The Portable Mark Twain

by Mark Twain

  “Yes, he’s gone, my son, and you must come in and eat your dinner with us; and then we’ll hitch up and take you down to Nichols’s.”

  “Oh, I can’t make you so much trouble; I couldn’t think of it. I’ll walk—I don’t mind the distance.”

  “But we won’t let you walk—it wouldn’t be Southern hospitality to do it. Come right in.”

  “Oh, do,” says Aunt Sally; “it ain’t a bit of trouble to us, not a bit in the world. You must stay. It’s a long, dusty three mile, and we can’t let you walk. And besides, I’ve already told ’em to put on another plate, when I see you coming; so you mustn’t disappoint us. Come right in, and make yourself at home.”

  So Tom he thanked them very hearty and handsome, and let himself be persuaded, and come in; and when he was in, he said he was a stranger from Hicksville, Ohio, and his name was William Thompson—and he made another bow.

  Well, he run on, and on, making up stuff about Hicksville and everybody in it he could invent, and I getting a little nervous, and wondering how this was going to help me out of my scrape; and at last, still talking along, he reached over and kissed Aunt Sally right on the mouth, and then settled back again in his chair, comfortable, and was going on talking; but she jumped up and wiped it off with the back of her hand, and says:

  “You owdacious puppy!”

  He looked kind of hurt, and says:

  “I’m surprised at you, m’am.”

  “You’re s’rp—Why, what do you reckon I am? I’ve a good notion to take and—say, what do you mean by kissing me?”

  He looked kind of humble, and says:

  “I didn’t mean nothing, m’am. I didn’t mean no harm. I—I—thought you’d like it.”

  “Why, you born fool!” She took up the spinning-stick, and it looked like it was all she could do to keep from giving him a crack with it. “What made you think I’d like it?”

  ‘Well, I don’t know. Only, they—they—told me you would.”

  “They told you I would. Whoever told you’s another lunatic. I never heard the beat of it. Who’s they?”

  “Why—everybody. They all said so, m’am.”

  It was all she could do to hold in; and her eyes snapped, and her fingers worked like she wanted to scratch him; and she says:

  “Who’s ‘everybody?’ Out with their names—or ther’ll be an idiot short.”

  He got up and looked distressed, and fumbled his hat, and says:

  “I’m sorry, and I warn’t expecting it. They told me to. They all told me to. They all said kiss her; and said she’ll like it. They all said it—every one of them. But I’m sorry, m’am, and I won’t do it no more—I won’t, honest.”

  “You won’t, won’t you? Well, I sh’d reckon you won’t!”

  “No’m, I’m honest about it; I won’t ever do it again. Till you ask me.”

  “Till I ask you! Well, I never see the beat of it in my born days! I lay you’ll be the Methusalem-numskull of creation before ever I ask you—or the likes of you.”

  “Well,” he says, “it does surprise me so. I can’t make it out, somehow. They said you would, and I thought you would. But—” He stopped and looked around slow, like he wished he could run across a friendly eye, somewhere’s; and fetched up on the old gentleman’s, and says, “Didn’t you think she’d like me to kiss her, sir?”

  “Why, no, I—I—well, no, I b’lieve I didn’t.”

  Then he looks on around, the same way, to me—and says:

  “Tom, didn’t you think Aunt Sally’d open out her arms and say, ‘Sid Sawyer—’”

  “My land!” she says, breaking in and jumping for him, “you impudent young rascal, to fool a body so—” and was going to hug him, but he fended her off, and says:

  “No, not till you’ve asked me, first.”

  So she didn’t lose no time, but asked him; and hugged him and kissed him, over and over again, and then turned him over to the old man, and he took what was left. And after they got a little quiet again, she says:

  “Why, dear me, I never see such a surprise. We warn’t looking for you, at all, but only Tom. Sis never wrote to me about anybody coming but him.”

  “It’s because it warn’t intended for any of us to come but Tom,” he says; “but I begged and begged, and at the last minute she let me come, too; so, coming down the river, me and Tom thought it would be a first-rate surprise for him to come here to the house first, and for me to by-and-by tag along and drop in and let on to be a stranger. But it was a mistake, Aunt Sally. This ain’t no healthy place for a stranger to come.”

  “No—not impudent whelps, Sid. You ought to had your jaws boxed; I hain’t been so put out since I don’t know when. But I don’t care, I don’t mind the terms—I’d be willing to stand a thousand such jokes to have you here. Well, to think of that performance! I don’t deny it, I was most putrified with astonishment when you give me that smack.”

  We had dinner out in that broad open passage betwixt the house and the kitchen; and there was things enough on that table for seven families—and all hot, too; none of your flabby tough meat that’s laid in a cupboard in a damp cellar all night and tastes like a hunk of old cold cannibal in the morning. Uncle Silas he asked a pretty long blessing over it, but it was worth it; and it didn’t cool it a bit, neither, the way I’ve seen them kind of interruptions do, lots of times.

  There was a considerable good deal of talk, all the afternoon, and me and Tom was on the lookout all the time, but it warn’t no use, they didn’t happen to say nothing about any runaway nigger, and we was afraid to try to work up to it. But at supper, at night, one of the little boys says:

  “Pa, mayn’t Tom and Sid and me go to the show?”

  “No,” says the old man, “I reckon there ain’t going to be any; and you couldn’t go if there was; because the runaway nigger told Burton and me all about that scandalous show, and Burton said he would tell the people; so I reckon they’ve drove the owdacious loafers out of town before this time.”

  So there it was!—but I couldn’t help it. Tom and me was to sleep in the same room and bed; so, being tired, we bid good-night and went up to bed, right after supper, and clumb out of the window and down the lightning-rod, and shoved for the town; for I didn’t believe anybody was going to give the king and the duke a hint, and so, if I didn’t hurry up and give them one they’d get into trouble sure.

  On the road Tom he told me all about how it was reckoned I was murdered, and how pap disappeared, pretty soon, and didn’t come back no more, and what a stir there was when Jim run away; and I told Tom all about our Royal Nonesuch rapscallions, and as much of the raft-voyage as I had time to; and as we struck into the town and up through the middle of it—it was as much as half-after eight, then—here comes a raging rush of people, with torches, and an awful whooping and yelling, and banging tin pans and blowing horns; and we jumped to one side to let them go by; and as they went by, I see they had the king and the duke astraddle of a rail—that is, I knowed it was the king and the duke, though they was all over tar and feathers, and didn’t look like nothing in the world that was human—just looked like a couple of monstrous big soldier-plumes. Well, it made me sick to see it; and I was sorry for them poor pitiful rascals, it seemed like I couldn’t ever feel any hardness against them any more in the world. It was a dreadful thing to see. Human beings can be awful cruel to one another.

  We see we was too late—couldn’t do no good. We asked some stragglers about it, and they said everybody went to the show looking very innocent; and laid low and kept dark till the poor old king was in the middle of his cavortings on the stage; then somebody give a signal, and the house rose up and went for them.

  So we poked along back home, and I warn’t feeling so brash as I was before, but kind of ornery, and humble, and to blame, somehow—though I hadn’t done nothing. But that’s always the way; it don’t make no difference whether you do right or wrong, a person’s conscience ain’t got no sense, and just goes for him anyway. If I
had a yaller dog that didn’t know no more than a person’s conscience does, I would pison him. It takes up more room than all the rest of a person’s insides, and yet ain’t no good, nohow. Tom Sawyer he says the same.

  CHAPTER XXXIV

  We stopped talking, and got to thinking.

  By-and-by Tom says:

  “Looky here, Huck, what fools we are, to not think of it before! I bet I know where Jim is.”

  “No! Where?”

  “In that hut down by the ash-hopper. Why, looky here. When we was at dinner, didn’t you see a nigger man go in there with some vittles?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you think the vittles was for?”

  “For a dog.”

  “So’d I. Well, it wasn’t for a dog.”

  “Why?”

  “Because part of it was watermelon.”

  “So it was—I noticed it. Well, it does beat all, that I never thought about a dog not eating watermelon. It shows how a body can see and don’t see at the same time.”

  “Well, the nigger unlocked the padlock when he went in, and he locked it again when he come out. He fetched uncle a key, about the time we got up from table—same key, I bet. Water-melon shows man, lock shows prisoner; and it ain’t likely there’s two prisoners on such a little plantation, and where the people’s all so kind and good. Jim’s the prisoner. All right—I’m glad we found it out detective fashion; I wouldn’t give shucks for any other way. Now you work your mind and study out a plan to steal Jim, and I will study out one, too; and we’ll take the one we like the best.”

  What a head for just a boy to have! If I had Tom Sawyer’s head, I wouldn’t trade it off to be a duke, nor mate of a steamboat, nor clown in a circus, nor nothing I can think of. I went to thinking out a plan, but only just to be doing something; I knowed very well where the right plan was gong to come from. Pretty soon, Tom says:

  “Ready?”

  “Yes,” I says.

  “All right—bring it out.”

  “My plan is this,” I says. “We can easy find out if it’s Jim in there. Then get up my canoe to-morrow night, and fetch my raft over from the island. Then the first dark night that comes, steal the key out of the old man’s britches, after he goes to bed, and shove off down the river on the raft, with Jim, hiding daytimes and running nights, the way me and Jim used to do before. Wouldn’t that plan work?”

  “Work? Why cert’nly, it would work, like rats a fighting. But it’s too blame’ simple; there ain’t nothing to it. What’s the good of a plan that ain’t no more trouble than that? It’s as mild as goose-milk. Why, Huck, it wouldn’t make no more talk than breaking into a soap factory.”

  I never said nothing, because I warn’t expecting nothing different; but I knowed mighty well that whenever he got his plan ready it wouldn’t have none of them objections to it.

  And it didn’t. He told me what it was, and I see in a minute it was worth fifteen of mine, for style, and would make Jim just as free a man as mine would, and maybe get us all killed besides. So I was satisfied, and said we would waltz in on it. I needn’t tell what it was, here, because I knowed it wouldn’t stay the way it was. I knowed he would be changing it around, every which way, as we went along, and heaving in new bullinesses whenever he got a chance. And that is what he done.

  Well, one thing was dead sure; and that was, that Tom Sawyer was in earnest and was actuly going to help steal that nigger out of slavery. That was the thing that was too many for me. Here was a boy that was respectable, and well brung up; and had a character to lose; and folks at home that had characters; and he was bright and not leather-headed; and knowing and not ignorant; and not mean, but kind; and yet here he was, without any more pride, or rightness, or feeling, than to stoop to this business, and make himself a shame, and his family a shame, before everybody. I couldn’t understand it, no way at all. It was outrageous, and I knowed I ought to just up and tell him so; and so be his true friend, and let him quit the thing right where he was, and save himself. And I did start to tell him; but he shut me up, and says:

  “Don’t you reckon I know what I’m about? Don’t I generly know what I’m about?”

  “Yes.”

  “Didn’t I say I was going to help steal the nigger?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well then.”

  That’s all he said, and that’s all I said. It warn’t no use to say any more; because when he said he’d do a thing, he always done it. But I couldn’t make out how he was willing to go into this thing; so I just let it go, and never bothered no more about it. If he was bound to have it so, I couldn’t help it.

  When we got home, the house was all dark and still; so we went on down to the hut by the ash hopper, for to examine it. We went through the yard, so as to see what the hounds would do. They knowed us, and didn’t make no more noise than country dogs is always doing when anything comes by in the night. When we got to the cabin, we took a look at the front and the two sides; and on the side I warn’t acquainted with—which was the north side—we found a square window-hole, up tolerable high, with just one stout board nailed across it. I says:

  “Here’s the ticket. This hole’s big enough for Jim to get through, if we wrench off the board.”

  Tom says:

  “It’s as simple as tit-tat-toe, three-in-a-row, and as easy as playing hooky. I should hope we can find a way that’s a little more complicated than that, Huck Finn.”

  “Well, then,” I says, “how’ll it do to saw him out, the way I done before I was murdered, that time?”

  “That’s more like,” he says. “It’s real mysterious, and troublesome, and good,” he says; “but I bet we can find a way that’s twice as long. There ain’t no hurry; le’s keep on looking around.”

  Betwixt the hut and the fence, on the back side, was a lean-to, that joined the hut at the eaves, and was made out of plank. It was as long as the hut, but narrow—only about six foot wide. The door to it was at the south end, and was padlocked. Tom he went to the soap kettle, and searched around and fetched back the iron thing they lift the lid with; so he took it and prized out one of the staples. The chain fell down, and we opened the door and went in, and shut it, and struck a match, and see the shed was only built against the cabin and hadn’t no connection with it; and there warn’t no floor to the shed, nor nothing in it but some old rusty played-out hoes, and spades, and picks, and a crippled plow. The match went out, and so did we, and shoved in the staple again, and the door was locked as good as ever. Tom was joyful. He says:

  “Now we’re all right. We’ll dig him out. It’ll take about a week!”

  Then we started for the house, and I went in the back door—you only have to pull a buckskin latch-string, they don’t fasten the doors—but that warn’t romantical enough for Tom Sawyer: no way would do him but he must climb up the lightning-rod. But after he got up half-way about three times, and missed fire and fell every time, and the last time most busted his brains out, he thought he’d got to give it up; but after he was rested, he allowed he would give her one more turn for luck, and this time he made the trip.

  In the morning we was up at break of day, and down to the nigger cabins to pet the dogs and make friends with the nigger that fed Jim—if it was Jim that was being fed. The niggers was just getting through breakfast and starting for the fields; and Jim’s nigger was piling up a tin pan with bread and meat and things; and whilst the others was leaving, the key come from the house.

  This nigger had a good-natured, chuckle-headed face, and his wool was all tied up in little bunches with thread. That was to keep witches off. He said the witches was pestering him awful, these nights, and making him see all kinds of strange things, and hear all kinds of strange words and noises, and he didn’t believe he was ever witched so long, before, in his life. He got so worked up, and got to running on so about his troubles, he forgot all about what he’d been agoing to do. So Tom says:

  “What’s the vittles for? Going to feed the dogs?”


  The nigger kind of smiled around graduly over his face, like when you heave a brickbat in a mud puddle, and he says:

  “Yes, Mars Sid, a dog. Cur’us dog, too. Does you want to go en look at ’im?”

  “Yes.”

  I hunched Tom, and whispers:

  “You going, right here in the day-break? That warn’t the plan.”

  “No, it warn’t—but it’s the plan now.”

  So, drat him, we went along, but I didn’t like it much. When we got in, we couldn’t hardly see anything, it was so dark; but Jim was there, sure enough, and could see us; and he sings out:

  “Why, Huck! En good lan’! ain’t dat Misto Tom?”

  I just knowed how it would be; I just expected it. I didn’t know nothing to do; and if I had, I couldn’t a done it; because that nigger busted in and says:

  “Why, de gracious sakes! do he know you genlmen?”

  We could see pretty well, now. Tom he looked at the nigger, steady and kind of wondering, and says:

  “Does who know us?”

  “Why, dish-yer runaway nigger.”

  “I don’t reckon he does; but what put that into your head?”

  “What put it dar? Didn’ he jis’ dis minute sing out like he knowed you?”

  Tom says, in a puzzled-up kind of way:

  “Well, that’s mighty curious. Who sung out? When did he sing out? What did he sing out?” And turns to me, perfectly c’am, and says, “Did you hear anybody sing out?”

  Of course there warn’t nothing to be said but one thing; so I says:

  “No; I ain’t heard nobody say nothing.”

  Then he turns to Jim, and looks him over like he never see him before; and says:

  “Did you sing out?”

  “No, sah,” says Jim; “I hain’t said nothing, sah.”

  “Not a word?”

  “No, sah, I hain’t said a word.”

  “Did you ever see us before?”

  “No, sah; not as I knows on.”

  So Tom turns to the nigger, which was looking wild and distressed, and says, kind of severe: