by Mark Twain
A flash of lightning exposed Tom’s pallid face, drawn and rigid with these worrying thoughts. Roxana spoke up sharply now, and there was apprehension in her voice:
‘Turn up dat light! I want to see yo’ face better. Dah now—lemme look at you. Chambers, you’s as white as yo’ shirt! Has you seen dat man? Has he ben to see you?’
‘Ye-s.’
‘When?’
‘Monday noon.’
‘Monday noon! Was he on my track?’
‘He—well, he thought he was. That is, he hoped he was. This is the bill you saw.’ He took it out of his pocket.
‘Read it to me!’
She was panting with excitement, and there was a dusky glow in her eyes that Tom could not translate with certainty, but there seemed to be something threatening about it. The handbill had the usual rude woodcut of a turbaned negro woman running, with the customary bundle on a stick over her shoulder, and the heading in bold type, ‘$100 REWARD.’ Tom read the bill aloud—at least the part that described Roxana and named the master and his St. Louis address and the address of the Fourth Street agency; but he left out the item that applicants for the reward might also apply to Mr. Thomas Driscoll.
‘Gimme de bill!’
Tom had folded it and was putting it in his pocket. He felt a chilly streak creeping down his back, but said, as carelessly as he could:
‘The bill? Why, it isn’t any use to you, you can’t read it. What do you want with it?’
‘Gimme de bill!’ Tom gave it to her, but with a reluctance which he could not entirely disguise. ‘Did you read it all to me?’
‘Certainly I did.’
‘Hole up yo’ han’ en swah to it.’
Tom did it. Roxana put the bill carefully away in her pocket, with her eyes fixed upon Tom’s face all the while, then she said:
‘Yo’s lyin’!’
‘What would I want to lie about it for?’
‘I don’t know—but you is. Dat’s my opinion, anyways. But nemmine ’bout dat. When I seed dat man, I ‘uz dat sk’yerd dat I could scasely wobble home. Den I give a nigger man a dollar for dese clo‘es, en I ain’t be’n in a house sence, night ner day, till now. I blacked my face en laid hid in de cellar of a ole house dat’s burnt down, daytimes, en robbed de sugar hogsheads en grain sacks on de wharf, nights, to git somethin’ to eat, en never dast to try to buy noth’n, en I’s ‘mos’ starved. En I never dast to come near dis place till dis rainy night, when dey ain’t no people roun’ scasely. But to-night I ben astannin’ in de dark alley ever sence night come, waitin’ for you to go by. En here I is.’
She fell to thinking. Presently she said:
‘You seed dat man at noon, las’ Monday?’
‘Yes.’
‘I seed him de middle o’ dat arternoon. He hunted you up, didn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he give you de bill dat time?’
‘No, he hadn’t got it printed yet.’
Roxana darted a suspicious glance at him.
‘Did you he’p him fix up de bill?’
Tom cursed himself for making that stupid blunder, and tried to rectify it by saying he remembered, now, that it was at noon Monday that the man gave him the bill. Roxana said:
‘You’s lyin’ agin, sho’.’ Then she straightened up and raised her finger:
‘Now den! I’s gwyne to ast you a question, en I wants to know how you’s gwyne to git aroun’ it. You knowed he ’uz arter me; en if you runs off, ‘stid o’ stayin’ here to he’p him, he’d know dey ‘uz somthin’ wrong ’bout dis business, en den he would inquire ‘bout you, en dat would take him to yo’ uncle, en yo’ uncle would read de bill en see dat you ben sellin’ a free nigger down de river, en you know him, I reckon! He’d tar up de will en kick you outen de house. Now, den, you answer me dis question: hain’t you tole dat man dat I would be sho’ to come here, en den you would fix it so he could set a trap en ketch me?’
Tom recognised that neither lies nor arguments could help him any longer—he was in a vice, with the screw turned on, and out of it there was no budging. His face began to take on an ugly look, and presently he said, with a snarl:
‘Well, what could I do? You see, yourself, that I was in his grip and couldn’t get out.’
Roxy scorched him with a scornful gaze awhile, then she said:
‘What could you do? You could be Judas to yo’ own mother to save yo’ wuthless hide! Would anybody b’lieve it? No—a dog couldn‘t! You is de low-downest orneriest hound dat was ever pup-p’ d into dis worl’—en I’s ‘sponsible for it!’ And she spat on him.
He made no effort to resent this. Roxy reflected a moment, then she said:
‘Now I’ll tell you what you’s gwyne to do. You’s gwyne to give dat man de money dat you’s got laid up, en make him wait till you kin go to de Jedge en git de res’ en buy me free agin.’
‘Thunder! What are you thinking of? Go and ask him for three hundred dollars and odd? What would I tell him I want with it, pray?’
Roxy’s answer was delivered in a serene and level voice:
‘You’ll tell him you’s sole me to pay yo’ gambling debts, en dat you lied to me en was a villain, en dat I ’quires you to git dat money en buy me back ag‘in.’
‘Why, you’ve gone stark mad! He would tear the will to shreds in a minute—don’t you know that?’
‘Yes, I does.’
‘Then you don’t believe I’m idiot enough to go to him, do you?’
‘I don’t b’lieve nothin’ ‘bout it—I knows it! I knows it beca’se you knows dat if you don’t raise dat money I’ll go to him myself, en den he’ll sell you down the river, en you kin see how you like it!’
Tom rose trembling, and excited, and there was an evil light in his eye. He strode to the door and said he must get out of this suffocating place for a moment and clear his brain in the fresh air so that he could determine what to do. The door wouldn’t open. Roxy smiled grimly, and said:
‘I’s got the key, honey—set down. You needn’t cle’r up yo’ brain none to fine out what you gwyne to do—/ knows what you’s gwyne to do.’ Tom sat down and began to pass his hands through his hair with a helpless and desperate air. Roxy said: ‘Is dat man in dis house?’
Tom glanced up with a surprised expression and asked:
‘What gave you such an idea?’
‘You done it. Gwyne out to cle’r yo’ brain! In de fust place you ain’t got none to cle‘r, en in de second place yo’ ornery eye tole on you. You’s de low-downest hound dat ever—but I done tole you dat befo’. Now, den, dis is Friday. You kin fix it up wid dat man, en tell him you’s gwyne away to git de res’ o’ de money, en dat you’ll be back wid it nex’ Tuesday, or maybe Wednesday. You understan’?’
Tom answered sullenly: ‘Yes.’
‘En when you gits de new bill o’ sale dat sells me to my own self, take en send it in de mail to Mr. Pudd’nhead Wilson, en write on de back dat he’s to keep it till I come. You understan’?’
‘Yes.’
‘Dat’s all, den. Take yo’ umbreller, en put on yo’ hat.’
‘Why?’
‘Beca’se you’s gwyne to see me home to de wharf. You see dis knife? I’s toted it aroun’ sence de day I seed dat man en bought dese clo‘es en it. If he ketched me, I’uz gwyne to kill myself wid it. Now start along, en go sof ‘, en lead de way; en if you gives a sign in dis house, or if anybody comes up to you in de street, I’s gwyne to jam it into you. Chambers, does you b’lieve me when I says dat?’
‘It’s no use to bother me with that question. I know your word’s good.’
‘Yes, it’s diff ’rent from yo‘n! Shet de light out en move along—here’s de key.’
They were not followed. Tom trembled every time a late straggler brushed by them on the street, and half expected to feel the cold steel in his back. Roxy was right at his heels and always in reach. After tramping a mile they reached a wide vacancy on the deserted wharves, and in this dark and rainy dese
rt they parted.
As Tom trudged home his mind was full of dreary thoughts and wild plans; but at last he said to himself, wearily:
‘There is but the one way out. I must follow her plan. But with a variation—I will not ask for the money and ruin myself, I will rob the old skinflint.’
CHAPTER 19
Few things are harder to put up with than the annoyance of a good example.—Pudd’nhead Wilson’s Calendar
It were not best that we should all think alike; it is difference of opinion that makes horse-races.—Pudd’nhead Wilson’s Calendar
Dawson’s Landing was comfortably finishing its season of dull repose and waiting patiently for the duel. Count Luigi was waiting, too; but not patiently, rumour said. Sunday came, and Luigi insisted on having his challenge conveyed. Wilson carried it. Judge Driscoll declined to fight with an assassin—‘that is,’ he added, significantly, ‘in the field of honour.’
Elsewhere, of course, he would be ready. Wilson tried to convince him that if he had been present himself when Angelo told about the homicide committed by Luigi, he would not have considered the act discreditable to Luigi; but the obstinate old man was not to be moved.
Wilson went back to his principal and reported the failure of his mission. Luigi was incensed, and asked how it could be that the old gentleman, who was by no means dull-witted, held his trifling nephew’s evidence and inferences to be of more value than Wilson’s. But Wilson laughed, and said:
‘That is quite simple; that is easily explicable. I am not his doll—his baby—his infatuation: his nephew is. The Judge and his late wife never had any children. The Judge and his wife were past middle age when this treasure fell into their lap. One must make allowances for a parental instinct that has been starving for twenty-five or thirty years. It is famished, it is crazed with hunger by that time, and will be entirely satisfied with anything that comes handy; its taste is atrophied, it can’t tell mud-cat from shad. A devil born to a young couple is measurably recognisable by them as a devil before long, but a devil adopted by an old couple is an angel to them, and remains so, through thick and thin. Tom is this old man’s angel; he is infatuated with him. Tom can persuade him into things which other people can’t-not all things, I don’t mean that, but a good many—particularly one class of things: the things that create or abolish personal partialities or prejudices in the old man’s mind. The old man liked both of you. Tom conceived a hatred for you. That was enough; it turned the old man around at once. The oldest and strongest friendship must go to the ground when one of these late-adopted darlings throws a brick at it.’
‘It’s a curious philosophy,’ said Luigi.
‘It ain’t a philosophy at all—it’s a fact. And there is something pathetic and beautiful about it, too. I think there is nothing more pathetic than to see one of these poor old childless couples taking a menagerie of yelping little worthless dogs to their hearts; and then adding some cursing and squawking parrots and a jackass-voiced macaw; and next a couple of hundred screeching song-birds, and presently some foetid guinea-pigs and rabbits, and a harem of cats. It is all a groping and ignorant effort to construct out of base metal and brass filings, so to speak, something to take the place of that golden treasure denied them by Nature—a child. But this is a digression. The unwritten law of this region requires you to kill Judge Driscoll on sight, and he and the community will expect that attention at your hands—though of course your own death by his bullet will answer every purpose. Look out for him! Are you heeled—that is, fixed?’
‘Yes; he shall have his opportunity. If he attacks me I will respond.’
As Wilson was leaving he said:
‘The Judge is still a little used up by his campaign work, and will not get out for a day or so, but when he does get out, you want to be on the alert.’
About eleven at night the twins went out for exercise, and started on a long stroll in the veiled moonlight.
Tom Driscoll had landed at Hackett’s Store, two miles below Dawson’s, just about half an hour earlier, the only passenger for that lonely spot, and had walked up the shore road and entered Judge Driscoll’s house without having encountered any one either on the road or under the roof
He pulled down his window-blinds and lit his candle. He laid off his coat and hat and began his preparations. He unlocked his trunk and got his suit of girl’s clothes out from under the male attire in it and laid it by. Then be blacked his face with burnt cork and put the cork in his pocket. His plan was to slip down to his uncle’s private sitting-room below, pass into the bedroom, steal the safe-key from the old gentleman’s clothes, and then go back and rob the safe. He took up his candle to start. His courage and confidence were high, up to this point, but both began to waver a little now. Suppose he should make a noise, by some accident, and get caught—say, in the act of opening the safe? Perhaps it would be well to go armed. He took the Indian knife from its hiding-place, and felt a pleasant return of his waning courage. He slipped stealthily down the narrow stair, his hair rising and his pulses halting at the slightest creak. When he was half-way down, he was disturbed to perceive that the landing below was touched by a faint glow of light. What could that mean? Was his uncle still up? No, that was not likely; he must have left his night-taper there when he went to bed. Tom crept on down, pausing at every step to listen. He found the door standing open, and glanced in. What he saw pleased him beyond measure. His uncle was asleep on the sofa; on a small table at the head of the sofa a lamp was burning low, and by it stood the old man’s small tin cash-box, closed. Near the box was a pile of bank-notes and a piece of paper covered with figures in pencil. The safe-door was not open. Evidently the sleeper had wearied himself with work upon his finances, and was taking a rest.
Tom set his candle on the stairs, and began to make his way toward the pile of notes, stooping low as he went. When he was passing his uncle, the old man stirred in his sleep, and Tom stopped instantly—stopped, and softly drew the knife from its sheath, with his heart thumping and his eyes fastened upon his benefactor’s face. After a moment or two he ventured forward again—one step—reached for his prize and seized it, dropping the knife-sheath. Then he felt the old man’s strong grip upon him, and a wild cry of‘Help! help!’ rang in his ear. Without hesitation he drove the knife home—and was free. Some of the notes escaped from his left hand and fell in the blood on the floor. He dropped the knife and snatched them up and started to fly; transferred them to his left hand and seized the knife again, in his fright and confusion, but remembered himself and flung it from him, as being a dangerous witness to carry away with him.
He jumped for the stair-foot, and closed the door behind him; and as he snatched his candle and fled upward, the stillness of the night was broken by the sound of urgent footsteps approaching the house. In another moment he was in his room, and the twins were standing aghast over the body of the murdered man!
Tom put on his coat, buttoned his hat under it, threw on his suit of girl’s clothes, dropped the veil, blew out his light, locked the room door by which he had just entered, taking the key, passed through his other door into the back hall, locked that door and kept the key, then worked his way along in the dark and descended the back-stairs. He was not expecting to meet anybody, for all interest was centred in the other part of the house now. His calculation proved correct. By the time he was passing through the back-yard, Mrs. Pratt, her servants, and a dozen half-dressed neighbours had joined the twins and the dead, and accessions were still arriving at the front door.
As Tom, quaking as with a palsy, passed out at the gate, three women came flying from the house on the opposite side of the lane. They rushed by him and in at the gate, asking him what the trouble was there, but not waiting for an answer. Tom said to himself, ‘Those old maids waited to dress; they did the same thing the night Stevens’s house burned down next door.’ In a few minutes he was in the haunted house. He lit a candle and took off his girl-clothes. There was blood on him all down his left side, a
nd his right hand was red with the stains of the blood-soaked notes which he had crushed in it; but otherwise he was free from this sort of evidence. He cleansed his hand on the straw, and cleaned most of the smut from his face. Then he burned his male and female attire to ashes, scattered the ashes, and put on a disguise proper for a tramp. He blew out his light, went below, and was soon loafing down the river road with the intent to borrow and use one of Roxy’s devices. He found a canoe and paddled off down stream, setting the canoe adrift as dawn approached, and making his way by land to the next village, where he kept out of sight till a transient steamer came along, and then took deck passage for St. Louis. He was ill at ease until Dawson’s Landing was behind him; then he said to himself: All the detectives on earth couldn’t trace me now; there’s not a vestige of a clue left in the world; that homicide will take its place with the permanent mysteries, and people won’t get done trying to guess out the secret of it for fifty years.’