t half, and the short half, too.
   When  I got to camp I warn't feeling very brash, there warn't much sand
in  my craw; but I says, this ain't no time to be fooling around. So I got
all  my  traps  into my canoe again so as to have them out of sight, and I
put  out  the fire and scattered the ashes around to look like an old last
year's camp, and then clumb a tree.
   I  reckon  I  was up in the tree two hours; but I didn't see nothing, I
didn't  hear nothing-I only THOUGHT I heard and seen as much as a thousand
things. Well, I couldn't stay up there forever; so at last I got down, but
I kept in the thick woods and on the lookout all the time. All I could get
to eat was berries and what was left over from breakfast.
   By  the  time it was night I was pretty hungry. So when it was good and
dark  I  slid  out  from  shore  before  moonrise  and paddled over to the
Illinois  bank-about  a  quarter  of  a  mile. I went out in the woods and
cooked  a  supper,  and I had about made up my mind I would stay there all
night  when  I  hear  a PLUNKETYPLUNK, PLUNKETY-PLUNK, and says to myself,
horses  coming; and next I hear people's voices. I got everything into the
canoe as quick as I could, and then went creeping through the woods to see
what I could find out. I hadn't got far when I hear a man say:
   "We  better  camp here if we can find a good place; the horses is about
beat out. Let's look around."
   I  didn't  wait, but shoved out and paddled away easy. I tied up in the
old place, and reckoned I would sleep in the canoe.
   I  didn't sleep much. I couldn't, somehow, for thinking. And every time
I  waked  up I thought somebody had me by the neck. So the sleep didn't do
me no good. By and by I says to myself, I can't live this way; I'm a-going
to  find out who it is that's here on the island with me; I'll find it out
or bust. Well, I felt better right off.
   So  I  took  my  paddle and slid out from shore just a step or two, and
then  let  the  canoe  drop  along  down amongst the shadows. The moon was
shining,  and  outside  of  the shadows it made it most as light as day. I
poked  along  well  on  to  an  hour,  everything still as rocks and sound
asleep.  Well,  by  this time I was most down to the foot of the island. A
little  ripply,  cool breeze begun to blow, and that was as good as saying
the  night was about done. I give her a turn with the paddle and brung her
nose  to shore; then I got my gun and slipped out and into the edge of the
woods. I sat down there on a log, and looked out through the leaves. I see
the moon go off watch, and the darkness begin to blanket the river. But in
a  little  while I see a pale streak over the treetops, and knowed the day
was  coming.  So  I  took  my  gun and slipped off towards where I had run
across  that  camp  fire,  stopping  every  minute or two to listen. But I
hadn't  no luck somehow; I couldn't seem to find the place. But by and by,
sure  enough,  I  catched a glimpse of fire away through the trees. I went
for  it,  cautious  and slow. By and by I was close enough to have a look,
and  there laid a man on the ground. It most give me the fantods. He had a
blanket  around his head, and his head was nearly in the fire. I set there
behind a clump of bushes in about six foot of him, and kept my eyes on him
steady.  It  was  getting  gray  daylight  now.  Pretty soon he gapped and
stretched  himself and hove off the blanket, and it was Miss Watson's Jim!
I bet I was glad to see him. I says:
   "Hello, Jim!" and skipped out.
   He  bounced  up and stared at me wild. Then he drops down on his knees,
and puts his hands together and says:
   "Doan'  hurt  me-don't!  I hain't ever done no harm to a ghos'. I alwuz
liked  dead people, en done all I could for 'em. You go en git in de river
agin,  whah  you  b'longs, en doan' do nuffn to Ole Jim, 'at 'uz awluz yo'
fren'."
   Well,  I warn't long making him understand I warn't dead. I was ever so
glad  to see Jim. I warn't lonesome now. I told him I warn't afraid of HIM
telling  the people where I was. I talked along, but he only set there and
looked at me; never said nothing. Then I says:
   "It's good daylight. Le's get breakfast. Make up your camp fire good."
   "What's  de  use  er  makin' up de camp fire to cook strawbries en sich
truck?  But  you  got  a  gun, hain't you? Den we kin git sumfn better den
strawbries."
   "Strawberries and such truck," I says. "Is that what you live on?"
   "I couldn' git nuffn else," he says.
   "Why, how long you been on the island, Jim?"
   "I come heah de night arter you's killed."
   "What, all that time?"
   "Yes-indeedy."
   "And ain't you had nothing but that kind of rubbage to eat?"
   "No, sah-nuffn else."
   "Well, you must be most starved, ain't you?"
   "I  reck'n  I could eat a hoss. I think I could. How long you ben on de
islan'?"
   "Since the night I got killed."
   "No!  W'y, what has you lived on? But you got a gun. Oh, yes, you got a
gun. Dat's good. Now you kill sumfn en I'll make up de fire."
   So  we went over to where the canoe was, and while he built a fire in a
grassy  open place amongst the trees, I fetched meal and bacon and coffee,
and  coffee-pot and frying-pan, and sugar and tin cups, and the nigger was
set   back  considerable,  because  he  reckoned  it  was  all  done  with
witchcraft.  I  catched  a good big catfish, too, and Jim cleaned him with
his knife, and fried him.
   When breakfast was ready we lolled on the grass and eat it smoking hot.
Jim  laid  it  in  with all his might, for he was most about starved. Then
when we had got pretty well stuffed, we laid off and lazied. By and by Jim
says:
   "But  looky  here,  Huck, who wuz it dat 'uz killed in dat shanty ef it
warn't you?"
   Then  I told him the whole thing, and he said it was smart. He said Tom
Sawyer couldn't get up no better plan than what I had. Then I says:
   "How do you come to be here, Jim, and how'd you get here?"
   He  looked  pretty uneasy, and didn't say nothing for a minute. Then he
says:
   "Maybe I better not tell."
   "Why, Jim?"
   "Well,  dey's  reasons. But you wouldn' tell on me ef I uz to tell you,
would you, Huck?"
   "Blamed if I would, Jim."
   "Well, I b'lieve you, Huck. I-I RUN OFF."
   "Jim!"
   "But  mind,  you  said  you  wouldn' tell-you know you said you wouldn'
tell, Huck."
   "Well,  I did. I said I wouldn't, and I'll stick to it. Honest INJUN, I
will.  People  would  call  me  a  lowdown Abolitionist and despise me for
keeping  mum-but  that  don't make no difference. I ain't a-going to tell,
and I ain't a-going back there, anyways. So, now, le's know all about it."
   "Well,  you see, it 'uz dis way. Ole missus-dat's Miss Watson-she pecks
on  me  all  de  time,  en  treats  me pooty rough, but she awluz said she
wouldn'  sell  me  down  to Orleans. But I noticed dey wuz a nigger trader
roun'  de  place  considable  lately,  en I begin to git oneasy. Well, one
night  I  creeps  to  de do' pooty late, en de do' warn't quite shet, en I
hear  old  missus tell de widder she gwyne to sell me down to Orleans, but
she  didn'  want  to, but she could git eight hund'd dollars for me, en it
'uz sich a big stack o' money she couldn' resis'. De widder she try to git
her  to  say  she wouldn' do it, but I never waited to hear de res'. I lit
out mighty quick, I tell you.
   "I  tuck  out  en shin down de hill, en 'spec to steal a skift 'long de
sho' som'ers 'bove de town, but dey wuz people a-stirring yit, so I hid in
de  ole  tumble-down  cooper-shop  on  de bank to wait for everybody to go
'way. Well, I wuz dah all night. Dey wuz somebody roun' all de time. 'Long
'bout  six  in  de  mawnin'  skifts begin to go by, en 'bout eight er nine
every  skift  dat went 'long wuz talkin' 'bout how yo' pap come over to de
town  en  say you's killed. Dese las' skifts wuz full o' ladies en genlmen
a-goin'  over  for  to see de place. Sometimes dey'd pull up at de sho' en
take  a  res'  b'fo'  dey  started acrost, so by de talk I got to know all
'bout  de killin'. I 'uz powerful sorry you's killed, Huck, but I ain't no
mo' now.
   "I  laid  dah  under  de  shavin's  all day. I 'uz hungry, but I warn't
afeard;  bekase  I knowed ole missus en de widder wuz goin' to start to de
campmeet'n'  right arter breakfas' en be gone all day, en dey knows I goes
off  wid de cattle 'bout daylight, so dey wouldn' 'spec to see me roun' de
place,  en so dey wouldn' miss me tell arter dark in de evenin'. De yuther
servants  wouldn'  miss me, kase dey'd shin out en take holiday soon as de
ole folks 'uz out'n de way.
   "Well, when it come dark I tuck out up de river road, en went 'bout two
mile  er more to whah dey warn't no houses. I'd made up my mine 'bout what
I's  agwyne to do. You see, ef I kep' on tryin' to git away afoot, de dogs
'ud  track me; ef I stole a skift to cross over, dey'd miss dat skift, you
see,  en dey'd know 'bout whah I'd lan' on de yuther side, en whah to pick
up my track. So I says, a raff is what I's arter; it doan' MAKE no track.
   "I  see a light a-comin' roun' de p'int bymeby, so I wade' in en shove'
a  log  ahead  o'  me  en  swum more'n half way acrost de river, en got in
'mongst  de  driftwood,  en  kep' my head down low, en kinder swum agin de
current  tell  de  raff  come  along. Den I swum to de stern uv it en tuck
a-holt.  It clouded up en 'uz pooty dark for a little while. So I clumb up
en  laid  down on de planks. De men 'uz all 'way yonder in de middle, whah
de  lantern  wuz.  De  river  wuz arisin', en dey wuz a good current; so I
reck'n'd  'at  by fo' in de mawnin' I'd be twenty-five mile down de river,
en  den  I'd slip in jis b'fo' daylight en swim asho', en take to de woods
on de Illinois side.
   "But  I  didn'  have  no  luck.  When we 'uz mos' down to de head er de
islan'  a man begin to come aft wid de lantern, I see it warn't no use fer
to  wait,  so  I slid overboard en struck out fer de islan'. Well, I had a
notion  I  could  lan' mos' anywhers, but I couldn't-bank too bluff. I 'uz
mos'  to  de foot er de islan' b'fo' I found' a good place. I went into de
woods  en  jedged  I  wouldn'  fool  wid raffs no mo', long as dey move de
lantern  roun'  so. I had my pipe en a plug er dog-leg, en some matches in
my cap, en dey warn't wet, so I 'uz all right."
   "And  so  you  ain't  had  no  meat nor bread to eat all this time? Why
didn't you get mud-turkles?"
   "How  you gwyne to git 'm? You can't slip up on um en grab um; en how's
a  body gwyne to hit um wid a rock? How could a body do it in de night? En
I warn't gwyne to show mysef on de bank in de daytime."
   "Well,  that's  so.  You've  had  to keep in the woods all the time, of
course. Did you hear 'em shooting the cannon?"
   "Oh,  yes.  I  knowed dey was arter you. I see um go by heah-watched um
thoo de bushes."
   Some  young  birds  come  along,  flying  a  yard  or two at a time and
lighting.  Jim  said  it was a sign it was going to rain. He said it was a
sign when young chickens flew that way, and so he reckoned it was the same
way  when  young birds done it. I was going to catch some of them, but Jim
wouldn't let me. He said it was death. He said his father laid mighty sick
once,  and some of them catched a bird, and his old granny said his father
would die, and he did.
   And  Jim  said  you  mustn't count the things you are going to cook for
dinner,  because  that  would  bring  bad  luck. The same if you shook the
table-cloth  after  sundown. And he said if a man owned a beehive and that
man  died,  the  bees must be told about it before sun-up next morning, or
else  the  bees would all weaken down and quit work and die. Jim said bees
wouldn't sting idiots; but I didn't believe that, because I had tried them
lots of times myself, and they wouldn't sting me.
   I had heard about some of these things before, but not all of them. Jim
knowed  all  kinds  of signs. He said he knowed most everything. I said it
looked  to me like all the signs was about bad luck, and so I asked him if
there warn't any good-luck signs. He says:
   "Mighty  few-an' DEY ain't no use to a body. What you want to know when
good luck's a-comin' for? Want to keep it off?" And he said: "Ef you's got
hairy  arms  en  a  hairy breas', it's a sign dat you's agwyne to be rich.
Well, dey's some use in a sign like dat, 'kase it's so fur ahead. You see,
maybe  you's  got  to  be  po'  a  long  time  fust,  en  so you might git
discourage'  en  kill yo'sef 'f you didn' know by de sign dat you gwyne to
be rich bymeby."
   "Have you got hairy arms and a hairy breast, Jim?"
   "What's de use to ax dat question? Don't you see I has?"
   "Well, are you rich?"
   "No,  but  I  ben  rich  wunst,  and gwyne to be rich agin. Wunst I had
foteen dollars, but I tuck to specalat'n', en got busted out."
   "What did you speculate in, Jim?"
   "Well, fust I tackled stock."
   "What kind of stock?"
   "Why,  live  stock-cattle,  you know. I put ten dollars in a cow. But I
ain' gwyne to resk no mo' money in stock. De cow up 'n' died on my han's."
   "So you lost the ten dollars."
   "No, I didn't lose it all. I on'y los' 'bout nine of it. I sole de hide
en taller for a dollar en ten cents."
   "You had five dollars and ten cents left. Did you speculate any more?"
   "Yes.  You  know  that  one-laigged  nigger  dat  b'longs  to old Misto
Bradish?  Well, he sot up a bank, en say anybody dat put in a dollar would
git  fo'  dollars  mo' at de en' er de year. Well, all de niggers went in,
but  dey  didn't have much. I wuz de on'y one dat had much. So I stuck out
for  mo'  dan  fo'  dollars,  en I said 'f I didn' git it I'd start a bank
mysef.  Well,  o'  course  dat nigger want' to keep me out er de business,
bekase he says dey warn't business 'nough for two banks, so he say I could
put in my five dollars en he pay me thirty-five at de en' er de year.
   "So  I  done it. Den I reck'n'd I'd inves' de thirty-five dollars right
off en keep things a-movin'. Dey wuz a nigger name' Bob, dat had ketched a
woodflat,  en  his marster didn' know it; en I bought it off'n him en told
him  to  take  de  thirty-five  dollars  when  de en' er de year come; but
somebody  stole  de  wood-flat dat night, en nex day de one-laigged nigger
say de bank's busted. So dey didn' none uv us git no money."
   "What did you do with the ten cents, Jim?"
   "Well,  I 'uz gwyne to spen' it, but I had a dream, en de dream tole me
to  give  it  to  a nigger name' Balum-Balum's Ass dey call him for short;
he's  one er dem chuckleheads, you know. But he's lucky, dey say, en I see
I  warn't lucky. De dream say let Balum inves' de ten cents en he'd make a
raise  for  me.  Well, Balum he tuck de money, en when he wuz in church he
hear  de preacher say dat whoever give to de po' len' to de Lord, en boun'
to  git  his  money  back  a hund'd times. So Balum he tuck en give de ten
cents to de po', en laid low to see what wuz gwyne to come of it."
   "Well, what did come of it, Jim?"
   "Nuffn  never  come of it. I couldn' manage to k'leck dat money no way;
en  Balum  he  couldn'.  I  ain' gwyne to len' no mo' money 'dout I see de
security. Boun' to git yo' money back a hund'd times, de preacher says! Ef
I  could  git  de  ten  CENTS  back,  I'd  call it squah, en be glad er de
chanst."
   "Well,  it's  all  right  anyway,  Jim, long as you're going to be rich
again some time or other."
   "Yes;  en  I's  rich now, come to look at it. I owns mysef, en I's wuth
eight hund'd dollars. I wisht I had de money, I wouldn' want no mo'."


        Chapter IX.

   I WANTED to go and look at a place right about the middle of the island
that  I'd  found  when  I was exploring; so we started and soon got to it,
because the island was only three miles long and a quarter of a mile wide.
   This  place  was a tolerable long, steep hill or ridge about forty foot
high.  We  had a rough time getting to the top, the sides was so steep and
the  bushes  so thick. We tramped and clumb around all over it, and by and
by  found  a  good  big cavern in the rock, most up to the top on the side
towards  Illinois.  The  cavern  was  as big as two or three rooms bunched
together, and Jim could stand up straight in it. It was cool in there. Jim
was  for  putting our traps in there right away, but I said we didn't want
to be climbing up and down there all the time.
   Jim said if we had the canoe hid in a good place, and had all the traps
in  the  cavern, we could rush there if anybody was to come to the island,
and  they  would  never  find  us without dogs. And, besides, he said them
little  birds  had said it was going to rain, and did I want the things to
get wet?
   So  we  went back and got the canoe, and paddled up abreast the cavern,
and  lugged  all the traps up there. Then we hunted up a place close by to
hide the canoe in, amongst the thick willows. We took some fish off of the
lines and set them again, and begun to get ready for dinner.
   The door of the cavern was big enough to roll a hogshead in, and on one
side of the door the floor stuck out a little bit, and was flat and a good
place to build a fire on. So we built it there and cooked dinner.
   We  spread  the  blankets  inside  for  a carpet, and eat our dinner in
there. We put all the other things handy at the back of the cavern. Pretty
soon  it  darkened  up, and begun to thunder and lighten; so the birds was
right  about  it.  Directly it begun to rain, and it rained like all fury,
too,  and I never see the wind blow so. It was one of these regular summer
storms.  It  would  get so dark that it looked all blue-black outside, and
lovely;  and  the rain would thrash along by so thick that the trees off a
little  ways  looked  dim  and spiderwebby; and here would come a blast of
wind  that would bend the trees down and turn up the pale underside of the
leaves; and then a perfect ripper of a gust would follow along and set the
branches to tossing their arms as if they was just wild; and next, when it
was just about the bluest and blackest-FST! it was as bright as glory, and
you'd  have  a little glimpse of treetops a-plunging about away off yonder
in the storm, hundreds of yards further than you could see before; dark as
sin again in a second, and now you'd hear the thunder let go with an awful
crash, and then go rumbling, grumbling, tumbling, down the sky towards the
under side of the world, like rolling empty barrels down stairs-where it's
long stairs and they bounce a good deal, you know.
   "Jim,  this  is  nice," I says. "I wouldn't want to be nowhere else but
here. Pass me along another hunk of fish and some hot corn-bread."
   "Well,  you wouldn't a ben here 'f it hadn't a ben for Jim. You'd a ben
down  dah in de woods widout any dinner, en gittn' mos' drownded, too; dat
you  would,  honey.  Chickens  knows  when it's gwyne to rain, en so do de
birds, chile."
   The  river  went on raising and raising for ten or twelve days, till at
last  it  was over the banks. The water was three or four foot deep on the
island in the low places and on the Illinois bottom. On that side it was a
good  many  miles  wide,  but  on  the  Missouri  side it was the same old
distance  across-a  half a mile-because the Missouri shore was just a wall
of high bluffs.
   Daytimes  we  paddled  all  over the island in the canoe, It was mighty
cool  and shady in the deep woods, even if the sun was blazing outside. We
went winding in and out amongst the trees, and sometimes the vines hung so
thick  we  had  to  back  away  and  go some other way. Well, on every old
broken-down  tree  you  could  see rabbits and snakes and such things; and
when  the  island  had  been  overflowed a day or two they got so tame, on
account  of being hungry, that you could paddle right up and put your hand
on  them if you wanted to; but not the snakes and turtles-they would slide
off in the water. The ridge our cavern was in was full of them. We could a
had pets enough if we'd wanted them.
   One  night  we  catched  a  little  section  of a lumber raft-nice pine
planks.  It  was  twelve foot wide and about fifteen or sixteen foot long,
and the top stood above water six or seven inches-a solid, level floor. We
could see saw-logs go by in the daylight sometimes, but we let them go; we
didn't show ourselves in daylight.
   Another  night  when  we  was up at the head of the island, just before
daylight,  here  comes  a  frame-house  down,  on the west side. She was a
two-story,   and   tilted  over  considerable.  We  paddled  out  and  got
aboard-clumb  in at an upstairs window. But it was too dark to see yet, so
we made the canoe fast and set in her to wait for daylight.
   The  light  begun to come before we got to the foot of the island. Then
we  looked in at the window. We could make out a bed, and a table, and two
old  chairs,  and  lots of things around about on the floor, and there was
clothes  hanging against the wall. There was something laying on the floor
in the far corner that looked like a man. So Jim says:
   "Hello, you!"
   But it didn't budge. So I hollered again, and then Jim says:
   "De man ain't asleep-he's dead. You hold still-I'll go en see."
   He went, and bent down and looked, and says:
   "It's a dead man. Yes, indeedy; naked, too. He's ben shot in de back. I
reck'n  he's  ben dead two er three days. Come in, Huck, but doan' look at
his face-it's too gashly."
   I didn't look at him at all. Jim throwed some old rags over him, but he
needn't  done  it; I didn't want to see him. There was heaps of old greasy
cards  scattered  around  over  the  floor,  and old whisky bottles, and a
couple  of  masks  made out of black cloth; and all over the walls was the
ignorantest  kind  of words and pictures made with charcoal. There was two
old  dirty calico dresses, and a sun-bonnet, and some women's underclothes
hanging  against  the  wall,  and some men's clothing, too. We put the lot
into  the  canoe-it  might come good. There was a boy's old speckled straw
hat  on  the  floor; I took that, too. And there was a bottle that had had
milk  in  it, and it had a rag stopper for a baby to suck. We would a took
the bottle, but it was broke. There was a seedy old chest, and an old hair
trunk  with  the  hinges  broke. They stood open, but there warn't nothing
left  in  them that was any account. The way things was scattered about we
reckoned  the  people left in a hurry, and warn't fixed so as to carry off
most of their stuff.
   We  got an old tin lantern, and a butcher-knife without any handle, and
a  bran-new  Barlow knife worth two bits in any store, and a lot of tallow
candles,  and  a  tin candlestick, and a gourd, and a tin cup, and a ratty
old bedquilt off the bed, and a reticule with needles and pins and beeswax
and  buttons  and  thread and all such truck in it, and a hatchet and some
nails,  and  a  fishline  as thick as my little finger with some monstrous
hooks  on  it,  and  a  roll  of buckskin, and a leather dog-collar, and a
horseshoe,  and  some vials of medicine that didn't have no label on them;
and just as we was leaving I found a tolerable good curry-comb, and Jim he
found  a  ratty old fiddle-bow, and a wooden leg. The straps was broke off
of it, but, barring that, it was a good enough leg, though it was too long
for  me  and  not long enough for Jim, and we couldn't find the other one,
though we hunted all around.
   And  so,  take it all around, we made a good haul. When we was ready to
shove  off  we was a quarter of a mile below the island, and it was pretty
broad  day;  so  I  made  Jim  lay down in the canoe and cover up with the
quilt,  because if he set up people could tell he was a nigger a good ways
off.  I paddled over to the Illinois shore, and drifted down most a half a
mile  doing  it.  I  crept up the dead water under the bank, and hadn't no
accidents and didn't see nobody. We got home all safe.


        Chapter X.

   AFTER  breakfast  I wanted to talk about the dead man and guess out how
he  come  to be killed, but Jim didn't want to. He said it would fetch bad
luck; and besides, he said, he might come and ha'nt us; he said a man that
warn't  buried  was  more  likely to go aha'nting around than one that was
planted  and  comfortable. That sounded pretty reasonable, so I didn't say
no  more;  but  I couldn't keep from studying over it and wishing I knowed
who shot the man, and what they done it for.
   We  rummaged  the  clothes  we'd got, and found eight dollars in silver
sewed  up  in  the lining of an old blanket overcoat. Jim said he reckoned
the  people  in  that house stole the coat, because if they'd a knowed the
money  was  there  they  wouldn't a left it. I said I reckoned they killed
him, too; but Jim didn't want to talk about that. I says:
   "Now  you  think  it's bad luck; but what did you say when I fetched in
the  snake-skin that I found on the top of the ridge day before yesterday?
You said it was the worst bad luck in the world to touch a snake-skin with
my  hands.  Well,  here's your bad luck! We've raked in all this truck and
eight  dollars besides. I wish we could have some bad luck like this every
day, Jim."
   "Never  you  mind, honey, never you mind. Don't you git too peart. It's
a-comin'. Mind I tell you, it's a-comin'."
   It  did  come, too. It was a Tuesday that we had that talk. Well, after
dinner  Friday  we  was laying around in the grass at the upper end of the
ridge, and got out of tobacco. I went to the cavern to get some, and found
a  rattlesnake  in  there.  I killed him, and curled him up on the foot of
Jim's  blanket,  ever  so  natural,  thinking there'd be some fun when Jim
found him there. Well, by night I forgot all about the snake, and when Jim
flung  himself down on the blanket while I struck a light the snake's mate
was there, and bit him.
   He  jumped  up  yelling,  and  the first thing the light showed was the
varmint curled up and ready for another spring. I laid him out in a second
with a stick, and Jim grabbed pap's whisky-jug and begun to pour it down.
   He  was  barefooted,  and the snake bit him right on the heel. That all
comes of my being such a fool as to not remember that wherever you leave a
dead snake its mate always comes there and curls around it. Jim told me to
chop  off  the  snake's head and throw it away, and then skin the body and
roast  a piece of it. I done it, and he eat it and said it would help cure
him.  He  made me take off the rattles and tie them around his wrist, too.
He said that that would help. Then I slid out quiet and throwed the snakes
clear  away  amongst the bushes; for I warn't going to let Jim find out it
was all my fault, not if I could help it.
   Jim  sucked  and  sucked at the jug, and now and then he got out of his
head  and  pitched around and yelled; but every time he come to himself he
went  to  sucking at the jug again. His foot swelled up pretty big, and so
did his leg; but by and by the drunk begun to come, and so I judged he was
all right; but I'd druther been bit with a snake than pap's whisky.
   Jim  was  laid  up  for four days and nights. Then the swelling was all
gone  and  he  was  around  again.  I made up my mind I wouldn't ever take
a-holt  of  a snake-skin again with my hands, now that I see what had come
of  it.  Jim  said  he reckoned I would believe him next time. And he said
that handling a snakeskin was such awful bad luck that maybe we hadn't got
to  the  end  of it yet. He said he druther see the new moon over his left
shoulder  as  much  as  a  thousand times than take up a snake-skin in his
hand.  Well,  I  was  getting  to feel that way myself, though I've always
reckoned  that  looking  at the new moon over your left shoulder is one of
the  carelessest and foolishest things a body can do. Old Hank Bunker done
it once, and bragged about it; and in less than two years he got drunk and
fell  off  of the shot-tower, and spread himself out so that he was just a
kind  of  a  layer, as you may say; and they slid him edgeways between two
barn  doors for a coffin, and buried him so, so they say, but I didn't see
it.  Pap  told me. But anyway it all come of looking at the moon that way,
like a fool.
   Well,  the  days  went along, and the river went down between its banks
again;  and about the first thing we done was to bait one of the big hooks
with  a skinned rabbit and set it and catch a catfish that was as big as a
man,  being six foot two inches long, and weighed over two hundred pounds.
We  couldn't  handle him, of course; he would a flung us into Illinois. We
just  set  there  and watched him rip and tear around till he drownded. We
found a brass button in his stomach and a round ball, and lots of rubbage.
We  split the ball open with the hatchet, and there was a spool in it. Jim
said  he'd had it there a long time, to coat it over so and make a ball of
it. It was as big a fish as was ever catched in the Mississippi, I reckon.
Jim  said  he  hadn't ever seen a bigger one. He would a been worth a good
deal over at the village. They peddle out such a fish as that by the pound
in  the markethouse there; everybody buys some of him; his meat's as white
as snow and makes a good fry.
   Next morning I said it was getting slow and dull, and I wanted to get a
stirring  up  some  way. I said I reckoned I would slip over the river and
find  out  what was going on. Jim liked that notion; but he said I must go
in  the  dark and look sharp. Then he studied it over and said, couldn't I
put  on  some of them old things and dress up like a girl? That was a good
notion,  too.  So we shortened up one of the calico gowns, and I turned up
my  trouser-legs  to  my knees and got into it. Jim hitched it behind with
the  hooks,  and  it  was  a fair fit. I put on the sun-bonnet and tied it
under  my  chin,  and  then for a body to look in and see my face was like
looking  down a joint of stovepipe. Jim said nobody would know me, even in
the  daytime,  hardly.  I  practiced around all day to get the hang of the
things,  and  by  and  by  I could do pretty well in them, only Jim said I
didn't walk like a girl; and he said I must quit pulling up my gown to get
at my britches-pocket. I took notice, and done better.
   I started up the Illinois shore in the canoe just after dark.
   I started across to the town from a little below the ferry-landing, and
the  drift  of the current fetched me in at the bottom of the town. I tied
up  and  started  along  the  bank.  There was a light burning in a little
shanty  that  hadn't been lived in for a long time, and I wondered who had
took  up  quarters  there. I slipped up and peeped in at the window. There
was a woman about forty year old in there knitting by a candle that was on
a pine table. I didn't know her face; she was a stranger, for you couldn't
start  a face in that town that I didn't know. Now this was lucky, because
I  was  weakening;  I  was getting afraid I had come; people might know my
voice  and  find  me out. But if this woman had been in such a little town
two days she could tell me all I wanted to know; so I knocked at the door,
and made up my mind I wouldn't forget I was a girl.


        Chapter XI.

   "COME in," says the woman, and I did. She says: "Take a cheer."
   I done it. She looked me all over with her little shiny eyes, and says:
   "What might your name be?"
   "Sarah Williams."
   "Where 'bouts do you live? In this neighborhood?'
   "No'm.  In  Hookerville,  seven mile below. I've walked all the way and
I'm all tired out."
   "Hungry, too, I reckon. I'll find you something."
   "No'm,  I  ain't  hungry. I was so hungry I had to stop two miles below
here  at a farm; so I ain't hungry no more. It's what makes me so late. My
mother's down sick, and out of money and everything, and I come to tell my
uncle  Abner  Moore.  He  lives  at the upper end of the town, she says. I
hain't ever been here before. Do you know him?"
   "No;  but  I  don't  know everybody yet. I haven't lived here quite two
weeks.  It's  a considerable ways to the upper end of the town. You better
stay here all night. Take off your bonnet."
   "No,"  I says; "I'll rest a while, I reckon, and go on. I ain't afeared
of the dark."
   She  said she wouldn't let me go by myself, but her husband would be in
by  and  by, maybe in a hour and a half, and she'd send him along with me.
Then  she got to talking about her husband, and about her relations up the
river,  and  her  relations  down the river, and about how much better off
they  used  to  was,  and  how  they didn't know but they'd made a mistake
coming  to  our  town,  instead of letting well alone-and so on and so on,
till  I was afeard I had made a mistake coming to her to find out what was
going  on in the town; but by and by she dropped on to pap and the murder,
and  then  I  was  pretty willing to let her clatter right along. She told
about  me and Tom Sawyer finding the six thousand dollars (only she got it
ten)  and  all about pap and what a hard lot he was, and what a hard lot I
was, and at last she got down to where I was murdered. I says:
   "Who  done  it?  We've heard considerable about these goings on down in
Hookerville, but we don't know who 'twas that killed Huck Finn."
   "Well, I reckon there's a right smart chance of people HERE that'd like
to know who killed him. Some think old Finn done it himself."
   "No-is that so?"
   "Most  everybody thought it at first. He'll never know how nigh he come
to getting lynched. But before night they changed around and judged it was
done by a runaway nigger named Jim."
   "Why HE-"
   I  stopped.  I  reckoned  I  better  keep  still. She run on, and never
noticed I had put in at all:
   "The  nigger  run off the very night Huck Finn was killed. So there's a
reward out for him-three hundred dollars. And there's a reward out for old
Finn,  too-two hundred dollars. You see, he come to town the morning after
the murder, and told about it, and was out with 'em on the ferryboat hunt,
and  right  away  after  he up and left. Before night they wanted to lynch
him,  but  he  was gone, you see. Well, next day they found out the nigger
was  gone;  they  found out he hadn't ben seen sence ten o'clock the night
the  murder  was done. So then they put it on him, you see; and while they
was  full  of  it,  next  day, back comes old Finn, and went boo-hooing to
Judge Thatcher to get money to hunt for the nigger all over Illinois with.
The  judge  gave  him  some, and that evening he got drunk, and was around
till  after  midnight  with a couple of mighty hard-looking strangers, and
then  went  off with them. Well, he hain't come back sence, and they ain't
looking  for  him  back  till  this  thing blows over a little, for people
thinks  now  that  he killed his boy and fixed things so folks would think
robbers done it, and then he'd get Huck's money without having to bother a
long  time  with a lawsuit. People do say he warn't any too good to do it.
Oh,  he's  sly,  I  reckon.  If he don't come back for a year he'll be all
right.  You  can't  prove  anything  on  him, you know; everything will be
quieted down then, and he'll walk in Huck's money as easy as nothing."
   "Yes,  I  reckon  so,  'm.  I  don't  see nothing in the way of it. Has
everybody guit thinking the nigger done it?"
   "Oh,  no, not everybody. A good many thinks he done it. But they'll get
the nigger pretty soon now, and maybe they can scare it out of him."
   "Why, are they after him yet?"
   "Well,  you're  innocent,  ain't  you!  Does  three hundred dollars lay
around  every day for people to pick up? Some folks think the nigger ain't
far  from  here. I'm one of them-but I hain't talked it around. A few days
ago  I  was  talking  with  an  old couple that lives next door in the log
shanty,  and  they happened to say hardly anybody ever goes to that island
over  yonder  that  they  call Jackson's Island. Don't anybody live there?
says  I.  No,  nobody,  says  they. I didn't say any more, but I done some
thinking.  I  was pretty near certain I'd seen smoke over there, about the
head of the island, a day or two before that, so I says to myself, like as
not  that  nigger's  hiding  over  there;  anyway,  says I, it's worth the
trouble  to  give  the  place  a hunt. I hain't seen any smoke sence, so I
reckon maybe he's gone, if it was him; but husband's going over to see-him
and  another  man. He was gone up the river; but he got back to-day, and I
told him as soon as he got here two hours ago."
   I had got so uneasy I couldn't set still. I had to do something with my
hands; so I took up a needle off of the table and went to threading it. My
hands  shook,  and  I  was  making a bad job of it. When the woman stopped
talking  I looked up, and she was looking at me pretty curious and smiling
a   little.  I  put  down  the  needle  and  thread,  and  let  on  to  be
interested-and I was, too-and says:
   "Three  hundred dollars is a power of money. I wish my mother could get
it. Is your husband going over there to-night?"
   "Oh,  yes.  He went up-town with the man I was telling you of, to get a
boat  and  see  if  they  could  borrow another gun. They'll go over after
midnight."
   "Couldn't they see better if they was to wait till daytime?"
   "Yes.  And  couldn't  the  nigger see better, too? After midnight he'll
likely  be  asleep, and they can slip around through the woods and hunt up
his camp fire all the better for the dark, if he's got one."
   "I didn't think of that."
   The  woman  kept  looking at me pretty curious, and I didn't feel a bit
comfortable. Pretty soon she says"
   "What did you say your name was, honey?"
   "M-Mary Williams."
   Somehow  it  didn't  seem  to  me  that I said it was Mary before, so I
didn't  look  up-seemed  to  me  I  said  it  was Sarah; so I felt sort of
cornered,  and was afeared maybe I was looking it, too. I wished the woman
would say something more; the longer she set still the uneasier I was. But
now she says:
   "Honey, I thought you said it was Sarah when you first come in?"
   "Oh,  yes'm,  I  did.  Sarah Mary Williams. Sarah's my first name. Some
calls me Sarah, some calls me Mary."
   "Oh, that's the way of it?"
   "Yes'm."
   I  was  feeling better then, but I wished I was out of there, anyway. I
couldn't look up yet.
   Well,  the woman fell to talking about how hard times was, and how poor
they had to live, and how the rats was as free as if they owned the place,
and so forth and so on, and then I got easy again. She was right about the
rats.  You'd  see  one  stick  his  nose out of a hole in the corner every
little  while. She said she had to have things handy to throw at them when
she  was alone, or they wouldn't give her no peace. She showed me a bar of
lead twisted up into a knot, and said she was a good shot with it generly,
but  she'd  wrenched her arm a day or two ago, and didn't know whether she
could  throw  true  now. But she watched for a chance, and directly banged
away  at  a rat; but she missed him wide, and said "Ouch!" it hurt her arm
so.  Then she told me to try for the next one. I wanted to be getting away
before  the  old  man  got  back, but of course I didn't let on. I got the
thing,  and  the first rat that showed his nose I let drive, and if he'd a
stayed  where  he  was he'd a been a tolerable sick rat. She said that was
first-rate,  and  she reckoned I would hive the next one. She went and got
the  lump  of  lead  and fetched it back, and brought along a hank of yarn
which  she  wanted me to help her with. I held up my two hands and she put
the  hank  over  them,  and  went  on  talking about her and her husband's
matters. But she broke off to say:
   "Keep your eye on the rats. You better have the lead in your lap, handy."
   So  she dropped the lump into my lap just at that moment, and I clapped
my  legs  together on it and she went on talking. But only about a minute.
Then  she  took  off the hank and looked me straight in the face, and very
pleasant, and says:
   "Come, now, what's your real name?"
   "Wh-what, mum?"
   "What's your real name? Is it Bill, or Tom, or Bob?-or what is it?"
   I  reckon I shook like a leaf, and I didn't know hardly what to do. But
I says:
   "Please  to  don't  poke fun at a poor girl like me, mum. If I'm in the
way here, I'll-"
   "No,  you won't. Set down and stay where you are. I ain't going to hurt
you,  and  I  ain't  going  to  tell on you, nuther. You just tell me your
secret, and trust me. I'll keep it; and, what's more, I'll help you. So'll
my old man if you want him to. You see, you're a runaway 'prentice, that's
all.  It  ain't  anything.  There ain't no harm in it. You've been treated
bad,  and  you made up your mind to cut. Bless you, child, I wouldn't tell
on you. Tell me all about it now, that's a good boy."
   So  I  said  it  wouldn't be no use to try to play it any longer, and I
would  just