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straggling footpassengers disappeared, the village betook itself to its
slumbers and left the small watcher alone with the silence and the ghosts.
Eleven o'clock came, and the tavern lights were put out; darkness
everywhere, now. Huck waited what seemed a weary long time, but nothing
happened. His faith was weakening. Was there any use? Was there really any
use? Why not give it up and turn in?
A noise fell upon his ear. He was all attention in an instant. The
alley door closed softly. He sprang to the corner of the brick store. The
next moment two men brushed by him, and one seemed to have something under
his arm. It must be that box! So they were going to remove the treasure.
Why call Tom now? It would be absurd-the men would get away with the box
and never be found again. No, he would stick to their wake and follow
them; he would trust to the darkness for security from discovery. So
communing with himself, Huck stepped out and glided along behind the men,
cat-like, with bare feet, allowing them to keep just far enough ahead not
to be invisible.
They moved up the river street three blocks, then turned to the left up
a cross-street. They went straight ahead, then, until they came to the
path that led up Cardiff Hill; this they took. They passed by the old
Welshman's house, half-way up the hill, without hesitating, and still
climbed upward. Good, thought Huck, they will bury it in the old quarry.
But they never stopped at the quarry. They passed on, up the summit. They
plunged into the narrow path between the tall sumach bushes, and were at
once hidden in the gloom. Huck closed up and shortened his distance, now,
for they would never be able to see him. He trotted along awhile; then
slackened his pace, fearing he was gaining too fast; moved on a piece,
then stopped altogether; listened; no sound; none, save that he seemed to
hear the beating of his own heart. The hooting of an owl came over the
hill-ominous sound! But no footsteps. Heavens, was everything lost! He was
about to spring with winged feet, when a man cleared his throat not four
feet from him! Huck's heart shot into his throat, but he swallowed it
again; and then he stood there shaking as if a dozen agues had taken
charge of him at once, and so weak that he thought he must surely fall to
the ground. He knew where he was. He knew he was within five steps of the
stile leading into Widow Douglas' grounds. Very well, he thought, let them
bury it there; it won't be hard to find.
Now there was a voice-a very low voice-Injun Joe's:
"Damn her, maybe she's got company-there's lights, late as it is."
"I can't see any."
This was that stranger's voice-the stranger of the haunted house. A
deadly chill went to Huck's heart-this, then, was the "revenge" job! His
thought was, to fly. Then he remembered that the Widow Douglas had been
kind to him more than once, and maybe these men were going to murder her.
He wished he dared venture to warn her; but he knew he didn't dare-they
might come and catch him. He thought all this and more in the moment that
elapsed between the stranger's remark and Injun Joe's next-which was-
"Because the bush is in your way. Now-this way-now you see, don't you?"
"Yes. Well, there IS company there, I reckon. Better give it up."
"Give it up, and I just leaving this country forever! Give it up and
maybe never have another chance. I tell you again, as I've told you
before, I don't care for her swag-you may have it. But her husband was
rough on me-many times he was rough on me-and mainly he was the justice of
the peace that jugged me for a vagrant. And that ain't all. It ain't a
millionth part of it! He had me HORSEWHIPPED!-horsewhipped in front of the
jail, like a nigger!-with all the town looking on! HORSEWHIPPED!-do you
understand? He took advantage of me and died. But I'll take it out of
HER."
"Oh, don't kill her! Don't do that!"
"Kill? Who said anything about killing? I would kill HIM if he was
here; but not her. When you want to get revenge on a woman you don't kill
her-bosh! you go for her looks. You slit her nostrils-you notch her ears
like a sow!"
"By God, that's-"
"Keep your opinion to yourself! It will be safest for you. I'll tie her
to the bed. If she bleeds to death, is that my fault? I'll not cry, if she
does. My friend, you'll help me in this thing-for MY sake-that's why
you're here-I mightn't be able alone. If you flinch, I'll kill you. Do you
understand that? And if I have to kill you, I'll kill her-and then I
reckon nobody'll ever know much about who done this business."
"Well, if it's got to be done, let's get at it. The quicker the
better-I'm all in a shiver."
"Do it NOW? And company there? Look here-I'll get suspicious of you,
first thing you know. No-we'll wait till the lights are out-there's no
hurry."
Huck felt that a silence was going to ensue-a thing still more awful
than any amount of murderous talk; so he held his breath and stepped
gingerly back; planted his foot carefully and firmly, after balancing,
one-legged, in a precarious way and almost toppling over, first on one
side and then on the other. He took another step back, with the same
elaboration and the same risks; then another and another, and-a twig
snapped under his foot! His breath stopped and he listened. There was no
sound-the stillness was perfect. His gratitude was measureless. Now he
turned in his tracks, between the walls of sumach bushes-turned himself as
carefully as if he were a ship-and then stepped quickly but cautiously
along. When he emerged at the quarry he felt secure, and so he picked up
his nimble heels and flew. Down, down he sped, till he reached the
Welshman's. He banged at the door, and presently the heads of the old man
and his two stalwart sons were thrust from windows.
"What's the row there? Who's banging? What do you want?"
"Let me in-quick! I'll tell everything."
"Why, who are you?"
"Huckleberry Finn-quick, let me in!"
"Huckleberry Finn, indeed! It ain't a name to open many doors, I judge!
But let him in, lads, and let's see what's the trouble."
"Please don't ever tell I told you," were Huck's first words when he
got in. "Please don't-I'd be killed, sure-but the widow's been good
friends to me sometimes, and I want to tell-I WILL tell if you'll promise
you won't ever say it was me."
"By George, he HAS got something to tell, or he wouldn't act so!"
exclaimed the old man; "out with it and nobody here'll ever tell, lad."
Three minutes later the old man and his sons, well armed, were up the
hill, and just entering the sumach path on tiptoe, their weapons in their
hands. Huck accompanied them no further. He hid behind a great bowlder and
fell to listening. There was a lagging, anxious silence, and then all of a
sudden there was an explosion of firearms and a cry.
Huck waited for no particulars. He sprang away and sped down the hill
as fast as his legs could carry him.
As the earliest suspicion of dawn appeared on Sunday morning, Huck came
groping up the hill and rapped gently at the old Welshman's door. The
inmates were asleep, but it was a sleep that was set on a hair-trigger, on
account of the exciting episode of the night. A call came from a window:
"Who's there!"
Huck's scared voice answered in a low tone:
"Please let me in! It's only Huck Finn!"
"It's a name that can open this door night or day, lad!-and welcome!"
These were strange words to the vagabond boy's ears, and the
pleasantest he had ever heard. He could not recollect that the closing
word had ever been applied in his case before. The door was quickly
unlocked, and he entered. Huck was given a seat and the old man and his
brace of tall sons speedily dressed themselves.
"Now, my boy, I hope you're good and hungry, because breakfast will be
ready as soon as the sun's up, and we'll have a piping hot one, too-make
yourself easy about that! I and the boys hoped you'd turn up and stop here
last night."
"I was awful scared," said Huck, "and I run. I took out when the
pistols went off, and I didn't stop for three mile. I've come now becuz I
wanted to know about it, you know; and I come before daylight becuz I
didn't want to run across them devils, even if they was dead."
"Well, poor chap, you do look as if you'd had a hard night of it-but
there's a bed here for you when you've had your breakfast. No, they ain't
dead, lad-we are sorry enough for that. You see we knew right where to put
our hands on them, by your description; so we crept along on tiptoe till
we got within fifteen feet of them-dark as a cellar that sumach path
was-and just then I found I was going to sneeze. It was the meanest kind
of luck! I tried to keep it back, but no use-'twas bound to come, and it
did come! I was in the lead with my pistol raised, and when the sneeze
started those scoundrels a-rustling to get out of the path, I sung out,
'Fire boys!' and blazed away at the place where the rustling was. So did
the boys. But they were off in a jiffy, those villains, and we after them,
down through the woods. I judge we never touched them. They fired a shot
apiece as they started, but their bullets whizzed by and didn't do us any
harm. As soon as we lost the sound of their feet we quit chasing, and went
down and stirred up the constables. They got a posse together, and went
off to guard the river bank, and as soon as it is light the sheriff and a
gang are going to beat up the woods. My boys will be with them presently.
I wish we had some sort of description of those rascals-'twould help a
good deal. But you couldn't see what they were like, in the dark, lad, I
suppose?"
"Oh yes; I saw them down-town and follered them."
"Splendid! Describe them-describe them, my boy!"
"One's the old deaf and dumb Spaniard that's ben around here once or
twice, and t'other's a mean-looking, ragged-"
"That's enough, lad, we know the men! Happened on them in the woods
back of the widow's one day, and they slunk away. Off with you, boys, and
tell the sheriff-get your breakfast to-morrow morning!"
The Welshman's sons departed at once. As they were leaving the room
Huck sprang up and exclaimed:
"Oh, please don't tell ANYbody it was me that blowed on them! Oh,
please!"
"All right if you say it, Huck, but you ought to have the credit of
what you did."
"Oh no, no! Please don't tell!"
When the young men were gone, the old Welshman said:
"They won't tell-and I won't. But why don't you want it known?"
Huck would not explain, further than to say that he already knew too
much about one of those men and would not have the man know that he knew
anything against him for the whole world-he would be killed for knowing
it, sure.
The old man promised secrecy once more, and said:
"How did you come to follow these fellows, lad? Were they looking
suspicious?"
Huck was silent while he framed a duly cautious reply. Then he said:
"Well, you see, I'm a kind of a hard lot,-least everybody says so, and
I don't see nothing agin it-and sometimes I can't sleep much, on account
of thinking about it and sort of trying to strike out a new way of doing.
That was the way of it last night. I couldn't sleep, and so I come along
up-street 'bout midnight, a-turning it all over, and when I got to that
old shackly brick store by the Temperance Tavern, I backed up agin the
wall to have another think. Well, just then along comes these two chaps
slipping along close by me, with something under their arm, and I reckoned
they'd stole it. One was a-smoking, and t'other one wanted a light; so
they stopped right before me and the cigars lit up their faces and I see
that the big one was the deaf and dumb Spaniard, by his white whiskers and
the patch on his eye, and t'other one was a rusty, ragged-looking devil."
"Could you see the rags by the light of the cigars?"
This staggered Huck for a moment. Then he said:
"Well, I don't know-but somehow it seems as if I did."
"Then they went on, and you-"
"Follered 'em-yes. That was it. I wanted to see what was up-they
sneaked along so. I dogged 'em to the widder's stile, and stood in the
dark and heard the ragged one beg for the widder, and the Spaniard swear
he'd spile her looks just as I told you and your two-"
"What! The DEAF AND DUMB man said all that!"
Huck had made another terrible mistake! He was trying his best to keep
the old man from getting the faintest hint of who the Spaniard might be,
and yet his tongue seemed determined to get him into trouble in spite of
all he could do. He made several efforts to creep out of his scrape, but
the old man's eye was upon him and he made blunder after blunder.
Presently the Welshman said:
"My boy, don't be afraid of me. I wouldn't hurt a hair of your head for
all the world. No-I'd protect you-I'd protect you. This Spaniard is not
deaf and dumb; you've let that slip without intending it; you can't cover
that up now. You know something about that Spaniard that you want to keep
dark. Now trust me-tell me what it is, and trust me-I won't betray you."
Huck looked into the old man's honest eyes a moment, then bent over and
whispered in his ear:
"'Tain't a Spaniard-it's Injun Joe!"
The Welshman almost jumped out of his chair. In a moment he said:
"It's all plain enough, now. When you talked about notching ears and
slitting noses I judged that that was your own embellishment, because
white men don't take that sort of revenge. But an Injun! That's a
different matter altogether."
During breakfast the talk went on, and in the course of it the old man
said that the last thing which he and his sons had done, before going to
bed, was to get a lantern and examine the stile and its vicinity for marks
of blood. They found none, but captured a bulky bundle of-
"Of WHAT?"
If the words had been lightning they could not have leaped with a more
stunning suddenness from Huck's blanched lips. His eyes were staring wide,
now, and his breath suspended-waiting for the answer. The Welshman
started-stared in return-three seconds-five seconds-ten-then replied:
"Of burglar's tools. Why, what's the MATTER with you?"
Huck sank back, panting gently, but deeply, unutterably grateful. The
Welshman eyed him gravely, curiously-and presently said:
"Yes, burglar's tools. That appears to relieve you a good deal. But
what did give you that turn? What were YOU expecting we'd found?"
Huck was in a close place-the inquiring eye was upon him-he would have
given anything for material for a plausible answer-nothing suggested
itself-the inquiring eye was boring deeper and deeper-a senseless reply
offered-there was no time to weigh it, so at a venture he uttered
it-feebly:
"Sunday-school books, maybe."
Poor Huck was too distressed to smile, but the old man laughed loud and
joyously, shook up the details of his anaTomy from head to foot, and ended
by saying that such a laugh was money in a-man's pocket, because it cut
down the doctor's bill like everything. Then he added:
"Poor old chap, you're white and jaded-you ain't well a bit-no wonder
you're a little flighty and off your balance. But you'll come out of it.
Rest and sleep will fetch you out all right, I hope."
Huck was irritated to think he had been such a goose and betrayed such
a suspicious excitement, for he had dropped the idea that the parcel
brought from the tavern was the treasure, as soon as he had heard the talk
at the widow's stile. He had only thought it was not the treasure,
however-he had not known that it wasn't-and so the suggestion of a
captured bundle was too much for his self-possession. But on the whole he
felt glad the little episode had happened, for now he knew beyond all
question that that bundle was not THE bundle, and so his mind was at rest
and exceedingly comfortable. In fact, everything seemed to be drifting
just in the right direction, now; the treasure must be still in No. 2, the
men would be captured and jailed that day, and he and Tom could seize the
gold that night without any trouble or any fear of interruption.
Just as breakfast was completed there was a knock at the door. Huck
jumped for a hiding-place, for he had no mind to be connected even
remotely with the late event. The Welshman admitted several ladies and
gentlemen, among them the Widow Douglas, and noticed that groups of
citizens were climbing up the hill-to stare at the stile. So the news had
spread. The Welshman had to tell the story of the night to the visitors.
The widow's gratitude for her preservation was outspoken.
"Don't say a word about it, madam. There's another that you're more
beholden to than you are to me and my boys, maybe, but he don't allow me
to tell his name. We wouldn't have been there but for him."
Of course this excited a curiosity so vast that it almost belittled the
main matter-but the Welshman allowed it to eat into the vitals of his
visitors, and through them be transmitted to the whole town, for he
refused to part with his secret. When all else had been learned, the widow
said:
"I went to sleep reading in bed and slept straight through all that
noise. Why didn't you come and wake me?"
"We judged it warn't worth while. Those fellows warn't likely to come
again-they hadn't any tools left to work with, and what was the use of
waking you up and scaring you to death? My three negro men stood guard at
your house all the rest of the night. They've just come back."
More visitors came, and the story had to be told and retold for a
couple of hours more.
There was no Sabbath-school during day-school vacation, but everybody
was early at church. The stirring event was well canvassed. News came that
not a sign of the two villains had been yet discovered. When the sermon
was finished, Judge Thatcher's wife dropped alongside of Mrs. Harper as
she moved down the aisle with the crowd and said:
"Is my Becky going to sleep all day? I just expected she would be tired
to death."
"Your Becky?"
"Yes," with a startled look-"didn't she stay with you last night?"
"Why, no."
Mrs. Thatcher turned pale, and sank into a pew, just as Aunt Polly,
talking briskly with a friend, passed by. Aunt Polly said:
"Good-morning, Mrs. Thatcher. Good-morning, Mrs. Harper. I've got a boy
that's turned up missing. I reckon my Tom stayed at your house last
night-one of you. And now he's afraid to come to church. I've got to
settle with him."
Mrs. Thatcher shook her head feebly and turned paler than ever.
"He didn't stay with us," said Mrs. Harper, beginning to look uneasy. A
marked anxiety came into Aunt Polly's face.
"Joe Harper, have you seen my Tom this morning?"
"No'm."
"When did you see him last?"
Joe tried to remember, but was not sure he could say. The people had
stopped moving out of church. Whispers passed along, and a boding
uneasiness took possession of every countenance. Children were anxiously
questioned, and young teachers. They all said they had not noticed whether
Tom and Becky were on board the ferryboat on the homeward trip; it was
dark; no one thought of inquiring if any one was missing. One young man
finally blurted out his fear that they were still in the cave! Mrs.
Thatcher swooned away. Aunt Polly fell to crying and wringing her hands.
The alarm swept from lip to lip, from group to group, from street to
street, and within five minutes the bells were wildly clanging and the
whole town was up! The Cardiff Hill episode sank into instant
insignificance, the burglars were forgotten, horses were saddled, skiffs
were manned, the ferryboat ordered out, and before the horror was half an
hour old, two hundred men were pouring down highroad and river toward the
cave.
All the long afternoon the village seemed empty and dead. Many women
visited Aunt Polly and Mrs. Thatcher and tried to comfort them. They cried
with them, too, and that was still better than words. All the tedious
night the town waited for news; but when the morning dawned at last, all
the word that came was, "Send more candles-and send food." Mrs. Thatcher
was almost crazed; and Aunt Polly, also. Judge Thatcher sent messages of
hope and encouragement from the cave, but they conveyed no real cheer.
The old Welshman came home toward daylight, spattered with
candle-grease, smeared with clay, and almost worn out. He found Huck still
in the bed that had been provided for him, and delirious with fever. The
physicians were all at the cave, so the Widow Douglas came and took charge
of the patient. She said she would do her best by him, because, whether he
was good, bad, or indifferent, he was the Lord's, and nothing that was the
Lord's was a thing to be neglected. The Welshman said Huck had good spots
in him, and the widow said:
"You can depend on it. That's the Lord's mark. He don't leave it off.
He never does. Puts it somewhere on every creature that comes from his
hands."
Early in the forenoon parties of jaded men began to straggle into the
village, but the strongest of the citizens continued searching. All the
news that could be gained was that remotenesses of the cavern were being
ransacked that had never been visited before; that every corner and
crevice was going to be thoroughly searched; that wherever one wandered
through the maze of passages, lights were to be seen flitting hither and
thither in the distance, and shoutings and pistolshots sent their hollow
reverberations to the ear down the sombre aisles. In one place, far from
the section usually traversed by tourists, the names "BECKY & Tom" had
been found traced upon the rocky wall with candle-smoke, and near at hand
a grease-soiled bit of ribbon. Mrs. Thatcher recognized the ribbon and
cried over it. She said it was the last relic she should ever have of her
child; and that no other memorial of her could ever be so precious,
because this one parted latest from the living body before the awful death
came. Some said that now and then, in the cave, a far-away speck of light
would glimmer, and then a glorious shout would burst forth and a score of
men go trooping down the echoing aisle-and then a sickening disappointment
always followed; the children were not there; it was only a searcher's
light.
Three dreadful days and nights dragged their tedious hours along, and
the village sank into a hopeless stupor. No one had heart for anything.
The accidental discovery, just made, that the proprietor of the Temperance
Tavern kept liquor on his premises, scarcely fluttered the public pulse,
tremendous as the fact was. In a lucid interval, Huck feebly led up to the
subject of taverns, and finally asked-dimly dreading the worst-if anything
had been discovered at the Temperance Tavern since he had been ill.
"Yes," said the widow.
Huck started up in bed, wild-eyed:
"What? What was it?"
"Liquor!-and the place has been shut up. Lie down, child-what a turn
you did give me!"
"Only tell me just one thing-only just one-please! Was it Tom Sawyer
that found it?"
The widow burst into tears. "Hush, hush, child, hush! I've told you
before, you must NOT talk. You are very, very sick!"
Then nothing but liquor had been found; there would have been a great
powwow if it had been the gold. So the treasure was gone forever-gone
forever! But what could she be crying about? Curious that she should cry.
These thoughts worked their dim way through Huck's mind, and under the
weariness they gave him he fell asleep. The widow said to herself:
"There-he's asleep, poor wreck. Tom Sawyer find it! Pity but somebody
could find Tom Sawyer! Ah, there ain't many left, now, that's got hope
enough, or strength enough, either, to go on searching."
Now to return to Tom and Becky's share in the picnic. They tripped
along the murky aisles with the rest of the company, visiting the familiar
wonders of the cave-wonders dubbed with rather overdescriptive names, such
as "The Drawing-Room," "The Cathedral," "Aladdin's Palace," and so on.
Presently the hide-and-seek frolicking began, and Tom and Becky engaged in
it with zeal until the exertion began to grow a trifle wearisome; then
they wandered down a sinuous avenue holding their candles aloft and
reading the tangled web-work of names, dates, post-office addresses, and
mottoes with which the rocky walls had been frescoed (in candle-smoke).
Still drifting along and talking, they scarcely noticed that they were now
in a part of the cave whose walls were not frescoed. They smoked their own
names under an overhanging shelf and moved on. Presently they came to a
place where a little stream of water, trickling over a ledge and carrying
a limestone sediment with it, had, in the slow-dragging ages, formed a
laced and ruffled Niagara in gleaming and imperishable stone. Tom squeezed
his small body behind it in order to illuminate it for Becky's
gratification. He found that it curtained a sort of steep natural stairway
which was enclosed between narrow walls, and at once the ambition to be a
discoverer seized him. Becky responded to his call, and they made a
smoke-mark for future guidance, and started upon their quest. They wound
this way and that, far down into the secret depths of the cave, made
another mark, and branched off in search of novelties to tell the upper
world about. In one place they found a spacious cavern, from whose ceiling
depended a multitude of shining stalactites of the length and
circumference of a man's leg; they walked all about it, wondering and
admiring, and presently left it by one of the numerous passages that
opened into it. This shortly brought them to a bewitching spring, whose
basin was incrusted with a frostwork of glittering crystals; it was in the
midst of a cavern whose walls were supported by many fantastic pillars
which had been formed by the joining of great stalactites and stalagmites
together, the result of the ceaseless water-drip of centuries. Under the
roof vast knots of bats had packed themselves together, thousands in a
bunch; the lights disturbed the creatures and they came flocking down by
hundreds, squeaking and darting furiously at the candles. Tom knew their
ways and the danger of this sort of conduct. He seized Becky's hand and
hurried her into the first corridor that offered; and none too soon, for a
bat struck Becky's light out with its wing while she was passing out of
the cavern. The bats chased the children a good distance; but the
fugitives plunged into every new passage that offered, and at last got rid
of the perilous things. Tom found a subterranean lake, shortly, which
stretched its dim length away until its shape was lost in the shadows. He
wanted to explore its borders, but concluded that it would be best to sit
down and rest awhile, first. Now, for the first time, the deep stillness
of the place laid a clammy hand upon the spirits of the children. Becky
said:
"Why, I didn't notice, but it seems ever so long since I heard any of
the others."
"Come to think, Becky, we are away down below them-and I don't know how
far away north, or south, or east, or whichever it is. We couldn't hear
them here."
Becky grew apprehensive.
"I wonder how long we've been down here, Tom? We better start back."
"Yes, I reckon we better. P'raps we better."
"Can you find the way, Tom? It's all a mixed-up crookedness to me."
"I reckon I could find it-but then the bats. If they put our candles
out it will be an awful fix. Let's try some other way, so as not to go
through there."
"Well. But I hope we won't get lost. It would be so awful!" and the
girl shuddered at the thought of the dreadful possibilities.
They started through a corridor, and traversed it in silence a long
way, glancing at each new opening, to see if there was anything familiar
about the look of it; but they were all strange. Every time Tom made an
examination, Becky would watch his face for an encouraging sign, and he
would say cheerily:
"Oh, it's all right. This ain't the one, but we'll come to it right
away!"
But he felt less and less hopeful with each failure, and presently
began to turn off into diverging avenues at sheer random, in desperate
hope of finding the one that was wanted. He still said it was "all right,"
but there was such a leaden dread at his heart that the words had lost
their ring and sounded just as if he had said, "All is lost!" Becky clung
to his side in an anguish of fear, and tried hard to keep back the tears,
but they would come. At last she said:
"Oh, Tom, never mind the bats, let's go back that way! We seem to get
worse and worse off all the time."
"Listen!" said he.
Profound silence; silence so deep that even their breathings were
conspicuous in the hush. Tom shouted. The call went echoing down the empty
aisles and died out in the distance in a faint sound that resembled a
ripple of mocking laughter.
"Oh, don't do it again, Tom, it is too horrid," said Becky.
"It is horrid, but I better, Becky; they might hear us, you know," and
he shouted again.
The "might" was even a chillier horror than the ghostly laughter, it so
confessed a perishing hope. The children stood still and listened; but
there was no result. Tom turned upon the back track at once, and hurried
his steps. It was but a little while before a certain indecision in his
manner revealed another fearful fact to Becky-he could not find his way
back!
"Oh, Tom, you didn't make any marks!"
"Becky, I was such a fool! Such a fool! I never thought we might want
to come back! No-I can't find the way. It's all mixed up."
"Tom, Tom, we're lost! we're lost! We never can get out of this awful
place! Oh, why DID we ever leave the others!"
She sank to the ground and burst into such a frenzy of crying that Tom
was appalled with the idea that she might die, or lose her reason. He sat
down by her and put his arms around her; she buried her face in his bosom,
she clung to him, she poured out her terrors, her unavailing regrets, and
the far echoes turned them all to jeering laughter. Tom begged her to
pluck up hope again, and she said she could not. He fell to blaming and
abusing himself for getting her into this miserable situation; this had a
better effect. She said she would try to hope again, she would get up and
follow wherever he might lead if only he would not talk like that any
more. For he was no more to blame than she, she said.
So they moved on again-aimlessly-simply at random-all they could do was
to move, keep moving. For a little while, hope made a show of reviving-not
with any reason to back it, but only because it is its nature to revive
when the spring has not been taken out of it by age and familiarity with
failure.
By-and-by Tom took Becky's candle and blew it out. This economy meant
so much! Words were not needed. Becky understood, and her hope died again.
She knew that Tom had a whole candle and three or four pieces in his
pockets-yet he must economize.
By-and-by, fatigue began to assert its claims; the children tried to
pay attention, for it was dreadful to think of sitting down when time was
grown to be so precious, moving, in some direction, in any direction, was
at least progress and might bear fruit; but to sit down was to invite
death and shorten its pursuit.
At last Becky's frail limbs refused to carry her farther. She sat down.
Tom rested with her, and they talked of home, and the friends there, and
the comfortable beds and, above all, the light! Becky cried, and Tom tried
to think of some way of comforting her, but all his encouragements were
grown threadbare with use, and sounded like sarcasms. Fatigue bore so
heavily upon Becky that she drowsed off to sleep. Tom was grateful. He sat
looking into her drawn face and saw it grow smooth and natural under the
influence of pleasant dreams; and by-and-by a smile dawned and rested
there. The peaceful face reflected somewhat of peace and healing into his
own spirit, and his thoughts wandered away to bygone times and dreamy
memories. While he was deep in his musings, Becky woke up with a breezy
little laugh-but it was stricken dead upon her lips, and a groan followed
it.
"Oh, how COULD I sleep! I wish I never, never had waked! No! No, I
don't, Tom! Don't look so! I won't say it again."
"I'm glad you've slept, Becky; you'll feel rested, now, and we'll find
the way out."
"We can try, Tom; but I've seen such a beautiful country in my dream. I
reckon we are going there."
"Maybe not, maybe not. Cheer up, Becky, and let's go on trying."
They rose up and wandered along, hand in hand and hopeless. They tried
to estimate how long they had been in the cave, but all they knew was that
it seemed days and weeks, and yet it was plain that this could not be, for
their candles were not gone yet. A long time after this-they could not
tell how long-Tom said they must go softly and listen for dripping
water-they must find a spring. They found one presently, and Tom said it
was time to rest again. Both were cruelly tired, yet Becky said she
thought she could go a little farther. She was surprised to hear Tom
dissent. She could not understand it. They sat down, and Tom fastened his
candle to the wall in front of them with some clay. Thought was soon busy;
nothing was said for some time. Then Becky broke the silence:
"Tom, I am so hungry!"
Tom took something out of his pocket.
"Do you remember this?" said he.
Becky almost smiled.
"It's our wedding-cake, Tom."
"Yes-I wish it was as big as a barrel, for it's all we've got."
"I saved it from the picnic for us to dream on, Tom, the way grown-up
people do with weddingcake-but it'll be our-"
She dropped the sentence where it was. Tom divided the cake and Becky
ate with good appetite, while Tom nibbled at his moiety. There was
abundance of cold water to finish the feast with. By-and-by Becky
suggested that they move on again. Tom was silent a moment. Then he said:
"Becky, can you bear it if I tell you something?"
Becky's face paled, but she thought she could.
"Well, then, Becky, we must stay here, where there's water to drink.
That little piece is our last candle!"
Becky gave loose to tears and wailings. Tom did what he could to
comfort her, but with little effect. At length Becky said:
"Tom!"
"Well, Becky?"
"They'll miss us and hunt for us!"
"Yes, they will! Certainly they will!"
"Maybe they're hunting for us now, Tom."
"Why, I reckon maybe they are. I hope they are."
"When would they miss us, Tom?"
"When they get back to the boat, I reckon."
"Tom, it might be dark then-would they notice we hadn't come?"
"I don't know. But anyway, your mother would miss you as soon as they
got home."
A frightened look in Becky's face brought Tom to his senses and he saw
that he had made a blunder. Becky was not to have gone home that night!
The children became silent and thoughtful. In a moment a new burst of
grief from Becky showed Tom that the thing in his mind had struck hers
also-that the Sabbath morning might be half spent before Mrs. Thatcher
discovered that Becky was not at Mrs. Harper's.
The children fastened their eyes upon their bit of candle and watched
it melt slowly and pitilessly away; saw the half inch of wick stand alone
at last; saw the feeble flame rise and fall, climb the thin column of
smoke, linger at its top a moment, and then-the horror of utter darkness
reigned!
How long afterward it was that Becky came to a slow consciousness that
she was crying in Tom's arms, neither could tell. All that they knew was,
that after what seemed a mighty stretch of time, both awoke out of a dead
stupor of sleep and resumed their miseries once more. Tom said it might be
Sunday, now-maybe Monday. He tried to get Becky to talk, but her sorrows
were too oppressive, all her hopes were gone. Tom said that they must have
been missed long ago, and no doubt the search was going on. He would shout
and maybe some one would come. He tried it; but in the darkness the
distant echoes sounded so hideously that he tried it no more.
The hours wasted away, and hunger came to torment the captives again. A
portion of Tom's half of the cake was left; they divided and ate it. But
they seemed hungrier than before. The poor morsel of food only whetted
desire.
By-and-by Tom said:
"SH! Did you hear that?"
Both held their breath and listened. There was a sound like the
faintest, far-off shout. Instantly Tom answered it, and leading Becky by
the hand, started groping down the corridor in its direction. Presently he
listened again; again the sound was heard, and apparently a little nearer.
"It's them!" said Tom; "they're coming! Come along, Becky-we're all
right now!"
The joy of the prisoners was almost overwhelming. Their speed was slow,
however, because pitfalls were somewhat common, and had to be guarded
against. They shortly came to one and had to stop. It might be three feet
deep, it might be a hundred-there was no passing it at any rate. Tom got
down on his breast and reached as far down as he could. No botTom. They
must stay there and wait until the searchers came. They listened;
evidently the distant shoutings were growing more distant! a moment or two
more and they had gone altogether. The heart-sinking misery of it! Tom
whooped until he was hoarse, but it was of no use. He talked hopefully to
Becky; but an age of anxious waiting passed and no sounds came again.
The children groped their way back to the spring. The weary time
dragged on; they slept again, and awoke famished and woe-stricken. Tom
believed it must be Tuesday by this time.
Now an idea struck him. There were some side passages near at hand. It
would be better to explore some of these than bear the weight of the heavy
time in idleness. He took a kite-line from his pocket, tied it to a
projection, and he and Becky started, Tom in the lead, unwinding the line
as he groped along. At the end of twenty steps the corridor ended in a
"jumpingoff place." Tom got down on his knees and felt below, and then as
far around the corner as he could reach with his hands conveniently; he
made an effort to stretch yet a little farther to the right, and at that
moment, not twenty yards away, a human hand, holding a candle, appeared
from behind a rock! Tom lifted up a glorious shout, and instantly that
hand was followed by the body it belonged to-Injun Joe's! Tom was
paralyzed; he could not move. He was vastly gratified the next moment, to
see the "Spaniard" take to his heels and get himself out of sight. Tom
wondered that Joe had not recognized his voice and come over and killed
him for testifying in court. But the echoes must have disguised the voice.
Without doubt, that was it, he reasoned. Tom's fright weakened every
muscle in his body. He said to himself that if he had strength enough to
get back to the spring he would stay there, and nothing should tempt him
to run the risk of meeting Injun Joe again. He was careful to keep from
Becky what it was he had seen. He told her he had only shouted "for luck."
But hunger and wretchedness rise superior to fears in the long run.
Another tedious wait at the spring and another long sleep brought changes.
The children awoke tortured with a raging hunger. Tom believed that it
must be Wednesday or Thursday or even Friday or Saturday, now, and that
the search had been given over. He proposed to explore another passage. He
felt willing to risk Injun Joe and all other terrors. But Becky was very
weak. She had sunk into a dreary apathy and would not be roused. She said
she would wait, now, where she was, and die-it would not be long. She told
Tom to go with the kite-line and explore if he chose; but she implored him
to come back every little while and speak to her; and she made him promise
that when the awful time came, he would stay by her and hold her hand
until all was over.
Tom kissed her, with a choking sensation in his throat, and made a show
of being confident of finding the searchers or an escape from the cave;
then he took the kite-line in his hand and went groping down one of the
passages on his hands and knees, distressed with hunger and sick with
bodings of coming doom.
Tuesday afternoon came, and waned to the twilight. The village of St.
Petersburg still mourned. The lost children had not been found. Public
prayers had been offered up for them, and many and many a private prayer
that had the petitioner's whole heart in it; but still no good news came
from the cave. The majority of the searchers had given up the quest and
gone back to their daily avocations, saying that it was plain the children
could never be found. Mrs. Thatcher was very ill, and a great part of the
time delirious. People said it was heartbreaking to hear her call her
child, and raise her head and listen a whole minute at a time, then lay it
wearily down again with a moan. Aunt Polly had drooped into a settled
melancholy, and her gray hair had grown almost white. The village went to
its rest on Tuesday night, sad and forlorn.
Away in the middle of the night a wild peal burst from the village
bells, and in a moment the streets were swarming with frantic half-clad
people, who shouted, "Turn out! turn out! they're found! they're found!"
Tin pans and horns were added to the din, the population massed itself and
moved toward the river, met the children coming in an open carriage drawn
by shouting citizens, thronged around it, joined its homeward march, and
swept magnificently up the main street roaring huzzah after huzzah!
The village was illuminated; nobody went to bed again; it was the
greatest night the little town had ever seen. During the first half-hour a
procession of villagers filed through Judge Thatcher's house, seized the
saved ones and kissed them, squeezed Mrs. Thatcher's hand, tried to speak
but couldn't-and drifted out raining tears all over the place.
Aunt Polly's happiness was complete, and Mrs. Thatcher's nearly so. It
would be complete, however, as soon as the messenger dispatched with the
great news to the cave should get the word to her husband. Tom lay upon a
sofa with an eager auditory about him and told the history of the
wonderful adventure, putting in many striking additions to adorn it
withal; and closed with a description of how he left Becky and went on an
exploring expedition; how he followed two avenues as far as his kite-line
would reach; how he followed a third to the fullest stretch of the
kite-line, and was about to turn back when he glimpsed a far-off speck
that looked like daylight; dropped the line and groped toward it, pushed
his head and shoulders through a small hole, and saw the broad Mississippi
rolling by! And if it had only happened to be night he would not have seen
that speck of daylight and would not have explored that passage any more!
He told how he went back for Becky and broke the good news and she told
him not to fret her with such stuff, for she was tired, and knew she was
going to die, and wanted to. He described how he labored with her and
convinced her; and how she almost died for joy when she had groped to
where she actually saw the blue speck of daylight; how he pushed his way
out at the hole and then helped her out; how they sat there and cried for
gladness; how some men came along in a skiff and Tom hailed them and told
them their situation and their famished condition; how the men didn't
believe the wild tale at first, "because," said they, "you are five miles
down the river below the valley the cave is in"-then took them aboard,
rowed to a house, gave them supper, made them rest till two or three hours
after dark and then brought them home.
Before day-dawn, Judge Thatcher and the handful of searchers with him
were tracked out, in the cave, by the twine clews they had strung behind
them, and informed of the great news.
Three days and nights of toil and hunger in the cave were not to be
shaken off at once, as Tom and Becky soon discovered. They were bedridden
all of Wednesday and Thursday, and seemed to grow more and more tired and
worn, all the time. Tom got about, a little, on Thursday, was down-town
Friday, and nearly as whole as ever Saturday; but Becky did not leave her
room until Sunday, and then she looked as if she had passed through a
wasting illness.
Tom learned of Huck's sickness and went to see him on Friday, but could
not be admitted to the bedroom; neither could he on Saturday or Sunday. He
was admitted daily after that, but was warned to keep still about his
slumbers and left the small watcher alone with the silence and the ghosts.
Eleven o'clock came, and the tavern lights were put out; darkness
everywhere, now. Huck waited what seemed a weary long time, but nothing
happened. His faith was weakening. Was there any use? Was there really any
use? Why not give it up and turn in?
A noise fell upon his ear. He was all attention in an instant. The
alley door closed softly. He sprang to the corner of the brick store. The
next moment two men brushed by him, and one seemed to have something under
his arm. It must be that box! So they were going to remove the treasure.
Why call Tom now? It would be absurd-the men would get away with the box
and never be found again. No, he would stick to their wake and follow
them; he would trust to the darkness for security from discovery. So
communing with himself, Huck stepped out and glided along behind the men,
cat-like, with bare feet, allowing them to keep just far enough ahead not
to be invisible.
They moved up the river street three blocks, then turned to the left up
a cross-street. They went straight ahead, then, until they came to the
path that led up Cardiff Hill; this they took. They passed by the old
Welshman's house, half-way up the hill, without hesitating, and still
climbed upward. Good, thought Huck, they will bury it in the old quarry.
But they never stopped at the quarry. They passed on, up the summit. They
plunged into the narrow path between the tall sumach bushes, and were at
once hidden in the gloom. Huck closed up and shortened his distance, now,
for they would never be able to see him. He trotted along awhile; then
slackened his pace, fearing he was gaining too fast; moved on a piece,
then stopped altogether; listened; no sound; none, save that he seemed to
hear the beating of his own heart. The hooting of an owl came over the
hill-ominous sound! But no footsteps. Heavens, was everything lost! He was
about to spring with winged feet, when a man cleared his throat not four
feet from him! Huck's heart shot into his throat, but he swallowed it
again; and then he stood there shaking as if a dozen agues had taken
charge of him at once, and so weak that he thought he must surely fall to
the ground. He knew where he was. He knew he was within five steps of the
stile leading into Widow Douglas' grounds. Very well, he thought, let them
bury it there; it won't be hard to find.
Now there was a voice-a very low voice-Injun Joe's:
"Damn her, maybe she's got company-there's lights, late as it is."
"I can't see any."
This was that stranger's voice-the stranger of the haunted house. A
deadly chill went to Huck's heart-this, then, was the "revenge" job! His
thought was, to fly. Then he remembered that the Widow Douglas had been
kind to him more than once, and maybe these men were going to murder her.
He wished he dared venture to warn her; but he knew he didn't dare-they
might come and catch him. He thought all this and more in the moment that
elapsed between the stranger's remark and Injun Joe's next-which was-
"Because the bush is in your way. Now-this way-now you see, don't you?"
"Yes. Well, there IS company there, I reckon. Better give it up."
"Give it up, and I just leaving this country forever! Give it up and
maybe never have another chance. I tell you again, as I've told you
before, I don't care for her swag-you may have it. But her husband was
rough on me-many times he was rough on me-and mainly he was the justice of
the peace that jugged me for a vagrant. And that ain't all. It ain't a
millionth part of it! He had me HORSEWHIPPED!-horsewhipped in front of the
jail, like a nigger!-with all the town looking on! HORSEWHIPPED!-do you
understand? He took advantage of me and died. But I'll take it out of
HER."
"Oh, don't kill her! Don't do that!"
"Kill? Who said anything about killing? I would kill HIM if he was
here; but not her. When you want to get revenge on a woman you don't kill
her-bosh! you go for her looks. You slit her nostrils-you notch her ears
like a sow!"
"By God, that's-"
"Keep your opinion to yourself! It will be safest for you. I'll tie her
to the bed. If she bleeds to death, is that my fault? I'll not cry, if she
does. My friend, you'll help me in this thing-for MY sake-that's why
you're here-I mightn't be able alone. If you flinch, I'll kill you. Do you
understand that? And if I have to kill you, I'll kill her-and then I
reckon nobody'll ever know much about who done this business."
"Well, if it's got to be done, let's get at it. The quicker the
better-I'm all in a shiver."
"Do it NOW? And company there? Look here-I'll get suspicious of you,
first thing you know. No-we'll wait till the lights are out-there's no
hurry."
Huck felt that a silence was going to ensue-a thing still more awful
than any amount of murderous talk; so he held his breath and stepped
gingerly back; planted his foot carefully and firmly, after balancing,
one-legged, in a precarious way and almost toppling over, first on one
side and then on the other. He took another step back, with the same
elaboration and the same risks; then another and another, and-a twig
snapped under his foot! His breath stopped and he listened. There was no
sound-the stillness was perfect. His gratitude was measureless. Now he
turned in his tracks, between the walls of sumach bushes-turned himself as
carefully as if he were a ship-and then stepped quickly but cautiously
along. When he emerged at the quarry he felt secure, and so he picked up
his nimble heels and flew. Down, down he sped, till he reached the
Welshman's. He banged at the door, and presently the heads of the old man
and his two stalwart sons were thrust from windows.
"What's the row there? Who's banging? What do you want?"
"Let me in-quick! I'll tell everything."
"Why, who are you?"
"Huckleberry Finn-quick, let me in!"
"Huckleberry Finn, indeed! It ain't a name to open many doors, I judge!
But let him in, lads, and let's see what's the trouble."
"Please don't ever tell I told you," were Huck's first words when he
got in. "Please don't-I'd be killed, sure-but the widow's been good
friends to me sometimes, and I want to tell-I WILL tell if you'll promise
you won't ever say it was me."
"By George, he HAS got something to tell, or he wouldn't act so!"
exclaimed the old man; "out with it and nobody here'll ever tell, lad."
Three minutes later the old man and his sons, well armed, were up the
hill, and just entering the sumach path on tiptoe, their weapons in their
hands. Huck accompanied them no further. He hid behind a great bowlder and
fell to listening. There was a lagging, anxious silence, and then all of a
sudden there was an explosion of firearms and a cry.
Huck waited for no particulars. He sprang away and sped down the hill
as fast as his legs could carry him.
As the earliest suspicion of dawn appeared on Sunday morning, Huck came
groping up the hill and rapped gently at the old Welshman's door. The
inmates were asleep, but it was a sleep that was set on a hair-trigger, on
account of the exciting episode of the night. A call came from a window:
"Who's there!"
Huck's scared voice answered in a low tone:
"Please let me in! It's only Huck Finn!"
"It's a name that can open this door night or day, lad!-and welcome!"
These were strange words to the vagabond boy's ears, and the
pleasantest he had ever heard. He could not recollect that the closing
word had ever been applied in his case before. The door was quickly
unlocked, and he entered. Huck was given a seat and the old man and his
brace of tall sons speedily dressed themselves.
"Now, my boy, I hope you're good and hungry, because breakfast will be
ready as soon as the sun's up, and we'll have a piping hot one, too-make
yourself easy about that! I and the boys hoped you'd turn up and stop here
last night."
"I was awful scared," said Huck, "and I run. I took out when the
pistols went off, and I didn't stop for three mile. I've come now becuz I
wanted to know about it, you know; and I come before daylight becuz I
didn't want to run across them devils, even if they was dead."
"Well, poor chap, you do look as if you'd had a hard night of it-but
there's a bed here for you when you've had your breakfast. No, they ain't
dead, lad-we are sorry enough for that. You see we knew right where to put
our hands on them, by your description; so we crept along on tiptoe till
we got within fifteen feet of them-dark as a cellar that sumach path
was-and just then I found I was going to sneeze. It was the meanest kind
of luck! I tried to keep it back, but no use-'twas bound to come, and it
did come! I was in the lead with my pistol raised, and when the sneeze
started those scoundrels a-rustling to get out of the path, I sung out,
'Fire boys!' and blazed away at the place where the rustling was. So did
the boys. But they were off in a jiffy, those villains, and we after them,
down through the woods. I judge we never touched them. They fired a shot
apiece as they started, but their bullets whizzed by and didn't do us any
harm. As soon as we lost the sound of their feet we quit chasing, and went
down and stirred up the constables. They got a posse together, and went
off to guard the river bank, and as soon as it is light the sheriff and a
gang are going to beat up the woods. My boys will be with them presently.
I wish we had some sort of description of those rascals-'twould help a
good deal. But you couldn't see what they were like, in the dark, lad, I
suppose?"
"Oh yes; I saw them down-town and follered them."
"Splendid! Describe them-describe them, my boy!"
"One's the old deaf and dumb Spaniard that's ben around here once or
twice, and t'other's a mean-looking, ragged-"
"That's enough, lad, we know the men! Happened on them in the woods
back of the widow's one day, and they slunk away. Off with you, boys, and
tell the sheriff-get your breakfast to-morrow morning!"
The Welshman's sons departed at once. As they were leaving the room
Huck sprang up and exclaimed:
"Oh, please don't tell ANYbody it was me that blowed on them! Oh,
please!"
"All right if you say it, Huck, but you ought to have the credit of
what you did."
"Oh no, no! Please don't tell!"
When the young men were gone, the old Welshman said:
"They won't tell-and I won't. But why don't you want it known?"
Huck would not explain, further than to say that he already knew too
much about one of those men and would not have the man know that he knew
anything against him for the whole world-he would be killed for knowing
it, sure.
The old man promised secrecy once more, and said:
"How did you come to follow these fellows, lad? Were they looking
suspicious?"
Huck was silent while he framed a duly cautious reply. Then he said:
"Well, you see, I'm a kind of a hard lot,-least everybody says so, and
I don't see nothing agin it-and sometimes I can't sleep much, on account
of thinking about it and sort of trying to strike out a new way of doing.
That was the way of it last night. I couldn't sleep, and so I come along
up-street 'bout midnight, a-turning it all over, and when I got to that
old shackly brick store by the Temperance Tavern, I backed up agin the
wall to have another think. Well, just then along comes these two chaps
slipping along close by me, with something under their arm, and I reckoned
they'd stole it. One was a-smoking, and t'other one wanted a light; so
they stopped right before me and the cigars lit up their faces and I see
that the big one was the deaf and dumb Spaniard, by his white whiskers and
the patch on his eye, and t'other one was a rusty, ragged-looking devil."
"Could you see the rags by the light of the cigars?"
This staggered Huck for a moment. Then he said:
"Well, I don't know-but somehow it seems as if I did."
"Then they went on, and you-"
"Follered 'em-yes. That was it. I wanted to see what was up-they
sneaked along so. I dogged 'em to the widder's stile, and stood in the
dark and heard the ragged one beg for the widder, and the Spaniard swear
he'd spile her looks just as I told you and your two-"
"What! The DEAF AND DUMB man said all that!"
Huck had made another terrible mistake! He was trying his best to keep
the old man from getting the faintest hint of who the Spaniard might be,
and yet his tongue seemed determined to get him into trouble in spite of
all he could do. He made several efforts to creep out of his scrape, but
the old man's eye was upon him and he made blunder after blunder.
Presently the Welshman said:
"My boy, don't be afraid of me. I wouldn't hurt a hair of your head for
all the world. No-I'd protect you-I'd protect you. This Spaniard is not
deaf and dumb; you've let that slip without intending it; you can't cover
that up now. You know something about that Spaniard that you want to keep
dark. Now trust me-tell me what it is, and trust me-I won't betray you."
Huck looked into the old man's honest eyes a moment, then bent over and
whispered in his ear:
"'Tain't a Spaniard-it's Injun Joe!"
The Welshman almost jumped out of his chair. In a moment he said:
"It's all plain enough, now. When you talked about notching ears and
slitting noses I judged that that was your own embellishment, because
white men don't take that sort of revenge. But an Injun! That's a
different matter altogether."
During breakfast the talk went on, and in the course of it the old man
said that the last thing which he and his sons had done, before going to
bed, was to get a lantern and examine the stile and its vicinity for marks
of blood. They found none, but captured a bulky bundle of-
"Of WHAT?"
If the words had been lightning they could not have leaped with a more
stunning suddenness from Huck's blanched lips. His eyes were staring wide,
now, and his breath suspended-waiting for the answer. The Welshman
started-stared in return-three seconds-five seconds-ten-then replied:
"Of burglar's tools. Why, what's the MATTER with you?"
Huck sank back, panting gently, but deeply, unutterably grateful. The
Welshman eyed him gravely, curiously-and presently said:
"Yes, burglar's tools. That appears to relieve you a good deal. But
what did give you that turn? What were YOU expecting we'd found?"
Huck was in a close place-the inquiring eye was upon him-he would have
given anything for material for a plausible answer-nothing suggested
itself-the inquiring eye was boring deeper and deeper-a senseless reply
offered-there was no time to weigh it, so at a venture he uttered
it-feebly:
"Sunday-school books, maybe."
Poor Huck was too distressed to smile, but the old man laughed loud and
joyously, shook up the details of his anaTomy from head to foot, and ended
by saying that such a laugh was money in a-man's pocket, because it cut
down the doctor's bill like everything. Then he added:
"Poor old chap, you're white and jaded-you ain't well a bit-no wonder
you're a little flighty and off your balance. But you'll come out of it.
Rest and sleep will fetch you out all right, I hope."
Huck was irritated to think he had been such a goose and betrayed such
a suspicious excitement, for he had dropped the idea that the parcel
brought from the tavern was the treasure, as soon as he had heard the talk
at the widow's stile. He had only thought it was not the treasure,
however-he had not known that it wasn't-and so the suggestion of a
captured bundle was too much for his self-possession. But on the whole he
felt glad the little episode had happened, for now he knew beyond all
question that that bundle was not THE bundle, and so his mind was at rest
and exceedingly comfortable. In fact, everything seemed to be drifting
just in the right direction, now; the treasure must be still in No. 2, the
men would be captured and jailed that day, and he and Tom could seize the
gold that night without any trouble or any fear of interruption.
Just as breakfast was completed there was a knock at the door. Huck
jumped for a hiding-place, for he had no mind to be connected even
remotely with the late event. The Welshman admitted several ladies and
gentlemen, among them the Widow Douglas, and noticed that groups of
citizens were climbing up the hill-to stare at the stile. So the news had
spread. The Welshman had to tell the story of the night to the visitors.
The widow's gratitude for her preservation was outspoken.
"Don't say a word about it, madam. There's another that you're more
beholden to than you are to me and my boys, maybe, but he don't allow me
to tell his name. We wouldn't have been there but for him."
Of course this excited a curiosity so vast that it almost belittled the
main matter-but the Welshman allowed it to eat into the vitals of his
visitors, and through them be transmitted to the whole town, for he
refused to part with his secret. When all else had been learned, the widow
said:
"I went to sleep reading in bed and slept straight through all that
noise. Why didn't you come and wake me?"
"We judged it warn't worth while. Those fellows warn't likely to come
again-they hadn't any tools left to work with, and what was the use of
waking you up and scaring you to death? My three negro men stood guard at
your house all the rest of the night. They've just come back."
More visitors came, and the story had to be told and retold for a
couple of hours more.
There was no Sabbath-school during day-school vacation, but everybody
was early at church. The stirring event was well canvassed. News came that
not a sign of the two villains had been yet discovered. When the sermon
was finished, Judge Thatcher's wife dropped alongside of Mrs. Harper as
she moved down the aisle with the crowd and said:
"Is my Becky going to sleep all day? I just expected she would be tired
to death."
"Your Becky?"
"Yes," with a startled look-"didn't she stay with you last night?"
"Why, no."
Mrs. Thatcher turned pale, and sank into a pew, just as Aunt Polly,
talking briskly with a friend, passed by. Aunt Polly said:
"Good-morning, Mrs. Thatcher. Good-morning, Mrs. Harper. I've got a boy
that's turned up missing. I reckon my Tom stayed at your house last
night-one of you. And now he's afraid to come to church. I've got to
settle with him."
Mrs. Thatcher shook her head feebly and turned paler than ever.
"He didn't stay with us," said Mrs. Harper, beginning to look uneasy. A
marked anxiety came into Aunt Polly's face.
"Joe Harper, have you seen my Tom this morning?"
"No'm."
"When did you see him last?"
Joe tried to remember, but was not sure he could say. The people had
stopped moving out of church. Whispers passed along, and a boding
uneasiness took possession of every countenance. Children were anxiously
questioned, and young teachers. They all said they had not noticed whether
Tom and Becky were on board the ferryboat on the homeward trip; it was
dark; no one thought of inquiring if any one was missing. One young man
finally blurted out his fear that they were still in the cave! Mrs.
Thatcher swooned away. Aunt Polly fell to crying and wringing her hands.
The alarm swept from lip to lip, from group to group, from street to
street, and within five minutes the bells were wildly clanging and the
whole town was up! The Cardiff Hill episode sank into instant
insignificance, the burglars were forgotten, horses were saddled, skiffs
were manned, the ferryboat ordered out, and before the horror was half an
hour old, two hundred men were pouring down highroad and river toward the
cave.
All the long afternoon the village seemed empty and dead. Many women
visited Aunt Polly and Mrs. Thatcher and tried to comfort them. They cried
with them, too, and that was still better than words. All the tedious
night the town waited for news; but when the morning dawned at last, all
the word that came was, "Send more candles-and send food." Mrs. Thatcher
was almost crazed; and Aunt Polly, also. Judge Thatcher sent messages of
hope and encouragement from the cave, but they conveyed no real cheer.
The old Welshman came home toward daylight, spattered with
candle-grease, smeared with clay, and almost worn out. He found Huck still
in the bed that had been provided for him, and delirious with fever. The
physicians were all at the cave, so the Widow Douglas came and took charge
of the patient. She said she would do her best by him, because, whether he
was good, bad, or indifferent, he was the Lord's, and nothing that was the
Lord's was a thing to be neglected. The Welshman said Huck had good spots
in him, and the widow said:
"You can depend on it. That's the Lord's mark. He don't leave it off.
He never does. Puts it somewhere on every creature that comes from his
hands."
Early in the forenoon parties of jaded men began to straggle into the
village, but the strongest of the citizens continued searching. All the
news that could be gained was that remotenesses of the cavern were being
ransacked that had never been visited before; that every corner and
crevice was going to be thoroughly searched; that wherever one wandered
through the maze of passages, lights were to be seen flitting hither and
thither in the distance, and shoutings and pistolshots sent their hollow
reverberations to the ear down the sombre aisles. In one place, far from
the section usually traversed by tourists, the names "BECKY & Tom" had
been found traced upon the rocky wall with candle-smoke, and near at hand
a grease-soiled bit of ribbon. Mrs. Thatcher recognized the ribbon and
cried over it. She said it was the last relic she should ever have of her
child; and that no other memorial of her could ever be so precious,
because this one parted latest from the living body before the awful death
came. Some said that now and then, in the cave, a far-away speck of light
would glimmer, and then a glorious shout would burst forth and a score of
men go trooping down the echoing aisle-and then a sickening disappointment
always followed; the children were not there; it was only a searcher's
light.
Three dreadful days and nights dragged their tedious hours along, and
the village sank into a hopeless stupor. No one had heart for anything.
The accidental discovery, just made, that the proprietor of the Temperance
Tavern kept liquor on his premises, scarcely fluttered the public pulse,
tremendous as the fact was. In a lucid interval, Huck feebly led up to the
subject of taverns, and finally asked-dimly dreading the worst-if anything
had been discovered at the Temperance Tavern since he had been ill.
"Yes," said the widow.
Huck started up in bed, wild-eyed:
"What? What was it?"
"Liquor!-and the place has been shut up. Lie down, child-what a turn
you did give me!"
"Only tell me just one thing-only just one-please! Was it Tom Sawyer
that found it?"
The widow burst into tears. "Hush, hush, child, hush! I've told you
before, you must NOT talk. You are very, very sick!"
Then nothing but liquor had been found; there would have been a great
powwow if it had been the gold. So the treasure was gone forever-gone
forever! But what could she be crying about? Curious that she should cry.
These thoughts worked their dim way through Huck's mind, and under the
weariness they gave him he fell asleep. The widow said to herself:
"There-he's asleep, poor wreck. Tom Sawyer find it! Pity but somebody
could find Tom Sawyer! Ah, there ain't many left, now, that's got hope
enough, or strength enough, either, to go on searching."
Now to return to Tom and Becky's share in the picnic. They tripped
along the murky aisles with the rest of the company, visiting the familiar
wonders of the cave-wonders dubbed with rather overdescriptive names, such
as "The Drawing-Room," "The Cathedral," "Aladdin's Palace," and so on.
Presently the hide-and-seek frolicking began, and Tom and Becky engaged in
it with zeal until the exertion began to grow a trifle wearisome; then
they wandered down a sinuous avenue holding their candles aloft and
reading the tangled web-work of names, dates, post-office addresses, and
mottoes with which the rocky walls had been frescoed (in candle-smoke).
Still drifting along and talking, they scarcely noticed that they were now
in a part of the cave whose walls were not frescoed. They smoked their own
names under an overhanging shelf and moved on. Presently they came to a
place where a little stream of water, trickling over a ledge and carrying
a limestone sediment with it, had, in the slow-dragging ages, formed a
laced and ruffled Niagara in gleaming and imperishable stone. Tom squeezed
his small body behind it in order to illuminate it for Becky's
gratification. He found that it curtained a sort of steep natural stairway
which was enclosed between narrow walls, and at once the ambition to be a
discoverer seized him. Becky responded to his call, and they made a
smoke-mark for future guidance, and started upon their quest. They wound
this way and that, far down into the secret depths of the cave, made
another mark, and branched off in search of novelties to tell the upper
world about. In one place they found a spacious cavern, from whose ceiling
depended a multitude of shining stalactites of the length and
circumference of a man's leg; they walked all about it, wondering and
admiring, and presently left it by one of the numerous passages that
opened into it. This shortly brought them to a bewitching spring, whose
basin was incrusted with a frostwork of glittering crystals; it was in the
midst of a cavern whose walls were supported by many fantastic pillars
which had been formed by the joining of great stalactites and stalagmites
together, the result of the ceaseless water-drip of centuries. Under the
roof vast knots of bats had packed themselves together, thousands in a
bunch; the lights disturbed the creatures and they came flocking down by
hundreds, squeaking and darting furiously at the candles. Tom knew their
ways and the danger of this sort of conduct. He seized Becky's hand and
hurried her into the first corridor that offered; and none too soon, for a
bat struck Becky's light out with its wing while she was passing out of
the cavern. The bats chased the children a good distance; but the
fugitives plunged into every new passage that offered, and at last got rid
of the perilous things. Tom found a subterranean lake, shortly, which
stretched its dim length away until its shape was lost in the shadows. He
wanted to explore its borders, but concluded that it would be best to sit
down and rest awhile, first. Now, for the first time, the deep stillness
of the place laid a clammy hand upon the spirits of the children. Becky
said:
"Why, I didn't notice, but it seems ever so long since I heard any of
the others."
"Come to think, Becky, we are away down below them-and I don't know how
far away north, or south, or east, or whichever it is. We couldn't hear
them here."
Becky grew apprehensive.
"I wonder how long we've been down here, Tom? We better start back."
"Yes, I reckon we better. P'raps we better."
"Can you find the way, Tom? It's all a mixed-up crookedness to me."
"I reckon I could find it-but then the bats. If they put our candles
out it will be an awful fix. Let's try some other way, so as not to go
through there."
"Well. But I hope we won't get lost. It would be so awful!" and the
girl shuddered at the thought of the dreadful possibilities.
They started through a corridor, and traversed it in silence a long
way, glancing at each new opening, to see if there was anything familiar
about the look of it; but they were all strange. Every time Tom made an
examination, Becky would watch his face for an encouraging sign, and he
would say cheerily:
"Oh, it's all right. This ain't the one, but we'll come to it right
away!"
But he felt less and less hopeful with each failure, and presently
began to turn off into diverging avenues at sheer random, in desperate
hope of finding the one that was wanted. He still said it was "all right,"
but there was such a leaden dread at his heart that the words had lost
their ring and sounded just as if he had said, "All is lost!" Becky clung
to his side in an anguish of fear, and tried hard to keep back the tears,
but they would come. At last she said:
"Oh, Tom, never mind the bats, let's go back that way! We seem to get
worse and worse off all the time."
"Listen!" said he.
Profound silence; silence so deep that even their breathings were
conspicuous in the hush. Tom shouted. The call went echoing down the empty
aisles and died out in the distance in a faint sound that resembled a
ripple of mocking laughter.
"Oh, don't do it again, Tom, it is too horrid," said Becky.
"It is horrid, but I better, Becky; they might hear us, you know," and
he shouted again.
The "might" was even a chillier horror than the ghostly laughter, it so
confessed a perishing hope. The children stood still and listened; but
there was no result. Tom turned upon the back track at once, and hurried
his steps. It was but a little while before a certain indecision in his
manner revealed another fearful fact to Becky-he could not find his way
back!
"Oh, Tom, you didn't make any marks!"
"Becky, I was such a fool! Such a fool! I never thought we might want
to come back! No-I can't find the way. It's all mixed up."
"Tom, Tom, we're lost! we're lost! We never can get out of this awful
place! Oh, why DID we ever leave the others!"
She sank to the ground and burst into such a frenzy of crying that Tom
was appalled with the idea that she might die, or lose her reason. He sat
down by her and put his arms around her; she buried her face in his bosom,
she clung to him, she poured out her terrors, her unavailing regrets, and
the far echoes turned them all to jeering laughter. Tom begged her to
pluck up hope again, and she said she could not. He fell to blaming and
abusing himself for getting her into this miserable situation; this had a
better effect. She said she would try to hope again, she would get up and
follow wherever he might lead if only he would not talk like that any
more. For he was no more to blame than she, she said.
So they moved on again-aimlessly-simply at random-all they could do was
to move, keep moving. For a little while, hope made a show of reviving-not
with any reason to back it, but only because it is its nature to revive
when the spring has not been taken out of it by age and familiarity with
failure.
By-and-by Tom took Becky's candle and blew it out. This economy meant
so much! Words were not needed. Becky understood, and her hope died again.
She knew that Tom had a whole candle and three or four pieces in his
pockets-yet he must economize.
By-and-by, fatigue began to assert its claims; the children tried to
pay attention, for it was dreadful to think of sitting down when time was
grown to be so precious, moving, in some direction, in any direction, was
at least progress and might bear fruit; but to sit down was to invite
death and shorten its pursuit.
At last Becky's frail limbs refused to carry her farther. She sat down.
Tom rested with her, and they talked of home, and the friends there, and
the comfortable beds and, above all, the light! Becky cried, and Tom tried
to think of some way of comforting her, but all his encouragements were
grown threadbare with use, and sounded like sarcasms. Fatigue bore so
heavily upon Becky that she drowsed off to sleep. Tom was grateful. He sat
looking into her drawn face and saw it grow smooth and natural under the
influence of pleasant dreams; and by-and-by a smile dawned and rested
there. The peaceful face reflected somewhat of peace and healing into his
own spirit, and his thoughts wandered away to bygone times and dreamy
memories. While he was deep in his musings, Becky woke up with a breezy
little laugh-but it was stricken dead upon her lips, and a groan followed
it.
"Oh, how COULD I sleep! I wish I never, never had waked! No! No, I
don't, Tom! Don't look so! I won't say it again."
"I'm glad you've slept, Becky; you'll feel rested, now, and we'll find
the way out."
"We can try, Tom; but I've seen such a beautiful country in my dream. I
reckon we are going there."
"Maybe not, maybe not. Cheer up, Becky, and let's go on trying."
They rose up and wandered along, hand in hand and hopeless. They tried
to estimate how long they had been in the cave, but all they knew was that
it seemed days and weeks, and yet it was plain that this could not be, for
their candles were not gone yet. A long time after this-they could not
tell how long-Tom said they must go softly and listen for dripping
water-they must find a spring. They found one presently, and Tom said it
was time to rest again. Both were cruelly tired, yet Becky said she
thought she could go a little farther. She was surprised to hear Tom
dissent. She could not understand it. They sat down, and Tom fastened his
candle to the wall in front of them with some clay. Thought was soon busy;
nothing was said for some time. Then Becky broke the silence:
"Tom, I am so hungry!"
Tom took something out of his pocket.
"Do you remember this?" said he.
Becky almost smiled.
"It's our wedding-cake, Tom."
"Yes-I wish it was as big as a barrel, for it's all we've got."
"I saved it from the picnic for us to dream on, Tom, the way grown-up
people do with weddingcake-but it'll be our-"
She dropped the sentence where it was. Tom divided the cake and Becky
ate with good appetite, while Tom nibbled at his moiety. There was
abundance of cold water to finish the feast with. By-and-by Becky
suggested that they move on again. Tom was silent a moment. Then he said:
"Becky, can you bear it if I tell you something?"
Becky's face paled, but she thought she could.
"Well, then, Becky, we must stay here, where there's water to drink.
That little piece is our last candle!"
Becky gave loose to tears and wailings. Tom did what he could to
comfort her, but with little effect. At length Becky said:
"Tom!"
"Well, Becky?"
"They'll miss us and hunt for us!"
"Yes, they will! Certainly they will!"
"Maybe they're hunting for us now, Tom."
"Why, I reckon maybe they are. I hope they are."
"When would they miss us, Tom?"
"When they get back to the boat, I reckon."
"Tom, it might be dark then-would they notice we hadn't come?"
"I don't know. But anyway, your mother would miss you as soon as they
got home."
A frightened look in Becky's face brought Tom to his senses and he saw
that he had made a blunder. Becky was not to have gone home that night!
The children became silent and thoughtful. In a moment a new burst of
grief from Becky showed Tom that the thing in his mind had struck hers
also-that the Sabbath morning might be half spent before Mrs. Thatcher
discovered that Becky was not at Mrs. Harper's.
The children fastened their eyes upon their bit of candle and watched
it melt slowly and pitilessly away; saw the half inch of wick stand alone
at last; saw the feeble flame rise and fall, climb the thin column of
smoke, linger at its top a moment, and then-the horror of utter darkness
reigned!
How long afterward it was that Becky came to a slow consciousness that
she was crying in Tom's arms, neither could tell. All that they knew was,
that after what seemed a mighty stretch of time, both awoke out of a dead
stupor of sleep and resumed their miseries once more. Tom said it might be
Sunday, now-maybe Monday. He tried to get Becky to talk, but her sorrows
were too oppressive, all her hopes were gone. Tom said that they must have
been missed long ago, and no doubt the search was going on. He would shout
and maybe some one would come. He tried it; but in the darkness the
distant echoes sounded so hideously that he tried it no more.
The hours wasted away, and hunger came to torment the captives again. A
portion of Tom's half of the cake was left; they divided and ate it. But
they seemed hungrier than before. The poor morsel of food only whetted
desire.
By-and-by Tom said:
"SH! Did you hear that?"
Both held their breath and listened. There was a sound like the
faintest, far-off shout. Instantly Tom answered it, and leading Becky by
the hand, started groping down the corridor in its direction. Presently he
listened again; again the sound was heard, and apparently a little nearer.
"It's them!" said Tom; "they're coming! Come along, Becky-we're all
right now!"
The joy of the prisoners was almost overwhelming. Their speed was slow,
however, because pitfalls were somewhat common, and had to be guarded
against. They shortly came to one and had to stop. It might be three feet
deep, it might be a hundred-there was no passing it at any rate. Tom got
down on his breast and reached as far down as he could. No botTom. They
must stay there and wait until the searchers came. They listened;
evidently the distant shoutings were growing more distant! a moment or two
more and they had gone altogether. The heart-sinking misery of it! Tom
whooped until he was hoarse, but it was of no use. He talked hopefully to
Becky; but an age of anxious waiting passed and no sounds came again.
The children groped their way back to the spring. The weary time
dragged on; they slept again, and awoke famished and woe-stricken. Tom
believed it must be Tuesday by this time.
Now an idea struck him. There were some side passages near at hand. It
would be better to explore some of these than bear the weight of the heavy
time in idleness. He took a kite-line from his pocket, tied it to a
projection, and he and Becky started, Tom in the lead, unwinding the line
as he groped along. At the end of twenty steps the corridor ended in a
"jumpingoff place." Tom got down on his knees and felt below, and then as
far around the corner as he could reach with his hands conveniently; he
made an effort to stretch yet a little farther to the right, and at that
moment, not twenty yards away, a human hand, holding a candle, appeared
from behind a rock! Tom lifted up a glorious shout, and instantly that
hand was followed by the body it belonged to-Injun Joe's! Tom was
paralyzed; he could not move. He was vastly gratified the next moment, to
see the "Spaniard" take to his heels and get himself out of sight. Tom
wondered that Joe had not recognized his voice and come over and killed
him for testifying in court. But the echoes must have disguised the voice.
Without doubt, that was it, he reasoned. Tom's fright weakened every
muscle in his body. He said to himself that if he had strength enough to
get back to the spring he would stay there, and nothing should tempt him
to run the risk of meeting Injun Joe again. He was careful to keep from
Becky what it was he had seen. He told her he had only shouted "for luck."
But hunger and wretchedness rise superior to fears in the long run.
Another tedious wait at the spring and another long sleep brought changes.
The children awoke tortured with a raging hunger. Tom believed that it
must be Wednesday or Thursday or even Friday or Saturday, now, and that
the search had been given over. He proposed to explore another passage. He
felt willing to risk Injun Joe and all other terrors. But Becky was very
weak. She had sunk into a dreary apathy and would not be roused. She said
she would wait, now, where she was, and die-it would not be long. She told
Tom to go with the kite-line and explore if he chose; but she implored him
to come back every little while and speak to her; and she made him promise
that when the awful time came, he would stay by her and hold her hand
until all was over.
Tom kissed her, with a choking sensation in his throat, and made a show
of being confident of finding the searchers or an escape from the cave;
then he took the kite-line in his hand and went groping down one of the
passages on his hands and knees, distressed with hunger and sick with
bodings of coming doom.
Tuesday afternoon came, and waned to the twilight. The village of St.
Petersburg still mourned. The lost children had not been found. Public
prayers had been offered up for them, and many and many a private prayer
that had the petitioner's whole heart in it; but still no good news came
from the cave. The majority of the searchers had given up the quest and
gone back to their daily avocations, saying that it was plain the children
could never be found. Mrs. Thatcher was very ill, and a great part of the
time delirious. People said it was heartbreaking to hear her call her
child, and raise her head and listen a whole minute at a time, then lay it
wearily down again with a moan. Aunt Polly had drooped into a settled
melancholy, and her gray hair had grown almost white. The village went to
its rest on Tuesday night, sad and forlorn.
Away in the middle of the night a wild peal burst from the village
bells, and in a moment the streets were swarming with frantic half-clad
people, who shouted, "Turn out! turn out! they're found! they're found!"
Tin pans and horns were added to the din, the population massed itself and
moved toward the river, met the children coming in an open carriage drawn
by shouting citizens, thronged around it, joined its homeward march, and
swept magnificently up the main street roaring huzzah after huzzah!
The village was illuminated; nobody went to bed again; it was the
greatest night the little town had ever seen. During the first half-hour a
procession of villagers filed through Judge Thatcher's house, seized the
saved ones and kissed them, squeezed Mrs. Thatcher's hand, tried to speak
but couldn't-and drifted out raining tears all over the place.
Aunt Polly's happiness was complete, and Mrs. Thatcher's nearly so. It
would be complete, however, as soon as the messenger dispatched with the
great news to the cave should get the word to her husband. Tom lay upon a
sofa with an eager auditory about him and told the history of the
wonderful adventure, putting in many striking additions to adorn it
withal; and closed with a description of how he left Becky and went on an
exploring expedition; how he followed two avenues as far as his kite-line
would reach; how he followed a third to the fullest stretch of the
kite-line, and was about to turn back when he glimpsed a far-off speck
that looked like daylight; dropped the line and groped toward it, pushed
his head and shoulders through a small hole, and saw the broad Mississippi
rolling by! And if it had only happened to be night he would not have seen
that speck of daylight and would not have explored that passage any more!
He told how he went back for Becky and broke the good news and she told
him not to fret her with such stuff, for she was tired, and knew she was
going to die, and wanted to. He described how he labored with her and
convinced her; and how she almost died for joy when she had groped to
where she actually saw the blue speck of daylight; how he pushed his way
out at the hole and then helped her out; how they sat there and cried for
gladness; how some men came along in a skiff and Tom hailed them and told
them their situation and their famished condition; how the men didn't
believe the wild tale at first, "because," said they, "you are five miles
down the river below the valley the cave is in"-then took them aboard,
rowed to a house, gave them supper, made them rest till two or three hours
after dark and then brought them home.
Before day-dawn, Judge Thatcher and the handful of searchers with him
were tracked out, in the cave, by the twine clews they had strung behind
them, and informed of the great news.
Three days and nights of toil and hunger in the cave were not to be
shaken off at once, as Tom and Becky soon discovered. They were bedridden
all of Wednesday and Thursday, and seemed to grow more and more tired and
worn, all the time. Tom got about, a little, on Thursday, was down-town
Friday, and nearly as whole as ever Saturday; but Becky did not leave her
room until Sunday, and then she looked as if she had passed through a
wasting illness.
Tom learned of Huck's sickness and went to see him on Friday, but could
not be admitted to the bedroom; neither could he on Saturday or Sunday. He
was admitted daily after that, but was warned to keep still about his