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"What
are you talking about? S'pose something happened and Injun Joe DIDN'T
hang? Why, he'd kill us some time or other, just as dead sure as we're a
laying here."
"That's
just what I was thinking to myself, Huck."
"If
anybody tells, let Muff Potter do it, if he's fool enough. He's generally
drunk enough."
Tom
said nothing -- went on thinking. Presently he whispered:
"Huck,
Muff Potter don't know it. How can he tell?"
"What's
the reason he don't know it?"
"Because
he'd just got that whack when Injun Joe done it. D'you reckon he could see
anything? D'you reckon he knowed anything?"
"By
hokey, that's so, Tom!"
"And
besides, look-a-here -- maybe that whack done for HIM!"
"No,
'taint likely, Tom. He had liquor in him; I could see that; and besides,
he always has. Well, when pap's full, you might take and belt him over the
head with a church and you couldn't phase him. He says so, his own self.
So it's the same with Muff Potter, of course. But if a man was dead sober,
I reckon maybe that whack might fetch him; I dono."
After
another reflective silence, Tom said:
"Hucky,
you sure you can keep mum?"
"Tom,
we GOT to keep mum. You know that. That Injun devil wouldn't make any more
of drownding us than a couple of cats, if we was to squeak 'bout this and
they didn't hang him. Now, look-a-here, Tom, less take and swear to one
another -- that's what we got to do -- swear to keep mum."
"I'm
agreed. It's the best thing. Would you just hold hands and swear that we
--"
"Oh
no, that wouldn't do for this. That's good enough for little rubbishy
common things -- specially with gals, cuz THEY go back on you anyway, and
blab if they get in a huff -- but there orter be writing 'bout a big thing
like this. And blood."
Tom's
whole being applauded this idea. It was deep, and dark, and awful; the
hour, the circumstances, the surroundings, were in keeping with it. He
picked up a clean pine shingle that lay in the moonlight, took a little
fragment of "red keel" out of his pocket, got the moon on his
work, and painfully scrawled these lines, emphasizing each slow
down-stroke by clamping his tongue between his teeth, and letting up the
pressure on the up-strokes.
"Huck Finn and
Tom Sawyer swears
they will keep mum
about This and They
wish They may Drop
down dead in Their
Tracks if They ever
Tell and Rot."
Huckleberry
was filled with admiration of Tom's facility in writing, and the sublimity
of his language. He at once took a pin from his lapel and was going to
prick his flesh, but Tom said:
"Hold
on! Don't do that. A pin's brass. It might have verdigrease on it."
"What's
verdigrease?"
"It's
p'ison. That's what it is. You just swaller some of it once -- you'll
see."
So
Tom unwound the thread from one of his needles, and each boy pricked the
ball of his thumb and squeezed out a drop of blood. In time, after many
squeezes, Tom managed to sign his initials, using the ball of his little
finger for a pen. Then he showed Huckleberry how to make an H and an F,
and the oath was complete. They buried the shingle close to the wall, with
some dismal ceremonies and incantations, and the fetters that bound their
tongues were considered to be locked and the key thrown away.
A
figure crept stealthily through a break in the other end of the ruined
building, now, but they did not notice it.
"Tom,"
whispered Huckleberry, "does this keep us from EVER telling --
ALWAYS?"
"Of
course it does. It don't make any difference WHAT happens, we got to keep
mum. We'd drop down dead -- don't YOU know that?"
"Yes,
I reckon that's so."
They
continued to whisper for some little time. Presently a dog set up a long,
lugubrious howl just outside -- within ten feet of them. The boys clasped
each other suddenly, in an agony of fright.
"Which
of us does he mean?" gasped Huckleberry.
"I
dono -- peep through the crack. Quick!"
"No,
YOU, Tom!"
"I
can't -- I can't DO it, Huck!"
"Please,
Tom. There 'tis again!"
"Oh,
lordy, I'm thankful!" whispered Tom. "I know his voice. It's
Bull Harbison." *
[*
If Mr. Harbison owned a slave named Bull, Tom would have spoken of him as
"Harbison's Bull," but a son or a dog of that name was
"Bull Harbison."]
"Oh,
that's good -- I tell you, Tom, I was most scared to death; I'd a bet
anything it was a STRAY dog."
The
dog howled again. The boys' hearts sank once more.
"Oh,
my! that ain't no Bull Harbison!" whispered Huckleberry. "DO,
Tom!"
Tom,
quaking with fear, yielded, and put his eye to the crack. His whisper was
hardly audible when he said:
"Oh,
Huck, IT S A STRAY DOG!"
"Quick,
Tom, quick! Who does he mean?"
"Huck,
he must mean us both -- we're right together."
"Oh,
Tom, I reckon we're goners. I reckon there ain't no mistake 'bout where
I'LL go to. I been so wicked."
"Dad
fetch it! This comes of playing hookey and doing everything a feller's
told NOT to do. I might a been good, like Sid, if I'd a tried -- but no, I
wouldn't, of course. But if ever I get off this time, I lay I'll just
WALLER in Sunday-schools!" And Tom began to snuffle a little.
"YOU
bad!" and Huckleberry began to snuffle too. "Consound it, Tom
Sawyer, you're just old pie, 'longside o' what I am. Oh, LORDY, lordy,
lordy, I wisht I only had half your chance."
Tom
choked off and whispered:
"Look,
Hucky, look! He's got his BACK to us!"
Hucky
looked, with joy in his heart.
"Well,
he has, by jingoes! Did he before?"
"Yes,
he did. But I, like a fool, never thought. Oh, this is bully, you know.
NOW who can he mean?"
The
howling stopped. Tom pricked up his ears.
"Sh!
What's that?" he whispered.
"Sounds
like -- like hogs grunting. No -- it's somebody snoring, Tom."
"That
IS it! Where 'bouts is it, Huck?"
"I bleeve it's down at 'tother end. Sounds so, anyway. Pap
used to sleep there, sometimes, 'long with the hogs, but laws bless you,
he just lifts things when HE snores. Besides, I reckon he ain't ever
coming back to this town any more."
The
spirit of adventure rose in the boys' souls once more.
"Hucky,
do you das't to go if I lead?"
"I
don't like to, much. Tom, s'pose it's Injun Joe!"
Tom
quailed. But presently the temptation rose up strong again and the boys
agreed to try, with the understanding that they would take to their heels
if the snoring stopped. So they went tiptoeing stealthily down, the one
behind the other. When they had got to within five steps of the snorer,
Tom stepped on a stick, and it broke with a sharp snap. The man moaned,
writhed a little, and his face came into the moonlight. It was Muff
Potter. The boys' hearts had stood still, and their hopes too, when the
man moved, but their fears passed away now. They tiptoed out, through the
broken weather-boarding, and stopped at a little distance to exchange a
parting word. That long, lugubrious howl rose on the night air again! They
turned and saw the strange dog standing within a few feet of where Potter
was lying, and FACING Potter, with his nose pointing heavenward.
"Oh,
geeminy, it's HIM!" exclaimed both boys, in a breath.
"Say,
Tom -- they say a stray dog come howling around Johnny Miller's house,
'bout midnight, as much as two weeks ago; and a whippoorwill come in and
lit on the banisters and sung, the very same evening; and there ain't
anybody dead there yet."
"Well,
I know that. And suppose there ain't. Didn't Gracie Miller fall in the
kitchen fire and burn herself terrible the very next Saturday?"
"Yes,
but she ain't DEAD. And what's more, she's getting better, too."
"All
right, you wait and see. She's a goner, just as dead sure as Muff Potter's
a goner. That's what the niggers say, and they know all about these kind
of things, Huck."
Then
they separated, cogitating. When Tom crept in at his bedroom window the
night was almost spent. He undressed with excessive caution, and fell
asleep congratulating himself that nobody knew of his escapade. He was not
aware that the gently-snoring Sid was awake, and had been so for an hour.
When
Tom awoke, Sid was dressed and gone. There was a late look in the light, a
late sense in the atmosphere. He was startled. Why had he not been called
-- persecuted till he was up, as usual? The thought filled him with
bodings. Within five minutes he was dressed and down-stairs, feeling sore
and drowsy. The family were still at table, but they had finished
breakfast. There was no voice of rebuke; but there were averted eyes;
there was a silence and an air of solemnity that struck a chill to the
culprit's heart. He sat down and tried to seem gay, but it was up-hill
work; it roused no smile, no response, and he lapsed into silence and let
his heart sink down to the depths.
After
breakfast his aunt took him aside, and Tom almost brightened in the hope
that he was going to be flogged; but it was not so. His aunt wept over him
and asked him how he could go and break her old heart so; and finally told
him to go on, and ruin himself and bring her gray hairs with sorrow to the
grave, for it was no use for her to try any more. This was worse than a
thousand whippings, and Tom's heart was sorer now than his body. He cried,
he pleaded for forgiveness, promised to reform over and over again, and
then received his dismissal, feeling that he had won but an imperfect
forgiveness and established but a feeble confidence.
He
left the presence too miserable to even feel revengeful toward Sid; and so
the latter's prompt retreat through the back gate was unnecessary. He
moped to school gloomy and sad, and took his flogging, along with Joe
Harper, for playing hookey the day before, with the air of one whose heart
was busy with heavier woes and wholly dead to trifles. Then he betook
himself to his seat, rested his elbows on his desk and his jaws in his
hands, and stared at the wall with the stony stare of suffering that has
reached the limit and can no further go. His elbow was pressing against
some hard substance. After a long time he slowly and sadly changed his
position, and took up this object with a sigh. It was in a paper. He
unrolled it. A long, lingering, colossal sigh followed, and his heart
broke. It was his brass andiron knob!
This
final feather broke the camel's back.
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