Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Mark J. Twain

  I got to feeling so mean and so miserable I most wished I was dead. I fidgeted up and down the raft, abusing myself to myself, and Jim was fidgeting up and down past me. We neither of us could keep still. Every time he danced around and says, “Dah’s Cairo!” it went through me like a shot, and I thought if it was Cairo I reckoned I would die of miserableness.

  Jim talked out loud all the time while I was talking to myself. He was saying how the first thing he would do when he got to a free State he would go to saving up money and never spend a single cent, and when he got enough he would buy his wife, which was owned on a farm close to where Miss Watson lived; and then they would both work to buy the two children, and if their master wouldn’t sell them, they’d get an Ab‘litionist to go and steal them.

  It most froze me to hear such talk. He wouldn’t ever dared to talk such talk in his life before. Just see what a difference it made in him the minute he judged he was about free. It was according to the old saying, “give a nigger an inch and he’ll take an ell.”14 Thinks I, this is what comes of my not thinking. Here was this nigger which I had as good as helped to run away, coming right out flat-footed and saying he would steal his children—children that belonged to a man I didn’t even know; a man that hadn’t ever done me no harm.

  I was sorry to hear Jim say that, it was such a lowering of him. My conscience got to stirring me up hotter than ever, until at last I says to it, “Let up on me—it ain’t too late, yet—I’ll paddle ashore at the first light, and tell.” I felt easy, and happy, and light as a feather, right off. All my troubles was gone. I went to looking out sharp for a light, and sort of singing to myself. By-and-by one showed. Jim sings out:

  “We’s safe, Huck, we’s safe! Jump up and crack yo’ heels, dat’s de good ole Cairo at las‘, I jis knows it!”

  I says:

  “I’ll take the canoe and go see, Jim. It mightn’t be, you know.”

  He jumped and got the canoe ready, and put his old coat in the bottom for me to set on, and give me the paddle; and as I shoved off, he says:

  “Pooty soon I’ll be a-shout’n for joy, en I’ll say, it’s all on accounts o’ Huck; I’s a free man, en I couldn’t ever ben free ef it hadn’ ben for Huck; Huck done it. Jim won’t ever forgit you, Huck; you’s de bes’ fren’ Jim’s ever had; en you’s de only fren’ ole Jim’s got now.”

  I was paddling off, all in a sweat to tell on him; but when he says this, it seemed to kind of take the tuck all out of me. I went along slow then, and I warn’t right down certain whether I was glad I started or whether I warn’t. When I was fifty yards off, Jim says:

  “Dah you goes, de ole true Huck; de on‘y white genlman dat ever kep’ his promise to ole Jim.”

  Well, I just felt sick. But I says, I got to do it—I can’t get out of it. Right then, along comes a skiff with two men in it, with guns, and they stopped and I stopped. One of them says:

  “What’s that, yonder?”

  “A piece of a raft,” I says.

  “Do you belong on it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Any men on it?”

  “Only one, sir.”

  “Well, there’s five niggers run off to-night, up yonder above the head of the bend. Is your man white or black?”

  I didn’t answer up prompt. I tried to, but the words wouldn’t come. I tried, for a second or two, to brace up and out with it, but I warn’t man enough—hadn’t the spunk of a rabbit. I see I was weakening; so I just give up trying, and up and says—

  “He’s white.”

  “I reckon we’ll go and see for ourselves.”

  “I wish you would,” says I, “because it’s pap that’s there, and maybe you’d help me tow the raft ashore where the light is. He’s sick—and so is mam and Mary Ann.”

  “Oh, the devil! we’re in a hurry, boy. But I s‘pose we’ve got to. Come—buckle to your paddle, and let’s get along.”

  I buckled to my paddle and they laid to their oars. When we had made a stroke or two, I says:

  “Pap’ll be mighty much obleeged to you, I can tell you. Everybody goes away when I want them to help me tow the raft ashore, and I can’t do it by myself.”

  “Well, that’s infernal mean. Odd, too. Say, boy, what’s the matter with your father?”

  “It’s the—a—the—well, it ain’t anything, much.”

  They stopped pulling. It warn’t but a mighty little ways to the raft, now. One says:

  “Boy, that’s a lie. What is the matter with your pap? Answer up square, now, and it’ll be the better for you.”

  “I will, sir, I will, honest—but don’t leave us, please. It’s the—the—gentlemen, if you’ll only pull ahead, and let me heave you the head-line, you won’t have to come a-near the raft—please do.”

  “Set her back, John, set her back!” says one. They backed water. “Keep away, boy—keep to looard.cg Confound it, I just expect the wind has blowed it to us. Your pap’s got the small-pox, and you know it precious well. Why didn’t you come out and say so? Do you want to spread it all over?”

  “Well,” says I, a-blubbering, “I’ve told everybody before, and then they just went away and left us.”

  “Poor devil, there’s something in that. We are right down sorry for you, but we—well, hang it, we don’t want the smallpox, you see. Look here, I’ll tell you what to do. Don’t you try to land by yourself, or you’ll smash everything to pieces. You float along down about twenty miles and you’ll come to a town on the left-hand side of the river. It will be long after sun-up, then, and when you ask for help, you tell them your folks are all down with chills and fever. Don’t be a fool again, and let people guess what is the matter. Now we’re trying to do you a kindness; so you just put twenty miles between us, that’s a good boy. It wouldn’t do any good to land yonder where the light is—it’s only a wood-yard. Say—I reckon your father’s poor, and I’m bound to say he’s in pretty hard luck. Here—I’ll put a twenty dollar gold piece on this board, and you get it when it floats by. I feel mighty mean to leave you, but my kingdom! it won’t do to fool with small-pox, don’t you see?“

  “Hold on, Parker,” says the other man, “here’s a twenty to put on the board for me. Good-bye, boy, you do as Mr. Parker told you, and you’ll be all right.”

  “That’s so, my boy—good-bye, good-bye. If you see any runaway niggers, you get help and nab them, and you can make some money by it.”

  “Good-bye, sir,” says I, “I won’t let no runaway niggers get by me if I can help it.”

  They went off, and I got aboard the raft, feeling bad and low, because I knowed very well I had done wrong, and I see it warn’t no use for me to try to learn to do right; a body that don’t get started right when he’s little, ain’t got no show—when the pinch comes there ain’t nothing to back him up and keep him to his work, and so he gets beat. Then I thought a minute, and says to myself, hold on,—s‘pose you’d a done right and give Jim up; would you felt better than what you do now? No, says I, I’d feel bad—I’d feel just the same way I do now. Well, then, says I, what’s the use you learning to do right, when it’s troublesome to do right and ain’t no trouble to do wrong, and the wages is just the same? I was stuck. I couldn’t answer that. So I reckoned I wouldn’t bother no more about it, but after this always do whichever come handiest at the time.

  I went into the wigwam; Jim warn’t there. I looked all around; he warn’t anywhere. I says:

  “Jim!”

  “Here I is, Huck. Is dey out o’ sight yit? Don’t talk loud.”

  He was in the river, under the stern oar, with just his nose out. I told him they was out of sight, so he come aboard. He says:

  “I was a-listenin’ to all de talk, en I slips into de river en was gwyne to shove for sho’ if dey come aboard. Den I was gwyne to swim to de raf’ agin when dey was gone. But lawsy, how you did fool ‘em, Huck! Dat wuz de smartes’ dodge! I tell you, chile, I ’speck it save’ ole Jim—ole Jim ain’t gwyne to forgit you for dat, honey.”


  Then we talked about the money. It was a pretty good raise, twenty dollars apiece. Jim said we could take deck passage on a steamboat now, and the money would last us as far as we wanted to go in the free States. He said twenty mile more warn’t far for the raft to go, but he wished we was already there.

  Towards daybreak we tied up, and Jim was mighty particular about hiding the raft good. Then he worked all day fixing things in bundles, and getting all ready to quit rafting.

  That night about ten we hove in sight of the lights of a town away down in a left-hand bend.

  I went off in the canoe, to ask about it. Pretty soon I found a man out in the river with a skiff, setting a trot-line. I ranged up and says:

  “Mister, is that town Cairo?”

  “Cairo? no. You must be a blame’ fool.”

  “What town is it, mister?”

  “If you want to know, go and find out. If you stay here botherin’ around me for about a half a minute longer, you’ll get something you won’t want.”

  I paddled to the raft. Jim was awful disappointed, but I said never mind, Cairo would be the next place, I reckoned.

  We passed another town before daylight, and I was going out again; but it was high ground, so I didn’t go. No high ground about Cairo, Jim said. I had forgot it. We laid up for the day, on a tow-head tolerable close to the left-hand bank. I begun to suspicion something. So did Jim. I says:

  “Maybe we went by Cairo in the fog that night.”

  He says:

  “Doan’ less’ talk about it, Huck. Po’ niggers can’t have no luck. I awluz ‘spected dat rattle-snake skin warn’t done wid its work.”

  “I wish I’d never seen that snake-skin, Jim—I do wish I’d never laid eyes on it.”

  “It ain’t yo’ fault, Huck; you didn’ know. Don’t you blame yo‘self ’bout it.”

  When it was daylight, here was the clear Ohio water in shore, sure enough, and outside was the old regular Muddy! So it was all up with Cairo.15

  We talked it all over. It wouldn’t do to take to the shore; we couldn’t take the raft up the stream, of course. There warn’t no way but to wait for dark, and start back in the canoe and take the chances. So we slept all day amongst the cotton-wood thicket, so as to be fresh for the work, and when we went back to the raft about dark the canoe was gone!

  We didn’t say a word for a good while. There warn’t anything to say. We both knowed well enough it was some more work of the rattle snake skin; so what was the use to talk about it? It would only look like we was finding fault, and that would be bound to fetch more bad luck—and keep on fetching it, too, till we knowed enough to keep still.

  By-and-by we talked about what we better do, and found there warn’t no way but just to go along down with the raft till we got a chance to buy a canoe to go back in. We warn’t going to borrow it when there warn’t anybody around, the way pap would do, for that might set people after us.

  So we shoved out, after dark, on the raft.

  Anybody that don’t believe yet, that it’s foolishness to handle a snake-skin, after all that that snake-skin done for us, will believe it now, if they read on and see what more it done for us.

  The place to buy canoes is off of rafts laying up at shore. But we didn’t see no rafts laying up; so we went along during three hours and more. Well, the night got gray, and ruther thick, which is the next meanest thing to fog. You can’t tell the shape of the river, and you can’t see no distance. It got to be very late and still, and then along comes a steamboat up the river. We lit the lantern, and judged she would see it. Upstream boats didn’t generly come close to us; they go out and follow the bars and hunt for easy water under the reefs; but nights like this they bull right up the channel against the whole river.

  We could hear her pounding along, but we didn’t see her good till she was close. She aimed right for us. Often they do that and try to see how close they can come without touching; sometimes the wheel bites off a sweep, and then the pilot sticks his head out and laughs, and thinks he’s mighty smart. Well, here she comes, and we said she was going to try to shave us; but she didn’t seem to be sheering off a bit. She was a big one, and she was coming in a hurry, too, looking like a black cloud with rows of glow-worms around it; but all of a sudden she bulged out, big and scary, with a long row of wide-open furnace doors shining like red-hot teeth, and her monstrous bows and guards hanging right over us. There was a yell at us, and a jingling of bells to stop the engines, a pow-wow of cussing, and whistling of steam—and as Jim went overboard on one side and I on the other, she come smashing straight through the raft.

  I dived—and I aimed to find the bottom, too, for a thirty-foot wheel had got to go over me, and I wanted it to have plenty of room. I could always stay under water a minute; this time I reckon I staid under water a minute and a half. Then I bounced for the top in a hurry, for I was nearly busting. I popped out to my arm-pits and blowed the water out of my nose, and puffed a bit. Of course there was a booming current; and of course that boat started her engines again ten seconds after she stopped them, for they never cared much for raftsmen; so now she was churning along up the river, out of sight in the thick weather, though I could hear her.

  I sung out for Jim about a dozen times, but I didn’t get any answer; so I grabbed a plank that touched me while I was “treading water,” and struck out for shore, shoving it ahead of me. But I made out to see that the drift of the current was towards the left-hand shore, which meant that I was in a crossing; so I changed off and went that way.

  It was one of these long, slanting, two-mile crossings; so I was a good long time in getting over. I made a safe landing, and clum up the bank. I couldn’t see but a little ways, but I went poking along over rough ground for a quarter of a mile or more, and then I run across a big old-fashioned double log house before I noticed it. I was going to rush by and get away, but a lot of dogs jumped out and went to howling and barking at me, and I knowed better than to move another peg.ch

  CHAPTER 17

  In a about half a minute somebody spoke out of a window, without putting his head out, and says:

  “Be done, boys! Who’s there?”

  I says:

  “It’s me.”

  “Who’s me?”

  “George Jackson, sir.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I don’t want nothing, sir. I only want to go along by, but the dogs won’t let me.”

  “What are you prowling around here this time of night, for—hey?”

  “I warn’t prowling around, sir; I fell overboard off of the steamboat.”

  “Oh, you did, did you? Strike a light there, somebody. What did you say your name was?”

  “George Jackson, sir. I’m only a boy.”

  “Look here; if you’re telling the truth, you needn’t be afraid—nobody’ ll hurt you. But don’t try to budge; stand right where you are. Rouse out Bob and Tom, some of you, and fetch the guns. George Jackson, is there anybody with you?”

  “No, sir, nobody.”

  I heard the people stirring around in the house, now, and see a light. The man sung out:

  “Snatch that light away, Betsy, you old fool—ain’t you got any sense? Put it on the floor behind the front door. Bob, if you and Tom are ready, take your places.”

  “All ready.”

  “Now, George Jackson, do you know the Shepherdsons?”

  “No, sir—I never heard of them.”

  “Well, that may be so, and it mayn’t. Now, all ready. Step forward, George Jackson. And mind, don’t you hurry—come mighty slow. If there’s anybody with you, let him keep back—if he shows himself he’ll be shot. Come along, now. Come slow; push the door open, yourself—just enough to squeeze in, d‘you hear?”

  I didn’t hurry, I couldn’t if I’d a wanted to. I took one slow step at a time, and there warn’t a sound, only I thought I could hear my heart. The dogs were as still as the humans, but they followed a little behind me. When I got to the three log door-steps,
I heard them unlocking and unbarring and unbolting. I put my hand on the door and pushed it a little and a little more, till somebody said, “There, that’s enough—put your head in.” I done it, but I judged they would take it off.

  The candle was on the floor, and there they all was, looking at me, and me at them, for about a quarter of a minute. Three big men with guns pointed at me, which made me wince, I tell you; the oldest, gray and about sixty, the other two thirty or more—all of them fine and handsome—and the sweetest old gray-headed lady, and back of her two young women which I couldn’t see right well. The old gentleman says:

  “There—I reckon it’s all right. Come in.”

  As soon as I was in, the old gentleman he locked the door and barred it and bolted it, and told the young men to come in with their guns, and they all went in a big parlor that had a new rag carpet on the floor, and got together in a corner that was out of range of the front windows—there warn’t none on the side. They held the candle, and took a good look at me, and all said, “Why be ain’t a Shepherdson—no, there ain’t any Shepherdson about him.” Then the old man said he hoped I wouldn’t mind being searched for arms, because he didn’t mean no harm by it—it was only to make sure. So he didn’t pry into my pockets, but only felt outside with his hands, and said it was all right. He told me to make myself easy and at home, and tell all about myself; but the old lady says: