CHAPTER XXXII

TUESDAY afternoon came, and waned to
the twilight. The village of St. Peters-
burg still mourned. The lost children
had not been found. Public prayers
had been offered up for them, and many
and many a private prayer that had the
petitioner's whole heart in it; but still no good news
came from the cave. The majority of the searchers
had given up the quest and gone back to their daily
avocations, saying that it was plain the children could
never be found. Mrs. Thatcher was very ill, and a
great part of the time delirious. People said it was
heartbreaking to hear her call her child, and raise her
head and listen a whole minute at a time, then lay it
wearily down again with a moan. Aunt Polly had
drooped into a settled melancholy, and her gray hair
had grown almost white. The village went to its rest
on Tuesday night, sad and forlorn.

Away in the middle of the night a wild peal burst
from the village bells, and in a moment the streets were
swarming with frantic half-clad people, who shouted,
"Turn out! turn out! they're found! they're found!"
Tin pans and horns were added to the din, the popula-
tion massed itself and moved toward the river, met
the children coming in an open carriage drawn by
shouting citizens, thronged around it, joined its home-
ward march, and swept magnificently up the main
street roaring huzzah after huzzah!

The village was illuminated; nobody went to bed
again; it was the greatest night the little town had
ever seen. During the first half-hour a procession of
villagers filed through Judge Thatcher's house, seized
the saved ones and kissed them, squeezed Mrs. Thatch-
er's hand, tried to speak but couldn't -- and drifted out
raining tears all over the place.

Aunt Polly's happiness was complete, and Mrs.
Thatcher's nearly so. It would be complete, how-
ever, as soon as the messenger dispatched with the
great news to the cave should get the word to her
husband. Tom lay upon a sofa with an eager audi-
tory about him and told the history of the wonderful
adventure, putting in many striking additions to adorn
it withal; and closed with a description of how he
left Becky and went on an exploring expedition; how
he followed two avenues as far as his kite-line would
reach; how he followed a third to the fullest stretch
of the kite-line, and was about to turn back when he
glimpsed a far-off speck that looked like daylight;
dropped the line and groped toward it, pushed his
head and shoulders through a small hole, and saw the
broad Mississippi rolling by! And if it had only hap-
pened to be night he would not have seen that speck
of daylight and would not have explored that passage
any more! He told how he went back for Becky and
broke the good news and she told him not to fret her
with such stuff, for she was tired, and knew she was
going to die, and wanted to. He described how he
labored with her and convinced her; and how she
almost died for joy when she had groped to where she
actually saw the blue speck of daylight; how he pushed
his way out at the hole and then helped her out; how
they sat there and cried for gladness; how some men
came along in a skiff and Tom hailed them and told
them their situation and their famished condition; how
the men didn't believe the wild tale at first, "because,"
said they, "you are five miles down the river below the
valley the cave is in" -- then took them aboard, rowed to
a house, gave them supper, made them rest till two or
three hours after dark and then brought them home.

Before day-dawn, Judge Thatcher and the handful
of searchers with him were tracked out, in the cave, by
the twine clews they had strung behind them, and
informed of the great news.

Three days and nights of toil and hunger in the
cave were not to be shaken off at once, as Tom and
Becky soon discovered. They were bedridden all of
Wednesday and Thursday, and seemed to grow more
and more tired and worn, all the time. Tom got
about, a little, on Thursday, was down-town Friday,
and nearly as whole as ever Saturday; but Becky
did not leave her room until Sunday, and then she
looked as if she had passed through a wasting illness.

Tom learned of Huck's sickness and went to see
him on Friday, but could not be admitted to the
bedroom; neither could he on Saturday or Sunday.
He was admitted daily after that, but was warned to
keep still about his adventure and introduce no ex-
citing topic. The Widow Douglas stayed by to see
that he obeyed. At home Tom learned of the Cardiff
Hill event; also that the "ragged man's" body had
eventually been found in the river near the ferry-
landing; he had been drowned while trying to escape,
perhaps.

About a fortnight after Tom's rescue from the
cave, he started off to visit Huck, who had grown
plenty strong enough, now, to hear exciting talk, and
Tom had some that would interest him, he thought.
Judge Thatcher's house was on Tom's way, and he
stopped to see Becky. The Judge and some friends
set Tom to talking, and some one asked him ironically
if he wouldn't like to go to the cave again. Tom said
he thought he wouldn't mind it. The Judge said:

"Well, there are others just like you, Tom, I've not
the least doubt. But we have taken care of that.
Nobody will get lost in that cave any more."

"Why?"

"Because I had its big door sheathed with boiler
iron two weeks ago, and triple-locked -- and I've got
the keys."

Tom turned as white as a sheet.

"What's the matter, boy! Here, run, somebody!
Fetch a glass of water!"

The water was brought and thrown into Tom's
face.

"Ah, now you're all right. What was the matter
with you, Tom?"

"Oh, Judge, Injun Joe's in the cave!"
<--split-->
CHAPTER XXXIII

WITHIN a few minutes the news had
spread, and a dozen skiff-loads of men
were on their way to McDougal's cave,
and the ferryboat, well filled with pas-
sengers, soon followed. Tom Sawyer was
in the skiff that bore Judge Thatcher.

When the cave door was unlocked, a sorrowful
sight presented itself in the dim twilight of the place.
Injun Joe lay stretched upon the ground, dead, with
his face close to the crack of the door, as if his longing
eyes had been fixed, to the latest moment, upon the
light and the cheer of the free world outside. Tom
was touched, for he knew by his own experience how
this wretch had suffered. His pity was moved, but
nevertheless he felt an abounding sense of relief and
security, now, which revealed to him in a degree which
he had not fully appreciated before how vast a weight
of dread had been lying upon him since the day he
lifted his voice against this bloody-minded outcast.

Injun Joe's bowie-knife lay close by, its blade
broken in two. The great foundation-beam of the
door had been chipped and hacked through, with
tedious labor; useless labor, too, it was, for the native
rock formed a sill outside it, and upon that stubborn
material the knife had wrought no effect; the only
damage done was to the knife itself. But if there had
been no stony obstruction there the labor would have
been useless still, for if the beam had been wholly cut
away Injun Joe could not have squeezed his body
under the door, and he knew it. So he had only hacked
that place in order to be doing something -- in order to
pass the weary time -- in order to employ his tortured
faculties. Ordinarily one could find half a dozen bits
of candle stuck around in the crevices of this vestibule,
left there by tourists; but there were none now. The
prisoner had searched them out and eaten them. He
had also contrived to catch a few bats, and these,
also, he had eaten, leaving only their claws. The
poor unfortunate had starved to death. In one place,
near at hand, a stalagmite had been slowly growing
up from the ground for ages, builded by the water-drip
from a stalactite overhead. The captive had broken
off the stalagmite, and upon the stump had placed a
stone, wherein he had scooped a shallow hollow to
catch the precious drop that fell once in every three
minutes with the dreary regularity of a clock-tick -- a
dessertspoonful once in four and twenty hours. That
drop was falling when the Pyramids were new; when
Troy fell; when the foundations of Rome were laid
when Christ was crucified; when the Conqueror
created the British empire; when Columbus sailed;
when the massacre at Lexington was "news." It is
falling now; it will still be falling when all these things
shall have sunk down the afternoon of history, and
the twilight of tradition, and been swallowed up in
the thick night of oblivion. Has everything a purpose
and a mission? Did this drop fall patiently during
five thousand years to be ready for this flitting human
insect's need? and has it another important object to
accomplish ten thousand years to come? No matter.
It is many and many a year since the hapless half-breed
scooped out the stone to catch the priceless drops, but
to this day the tourist stares longest at that pathetic
stone and that slow-dropping water when he comes
to see the wonders of McDougal's cave. Injun Joe's
cup stands first in the list of the cavern's marvels; even
"Aladdin's Palace" cannot rival it.

Injun Joe was buried near the mouth of the cave;
and people flocked there in boats and wagons from
the towns and from all the farms and hamlets for
seven miles around; they brought their children, and
all sorts of provisions, and confessed that they had
had almost as satisfactory a time at the funeral as they
could have had at the hanging.

This funeral stopped the further growth of one
thing -- the petition to the governor for Injun Joe's
pardon. The petition had been largely signed; many
tearful and eloquent meetings had been held, and a
committee of sappy women been appointed to go in
deep mourning and wail around the governor, and
implore him to be a merciful ass and trample his duty
under foot. Injun Joe was believed to have killed five
citizens of the village, but what of that? If he had been
Satan himself there would have been plenty of weak-
lings ready to scribble their names to a pardon-petition,
and drip a tear on it from their permanently impaired
and leaky water-works.

The morning after the funeral Tom took Huck to
a private place to have an important talk. Huck had
learned all about Tom's adventure from the Welsh-
man and the Widow Douglas, by this time, but
Tom said he reckoned there was one thing they
had not told him; that thing was what he wanted
to talk about now. Huck's face saddened. He
said:

"I know what it is. You got into No. 2 and never
found anything but whiskey. Nobody told me it was
you; but I just knowed it must 'a' ben you, soon as
I heard 'bout that whiskey business; and I knowed you
hadn't got the money becuz you'd 'a' got at me some
way or other and told me even if you was mum to
everybody else. Tom, something's always told me
we'd never get holt of that swag."

"Why, Huck, I never told on that tavern-keeper.
YOU know his tavern was all right the Saturday I went
to the picnic. Don't you remember you was to watch
there that night?"

"Oh yes! Why, it seems 'bout a year ago. It
was that very night that I follered Injun Joe to the
widder's."

"YOU followed him?"

"Yes -- but you keep mum. I reckon Injun Joe's
left friends behind him, and I don't want 'em souring
on me and doing me mean tricks. If it hadn't ben for
me he'd be down in Texas now, all right."

Then Huck told his entire adventure in confidence
to Tom, who had only heard of the Welshman's part
of it before.

"Well," said Huck, presently, coming back to the
main question, "whoever nipped the whiskey in No. 2,
nipped the money, too, I reckon -- anyways it's a goner
for us, Tom."

"Huck, that money wasn't ever in No. 2!"

"What!" Huck searched his comrade's face keenly.
"Tom, have you got on the track of that money again?"

"Huck, it's in the cave!"

Huck's eyes blazed.

"Say it again, Tom."

"The money's in the cave!"

"Tom -- honest injun, now -- is it fun, or earnest?"

"Earnest, Huck -- just as earnest as ever I was in
my life. Will you go in there with me and help get
it out?"

"I bet I will! I will if it's where we can blaze our
way to it and not get lost."

"Huck, we can do that without the least little bit
of trouble in the world."

"Good as wheat! What makes you think the
money's --"

"Huck, you just wait till we get in there. If we
don't find it I'll agree to give you my drum and every
thing I've got in the world. I will, by jings."

"All right -- it's a whiz. When do you say?"

"Right now, if you say it. Are you strong enough?"

"Is it far in the cave? I ben on my pins a little,
three or four days, now, but I can't walk more'n a
mile, Tom -- least I don't think I could."

"It's about five mile into there the way anybody
but me would go, Huck, but there's a mighty short
cut that they don't anybody but me know about.
Huck, I'll take you right to it in a skiff. I'll float
the skiff down there, and I'll pull it back again all by
myself. You needn't ever turn your hand over."

"Less start right off, Tom."

"All right. We want some bread and meat, and
our pipes, and a little bag or two, and two or three
kite-strings, and some of these new-fangled things
they call lucifer matches. I tell you, many's the
time I wished I had some when I was in there before."

A trifle after noon the boys borrowed a small skiff
from a citizen who was absent, and got under way
at once. When they were several miles below "Cave
Hollow," Tom said:

"Now you see this bluff here looks all alike all the
way down from the cave hollow -- no houses, no wood-
yards, bushes all alike. But do you see that white
place up yonder where there's been a landslide?
Well, that's one of my marks. We'll get ashore,
now."

They landed.

"Now, Huck, where we're a-standing you could
touch that hole I got out of with a fishing-pole. See
if you can find it."

Huck searched all the place about, and found
nothing. Tom proudly marched into a thick clump of
sumach bushes and said:

"Here you are! Look at it, Huck; it's the snuggest
hole in this country. You just keep mum about it.
All along I've been wanting to be a robber, but I knew
I'd got to have a thing like this, and where to run across
it was the bother. We've got it now, and we'll keep it
quiet, only we'll let Joe Harper and Ben Rogers in --
because of course there's got to be a Gang, or else
there wouldn't be any style about it. Tom Sawyer's
Gang -- it sounds splendid, don't it, Huck?"

"Well, it just does, Tom. And who'll we rob?"

"Oh, most anybody. Waylay people -- that's mostly
the way."

"And kill them?"

"No, not always. Hive them in the cave till they
raise a ransom."

"What's a ransom?"

"Money. You make them raise all they can, off'n
their friends; and after you've kept them a year, if
it ain't raised then you kill them. That's the general
way. Only you don't kill the women. You shut up
the women, but you don't kill them. They're always
beautiful and rich, and awfully scared. You take
their watches and things, but you always take your
hat off and talk polite. They ain't anybody as polite
as robbers -- you'll see that in any book. Well, the
women get to loving you, and after they've been in the
cave a week or two weeks they stop crying and after
that you couldn't get them to leave. If you drove
them out they'd turn right around and come back.
It's so in all the books."

"Why, it's real bully, Tom. I believe it's better'n
to be a pirate."

"Yes, it's better in some ways, because it's close to
home and circuses and all that."

By this time everything was ready and the boys
entered the hole, Tom in the lead. They toiled their
way to the farther end of the tunnel, then made their
spliced kite-strings fast and moved on. A few steps
brought them to the spring, and Tom felt a shudder
quiver all through him. He showed Huck the frag-
ment of candle-wick perched on a lump of clay against
the wall, and described how he and Becky had watched
the flame struggle and expire.

The boys began to quiet down to whispers, now,
for the stillness and gloom of the place oppressed their
spirits. They went on, and presently entered and
followed Tom's other corridor until they reached the
"jumping-off place." The candles revealed the fact
that it was not really a precipice, but only a steep
clay hill twenty or thirty feet high. Tom whis-
pered:

"Now I'll show you something, Huck."

He held his candle aloft and said:

"Look as far around the corner as you can. Do
you see that? There -- on the big rock over yonder
-- done with candle-smoke."

"Tom, it's a CROSS!"

"NOW where's your Number Two? 'UNDER THE
CROSS,' hey? Right yonder's where I saw Injun Joe
poke up his candle, Huck!"

Huck stared at the mystic sign awhile, and then said
with a shaky voice:

"Tom, less git out of here!"

"What! and leave the treasure?"

"Yes -- leave it. Injun Joe's ghost is round about
there, certain."

"No it ain't, Huck, no it ain't. It would ha'nt the
place where he died -- away out at the mouth of the
cave -- five mile from here."

"No, Tom, it wouldn't. It would hang round the
money. I know the ways of ghosts, and so do you."

Tom began to fear that Huck was right. Mis-
givings gathered in his mind. But presently an idea
occurred to him --

"Lookyhere, Huck, what fools we're making of
ourselves! Injun Joe's ghost ain't a going to come
around where there's a cross!"

The point was well taken. It had its effect.

"Tom, I didn't think of that. But that's so. It's
luck for us, that cross is. I reckon we'll climb down
there and have a hunt for that box."

Tom went first, cutting rude steps in the clay hill
as he descended. Huck followed. Four avenues
opened out of the small cavern which the great rock
stood in. The boys examined three of them with no
result. They found a small recess in the one nearest
the base of the rock, with a pallet of blankets spread
down in it; also an old suspender, some bacon rind,
and the well-gnawed bones of two or three fowls. But
there was no money-box. The lads searched and re-
searched this place, but in vain. Tom said:

"He said UNDER the cross. Well, this comes nearest
to being under the cross. It can't be under the rock
itself, because that sets solid on the ground."

They searched everywhere once more, and then
sat down discouraged. Huck could suggest nothing.
By-and-by Tom said:

"Lookyhere, Huck, there's footprints and some can-
dle-grease on the clay about one side of this rock,
but not on the other sides. Now, what's that for?
I bet you the money IS under the rock. I'm going to
dig in the clay."

"That ain't no bad notion, Tom!" said Huck with
animation.

Tom's "real Barlow" was out at once, and he had
not dug four inches before he struck wood.

"Hey, Huck! -- you hear that?"

Huck began to dig and scratch now. Some boards
were soon uncovered and removed. They had con-
cealed a natural chasm which led under the rock. Tom
got into this and held his candle as far under the rock
as he could, but said he could not see to the end of the
rift. He proposed to explore. He stooped and passed
under; the narrow way descended gradually. He
followed its winding course, first to the right, then to
the left, Huck at his heels. Tom turned a short curve,
by-and-by, and exclaimed:

"My goodness, Huck, lookyhere!"

It was the treasure-box, sure enough, occupying a
snug little cavern, along with an empty powder-keg,
a couple of guns in leather cases, two or three pairs of
old moccasins, a leather belt, and some other rubbish
well soaked with the water-drip.

"Got it at last!" said Huck, ploughing among the tar-
nished coins with his hand. "My, but we're rich, Tom!"

"Huck, I always reckoned we'd get it. It's just
too good to believe, but we HAVE got it, sure! Say --
let's not fool around here. Let's snake it out. Lemme
see if I can lift the box."

It weighed about fifty pounds. Tom could lift it,
after an awkward fashion, but could not carry it
conveniently.

"I thought so," he said; "THEY carried it like it
was heavy, that day at the ha'nted house. I noticed
that. I reckon I was right to think of fetching the
little bags along."

The money was soon in the bags and the boys took
it up to the cross rock.

"Now less fetch the guns and things," said Huck.

"No, Huck -- leave them there. They're just the
tricks to have when we go to robbing. We'll keep them
there all the time, and we'll hold our orgies there, too.
It's an awful snug place for orgies."

"What orgies?"

"I dono. But robbers always have orgies, and of
course we've got to have them, too. Come along,
Huck, we've been in here a long time. It's getting
late, I reckon. I'm hungry, too. We'll eat and smoke
when we get to the skiff."

They presently emerged into the clump of sumach
bushes, looked warily out, found the coast clear, and
were soon lunching and smoking in the skiff. As
the sun dipped toward the horizon they pushed out
and got under way. Tom skimmed up the shore
through the long twilight, chatting cheerily with Huck,
and landed shortly after dark.

"Now, Huck," said Tom, "we'll hide the money
in the loft of the widow's woodshed, and I'll come
up in the morning and we'll count it and divide, and
then we'll hunt up a place out in the woods for it
where it will be safe. Just you lay quiet here and
watch the stuff till I run and hook Benny Taylor's
little wagon; I won't be gone a minute."

He disappeared, and presently returned with the
wagon, put the two small sacks into it, threw some
old rags on top of them, and started off, dragging his
cargo behind him. When the boys reached the Welsh-
man's house, they stopped to rest. Just as they were
about to move on, the Welshman stepped out and said:

"Hallo, who's that?"

"Huck and Tom Sawyer."

"Good! Come along with me, boys, you are keep-
ing everybody waiting. Here -- hurry up, trot ahead --
I'll haul the wagon for you. Why, it's not as light as
it might be. Got bricks in it? -- or old metal?"

"Old metal," said Tom.

"I judged so; the boys in this town will take more
trouble and fool away more time hunting up six bits'
worth of old iron to sell to the foundry than they would
to make twice the money at regular work. But that's
human nature -- hurry along, hurry along!"

The boys wanted to know what the hurry was about.

"Never mind; you'll see, when we get to the Widow
Douglas'."

Huck said with some apprehension -- for he was
long used to being falsely accused:

"Mr. Jones, we haven't been doing nothing."

The Welshman laughed.

"Well, I don't know, Huck, my boy. I don't know
about that. Ain't you and the widow good friends?"

"Yes. Well, she's ben good friends to me, anyway."

"All right, then. What do you want to be afraid
for?"

This question was not entirely answered in Huck's
slow mind before he found himself pushed, along
with Tom, into Mrs. Douglas' drawing-room. Mr.
Jones left the wagon near the door and followed.

The place was grandly lighted, and everybody that
was of any consequence in the village was there. The
Thatchers were there, the Harpers, the Rogerses, Aunt
Polly, Sid, Mary, the minister, the editor, and a great
many more, and all dressed in their best. The widow
received the boys as heartily as any one could well
receive two such looking beings. They were covered
with clay and candle-grease. Aunt Polly blushed
crimson with humiliation, and frowned and shook her
head at Tom. Nobody suffered half as much as the
two boys did, however. Mr. Jones said:

"Tom wasn't at home, yet, so I gave him up; but
I stumbled on him and Huck right at my door, and so
I just brought them along in a hurry."

"And you did just right," said the widow. "Come
with me, boys."

She took them to a bedchamber and said:

"Now wash and dress yourselves. Here are two
new suits of clothes -- shirts, socks, everything complete.
They're Huck's -- no, no thanks, Huck -- Mr. Jones
bought one and I the other. But they'll fit both of
you. Get into them. We'll wait -- come down when
you are slicked up enough."

Then she left.
<--split-->
CHAPTER XXXIV

HUCK said: "Tom, we can slope, if we
can find a rope. The window ain't high
from the ground."

"Shucks! what do you want to slope
for?"

"Well, I ain't used to that kind of a
crowd. I can't stand it. I ain't going down there, Tom."

"Oh, bother! It ain't anything. I don't mind it
a bit. I'll take care of you."

Sid appeared.

"Tom," said he, "auntie has been waiting for you
all the afternoon. Mary got your Sunday clothes
ready, and everybody's been fretting about you. Say
-- ain't this grease and clay, on your clothes?"

"Now, Mr. Siddy, you jist 'tend to your own business.
What's all this blow-out about, anyway?"

"It's one of the widow's parties that she's always
having. This time it's for the Welshman and his
sons, on account of that scrape they helped her out
of the other night. And say -- I can tell you something,
if you want to know."

"Well, what?"

"Why, old Mr. Jones is going to try to spring some-
thing on the people here to-night, but I overheard him
tell auntie to-day about it, as a secret, but I reckon
it's not much of a secret now. Everybody knows --
the widow, too, for all she tries to let on she don't.
Mr. Jones was bound Huck should be here -- couldn't
get along with his grand secret without Huck, you
know!"

"Secret about what, Sid?"

"About Huck tracking the robbers to the widow's.
I reckon Mr. Jones was going to make a grand time
over his surprise, but I bet you it will drop pretty flat."

Sid chuckled in a very contented and satisfied way.

"Sid, was it you that told?"

"Oh, never mind who it was. SOMEBODY told -- that's
enough."

"Sid, there's only one person in this town mean
enough to do that, and that's you. If you had been in
Huck's place you'd 'a' sneaked down the hill and never
told anybody on the robbers. You can't do any but
mean things, and you can't bear to see anybody praised
for doing good ones. There -- no thanks, as the widow
says" -- and Tom cuffed Sid's ears and helped him to
the door with several kicks. "Now go and tell auntie
if you dare -- and to-morrow you'll catch it!"

Some minutes later the widow's guests were at the
supper-table, and a dozen children were propped up
at little side-tables in the same room, after the fashion
of that country and that day. At the proper time
Mr. Jones made his little speech, in which he thanked
the widow for the honor she was doing himself and his
sons, but said that there was another person whose
modesty --

And so forth and so on. He sprung his secret
about Huck's share in the adventure in the finest
dramatic manner he was master of, but the surprise it
occasioned was largely counterfeit and not as clamorous
and effusive as it might have been under happier
circumstances. However, the widow made a pretty
fair show of astonishment, and heaped so many com-
pliments and so much gratitude upon Huck that he
almost forgot the nearly intolerable discomfort of his
new clothes in the entirely intolerable discomfort of
being set up as a target for everybody's gaze and
everybody's laudations.

The widow said she meant to give Huck a home
under her roof and have him educated; and that
when she could spare the money she would start him
in business in a modest way. Tom's chance was
come. He said:

"Huck don't need it. Huck's rich."

Nothing but a heavy strain upon the good manners
of the company kept back the due and proper com-
plimentary laugh at this pleasant joke. But the silence
was a little awkward. Tom broke it:

"Huck's got money. Maybe you don't believe it,
but he's got lots of it. Oh, you needn't smile -- I reckon
I can show you. You just wait a minute."

Tom ran out of doors. The company looked at
each other with a perplexed interest -- and inquiringly
at Huck, who was tongue-tied.

"Sid, what ails Tom?" said Aunt Polly. "He -- well,
there ain't ever any making of that boy out. I never --"

Tom entered, struggling with the weight of his sacks,
and Aunt Polly did not finish her sentence. Tom
poured the mass of yellow coin upon the table and said:

"There -- what did I tell you? Half of it's Huck's
and half of it's mine!"

The spectacle took the general breath away. All
gazed, nobody spoke for a moment. Then there was a
unanimous call for an explanation. Tom said he could
furnish it, and he did. The tale was long, but brimful
of interest. There was scarcely an interruption from
any one to break the charm of its flow. When he had
finished, Mr. Jones said:

"I thought I had fixed up a little surprise for this
occasion, but it don't amount to anything now. This
one makes it sing mighty small, I'm willing to allow."

The money was counted. The sum amounted to
a little over twelve thousand dollars. It was more
than any one present had ever seen at one time before,
though several persons were there who were worth
considerably more than that in property.
<--split-->
CHAPTER XXXV

THE reader may rest satisfied that Tom's
and Huck's windfall made a mighty stir
in the poor little village of St. Petersburg.
So vast a sum, all in actual cash, seemed
next to incredible. It was talked about,
gloated over, glorified, until the reason of
many of the citizens tottered under the strain of the
unhealthy excitement. Every "haunted" house in St.
Petersburg and the neighboring villages was dissected,
plank by plank, and its foundations dug up and ran-
sacked for hidden treasure -- and not by boys, but men
-- pretty grave, unromantic men, too, some of them.
Wherever Tom and Huck appeared they were courted,
admired, stared at. The boys were not able to remem-
ber that their remarks had possessed weight before;
but now their sayings were treasured and repeated;
everything they did seemed somehow to be regarded as
remarkable; they had evidently lost the power of doing
and saying commonplace things; moreover, their past
history was raked up and discovered to bear marks of
conspicuous originality. The village paper published
biographical sketches of the boys.

The Widow Douglas put Huck's money out at six
per cent., and Judge Thatcher did the same with
Tom's at Aunt Polly's request. Each lad had an in-
come, now, that was simply prodigious -- a dollar for
every week-day in the year and half of the Sundays.
It was just what the minister got -- no, it was what he
was promised -- he generally couldn't collect it. A
dollar and a quarter a week would board, lodge, and
school a boy in those old simple days -- and clothe him
and wash him, too, for that matter.

Judge Thatcher had conceived a great opinion of
Tom. He said that no commonplace boy would ever
have got his daughter out of the cave. When Becky
told her father, in strict confidence, how Tom had
taken her whipping at school, the Judge was visibly
moved; and when she pleaded grace for the mighty
lie which Tom had told in order to shift that whipping
from her shoulders to his own, the Judge said with a
fine outburst that it was a noble, a generous, a mag-
nanimous lie -- a lie that was worthy to hold up its head
and march down through history breast to breast with
George Washington's lauded Truth about the hatchet!
Becky thought her father had never looked so tall and
so superb as when he walked the floor and stamped
his foot and said that. She went straight off and told
Tom about it.

Judge Thatcher hoped to see Tom a great lawyer or
a great soldier some day. He said he meant to look
to it that Tom should be admitted to the National
Military Academy and afterward trained in the best
law school in the country, in order that he might be
ready for either career or both.

Huck Finn's wealth and the fact that he was now
under the Widow Douglas' protection introduced him
into society -- no, dragged him into it, hurled him into
it -- and his sufferings were almost more than he could
bear. The widow's servants kept him clean and neat,
combed and brushed, and they bedded him nightly in
unsympathetic sheets that had not one little spot or
stain which he could press to his heart and know for
a friend. He had to eat with a knife and fork; he had
to use napkin, cup, and plate; he had to learn his book,
he had to go to church; he had to talk so properly that
speech was become insipid in his mouth; whitherso-
ever he turned, the bars and shackles of civilization
shut him in and bound him hand and foot.

He bravely bore his miseries three weeks, and then
one day turned up missing. For forty-eight hours the
widow hunted for him everywhere in great distress.
The public were profoundly concerned; they searched
high and low, they dragged the river for his body.
Early the third morning Tom Sawyer wisely went
poking among some old empty hogsheads down behind
the abandoned slaughter-house, and in one of them
he found the refugee. Huck had slept there; he had
just breakfasted upon some stolen odds and ends of
food, and was lying off, now, in comfort, with his pipe.
He was unkempt, uncombed, and clad in the same old
ruin of rags that had made him picturesque in the days
when he was free and happy. Tom routed him out,
told him the trouble he had been causing, and urged
him to go home. Huck's face lost its tranquil content,
and took a melancholy cast. He said:

"Don't talk about it, Tom. I've tried it, and it
don't work; it don't work, Tom. It ain't for me;
I ain't used to it. The widder's good to me, and
friendly; but I can't stand them ways. She makes
me get up just at the same time every morning; she
makes me wash, they comb me all to thunder; she
won't let me sleep in the woodshed; I got to wear
them blamed clothes that just smothers me, Tom;
they don't seem to any air git through 'em, somehow;
and they're so rotten nice that I can't set down, nor
lay down, nor roll around anywher's; I hain't slid on
a cellar-door for -- well, it 'pears to be years; I got
to go to church and sweat and sweat -- I hate them
ornery sermons! I can't ketch a fly in there, I can't
chaw. I got to wear shoes all Sunday. The widder
eats by a bell; she goes to bed by a bell; she gits up
by a bell -- everything's so awful reg'lar a body can't
stand it."

"Well, everybody does that way, Huck."

"Tom, it don't make no difference. I ain't every-
body, and I can't STAND it. It's awful to be tied up so.
And grub comes too easy -- I don't take no interest in
vittles, that way. I got to ask to go a-fishing; I got
to ask to go in a-swimming -- dern'd if I hain't got to
ask to do everything. Well, I'd got to talk so nice it
wasn't no comfort -- I'd got to go up in the attic and
rip out awhile, every day, to git a taste in my mouth,
or I'd a died, Tom. The widder wouldn't let me
smoke; she wouldn't let me yell, she wouldn't let me
gape, nor stretch, nor scratch, before folks --" [Then
with a spasm of special irritation and injury] -- "And
dad fetch it, she prayed all the time! I never see such
a woman! I HAD to shove, Tom -- I just had to. And
besides, that school's going to open, and I'd a had to
go to it -- well, I wouldn't stand THAT, Tom. Looky-
here, Tom, being rich ain't what it's cracked up to be.
It's just worry and worry, and sweat and sweat, and
a-wishing you was dead all the time. Now these
clothes suits me, and this bar'l suits me, and I ain't
ever going to shake 'em any more. Tom, I wouldn't
ever got into all this trouble if it hadn't 'a' ben for
that money; now you just take my sheer of it along
with your'n, and gimme a ten-center sometimes -- not
many times, becuz I don't give a dern for a thing
'thout it's tollable hard to git -- and you go and beg off
for me with the widder."

"Oh, Huck, you know I can't do that. 'Tain't
fair; and besides if you'll try this thing just a while
longer you'll come to like it."

"Like it! Yes -- the way I'd like a hot stove if I
was to set on it long enough. No, Tom, I won't be
rich, and I won't live in them cussed smothery houses.
I like the woods, and the river, and hogsheads, and
I'll stick to 'em, too. Blame it all! just as we'd got
guns, and a cave, and all just fixed to rob, here this
dern foolishness has got to come up and spile it all!"

Tom saw his opportunity --

"Lookyhere, Huck, being rich ain't going to keep
me back from turning robber."

"No! Oh, good-licks; are you in real dead-wood
earnest, Tom?"

"Just as dead earnest as I'm sitting here. But
Huck, we can't let you into the gang if you ain't re-
spectable, you know."

Huck's joy was quenched.

"Can't let me in, Tom? Didn't you let me go for
a pirate?"

"Yes, but that's different. A robber is more high-
toned than what a pirate is -- as a general thing. In
most countries they're awful high up in the nobility --
dukes and such."

"Now, Tom, hain't you always ben friendly to me?
You wouldn't shet me out, would you, Tom? You
wouldn't do that, now, WOULD you, Tom?"

"Huck, I wouldn't want to, and I DON'T want to --
but what would people say? Why, they'd say, 'Mph!
Tom Sawyer's Gang! pretty low characters in it!'
They'd mean you, Huck. You wouldn't like that, and
I wouldn't."

Huck was silent for some time, engaged in a mental
struggle. Finally he said:

"Well, I'll go back to the widder for a month and
tackle it and see if I can come to stand it, if you'll
let me b'long to the gang, Tom."

"All right, Huck, it's a whiz! Come along, old
chap, and I'll ask the widow to let up on you a little,
Huck."

"Will you, Tom -- now will you? That's good. If
she'll let up on some of the roughest things, I'll smoke
private and cuss private, and crowd through or bust.
When you going to start the gang and turn robbers?"

"Oh, right off. We'll get the boys together and
have the initiation to-night, maybe."

"Have the which?"

"Have the initiation."

"What's that?"

"It's to swear to stand by one another, and never
tell the gang's secrets, even if you're chopped all to
flinders, and kill anybody and all his family that hurts
one of the gang."

"That's gay -- that's mighty gay, Tom, I tell you."

"Well, I bet it is. And all that swearing's got to
be done at midnight, in the lonesomest, awfulest place
you can find -- a ha'nted house is the best, but they're
all ripped up now."

"Well, midnight's good, anyway, Tom."

"Yes, so it is. And you've got to swear on a coffin,
and sign it with blood."

"Now, that's something LIKE! Why, it's a million
times bullier than pirating. I'll stick to the widder
till I rot, Tom; and if I git to be a reg'lar ripper of a
robber, and everybody talking 'bout it, I reckon she'll
be proud she snaked me in out of the wet."


CONCLUSION

SO endeth this chronicle. It being strictly
a history of a BOY, it must stop here; the
story could not go much further without
becoming the history of a MAN. When
one writes a novel about grown people, he
knows exactly where to stop -- that is,
with a marriage; but when he writes of juveniles, he
must stop where he best can.

Most of the characters that perform in this book
still live, and are prosperous and happy. Some day
it may seem worth while to take up the story of the
younger ones again and see what sort of men and
women they turned out to be; therefore it will be
wisest not to reveal any of that part of their lives at
present.


