by Mark Twain
“Set down, my boy, I wouldn’t strain myself, if I was you. I reckon you ain’t used to lying, it don’t seem to come handy; what you want is practice. You do it pretty awkward.”
I didn’t care nothing for the compliment, but I was glad to be let off, anyway.
The doctor he started to say something, and turns and says:
“If you’d been in town at first, Levi Bell—”
The king broke in and reached out his hand, and says:
“Why, is this my poor dead brother’s old friend that he’s wrote so often about?”
The lawyer and him shook hands, and the lawyer smiled and looked pleased, and they talked right along a while, and then got to one side and talked low; and at last the lawyer speaks up and says:
“That’ll fix it. I’ll take the order and send it, along with your brother’s and then they’ll know it’s all right.”
So they got some paper and a pen, and the king he set down and twisted his head to one side, and chawed his tongue, and scrawled off something; and then they give the pen to the duke—and then for the first time, the duke looked sick. But he took the pen and wrote. So then the lawyer turns to the new old gentleman and says:
“You and your brother please write a line or two and sign your names.”
The old gentleman wrote, but nobody couldn’t read it. The lawyer looked powerful astonished, and says:
“Well, it beats me”—and snaked a lot of old letters out of his pocket, and examined them, and then examined the old man’s writing, and then them again; and then says: “These old letters is from Harvey Wilks; and here’s these two’s handwritings, and anybody can see they didn’t write them” (the king and the duke looked sold and foolish, I tell you, to see how the lawyer had took them in), “and here’s this old gentleman’s handwriting, and anybody can tell, easy enough, he didn’t write them—fact is, the scratches he makes ain’t properly writing, at all. Now here’s some letters from—”
The new old gentleman says:
“If you please, let me explain. Nobody can read my hand but my brother there—so he copies for me. It’s his hand you’ve got there, not mine.”
“Well!” says the lawyer, “this is a state of things. I’ve got some of William’s letters too; so if you’ll get him to write a line or so we can com—”
“He can’t write with his left hand,” says the old gentleman. “If he could use his right hand, you would see that he wrote his own letters and mine too. Look at both, please—they’re by the same hand.”
The lawyer done it, and says:
“I believe it’s so—and if it ain’t so, there’s a heap stronger resemblance than I’d noticed before, anyway. Well, well, well! I thought we was right on the track of a slution, but it’s gone to grass, partly. But anyway, one thing is proved—these two ain’t either of ’em Wilkses”—and he wagged his head toward the king and the duke.
Well, what do you think?—that muleheaded old fool wouldn’t give in then! Indeed he wouldn’t. Said it warn’t no fair test. Said his brother William was the cussedest joker in the world, and hadn’t tried to write—he see William was going to play one of his jokes the minute he put the pen to paper. And so he warmed up and went warbling and warbling right along, till he was actuly beginning to believe what he was saying, himself—but pretty soon the new old gentleman broke in, and says:
“I’ve thought of something. Is there anybody here that helped to lay out my br—helped to lay out the late Peter Wilks for burying?”
“Yes,” says somebody, “me and Ab Turner done it. We’re both here.”
Then the old man turns towards the king, and says:
“Peraps this gentleman can tell me what was tatooed on his breast?”
Blamed if the king didn’t have to brace up mighty quick, or he’d a squshed down like a bluff bank that the river has cut under, it took him so sudden—and mind you, it was a thing that was calculated to make most anybody sqush to get fetched such a solid one as that without any notice—because how was he going to know what was tatooed on the man? He whitened a little; he couldn’t help it; and it was mighty still in there, and everybody bending a little forwards and gazing at him. Says I to myself, Now he’ll throw up the sponge—there ain’t no more use. Well, did he? A body can’t hardly believe it, but he didn’t. I reckon he thought he’d keep the thing up till he tired them people out, so they’d thin out, and him and the duke could break loose and get away. Anyway, he set there, and pretty soon he begun to smile, and says:
“Mf! It’s a very tough question, ain’t it! Yes, sir, I k’n tell you what’s tatooed on his breast. It’s jest a small, thin, blue arrow— that’s what it is; and if you don’t look clost, you can’t see it. Now what do you say—hey?”
Well, I never see anything like that old blister for clean out-and-out cheek.
The new old gentleman turns brisk towards Ab Turner and his pard, and his eye lights up like he judged he’d got the king this time, and says:
“There—you’ve heard what he said! Was there any such mark on Peter Wilks’s breast?”
Both of them spoke up and says:
“We didn’t see no such mark.”
“Good!” says the old gentleman. “Now, what you did see on his breast was a small dim P, and a B (which is an initial he dropped when he was young), and a W, with dashes between them, so: P—B—W”—and he marked them that way on a piece of paper. “Come—ain’t that what you saw?”
Both of them spoke up again, and says:
“No, we didn’t. We never seen any marks at all.”
Well, everybody was in a state of mind, now; and they sings out:
“The whole bilin’ of ’m’s frauds! Le’s duck ’em! le’s drown ’em! le’s ride ’em on a rail!” and everybody was whooping at once, and there was a rattling pow-wow. But the lawyer he jumps on the table and yells, and says:
“Gentlemen—gentlemen! Hear me just a word—just a single word—if you PLEASE! There’s one way yet—let’s go and dig up the corpse and look.”
That took them.
“Hooray!” they all shouted, and was starting right off; but the lawyer and the doctor sung out:
“Hold on, hold on! Collar all these four men and the boy, and fetch them along, too!”
“We’ll do it!” they all shouted: “and if we don’t find them marks we’ll lynch the whole gang!”
I was scared, now, I tell you. But there warn’t no getting away, you know. They gripped us all, and marched us right along, straight for the graveyard, which was a mile and a half down the river, and the whole town at our heels, for we made noise enough, and it was only nine in the evening.
As we went by our house I wished I hadn’t sent Mary Jane out of town; because now if I could tip her the wink, she’d light out and save me, and blow on our dead-beats.
Well, we swarmed along down the river road, just carrying on like wild-cats; and to make it more scary, the sky was darking up, and the lightning beginning to wink and flitter, and the wind to shiver amongst the leaves. This was the most awful trouble and most dangersome I ever was in; and I was kinder stunned; everything was going so different from what I had allowed for; stead of being fixed so I could take my own time, if I wanted to, and see all the fun, and have Mary Jane at my back to save me and set me free when the close-fit come, here was nothing in the world betwixt me and sudden death but just them tatoo-marks. If they didn’t find them—
I couldn’t bear to think about it; and yet, somehow, I couldn’t think about nothing else. It got darker and darker, and it was a beautiful time to give the crowd the slip; but that big husky had me by the wrist—Hines—and a body might as well try to give Goliar the slip. He dragged me right along, he was so excited; and I had to run to keep up.
When they got there they swarmed into the graveyard and washed over it like an overflow. And when they got to the grave, they found they had about a hundred times as many shovels as they wanted, but nobody hadn’t thought to fetch a lantern. Bu
t they sailed into digging, anyway, by the flicker of the lightning, and sent a man to the nearest house a half a mile off, to borrow one.
So they dug and dug, like everything; and it got awful dark, and the rain started, and the wind swished and swushed along, and the lightning come brisker and brisker, and the thunder boomed; but them people never took no notice of it, they was so full of this business; and one minute you could see everything and every face in that big crowd, and the shovelfuls of dirt sailing up out of the grave, and the next second the dark wiped it all out, and you couldn’t see nothing at all.
At last they got out the coffin, and begun to unscrew the lid, and then such another crowding, and shouldering, and shoving as there was, to scrouge in and get a sight, you never see; and in the dark, that way, it was awful. Hines he hurt my wrist dreadful, pulling and tugging so, and I reckon he clean forgot I was in the world, he was so excited and panting.
All of a sudden the lightning let to a perfect sluice of white glare, and somebody sings out:
“By the living jingo, here’s the bag of gold on his breast!”
Hines let out a whoop, like everybody else, and dropped my wrist and give a big surge to bust his way in and get a look, and the way I lit out and shinned for the road in the dark, there ain’t nobody can tell.
I had the road all to myself, and I fairly flew—leastways I had it all to myself except the solid dark, and the now-and-then glares, and the buzzing of the rain, and the thrashing of the wind, and the splitting of the thunder; and sure as you are born I did clip it along!
When I struck the town, I see there warn’t nobody out in the storm, so I never hunted for no back streets, but humped it straight through the main one; and when I begun to get towards our house I aimed my eye and set it. No light there; the house all dark—which made me feel sorry and disappointed, I didn’t know why. But at last, just as I was sailing by, flash comes the light in Mary Jane’s window! and my heart swelled up sudden, like to bust; and the same second the house and all was behind me in the dark, and wasn’t ever going to be before me no more in this world. She was the best girl I ever see, and had the most sand.
The minute I was far enough above the town to see I could make the towhead, I begun to look sharp for a boat to borrow; and the first time the lightning showed me one that wasn’t chained, I snatched it and shoved. It was a canoe, and warn’t fastened with nothing but a rope. The towhead was a rattling big distance off, away out there in the middle of the river, but I didn’t lose no time; and when I struck the raft at last, I was so fagged I would a just laid down to blow and gasp if I could afforded it. But I didn’t. As I sprung aboard I sung out:
“Out with you Jim, and set her loose! Glory be to goodness, we’re shut of them!”
Jim lit out, and was a coming for me with both arms spread, he was so full of joy; but when I glimpsed him in the lightning, my heart shot up in my mouth, and I went overboard backwards; for I forgot he was old King Lear and a drownded A-rab all in one, and it most scared the livers and lights out of me. But Jim fished me out, and was going to hug me and bless me, and so on, he was so glad I was back and we was shut of the king and the duke, but I says:
“Not now—have it for breakfast, have it for breakfast! Cut loose and let her slide!”
So, in two seconds, away we went, a sliding down the river, and it did seem so good to be free again and all by ourselves on the big river and nobody to bother us. I had to skip around a bit, and jump up and crack my heels a few times, I couldn’t help it; but about the third crack, I noticed a sound that I knowed mighty well—and held my breath and listened and waited—and sure enough, when the next flash busted out over the water, here they come!—and just a laying to their oars and making their skiff hum! It was the king and the duke.
So I wilted right down onto the planks, then, and give up; and it was all I could do to keep from crying.
CHAPTER XXX
When they got aboard, the king went for me, and shook me by the collar, and says:
“Tryin’ to give us the slip, was ye, you pup! Tired of our company—hey?”
I says:
“No, your majesty, we warn’t—please don’t, your majesty!”
“Quick, then, and tell us what was your idea, or I’ll shake the insides out o’ you!”
“Honest, I’ll tell you everything, just as it happened, your majesty. The man that had aholt of me was very good to me, and kept saying he had a boy about as big as me that died last year, and he was sorry to see a boy in such a dangerous fix; and when they was all took by surprise by finding the gold, and made a rush for the coffin, he lets go of me and whispers, ‘Heel it, now, or they’ll hang ye, sure!’ and I lit out. It didn’t seem no good for me to stay—I couldn’t do nothing, and I didn’t want to be hung if I could get away. So I never stopped running till I found the canoe; and when I got here I told Jim to hurry, or they’d catch me and hang me yet, and said I was afeard you and the duke wasn’t alive, now, and I was awful sorry, and so was Jim, and was awful glad when we see you coming, you may ask Jim if I didn’t.”
Jim said it was so; and the king told him to shut up, and said, “Oh, yes, it’s mighty likely!” and shook me up again, and said he reckoned he’d drownd me. But the duke says:
“Leggo the boy, you old idiot! Would you a done any different? Did you inquire around for him, when you got loose? I don’t remember it.”
So the king let go of me, and begun to cuss that town and everybody in it. But the duke says:
“You better a blame sight give yourself a good cussing, for you’re the one that’s entitled to it most. You hain’t done a thing, from the start, that had any sense in it, except coming out so cool and cheeky with that imaginary blue-arrow mark. That was bright—it was right down bully; and it was the thing that saved us. For if it hadn’t been for that, they’d a jailed us till them Englishmen’s baggage come—and then—the penitentiary, you bet! But that trick took ’em to the graveyard, and the gold done us a still bigger kindness; for if the excited fools hadn’t let go all holts and made that rush to get a look, we’d a slept in our cravats to-night—cravats warranted to wear, too—longer than we’d need ’em.”
They was still a minute—thinking—then the king says, kind of absentminded like:
“Mf! And we reckoned the niggers stole it!”
That made me squirm!
“Yes,” says the duke, kinder slow, and deliberate, and sarcastic, “We did.”
After about a half a minute, the king drawls out:
“Leastways—I did.”
The duke says, the same way:
“On the contrary—I did.”
The king kind of ruffles up, and says:
“Looky here, Bilgewater, what’r you referrin’ to?”
The duke says, pretty brisk:
“When it comes to that, maybe you’ll let me ask, what was you referring to?”
“Shucks!” says the king, very sarcastic; “but I don’t know—maybe you was asleep, and didn’t know what you was about.”
The duke bristles right up, now, and says:
“Oh, let up on this cussed nonsense—do you take me for a blame’ fool? Don’t you reckon I know who hid that money in that coffin?”
“Yes, sir! I know you do know—because you done it yourself!”
“It’s a lie!”—and the duke went for him. The king sings out:
“Take y’r hands off!—leggo my throat!—I take it all back!”
The duke says:
“Well, you just own up, first, that you did hide that money there, intending to give me the slip one of these days, and come back and dig it up, and have it all to yourself.”
“Wait jest a minute, duke—answer me this one question, honest and fair; if you didn’t put the money there, say it, and I’ll b’lieve you, and take back everything I said.”
“You old scoundrel, I didn’t, and you know I didn’t. There, now!”
“Well, then, I b’lieve you. But answer me only jest th
is one more—now don’t git mad; didn’t you have it in your mind to hook the money and hide it?”
The duke never said nothing for a little bit; then he says:
“Well—I don’t care if I did, I didn’t do it, anyway. But you not only had it in mind to do it, but you done it.”
“I wisht I may never die if I done it, duke, and that’s honest. I won’t say I warn’t goin’ to do it, because I was; but you—I mean somebody—got in ahead o’ me.”
“It’s a lie! You done it, and you got to say you done it, or—”
The king begun to gurgle, and then he gasps out:
“’Nough!—I own up!”
I was very glad to hear him say that, it made me feel much more easier than what I was feeling before. So the duke took his hands off, and says:
“If you ever deny it again, I’ll drown you. It’s well for you to set there and blubber like a baby—it’s fitten for you, after the way you’ve acted. I never see such an old ostrich for wanting to gobble everything—and I a trusting you all the time, like you was my own father. You ought to been ashamed of yourself to stand by and hear it saddled onto a lot of poor niggers and you never say a word for ’em. It makes me feel ridiculous to think I was soft enough to believe that rubbage. Cuss you, I can see, now, why you was so anxious to make up the deffesit—you wanted to get what money I’d got out of the Nonesuch and one thing or another, and scoop it all!”
