



Produced by David Widger




HUCKLEBERRY FINN

By Mark Twain

Part 1.



NOTICE

PERSONS attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted;
persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons
attempting to find a plot in it will be shot.

BY ORDER OF THE AUTHOR, Per G.G., Chief of Ordnance.




EXPLANATORY

IN this book a number of dialects are used, to wit:  the Missouri <DW64>
dialect; the extremest form of the backwoods Southwestern dialect; the
ordinary "Pike County" dialect; and four modified varieties of this last.
The shadings have not been done in a haphazard fashion, or by guesswork;
but painstakingly, and with the trustworthy guidance and support of
personal familiarity with these several forms of speech.

I make this explanation for the reason that without it many readers would
suppose that all these characters were trying to talk alike and not
succeeding.

THE AUTHOR.





HUCKLEBERRY FINN

Scene:  The Mississippi Valley Time:  Forty to fifty years ago



CHAPTER I.

YOU don't know about me without you have read a book by the name of The
Adventures of Tom Sawyer; but that ain't no matter.  That book was made
by Mr. Mark Twain, and he told the truth, mainly.  There was things which
he stretched, but mainly he told the truth.  That is nothing.  I never
seen anybody but lied one time or another, without it was Aunt Polly, or
the widow, or maybe Mary.  Aunt Polly--Tom's Aunt Polly, she is--and
Mary, and the Widow Douglas is all told about in that book, which is
mostly a true book, with some stretchers, as I said before.

Now the way that the book winds up is this:  Tom and me found the money
that the robbers hid in the cave, and it made us rich.  We got six
thousand dollars apiece--all gold.  It was an awful sight of money when
it was piled up.  Well, Judge Thatcher he took it and put it out at
interest, and it fetched us a dollar a day apiece all the year round
--more than a body could tell what to do with.  The Widow Douglas she took
me for her son, and allowed she would sivilize me; but it was rough
living in the house all the time, considering how dismal regular and
decent the widow was in all her ways; and so when I couldn't stand it no
longer I lit out.  I got into my old rags and my sugar-hogshead again,
and was free and satisfied.  But Tom Sawyer he hunted me up and said he
was going to start a band of robbers, and I might join if I would go back
to the widow and be respectable.  So I went back.

The widow she cried over me, and called me a poor lost lamb, and she
called me a lot of other names, too, but she never meant no harm by it.
She put me in them new clothes again, and I couldn't do nothing but sweat
and sweat, and feel all cramped up.  Well, then, the old thing commenced
again.  The widow rung a bell for supper, and you had to come to time.
When you got to the table you couldn't go right to eating, but you had to
wait for the widow to tuck down her head and grumble a little over the
victuals, though there warn't really anything the matter with them,--that
is, nothing only everything was cooked by itself.  In a barrel of odds
and ends it is different; things get mixed up, and the juice kind of
swaps around, and the things go better.

After supper she got out her book and learned me about Moses and the
Bulrushers, and I was in a sweat to find out all about him; but by and by
she let it out that Moses had been dead a considerable long time; so then
I didn't care no more about him, because I don't take no stock in dead
people.

Pretty soon I wanted to smoke, and asked the widow to let me.  But she
wouldn't.  She said it was a mean practice and wasn't clean, and I must
try to not do it any more.  That is just the way with some people.  They
get down on a thing when they don't know nothing about it.  Here she was
a-bothering about Moses, which was no kin to her, and no use to anybody,
being gone, you see, yet finding a power of fault with me for doing a
thing that had some good in it.  And she took snuff, too; of course that
was all right, because she done it herself.

Her sister, Miss Watson, a tolerable slim old maid, with goggles on,
had just come to live with her, and took a set at me now with a
spelling-book. She worked me middling hard for about an hour, and then
the widow made her ease up.  I couldn't stood it much longer.  Then for
an hour it was deadly dull, and I was fidgety.  Miss Watson would say,
"Don't put your feet up there, Huckleberry;" and "Don't scrunch up like
that, Huckleberry--set up straight;" and pretty soon she would say,
"Don't gap and stretch like that, Huckleberry--why don't you try to
behave?"  Then she told me all about the bad place, and I said I wished I
was there. She got mad then, but I didn't mean no harm.  All I wanted was
to go somewheres; all I wanted was a change, I warn't particular.  She
said it was wicked to say what I said; said she wouldn't say it for the
whole world; she was going to live so as to go to the good place.  Well,
I couldn't see no advantage in going where she was going, so I made up my
mind I wouldn't try for it.  But I never said so, because it would only
make trouble, and wouldn't do no good.

Now she had got a start, and she went on and told me all about the good
place.  She said all a body would have to do there was to go around all
day long with a harp and sing, forever and ever.  So I didn't think much
of it. But I never said so.  I asked her if she reckoned Tom Sawyer would
go there, and she said not by a considerable sight.  I was glad about
that, because I wanted him and me to be together.

Miss Watson she kept pecking at me, and it got tiresome and lonesome.  By
and by they fetched the <DW65>s in and had prayers, and then everybody
was off to bed.  I went up to my room with a piece of candle, and put it
on the table.  Then I set down in a chair by the window and tried to
think of something cheerful, but it warn't no use.  I felt so lonesome I
most wished I was dead.  The stars were shining, and the leaves rustled
in the woods ever so mournful; and I heard an owl, away off, who-whooing
about somebody that was dead, and a whippowill and a dog crying about
somebody that was going to die; and the wind was trying to whisper
something to me, and I couldn't make out what it was, and so it made the
cold shivers run over me. Then away out in the woods I heard that kind of
a sound that a ghost makes when it wants to tell about something that's
on its mind and can't make itself understood, and so can't rest easy in
its grave, and has to go about that way every night grieving.  I got so
down-hearted and scared I did wish I had some company.  Pretty soon a
spider went crawling up my shoulder, and I flipped it off and it lit in
the candle; and before I could budge it was all shriveled up.  I didn't
need anybody to tell me that that was an awful bad sign and would fetch
me some bad luck, so I was scared and most shook the clothes off of me.
I got up and turned around in my tracks three times and crossed my breast
every time; and then I tied up a little lock of my hair with a thread to
keep witches away.  But I hadn't no confidence.  You do that when you've
lost a horseshoe that you've found, instead of nailing it up over the
door, but I hadn't ever heard anybody say it was any way to keep off bad
luck when you'd killed a spider.

I set down again, a-shaking all over, and got out my pipe for a smoke;
for the house was all as still as death now, and so the widow wouldn't
know. Well, after a long time I heard the clock away off in the town go
boom--boom--boom--twelve licks; and all still again--stiller than ever.
Pretty soon I heard a twig snap down in the dark amongst the trees
--something was a stirring.  I set still and listened.  Directly I could
just barely hear a "me-yow! me-yow!" down there.  That was good!  Says I,
"me-yow! me-yow!" as soft as I could, and then I put out the light and
scrambled out of the window on to the shed.  Then I slipped down to the
ground and crawled in among the trees, and, sure enough, there was Tom
Sawyer waiting for me.




CHAPTER II.

WE went tiptoeing along a path amongst the trees back towards the end of
the widow's garden, stooping down so as the branches wouldn't scrape our
heads. When we was passing by the kitchen I fell over a root and made a
noise.  We scrouched down and laid still.  Miss Watson's big <DW65>,
named Jim, was setting in the kitchen door; we could see him pretty
clear, because there was a light behind him.  He got up and stretched his
neck out about a minute, listening.  Then he says:

"Who dah?"

He listened some more; then he come tiptoeing down and stood right
between us; we could a touched him, nearly.  Well, likely it was minutes
and minutes that there warn't a sound, and we all there so close
together.  There was a place on my ankle that got to itching, but I
dasn't scratch it; and then my ear begun to itch; and next my back, right
between my shoulders.  Seemed like I'd die if I couldn't scratch.  Well,
I've noticed that thing plenty times since.  If you are with the quality,
or at a funeral, or trying to go to sleep when you ain't sleepy--if you
are anywheres where it won't do for you to scratch, why you will itch all
over in upwards of a thousand places. Pretty soon Jim says:

"Say, who is you?  Whar is you?  Dog my cats ef I didn' hear sumf'n.
Well, I know what I's gwyne to do:  I's gwyne to set down here and listen
tell I hears it agin."

So he set down on the ground betwixt me and Tom.  He leaned his back up
against a tree, and stretched his legs out till one of them most touched
one of mine.  My nose begun to itch.  It itched till the tears come into
my eyes.  But I dasn't scratch.  Then it begun to itch on the inside.
Next I got to itching underneath.  I didn't know how I was going to set
still. This miserableness went on as much as six or seven minutes; but it
seemed a sight longer than that.  I was itching in eleven different
places now.  I reckoned I couldn't stand it more'n a minute longer, but I
set my teeth hard and got ready to try.  Just then Jim begun to breathe
heavy; next he begun to snore--and then I was pretty soon comfortable
again.

Tom he made a sign to me--kind of a little noise with his mouth--and we
went creeping away on our hands and knees.  When we was ten foot off Tom
whispered to me, and wanted to tie Jim to the tree for fun.  But I said
no; he might wake and make a disturbance, and then they'd find out I
warn't in. Then Tom said he hadn't got candles enough, and he would slip
in the kitchen and get some more.  I didn't want him to try.  I said Jim
might wake up and come.  But Tom wanted to resk it; so we slid in there
and got three candles, and Tom laid five cents on the table for pay.
Then we got out, and I was in a sweat to get away; but nothing would do
Tom but he must crawl to where Jim was, on his hands and knees, and play
something on him.  I waited, and it seemed a good while, everything was
so still and lonesome.

As soon as Tom was back we cut along the path, around the garden fence,
and by and by fetched up on the steep top of the hill the other side of
the house.  Tom said he slipped Jim's hat off of his head and hung it on
a limb right over him, and Jim stirred a little, but he didn't wake.
Afterwards Jim said the witches be witched him and put him in a trance,
and rode him all over the State, and then set him under the trees again,
and hung his hat on a limb to show who done it.  And next time Jim told
it he said they rode him down to New Orleans; and, after that, every time
he told it he spread it more and more, till by and by he said they rode
him all over the world, and tired him most to death, and his back was all
over saddle-boils.  Jim was monstrous proud about it, and he got so he
wouldn't hardly notice the other <DW65>s.  <DW65>s would come miles to
hear Jim tell about it, and he was more looked up to than any <DW65> in
that country.  Strange <DW65>s would stand with their mouths open and
look him all over, same as if he was a wonder.  <DW65>s is always talking
about witches in the dark by the kitchen fire; but whenever one was
talking and letting on to know all about such things, Jim would happen in
and say, "Hm!  What you know 'bout witches?" and that <DW65> was corked
up and had to take a back seat.  Jim always kept that five-center piece
round his neck with a string, and said it was a charm the devil give to
him with his own hands, and told him he could cure anybody with it and
fetch witches whenever he wanted to just by saying something to it; but
he never told what it was he said to it.  <DW65>s would come from all
around there and give Jim anything they had, just for a sight of that
five-center piece; but they wouldn't touch it, because the devil had had
his hands on it.  Jim was most ruined for a servant, because he got stuck
up on account of having seen the devil and been rode by witches.

Well, when Tom and me got to the edge of the hilltop we looked away down
into the village and could see three or four lights twinkling, where
there was sick folks, maybe; and the stars over us was sparkling ever so
fine; and down by the village was the river, a whole mile broad, and
awful still and grand.  We went down the hill and found Jo Harper and Ben
Rogers, and two or three more of the boys, hid in the old tanyard.  So we
unhitched a skiff and pulled down the river two mile and a half, to the
big scar on the hillside, and went ashore.

We went to a clump of bushes, and Tom made everybody swear to keep the
secret, and then showed them a hole in the hill, right in the thickest
part of the bushes.  Then we lit the candles, and crawled in on our hands
and knees.  We went about two hundred yards, and then the cave opened up.
Tom poked about amongst the passages, and pretty soon ducked under a wall
where you wouldn't a noticed that there was a hole.  We went along a
narrow place and got into a kind of room, all damp and sweaty and cold,
and there we stopped.  Tom says:

"Now, we'll start this band of robbers and call it Tom Sawyer's Gang.
Everybody that wants to join has got to take an oath, and write his name
in blood."

Everybody was willing.  So Tom got out a sheet of paper that he had wrote
the oath on, and read it.  It swore every boy to stick to the band, and
never tell any of the secrets; and if anybody done anything to any boy in
the band, whichever boy was ordered to kill that person and his family
must do it, and he mustn't eat and he mustn't sleep till he had killed
them and hacked a cross in their breasts, which was the sign of the band.
And nobody that didn't belong to the band could use that mark, and if he
did he must be sued; and if he done it again he must be killed.  And if
anybody that belonged to the band told the secrets, he must have his
throat cut, and then have his carcass burnt up and the ashes scattered
all around, and his name blotted off of the list with blood and never
mentioned again by the gang, but have a curse put on it and be forgot
forever.

Everybody said it was a real beautiful oath, and asked Tom if he got it
out of his own head.  He said, some of it, but the rest was out of
pirate-books and robber-books, and every gang that was high-toned had it.

Some thought it would be good to kill the FAMILIES of boys that told the
secrets.  Tom said it was a good idea, so he took a pencil and wrote it
in. Then Ben Rogers says:

"Here's Huck Finn, he hain't got no family; what you going to do 'bout
him?"

"Well, hain't he got a father?" says Tom Sawyer.

"Yes, he's got a father, but you can't never find him these days.  He
used to lay drunk with the hogs in the tanyard, but he hain't been seen
in these parts for a year or more."

They talked it over, and they was going to rule me out, because they said
every boy must have a family or somebody to kill, or else it wouldn't be
fair and square for the others.  Well, nobody could think of anything to
do--everybody was stumped, and set still.  I was most ready to cry; but
all at once I thought of a way, and so I offered them Miss Watson--they
could kill her.  Everybody said:

"Oh, she'll do.  That's all right.  Huck can come in."

Then they all stuck a pin in their fingers to get blood to sign with, and
I made my mark on the paper.

"Now," says Ben Rogers, "what's the line of business of this Gang?"

"Nothing only robbery and murder," Tom said.

"But who are we going to rob?--houses, or cattle, or--"

"Stuff! stealing cattle and such things ain't robbery; it's burglary,"
says Tom Sawyer.  "We ain't burglars.  That ain't no sort of style.  We
are highwaymen.  We stop stages and carriages on the road, with masks on,
and kill the people and take their watches and money."

"Must we always kill the people?"

"Oh, certainly.  It's best.  Some authorities think different, but mostly
it's considered best to kill them--except some that you bring to the cave
here, and keep them till they're ransomed."

"Ransomed?  What's that?"

"I don't know.  But that's what they do.  I've seen it in books; and so
of course that's what we've got to do."

"But how can we do it if we don't know what it is?"

"Why, blame it all, we've GOT to do it.  Don't I tell you it's in the
books?  Do you want to go to doing different from what's in the books,
and get things all muddled up?"

"Oh, that's all very fine to SAY, Tom Sawyer, but how in the nation are
these fellows going to be ransomed if we don't know how to do it to them?
--that's the thing I want to get at.  Now, what do you reckon it is?"

"Well, I don't know.  But per'aps if we keep them till they're ransomed,
it means that we keep them till they're dead."

"Now, that's something LIKE.  That'll answer.  Why couldn't you said that
before?  We'll keep them till they're ransomed to death; and a bothersome
lot they'll be, too--eating up everything, and always trying to get
loose."

"How you talk, Ben Rogers.  How can they get loose when there's a guard
over them, ready to shoot them down if they move a peg?"

"A guard!  Well, that IS good.  So somebody's got to set up all night and
never get any sleep, just so as to watch them.  I think that's
foolishness. Why can't a body take a club and ransom them as soon as they
get here?"

"Because it ain't in the books so--that's why.  Now, Ben Rogers, do you
want to do things regular, or don't you?--that's the idea.  Don't you
reckon that the people that made the books knows what's the correct thing
to do?  Do you reckon YOU can learn 'em anything?  Not by a good deal.
No, sir, we'll just go on and ransom them in the regular way."

"All right.  I don't mind; but I say it's a fool way, anyhow.  Say, do we
kill the women, too?"

"Well, Ben Rogers, if I was as ignorant as you I wouldn't let on.  Kill
the women?  No; nobody ever saw anything in the books like that.  You
fetch them to the cave, and you're always as polite as pie to them; and
by and by they fall in love with you, and never want to go home any
more."

"Well, if that's the way I'm agreed, but I don't take no stock in it.
Mighty soon we'll have the cave so cluttered up with women, and fellows
waiting to be ransomed, that there won't be no place for the robbers.
But go ahead, I ain't got nothing to say."

Little Tommy Barnes was asleep now, and when they waked him up he was
scared, and cried, and said he wanted to go home to his ma, and didn't
want to be a robber any more.

So they all made fun of him, and called him cry-baby, and that made him
mad, and he said he would go straight and tell all the secrets.  But Tom
give him five cents to keep quiet, and said we would all go home and meet
next week, and rob somebody and kill some people.

Ben Rogers said he couldn't get out much, only Sundays, and so he wanted
to begin next Sunday; but all the boys said it would be wicked to do it
on Sunday, and that settled the thing.  They agreed to get together and
fix a day as soon as they could, and then we elected Tom Sawyer first
captain and Jo Harper second captain of the Gang, and so started home.

I clumb up the shed and crept into my window just before day was
breaking. My new clothes was all greased up and clayey, and I was
dog-tired.




CHAPTER III.

WELL, I got a good going-over in the morning from old Miss Watson on
account of my clothes; but the widow she didn't scold, but only cleaned
off the grease and clay, and looked so sorry that I thought I would
behave awhile if I could.  Then Miss Watson she took me in the closet and
prayed, but nothing come of it.  She told me to pray every day, and
whatever I asked for I would get it.  But it warn't so.  I tried it.
Once I got a fish-line, but no hooks.  It warn't any good to me without
hooks.  I tried for the hooks three or four times, but somehow I couldn't
make it work.  By and by, one day, I asked Miss Watson to try for me, but
she said I was a fool.  She never told me why, and I couldn't make it out
no way.

I set down one time back in the woods, and had a long think about it.  I
says to myself, if a body can get anything they pray for, why don't
Deacon Winn get back the money he lost on pork?  Why can't the widow get
back her silver snuffbox that was stole?  Why can't Miss Watson fat up?
No, says I to my self, there ain't nothing in it.  I went and told the
widow about it, and she said the thing a body could get by praying for it
was "spiritual gifts."  This was too many for me, but she told me what
she meant--I must help other people, and do everything I could for other
people, and look out for them all the time, and never think about myself.
This was including Miss Watson, as I took it.  I went out in the woods
and turned it over in my mind a long time, but I couldn't see no
advantage about it--except for the other people; so at last I reckoned I
wouldn't worry about it any more, but just let it go.  Sometimes the
widow would take me one side and talk about Providence in a way to make a
body's mouth water; but maybe next day Miss Watson would take hold and
knock it all down again.  I judged I could see that there was two
Providences, and a poor chap would stand considerable show with the
widow's Providence, but if Miss Watson's got him there warn't no help for
him any more.  I thought it all out, and reckoned I would belong to the
widow's if he wanted me, though I couldn't make out how he was a-going to
be any better off then than what he was before, seeing I was so ignorant,
and so kind of low-down and ornery.

Pap he hadn't been seen for more than a year, and that was comfortable
for me; I didn't want to see him no more.  He used to always whale me
when he was sober and could get his hands on me; though I used to take to
the woods most of the time when he was around.  Well, about this time he
was found in the river drownded, about twelve mile above town, so people
said.  They judged it was him, anyway; said this drownded man was just
his size, and was ragged, and had uncommon long hair, which was all like
pap; but they couldn't make nothing out of the face, because it had been
in the water so long it warn't much like a face at all.  They said he was
floating on his back in the water.  They took him and buried him on the
bank.  But I warn't comfortable long, because I happened to think of
something.  I knowed mighty well that a drownded man don't float on his
back, but on his face.  So I knowed, then, that this warn't pap, but a
woman dressed up in a man's clothes.  So I was uncomfortable again.  I
judged the old man would turn up again by and by, though I wished he
wouldn't.

We played robber now and then about a month, and then I resigned.  All
the boys did.  We hadn't robbed nobody, hadn't killed any people, but
only just pretended.  We used to hop out of the woods and go charging
down on hog-drivers and women in carts taking garden stuff to market, but
we never hived any of them.  Tom Sawyer called the hogs "ingots," and he
called the turnips and stuff "julery," and we would go to the cave and
powwow over what we had done, and how many people we had killed and
marked.  But I couldn't see no profit in it.  One time Tom sent a boy to
run about town with a blazing stick, which he called a slogan (which was
the sign for the Gang to get together), and then he said he had got
secret news by his spies that next day a whole parcel of Spanish
merchants and rich A-rabs was going to camp in Cave Hollow with two
hundred elephants, and six hundred camels, and over a thousand "sumter"
mules, all loaded down with di'monds, and they didn't have only a guard
of four hundred soldiers, and so we would lay in ambuscade, as he called
it, and kill the lot and scoop the things.  He said we must slick up our
swords and guns, and get ready.  He never could go after even a
turnip-cart but he must have the swords and guns all scoured up for it,
though they was only lath and broomsticks, and you might scour at them
till you rotted, and then they warn't worth a mouthful of ashes more than
what they was before.  I didn't believe we could lick such a crowd of
Spaniards and A-rabs, but I wanted to see the camels and elephants, so I
was on hand next day, Saturday, in the ambuscade; and when we got the
word we rushed out of the woods and down the hill.  But there warn't no
Spaniards and A-rabs, and there warn't no camels nor no elephants.  It
warn't anything but a Sunday-school picnic, and only a primer-class at
that.  We busted it up, and chased the children up the hollow; but we
never got anything but some doughnuts and jam, though Ben Rogers got a
rag doll, and Jo Harper got a hymn-book and a tract; and then the teacher
charged in, and made us drop everything and cut.  I didn't see no
di'monds, and I told Tom Sawyer so.  He said there was loads of them
there, anyway; and he said there was A-rabs there, too, and elephants and
things.  I said, why couldn't we see them, then?  He said if I warn't so
ignorant, but had read a book called Don Quixote, I would know without
asking.  He said it was all done by enchantment.  He said there was
hundreds of soldiers there, and elephants and treasure, and so on, but we
had enemies which he called magicians; and they had turned the whole
thing into an infant Sunday-school, just out of spite.  I said, all
right; then the thing for us to do was to go for the magicians.  Tom
Sawyer said I was a numskull.

"Why," said he, "a magician could call up a lot of genies, and they would
hash you up like nothing before you could say Jack Robinson.  They are as
tall as a tree and as big around as a church."

"Well," I says, "s'pose we got some genies to help US--can't we lick the
other crowd then?"

"How you going to get them?"

"I don't know.  How do THEY get them?"

"Why, they rub an old tin lamp or an iron ring, and then the genies come
tearing in, with the thunder and lightning a-ripping around and the smoke
a-rolling, and everything they're told to do they up and do it.  They
don't think nothing of pulling a shot-tower up by the roots, and belting
a Sunday-school superintendent over the head with it--or any other man."

"Who makes them tear around so?"

"Why, whoever rubs the lamp or the ring.  They belong to whoever rubs the
lamp or the ring, and they've got to do whatever he says.  If he tells
them to build a palace forty miles long out of di'monds, and fill it full
of chewing-gum, or whatever you want, and fetch an emperor's daughter
from China for you to marry, they've got to do it--and they've got to do
it before sun-up next morning, too.  And more:  they've got to waltz that
palace around over the country wherever you want it, you understand."

"Well," says I, "I think they are a pack of flat-heads for not keeping
the palace themselves 'stead of fooling them away like that.  And what's
more--if I was one of them I would see a man in Jericho before I would
drop my business and come to him for the rubbing of an old tin lamp."

"How you talk, Huck Finn.  Why, you'd HAVE to come when he rubbed it,
whether you wanted to or not."

"What! and I as high as a tree and as big as a church?  All right, then;
I WOULD come; but I lay I'd make that man climb the highest tree there
was in the country."

"Shucks, it ain't no use to talk to you, Huck Finn.  You don't seem to
know anything, somehow--perfect saphead."

I thought all this over for two or three days, and then I reckoned I
would see if there was anything in it.  I got an old tin lamp and an iron
ring, and went out in the woods and rubbed and rubbed till I sweat like
an Injun, calculating to build a palace and sell it; but it warn't no
use, none of the genies come.  So then I judged that all that stuff was
only just one of Tom Sawyer's lies.  I reckoned he believed in the A-rabs
and the elephants, but as for me I think different.  It had all the marks
of a Sunday-school.




CHAPTER IV.

WELL, three or four months run along, and it was well into the winter
now. I had been to school most all the time and could spell and read and
write just a little, and could say the multiplication table up to six
times seven is thirty-five, and I don't reckon I could ever get any
further than that if I was to live forever.  I don't take no stock in
mathematics, anyway.

At first I hated the school, but by and by I got so I could stand it.
Whenever I got uncommon tired I played hookey, and the hiding I got next
day done me good and cheered me up.  So the longer I went to school the
easier it got to be.  I was getting sort of used to the widow's ways,
too, and they warn't so raspy on me.  Living in a house and sleeping in a
bed pulled on me pretty tight mostly, but before the cold weather I used
to slide out and sleep in the woods sometimes, and so that was a rest to
me.  I liked the old ways best, but I was getting so I liked the new
ones, too, a little bit. The widow said I was coming along slow but sure,
and doing very satisfactory.  She said she warn't ashamed of me.

One morning I happened to turn over the salt-cellar at breakfast.  I
reached for some of it as quick as I could to throw over my left shoulder
and keep off the bad luck, but Miss Watson was in ahead of me, and
crossed me off. She says, "Take your hands away, Huckleberry; what a mess
you are always making!"  The widow put in a good word for me, but that
warn't going to keep off the bad luck, I knowed that well enough.  I
started out, after breakfast, feeling worried and shaky, and wondering
where it was going to fall on me, and what it was going to be.  There is
ways to keep off some kinds of bad luck, but this wasn't one of them
kind; so I never tried to do anything, but just poked along low-spirited
and on the watch-out.

I went down to the front garden and clumb over the stile where you go
through the high board fence.  There was an inch of new snow on the
ground, and I seen somebody's tracks.  They had come up from the quarry
and stood around the stile a while, and then went on around the garden
fence.  It was funny they hadn't come in, after standing around so.  I
couldn't make it out.  It was very curious, somehow.  I was going to
follow around, but I stooped down to look at the tracks first.  I didn't
notice anything at first, but next I did.  There was a cross in the left
boot-heel made with big nails, to keep off the devil.

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 <DW65>, 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.  He said there was a spirit inside of it, and it knowed
everything.  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 something 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 said it wouldn't talk. He said sometimes it wouldn't
talk without money.  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:

"Yo' ole father doan' know yit what he's a-gwyne to do.  Sometimes he
spec he'll go 'way, en den agin he spec he'll stay.  De bes' way is to
res' easy en let de ole man take his own way.  Dey's two angels hoverin'
roun' 'bout him.  One uv 'em is white en shiny, en t'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 gwyne to fetch him
at de las'.  But you is all right.  You gwyne to have considable trouble
in yo' life, en considable joy.  Sometimes you gwyne to git hurt, en
sometimes you gwyne 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's gwyne to
marry de po' one fust 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 gwyne to git hung."

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 to.  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.  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.  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 General Washington and the
wars. 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 good."

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.

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 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.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Part 1
by Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens)

*** 