Adventures of Tom Sawyer (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Mark J. Twain

  Three miles below town the ferryboat stopped at the mouth of a woody hollow and tied up. The crowd swarmed ashore and soon the forest distances and craggy heights echoed far and near with shoutings and laughter. All the different ways of getting hot and tired were gone through with, and by and by the rovers straggled back to camp fortified with responsible appetites, and then the destruction of the good things began. After the feast there was a refreshing season of rest and chat in the shade of spreading oaks. By and by somebody shouted:

  “Who’s ready for the cave?”

  Everybody was. Bundles of candles were procured, and straightway there was a general scamper up the hill. The mouth of the cave was up the hillside—an opening shaped like a letter A. Its massive oaken door stood unbarred. Within was a small chamber, chilly as an icehouse, and walled by Nature with solid limestone that was dewy with a cold sweat. It was romantic and mysterious to stand here in the deep gloom and look out upon the green valley shining in the sun. But the impressiveness of the situation quickly wore off, and the romping began again. The moment a candle was lighted there was a general rush upon the owner of it; a struggle and a gallant defense followed, but the candle was soon knocked down or blown out, and then there was a glad clamor of laughter and a new chase. But all things have to end. By and by the procession went filing down the steep descent of the main avenue, the flickering rank of lights dimly revealing the lofty walls of rock almost to their point of junction sixty feet overhead. This main avenue was not more than eight or ten feet wide. Every few steps other lofty and still narrower crevices branched from it on either hand—for McDougal’s cave2 was but a vast labyrinth of crooked aisles that ran into each other and out again and led nowhere. It was said that one might wander days and nights together through its intricate tangle of rifts and chasms, and never find the end of the cave; and that he might go down, and down, and still down, into the earth, and it was just the same—labyrinth underneath labyrinth, and no end to any of them. No man “knew” the cave. That was an impossible thing. Most of the young men knew a portion of it, and it was not customary to venture much beyond this known portion. Tom Sawyer knew as much of the cave as any one.

  The procession moved along the main avenue some three-quarters of a mile, and then groups and couples began to slip aside into branch avenues, fly along the dismal corridors, and take each other by surprise at points where the corridors joined again. Parties were able to elude each other for the space of half an hour without going beyond the “known” ground.

  By and by, one group after another came straggling back to the mouth of the cave, panting, hilarious, smeared from head to foot with tallow drippings, daubed with clay, and entirely delighted with the success of the day. Then they were astonished to find that they had been taking no note of time and that night was about at hand. The clanging bell had been calling for half an hour. However, this sort of close to the day’s adventures was romantic and therefore satisfactory. When the ferryboat with her wild freight pushed into the stream, nobody cared sixpence for the wasted time but the captain of the craft.

  Huck was already upon his watch when the ferryboat’s lights went glinting past the wharf. He heard no noise on board, for the young people were as subdued and still as people usually are who are nearly tired to death. He wondered what boat it was, and why she did not stop at the wharf—and then he dropped her out of his mind and put his attention upon his business. The night was growing cloudy and dark. Ten o‘clock came, and the noise of vehicles ceased, scattered lights began to wink out, all straggling foot passengers disappeared, the village betook itself to its slumbers and left the small watcher alone with the silence and the ghosts. Eleven o’clock came, and the tavern lights were put out; darkness everywhere, now. Huck waited what seemed a weary long time, but nothing happened. His faith was weakening. Was there any use? Was there really any use? Why not give it up and turn in?

  A noise fell upon his ear. He was all attention in an instant. The alley door closed softly. He sprang to the corner of the brick store. The next moment two men brushed by him, and one seemed to have something under his arm. It must be that box! So they were going to remove the treasure. Why call Tom now? It would be absurd—the men would get away with the box and never be found again. No, he would stick to their wake and follow them; he would trust to the darkness for security from discovery. So communing with himself, Huck stepped out and glided along behind the men, catlike, with bare feet, allowing them to keep just far enough ahead not to be invisible.

  They moved up the river street three blocks, then turned to the left up a cross street. They went straight ahead, then, until they came to the path that led up Cardiff Hill; this they took. They passed by the old Welshman’s house, half way up the hill, without hesitating, and still climbed upward. Good, thought Huck, they will bury it in the old quarry. But they never stopped at the quarry. They passed on, up the summit. They plunged into the narrow path between the tall sumac bushes, and were at once hidden in the gloom. Huck closed up and shortened his distance, now, for they would never be able to see him. He trotted along a while; then slackened his pace, fearing he was gaining too fast; moved on a piece, then stopped altogether; listened; no sound; none, save that he seemed to hear the beating of his own heart. The hooting of an owl came from over the hill—ominous sound! But no footsteps. Heavens, was everything lost! He was about to spring with winged feet, when a man cleared his throat not four feet from him! Huck’s heart shot into his throat, but he swallowed it again; and then he stood there shaking as if a dozen aguesbg had taken charge of him at once, and so weak that he thought he must surely fall to the ground. He knew where he was. He knew he was within five steps of the stile leading into Widow Douglas’ grounds. Very well, he thought, let them bury it there; it won’t be hard to find.

  Now there was a voice—a very low voice—Injun Joe’s:

  “Damn her, maybe she’s got company—there’s lights, late as it is.”

  “I can’t see any”

  This was that stranger’s voice—the stranger of the haunted house. A deadly chill went to Huck’s heart—this, then, was the “revenge” job! His thought was to fly. Then he remembered that the Widow Douglas had been kind to him more than once, and maybe these men were going to murder her. He wished he dared venture to warn her; but he knew he didn’t dare—they might come and catch him. He thought all this and more in the moment that elapsed between the stranger’s remark and Injun Joe’s next—which was—

  “Because the bush is in your way. Now—this way—now you see, don’t you?”

  “Yes. Well, there is company there, I reckon. Better give it up.”

  “Give it up, and I just leaving this country forever! Give it up and maybe never have another chance. I tell you again, as I’ve told you before, I don’t care for her swagbh—you may have it. But her husband was rough on me—many times he was rough on me—and mainly he was the justice of the peace that jugged me for a vagrant. And that ain’t all. It ain’t a millionth part of it! He had me horsewhipped!—horsewhipped in front of the jail, like a nigger!—with all the town looking on! HORSE-WHIPPED! —do you understand? He took advantage of me and died. But I’ll take it out on her.“

  “Oh, don’t kill her. Don’t do that!”

  “Kill? Who said anything about killing? I would kill him if he was here; but not her. When you want to get revenge on a woman you don’t kill her—bosh! you go for her looks. You slit her nostrils—you notch her ears like a sow!”

  “By God, that‘s——”

  “Keep your opinion to yourself! It will be safest for you. I’ll tie her to the bed. If she bleeds to death, is that my fault? I’ll not cry, if she does. My friend, you’ll help in this thing—for my sake—that’s why you’re here—I mightn’t be able alone. If you flinch, I’ll kill you. Do you understand that? And if I have to kill you, I’ll kill her—and then I reckon nobody’ll ever know much about who done this business.”

  “Well, if it’s got to be done, let’
s get at it. The quicker the better—I’m all in a shiver.”

  “Do it now? And company there? Look here—I’ll get suspicious of you, first thing you know. No—we’ll wait till the lights are out—there’s no hurry.”

  Huck felt that a silence was going to ensue—a thing still more awful than any amount of murderous talk; so he held his breath and stepped gingerly back; planted his foot carefully and firmly, after balancing, one-legged, in a precarious way and almost toppling over, first on one side and then on the other. He took another step back, with the same elaboration and the same risks; then another and another, and—a twig snapped under his foot! His breath stopped and he listened. There was no sound—the stillness was perfect. His gratitude was measureless. Now he turned in his tracks, between the walls of sumac bushes—turned himself as carefully as if he were a ship—and then stepped quickly but cautiously along. When he emerged at the quarry he felt secure, and so he picked up his nimble heels and flew. Down, down he sped, till he reached the Welshman’s. He banged at the door, and presently the heads of the old man and his two stalwart sons were thrust from windows.

  “What’s the row there? Who’s banging? What do you want?”

  “Let me in—quick! I’ll tell everything.”

  “Why, who are you?”

  “Huckleberry Finn—quick, let me in!”

  “Huckleberry Finn, indeed! It ain’t a name to open many doors, I judge! But let him in, lads, and let’s see what’s the trouble.”

  “Please don’t ever tell I told you,” were Huck’s first words when he got in. “Please don‘t—I’d be killed, sure—but the widow’s been good friends to me sometimes, and I want to tell—I will tell if you’ll promise you won’t ever say it was me.”

  “By George, he has got something to tell, or he wouldn’t act so!” exclaimed the old man. “Out with it and nobody here’ll ever tell, lad.”

  Three minutes later the old man and his sons, well armed, were up the hill, and just entering the sumac path on tiptoe, their weapons in their hands. Huck accompanied them no further. He hid behind a great boulder and fell to listening. There was a lagging, anxious silence, and then all of a sudden there was an explosion of firearms and a cry.

  Huck waited for no particulars. He sprang away and sped down the hill as fast as his legs could carry him.

  30

  The Welshman Reports—Huck Under Fire-The Story Circulated-A New Sensation— Hope Giving Way to Despair

  As the earliest suspicion of dawn appeared on Sunday morning, Huck came groping up the hill and rapped gently at the old Welshman’s door. The inmates were asleep, but it was a sleep that was set on a hair trigger, on account of the exciting episode of the night. A call came from a window:

  “Who’s there?”

  Huck’s scared voice answered in a low tone:

  “Please let me in! It’s only Huck Finn!”

  “It’s a name than can open this door night or day, lad!—and welcome!”

  These were strange words to the vagabond boy’s ears, and the pleasantest he had ever heard. He could not recollect that the closing word had ever been applied in his case before. The door was quickly unlocked, and he entered. Huck was given a seat and the old man and his bracebi of tall sons speedily dressed themselves.

  “Now, my boy, I hope you’re good and hungry, because breakfast will be ready as soon as the sun’s up, and we’ll have a piping hot one, too—make yourself easy about that! I and the boys hoped you’d turn up and stop here last night.”

  “I was awful scared,” said Huck, “and I run. I took out when the pistols went off, and I didn’t stop for three mile. I’ve come now becuz I wanted to know about it, you know; and I come before daylight becuz I didn’t want to run acrost them devils, even if they was dead.”

  “Well, poor chap, you do look as if you’d had a hard night of it—but there’s a bed here for you when you’ve had your breakfast. No, they ain’t dead, lad—we are sorry enough for that. You see we knew right where to put our hands on them, by your description; so we crept along on tiptoe till we got within fifteen feet of them—dark as a cellar that sumac path was—and just then I found I was going to sneeze. It was the meanest kind of luck! I tried to keep it back, but no use—‘twas bound to come, and it did come! I was in the lead with my pistol raised, and when the sneeze started those scoundrels a-rustling to get out of the path, I sung out, ’Fire, boys!‘ and blazed away at the place where the rustling was. So did the boys. But they were off in a jiffy, those villains, and we after them, down through the woods. I judge we never touched them. They fired a shot apiece as they started, but their bullets whizzed by and didn’t do us any harm. As soon as we lost the sound of their feet we quit chasing, and went down and stirred up the constables. They got a posse together, and went off to guard the riverbank, and as soon as it is light the sheriff and a gang are going to beat up the woods. My boys will be with them presently. I wish we had some sort of description of those rascals—’twould help a good deal. But you couldn’t see what they were like, in the dark, lad, I suppose?”

  “Oh, yes, I saw them downtown and follered them.”

  “Splendid! Describe them—describe them, my boy!”

  “One’s the old deaf-and-dumb Spaniard that’s been around here once or twice, and t‘other’s a mean-looking, ragged—”

  “That’s enough, lad, we know the men! Happened on them in the woods back of the widow’s one day, and they slunk away. Off with you, boys, and tell the sheriff—get your breakfast tomorrow morning!”

  The Welshman’s sons departed at once. As they were leaving the room Huck sprang up and exclaimed:

  “Oh, please don’t tell anybody it was me that blowed on them! Oh, please!”

  “All right if you say it, Huck, but you ought to have the credit of what you did.”

  “Oh, no, no! Please don’t tell!”

  When the young men were gone, the old Welshman said:

  “They won’t tell—and I won’t. But why don’t you want it known?”

  Huck would not explain, further than to say that he already knew too much about one of those men and would not have the man know that he knew anything against him for the whole world—he would be killed for knowing it, sure.

  The old man promised secrecy once more, and said:

  “How did you come to follow these fellows, lad? Were they looking suspicious?”

  Huck was silent while he framed a duly cautious reply. Then he said:

  “Well, you see, I’m a kind of a hard lot—least everybody says so, and I don’t see nothing agin it—and sometimes I can’t sleep much, on account of thinking about it and sort of trying to strike out a new way of doing. That was the way of it last night. I couldn’t sleep, and so I come along up street ‘bout midnight, a-turning it all over, and when I got to that old shacklybj brick store by the Temperance Tavern, I backed up agin the wall to have another think. Well, just then along comes these two chaps slipping along close by me, with something under their arm and I reckoned they’d stole it. One was a-smoking, and t’other one wanted a light; so they stopped right before me and the cigars lit up their faces and I see that the big one was the deaf-and-dumb Spaniard, by his white whiskers and the patch on his eye, and t‘other one was a rusty, ragged-looking devil.”

  “Could you see the rags by the light of the cigars?”

  This staggered Huck for a moment. Then he said:

  “Well, I don’t know—but somehow it seems as if I did.”

  “Then they went on, and you——”

  “Follered ‘em—yes. That was it. I wanted to see what was up—they sneaked along so. I dogged ’em to the widder’s stile,bk and stood in the dark and heard the ragged one beg for the widder, and the Spaniard swear he’d spile her looks just as I told you and your two—”

  “What! The deaf-and-dumb man said all that!”

  Huck had made another terrible mistake! He was trying his best to keep the old man from getting the faintest hint of who the Spaniard
might be, and yet his tongue seemed determined to get him into trouble in spite of all he could do. He made several efforts to creep out of his scrape, but the old man’s eye was upon him and he made blunder after blunder. Presently the Welshman said:

  “My boy, don’t be afraid of me. I wouldn’t hurt a hair of your head for all the world. No—I’d protect you—I’d protect you. This Spaniard is not deaf and dumb; you’ve let that slip without intending it; you can’t cover that up now. You know something about that Spaniard that you want to keep dark. Now trust me—tell me what it is, and trust me—I won’t betray you.”

  Huck looked into the old man’s honest eyes a moment, then bent over and whispered in his ear:

  “‘Tain’t a Spaniard—it’s Injun Joe!”

  The Welshman almost jumped out of his chair. In a moment he said:

  “It’s all plain enough, now. When you talked about notching ears and slitting noses I judged that that was your own embellishment, because white men don’t take that sort of revenge. But an Injun! That’s a different matter altogether.”

  During breakfast the talk went on, and in the course of it the old man said that the last thing which he and his sons had done, before going to bed, was to get a lantern and examine the stile and its vicinity for marks of blood. They found none, but captured a bulky bundle of—

  “Of WHAT?”

  If the words had been lightning they could not have leaped with a more stunning suddenness from Huck’s blanched lips. His eyes were staring wide, now, and his breath suspended—waiting for the answer. The Welshman started—stared in return—three seconds—five seconds—ten—then replied:

  “Of burglar’s tools. Why, what’s the matter with you?”