by Mark Twain
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 bagger, Jim, had a hair-ball 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, back when he was alive. He said there was a black goblin inside of it, and it knowed everything. And Jim still knowed mostly how to use his magical appliances, for that was one of the parts of himself he managed to keep after meeting the boyo. 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 hair-ball and said some nonsense 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 shook his head, meaning it wouldn't talk. He said sometimes it wouldn't talk without money. He was hard to understand when he talked. Like trying to hear words from the mouth of an old cow while she's chewing. 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 hair-ball 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 hair-ball 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 hair-ball. Well, I knowed a potato would do that before, but I had forgot it.
Jim put the quarter under the hair-ball, and got down and listened again. This time he said the hair-ball was all right. He said it would tell my whole fortune if I wanted it to. I says, go on. So the hair-ball talked to Jim, and Jim told it to me. He says:
"Woof. Yo’ ol’ fatha don’ know yit what he's gon’ to do. Gruh. Sometimes he spec he'll go ‘way, en den he spec he'll stay. De bes’ way is to res’ easy en let de ol’ man take his own way. Grr. Dey's two angels hoverin’ roun’ ‘bout him. One uv ‘em is white en shiny, en da 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 gon’ to fetch him at de end. But you's all right. You gon’ to have consid'able trouble in yo’ life, en consid'able joy. Garrhh. Sometimes you gon’ to git hurt, en sometimes you gon’ 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 gon’ to marry de po’ one frust 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 gon’ to git hung. Woof."
Jim sometimes woofed like that. Like an animal. It wasn't no thing with baggers. They made all kinds a'strange noises. If you din’ know better, you might think it's the sound of goblins n’ spirits n’ such.
When I lit my candle and went up to my room that night there sat pap-his own self!
CHAPTER V
I had shut the door. 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. Maybe even bagger white, as I seen some of them go. 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. I seen plenty of folks come back from Hell who looked a far sight better than he did. 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 Julius Caesar and the old French wars. Talking about how Gull was divvied up into three pieces. 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 g
ood."
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 to-morrow-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. And he even hung a beatin’ on the judge's favorite bagger, an old negro with just one eye, just to make his point.
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 beating on folks's helpless baggers, just for fun; 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 sun-up. 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. He said it'd be easier to reform a blood-hungry, wild-eyed bagger than it would be to reform pap. Those'd be the truest words I ever heard.
CHAPTER 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.
This was fringe territory, y'see, all trees and shadows and full up of baggers that din’ belong to nobody. You could see ‘em wandering about, not a direction or clue ‘bout what they was s'posed to be doin', but not actually causing ruckus, either. Like discarded dogs, I figger. Just roamin’ the forest and not knowin’ why.
Pap called ‘em bunderlugs.
He'd say, “Fetch us water an’ mind the bunderlugs, boy."
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.
Still, he could take his aggressions out on the baggers, or bunderlugs, when the occasion took him. He might be mad as spit, but here comes another walkin’ dead man in need of a good lickin'. And pap would give it to ‘im, too. Them unbranded baggers was anyone's property, and there ‘as no penalty for abusin’ ‘em. Not that pap woulda cared about penalties, nohow.
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.
One time we had us a bad bunderlug, one of the kinds you wish never've been let out of the bag in the first place. Real dangerous and nasty, like a pack of whupped ‘coons all bundled up into one person. All they do is bite and scratch and claw, and there was even a story or two about men having their brains scooped right out of their heads.
Sounds like a story that Tom'd tell, but it wasn't.
It was Arnold the blacksmith what got himself into a scrape with one of them full-baggers. Mean and vicious and just appeared at the shop as if he come out of nowhere. Well, blacksmith was a big ol’ lobcock an’ didn't reach for his hammer fast enough. Before he even knowed what hit him, that bunderlug was all upon him, and opening his skull to get at the good parts.
I heard that story from the widow.
When pap got himself into the same pickle, he weren't one to take no chances. This bagger come up out of the river, like a monster wrapped up in seaweeds, an’ he didn't even have to bare his teeth ‘fore pap knowed he was one of the bad ones.
"Get th’ ax, boy,” he calls out.
He put two shots in the bagger's head, and then hauled ‘im up ashore to cut ‘im down to smaller pieces. Pap was superstitious like that. He said the bad ones had the powers of the devil, an’ it was smart thinkin’ to buck ‘em up into parts, so they cain't be causin’ more troubles.
I din’ argue with such thinkin'.
At times like that, pap was nearly bearable.
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, an’ maybe just a little bit scared, too. I judged he had got drowned, and I wasn't ever going to get out any more. Yes, I was right 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. Shootin’ baggers, again. I got rid of the signs of my work, and dropped the blanket and hid my saw, and pretty soon pap come in.
