Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer among the Indians

by Twain, Mark

  “No, sir.”

  He took the dictionary and began to skim the pages swiftly, one after another. Evidently he dwelt upon no page, but merely gave it a lick from top to bottom with his eye and turned it over. The school-work rambled on after a fashion, but it consisted of blunders, mainly, for the fascinated eyes and minds of school and teacher were oftener on the young stranger than elsewhere. At the end of twenty minutes the boy laid the book down. Mr. Ferguson noticed this, and said, with a touch of disappointment in his tone—

  “I am sorry. I saw that it did not interest you.”

  The boy rose and said—

  “Oh, sir, on the contrary!” This in French; then in English, “I have now the words of your language, but the forms not—perhaps, how you call?—the pronunciation also.”

  “You have the words? How many of the words do you know?”

  “All, sir.”

  “No—no—there are 645 octavo pages—you couldn’t have examined a tenth of them in this short time. A page in two seconds?—it is impossible.”

  The boy bowed respectfully, and said nothing.

  “There—I am in fault again. I shall learn of you—courtesy. Give me the book. Begin. Recite—recite!”

  It was another miracle. The boy poured out, in a rushing stream, the words, the definitions, the accompanying illustrative phrases and sentences, the signs indicating the parts of speech—everything; he skipped nothing, he put in all the details, and he even got the pronunciations substantially right, since it was a pronouncing-dictionary. Teacher and school sat in a soundless and motionless spell of awe and admiration, unconscious of the flight of time, unconscious of everything but the beautiful stranger and his stupendous performance. After a long while the juggler interrupted his recitation to say—in rather cumbrous and booky English—

  “It is of necessity—what you call ‘of course,’ n’est-ce pas?—that I now am enabled to apply the machinery of the rules of the grammar, since the meanings of the words which constitute them were become my possession—” Here he stopped, quoted the violated rule, corrected his sentence, then went on: “And it is of course that I now understand the languages—language—appropriated to the lesson of arithmetic—yet not all, the dictionary being in the offensive. As for example, to-wit, ‘Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled, Sally Fitch hunched me, ye banks and braes o’ bonny Doon, oh here’s a hand my trusty fere and gie’s a hand o’ thine.’ Some of these words are by mischance omitted from the dictionary, and thereby results confusion. Without knowledge of the signification of hunched one is ignorant of the nature of the explanation preferred by the mademoiselle Thatcher; and if one shall not know what a Doon is, and whether it is a financial bank or other that is involved, one is still yet again at a loss.”

  Silence. The master roused himself as if from a dream, and lifted his hands and said—

  “It is not a parrot—it thinks! Boy, ye are a marvel! With listening an hour and studying half as long, you have learned the English language. You are the only person in America that knows all its words. Let it rest, where it is—the construction will come of itself. Take up the Latin, now, and the Greek, and short-hand writing, and the mathematics. Here are the books. You shall have thirty minutes to each. Then your education will be complete. But tell me! How do you manage these things? What is your method? You do not read the page, you only skim it down with your eye, as one wipes a column of sums from a slate. You understand my English?”

  “Yes, master—perfectly. I have no method—meaning I have no mystery. I see what is on the page—that is all.”

  “But you see it at a glance.”

  “But is not the particulars of the page—” He stopped to apply the rule and correct the sentence: “are not the particulars of the page the same as the particulars of the school? I see all the pupils at once; do I not know, then, how each is dressed, and his attitude and expression, and the color of his eyes and hair, and the length of his nose, and if his shoes are tied or not? Why shall I glance twice?”

  Margaret Stover, over in the corner, drew her untied shoe back out of sight.

  “Ah, well, I have seen no one else who could individualize a thousand details with one sweep of the two eyes. Maybe the eyes of the admirable creature the dragon-fly can do it, but that is another matter—he has twelve thousand, and so the haul he makes with his multitudinous glance is a thing within reason and comprehension. Get at your Latin, lad.” Then with a sigh, “We will proceed with our poor dull ploddings.”

  The boy took up the book and began to turn the pages, much as if he were carefully counting them. The school glanced with an evil joy at Henry Bascom, and was pleased to note that he was not happy. He was the only Latin pupil in the school, and his pride in this distinction was a thing through which his mates were made to endure much suffering.

  The school droned and buzzed along, with the bulk of its mind and its interest not on its work but fixed in envy and discouragement upon the new scholar. At the end of half an hour it saw him lay down his Latin book and take up the Greek; it glanced contentedly at Henry Bascom, and a satisfied murmur dribbled down the benches. In turn the Greek and the mathematics were mastered, then “The New Short-Hand Method, called Phonography” was taken up. But the phonographic study was short-lived—it lasted but a minute and twenty seconds; then the boy played with several other books. The master noticed this, and by and by said—

  “So soon done with the Phonography?”

  “It is only a set of compact and simple principles, sir. They are applicable with ease and certainty—like the principles of the mathematics. Also, the examples assist; innumerable combinations of English words are given, and the vowels eliminated. It is admirable, this system, for precision and clarity; one could write Greek and Latin with it, making word-combinations with the vowels excised, and still be understood.”

  “Your English is improving by leaps and bounds, my boy.”

  “Yes, sir. I have been reading these English books. They have furnished me the forms of the language—the moulds in which it is cast—the idioms.”

  “I am past wondering! I think there is no miracle that a mind like this cannot do. Pray go to the blackboard and let me see what Greek may look like in phonographic word-combinations with the vowel-signs left out. I will read some passages.”

  The boy took the chalk, and the trial began. The master read very slowly; then a little faster; then faster still; then as fast as he could. The boy kept up, without apparent difficulty. Then the master threw in Latin sentences, English sentences, French ones, and now and then a hardy problem from Euclid to be ciphered out. The boy was competent, all the while.

  “It is amazing, my child, amazing—stupefying! Do me one more miracle, and I strike my flag. Here is a page of columns of figures. Add them up. I have seen the famous lightning-calculator do it in three minutes and a quarter, and I know the answer. I will hold the watch. Beat him!”

  The boy glanced at the page, made his bow and said,—

  “The total is 4,865,493 if the blurred twenty-third figure in the fifth column is a 9; if it is a 7, the total is less by 2.”

  “Right, and he is beaten by incredible odds; but you hadn’t time to even see the blurred figure, let alone note its place. Wait till I find it—the twenty-third, did you say? Here it is, but I can’t tell which it is—it may be a 9, it may be a 7. But no matter, one of your answers is right, according to which name we give the figure. Dear me, can my watch be right? It is long past the noon recess, and everybody has forgotten his dinner. In my thirty years of school-teaching experience this has not happened before. Truly it is a day of miracles. Children, we dull moles are in no condition to further plod and grub after the excitements and bewilderments of this intellectual conflagration—school is dismissed. My wonderful scholar, tell me your name.”

  The school crowded forward in a body to devour the stranger at close quarters with their envying eyes; all except Bascom, who remained apart and sulked.

  “Quar
ante-quatre, sir. Forty-four.”

  “Why—why—that is only a number, you know, not a name.”

  The boy bowed. The master dropped the subject.

  “When did you arrive in our town?”

  “Last night, sir.”

  “Have you friends or relatives among us?”

  “No, sir—none. Mr. Hotchkiss allows me to lodge in his house.”

  “You will find the Hotchkisses good people, excellent people. Had you introductions to them?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You see I am curious; but we are all that, in this monotonous little place, and we mean no harm. How did you make them understand what you wanted?”

  “Through my signs and their compassion. It was cold, and I was a stranger.”

  “Good—good—and well stated, without waste of words. It describes the Hotchkisses; it’s a whole biography. Whence did you come—and how?”

  Forty-four bowed. The master said, affably—

  “It was another indiscretion—you will not remember it against—no, I mean you will forget it, in consid—what I am trying to say is, that you will overlook it—that is it, overlook it. I am glad you are come, grateful that you are come.”

  “I thank you—thank you deeply, sir.”

  “My official character requires that I precede you in leaving this house, therefore I do it. This is an apology. Adieu.”

  “Adieu, my master.”

  The school made way, and the old gentleman marched out between the ranks with a grave dignity proper to his official state.

  Chapter 2

  THE GIRLS went vivaciously chattering away, eager to get home and tell of the wonders they had seen; but outside of the schoolhouse the boys grouped themselves together and waited; silent, expectant, and nervous. They paid but little attention to the bitter weather, they were apparently under the spell of a more absorbing interest. Henry Bascom stood apart from the others, in the neighborhood of the door. The new boy had not come out, yet. Tom Sawyer had halted him to give him a warning.

  “Look out for him—he’ll be waiting. The bully, I mean—Hen Bascom. He’s treacherous and low down.”

  “Waiting?”

  “Yes—for you.”

  “What for?”

  “To lick you—whip you.”

  “On what account?”

  “Why, he’s the bully this year, and you’re a fresh.”

  “Is that a reason?”

  “Plenty—yes. He’s got to take your measure, and do it to-day—he knows that.”

  “It’s a custom, then?”

  “Yes. He’s got to fight you, whether he wants to or not. But he wants to. You’ve knocked his Latin layout galley-west.”

  “Galley west? Je ne—”

  “It’s just a word, you know. Means you’ve knocked his props from under him.”

  “Knocked his props from under him?”

  “Yes—trumped his ace.”

  “Trumped his—”

  “Ace. That’s it—pulled his leg.”

  “I assure you this is an error. I have not pulled his leg.”

  “But you don’t understand. Don’t you see? You’ve graveled him, and he’s disgruntled.”

  The new boy’s face expressed his despair. Tom reflected a moment, then his eye lighted with hope, and he said, with confidence—

  “Now you’ll get the idea. You see, he held the age on Latin—just a lone hand, don’t you know, and it made him Grand Turk and Whoopjamboreehoo of the whole school, and he went in procession all by himself, like Parker’s hog. Well, you’ve walked up to the captain’s office with your Latin, now, and pulled in high, low, jack and the game, and it’s taken the curl out of his tail. There—that’s the idea.”

  The new boy hesitated, passed his hand over his forehead, and began, haltingly—

  “It is still a little vague. It was but a poor dictionary—that French-English—and over-rich in omissions. Do you perhaps mean that he is jealous?”

  “Score one! That’s it. Jealous—the very word. Now then, there’ll be a ring, and you’ll fight. Can you box? do you know the trick of it?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll show you. You’ll learn in two minutes and less; it don’t begin with grammar for difficulties. Put up your fists—so. Now then, hit me . . . . . You notice how I turned that off with my left? Again . . . . . . See?—turned it with my right. Dance around; caper—like this. Now I’m coming for you—look sharp . . . . . . That’s the ticket—I didn’t arrive. Once more . . . . . . Good! You’re all right. Come on. It’s a cold day for Henry.”

  They stepped outside, now. As they walked past Bascom he suddenly thrust out his foot, to trip Forty-four. But the foot was no obstruction, it did not interrupt Forty-four’s stride. Necessarily, then, Bascom was himself tripped. He fell heavily, and everybody laughed privately. He got up, all a-quiver with passion, and cried out—

  “Off with your coat, Know-it-all—you’re going to fight or eat dirt, one or t’other. Form a ring, fellows!”

  He threw off his coat. The ring was formed.

  “May I keep my coat on? Do the rules allow it?”

  “Don’t!” said Tom; “it’s a disadvantage. Pull it off.”

  “Keep it on, you wax doll, if you want to,” said Henry, “it won’t do you any good either way. Time!”

  Forty-four took position, with his fists up, and stood without moving, while the lithe and active Bascom danced about him, danced up toward him, feinted with his right, feinted with his left, danced away again, danced forward again—and so-on and so-on, Tom and others putting in frequent warnings for Forty-four: “Look out for him—look o-u-t!” At last Forty-four opened his guard for an instant, and in that instant Henry plunged, and let drive with all his force; but Forty-four stepped lightly aside, and Henry’s impulse and a slip on the ice carried him to the ground. He got up lame but eager, and began his dance again; he presently lunged again, hit vacancy and got another fall. After that he respected the slippery ground, and lunged no more, and danced cautiously; he fought with energy, interest and smart judgment, and delivered a sparkling rain of blows, but none of them got home—some were dodged by a sideward tilt of the head, the others were neatly warded. He was getting winded with his violent exercise, but the other boy was still fresh, for he had done no dancing, he had struck no blows, and had had no exercise of consequence. Henry stopped to rest and pant, and Forty-four said—

  “Let us not go on with it. What good can come of it?”

  The boys murmured dissent; this was an election for Bully; they were personally interested, they had hopes, and their hopes were getting the color of certainties. Henry said—

  “You’ll stay where you are, Miss Nancy. You don’t leave this ground till I know who wears the belt.”

  “Ah, but you already know—or ought to; therefore, where is the use of going on? You have not struck me, and I have no wish to strike you.”

  “Oh, you haven’t, haven’t you? How kind! Keep your benevolences to yourself till somebody asks you for them. Time!”

  The new boy began to strike out, now; and every time he struck, Henry went down. Five times. There was great excitement among the boys. They recognised that they were going to lose a tyrant and perhaps get a protector in his place. In their happiness they lost their fears and began to shout—

  “Give it him, Forty-four! Let him have it! Land him again! Another one! Give it him good!”

  Henry was pluck. He went down time after time, but got patiently up and went at his work again, and did not give up until his strength was all gone. Then he said—

  “The belt’s yours—but I’ll get even with you, yet, girly, you see if I don’t.” Then he looked around upon the crowd, and called eight of them by name, ending with Huck Finn, and said: “You’re spotted, you see. I heard you. To-morrow I’ll begin on you, and I’ll lam the daylights out of you.”

  For the first time, a flash of temper showed in the new boy’s eye. It was only a flash; it was gon
e in a moment; then he said, without passion—

  “I will not allow that.”

  “You won’t allow it! Who’s asking you? Who cares what you allow and what you don’t allow? To show you how much I care, I’ll begin on them now.”

  “I cannot have it. You must not be foolish. I have spared you, till now; I have struck you only lightly. If you touch one of the boys, I will hit you hard.”

  But Henry’s temper was beyond his control. He jumped at the nearest boy on his black-list, but he did not reach him; he went down under a sounding slap from the flat of the new boy’s hand, and lay motionless where he fell.

  “I saw it! I saw that!” This shout was from Henry’s father, the nigger-trader—an unloved man, but respected for his muscle and his temper. He came running from his sleigh, with his whip in his hand and raised to strike. The boys fell back out of his way, and as he reached Forty-four he brought down the whip with an angry “I’ll learn you!” Forty-four dodged deftly out of its course and seized the trader’s wrist with his right hand. There was a sound of crackling bones and a groan, and the trader staggered away, saying—

  “Name of God, my wrist is crushed!”

  Henry’s mamma arrived from the sleigh, now and broke into frenzies of lamentation over her collapsed son and her crippled husband, while the schoolboys looked on, dazed, and rather frightened at the woman’s spectacular distress, but fascinated with the show and glad to be there and see it. It absorbed their attention so entirely that when Mrs. Bascom presently turned and demanded the extradition of Forty-four so that she might square accounts with him they found that he had disappeared without their having noticed it.

  Chapter 3

  WITHIN an hour afterward people began to drop in at the Hotchkiss house; ostensibly to make a friendly call, really to get sight of the miraculous boy. The news they brought soon made the Hotchkisses proud of their prize and glad that they had caught him. Mr. Hotchkiss’s pride and joy were frank and simple; every new marvel that any comer added to the list of his lodger’s great deeds made him a prouder and happier man than he was before, he being a person substantially without jealousies and by nature addicted to admirations. Indeed he was a broad man in many ways; hospitable to new facts and always seeking them; to new ideas, and always examining them; to new opinions and always adopting them; a man ready to meet any novelty half way and give it a friendly trial. He changed his principles with the moon, his politics with the weather, and his religion with his shirt. He was recognized as being limitlessly good-hearted, quite fairly above the village average intellectually, a diligent and enthusiastic seeker after truth, and a sincere believer in his newest belief, but a man who had missed his vocation—he should have been a weather-vane. He was tall and handsome and courteous, with winning ways, and expressive eyes, and had a white head which looked twenty years older than the rest of him.