Adventures of Tom Sawyer (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Mark J. Twain

  It was a graveyard of the old-fashioned Western kind. It was on a hill, about a mile and a half from the village. It had a crazy board fence around it, which leaned inward in places, and outward the rest of the time, but stood upright nowhere. Grass and weeds grew rank over the whole cemetery. All the old graves were sunken in, there was not a tombstone on the place; round-topped, worm-eaten boards staggered over the graves, leaning for support and finding none. “Sacred to the memory of” So-and-So had been painted on them once, but it could no longer have been read, on the most of them, now, even if there had been light.

  A faint wind moaned through the trees, and Tom feared it might be the spirits of the dead, complaining at being disturbed. The boys talked little, and only under their breath, for the time and the place and the pervading solemnity and silence oppressed their spirits. They found the sharp new heap they were seeking, and ensconced themselves within the protection of three great elms that grew in a bunch within a few feet of the grave.

  Then they waited in silence for what seemed a long time. The hooting of a distant owl was all the sound that troubled the dead stillness. Tom’s reflections grew oppressive. He must force some talk. So he said in a whisper:

  “Hucky, do you believe the dead people like it for us to be here?”

  Huckleberry whispered:

  “I wisht I knowed. It’s awful solemn like, ain’t it?”

  “I bet it is.”

  There was a considerable pause, while the boys canvassed this matter inwardly. Then Tom whispered:

  “Say, Hucky—do you reckon Hoss Williams hears us talking?”

  “0’ course he does. Least his sperrit does.”

  Tom, after a pause:

  “I wish I’d said Mister Williams. But I never meant any harm. Everybody calls him Hoss.”

  “A body can’t be too partic‘lar how they talk ’bout these-yer dead people, Tom.”

  This was a damper, and conversation died again.

  Presently Tom seized his comrade’s arm and said:

  “Sh!”

  “What is it, Tom?” And the two clung together with beating hearts.

  “Sh! There ‘tis again! Didn’t you hear it?”

  “I—”

  “There! Now you hear it.”

  “Lord, Tom, they’re coming! They’re coming, sure. What’ll we do?”

  “I dono. Think they’ll see us?”

  “Oh, Tom, they can see in the dark, same as cats. I wisht I hadn’t come.”

  “Oh, don’t be afeard. I don’t believe they’ll bother us. We ain’t doing any harm. If we keep perfectly still, maybe they won’t notice us at all.”

  “I’ll try to, Tom, but Lord, I’m all of a shiver.”

  “Listen!”

  The boys bent their heads together and scarcely breathed. A muffled sound of voices floated up from the far end of the graveyard.

  “Look! See there!” whispered Tom. “What is it?”

  “It’s devil-fire.1 Oh, Tom, this is awful.”

  Some vague figures approached through the gloom, swinging an old-fashioned tin lantern that freckled the ground with innumerable little spangles of light. Presently Huckleberry whispered with a shudder:

  “It’s the devils, sure enough. Three of ‘em! Lordy, Tom, we’re goners! Can you pray?”

  “I’ll try, but don’t you be afeard. They ain’t going to hurt us. Now I lay me down to sleep, I—”

  “Sh!”

  “What is it, Huck?”

  “They’re humans! One of‘em is, anyway. One of’em’s old Muff Potter’s voice.”

  “No—‘tain’t so, is it?”

  “I bet I know it. Don’t you stir nor budge. He ain’t sharp enough to notice us. Drunk, the same as usual, likely—blamed old rip!” af

  “All right, I’ll keep still. Now they’re stuck. Can’t find it. Here they come again. Now they’re hot. Cold again. Hot again. Red hot! They’re p‘inted right, this time. Say, Huck, I know another o’ them voices; it’s Injun Joe.”

  “That’s so—that murderin’ half-breed! I’d druther they was devils a dern sight. What kin they be up to?”

  The whisper died wholly out, now, for the three men had reached the grave and stood within a few feet of the boys’ hiding place.

  “Here it is,” said the third voice; and the owner of it held the lantern up and revealed the face of young Dr. Robinson.

  Potter and Injun Joe were carrying a handbarrow with a rope and a couple of shovels on it. They cast down their load and began to open the grave. The doctor put the lantern at the head of the grave and came and sat down with his back against one of the elm trees. He was so close the boys could have touched him.

  “Hurry, men!” he said in a low voice; “the moon might come out at any moment.”

  They growled a response and went on digging. For some time there was no noise but the grating sound of the shovels discharging their freight of mould and gravel. It was very monotonous. Finally a spade struck upon the coffin with a dull woody accent, and within another minute or two the men had hoisted it out on the ground. They pried off the lid with their shovels, got out the body and dumped it rudely on the ground. The moon drifted from behind the clouds and exposed the pallid face. The barrow was got ready and the corpse placed on it, covered with a blanket, and bound to its place with the rope. Potter took out a large spring-knife and cut off the dangling end of the rope and then said:

  “Now the cussed thing’s ready, Sawbones,ag and you’ll just out with another five, or here she stays.”

  “That’s the talk!” said Injun Joe.

  “Look here, what does this mean?” said the doctor. “You required your pay in advance, and I’ve paid you.”

  “Yes, and you done more than that,” said Injun Joe, approaching the doctor, who was now standing. “Five years ago you drove me away from your father’s kitchen one night, when I come to ask for something to eat, and you said I warn’t there for any good; and when I swore I’d get even with you if it took a hundred years, your father had me jailed for a vagrant. Did you think I’d forget? The Injun blood ain’t in me for nothing. And now I’ve got you, and you got to settle, you know!”

  He was threatening the doctor, with his fist in his face, by this time. The doctor struck out suddenly and stretched the ruffian on the ground. Potter dropped his knife, and exclaimed:

  “Here, now, don’t you hit my pard!” and the next moment he had grappled with the doctor and the two were struggling with might and main, trampling the grass and tearing the ground with their heels. Injun Joe sprang to his feet, his eyes flaming with passion, snatched up Potter’s knife, and went creeping, catlike and stooping, round and round about the combatants, seeking an opportunity. All at once the doctor flung himself free, seized the heavy headboard of Williams’ grave and felled Potter to the earth with it—and in the same instant the half-breed saw his chance and drove the knife to the hilt in the young man’s breast. He reeled and fell partly upon Potter, flooding him with his blood, and in the same moment the clouds blotted out the dreadful spectacle and the two frightened boys went speeding away in the dark.

  Presently, when the moon emerged again, Injun Joe was standing over the two forms, contemplating them. The doctor murmured inar- ticulately, gave a long gasp or two and was still. The half-breed muttered:

  “That score is settled—damn you.”

  Then he robbed the body. After which he put the fatal knife in Potter’s open right hand, and sat down on the dismantled coffin. Three—four—five minutes passed, and then Potter began to stir and moan. His hand closed upon the knife; he raised it, glanced at it, and let it fall, with a shudder. Then he sat up, pushing the body from him, and gazed at it, and then around him, confusedly. His eyes met Joe’s.

  “Lord, how is this, Joe?” he said.

  “It’s a dirty business,” said Joe, without moving. “What did you do it for?”

  “I! I never done it!”

  “Look here! That kind of talk won’t wash.”a
h

  Potter trembled and grew white.

  “I thought I’d got sober. I’d no business to drink tonight. But it’s in my head yet—worse’n when we started here. I’m all in a muddle; can’t recollect anything of it, hardly. Tell me, Joe—honest, now, old feller—did I do it? Joe, I never meant to—‘pon my soul and honor, I never meant to, Joe. Tell me how it was,Joe. Oh, it’s awful—and him so young and promising.”

  “Why, you two was scuffling, and he fetched you one with the headboard and you fell flat; and then up you come, all reeling and staggering, like, and snatched the knife and jammed it into him, just as he fetched you another awful clip—and here you’ve laid, as dead as a wedge till now.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know what I was a-doing. I wish I may die this minute if I did. It was all on account of the whisky; and the excitement, I reckon. I never used a weepon in my life before, Joe. I’ve fought, but never with weepons. They’ll all say that. Joe, don’t tell! Say you won’t tell, Joe—that’s a good feller. I always liked you, Joe, and stood up for you, too. Don’t you remember? You won’t tell, will you, Joe?” And the poor creature dropped on his knees before the stolid murderer, and clasped his appealing hands.

  “No, you’ve always been fair and square with me, Muff Potter, and I won’t go back on you. There, now, that’s as fair as a man can say”

  “Oh, Joe, you’re an angel. I’ll bless you for this the longest day I live.” And Potter began to cry.

  “Come, now, that’s enough of that. This ain’t any time for blubber ing. You be off yonder way and I’ll go this. Move, now, and don’t leave any tracks behind you.”

  Potter started on a trot that quickly increased to a run. The half-breed stood looking after him. He muttered:

  “If he’s as much stunned with the lick and fuddled with the rum as he had the look of being, he won’t think of the knife till he’s gone so far he’ll be afraid to come back after it to such a place by himself—chicken heart!”

  Two or three minutes later the murdered man, the blanketed corpse, the lidless coffin, and the open grave were under no inspection but the moon’s.

  The stillness was complete again, too.

  10

  A Solemn Oath—Terror Brings Repentance—Mental Punishment

  The two boys flew on and on, toward the village, speechless with horror. They glanced backward over their shoulders from time to time, apprehensively, as if they feared they might be followed. Every stump that started up in their path seemed a man and an enemy, and made them catch their breath; and as they sped by some outlying cottages that lay near the village, the barking of the aroused watchdogs seemed to give wings to their feet.

  “If we can only get to the old tannery before we break down!” whispered Tom, in short catches between breaths, “I can’t stand it much longer.”

  Huckleberry’s hard pantings were his only reply, and the boys fixed their eyes on the goal of their hopes and bent to their work to win it. They gained steadily on it, and at last, breast to breast, they burst through the open door and fell grateful and exhausted in the sheltering shadows beyond. By and by their pulses slowed down, and Tom whispered:

  “Huckleberry, what do you reckon’ll come of this?”

  “If Dr. Robinson dies, I reckon hanging’ll come of it.”

  “Do you though?”

  “Why, I know it, Tom.”

  Tom thought a while, then he said:

  “Who’ll tell? We?”

  “What are you talking about? S‘pose something happened and Injun Joe didn’t hang? Why he’d kill us some time or other, just as dead sure as we’re a-laying here.”

  “That’s just what I was thinking to myself, Huck.”

  “If anybody tells, let Muff Potter do it, if he’s fool enough. He’s generally drunk enough.”

  Tom said nothing—went on thinking. Presently he whispered:

  “Huck, Muff Potter don’t know it. How can he tell?”

  “What’s the reason he don’t know it?”

  “Because he’d just got that whack when Injun Joe done it. D’ you reckon he could see anything? D’ you reckon he knowed anything?”

  “By hokey, that’s so, Tom!”

  “And besides, look-a-here—maybe that whack done for him!”

  “No, ‘tain’t likely, Tom. He had liquor in him; I could see that; and besides, he always has. Well, when pap’s full, you might take and belt him over the head with a church and you couldn’t faze him. He says so, his own self. So it’s the same with Muff Potter, of course. But if a man was dead sober, I reckon maybe that whack might fetch him; I dono.”

  After another reflective silence, Tom said:

  “Hucky, you sure you can keep mum?”

  “Tom, we got to keep mum. You know that. That Injun devil wouldn’t make any more of drownding us than a couple of cats, if we was to squeak ‘bout this and they didn’t hang him. Now, look-a-here, Tom, less take and swear to one another—that’s what we got to do—swear to keep mum.”

  “I’m agreed. It’s the best thing. Would you just hold hands and swear that we—”

  “Oh, no, that wouldn’t do for this. That’s good enough for little rubbishy common things—specially with gals, cuz they go back on you anyway, and blab if they get in a huff—but there orter be writing ‘bout a big thing like this. And blood.”

  Tom’s whole being applauded this idea. It was deep, and dark, and awful; the hour, the circumstances, the surroundings, were in keeping with it. He picked up a clean pine shingle that lay in the moonlight, took a little fragment of “red keel”ai out of his pocket, got the moon on his work, and painfully scrawled these lines, emphasizing each slow downstroke by clamping his tongue between his teeth, and letting up the pressure on the upstrokes.

  Huckleberry was filled with admiration of Tom’s facility in writing, and the sublimity of his language. He at once took a pin from his lapel and was going to prick his flesh, but Tom said:

  “Hold on! Don’t do that. A pin’s brass. It might have verdigreaseaj on it.”

  “What’s verdigrease?”

  “It’s p‘ison. That’s what it is. You just swaller some of it once—you’ll see.”

  So Tom unwound the thread from one of his needles, and each boy pricked the ball of his thumb and squeezed out a drop of blood. In time, after many squeezes, Tom managed to sign his initials, using the ball of his little finger for a pen. Then he showed Huckleberry how to make an H and an F, and the oath was complete. They buried the shingle close to the wall, with some dismal ceremonies and incantations, and the fetters that bound their tongues were considered to be locked and the key thrown away.

  A figure crept stealthily through a break in the other end of the ruined building, now, but they did not notice it.

  “Tom,” whispered Huckleberry, “does this keep us from ever telling—always”

  “Of course it does. It don’t make any difference what happens, we got to keep mum. We’d drop down dead—don’t you know that?”

  “Yes, I reckon that’s so.”

  They continued to whisper for some little time. Presently a dog set up a long, lugubrious howl just outside—within ten feet of them. The boys clasped each other suddenly, in an agony of fright.

  “Which of us does he mean?” gasped Huckleberry.

  “I dono—peep through the crack. Quick!”

  “No, you, Tom!”

  “I can‘t—I can’t do it, Huck!”

  “Please, Tom. There ‘tis again!”

  “Oh, lordy, I’m thankful!” whispered Tom. “I know his voice. It’s Bull Harbison.”

  “Oh, that’s good—I tell you, Tom, I was most scared to death; I’d a bet anything it was a stray dog.”

  The dog howled again. The boys’ hearts sank once more.

  “Oh, my! that ain’t no Bull Harbison!” whispered Huckleberry. “Do, Tom!”

  Tom, quaking with fear, yielded, and put his eye to the crack. His whisper was hardly audible when he said: “Oh, Huck, IT‘S A STRAY
DOG!”

  “Quick, Tom, quick! Who does he mean?”

  “Huck, he must mean us both—we’re right together.”

  “Oh, Tom, I reckon we’re goners. I reckon there ain’t no mistake ‘bout where I’ll go to. I been so wicked.”

  “Dad fetch it! This comes of playing hooky and doing everything a feller’s told not to do. I might a been good, like Sid, if I’d a tried—but no, I wouldn‘t, of course. But if ever I get off this time, I lay I’ll just waller in Sunday schools!” And Tom began to snuffle a little.

  “You bad!” and Huckleberry began to snuffle too. “Confound it, Tom Sawyer, you’re just old pie, ‘longside o’ what I am. Oh, lordy, lordy, lordy, I wisht I only had half your chance.”

  Tom choked off and whispered:

  “Look, Hucky, look! He’s got his back to us!”

  Hucky looked, with joy in his heart.

  “Well, he has, by jingoes! Did he before?”

  “Yes, he did. But I, like a fool, never thought. Oh, this is bully, you know. Now who can he mean?”

  The howling stopped. Tom pricked up his ears.

  “Sh! What’s that?” he whispered.

  “Sounds like—like hogs grunting. No—it’s somebody snoring, Tom.”

  “That is it! Where‘bouts is it, Huck?”

  “I bleeve it’s down at ‘tother end. Sounds so, anyway. Pap used to sleep there, sometimes, ’long with the hogs, but laws bless you, he just lifts things when he snores. Besides, I reckon he ain’t ever coming back to this town any more.”

  The spirit of adventure rose in the boys’ souls once more.

  “Hucky, do you das’t to go if I lead?”

  “I don’t like to, much. Tom, s‘pose it’s Injun Joe!”