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X
CHAPTER
XI
CLOSE
upon
the
hour
of
noon
the
whole
village
was
suddenly
electrified
with
the
ghastly
news.
No
need
of
the
as
yet
undreamed-of
telegraph;
the
tale
flew
from
man
to
man,
from
group
to
group,
from
house
to
house,
with
little
less
than
telegraphic
speed.
Of
course
the
schoolmaster
gave
holiday
for
that
afternoon;
the
town
would
have
thought
strangely
of
him
if
he
had
not.
A
gory
knife
had
been
found
close
to
the
murdered
man,
and
it
had
been
recognized
by
somebody
as
belonging
to
***
Potter--so
the
story
ran.
And
it
was
said
that
a
belated
citizen
had
come
upon
Potter
washing
himself
in
the"
branch"
about
one
or
two
o'clock
in
the
morning,
and
that
Potter
had
at
once
sneaked
off--suspicious
circumstances,
especially
the
washing
which
was
not
a
habit
with
Potter.
It
was
also
said
that
the
town
had
been
ransacked
for
this"
murderer"(
the
public
are
not
slow
in
the
matter
of
sifting
evidence
and
arriving
at
a
verdict),
but
that
he
could
not
be
found.
Horsemen
had
departed
down
all
the
roads
in
every
direction,
and
the
Sheriff"
was
confident"
that
he
would
be
captured
before
night.
All
the
town
was
drifting
toward
the
graveyard.
Tom's
heartbreak
vanished
and
he
joined
the
procession,
not
because
he
would
not
a
thousand
times
rather
go
anywhere
else,
but
because
an
awful,
unaccountable
fascination
drew
him
on.
Arrived
at
the
dreadful
place,
he
wormed
his
small
body
through
the
crowd
and
saw
the
dismal
spectacle.
It
seemed
to
him
an
age
since
he
was
there
before.
Somebody
pinched
his
arm.
He
turned,
and
his
eyes
met
Huckleberry's.
Then
both
looked
elsewhere
at
once,
and
wondered
if
anybody
had
noticed
anything
in
their
mutual
glance.
But
everybody
was
talking,
and
intent
upon
the
grisly
spectacle
before
them.
"Poor
fellow!""
Poor
young
fellow!""
This
ought
to
be
a
lesson
to
grave
robbers!""
***
Potter'll
hang
for
this
if
they
catch
him!"
This
was
the
drift
of
remark;
and
the
minister
said,"
It
was
a
judgment;
His
hand
is
here."
Now
Tom
shivered
from
head
to
heel;
for
his
eye
fell
upon
the
stolid
face
of
***
Joe.
At
this
moment
the
crowd
began
to
sway
and
struggle,
and
voices
shouted,"
It's
him!
it's
him!
he's
coming
himself!"
"Who?
Who?"
from
twenty
voices.
"***
Potter!"
"Hallo,
he's
stopped!--Look
out,
he's
turning!
Don't
let
him
get
away!"
People
in
the
branches
of
the
trees
over
Tom's
head
said
he
wasn't
trying
to
get
away--he
only
looked
doubtful
and
perplexed.
"Infernal
impudence!"
said
a
bystander;"
wanted
to
come
and
take
a
quiet
look
at
his
work,
I
reckon--didn't
expect
any
company."
The
crowd
fell
apart,
now,
and
the
Sheriff
came
through,
ostentatiously
leading
Potter
by
the
arm.
The
poor
fellow's
face
was
haggard,
and
his
eyes
showed
the
fear
that
was
upon
him.
When
he
stood
before
the
murdered
man,
he
shook
as
with
a
palsy,
and
he
put
his
face
in
his
hands
and
burst
into
tears.
"I didn't do it, friends," he sobbed; "'pon my word and honor I never
done
it."
"Who's
accused
you?"
shouted
a
voice.
This
shot
seemed
to
carry
home.
Potter
lifted
his
face
and
looked
around
him
with
a
pathetic
hopelessness
in
his
eyes.
He
saw
***
Joe,
and
exclaimed:
"Oh,
***
Joe,
you
promised
me
you'd
never--"
"Is
that
your
knife?"
and
it
was
thrust
before
him
by
the
Sheriff.
Potter
would
have
fallen
if
they
had
not
caught
him
and
eased
him
to
the
ground.
Then
he
said:
"Something told me 't if I didn't come back and get--" He shuddered;
then
waved
his
nerveless
hand
with
a
vanquished
gesture
and
said,"
Tell
'em, Joe, tell 'em--it ain't any use any more."
Then
Huckleberry
and
Tom
stood
dumb
and
staring,
and
heard
the
stony-hearted
liar
reel
off
his
serene
statement,
they
expecting
every
moment
that
the
clear
sky
would
deliver
God's
lightnings
upon
his
head,
and
wondering
to
see
how
long
the
stroke
was
delayed.
And
when
he
had
finished
and
still
stood
alive
and
whole,
their
wavering
impulse
to
break
their
oath
and
save
the
poor
betrayed
prisoner's
life
faded
and
vanished
away,
for
plainly
this
miscreant
had
sold
himself
to
Satan
and
it
would
be
fatal
to
meddle
with
the
property
of
such
a
power
as
that.
"Why
didn't
you
leave?
What
did
you
want
to
come
here
for?"
somebody
said.
"I
couldn't
help
it--I
couldn't
help
it,"
Potter
moaned."
I
wanted
to
run
away,
but
I
couldn't
seem
to
come
anywhere
but
here."
And
he
fell
to
sobbing
again.
***
Joe
repeated
his
statement,
just
as
calmly,
a
few
minutes
afterward
on
the
inquest,
under
oath;
and
the
boys,
seeing
that
the
lightnings
were
still
withheld,
were
confirmed
in
their
belief
that
Joe
had
sold
himself
to
the
devil.
He
was
now
become,
to
them,
the
most
balefully
interesting
object
they
had
ever
looked
upon,
and
they
could
not
take
their
fascinated
eyes
from
his
face.
They
inwardly
resolved
to
watch
him
nights,
when
opportunity
should
offer,
in
the
hope
of
getting
a
glimpse
of
his
dread
master.
***
Joe
helped
to
raise
the
body
of
the
murdered
man
and
put
it
in
a
wagon
for
removal;
and
it
was
whispered
through
the
shuddering
crowd
that
the
wound
bled
a
little!
The
boys
thought
that
this
happy
circumstance
would
turn
suspicion
in
the
right
direction;
but
they
were
disappointed,
for
more
than
one
villager
remarked:
"It
was
within
three
feet
of
***
Potter
when
it
done
it."
Tom's
fearful
secret
and
gnawing
conscience
disturbed
his
sleep
for
as
much
as
a
week
after
this;
and
at
breakfast
one
morning
Sid
said:
"Tom,
you
pitch
around
and
talk
in
your
sleep
so
much
that
you
keep
me
awake
half
the
time."
Tom
blanched
and
dropped
his
eyes.
"It's
a
bad
sign,"
said
Aunt
Polly,
gravely."
What
you
got
on
your
mind,
Tom?"
"Nothing. Nothing 't I know of." But the boy's hand shook so that he
spilled
his
coffee.
"And you do talk such stuff," Sid said. "Last night you said, 'It's
blood, it's blood, that's what it is!' You said that over and over. And
you said, 'Don't torment me so--I'll tell!' Tell WHAT? What is it
you'll
tell?"
Everything
was
swimming
before
Tom.
There
is
no
telling
what
might
have
happened,
now,
but
luckily
the
concern
passed
out
of
Aunt
Polly's
face
and
she
came
to
Tom's
relief
without
knowing
it.
She
said:
"Sho!
It's
that
dreadful
***.
I
dream
about
it
most
every
night
myself.
Sometimes
I
dream
it's
me
that
done
it."
Mary
said
she
had
been
affected
much
the
same
way.
Sid
seemed
satisfied.
Tom
got
out
of
the
presence
as
quick
as
he
plausibly
could,
and
after
that
he
complained
of
toothache
for
a
week,
and
tied
up
his
jaws
every
night.
He
never
knew
that
Sid
lay
nightly
watching,
and
frequently
slipped
the
bandage
free
and
then
leaned
on
his
elbow
listening
a
good
while
at
a
time,
and
afterward
slipped
the
bandage
back
to
its
place
again.
Tom's
distress
of
mind
wore
off
gradually
and
the
toothache
grew
irksome
and
was
discarded.
If
Sid
really
managed
to
make
anything
out
of
Tom's
disjointed
mutterings,
he
kept
it
to
himself.
It
seemed
to
Tom
that
his
schoolmates
never
would
get
done
holding
inquests
on
dead
cats,
and
thus
keeping
his
trouble
present
to
his
mind.
Sid
noticed
that
Tom
never
was
coroner
at
one
of
these
inquiries,
though
it
had
been
his
habit
to
take
the
lead
in
all
new
enterprises;
he
noticed,
too,
that
Tom
never
acted
as
a
witness--and
that
was
strange;
and
Sid
did
not
overlook
the
fact
that
Tom
even
showed
a
marked
aversion
to
these
inquests,
and
always
avoided
them
when
he
could.
Sid
marvelled,
but
said
nothing.
However,
even
inquests
went
out
of
vogue
at
last,
and
ceased
to
torture
Tom's
conscience.
Every
day
or
two,
during
this
time
of
sorrow,
Tom
watched
his
opportunity
and
went
to
the
little
grated
jail-window
and
smuggled
such
small
comforts
through
to
the"
murderer"
as
he
could
get
hold
of.
The
jail
was
a
trifling
little
brick
den
that
stood
in
a
marsh
at
the
edge
of
the
village,
and
no
guards
were
afforded
for
it;
indeed,
it
was
seldom
occupied.
These
offerings
greatly
helped
to
ease
Tom's
conscience.
The
villagers
had
a
strong
desire
to
tar-and-feather
***
Joe
and
ride
him
on
a
rail,
for
body-snatching,
but
so
formidable
was
his
character
that
nobody
could
be
found
who
was
willing
to
take
the
lead
in
the
matter,
so
it
was
dropped.
He
had
been
careful
to
begin
both
of
his
inquest-statements
with
the
fight,
without
confessing
the
grave-robbery
that
preceded
it;
therefore
it
was
deemed
wisest
not
to
try
the
case
in
the
courts
at
present.
CHAPTER
XII
ONE
of
the
reasons
why
Tom's
mind
had
drifted
away
from
its
secret
troubles
was,
that
it
had
found
a
new
and
weighty
matter
to
interest
itself
about.
Becky
Thatcher
had
stopped
coming
to
school.
Tom
had
struggled
with
his
pride
a
few
days,
and
tried
to"
whistle
her
down
the
wind,"
but
failed.
He
began
to
find
himself
hanging
around
her
father's
house,
nights,
and
feeling
very
miserable.
She
was
ill.
What
if
she
should
die!
There
was
distraction
in
the
thought.
He
no
longer
took
an
interest
in
war,
nor
even
in
piracy.
The
charm
of
life
was
gone;
there
was
nothing
but
dreariness
left.
He
put
his
hoop
away,
and
his
bat;
there
was
no
joy
in
them
any
more.
His
aunt
was
concerned.
She
began
to
try
all
manner
of
remedies
on
him.
She
was
one
of
those
people
who
are
infatuated
with
patent
medicines
and
all
new-fangled
methods
of
producing
health
or
mending
it.
She
was
an
inveterate
experimenter
in
these
things.
When
something
fresh
in
this
line
came
out
she
was
in
a
fever,
right
away,
to
try
it;
not
on
herself,
for
she
was
never
ailing,
but
on
anybody
else
that
came
handy.
She
was
a
subscriber
for
all
the
"Health"
periodicals
and
phrenological
frauds;
and
the
solemn
ignorance
they
were
inflated
with
was
breath
to
her
nostrils.
All
the"
rot"
they
contained
about
ventilation,
and
how
to
go
to
bed,
and
how
to
get
up,
and
what
to
eat,
and
what
to
drink,
and
how
much
exercise
to
take,
and
what
frame
of
mind
to
keep
one's
self
in,
and
what
sort
of
clothing
to
wear,
was
all
gospel
to
her,
and
she
never
observed
that
her
health-journals
of
the
current
month
customarily
upset
everything
they
had
recommended
the
month
before.
She
was
as
simple-hearted
and
honest
as
the
day
was
long,
and
so
she
was
an
easy
victim.
She
gathered
together
her
quack
periodicals
and
her
quack
medicines,
and
thus
armed
with
death,
went
about
on
her
pale
horse,
metaphorically
speaking,
with
"hell
following
after."
But
she
never
suspected
that
she
was
not
an
angel
of
healing
and
the
balm
of
Gilead
in
disguise,
to
the
suffering
neighbors.
The
water
treatment
was
new,
now,
and
Tom's
low
condition
was
a
windfall
to
her.
She
had
him
out
at
daylight
every
morning,
stood
him
up
in
the
woodshed
and
drowned
him
with
a
deluge
of
cold
water;
then
she
scrubbed
him
down
with
a
towel
like
a
file,
and
so
brought
him
to;
then
she
rolled
him
up
in
a
wet
sheet
and
put
him
away
under
blankets
till
she
sweated
his
soul
clean
and"
the
yellow
stains
of
it
came
through
his
pores"--as
Tom
said.
Yet
notwithstanding
all
this,
the
boy
grew
more
and
more
melancholy
and
pale
and
dejected.
She
added
hot
baths,
sitz
baths,
shower
baths,
and
plunges.
The
boy
remained
as
dismal
as
a
hearse.
She
began
to
assist
the
water
with
a
slim
oatmeal
diet
and
blister-plasters.
She
calculated
his
capacity
as
she
would
a
jug's,
and
filled
him
up
every
day
with
quack
cure-alls.
Tom
had
become
indifferent
to
persecution
by
this
time.
This
phase
filled
the
old
lady's
heart
with
consternation.
This
indifference
must
be
broken
up
at
any
cost.
Now
she
heard
of
Pain-killer
for
the
first
time.
She
ordered
a
lot
at
once.
She
tasted
it
and
was
filled
with
gratitude.
It
was
simply
fire
in
a
liquid
form.
She
dropped
the
water
treatment
and
everything
else,
and
pinned
her
faith
to
Pain-killer.
She
gave
Tom
a
teaspoonful
and
watched
with
the
deepest
anxiety
for
the
result.
Her
troubles
were
instantly
at
rest,
her
soul
at
peace
again;
for
the"
indifference"
was
broken
up.
The
boy
could
not
have
shown
a
wilder,
heartier
interest,
if
she
had
built
a
fire
under
him.
Tom
felt
that
it
was
time
to
wake
up;
this
sort
of
life
might
be
romantic
enough,
in
his
blighted
condition,
but
it
was
getting
to
have
too
little
sentiment
and
too
much
distracting
variety
about
it.
So
he
thought
over
various
plans
for
relief,
and
finally
hit
pon
that
of
professing
to
be
fond
of
Pain-killer.
He
asked
for
it
so
often
that
he
became
a
nuisance,
and
his
aunt
ended
by
telling
him
to
help
himself
and
quit
bothering
her.
If
it
had
been
Sid,
she
would
have
had
no
misgivings
to
alloy
her
delight;
but
since
it
was
Tom,
she
watched
the
bottle
clandestinely.
She
found
that
the
medicine
did
really
diminish,
but
it
did
not
occur
to
her
that
the
boy
was
mending
the
health
of
a
crack
in
the
sitting-room
floor
with
it.
One
day
Tom
was
in
the
act
of
dosing
the
crack
when
his
aunt's
yellow
cat
came
along,
purring,
eying
the
teaspoon
avariciously,
and
begging
for
a
taste.
Tom
said:
"Don't
ask
for
it
unless
you
want
it,
Peter."
But
Peter
signified
that
he
did
want
it.
"You
better
make
sure."
Peter
was
sure.
"Now
you've
asked
for
it,
and
I'll
give
it
to
you,
because
there
ain't
anything
mean
about
me;
but
if
you
find
you
don't
like
it,
you
mustn't
blame
anybody
but
your
own
self."
Peter
was
agreeable.
So
Tom
pried
his
mouth
open
and
poured
down
the
Pain-killer.
Peter
sprang
a
couple
of
yards
in
the
air,
and
then
delivered
a
war-whoop
and
set
off
round
and
round
the
room,
banging
against
furniture,
upsetting
flower-pots,
and
making
general
havoc.
Next
he
rose
on
his
hind
feet
and
pranced
around,
in
a
frenzy
of
enjoyment,
with
his
head
over
his
shoulder
and
his
voice
proclaiming
his
unappeasable
happiness.
Then
he
went
tearing
around
the
house
again
spreading
chaos
and
destruction
in
his
path.
Aunt
Polly
entered
in
time
to
see
him
throw
a
few
double
summersets,
deliver
a
final
mighty
hurrah,
and
sail
through
the
open
window,
carrying
the
rest
of
the
flower-pots
with
him.
The
old
lady
stood
petrified
with
astonishment,
peering
over
her
glasses;
Tom
lay
on
the
floor
expiring
with
laughter.
"Tom,
what
on
earth
ails
that
cat?"
"I
don't
know,
aunt,"
gasped
the
boy.
"Why,
I
never
see
anything
like
it.
What
did
make
him
act
so?"
"Deed
I
don't
know,
Aunt
Polly;
cats
always
act
so
when
they're
having
a
good
time."
"They
do,
do
they?"
There
was
something
in
the
tone
that
made
Tom
apprehensive.
"Yes'm.
That
is,
I
believe
they
do."
"You
DO?"
"Yes'm."
The
old
lady
was
bending
down,
Tom
watching,
with
interest
emphasized
by
anxiety.
Too
late
he
divined
her"
drift."
The
handle
of
the
telltale
teaspoon
was
visible
under
the
bed-valance.
Aunt
Polly
took
it,
held
it
up.
Tom
winced,
and
dropped
his
eyes.
Aunt
Polly
raised
him
by
the
usual
handle--his
ear--and
cracked
his
head
soundly
with
her
thimble.
"Now,
sir,
what
did
you
want
to
treat
that
poor
dumb
beast
so,
for?"
"I
done
it
out
of
pity
for
him--because
he
hadn't
any
aunt."
"Hadn't
any
aunt!--you
numskull.
What
has
that
got
to
do
with
it?"
"Heaps.
Because
if
he'd
had
one
she'd
a
burnt
him
out
herself!
She'd
a
roasted his bowels out of him 'thout any more feeling than if he was a
human!"
Aunt
Polly
felt
a
sudden
pang
of
remorse.
This
was
putting
the
thing
in
a
new
light;
what
was
cruelty
to
a
cat
MIGHT
be
cruelty
to
a
boy,
too.
She
began
to
soften;
she
felt
sorry.
Her
eyes
watered
a
little,
and
she
put
her
hand
on
Tom's
head
and
said
gently:
"I
was
meaning
for
the
best,
Tom.
And,
Tom,
it
DID
do
you
good."
Tom
looked
up
in
her
face
with
just
a
perceptible
twinkle
peeping
through
his
gravity.
"I
know
you
was
meaning
for
the
best,
aunty,
and
so
was
I
with
Peter.
It
done
HIM
good,
too.
I
never
see
him
get
around
so
since--"
"Oh, go 'long with you, Tom, before you aggravate me again. And you
try
and
see
if
you
can't
be
a
good
boy,
for
once,
and
you
needn't
take
any
more
medicine."
Tom
reached
school
ahead
of
time.
It
was
noticed
that
this
strange
thing
had
been
occurring
every
day
latterly.
And
now,
as
usual
of
late,
he
hung
about
the
gate
of
the
schoolyard
instead
of
playing
with
his
comrades.
He
was
sick,
he
said,
and
he
looked
it.
He
tried
to
seem
to
be
looking
everywhere
but
whither
he
really
was
looking--down
the
road.
Presently
Jeff
Thatcher
hove
in
sight,
and
Tom's
face
lighted;
he
gazed
a
moment,
and
then
turned
sorrowfully
away.
When
Jeff
arrived,
Tom
accosted
him;
and"
led
up"
warily
to
opportunities
for
remark
about
Becky,
but
the
giddy
lad
never
could
see
the
bait.
Tom
watched
and
watched,
hoping
whenever
a
frisking
frock
came
in
sight,
and
hating
the
owner
of
it
as
soon
as
he
saw
she
was
not
the
right
one.
At
last
frocks
ceased
to
appear,
and
he
dropped
hopelessly
into
the
dumps;
he
entered
the
empty
schoolhouse
and
sat
down
to
suffer.
Then
one
more
frock
passed
in
at
the
gate,
and
Tom's
heart
gave
a
great
bound.
The
next
instant
he
was
out,
and"
going
on"
like
an
Indian;
yelling,
laughing,
chasing
boys,
jumping
over
the
fence
at
risk
of
life
and
limb,
throwing
handsprings,
standing
on
his
head--doing
all
the
heroic
things
he
could
conceive
of,
and
keeping
a
furtive
eye
out,
all
the
while,
to
see
if
Becky
Thatcher
was
noticing.
But
she
seemed
to
be
unconscious
of
it
all;
she
never
looked.
Could
it
be
possible
that
she
was
not
aware
that
he
was
there?
He
carried
his
exploits
to
her
immediate
vicinity;
came
war-whooping
around,
snatched
a
boy's
cap,
hurled
it
to
the
roof
of
the
schoolhouse,
broke
through
a
group
of
boys,
tumbling
them
in
every
direction,
and
fell
sprawling,
himself,
under
Becky's
nose,
almost
upsetting
her--and
she
turned,
with
her
nose
in
the
air,
and
he
heard
her
say:"
Mf!
some
people
think
they're
mighty
smart--always
showing
off!"
Tom's
cheeks
burned.
He
gathered
himself
up
and
sneaked
off,
crushed
and
crestfallen.