced the school. Every eye sank under his gaze. There
was that in it which smote even the innocent with fear. There was silence
while one might count ten-the master was gathering his wrath. Then he
spoke: "Who tore this book?"
There was not a sound. One could have heard a pin drop. The stillness
continued; the master searched face after face for signs of guilt.
"Benjamin Rogers, did you tear this book?"
A denial. Another pause.
"Joseph Harper, did you?"
Another denial. Tom's uneasiness grew more and more intense under the
slow torture of these proceedings. The master scanned the ranks of
boys-considered a while, then turned to the girls:
"Amy Lawrence?"
A shake of the head.
"Gracie Miller?"
The same sign.
"Susan Harper, did you do this?"
Another negative. The next girl was Becky Thatcher. Tom was trembling
from head to foot with excitement and a sense of the hopelessness of the
situation.
"Rebecca Thatcher" [Tom glanced at her face-it was white with
terror]-"did you tear-no, look me in the face" [her hands rose in
appeal]-"did you tear this book?"
A thought shot like lightning through Tom's brain. He sprang to his
feet and shouted-"I done it!"
The school stared in perplexity at this incredible folly. Tom stood a
moment, to gather his dismembered faculties; and when he stepped forward
to go to his punishment the surprise, the gratitude, the adoration that
shone upon him out of poor Becky's eyes seemed pay enough for a hundred
floggings. Inspired by the splendor of his own act, he took without an
outcry the most merciless flaying that even Mr. Dobbins had ever
administered; and also received with indifference the added cruelty of a
command to remain two hours after school should be dismissed-for he knew
who would wait for him outside till his captivity was done, and not count
the tedious time as loss, either.
Tom went to bed that night planning vengeance against Alfred Temple;
for with shame and repentance Becky had told him all, not forgetting her
own treachery; but even the longing for vengeance had to give way, soon,
to pleasanter musings, and he fell asleep at last with Becky's latest
words lingering dreamily in his ear-
"Tom, how COULD you be so noble!"
Vacation was approaching. The schoolmaster, always severe, grew severer
and more exacting than ever, for he wanted the school to make a good
showing on "Examination" day. His rod and his ferule were seldom idle
now-at least among the smaller pupils. Only the biggest boys, and young
ladies of eighteen and twenty, escaped lashing. Mr. Dobbins' lashings were
very vigorous ones, too; for although he carried, under his wig, a
perfectly bald and shiny head, he had only reached middle age, and there
was no sign of feebleness in his muscle. As the great day approached, all
the tyranny that was in him came to the surface; he seemed to take a
vindictive pleasure in punishing the least shortcomings. The consequence
was, that the smaller boys spent their days in terror and suffering and
their nights in plotting revenge. They threw away no opportunity to do the
master a mischief. But he kept ahead all the time. The retribution that
followed every vengeful success was so sweeping and majestic that the boys
always retired from the field badly worsted. At last they conspired
together and hit upon a plan that promised a dazzling victory. They swore
in the sign-painter's boy, told him the scheme, and asked his help. He had
his own reasons for being delighted, for the master boarded in his
father's family and had given the boy ample cause to hate him. The
master's wife would go on a visit to the country in a few days, and there
would be nothing to interfere with the plan; the master always prepared
himself for great occasions by getting pretty well fuddled, and the
sign-painter's boy said that when the dominie had reached the proper
condition on Examination Evening he would "manage the thing" while he
napped in his chair; then he would have him awakened at the right time and
hurried away to school.
In the fulness of time the interesting occasion arrived. At eight in
the evening the schoolhouse was brilliantly lighted, and adorned with
wreaths and festoons of foliage and flowers. The master sat throned in his
great chair upon a raised platform, with his blackboard behind him. He was
looking tolerably mellow. Three rows of benches on each side and six rows
in front of him were occupied by the dignitaries of the town and by the
parents of the pupils. To his left, back of the rows of citizens, was a
spacious temporary platform upon which were seated the scholars who were
to take part in the exercises of the evening; rows of small boys, washed
and dressed to an intolerable state of discomfort; rows of gawky big boys;
snowbanks of girls and young ladies clad in lawn and muslin and
conspicuously conscious of their bare arms, their grandmothers' ancient
trinkets, their bits of pink and blue ribbon and the flowers in their
hair. All the rest of the house was filled with non-participating
scholars.
The exercises began. A very little boy stood up and sheepishly recited,
"You'd scarce expect one of my age to speak in public on the stage,"
etc.-accompanying himself with the painfully exact and spasmodic gestures
which a machine might have used-supposing the machine to be a trifle out
of order. But he got through safely, though cruelly scared, and got a fine
round of applause when he made his manufactured bow and retired.
A little shamefaced girl lisped, "Mary had a little lamb," etc.,
performed a compassion-inspiring curtsy, got her meed of applause, and sat
down flushed and happy.
Tom Sawyer stepped forward with conceited confidence and soared into
the unquenchable and indestructible "Give me liberty or give me death"
speech, with fine fury and frantic gesticulation, and broke down in the
middle of it. A ghastly stage-fright seized him, his legs quaked under him
and he was like to choke. True, he had the manifest sympathy of the house
but he had the house's silence, too, which was even worse than its
sympathy. The master frowned, and this completed the disaster. Tom
struggled awhile and then retired, utterly defeated. There was a weak
attempt at applause, but it died early.
"The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck" followed; also "The Assyrian Came
Down," and other declamatory gems. Then there were reading exercises, and
a spelling fight. The meagre Latin class recited with honor. The prime
feature of the evening was in order, now-original "compositions" by the
young ladies. Each in her turn stepped forward to the edge of the
platform, cleared her throat, held up her manuscript (tied with dainty
ribbon), and proceeded to read, with labored attention to "expression" and
punctuation. The themes were the same that had been illuminated upon
similar occasions by their mothers before them, their grandmothers, and
doubtless all their ancestors in the female line clear back to the
Crusades. "Friendship" was one; "Memories of Other Days"; "Religion in
History"; "Dream Land"; "The Advantages of Culture"; "Forms of Political
Government Compared and Contrasted"; "Melancholy"; "Filial Love"; "Heart
Longings," etc., etc.
A prevalent feature in these compositions was a nursed and petted
melancholy; another was a wasteful and opulent gush of "fine language";
another was a tendency to lug in by the ears particularly prized words and
phrases until they were worn entirely out; and a peculiarity that
conspicuously marked and marred them was the inveterate and intolerable
sermon that wagged its crippled tail at the end of each and every one of
them. No matter what the subject might be, a brain-racking effort was made
to squirm it into some aspect or other that the moral and religious mind
could contemplate with edification. The glaring insincerity of these
sermons was not sufficient to compass the banishment of the fashion from
the schools, and it is not sufficient to-day; it never will be sufficient
while the world stands, perhaps. There is no school in all our land where
the young ladies do not feel obliged to close their compositions with a
sermon; and you will find that the sermon of the most frivolous and the
least religious girl in the school is always the longest and the most
relentlessly pious. But enough of this. Homely truth is unpalatable.
Let us return to the "Examination." The first composition that was read
was one entitled "Is this, then, Life?" Perhaps the reader can endure an
extract from it:
"In the common walks of life, with what delightful emotions does the
youthful mind look forward to some anticipated scene of festivity!
Imagination is busy sketching rose-tinted pictures of joy. In fancy, the
voluptuous votary of fashion sees herself amid the festive throng, 'the
observed of all observers.' Her graceful form, arrayed in snowy robes, is
whirling through the mazes of the joyous dance; her eye is brightest, her
step is lightest in the gay assembly.
"In such delicious fancies time quickly glides by, and the welcome hour
arrives for her entrance into the Elysian world, of which she has had such
bright dreams. How fairy-like does everything appear to her enchanted
vision! Each new scene is more charming than the last. But after a while
she finds that beneath this goodly exterior, all is vanity, the flattery
which once charmed her soul, now grates harshly upon her ear; the
ball-room has lost its charms; and with wasted health and imbittered
heart, she turns away with the conviction that earthly pleasures cannot
satisfy the longings of the soul!"
And so forth and so on. There was a buzz of gratification from time to
time during the reading, accompanied by whispered ejaculations of "How
sweet!" "How eloquent!" "So true!" etc., and after the thing had closed
with a peculiarly afflicting sermon the applause was enthusiastic.
Then arose a slim, melancholy girl, whose face had the "interesting"
paleness that comes of pills and indigestion, and read a "poem." Two
stanzas of it will do:
A MISSOURI MAIDEN'S FAREWELL TO ALABAMA
But yet for a while do I leave thee now!
Sad, yes, sad thoughts of thee my heart doth swell,
And burning recollections throng my brow!
For I have wandered through thy flowery woods;
Have roamed and read near Tallapoosa's stream;
Have listened to Tallassee's warring floods,
And wooed on Coosa's side Aurora's beam.
Yet shame I not to bear an o'er-full heart,
Nor blush to turn behind my tearful eyes;
Tis from no stranger land I now must part,
Tis to no strangers left I yield these sighs.
Welcome and home were mine within this State,
Whose vales I leave-whose spires fade fast from me
And cold must be mine eyes, and heart, and tete,
When, dear Alabama! they turn cold on thee!"
There were very few there who knew what "tete" meant, but the poem was
very satisfactory, nevertheless.
Next appeared a dark-complexioned, black-eyed, black-haired young lady,
who paused an impressive moment, assumed a tragic expression, and began to
read in a measured, solemn tone:
Dark and tempestuous was night. Around the throne on high not a single
star quivered; but the deep intonations of the heavy thunder constantly
vibrated upon the ear; whilst the terrific lightning revelled in angry
mood through the cloudy chambers of heaven, seeming to scorn the power
exerted over its terror by the illustrious Franklin! Even the boisterous
winds unanimously came forth from their mystic homes, and blustered about
as if to enhance by their aid the wildness of the scene.
At such a time, so dark, so dreary, for human sympathy my very spirit
sighed; but instead thereof,
My dearest friend, my counsellor, my comforter and guide-
My joy in grief, my second bliss in joy, came to my side.
She moved like one of those bright beings pictured in the sunny walks
of fancy's Eden by the romantic and young, a queen of beauty unadorned
save by her own transcendent loveliness. So soft was her step, it failed
to make even a sound, and but for the magical thrill imparted by her
genial touch, as other unobtrusive beauties, she would have glided away
un-perceived-unsought. A strange sadness rested upon her features, like
icy tears upon the robe of December, as she pointed to the contending
elements without, and bade me contemplate the two beings presented."
This nightmare occupied some ten pages of manuscript and wound up with
a sermon so destructive of all hope to non-Presbyterians that it took the
first prize. This composition was considered to be the very finest effort
of the evening. The mayor of the village, in delivering the prize to the
author of it, made a warm speech in which he said that it was by far the
most "eloquent" thing he had ever listened to, and that Daniel Webster
himself might well be proud of it.
It may be remarked, in passing, that the number of compositions in
which the word "beauteous" was over-fondled, and human experience referred
to as "life's page," was up to the usual average.
Now the master, mellow almost to the verge of geniality, put his chair
aside, turned his back to the audience, and began to draw a map of America
on the blackboard, to exercise the geography class upon. But he made a sad
business of it with his unsteady hand, and a smothered titter rippled over
the house. He knew what the matter was, and set himself to right it. He
sponged out lines and remade them; but he only distorted them more than
ever, and the tittering was more pronounced. He threw his entire attention
upon his work, now, as if determined not to be put down by the mirth. He
felt that all eyes were fastened upon him; he imagined he was succeeding,
and yet the tittering continued; it even manifestly increased. And well it
might. There was a garret above, pierced with a scuttle over his head; and
down through this scuttle came a cat, suspended around the haunches by a
string; she had a rag tied about her head and jaws to keep her from
mewing; as she slowly descended she curved upward and clawed at the
string, she swung downward and clawed at the intangible air. The tittering
rose higher and higher-the cat was within six inches of the absorbed
teacher's head-down, down, a little lower, and she grabbed his wig with
her desperate claws, clung to it, and was snatched up into the garret in
an instant with her trophy still in her possession! And how the light did
blaze abroad from the master's bald pate-for the sign-painter's boy had
GILDED it!
That broke up the meeting. The boys were avenged. Vacation had come.
NOTE:
The pretended "compositions" quoted in this chapter are taken without
alteration from a volume entitled "Prose and Poetry, by a Western
Lady"-but they are exactly and precisely after the schoolgirl pattern, and
hence are much happier than any mere imitations could be.
Tom joined the new order of Cadets of Temperance, being attracted by
the showy character of their "regalia." He promised to abstain from
smoking, chewing, and profanity as long as he remained a member. Now he
found out a new thing-namely, that to promise not to do a thing is the
surest way in the world to make a body want to go and do that very thing.
Tom soon found himself tormented with a desire to drink and swear; the
desire grew to be so intense that nothing but the hope of a chance to
display himself in his red sash kept him from withdrawing from the order.
Fourth of July was coming; but he soon gave that up-gave it up before he
had worn his shackles over forty-eight hours-and fixed his hopes upon old
Judge Frazer, justice of the peace, who was apparently on his deathbed and
would have a big public funeral, since he was so high an official. During
three days Tom was deeply concerned about the Judge's condition and hungry
for news of it. Sometimes his hopes ran high-so high that he would venture
to get out his regalia and practise before the lookingglass. But the Judge
had a most discouraging way of fluctuating. At last he was pronounced upon
the mend-and then convalescent. Tom was disgusted; and felt a sense of
injury, too. He handed in his resignation at once-and that night the Judge
suffered a relapse and died. Tom resolved that he would never trust a man
like that again.
The funeral was a fine thing. The Cadets paraded in a style calculated
to kill the late member with envy. Tom was a free boy again, however-there
was something in that. He could drink and swear, now-but found to his
surprise that he did not want to. The simple fact that he could, took the
desire away, and the charm of it.
Tom presently wondered to find that his coveted vacation was beginning
to hang a little heavily on his hands.
He attempted a diary-but nothing happened during three days, and so he
abandoned it.
The first of all the negro minstrel shows came to town, and made a
sensation. Tom and Joe Harper got up a band of performers and were happy
for two days.
Even the Glorious Fourth was in some sense a failure, for it rained
hard, there was no procession in consequence, and the greatest man in the
world (as Tom supposed), Mr. Benton, an actual United States Senator,
proved an overwhelming disappointment-for he was not twenty-five feet
high, nor even anywhere in the neighborhood of it.
A circus came. The boys played circus for three days afterward in tents
made of rag carpeting-admission, three pins for boys, two for girls-and
then circusing was abandoned.
A phrenologist and a mesmerizer came-and went again and left the
village duller and drearier than ever.
There were some boys-and-girls' parties, but they were so few and so
delightful that they only made the aching voids between ache the harder.
Becky Thatcher was gone to her Constantinople home to stay with her
parents during vacation-so there was no bright side to life anywhere.
The dreadful secret of the murder was a chronic misery. It was a very
cancer for permanency and pain.
Then came the measles.
During two long weeks Tom lay a prisoner, dead to the world and its
happenings. He was very ill, he was interested in nothing. When he got
upon his feet at last and moved feebly down-town, a melancholy change had
come over everything and every creature. There had been a "revival," and
everybody had "got religion," not only the adults, but even the boys and
girls. Tom went about, hoping against hope for the sight of one blessed
sinful face, but disappointment crossed him everywhere. He found Joe
Harper studying a Testament, and turned sadly away from the depressing
spectacle. He sought Ben Rogers, and found him visiting the poor with a
basket of tracts. He hunted up Jim Hollis, who called his attention to the
precious blessing of his late measles as a warning. Every boy he
encountered added another ton to his depression; and when, in desperation,
he flew for refuge at last to the bosom of Huckleberry Finn and was
received with a Scriptural quotation, his heart broke and he crept home
and to bed realizing that he alone of all the town was lost, forever and
forever.
And that night there came on a terrific storm, with driving rain, awful
claps of thunder and blinding sheets of lightning. He covered his head
with the bedclothes and waited in a horror of suspense for his doom; for
he had not the shadow of a doubt that all this hubbub was about him. He
believed he had taxed the forbearance of the powers above to the extremity
of endurance and that this was the result. It might have seemed to him a
waste of pomp and ammunition to kill a bug with a battery of artillery,
but there seemed nothing incongruous about the getting up such an
expensive thunderstorm as this to knock the turf from under an insect like
himself.
By and by the tempest spent itself and died without accomplishing its
object. The boy's first impulse was to be grateful, and reform. His second
was to wait-for there might not be any more storms.
The next day the doctors were back; Tom had relapsed. The three weeks
he spent on his back this time seemed an entire age. When he got abroad at
last he was hardly grateful that he had been spared, remembering how
lonely was his estate, how companionless and forlorn he was. He drifted
listlessly down the street and found Jim Hollis acting as judge in a
juvenile court that was trying a cat for murder, in the presence of her
victim, a bird. He found Joe Harper and Huck Finn up an alley eating a
stolen melon. Poor lads! they-like Tom-had suffered a relapse.
At last the sleepy atmosphere was stirred-and vigorously: the murder
trial came on in the court. It became the absorbing topic of village talk
immediately. Tom could not get away from it. Every reference to the murder
sent a shudder to his heart, for his troubled conscience and fears almost
persuaded him that these remarks were put forth in his hearing as
"feelers"; he did not see how he could be suspected of knowing anything
about the murder, but still he could not be comfortable in the midst of
this gossip. It kept him in a cold shiver all the time. He took Huck to a
lonely place to have a talk with him. It would be some relief to unseal
his tongue for a little while; to divide his burden of distress with
another sufferer. Moreover, he wanted to assure himself that Huck had
remained discreet.
"Huck, have you ever told anybody about-that?"
"Bout what?"
"You know what."
"Oh-'course I haven't."
"Never a word?"
"Never a solitary word, so help me. What makes you ask?"
"Well, I was afeard."
"Why, Tom Sawyer, we wouldn't be alive two days if that got found out.
YOU know that."
Tom felt more comfortable. After a pause:
"Huck, they couldn't anybody get you to tell, could they?"
"Get me to tell? Why, if I wanted that half-breed devil to drownd me
they could get me to tell. They ain't no different way."
"Well, that's all right, then. I reckon we're safe as long as we keep
mum. But let's swear again, anyway. It's more surer."
"I'm agreed."
So they swore again with dread solemnities.
"What is the talk around, Huck? I've heard a power of it."
"Talk? Well, it's just Muff Potter, Muff Potter, Muff Potter all the
time. It keeps me in a sweat, constant, so's I want to hide som'ers."
"That's just the same way they go on round me. I reckon he's a goner.
Don't you feel sorry for him, sometimes?"
"Most always-most always. He ain't no account; but then he hain't ever
done anything to hurt anybody. Just fishes a little, to get money to get
drunk on-and loafs around considerable; but lord, we all do that-leastways
most of us-preachers and such like. But he's kind of good-he give me half
a fish, once, when there warn't enough for two; and lots of times he's
kind of stood by me when I was out of luck."
"Well, he's mended kites for me, Huck, and knitted hooks on to my line.
I wish we could get him out of there."
"My! we couldn't get him out, Tom. And besides, 'twouldn't do any good;
they'd ketch him again."
"Yes-so they would. But I hate to hear 'em abuse him so like the
dickens when he never done-that."
"I do too, Tom. Lord, I hear 'em say he's the bloodiest looking villain
in this country, and they wonder he wasn't ever hung before."
"Yes, they talk like that, all the time. I've heard 'em say that if he
was to get free they'd lynch him."
"And they'd do it, too."
The boys had a long talk, but it brought them little comfort. As the
twilight drew on, they found themselves hanging about the neighborhood of
the little isolated jail, perhaps with an undefined hope that something
would happen that might clear away their difficulties. But nothing
happened; there seemed to be no angels or fairies interested in this
luckless captive.
The boys did as they had often done before-went to the cell grating and
gave Potter some tobacco and matches. He was on the ground floor and there
were no guards.
His gratitude for their gifts had always smote their consciences
before-it cut deeper than ever, this time. They felt cowardly and
treacherous to the last degree when Potter said:
"You've been mighty good to me, boys-better'n anybody else in this
town. And I don't forget it, I don't. Often I says to myself, says I, 'I
used to mend all the boys' kites and things, and show 'em where the good
fishin' places was, and befriend 'em what I could, and now they've all
forgot old Muff when he's in trouble; but Tom don't, and Huck don't-THEY
don't forget him, says I, 'and I don't forget them.' Well, boys, I done an
awful thing-drunk and crazy at the time-that's the only way I account for
it-and now I got to swing for it, and it's right. Right, and BEST, too, I
reckon-hope so, anyway. Well, we won't talk about that. I don't want to
make YOU feel bad; you've befriended me. But what I want to say, is, don't
YOU ever get drunk-then you won't ever get here. Stand a litter furder
west-so-that's it; it's a prime comfort to see faces that's friendly when
a body's in such a muck of trouble, and there don't none come here but
yourn. Good friendly faces-good friendly faces. Git up on one another's
backs and let me touch 'em. That's it. Shake hands-yourn'll come through
the bars, but mine's too big. Little hands, and weak-but they've helped
Muff Potter a power, and they'd help him more if they could."
Tom went home miserable, and his dreams that night were full of
horrors. The next day and the day after, he hung about the court-room,
drawn by an almost irresistible impulse to go in, but forcing himself to
stay out. Huck was having the same experience. They studiously avoided
each other. Each wandered away, from time to time, but the same dismal
fascination always brought them back presently. Tom kept his ears open
when idlers sauntered out of the courtroom, but invariably heard
distressing news-the toils were closing more and more relentlessly around
poor Potter. At the end of the second day the village talk was to the
effect that Injun Joe's evidence stood firm and unshaken, and that there
was not the slightest question as to what the jury's verdict would be.
Tom was out late, that night, and came to bed through the window. He
was in a tremendous state of excitement. It was hours before he got to
sleep. All the village flocked to the court-house the next morning, for
this was to be the great day. Both sexes were about equally represented in
the packed audience. After a long wait the jury filed in and took their
places; shortly afterward, Potter, pale and haggard, timid and hopeless,
was brought in, with chains upon him, and seated where all the curious
eyes could stare at him; no less conspicuous was Injun Joe, stolid as
ever. There was another pause, and then the judge arrived and the sheriff
proclaimed the opening of the court. The usual whisperings among the
lawyers and gathering together of papers followed. These details and
accompanying delays worked up an atmosphere of preparation that was as
impressive as it was fascinating.
Now a witness was called who testified that he found Muff Potter
washing in the brook, at an early hour of the morning that the murder was
discovered, and that he immediately sneaked away. After some further
questioning, counsel for the prosecution said:
"Take the witness."
The prisoner raised his eyes for a moment, but dropped them again when
his own counsel said:
"I have no questions to ask him."
The next witness proved the finding of the knife near the corpse.
Counsel for the prosecution said:
"Take the witness."
"I have no questions to ask him," Potter's lawyer replied.
A third witness swore he had often seen the knife in Potter's possession.
"Take the witness."
Counsel for Potter declined to question him. The faces of the audience
began to betray annoyance. Did this attorney mean to throw away his
client's life without an effort?
Several witnesses deposed concerning Potter's guilty behavior when
brought to the scene of the murder. They were allowed to leave the stand
without being cross-questioned.
Every detail of the damaging circumstances that occurred in the
graveyard upon that morning which all present remembered so well was
brought out by credible witnesses, but none of them were crossexamined by
Potter's lawyer. The perplexity and dissatisfaction of the house expressed
itself in murmurs and provoked a reproof from the bench. Counsel for the
prosecution now said:
"By the oaths of citizens whose simple word is above suspicion, we have
fastened this awful crime, beyond all possibility of question, upon the
unhappy prisoner at the bar. We rest our case here."
A groan escaped from poor Potter, and he put his face in his hands and
rocked his body softly to and fro, while a painful silence reigned in the
court-room. Many men were moved, and many women's compassion testified
itself in tears. Counsel for the defence rose and said:
"Your honor, in our remarks at the opening of this trial, we
foreshadowed our purpose to prove that our client did this fearful deed
while under the influence of a blind and irresponsible delirium produced
by drink. We have changed our mind. We shall not offer that plea." [Then
to the clerk:] "Call Thomas Sawyer!"
A puzzled amazement awoke in every face in the house, not even
excepting Potter's. Every eye fastened itself with wondering interest upon
Tom as he rose and took his place upon the stand. The boy looked wild
enough, for he was badly scared. The oath was administered.
"Thomas Sawyer, where were you on the seventeenth of June, about the
hour of midnight?"
Tom glanced at Injun Joe's iron face and his tongue failed him. The
audience listened breathless, but the words refused to come. After a few
moments, however, the boy got a little of his strength back, and managed
to put enough of it into his voice to make part of the house hear:
"In the graveyard!"
"A little bit louder, please. Don't be afraid. You were-"
"In the graveyard."
A contemptuous smile flitted across Injun Joe's face.
"Were you anywhere near Horse Williams' grave?"
"Yes, sir."
"Speak up-just a trifle louder. How near were you?"
"Near as I am to you."
"Were you hidden, or not?"
"I was hid."
"Where?"
"Behind the elms that's on the edge of the grave."
Injun Joe gave a barely perceptible start.
"Any one with you?"
"Yes, sir. I went there with-"
"Wait-wait a moment. Never mind mentioning your companion's name. We
will produce him at the proper time. Did you carry anything there with
you."
Tom hesitated and looked confused.
"Speak out, my boy-don't be diffident. The truth is always respectable.
What did you take there?"
"Only a-a-dead cat."
There was a ripple of mirth, which the court checked.
"We will produce the skeleton of that cat. Now, my boy, tell us
everything that occurred-tell it in your own way-don't skip anything, and
don't be afraid."
Tom began-hesitatingly at first, but as he warmed to his subject his
words flowed more and more easily; in a little while every sound ceased
but his own voice; every eye fixed itself upon him; with parted lips and
bated breath the audience hung upon his words, taking no note of time,
rapt in the ghastly fascinations of the tale. The strain upon pent emotion
reached its climax when the boy said:
"...and as the doctor fetched the board around and Muff Potter fell,
Injun Joe jumped with the knife and..."
Crash! Quick as lightning the half-breed sprang for a window, tore his
way through all opposers, and was gone!
Tom was a glittering hero once more-the pet of the old, the envy of the
young. His name even went into immortal print, for the village paper
magnified him. There were some that believed he would be President, yet,
if he escaped hanging.
As usual, the fickle, unreasoning world took Muff Potter to its bosom
and fondled him as lavishly as it had abused him before. But that sort of
conduct is to the world's credit; therefore it is not well to find fault
with it.
Tom's days were days of splendor and exultation to him, but his nights
were seasons of horror. Injun Joe infested all his dreams, and always with
doom in his eye. Hardly any temptation could persuade the boy to stir
abroad after nightfall. Poor Huck was in the same state of wretchedness
and terror, for Tom had told the whole story to the lawyer the night
before the great day of the trial, and Huck was sore afraid that his share
in the business might leak out, yet, notwithstanding Injun Joe's flight
had saved him the suffering of testifying in court. The poor fellow had
got the attorney to promise secrecy, but what of that? Since Tom's
harassed conscience had managed to drive him to the lawyer's house by
night and wring a dread tale from lips that had been sealed with the
dismalest and most formidable of oaths, Huck's confidence in the human
race was well-nigh obliterated.
Daily Muff Potter's gratitude made Tom glad he had spoken; but nightly
he wished he had sealed up his tongue.
Half the time Tom was afraid Injun Joe would never be captured; the
other half he was afraid he would be. He felt sure he never could draw a
safe breath again until that man was dead and he had seen the corpse.
Rewards had been offered, the country had been scoured, but no Injun
Joe was found. One of those omniscient and awe-inspiring marvels, a
detective, came up from St. Louis, moused around, shook his head, looked
wise, and made that sort of astounding success which members of that craft
usually achieve. That is to say, he "found a clew." But you can't hang a
think you could let me go to Sereny Harper and make such a fool of myself
and never say a word."
This was a new aspect of the thing. His smartness of the morning had
seemed to Tom a good joke before, and very ingenious. It merely looked
mean and shabby now. He hung his head and could not think of anything to
say for a moment. Then he said:
"Auntie, I wish I hadn't done it-but I didn't think."
"Oh, child, you never think. You never think of anything but your own
selfishness. You could think to come all the way over here from Jackson's
Island in the night to laugh at our troubles, and you could think to fool
me with a lie about a dream; but you couldn't ever think to pity us and
save us from sorrow."
"Auntie, I know now it was mean, but I didn't mean to be mean. I
didn't, honest. And besides, I didn't come over here to laugh at you that
night."
"What did you come for, then?"
"It was to tell you not to be uneasy about us, because we hadn't got
drownded."
"Tom, Tom, I would be the thankfullest soul in this world if I could
believe you ever had as good a thought as that, but you know you never
did-and I know it, Tom."
"Indeed and 'deed I did, auntie-I wish I may never stir if I didn't."
"Oh, Tom, don't lie-don't do it. It only makes things a hundred times
worse."
"It ain't a lie, auntie; it's the truth. I wanted to keep you from
grieving-that was all that made me come."
"I'd give the whole world to believe that-it would cover up a power of
sins, Tom. I'd 'most be glad you'd run off and acted so bad. But it ain't
reasonable; because, why didn't you tell me, child?"
"Why, you see, when you got to talking about the funeral, I just got
all full of the idea of our coming and hiding in the church, and I
couldn't somehow bear to spoil it. So I just put the bark back in my
pocket and kept mum."
"What bark?"
"The bark I had wrote on to tell you we'd gone pirating. I wish, now,
you'd waked up when I kissed you-I do, honest."
The hard lines in his aunt's face relaxed and a sudden tenderness
dawned in her eyes.
"DID you kiss me, Tom?"
"Why, yes, I did."
"Are you sure you did, Tom?"
"Why, yes, I did, auntie-certain sure."
"What did you kiss me for, Tom?"
"Because I loved you so, and you laid there moaning and I was so sorry."
The words sounded like truth. The old lady could not hide a tremor in
her voice when she said:
"Kiss me again, Tom!-and be off with you to school, now, and don't
bother me any more."
The moment he was gone, she ran to a closet and got out the ruin of a
jacket which Tom had gone pirating in. Then she stopped, with it in her
hand, and said to herself:
"No, I don't dare. Poor boy, I reckon he's lied about it-but it's a
blessed, blessed lie, there's such a comfort come from it. I hope the
Lord-I KNOW the Lord will forgive him, because it was such goodheartedness
in him to tell it. But I don't want to find out it's a lie. I won't look."
She put the jacket away, and stood by musing a minute. Twice she put
out her hand to take the garment again, and twice she refrained. Once more
she ventured, and this time she fortified herself with the thought: "It's
a good lie-it's a good lie-I won't let it grieve me." So she sought the
jacket pocket. A moment later she was reading Tom's piece of bark through
flowing tears and saying: "I could forgive the boy, now, if he'd committed
a million sins!"
There was something about Aunt Polly's manner, when she kissed Tom,
that swept away his low spirits and made him lighthearted and happy again.
He started to school and had the luck of coming upon Becky Thatcher at the
head of Meadow Lane. His mood always determined his manner. Without a
moment's hesitation he ran to her and said:
"I acted mighty mean to-day, Becky, and I'm so sorry. I won't ever,
ever do that way again, as long as ever I live-please make up, won't you?"
The girl stopped and looked him scornfully in the face:
"I'll thank you to keep yourself TO yourself, Mr. Thomas Sawyer. I'll
never speak to you again."
She tossed her head and passed on. Tom was so stunned that he had not
even presence of mind enough to say "Who cares, Miss Smarty?" until the
right time to say it had gone by. So he said nothing. But he was in a fine
rage, nevertheless. He moped into the schoolyard wishing she were a boy,
and imagining how he would trounce her if she were. He presently
encountered her and delivered a stinging remark as he passed. She hurled
one in return, and the angry breach was complete. It seemed to Becky, in
her hot resentment, that she could hardly wait for school to "take in,"
she was so impatient to see Tom flogged for the injured spelling-book. If
she had had any lingering notion of exposing Alfred Temple, Tom's
offensive fling had driven it entirely away.
Poor girl, she did not know how fast she was nearing trouble herself.
The master, Mr. Dobbins, had reached middle age with an unsatisfied
ambition. The darling of his desires was, to be a doctor, but poverty had
decreed that he should be nothing higher than a village schoolmaster.
Every day he took a mysterious book out of his desk and absorbed himself
in it at times when no classes were reciting. He kept that book under lock
and key. There was not an urchin in school but was perishing to have a
glimpse of it, but the chance never came. Every boy and girl had a theory
about the nature of that book; but no two theories were alike, and there
was no way of getting at the facts in the case. Now, as Becky was passing
by the desk, which stood near the door, she noticed that the key was in
the lock! It was a precious moment. She glanced around; found herself
alone, and the next instant she had the book in her hands. The
title-page-Professor Somebody's ANATomY-carried no information to her
mind; so she began to turn the leaves. She came at once upon a handsomely
engraved and colored frontispiece-a human figure, stark naked. At that
moment a shadow fell on the page and Tom Sawyer stepped in at the door and
caught a glimpse of the picture. Becky snatched at the book to close it,
and had the hard luck to tear the pictured page half down the middle. She
thrust the volume into the desk, turned the key, and burst out crying with
shame and vexation.
"Tom Sawyer, you are just as mean as you can be, to sneak up on a
person and look at what they're looking at."
"How could I know you was looking at anything?"
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Tom Sawyer; you know you're going
to tell on me, and oh, what shall I do, what shall I do! I'll be whipped,
and I never was whipped in school."
Then she stamped her little foot and said:
"BE so mean if you want to! I know something that's going to happen.
You just wait and you'll see! Hateful, hateful, hateful!"-and she flung
out of the house with a new explosion of crying.
Tom stood still, rather flustered by this onslaught. Presently he said
to himself:
"What a curious kind of a fool a girl is! Never been licked in school!
Shucks! What's a licking! That's just like a girl-they're so thin-skinned
and chicken-hearted. Well, of course I ain't going to tell old Dobbins on
this little fool, because there's other ways of getting even on her, that
ain't so mean; but what of it? Old Dobbins will ask who it was tore his
book. Nobody'll answer. Then he'll do just the way he always does-ask
first one and then t'other, and when he comes to the right girl he'll know
it, without any telling. Girls' faces always tell on them. They ain't got
any backbone. She'll get licked. Well, it's a kind of a tight place for
Becky Thatcher, because there ain't any way out of it." Tom conned the
thing a moment longer, and then added: "All right, though; she'd like to
see me in just such a fix-let her sweat it out!"
Tom joined the mob of skylarking scholars outside. In a few moments the
master arrived and school "took in." Tom did not feel a strong interest in
his studies. Every time he stole a glance at the girls' side of the room
Becky's face troubled him. Considering all things, he did not want to pity
her, and yet it was all he could do to help it. He could get up no
exultation that was really worthy the name. Presently the spelling-book
discovery was made, and Tom's mind was entirely full of his own matters
for a while after that. Becky roused up from her lethargy of distress and
showed good interest in the proceedings. She did not expect that Tom could
get out of his trouble by denying that he spilt the ink on the book
himself; and she was right. The denial only seemed to make the thing worse
for Tom. Becky supposed she would be glad of that, and she tried to
believe she was glad of it, but she found she was not certain. When the
worst came to the worst, she had an impulse to get up and tell on Alfred
Temple, but she made an effort and forced herself to keep still-because,
said she to herself, "he'll tell about me tearing the picture sure. I
wouldn't say a word, not to save his life!"
Tom took his whipping and went back to his seat not at all
broken-hearted, for he thought it was possible that he had unknowingly
upset the ink on the spellingbook himself, in some skylarking bout-he had
denied it for form's sake and because it was cusTom, and had stuck to the
denial from principle.
A whole hour drifted by, the master sat nodding in his throne, the air
was drowsy with the hum of study. By and by, Mr. Dobbins straightened
himself up, yawned, then unlocked his desk, and reached for his book, but
seemed undecided whether to take it out or leave it. Most of the pupils
glanced up languidly, but there were two among them that watched his
movements with intent eyes. Mr. Dobbins fingered his book absently for a
while, then took it out and settled himself in his chair to read! Tom shot
a glance at Becky. He had seen a hunted and helpless rabbit look as she
did, with a gun levelled at its head. Instantly he forgot his quarrel with
her. Quick-something must be done! done in a flash, too! But the very
imminence of the emergency paralyzed his invention. Good!-he had an
inspiration! He would run and snatch the book, spring through the door and
fly. But his resolution shook for one little instant, and the chance was
lost-the master opened the volume. If Tom only had the wasted opportunity
back again! Too late. There was no help for Becky now, he said. The next
moment the master faced the school. Every eye sank under his gaze. There
was that in it which smote even the innocent with fear. There was silence
while one might count ten-the master was gathering his wrath. Then he
spoke: "Who tore this book?"
There was not a sound. One could have heard a pin drop. The stillness
continued; the master searched face after face for signs of guilt.
"Benjamin Rogers, did you tear this book?"
A denial. Another pause.
"Joseph Harper, did you?"
Another denial. Tom's uneasiness grew more and more intense under the
slow torture of these proceedings. The master scanned the ranks of
boys-considered a while, then turned to the girls:
"Amy Lawrence?"
A shake of the head.
"Gracie Miller?"
The same sign.
"Susan Harper, did you do this?"
Another negative. The next girl was Becky Thatcher. Tom was trembling
from head to foot with excitement and a sense of the hopelessness of the
situation.
"Rebecca Thatcher" [Tom glanced at her face-it was white with
terror]-"did you tear-no, look me in the face" [her hands rose in
appeal]-"did you tear this book?"
A thought shot like lightning through Tom's brain. He sprang to his
feet and shouted-"I done it!"
The school stared in perplexity at this incredible folly. Tom stood a
moment, to gather his dismembered faculties; and when he stepped forward
to go to his punishment the surprise, the gratitude, the adoration that
shone upon him out of poor Becky's eyes seemed pay enough for a hundred
floggings. Inspired by the splendor of his own act, he took without an
outcry the most merciless flaying that even Mr. Dobbins had ever
administered; and also received with indifference the added cruelty of a
command to remain two hours after school should be dismissed-for he knew
who would wait for him outside till his captivity was done, and not count
the tedious time as loss, either.
Tom went to bed that night planning vengeance against Alfred Temple;
for with shame and repentance Becky had told him all, not forgetting her
own treachery; but even the longing for vengeance had to give way, soon,
to pleasanter musings, and he fell asleep at last with Becky's latest
words lingering dreamily in his ear-
"Tom, how COULD you be so noble!"
Vacation was approaching. The schoolmaster, always severe, grew severer
and more exacting than ever, for he wanted the school to make a good
showing on "Examination" day. His rod and his ferule were seldom idle
now-at least among the smaller pupils. Only the biggest boys, and young
ladies of eighteen and twenty, escaped lashing. Mr. Dobbins' lashings were
very vigorous ones, too; for although he carried, under his wig, a
perfectly bald and shiny head, he had only reached middle age, and there
was no sign of feebleness in his muscle. As the great day approached, all
the tyranny that was in him came to the surface; he seemed to take a
vindictive pleasure in punishing the least shortcomings. The consequence
was, that the smaller boys spent their days in terror and suffering and
their nights in plotting revenge. They threw away no opportunity to do the
master a mischief. But he kept ahead all the time. The retribution that
followed every vengeful success was so sweeping and majestic that the boys
always retired from the field badly worsted. At last they conspired
together and hit upon a plan that promised a dazzling victory. They swore
in the sign-painter's boy, told him the scheme, and asked his help. He had
his own reasons for being delighted, for the master boarded in his
father's family and had given the boy ample cause to hate him. The
master's wife would go on a visit to the country in a few days, and there
would be nothing to interfere with the plan; the master always prepared
himself for great occasions by getting pretty well fuddled, and the
sign-painter's boy said that when the dominie had reached the proper
condition on Examination Evening he would "manage the thing" while he
napped in his chair; then he would have him awakened at the right time and
hurried away to school.
In the fulness of time the interesting occasion arrived. At eight in
the evening the schoolhouse was brilliantly lighted, and adorned with
wreaths and festoons of foliage and flowers. The master sat throned in his
great chair upon a raised platform, with his blackboard behind him. He was
looking tolerably mellow. Three rows of benches on each side and six rows
in front of him were occupied by the dignitaries of the town and by the
parents of the pupils. To his left, back of the rows of citizens, was a
spacious temporary platform upon which were seated the scholars who were
to take part in the exercises of the evening; rows of small boys, washed
and dressed to an intolerable state of discomfort; rows of gawky big boys;
snowbanks of girls and young ladies clad in lawn and muslin and
conspicuously conscious of their bare arms, their grandmothers' ancient
trinkets, their bits of pink and blue ribbon and the flowers in their
hair. All the rest of the house was filled with non-participating
scholars.
The exercises began. A very little boy stood up and sheepishly recited,
"You'd scarce expect one of my age to speak in public on the stage,"
etc.-accompanying himself with the painfully exact and spasmodic gestures
which a machine might have used-supposing the machine to be a trifle out
of order. But he got through safely, though cruelly scared, and got a fine
round of applause when he made his manufactured bow and retired.
A little shamefaced girl lisped, "Mary had a little lamb," etc.,
performed a compassion-inspiring curtsy, got her meed of applause, and sat
down flushed and happy.
Tom Sawyer stepped forward with conceited confidence and soared into
the unquenchable and indestructible "Give me liberty or give me death"
speech, with fine fury and frantic gesticulation, and broke down in the
middle of it. A ghastly stage-fright seized him, his legs quaked under him
and he was like to choke. True, he had the manifest sympathy of the house
but he had the house's silence, too, which was even worse than its
sympathy. The master frowned, and this completed the disaster. Tom
struggled awhile and then retired, utterly defeated. There was a weak
attempt at applause, but it died early.
"The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck" followed; also "The Assyrian Came
Down," and other declamatory gems. Then there were reading exercises, and
a spelling fight. The meagre Latin class recited with honor. The prime
feature of the evening was in order, now-original "compositions" by the
young ladies. Each in her turn stepped forward to the edge of the
platform, cleared her throat, held up her manuscript (tied with dainty
ribbon), and proceeded to read, with labored attention to "expression" and
punctuation. The themes were the same that had been illuminated upon
similar occasions by their mothers before them, their grandmothers, and
doubtless all their ancestors in the female line clear back to the
Crusades. "Friendship" was one; "Memories of Other Days"; "Religion in
History"; "Dream Land"; "The Advantages of Culture"; "Forms of Political
Government Compared and Contrasted"; "Melancholy"; "Filial Love"; "Heart
Longings," etc., etc.
A prevalent feature in these compositions was a nursed and petted
melancholy; another was a wasteful and opulent gush of "fine language";
another was a tendency to lug in by the ears particularly prized words and
phrases until they were worn entirely out; and a peculiarity that
conspicuously marked and marred them was the inveterate and intolerable
sermon that wagged its crippled tail at the end of each and every one of
them. No matter what the subject might be, a brain-racking effort was made
to squirm it into some aspect or other that the moral and religious mind
could contemplate with edification. The glaring insincerity of these
sermons was not sufficient to compass the banishment of the fashion from
the schools, and it is not sufficient to-day; it never will be sufficient
while the world stands, perhaps. There is no school in all our land where
the young ladies do not feel obliged to close their compositions with a
sermon; and you will find that the sermon of the most frivolous and the
least religious girl in the school is always the longest and the most
relentlessly pious. But enough of this. Homely truth is unpalatable.
Let us return to the "Examination." The first composition that was read
was one entitled "Is this, then, Life?" Perhaps the reader can endure an
extract from it:
"In the common walks of life, with what delightful emotions does the
youthful mind look forward to some anticipated scene of festivity!
Imagination is busy sketching rose-tinted pictures of joy. In fancy, the
voluptuous votary of fashion sees herself amid the festive throng, 'the
observed of all observers.' Her graceful form, arrayed in snowy robes, is
whirling through the mazes of the joyous dance; her eye is brightest, her
step is lightest in the gay assembly.
"In such delicious fancies time quickly glides by, and the welcome hour
arrives for her entrance into the Elysian world, of which she has had such
bright dreams. How fairy-like does everything appear to her enchanted
vision! Each new scene is more charming than the last. But after a while
she finds that beneath this goodly exterior, all is vanity, the flattery
which once charmed her soul, now grates harshly upon her ear; the
ball-room has lost its charms; and with wasted health and imbittered
heart, she turns away with the conviction that earthly pleasures cannot
satisfy the longings of the soul!"
And so forth and so on. There was a buzz of gratification from time to
time during the reading, accompanied by whispered ejaculations of "How
sweet!" "How eloquent!" "So true!" etc., and after the thing had closed
with a peculiarly afflicting sermon the applause was enthusiastic.
Then arose a slim, melancholy girl, whose face had the "interesting"
paleness that comes of pills and indigestion, and read a "poem." Two
stanzas of it will do:
A MISSOURI MAIDEN'S FAREWELL TO ALABAMA
But yet for a while do I leave thee now!
Sad, yes, sad thoughts of thee my heart doth swell,
And burning recollections throng my brow!
For I have wandered through thy flowery woods;
Have roamed and read near Tallapoosa's stream;
Have listened to Tallassee's warring floods,
And wooed on Coosa's side Aurora's beam.
Yet shame I not to bear an o'er-full heart,
Nor blush to turn behind my tearful eyes;
Tis from no stranger land I now must part,
Tis to no strangers left I yield these sighs.
Welcome and home were mine within this State,
Whose vales I leave-whose spires fade fast from me
And cold must be mine eyes, and heart, and tete,
When, dear Alabama! they turn cold on thee!"
There were very few there who knew what "tete" meant, but the poem was
very satisfactory, nevertheless.
Next appeared a dark-complexioned, black-eyed, black-haired young lady,
who paused an impressive moment, assumed a tragic expression, and began to
read in a measured, solemn tone:
Dark and tempestuous was night. Around the throne on high not a single
star quivered; but the deep intonations of the heavy thunder constantly
vibrated upon the ear; whilst the terrific lightning revelled in angry
mood through the cloudy chambers of heaven, seeming to scorn the power
exerted over its terror by the illustrious Franklin! Even the boisterous
winds unanimously came forth from their mystic homes, and blustered about
as if to enhance by their aid the wildness of the scene.
At such a time, so dark, so dreary, for human sympathy my very spirit
sighed; but instead thereof,
My dearest friend, my counsellor, my comforter and guide-
My joy in grief, my second bliss in joy, came to my side.
She moved like one of those bright beings pictured in the sunny walks
of fancy's Eden by the romantic and young, a queen of beauty unadorned
save by her own transcendent loveliness. So soft was her step, it failed
to make even a sound, and but for the magical thrill imparted by her
genial touch, as other unobtrusive beauties, she would have glided away
un-perceived-unsought. A strange sadness rested upon her features, like
icy tears upon the robe of December, as she pointed to the contending
elements without, and bade me contemplate the two beings presented."
This nightmare occupied some ten pages of manuscript and wound up with
a sermon so destructive of all hope to non-Presbyterians that it took the
first prize. This composition was considered to be the very finest effort
of the evening. The mayor of the village, in delivering the prize to the
author of it, made a warm speech in which he said that it was by far the
most "eloquent" thing he had ever listened to, and that Daniel Webster
himself might well be proud of it.
It may be remarked, in passing, that the number of compositions in
which the word "beauteous" was over-fondled, and human experience referred
to as "life's page," was up to the usual average.
Now the master, mellow almost to the verge of geniality, put his chair
aside, turned his back to the audience, and began to draw a map of America
on the blackboard, to exercise the geography class upon. But he made a sad
business of it with his unsteady hand, and a smothered titter rippled over
the house. He knew what the matter was, and set himself to right it. He
sponged out lines and remade them; but he only distorted them more than
ever, and the tittering was more pronounced. He threw his entire attention
upon his work, now, as if determined not to be put down by the mirth. He
felt that all eyes were fastened upon him; he imagined he was succeeding,
and yet the tittering continued; it even manifestly increased. And well it
might. There was a garret above, pierced with a scuttle over his head; and
down through this scuttle came a cat, suspended around the haunches by a
string; she had a rag tied about her head and jaws to keep her from
mewing; as she slowly descended she curved upward and clawed at the
string, she swung downward and clawed at the intangible air. The tittering
rose higher and higher-the cat was within six inches of the absorbed
teacher's head-down, down, a little lower, and she grabbed his wig with
her desperate claws, clung to it, and was snatched up into the garret in
an instant with her trophy still in her possession! And how the light did
blaze abroad from the master's bald pate-for the sign-painter's boy had
GILDED it!
That broke up the meeting. The boys were avenged. Vacation had come.
NOTE:
The pretended "compositions" quoted in this chapter are taken without
alteration from a volume entitled "Prose and Poetry, by a Western
Lady"-but they are exactly and precisely after the schoolgirl pattern, and
hence are much happier than any mere imitations could be.
Tom joined the new order of Cadets of Temperance, being attracted by
the showy character of their "regalia." He promised to abstain from
smoking, chewing, and profanity as long as he remained a member. Now he
found out a new thing-namely, that to promise not to do a thing is the
surest way in the world to make a body want to go and do that very thing.
Tom soon found himself tormented with a desire to drink and swear; the
desire grew to be so intense that nothing but the hope of a chance to
display himself in his red sash kept him from withdrawing from the order.
Fourth of July was coming; but he soon gave that up-gave it up before he
had worn his shackles over forty-eight hours-and fixed his hopes upon old
Judge Frazer, justice of the peace, who was apparently on his deathbed and
would have a big public funeral, since he was so high an official. During
three days Tom was deeply concerned about the Judge's condition and hungry
for news of it. Sometimes his hopes ran high-so high that he would venture
to get out his regalia and practise before the lookingglass. But the Judge
had a most discouraging way of fluctuating. At last he was pronounced upon
the mend-and then convalescent. Tom was disgusted; and felt a sense of
injury, too. He handed in his resignation at once-and that night the Judge
suffered a relapse and died. Tom resolved that he would never trust a man
like that again.
The funeral was a fine thing. The Cadets paraded in a style calculated
to kill the late member with envy. Tom was a free boy again, however-there
was something in that. He could drink and swear, now-but found to his
surprise that he did not want to. The simple fact that he could, took the
desire away, and the charm of it.
Tom presently wondered to find that his coveted vacation was beginning
to hang a little heavily on his hands.
He attempted a diary-but nothing happened during three days, and so he
abandoned it.
The first of all the negro minstrel shows came to town, and made a
sensation. Tom and Joe Harper got up a band of performers and were happy
for two days.
Even the Glorious Fourth was in some sense a failure, for it rained
hard, there was no procession in consequence, and the greatest man in the
world (as Tom supposed), Mr. Benton, an actual United States Senator,
proved an overwhelming disappointment-for he was not twenty-five feet
high, nor even anywhere in the neighborhood of it.
A circus came. The boys played circus for three days afterward in tents
made of rag carpeting-admission, three pins for boys, two for girls-and
then circusing was abandoned.
A phrenologist and a mesmerizer came-and went again and left the
village duller and drearier than ever.
There were some boys-and-girls' parties, but they were so few and so
delightful that they only made the aching voids between ache the harder.
Becky Thatcher was gone to her Constantinople home to stay with her
parents during vacation-so there was no bright side to life anywhere.
The dreadful secret of the murder was a chronic misery. It was a very
cancer for permanency and pain.
Then came the measles.
During two long weeks Tom lay a prisoner, dead to the world and its
happenings. He was very ill, he was interested in nothing. When he got
upon his feet at last and moved feebly down-town, a melancholy change had
come over everything and every creature. There had been a "revival," and
everybody had "got religion," not only the adults, but even the boys and
girls. Tom went about, hoping against hope for the sight of one blessed
sinful face, but disappointment crossed him everywhere. He found Joe
Harper studying a Testament, and turned sadly away from the depressing
spectacle. He sought Ben Rogers, and found him visiting the poor with a
basket of tracts. He hunted up Jim Hollis, who called his attention to the
precious blessing of his late measles as a warning. Every boy he
encountered added another ton to his depression; and when, in desperation,
he flew for refuge at last to the bosom of Huckleberry Finn and was
received with a Scriptural quotation, his heart broke and he crept home
and to bed realizing that he alone of all the town was lost, forever and
forever.
And that night there came on a terrific storm, with driving rain, awful
claps of thunder and blinding sheets of lightning. He covered his head
with the bedclothes and waited in a horror of suspense for his doom; for
he had not the shadow of a doubt that all this hubbub was about him. He
believed he had taxed the forbearance of the powers above to the extremity
of endurance and that this was the result. It might have seemed to him a
waste of pomp and ammunition to kill a bug with a battery of artillery,
but there seemed nothing incongruous about the getting up such an
expensive thunderstorm as this to knock the turf from under an insect like
himself.
By and by the tempest spent itself and died without accomplishing its
object. The boy's first impulse was to be grateful, and reform. His second
was to wait-for there might not be any more storms.
The next day the doctors were back; Tom had relapsed. The three weeks
he spent on his back this time seemed an entire age. When he got abroad at
last he was hardly grateful that he had been spared, remembering how
lonely was his estate, how companionless and forlorn he was. He drifted
listlessly down the street and found Jim Hollis acting as judge in a
juvenile court that was trying a cat for murder, in the presence of her
victim, a bird. He found Joe Harper and Huck Finn up an alley eating a
stolen melon. Poor lads! they-like Tom-had suffered a relapse.
At last the sleepy atmosphere was stirred-and vigorously: the murder
trial came on in the court. It became the absorbing topic of village talk
immediately. Tom could not get away from it. Every reference to the murder
sent a shudder to his heart, for his troubled conscience and fears almost
persuaded him that these remarks were put forth in his hearing as
"feelers"; he did not see how he could be suspected of knowing anything
about the murder, but still he could not be comfortable in the midst of
this gossip. It kept him in a cold shiver all the time. He took Huck to a
lonely place to have a talk with him. It would be some relief to unseal
his tongue for a little while; to divide his burden of distress with
another sufferer. Moreover, he wanted to assure himself that Huck had
remained discreet.
"Huck, have you ever told anybody about-that?"
"Bout what?"
"You know what."
"Oh-'course I haven't."
"Never a word?"
"Never a solitary word, so help me. What makes you ask?"
"Well, I was afeard."
"Why, Tom Sawyer, we wouldn't be alive two days if that got found out.
YOU know that."
Tom felt more comfortable. After a pause:
"Huck, they couldn't anybody get you to tell, could they?"
"Get me to tell? Why, if I wanted that half-breed devil to drownd me
they could get me to tell. They ain't no different way."
"Well, that's all right, then. I reckon we're safe as long as we keep
mum. But let's swear again, anyway. It's more surer."
"I'm agreed."
So they swore again with dread solemnities.
"What is the talk around, Huck? I've heard a power of it."
"Talk? Well, it's just Muff Potter, Muff Potter, Muff Potter all the
time. It keeps me in a sweat, constant, so's I want to hide som'ers."
"That's just the same way they go on round me. I reckon he's a goner.
Don't you feel sorry for him, sometimes?"
"Most always-most always. He ain't no account; but then he hain't ever
done anything to hurt anybody. Just fishes a little, to get money to get
drunk on-and loafs around considerable; but lord, we all do that-leastways
most of us-preachers and such like. But he's kind of good-he give me half
a fish, once, when there warn't enough for two; and lots of times he's
kind of stood by me when I was out of luck."
"Well, he's mended kites for me, Huck, and knitted hooks on to my line.
I wish we could get him out of there."
"My! we couldn't get him out, Tom. And besides, 'twouldn't do any good;
they'd ketch him again."
"Yes-so they would. But I hate to hear 'em abuse him so like the
dickens when he never done-that."
"I do too, Tom. Lord, I hear 'em say he's the bloodiest looking villain
in this country, and they wonder he wasn't ever hung before."
"Yes, they talk like that, all the time. I've heard 'em say that if he
was to get free they'd lynch him."
"And they'd do it, too."
The boys had a long talk, but it brought them little comfort. As the
twilight drew on, they found themselves hanging about the neighborhood of
the little isolated jail, perhaps with an undefined hope that something
would happen that might clear away their difficulties. But nothing
happened; there seemed to be no angels or fairies interested in this
luckless captive.
The boys did as they had often done before-went to the cell grating and
gave Potter some tobacco and matches. He was on the ground floor and there
were no guards.
His gratitude for their gifts had always smote their consciences
before-it cut deeper than ever, this time. They felt cowardly and
treacherous to the last degree when Potter said:
"You've been mighty good to me, boys-better'n anybody else in this
town. And I don't forget it, I don't. Often I says to myself, says I, 'I
used to mend all the boys' kites and things, and show 'em where the good
fishin' places was, and befriend 'em what I could, and now they've all
forgot old Muff when he's in trouble; but Tom don't, and Huck don't-THEY
don't forget him, says I, 'and I don't forget them.' Well, boys, I done an
awful thing-drunk and crazy at the time-that's the only way I account for
it-and now I got to swing for it, and it's right. Right, and BEST, too, I
reckon-hope so, anyway. Well, we won't talk about that. I don't want to
make YOU feel bad; you've befriended me. But what I want to say, is, don't
YOU ever get drunk-then you won't ever get here. Stand a litter furder
west-so-that's it; it's a prime comfort to see faces that's friendly when
a body's in such a muck of trouble, and there don't none come here but
yourn. Good friendly faces-good friendly faces. Git up on one another's
backs and let me touch 'em. That's it. Shake hands-yourn'll come through
the bars, but mine's too big. Little hands, and weak-but they've helped
Muff Potter a power, and they'd help him more if they could."
Tom went home miserable, and his dreams that night were full of
horrors. The next day and the day after, he hung about the court-room,
drawn by an almost irresistible impulse to go in, but forcing himself to
stay out. Huck was having the same experience. They studiously avoided
each other. Each wandered away, from time to time, but the same dismal
fascination always brought them back presently. Tom kept his ears open
when idlers sauntered out of the courtroom, but invariably heard
distressing news-the toils were closing more and more relentlessly around
poor Potter. At the end of the second day the village talk was to the
effect that Injun Joe's evidence stood firm and unshaken, and that there
was not the slightest question as to what the jury's verdict would be.
Tom was out late, that night, and came to bed through the window. He
was in a tremendous state of excitement. It was hours before he got to
sleep. All the village flocked to the court-house the next morning, for
this was to be the great day. Both sexes were about equally represented in
the packed audience. After a long wait the jury filed in and took their
places; shortly afterward, Potter, pale and haggard, timid and hopeless,
was brought in, with chains upon him, and seated where all the curious
eyes could stare at him; no less conspicuous was Injun Joe, stolid as
ever. There was another pause, and then the judge arrived and the sheriff
proclaimed the opening of the court. The usual whisperings among the
lawyers and gathering together of papers followed. These details and
accompanying delays worked up an atmosphere of preparation that was as
impressive as it was fascinating.
Now a witness was called who testified that he found Muff Potter
washing in the brook, at an early hour of the morning that the murder was
discovered, and that he immediately sneaked away. After some further
questioning, counsel for the prosecution said:
"Take the witness."
The prisoner raised his eyes for a moment, but dropped them again when
his own counsel said:
"I have no questions to ask him."
The next witness proved the finding of the knife near the corpse.
Counsel for the prosecution said:
"Take the witness."
"I have no questions to ask him," Potter's lawyer replied.
A third witness swore he had often seen the knife in Potter's possession.
"Take the witness."
Counsel for Potter declined to question him. The faces of the audience
began to betray annoyance. Did this attorney mean to throw away his
client's life without an effort?
Several witnesses deposed concerning Potter's guilty behavior when
brought to the scene of the murder. They were allowed to leave the stand
without being cross-questioned.
Every detail of the damaging circumstances that occurred in the
graveyard upon that morning which all present remembered so well was
brought out by credible witnesses, but none of them were crossexamined by
Potter's lawyer. The perplexity and dissatisfaction of the house expressed
itself in murmurs and provoked a reproof from the bench. Counsel for the
prosecution now said:
"By the oaths of citizens whose simple word is above suspicion, we have
fastened this awful crime, beyond all possibility of question, upon the
unhappy prisoner at the bar. We rest our case here."
A groan escaped from poor Potter, and he put his face in his hands and
rocked his body softly to and fro, while a painful silence reigned in the
court-room. Many men were moved, and many women's compassion testified
itself in tears. Counsel for the defence rose and said:
"Your honor, in our remarks at the opening of this trial, we
foreshadowed our purpose to prove that our client did this fearful deed
while under the influence of a blind and irresponsible delirium produced
by drink. We have changed our mind. We shall not offer that plea." [Then
to the clerk:] "Call Thomas Sawyer!"
A puzzled amazement awoke in every face in the house, not even
excepting Potter's. Every eye fastened itself with wondering interest upon
Tom as he rose and took his place upon the stand. The boy looked wild
enough, for he was badly scared. The oath was administered.
"Thomas Sawyer, where were you on the seventeenth of June, about the
hour of midnight?"
Tom glanced at Injun Joe's iron face and his tongue failed him. The
audience listened breathless, but the words refused to come. After a few
moments, however, the boy got a little of his strength back, and managed
to put enough of it into his voice to make part of the house hear:
"In the graveyard!"
"A little bit louder, please. Don't be afraid. You were-"
"In the graveyard."
A contemptuous smile flitted across Injun Joe's face.
"Were you anywhere near Horse Williams' grave?"
"Yes, sir."
"Speak up-just a trifle louder. How near were you?"
"Near as I am to you."
"Were you hidden, or not?"
"I was hid."
"Where?"
"Behind the elms that's on the edge of the grave."
Injun Joe gave a barely perceptible start.
"Any one with you?"
"Yes, sir. I went there with-"
"Wait-wait a moment. Never mind mentioning your companion's name. We
will produce him at the proper time. Did you carry anything there with
you."
Tom hesitated and looked confused.
"Speak out, my boy-don't be diffident. The truth is always respectable.
What did you take there?"
"Only a-a-dead cat."
There was a ripple of mirth, which the court checked.
"We will produce the skeleton of that cat. Now, my boy, tell us
everything that occurred-tell it in your own way-don't skip anything, and
don't be afraid."
Tom began-hesitatingly at first, but as he warmed to his subject his
words flowed more and more easily; in a little while every sound ceased
but his own voice; every eye fixed itself upon him; with parted lips and
bated breath the audience hung upon his words, taking no note of time,
rapt in the ghastly fascinations of the tale. The strain upon pent emotion
reached its climax when the boy said:
"...and as the doctor fetched the board around and Muff Potter fell,
Injun Joe jumped with the knife and..."
Crash! Quick as lightning the half-breed sprang for a window, tore his
way through all opposers, and was gone!
Tom was a glittering hero once more-the pet of the old, the envy of the
young. His name even went into immortal print, for the village paper
magnified him. There were some that believed he would be President, yet,
if he escaped hanging.
As usual, the fickle, unreasoning world took Muff Potter to its bosom
and fondled him as lavishly as it had abused him before. But that sort of
conduct is to the world's credit; therefore it is not well to find fault
with it.
Tom's days were days of splendor and exultation to him, but his nights
were seasons of horror. Injun Joe infested all his dreams, and always with
doom in his eye. Hardly any temptation could persuade the boy to stir
abroad after nightfall. Poor Huck was in the same state of wretchedness
and terror, for Tom had told the whole story to the lawyer the night
before the great day of the trial, and Huck was sore afraid that his share
in the business might leak out, yet, notwithstanding Injun Joe's flight
had saved him the suffering of testifying in court. The poor fellow had
got the attorney to promise secrecy, but what of that? Since Tom's
harassed conscience had managed to drive him to the lawyer's house by
night and wring a dread tale from lips that had been sealed with the
dismalest and most formidable of oaths, Huck's confidence in the human
race was well-nigh obliterated.
Daily Muff Potter's gratitude made Tom glad he had spoken; but nightly
he wished he had sealed up his tongue.
Half the time Tom was afraid Injun Joe would never be captured; the
other half he was afraid he would be. He felt sure he never could draw a
safe breath again until that man was dead and he had seen the corpse.
Rewards had been offered, the country had been scoured, but no Injun
Joe was found. One of those omniscient and awe-inspiring marvels, a
detective, came up from St. Louis, moused around, shook his head, looked
wise, and made that sort of astounding success which members of that craft
usually achieve. That is to say, he "found a clew." But you can't hang a