Notice

Per­sons at­tempt­ing to find a mo­tive in this nar­ra­tive will be pros­e­cuted; per­sons at­tempt­ing to find a moral in it will be ban­ished; per­sons at­tempt­ing to find a plot in it will be shot.

By the or­der of the au­thor

Per G. G., Chief of Ord­nance.

Explanatory

In this book a num­ber of di­alects are used, to wit: the Mis­souri ne­gro di­alect; the ex­tremest form of the back­woods South­west­ern di­alect; the or­di­nary “Pike County” di­alect; and four mod­i­fied va­ri­eties of this last. The shad­ings have not been done in a hap­haz­ard fash­ion, or by guess­work; but painstak­ingly, and with the trust­wor­thy guid­ance and sup­port of per­sonal fa­mil­iar­ity with these sev­eral forms of speech.

I make this ex­pla­na­tion for the rea­son that with­out it many read­ers would sup­pose that all these char­ac­ters were try­ing to talk alike and not suc­ceed­ing.

The Author.

The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn

(Tom Sawyer’s Com­rade)

Scene: The Mis­sis­sippi Val­ley
Time: Forty to fifty years ago

I

You don’t know about me with­out you have read a book by the name of The Ad­ven­tures of Tom Sawyer; but that ain’t no mat­ter. That book was made by Mr. Mark Twain, and he told the truth, mainly. There was things which he stretched, but mainly he told the truth. That is noth­ing. I never seen any­body but lied one time or an­other, with­out it was Aunt Polly, or the widow, or maybe Mary. Aunt Polly—Tom’s Aunt Polly, she is—and Mary, and the Wi­dow Dou­glas is all told about in that book, which is mostly a true book, with some stretch­ers, as I said be­fore.

Now the way that the book winds up is this: Tom and me found the money that the rob­bers hid in the cave, and it made us rich. We got six thou­sand dol­lars apiece—all gold. It was an aw­ful sight of money when it was piled up. Well, Judge Thatcher he took it and put it out at in­ter­est, and it fetched us a dol­lar a day apiece all the year round—more than a body could tell what to do with. The Wi­dow Dou­glas she took me for her son, and al­lowed she would siv­i­lize me; but it was rough liv­ing in the house all the time, con­sid­er­ing how dis­mal reg­u­lar and de­cent the widow was in all her ways; and so when I couldn’t stand it no longer I lit out. I got into my old rags and my sugar-hogshead again, and was free and sat­is­fied. But Tom Sawyer he hunted me up and said he was go­ing to start a band of rob­bers, and I might join if I would go back to the widow and be re­spectable. So I went back.

The widow she cried over me, and called me a poor lost lamb, and she called me a lot of other names, too, but she never meant no harm by it. She put me in them new clothes again, and I couldn’t do noth­ing but sweat and sweat, and feel all cramped up. Well, then, the old thing com­menced again. The widow rung a bell for sup­per, and you had to come to time. When you got to the ta­ble you couldn’t go right to eat­ing, but you had to wait for the widow to tuck down her head and grum­ble a lit­tle over the vict­uals, though there warn’t re­ally any­thing the mat­ter with them—that is, noth­ing only ev­ery­thing was cooked by it­self. In a bar­rel of odds and ends it is dif­fer­ent; things get mixed up, and the juice kind of swaps around, and the things go bet­ter.

After sup­per she got out her book and learned me about Moses and the Bul­rush­ers, and I was in a sweat to find out all about him; but by and by she let it out that Moses had been dead a con­sid­er­able long time; so then I didn’t care no more about him, be­cause I don’t take no stock in dead peo­ple.

Pretty soon I wanted to smoke, and asked the widow to let me. But she wouldn’t. She said it was a mean prac­tice and wasn’t clean, and I must try to not do it any more. That is just the way with some peo­ple. They get down on a thing when they don’t know noth­ing about it. Here she was a-both­er­ing about Moses, which was no kin to her, and no use to any­body, be­ing gone, you see, yet find­ing a power of fault with me for do­ing a thing that had some good in it. And she took snuff, too; of course that was all right, be­cause she done it her­self.

Her sis­ter, Miss Wat­son, a tol­er­a­ble slim old maid, with gog­gles on, had just come to live with her, and took a set at me now with a spell­ing-book. She worked me mid­dling hard for about an hour, and then the widow made her ease up. I couldn’t stood it much longer. Then for an hour it was deadly dull, and I was fid­gety. Miss Wat­son would say, “Don’t put your feet up there, Huck­le­berry;” and “Don’t scrunch up like that, Huck­le­berry—set up straight;” and pretty soon she would say, “Don’t gap and stretch like that, Huck­le­berry—why don’t you try to be­have?” Then she told me all about the bad place, and I said I wished I was there. She got mad then, but I didn’t mean no harm. All I wanted was to go some­wheres; all I wanted was a change, I warn’t par­tic­u­lar. She said it was wicked to say what I said; said she wouldn’t say it for the whole world; she was go­ing to live so as to go to the good place. Well, I couldn’t see no ad­van­tage in go­ing where she was go­ing, so I made up my mind I wouldn’t try for it. But I never said so, be­cause it would only make trou­ble, and wouldn’t do no good.

Now she had got a start, and she went on and told me all about the good place. She said all a body would have to do there was to go around all day long with a harp and sing, for­ever and ever. So I didn’t think much of it. But I never said so. I asked her if she reck­oned Tom Sawyer would go there, and she said not by a con­sid­er­able sight. I was glad about that, be­cause I wanted him and me to be to­gether.

Miss Wat­son she kept peck­ing at me, and it got tire­some and lone­some. By and by they fetched the nig­gers in and had prayers, and then ev­ery­body was off to bed. I went up to my room with a piece of can­dle, and put it on the ta­ble. Then I set down in a chair by the win­dow and tried to think of some­thing cheer­ful, but it warn’t no use. I felt so lone­some I most wished I was dead. The stars were shin­ing, and the leaves rus­tled in the woods ever so mourn­ful; and I heard an owl, away off, who-whoo­ing about some­body that was dead, and a whip­pow­ill and a dog cry­ing about some­body that was go­ing to die; and the wind was try­ing to whis­per some­thing to me, and I couldn’t make out what it was, and so it made the cold shiv­ers run over me. Then away out in the woods I heard that kind of a sound that a ghost makes when it wants to tell about some­thing that’s on its mind and can’t make it­self un­der­stood, and so can’t rest easy in its grave, and has to go about that way ev­ery night griev­ing. I got so down­hearted and scared I did wish I had some com­pany. Pretty soon a spi­der went crawl­ing up my shoul­der, and I flipped it off and it lit in the can­dle; and be­fore I could budge it was all shriv­eled up. I didn’t need any­body to tell me that that was an aw­ful bad sign and would fetch me some bad luck, so I was scared and most shook the clothes off of me. I got up and turned around in my tracks three times and crossed my breast ev­ery time; and then I tied up a lit­tle lock of my hair with a thread to keep witches away. But I hadn’t no con­fi­dence. You do that when you’ve lost a horse­shoe that you’ve found, in­stead of nail­ing it up over the door, but I hadn’t ever heard any­body say it was any way to keep off bad luck when you’d killed a spi­der.

I set down again, a-shak­ing all over, and got out my pipe for a smoke; for the house was all as still as death now, and so the widow wouldn’t know. Well, af­ter a long time I heard the clock away off in the town go boom—boom—boom—twelve licks; and all still again—stiller than ever. Pretty soon I heard a twig snap down in the dark amongst the trees—some­thing was a stir­ring. I set still and lis­tened. Directly I could just barely hear a “me-yow! me-yow!” down there. That was good! Says I, “me-yow! me-yow!” as soft as I could, and then I put out the light and scram­bled out of the win­dow on to the shed. Then I slipped down to the ground and crawled in among the trees, and, sure enough, there was Tom Sawyer wait­ing for me.

II

We went tip­toe­ing along a path amongst the trees back to­wards the end of the widow’s gar­den, stoop­ing down so as the branches wouldn’t scrape our heads. When we was pass­ing by the kitchen I fell over a root and made a noise. We scrouched down and laid still. Miss Wat­son’s big nig­ger, named Jim, was set­ting in the kitchen door; we could see him pretty clear, be­cause there was a light be­hind him. He got up and stretched his neck out about a minute, lis­ten­ing. Then he says:

“Who dah?”

He lis­tened some more; then he come tip­toe­ing down and stood right be­tween us; we could a touched him, nearly. Well, likely it was min­utes and min­utes that there warn’t a sound, and we all there so close to­gether. There was a place on my an­kle that got to itch­ing, but I dasn’t scratch it; and then my ear be­gun to itch; and next my back, right be­tween my shoul­ders. Seemed like I’d die if I couldn’t scratch. Well, I’ve no­ticed that thing plenty times since. If you are with the qual­ity, or at a fu­neral, or try­ing to go to sleep when you ain’t sleepy—if you are any­wheres where it won’t do for you to scratch, why you will itch all over in up­wards of a thou­sand places. Pretty soon Jim says:

“Say, who is you? Whar is you? Dog my cats ef I didn’ hear sumf’n. Well, I know what I’s gwyne to do: I’s gwyne to set down here and lis­ten tell I hears it agin.”

So he set down on the ground be­twixt me and Tom. He leaned his back up against a tree, and stretched his legs out till one of them most touched one of mine. My nose be­gun to itch. It itched till the tears come into my eyes. But I dasn’t scratch. Then it be­gun to itch on the in­side. Next I got to itch­ing un­der­neath. I didn’t know how I was go­ing to set still. This mis­er­able­ness went on as much as six or seven min­utes; but it seemed a sight longer than that. I was itch­ing in eleven dif­fer­ent places now. I reck­oned I couldn’t stand it more’n a minute longer, but I set my teeth hard and got ready to try. Just then Jim be­gun to breathe heavy; next he be­gun to snore—and then I was pretty soon com­fort­able again.

Tom he made a sign to me—kind of a lit­tle noise with his mouth—and we went creep­ing away on our hands and knees. When we was ten foot off Tom whis­pered to me, and wanted to tie Jim to the tree for fun. But I said no; he might wake and make a dis­tur­bance, and then they’d find out I warn’t in. Then Tom said he hadn’t got can­dles enough, and he would slip in the kitchen and get some more. I didn’t want him to try. I said Jim might wake up and come. But Tom wanted to resk it; so we slid in there and got three can­dles, and Tom laid five cents on the ta­ble for pay. Then we got out, and I was in a sweat to get away; but noth­ing would do Tom but he must crawl to where Jim was, on his hands and knees, and play some­thing on him. I waited, and it seemed a good while, ev­ery­thing was so still and lone­some.

As soon as Tom was back we cut along the path, around the gar­den fence, and by and by fetched up on the steep top of the hill the other side of the house. Tom said he slipped Jim’s hat off of his head and hung it on a limb right over him, and Jim stirred a lit­tle, but he didn’t wake. After­wards Jim said the witches be­witched him and put him in a trance, and rode him all over the State, and then set him un­der the trees again, and hung his hat on a limb to show who done it. And next time Jim told it he said they rode him down to New Or­leans; and, af­ter that, ev­ery time he told it he spread it more and more, till by and by he said they rode him all over the world, and tired him most to death, and his back was all over sad­dle-boils. Jim was mon­strous proud about it, and he got so he wouldn’t hardly no­tice the other nig­gers. Nig­gers would come miles to hear Jim tell about it, and he was more looked up to than any nig­ger in that coun­try. Strange nig­gers would stand with their mouths open and look him all over, same as if he was a won­der. Nig­gers is al­ways talk­ing about witches in the dark by the kitchen fire; but when­ever one was talk­ing and let­ting on to know all about such things, Jim would hap­pen in and say, “Hm! What you know ’bout witches?” and that nig­ger was corked up and had to take a back seat. Jim al­ways kept that five-cen­ter piece round his neck with a string, and said it was a charm the devil give to him with his own hands, and told him he could cure any­body with it and fetch witches when­ever he wanted to just by say­ing some­thing to it; but he never told what it was he said to it. Nig­gers would come from all around there and give Jim any­thing they had, just for a sight of that five-cen­ter piece; but they wouldn’t touch it, be­cause the devil had had his hands on it. Jim was most ru­ined for a ser­vant, be­cause he got stuck up on ac­count of hav­ing seen the devil and been rode by witches.

Well, when Tom and me got to the edge of the hill­top we looked away down into the vil­lage and could see three or four lights twin­kling, where there was sick folks, maybe; and the stars over us was sparkling ever so fine; and down by the vil­lage was the river, a whole mile broad, and aw­ful still and grand. We went down the hill and found Jo Harper and Ben Rogers, and two or three more of the boys, hid in the old tan­yard. So we un­hitched a skiff and pulled down the river two mile and a half, to the big scar on the hill­side, and went ashore.

We went to a clump of bushes, and Tom made ev­ery­body swear to keep the se­cret, and then showed them a hole in the hill, right in the thick­est part of the bushes. Then we lit the can­dles, and crawled in on our hands and knees. We went about two hun­dred yards, and then the cave opened up. Tom poked about amongst the pas­sages, and pretty soon ducked un­der a wall where you wouldn’t a no­ticed that there was a hole. We went along a nar­row place and got into a kind of room, all damp and sweaty and cold, and there we stopped. Tom says:

“Now, we’ll start this band of rob­bers and call it Tom Sawyer’s Gang. Every­body that wants to join has got to take an oath, and write his name in blood.”

Every­body was will­ing. So Tom got out a sheet of pa­per that he had wrote the oath on, and read it. It swore ev­ery boy to stick to the band, and never tell any of the se­crets; and if any­body done any­thing to any boy in the band, which­ever boy was or­dered to kill that per­son and his fam­ily must do it, and he mustn’t eat and he mustn’t sleep till he had killed them and hacked a cross in their breasts, which was the sign of the band. And no­body that didn’t be­long to the band could use that mark, and if he did he must be sued; and if he done it again he must be killed. And if any­body that be­longed to the band told the se­crets, he must have his throat cut, and then have his car­cass burnt up and the ashes scat­tered all around, and his name blot­ted off of the list with blood and never men­tioned again by the gang, but have a curse put on it and be for­got for­ever.

Every­body said it was a real beau­ti­ful oath, and asked Tom if he got it out of his own head. He said, some of it, but the rest was out of pi­rate-books and rob­ber-books, and ev­ery gang that was high-toned had it.

Some thought it would be good to kill the fam­i­lies of boys that told the se­crets. Tom said it was a good idea, so he took a pen­cil and wrote it in. Then Ben Rogers says:

“Here’s Huck Finn, he hain’t got no fam­ily; what you go­ing to do ’bout him?”

“Well, hain’t he got a fa­ther?” says Tom Sawyer.

“Yes, he’s got a fa­ther, but you can’t never find him these days. He used to lay drunk with the hogs in the tan­yard, but he hain’t been seen in these parts for a year or more.”

They talked it over, and they was go­ing to rule me out, be­cause they said ev­ery boy must have a fam­ily or some­body to kill, or else it wouldn’t be fair and square for the oth­ers. Well, no­body could think of any­thing to do—ev­ery­body was stumped, and set still. I was most ready to cry; but all at once I thought of a way, and so I of­fered them Miss Wat­son—they could kill her. Every­body said:

“Oh, she’ll do. That’s all right. Huck can come in.”

Then they all stuck a pin in their fin­gers to get blood to sign with, and I made my mark on the pa­per.

“Now,” says Ben Rogers, “what’s the line of busi­ness of this Gang?”

“Noth­ing only rob­bery and mur­der,” Tom said.

“But who are we go­ing to rob?—houses, or cat­tle, or—”

“Stuff! steal­ing cat­tle and such things ain’t rob­bery; it’s bur­glary,” says Tom Sawyer. “We ain’t bur­glars. That ain’t no sort of style. We are high­way­men. We stop stages and car­riages on the road, with masks on, and kill the peo­ple and take their watches and money.”

“Must we al­ways kill the peo­ple?”

“Oh, cer­tainly. It’s best. Some au­thor­i­ties think dif­fer­ent, but mostly it’s con­sid­ered best to kill them—ex­cept some that you bring to the cave here, and keep them till they’re ran­somed.”

“Ran­somed? What’s that?”

“I don’t know. But that’s what they do. I’ve seen it in books; and so of course that’s what we’ve got to do.”

“But how can we do it if we don’t know what it is?”

“Why, blame it all, we’ve got to do it. Don’t I tell you it’s in the books? Do you want to go to do­ing dif­fer­ent from what’s in the books, and get things all mud­dled up?”

“Oh, that’s all very fine to say, Tom Sawyer, but how in the na­tion are these fel­lows go­ing to be ran­somed if we don’t know how to do it to them?—that’s the thing I want to get at. Now, what do you reckon it is?”

“Well, I don’t know. But per’aps if we keep them till they’re ran­somed, it means that we keep them till they’re dead.”

“Now, that’s some­thing like. That’ll an­swer. Why couldn’t you said that be­fore? We’ll keep them till they’re ran­somed to death; and a both­er­some lot they’ll be, too—eat­ing up ev­ery­thing, and al­ways try­ing to get loose.”

“How you talk, Ben Rogers. How can they get loose when there’s a guard over them, ready to shoot them down if they move a peg?”

“A guard! Well, that is good. So some­body’s got to set up all night and never get any sleep, just so as to watch them. I think that’s fool­ish­ness. Why can’t a body take a club and ran­som them as soon as they get here?”

“Be­cause it ain’t in the books so—that’s why. Now, Ben Rogers, do you want to do things reg­u­lar, or don’t you?—that’s the idea. Don’t you reckon that the peo­ple that made the books knows what’s the cor­rect thing to do? Do you reckon you can learn ’em any­thing? Not by a good deal. No, sir, we’ll just go on and ran­som them in the reg­u­lar way.”

“All right. I don’t mind; but I say it’s a fool way, any­how. Say, do we kill the women, too?”

“Well, Ben Rogers, if I was as ig­no­rant as you I wouldn’t let on. Kill the women? No; no­body ever saw any­thing in the books like that. You fetch them to the cave, and you’re al­ways as po­lite as pie to them; and by and by they fall in love with you, and never want to go home any more.”

“Well, if that’s the way I’m agreed, but I don’t take no stock in it. Mighty soon we’ll have the cave so clut­tered up with women, and fel­lows wait­ing to be ran­somed, that there won’t be no place for the rob­bers. But go ahead, I ain’t got noth­ing to say.”

Lit­tle Tommy Barnes was asleep now, and when they waked him up he was scared, and cried, and said he wanted to go home to his ma, and didn’t want to be a rob­ber any more.

So they all made fun of him, and called him cry­baby, and that made him mad, and he said he would go straight and tell all the se­crets. But Tom give him five cents to keep quiet, and said we would all go home and meet next week, and rob some­body and kill some peo­ple.

Ben Rogers said he couldn’t get out much, only Sun­days, and so he wanted to be­gin next Sun­day; but all the boys said it would be wicked to do it on Sun­day, and that set­tled the thing. They agreed to get to­gether and fix a day as soon as they could, and then we elected Tom Sawyer first cap­tain and Jo Harper sec­ond cap­tain of the Gang, and so started home.

I clumb up the shed and crept into my win­dow just be­fore day was break­ing. My new clothes was all greased up and clayey, and I was dog-tired.

III

Well, I got a good go­ing-over in the morn­ing from old Miss Wat­son on ac­count of my clothes; but the widow she didn’t scold, but only cleaned off the grease and clay, and looked so sorry that I thought I would be­have awhile if I could. Then Miss Wat­son she took me in the closet and prayed, but noth­ing come of it. She told me to pray ev­ery day, and what­ever I asked for I would get it. But it warn’t so. I tried it. Once I got a fish-line, but no hooks. It warn’t any good to me with­out hooks. I tried for the hooks three or four times, but some­how I couldn’t make it work. By and by, one day, I asked Miss Wat­son to try for me, but she said I was a fool. She never told me why, and I couldn’t make it out no way.

I set down one time back in the woods, and had a long think about it. I says to my­self, if a body can get any­thing they pray for, why don’t Dea­con Winn get back the money he lost on pork? Why can’t the widow get back her sil­ver snuff­box that was stole? Why can’t Miss Wat­son fat up? No, says I to my self, there ain’t noth­ing in it. I went and told the widow about it, and she said the thing a body could get by pray­ing for it was “spir­i­tual gifts.” This was too many for me, but she told me what she meant—I must help other peo­ple, and do ev­ery­thing I could for other peo­ple, and look out for them all the time, and never think about my­self. This was in­clud­ing Miss Wat­son, as I took it. I went out in the woods and turned it over in my mind a long time, but I couldn’t see no ad­van­tage about it—ex­cept for the other peo­ple; so at last I reck­oned I wouldn’t worry about it any more, but just let it go. Some­times the widow would take me one side and talk about Prov­i­dence in a way to make a body’s mouth wa­ter; but maybe next day Miss Wat­son would take hold and knock it all down again. I judged I could see that there was two Prov­i­dences, and a poor chap would stand con­sid­er­able show with the widow’s Prov­i­dence, but if Miss Wat­son’s got him there warn’t no help for him any more. I thought it all out, and reck­oned I would be­long to the widow’s if he wanted me, though I couldn’t make out how he was a-go­ing to be any bet­ter off then than what he was be­fore, see­ing I was so ig­no­rant, and so kind of low­down and ornery.

Pap he hadn’t been seen for more than a year, and that was com­fort­able for me; I didn’t want to see him no more. He used to al­ways whale me when he was sober and could get his hands on me; though I used to take to the woods most of the time when he was around. Well, about this time he was found in the river drownded, about twelve mile above town, so peo­ple said. They judged it was him, any­way; said this drownded man was just his size, and was ragged, and had un­com­mon long hair, which was all like pap; but they couldn’t make noth­ing out of the face, be­cause it had been in the wa­ter so long it warn’t much like a face at all. They said he was float­ing on his back in the wa­ter. They took him and buried him on the bank. But I warn’t com­fort­able long, be­cause I hap­pened to think of some­thing. I knowed mighty well that a drownded man don’t float on his back, but on his face. So I knowed, then, that this warn’t pap, but a woman dressed up in a man’s clothes. So I was un­com­fort­able again. I judged the old man would turn up again by and by, though I wished he wouldn’t.

We played rob­ber now and then about a month, and then I re­signed. All the boys did. We hadn’t robbed no­body, hadn’t killed any peo­ple, but only just pre­tended. We used to hop out of the woods and go charg­ing down on hog-driv­ers and women in carts tak­ing gar­den stuff to mar­ket, but we never hived any of them. Tom Sawyer called the hogs “in­gots,” and he called the turnips and stuff “julery,” and we would go to the cave and pow­wow over what we had done, and how many peo­ple we had killed and marked. But I couldn’t see no profit in it. One time Tom sent a boy to run about town with a blaz­ing stick, which he called a slo­gan (which was the sign for the Gang to get to­gether), and then he said he had got se­cret news by his spies that next day a whole par­cel of Span­ish mer­chants and rich A-rabs was go­ing to camp in Cave Hol­low with two hun­dred ele­phants, and six hun­dred camels, and over a thou­sand “sumter” mules, all loaded down with di’monds, and they didn’t have only a guard of four hun­dred sol­diers, and so we would lay in am­bus­cade, as he called it, and kill the lot and scoop the things. He said we must slick up our swords and guns, and get ready. He never could go af­ter even a turnip-cart but he must have the swords and guns all scoured up for it, though they was only lath and broom­sticks, and you might scour at them till you rot­ted, and then they warn’t worth a mouth­ful of ashes more than what they was be­fore. I didn’t be­lieve we could lick such a crowd of Spa­niards and A-rabs, but I wanted to see the camels and ele­phants, so I was on hand next day, Satur­day, in the am­bus­cade; and when we got the word we rushed out of the woods and down the hill. But there warn’t no Spa­niards and A-rabs, and there warn’t no camels nor no ele­phants. It warn’t any­thing but a Sun­day-school pic­nic, and only a primer-class at that. We busted it up, and chased the chil­dren up the hol­low; but we never got any­thing but some dough­nuts and jam, though Ben Rogers got a rag doll, and Jo Harper got a hymn­book and a tract; and then the teacher charged in, and made us drop ev­ery­thing and cut.

I didn’t see no di’monds, and I told Tom Sawyer so. He said there was loads of them there, any­way; and he said there was A-rabs there, too, and ele­phants and things. I said, why couldn’t we see them, then? He said if I warn’t so ig­no­rant, but had read a book called Don Quixote, I would know with­out ask­ing. He said it was all done by en­chant­ment. He said there was hun­dreds of sol­diers there, and ele­phants and trea­sure, and so on, but we had en­e­mies which he called ma­gi­cians; and they had turned the whole thing into an in­fant Sun­day-school, just out of spite. I said, all right; then the thing for us to do was to go for the ma­gi­cians. Tom Sawyer said I was a num­skull.

“Why,” said he, “a ma­gi­cian could call up a lot of ge­nies, and they would hash you up like noth­ing be­fore you could say Jack Robin­son. They are as tall as a tree and as big around as a church.”

“Well,” I says, “ ’pose we got some ge­nies to help us—can’t we lick the other crowd then?”

“How you go­ing to get them?”

“I don’t know. How do they get them?”

“Why, they rub an old tin lamp or an iron ring, and then the ge­nies come tear­ing in, with the thun­der and light­ning a-rip­ping around and the smoke a-rolling, and ev­ery­thing they’re told to do they up and do it. They don’t think noth­ing of pulling a shot-tower up by the roots, and belt­ing a Sun­day-school su­per­in­ten­dent over the head with it—or any other man.”

“Who makes them tear around so?”

“Why, who­ever rubs the lamp or the ring. They be­long to who­ever rubs the lamp or the ring, and they’ve got to do what­ever he says. If he tells them to build a palace forty miles long out of di’monds, and fill it full of chew­ing-gum, or what­ever you want, and fetch an em­peror’s daugh­ter from China for you to marry, they’ve got to do it—and they’ve got to do it be­fore sunup next morn­ing, too. And more: they’ve got to waltz that palace around over the coun­try wher­ever you want it, you un­der­stand.”

“Well,” says I, “I think they are a pack of flat­heads for not keep­ing the palace them­selves ’stead of fool­ing them away like that. And what’s more—if I was one of them I would see a man in Jeri­cho be­fore I would drop my busi­ness and come to him for the rub­bing of an old tin lamp.”

“How you talk, Huck Finn. Why, you’d have to come when he rubbed it, whether you wanted to or not.”

“What! and I as high as a tree and as big as a church? All right, then; I would come; but I lay I’d make that man climb the high­est tree there was in the coun­try.”

“Shucks, it ain’t no use to talk to you, Huck Finn. You don’t seem to know any­thing, some­how—per­fect sap­head.”

I thought all this over for two or three days, and then I reck­oned I would see if there was any­thing in it. I got an old tin lamp and an iron ring, and went out in the woods and rubbed and rubbed till I sweat like an In­jun, cal­cu­lat­ing to build a palace and sell it; but it warn’t no use, none of the ge­nies come. So then I judged that all that stuff was only just one of Tom Sawyer’s lies. I reck­oned he be­lieved in the A-rabs and the ele­phants, but as for me I think dif­fer­ent. It had all the marks of a Sun­day-school.

IV

Well, three or four months run along, and it was well into the win­ter now. I had been to school most all the time and could spell and read and write just a lit­tle, and could say the mul­ti­pli­ca­tion ta­ble up to six times seven is thirty-five, and I don’t reckon I could ever get any fur­ther than that if I was to live for­ever. I don’t take no stock in math­e­mat­ics, any­way.

At first I hated the school, but by and by I got so I could stand it. When­ever I got un­com­mon tired I played hookey, and the hid­ing I got next day done me good and cheered me up. So the longer I went to school the eas­ier it got to be. I was get­ting sort of used to the widow’s ways, too, and they warn’t so raspy on me. Liv­ing in a house and sleep­ing in a bed pulled on me pretty tight mostly, but be­fore the cold weather I used to slide out and sleep in the woods some­times, and so that was a rest to me. I liked the old ways best, but I was get­ting so I liked the new ones, too, a lit­tle bit. The widow said I was com­ing along slow but sure, and do­ing very sat­is­fac­tory. She said she warn’t ashamed of me.

One morn­ing I hap­pened to turn over the salt­cel­lar at break­fast. I reached for some of it as quick as I could to throw over my left shoul­der and keep off the bad luck, but Miss Wat­son was in ahead of me, and crossed me off. She says, “Take your hands away, Huck­le­berry; what a mess you are al­ways mak­ing!” The widow put in a good word for me, but that warn’t go­ing to keep off the bad luck, I knowed that well enough. I started out, af­ter break­fast, feel­ing wor­ried and shaky, and won­der­ing where it was go­ing to fall on me, and what it was go­ing to be. There is ways to keep off some kinds of bad luck, but this wasn’t one of them kind; so I never tried to do any­thing, but just poked along low-spir­ited and on the watch-out.

I went down to the front gar­den and clumb over the stile where you go through the high board fence. There was an inch of new snow on the ground, and I seen some­body’s tracks. They had come up from the quarry and stood around the stile a while, and then went on around the gar­den fence. It was funny they hadn’t come in, af­ter stand­ing around so. I couldn’t make it out. It was very cu­ri­ous, some­how. I was go­ing to fol­low around, but I stooped down to look at the tracks first. I didn’t no­tice any­thing at first, but next I did. There was a cross in the left boot-heel made with big nails, to keep off the devil.

I was up in a sec­ond and shin­ning down the hill. I looked over my shoul­der ev­ery now and then, but I didn’t see no­body. I was at Judge Thatcher’s as quick as I could get there. He said:

“Why, my boy, you are all out of breath. Did you come for your in­ter­est?”

“No, sir,” I says; “is there some for me?”

“Oh, yes, a half-yearly is in last night—over a hun­dred and fifty dol­lars. Quite a for­tune for you. You had bet­ter let me in­vest it along with your six thou­sand, be­cause if you take it you’ll spend it.”

“No, sir,” I says, “I don’t want to spend it. I don’t want it at all—nor the six thou­sand, nuther. I want you to take it; I want to give it to you—the six thou­sand and all.”

He looked sur­prised. He couldn’t seem to make it out. He says:

“Why, what can you mean, my boy?”

I says, “Don’t you ask me no ques­tions about it, please. You’ll take it—won’t you?”

He says:

“Well, I’m puz­zled. Is some­thing the mat­ter?”

“Please take it,” says I, “and don’t ask me noth­ing—then I won’t have to tell no lies.”

He stud­ied a while, and then he says:

“Oho-o! I think I see. You want to sell all your prop­erty to me—not give it. That’s the cor­rect idea.”

Then he wrote some­thing on a pa­per and read it over, and says:

“There; you see it says ’for a con­sid­er­a­tion.’ That means I have bought it of you and paid you for it. Here’s a dol­lar for you. Now you sign it.”

So I signed it, and left.

Miss Wat­son’s nig­ger, Jim, had a hair­ball as big as your fist, which had been took out of the fourth stom­ach of an ox, and he used to do magic with it. He said there was a spirit in­side of it, and it knowed ev­ery­thing. So I went to him that night and told him pap was here again, for I found his tracks in the snow. What I wanted to know was, what he was go­ing to do, and was he go­ing to stay? Jim got out his hair­ball and said some­thing over it, and then he held it up and dropped it on the floor. It fell pretty solid, and only rolled about an inch. Jim tried it again, and then an­other time, and it acted just the same. Jim got down on his knees, and put his ear against it and lis­tened. But it warn’t no use; he said it wouldn’t talk. He said some­times it wouldn’t talk with­out money. I told him I had an old slick coun­ter­feit quar­ter that warn’t no good be­cause the brass showed through the sil­ver a lit­tle, and it wouldn’t pass no­how, even if the brass didn’t show, be­cause it was so slick it felt greasy, and so that would tell on it ev­ery time. (I reck­oned I wouldn’t say noth­ing about the dol­lar I got from the judge.) I said it was pretty bad money, but maybe the hair­ball would take it, be­cause maybe it wouldn’t know the dif­fer­ence. Jim smelt it and bit it and rubbed it, and said he would man­age so the hair­ball would think it was good. He said he would split open a raw Ir­ish potato and stick the quar­ter in be­tween and keep it there all night, and next morn­ing you couldn’t see no brass, and it wouldn’t feel greasy no more, and so any­body in town would take it in a minute, let alone a hair­ball. Well, I knowed a potato would do that be­fore, but I had for­got it.

Jim put the quar­ter un­der the hair­ball, and got down and lis­tened again. This time he said the hair­ball was all right. He said it would tell my whole for­tune if I wanted it to. I says, go on. So the hair­ball talked to Jim, and Jim told it to me. He says:

“Yo’ ole fa­ther doan’ know yit what he’s a-gwyne to do. Some­times he spec he’ll go ’way, en den agin he spec he’ll stay. De bes’ way is to res’ easy en let de ole man take his own way. Dey’s two an­gels hov­erin’ roun’ ’bout him. One uv ’em is white en shiny, en t’other one is black. De white one gits him to go right a lit­tle while, den de black one sail in en bust it all up. A body can’t tell yit which one gwyne to fetch him at de las’. But you is all right. You gwyne to have con­sid­able trou­ble in yo’ life, en con­sid­able joy. Some­times you gwyne to git hurt, en some­times you gwyne to git sick; but ev­ery time you’s gwyne to git well agin. Dey’s two gals flyin’ ’bout you in yo’ life. One uv ’em’s light en t’other one is dark. One is rich en t’other is po’. You’s gwyne to marry de po’ one fust en de rich one by en by. You wants to keep ’way fum de wa­ter as much as you kin, en don’t run no resk, ’kase it’s down in de bills dat you’s gwyne to git hung.”

When I lit my can­dle and went up to my room that night there sat pap his own self!

V

I had shut the door to. Then I turned around and there he was. I used to be scared of him all the time, he tanned me so much. I reck­oned I was scared now, too; but in a minute I see I was mis­taken—that is, af­ter the first jolt, as you may say, when my breath sort of hitched, he be­ing so un­ex­pected; but right away af­ter I see I warn’t scared of him worth both­ring about.

He was most fifty, and he looked it. His hair was long and tan­gled and greasy, and hung down, and you could see his eyes shin­ing through like he was be­hind vines. It was all black, no gray; so was his long, mixed-up whiskers. There warn’t no color in his face, where his face showed; it was white; not like an­other man’s white, but a white to make a body sick, a white to make a body’s flesh crawl—a tree-toad white, a fish-belly white. As for his clothes—just rags, that was all. He had one an­kle rest­ing on t’other knee; the boot on that foot was busted, and two of his toes stuck through, and he worked them now and then. His hat was lay­ing on the floor—an old black slouch with the top caved in, like a lid.

I stood a-look­ing at him; he set there a-look­ing at me, with his chair tilted back a lit­tle. I set the can­dle down. I no­ticed the win­dow was up; so he had clumb in by the shed. He kept a-look­ing me all over. By and by he says:

“Starchy clothes—very. You think you’re a good deal of a big-bug, don’t you?”

“Maybe I am, maybe I ain’t,” I says.

“Don’t you give me none o’ your lip,” says he. “You’ve put on con­sid­er­able many frills since I been away. I’ll take you down a peg be­fore I get done with you. You’re ed­u­cated, too, they say—can read and write. You think you’re bet­ter’n your fa­ther, now, don’t you, be­cause he can’t? I’ll take it out of you. Who told you you might med­dle with such hi­fa­lut’n fool­ish­ness, hey?—who told you you could?”

“The widow. She told me.”

“The widow, hey?—and who told the widow she could put in her shovel about a thing that ain’t none of her busi­ness?”

“No­body never told her.”

“Well, I’ll learn her how to med­dle. And looky here—you drop that school, you hear? I’ll learn peo­ple to bring up a boy to put on airs over his own fa­ther and let on to be bet­ter’n what he is. You lemme catch you fool­ing around that school again, you hear? Your mother couldn’t read, and she couldn’t write, nuther, be­fore she died. None of the fam­ily couldn’t be­fore they died. I can’t; and here you’re a-swelling your­self up like this. I ain’t the man to stand it—you hear? Say, lemme hear you read.”

I took up a book and be­gun some­thing about Gen­eral Wash­ing­ton and the wars. When I’d read about a half a minute, he fetched the book a whack with his hand and knocked it across the house. He says:

“It’s so. You can do it. I had my doubts when you told me. Now looky here; you stop that putting on frills. I won’t have it. I’ll lay for you, my smarty; and if I catch you about that school I’ll tan you good. First you know you’ll get re­li­gion, too. I never see such a son.”

He took up a lit­tle blue and yaller pic­ture of some cows and a boy, and says:

“What’s this?”

“It’s some­thing they give me for learn­ing my lessons good.”

He tore it up, and says:

“I’ll give you some­thing bet­ter—I’ll give you a cowhide.”

He set there a-mum­bling and a-growl­ing a minute, and then he says:

“Ain’t you a sweet-scented dandy, though? A bed; and bed­clothes; and a look’n’-glass; and a piece of car­pet on the floor—and your own fa­ther got to sleep with the hogs in the tan­yard. I never see such a son. I bet I’ll take some o’ these frills out o’ you be­fore I’m done with you. Why, there ain’t no end to your airs—they say you’re rich. Hey?—how’s that?”

“They lie—that’s how.”

“Looky here—mind how you talk to me; I’m a-stand­ing about all I can stand now—so don’t gimme no sass. I’ve been in town two days, and I hain’t heard noth­ing but about you bein’ rich. I heard about it away down the river, too. That’s why I come. You git me that money to­mor­row—I want it.”

“I hain’t got no money.”

“It’s a lie. Judge Thatcher’s got it. You git it. I want it.”

“I hain’t got no money, I tell you. You ask Judge Thatcher; he’ll tell you the same.”

“All right. I’ll ask him; and I’ll make him pun­gle, too, or I’ll know the rea­son why. Say, how much you got in your pocket? I want it.”

“I hain’t got only a dol­lar, and I want that to—”

“It don’t make no dif­fer­ence what you want it for—you just shell it out.”

He took it and bit it to see if it was good, and then he said he was go­ing down town to get some whisky; said he hadn’t had a drink all day. When he had got out on the shed he put his head in again, and cussed me for putting on frills and try­ing to be bet­ter than him; and when I reck­oned he was gone he come back and put his head in again, and told me to mind about that school, be­cause he was go­ing to lay for me and lick me if I didn’t drop that.

Next day he was drunk, and he went to Judge Thatcher’s and bul­lyragged him, and tried to make him give up the money; but he couldn’t, and then he swore he’d make the law force him.

The judge and the widow went to law to get the court to take me away from him and let one of them be my guardian; but it was a new judge that had just come, and he didn’t know the old man; so he said courts mustn’t in­ter­fere and sep­a­rate fam­i­lies if they could help it; said he’d druther not take a child away from its fa­ther. So Judge Thatcher and the widow had to quit on the busi­ness.

That pleased the old man till he couldn’t rest. He said he’d cowhide me till I was black and blue if I didn’t raise some money for him. I bor­rowed three dol­lars from Judge Thatcher, and pap took it and got drunk, and went a-blow­ing around and cussing and whoop­ing and car­ry­ing on; and he kept it up all over town, with a tin pan, till most mid­night; then they jailed him, and next day they had him be­fore court, and jailed him again for a week. But he said he was sat­is­fied; said he was boss of his son, and he’d make it warm for him.

When he got out the new judge said he was a-go­ing to make a man of him. So he took him to his own house, and dressed him up clean and nice, and had him to break­fast and din­ner and sup­per with the fam­ily, and was just old pie to him, so to speak. And af­ter sup­per he talked to him about tem­per­ance and such things till the old man cried, and said he’d been a fool, and fooled away his life; but now he was a-go­ing to turn over a new leaf and be a man no­body wouldn’t be ashamed of, and he hoped the judge would help him and not look down on him. The judge said he could hug him for them words; so he cried, and his wife she cried again; pap said he’d been a man that had al­ways been mis­un­der­stood be­fore, and the judge said he be­lieved it. The old man said that what a man wanted that was down was sym­pa­thy, and the judge said it was so; so they cried again. And when it was bed­time the old man rose up and held out his hand, and says:

“Look at it, gen­tle­men and ladies all; take a-hold of it; shake it. There’s a hand that was the hand of a hog; but it ain’t so no more; it’s the hand of a man that’s started in on a new life, and’ll die be­fore he’ll go back. You mark them words—don’t for­get I said them. It’s a clean hand now; shake it—don’t be afeard.”

So they shook it, one af­ter the other, all around, and cried. The judge’s wife she kissed it. Then the old man he signed a pledge—made his mark. The judge said it was the holi­est time on record, or some­thing like that. Then they tucked the old man into a beau­ti­ful room, which was the spare room, and in the night some time he got pow­er­ful thirsty and clumb out on to the porch-roof and slid down a stan­chion and traded his new coat for a jug of forty-rod, and clumb back again and had a good old time; and to­wards day­light he crawled out again, drunk as a fid­dler, and rolled off the porch and broke his left arm in two places, and was most froze to death when some­body found him af­ter sunup. And when they come to look at that spare room they had to take sound­ings be­fore they could nav­i­gate it.

The judge he felt kind of sore. He said he reck­oned a body could re­form the old man with a shot­gun, maybe, but he didn’t know no other way.

VI

Well, pretty soon the old man was up and around again, and then he went for Judge Thatcher in the courts to make him give up that money, and he went for me, too, for not stop­ping school. He catched me a cou­ple of times and thrashed me, but I went to school just the same, and dodged him or out­run him most of the time. I didn’t want to go to school much be­fore, but I reck­oned I’d go now to spite pap. That law trial was a slow busi­ness—ap­peared like they warn’t ever go­ing to get started on it; so ev­ery now and then I’d bor­row two or three dol­lars off of the judge for him, to keep from get­ting a cowhid­ing. Every time he got money he got drunk; and ev­ery time he got drunk he raised Cain around town; and ev­ery time he raised Cain he got jailed. He was just suited—this kind of thing was right in his line.

He got to hang­ing around the widow’s too much and so she told him at last that if he didn’t quit us­ing around there she would make trou­ble for him. Well, wasn’t he mad? He said he would show who was Huck Finn’s boss. So he watched out for me one day in the spring, and catched me, and took me up the river about three mile in a skiff, and crossed over to the Illi­nois shore where it was woody and there warn’t no houses but an old log hut in a place where the tim­ber was so thick you couldn’t find it if you didn’t know where it was.

He kept me with him all the time, and I never got a chance to run off. We lived in that old cabin, and he al­ways locked the door and put the key un­der his head nights. He had a gun which he had stole, I reckon, and we fished and hunted, and that was what we lived on. Every lit­tle while he locked me in and went down to the store, three miles, to the ferry, and traded fish and game for whisky, and fetched it home and got drunk and had a good time, and licked me. The widow she found out where I was by and by, and she sent a man over to try to get hold of me; but pap drove him off with the gun, and it warn’t long af­ter that till I was used to be­ing where I was, and liked it—all but the cowhide part.

It was kind of lazy and jolly, lay­ing off com­fort­able all day, smok­ing and fish­ing, and no books nor study. Two months or more run along, and my clothes got to be all rags and dirt, and I didn’t see how I’d ever got to like it so well at the widow’s, where you had to wash, and eat on a plate, and comb up, and go to bed and get up reg­u­lar, and be for­ever both­er­ing over a book, and have old Miss Wat­son peck­ing at you all the time. I didn’t want to go back no more. I had stopped cussing, be­cause the widow didn’t like it; but now I took to it again be­cause pap hadn’t no ob­jec­tions. It was pretty good times up in the woods there, take it all around.

But by and by pap got too handy with his hick’ry, and I couldn’t stand it. I was all over welts. He got to go­ing away so much, too, and lock­ing me in. Once he locked me in and was gone three days. It was dread­ful lone­some. I judged he had got drownded, and I wasn’t ever go­ing to get out any more. I was scared. I made up my mind I would fix up some way to leave there. I had tried to get out of that cabin many a time, but I couldn’t find no way. There warn’t a win­dow to it big enough for a dog to get through. I couldn’t get up the chim­bly; it was too nar­row. The door was thick, solid oak slabs. Pap was pretty care­ful not to leave a knife or any­thing in the cabin when he was away; I reckon I had hunted the place over as much as a hun­dred times; well, I was most all the time at it, be­cause it was about the only way to put in the time. But this time I found some­thing at last; I found an old rusty wood-saw with­out any han­dle; it was laid in be­tween a rafter and the clap­boards of the roof. I greased it up and went to work. There was an old horse-blan­ket nailed against the logs at the far end of the cabin be­hind the ta­ble, to keep the wind from blow­ing through the chinks and putting the can­dle out. I got un­der the ta­ble and raised the blan­ket, and went to work to saw a sec­tion of the big bot­tom log out—big enough to let me through. Well, it was a good long job, but I was get­ting to­wards the end of it when I heard pap’s gun in the woods. I got rid of the signs of my work, and dropped the blan­ket and hid my saw, and pretty soon pap come in.

Pap warn’t in a good hu­mor—so he was his nat­u­ral self. He said he was down town, and ev­ery­thing was go­ing wrong. His lawyer said he reck­oned he would win his law­suit and get the money if they ever got started on the trial; but then there was ways to put it off a long time, and Judge Thatcher knowed how to do it. And he said peo­ple al­lowed there’d be an­other trial to get me away from him and give me to the widow for my guardian, and they guessed it would win this time. This shook me up con­sid­er­able, be­cause I didn’t want to go back to the widow’s any more and be so cramped up and siv­i­lized, as they called it. Then the old man got to cussing, and cussed ev­ery­thing and ev­ery­body he could think of, and then cussed them all over again to make sure he hadn’t skipped any, and af­ter that he pol­ished off with a kind of a gen­eral cuss all round, in­clud­ing a con­sid­er­able par­cel of peo­ple which he didn’t know the names of, and so called them what’s-his-name when he got to them, and went right along with his cussing.

He said he would like to see the widow get me. He said he would watch out, and if they tried to come any such game on him he knowed of a place six or seven mile off to stow me in, where they might hunt till they dropped and they couldn’t find me. That made me pretty un­easy again, but only for a minute; I reck­oned I wouldn’t stay on hand till he got that chance.

The old man made me go to the skiff and fetch the things he had got. There was a fifty-pound sack of corn meal, and a side of ba­con, am­mu­ni­tion, and a four-gal­lon jug of whisky, and an old book and two news­pa­pers for wad­ding, be­sides some tow. I toted up a load, and went back and set down on the bow of the skiff to rest. I thought it all over, and I reck­oned I would walk off with the gun and some lines, and take to the woods when I run away. I guessed I wouldn’t stay in one place, but just tramp right across the coun­try, mostly night times, and hunt and fish to keep alive, and so get so far away that the old man nor the widow couldn’t ever find me any more. I judged I would saw out and leave that night if pap got drunk enough, and I reck­oned he would. I got so full of it I didn’t no­tice how long I was stay­ing till the old man hollered and asked me whether I was asleep or drownded.

I got the things all up to the cabin, and then it was about dark. While I was cook­ing sup­per the old man took a swig or two and got sort of warmed up, and went to rip­ping again. He had been drunk over in town, and laid in the gut­ter all night, and he was a sight to look at. A body would a thought he was Adam—he was just all mud. When­ever his liquor be­gun to work he most al­ways went for the gov­ment, this time he says:

“Call this a gov­ment! why, just look at it and see what it’s like. Here’s the law a-stand­ing ready to take a man’s son away from him—a man’s own son, which he has had all the trou­ble and all the anx­i­ety and all the ex­pense of rais­ing. Yes, just as that man has got that son raised at last, and ready to go to work and be­gin to do suthin’ for him and give him a rest, the law up and goes for him. And they call that gov­ment! That ain’t all, nuther. The law backs that old Judge Thatcher up and helps him to keep me out o’ my prop­erty. Here’s what the law does: The law takes a man worth six thou­sand dol­lars and up’ards, and jams him into an old trap of a cabin like this, and lets him go round in clothes that ain’t fit­ten for a hog. They call that gov­ment! A man can’t get his rights in a gov­ment like this. Some­times I’ve a mighty no­tion to just leave the coun­try for good and all. Yes, and I told ’em so; I told old Thatcher so to his face. Lots of ’em heard me, and can tell what I said. Says I, for two cents I’d leave the blamed coun­try and never come an­ear it agin. Them’s the very words. I says look at my hat—if you call it a hat—but the lid raises up and the rest of it goes down till it’s be­low my chin, and then it ain’t rightly a hat at all, but more like my head was shoved up through a jint o’ stovepipe. Look at it, says I—such a hat for me to wear—one of the wealth­i­est men in this town if I could git my rights.

“Oh, yes, this is a won­der­ful gov­ment, won­der­ful. Why, looky here. There was a free nig­ger there from Ohio—a mu­lat­ter, most as white as a white man. He had the whitest shirt on you ever see, too, and the shini­est hat; and there ain’t a man in that town that’s got as fine clothes as what he had; and he had a gold watch and chain, and a sil­ver-headed cane—the aw­fulest old gray-headed nabob in the State. And what do you think? They said he was a p’fes­sor in a col­lege, and could talk all kinds of lan­guages, and knowed ev­ery­thing. And that ain’t the wust. They said he could vote when he was at home. Well, that let me out. Thinks I, what is the coun­try a-com­ing to? It was ’lec­tion day, and I was just about to go and vote my­self if I warn’t too drunk to get there; but when they told me there was a State in this coun­try where they’d let that nig­ger vote, I drawed out. I says I’ll never vote agin. Them’s the very words I said; they all heard me; and the coun­try may rot for all me—I’ll never vote agin as long as I live. And to see the cool way of that nig­ger—why, he wouldn’t a give me the road if I hadn’t shoved him out o’ the way. I says to the peo­ple, why ain’t this nig­ger put up at auc­tion and sold?—that’s what I want to know. And what do you reckon they said? Why, they said he couldn’t be sold till he’d been in the State six months, and he hadn’t been there that long yet. There, now—that’s a spec­i­men. They call that a gov­ment that can’t sell a free nig­ger till he’s been in the State six months. Here’s a gov­ment that calls it­self a gov­ment, and lets on to be a gov­ment, and thinks it is a gov­ment, and yet’s got to set stock-still for six whole months be­fore it can take a hold of a prowl­ing, thiev­ing, in­fer­nal, white-shirted free nig­ger, and—”

Pap was ago­ing on so he never no­ticed where his old lim­ber legs was tak­ing him to, so he went head over heels over the tub of salt pork and barked both shins, and the rest of his speech was all the hottest kind of lan­guage—mostly hove at the nig­ger and the gov­ment, though he give the tub some, too, all along, here and there. He hopped around the cabin con­sid­er­able, first on one leg and then on the other, hold­ing first one shin and then the other one, and at last he let out with his left foot all of a sud­den and fetched the tub a rat­tling kick. But it warn’t good judg­ment, be­cause that was the boot that had a cou­ple of his toes leak­ing out of the front end of it; so now he raised a howl that fairly made a body’s hair raise, and down he went in the dirt, and rolled there, and held his toes; and the cussing he done then laid over any­thing he had ever done pre­vi­ous. He said so his own self af­ter­wards. He had heard old Sow­berry Ha­gan in his best days, and he said it laid over him, too; but I reckon that was sort of pil­ing it on, maybe.

After sup­per pap took the jug, and said he had enough whisky there for two drunks and one delir­ium tremens. That was al­ways his word. I judged he would be blind drunk in about an hour, and then I would steal the key, or saw my­self out, one or t’other. He drank and drank, and tum­bled down on his blan­kets by and by; but luck didn’t run my way. He didn’t go sound asleep, but was un­easy. He groaned and moaned and thrashed around this way and that for a long time. At last I got so sleepy I couldn’t keep my eyes open all I could do, and so be­fore I knowed what I was about I was sound asleep, and the can­dle burn­ing.

I don’t know how long I was asleep, but all of a sud­den there was an aw­ful scream and I was up. There was pap look­ing wild, and skip­ping around ev­ery which way and yelling about snakes. He said they was crawl­ing up his legs; and then he would give a jump and scream, and say one had bit him on the cheek—but I couldn’t see no snakes. He started and run round and round the cabin, hol­ler­ing “Take him off! take him off! he’s bit­ing me on the neck!” I never see a man look so wild in the eyes. Pretty soon he was all fagged out, and fell down pant­ing; then he rolled over and over won­der­ful fast, kick­ing things ev­ery which way, and strik­ing and grab­bing at the air with his hands, and scream­ing and say­ing there was dev­ils a-hold of him. He wore out by and by, and laid still a while, moan­ing. Then he laid stiller, and didn’t make a sound. I could hear the owls and the wolves away off in the woods, and it seemed ter­ri­ble still. He was lay­ing over by the cor­ner. By and by he raised up part way and lis­tened, with his head to one side. He says, very low:

“Tramp—tramp—tramp; that’s the dead; tramp—tramp—tramp; they’re com­ing af­ter me; but I won’t go. Oh, they’re here! don’t touch me—don’t! hands off—they’re cold; let go. Oh, let a poor devil alone!”

Then he went down on all fours and crawled off, beg­ging them to let him alone, and he rolled him­self up in his blan­ket and wal­lowed in un­der the old pine ta­ble, still a-beg­ging; and then he went to cry­ing. I could hear him through the blan­ket.

By and by he rolled out and jumped up on his feet look­ing wild, and he see me and went for me. He chased me round and round the place with a clasp-knife, call­ing me the An­gel of Death, and say­ing he would kill me, and then I couldn’t come for him no more. I begged, and told him I was only Huck; but he laughed such a screechy laugh, and roared and cussed, and kept on chas­ing me up. Once when I turned short and dodged un­der his arm he made a grab and got me by the jacket be­tween my shoul­ders, and I thought I was gone; but I slid out of the jacket quick as light­ning, and saved my­self. Pretty soon he was all tired out, and dropped down with his back against the door, and said he would rest a minute and then kill me. He put his knife un­der him, and said he would sleep and get strong, and then he would see who was who.

So he dozed off pretty soon. By and by I got the old split-bot­tom chair and clumb up as easy as I could, not to make any noise, and got down the gun. I slipped the ram­rod down it to make sure it was loaded, then I laid it across the turnip bar­rel, point­ing to­wards pap, and set down be­hind it to wait for him to stir. And how slow and still the time did drag along.