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X
CHAPTER
XXXI
NOW
to
return
to
Tom
and
Becky's
share
in
the
picnic.
They
tripped
along
the
murky
aisles
with
the
rest
of
the
company,
visiting
the
familiar
wonders
of
the
cave--wonders
dubbed
with
rather
over-descriptive
names,
such
as"
The
Drawing-Room,""
The
Cathedral,"
"Aladdin's
Palace,"
and
so
on.
Presently
the
hide-and-seek
frolicking
began,
and
Tom
and
Becky
engaged
in
it
with
zeal
until
the
exertion
began
to
grow
a
trifle
wearisome;
then
they
wandered
down
a
sinuous
avenue
holding
their
candles
aloft
and
reading
the
tangled
web-work
of
names,
dates,
post-office
addresses,
and
mottoes
with
which
the
rocky
walls
had
been
frescoed(
in
candle-smoke).
Still
drifting
along
and
talking,
they
scarcely
noticed
that
they
were
now
in
a
part
of
the
cave
whose
walls
were
not
frescoed.
They
smoked
their
own
names
under
an
overhanging
shelf
and
moved
on.
Presently
they
came
to
a
place
where
a
little
stream
of
water,
trickling
over
a
ledge
and
carrying
a
limestone
sediment
with
it,
had,
in
the
slow-dragging
ages,
formed
a
laced
and
ruffled
Niagara
in
gleaming
and
imperishable
stone.
Tom
squeezed
his
small
body
behind
it
in
order
to
illuminate
it
for
Becky's
gratification.
He
found
that
it
curtained
a
sort
of
steep
natural
stairway
which
was
enclosed
between
narrow
walls,
and
at
once
the
ambition
to
be
a
discoverer
seized
him.
Becky
responded
to
his
call,
and
they
made
a
smoke-mark
for
future
guidance,
and
started
upon
their
quest.
They
wound
this
way
and
that,
far
down
into
the
secret
depths
of
the
cave,
made
another
mark,
and
branched
off
in
search
of
novelties
to
tell
the
upper
world
about.
In
one
place
they
found
a
spacious
cavern,
from
whose
ceiling
depended
a
multitude
of
shining
stalactites
of
the
length
and
circumference
of
a
man's
leg;
they
walked
all
about
it,
wondering
and
admiring,
and
presently
left
it
by
one
of
the
numerous
passages
that
opened
into
it.
This
shortly
brought
them
to
a
bewitching
spring,
whose
basin
was
incrusted
with
a
frostwork
of
glittering
crystals;
it
was
in
the
midst
of
a
cavern
whose
walls
were
supported
by
many
fantastic
pillars
which
had
been
formed
by
the
joining
of
great
stalactites
and
stalagmites
together,
the
result
of
the
ceaseless
water-drip
of
centuries.
Under
the
roof
vast
knots
of
bats
had
packed
themselves
together,
thousands
in
a
bunch;
the
lights
disturbed
the
creatures
and
they
came
flocking
down
by
hundreds,
squeaking
and
darting
furiously
at
the
candles.
Tom
knew
their
ways
and
the
danger
of
this
sort
of
conduct.
He
seized
Becky's
hand
and
hurried
her
into
the
first
corridor
that
offered;
and
none
too
soon,
for
a
bat
struck
Becky's
light
out
with
its
wing
while
she
was
passing
out
of
the
cavern.
The
bats
chased
the
children
a
good
distance;
but
the
fugitives
plunged
into
every
new
passage
that
offered,
and
at
last
got
rid
of
the
perilous
things.
Tom
found
a
subterranean
lake,
shortly,
which
stretched
its
dim
length
away
until
its
shape
was
lost
in
the
shadows.
He
wanted
to
explore
its
borders,
but
concluded
that
it
would
be
best
to
sit
down
and
rest
awhile,
first.
Now,
for
the
first
time,
the
deep
stillness
of
the
place
laid
a
clammy
hand
upon
the
spirits
of
the
children.
Becky
said:
"Why,
I
didn't
notice,
but
it
seems
ever
so
long
since
I
heard
any
of
the
others."
"Come
to
think,
Becky,
we
are
away
down
below
them--and
I
don't
know
how
far
away
north,
or
south,
or
east,
or
whichever
it
is.
We
couldn't
hear
them
here."
Becky
grew
apprehensive.
"I
wonder
how
long
we've
been
down
here,
Tom?
We
better
start
back."
"Yes,
I
reckon
we
better.
P'raps
we
better."
"Can
you
find
the
way,
Tom?
It's
all
a
mixed-up
crookedness
to
me."
"I
reckon
I
could
find
it--but
then
the
bats.
If
they
put
our
candles
out
it
will
be
an
awful
fix.
Let's
try
some
other
way,
so
as
not
to
go
through
there."
"Well.
But
I
hope
we
won't
get
lost.
It
would
be
so
awful!"
and
the
girl
shuddered
at
the
thought
of
the
dreadful
possibilities.
They
started
through
a
corridor,
and
traversed
it
in
silence
a
long
way,
glancing
at
each
new
opening,
to
see
if
there
was
anything
familiar
about
the
look
of
it;
but
they
were
all
strange.
Every
time
Tom
made
an
examination,
Becky
would
watch
his
face
for
an
encouraging
sign,
and
he
would
say
cheerily:
"Oh,
it's
all
right.
This
ain't
the
one,
but
we'll
come
to
it
right
away!"
But
he
felt
less
and
less
hopeful
with
each
failure,
and
presently
began
to
turn
off
into
diverging
avenues
at
sheer
random,
in
desperate
hope
of
finding
the
one
that
was
wanted.
He
still
said
it
was"
all
right,"
but
there
was
such
a
leaden
dread
at
his
heart
that
the
words
had
lost
their
ring
and
sounded
just
as
if
he
had
said,"
All
is
lost!"
Becky
clung
to
his
side
in
an
anguish
of
fear,
and
tried
hard
to
keep
back
the
tears,
but
they
would
come.
At
last
she
said:
"Oh,
Tom,
never
mind
the
bats,
let's
go
back
that
way!
We
seem
to
get
worse
and
worse
off
all
the
time."
"Listen!"
said
he.
Profound
silence;
silence
so
deep
that
even
their
breathings
were
conspicuous
in
the
hush.
Tom
shouted.
The
call
went
echoing
down
the
empty
aisles
and
died
out
in
the
distance
in
a
faint
sound
that
resembled
a
ripple
of
mocking
laughter.
"Oh,
don't
do
it
again,
Tom,
it
is
too
horrid,"
said
Becky.
"It
is
horrid,
but
I
better,
Becky;
they
might
hear
us,
you
know,"
and
he
shouted
again.
The"
might"
was
even
a
chillier
horror
than
the
ghostly
laughter,
it
so
confessed
a
perishing
hope.
The
children
stood
still
and
listened;
but
there
was
no
result.
Tom
turned
upon
the
back
track
at
once,
and
hurried
his
steps.
It
was
but
a
little
while
before
a
certain
indecision
in
his
manner
revealed
another
fearful
fact
to
Becky--he
could
not
find
his
way
back!
"Oh,
Tom,
you
didn't
make
any
marks!"
"Becky,
I
was
such
a
fool!
Such
a
fool!
I
never
thought
we
might
want
to
come
back!
No--I
can't
find
the
way.
It's
all
mixed
up."
"Tom,
Tom,
we're
lost!
we're
lost!
We
never
can
get
out
of
this
awful
place!
Oh,
why
DID
we
ever
leave
the
others!"
She
sank
to
the
ground
and
burst
into
such
a
frenzy
of
crying
that
Tom
was
appalled
with
the
idea
that
she
might
die,
or
lose
her
reason.
He
sat
down
by
her
and
put
his
arms
around
her;
she
buried
her
face
in
his
***,
she
clung
to
him,
she
poured
out
her
terrors,
her
unavailing
regrets,
and
the
far
echoes
turned
them
all
to
jeering
laughter.
Tom
begged
her
to
pluck
up
hope
again,
and
she
said
she
could
not.
He
fell
to
blaming
and
abusing
himself
for
getting
her
into
this
miserable
situation;
this
had
a
better
effect.
She
said
she
would
try
to
hope
again,
she
would
get
up
and
follow
wherever
he
might
lead
if
only
he
would
not
talk
like
that
any
more.
For
he
was
no
more
to
blame
than
she,
she
said.
So
they
moved
on
again--aimlessly--simply
at
random--all
they
could
do
was
to
move,
keep
moving.
For
a
little
while,
hope
made
a
show
of
reviving--not
with
any
reason
to
back
it,
but
only
because
it
is
its
nature
to
revive
when
the
spring
has
not
been
taken
out
of
it
by
age
and
familiarity
with
failure.
By-and-by
Tom
took
Becky's
candle
and
blew
it
out.
This
economy
meant
so
much!
Words
were
not
needed.
Becky
understood,
and
her
hope
died
again.
She
knew
that
Tom
had
a
whole
candle
and
three
or
four
pieces
in
his
pockets--yet
he
must
economize.
By-and-by,
fatigue
began
to
assert
its
claims;
the
children
tried
to
pay
attention,
for
it
was
dreadful
to
think
of
sitting
down
when
time
was
grown
to
be
so
precious,
moving,
in
some
direction,
in
any
direction,
was
at
least
progress
and
might
bear
fruit;
but
to
sit
down
was
to
invite
death
and
shorten
its
pursuit.
At
last
Becky's
frail
limbs
refused
to
carry
her
farther.
She
sat
down.
Tom
rested
with
her,
and
they
talked
of
home,
and
the
friends
there,
and
the
comfortable
beds
and,
above
all,
the
light!
Becky
cried,
and
Tom
tried
to
think
of
some
way
of
comforting
her,
but
all
his
encouragements
were
grown
threadbare
with
use,
and
sounded
like
sarcasms.
Fatigue
bore
so
heavily
upon
Becky
that
she
drowsed
off
to
sleep.
Tom
was
grateful.
He
sat
looking
into
her
drawn
face
and
saw
it
grow
smooth
and
natural
under
the
influence
of
pleasant
dreams;
and
by-and-by
a
smile
dawned
and
rested
there.
The
peaceful
face
reflected
somewhat
of
peace
and
healing
into
his
own
spirit,
and
his
thoughts
wandered
away
to
bygone
times
and
dreamy
memories.
While
he
was
deep
in
his
musings,
Becky
woke
up
with
a
breezy
little
laugh--but
it
was
stricken
dead
upon
her
lips,
and
a
groan
followed
it.
"Oh,
how
COULD
I
sleep!
I
wish
I
never,
never
had
waked!
No!
No,
I
don't,
Tom!
Don't
look
so!
I
won't
say
it
again."
"I'm
glad
you've
slept,
Becky;
you'll
feel
rested,
now,
and
we'll
find
the
way
out."
"We
can
try,
Tom;
but
I've
seen
such
a
beautiful
country
in
my
dream.
I
reckon
we
are
going
there."
"Maybe
not,
maybe
not.
Cheer
up,
Becky,
and
let's
go
on
trying."
They
rose
up
and
wandered
along,
hand
in
hand
and
hopeless.
They
tried
to
estimate
how
long
they
had
been
in
the
cave,
but
all
they
knew
was
that
it
seemed
days
and
weeks,
and
yet
it
was
plain
that
this
could
not
be,
for
their
candles
were
not
gone
yet.
A
long
time
after
this--they
could
not
tell
how
long--Tom
said
they
must
go
softly
and
listen
for
dripping
water--they
must
find
a
spring.
They
found
one
presently,
and
Tom
said
it
was
time
to
rest
again.
Both
were
cruelly
tired,
yet
Becky
said
she
thought
she
could
go
a
little
farther.
She
was
surprised
to
hear
Tom
dissent.
She
could
not
understand
it.
They
sat
down,
and
Tom
fastened
his
candle
to
the
wall
in
front
of
them
with
some
clay.
Thought
was
soon
busy;
nothing
was
said
for
some
time.
Then
Becky
broke
the
silence:
"Tom,
I
am
so
hungry!"
Tom
took
something
out
of
his
pocket.
"Do
you
remember
this?"
said
he.
Becky
almost
smiled.
"It's
our
wedding-cake,
Tom."
"Yes--I
wish
it
was
as
big
as
a
barrel,
for
it's
all
we've
got."
"I
saved
it
from
the
picnic
for
us
to
dream
on,
Tom,
the
way
grown-up
people
do
with
wedding-cake--but
it'll
be
our--"
She
dropped
the
sentence
where
it
was.
Tom
divided
the
cake
and
Becky
ate
with
good
appetite,
while
Tom
nibbled
at
his
moiety.
There
was
abundance
of
cold
water
to
finish
the
feast
with.
By-and-by
Becky
suggested
that
they
move
on
again.
Tom
was
silent
a
moment.
Then
he
said:
"Becky,
can
you
bear
it
if
I
tell
you
something?"
Becky's
face
paled,
but
she
thought
she
could.
"Well,
then,
Becky,
we
must
stay
here,
where
there's
water
to
drink.
That
little
piece
is
our
last
candle!"
Becky
gave
loose
to
tears
and
wailings.
Tom
did
what
he
could
to
comfort
her,
but
with
little
effect.
At
length
Becky
said:
"Tom!"
"Well,
Becky?"
"They'll
miss
us
and
hunt
for
us!"
"Yes,
they
will!
Certainly
they
will!"
"Maybe
they're
hunting
for
us
now,
Tom."
"Why,
I
reckon
maybe
they
are.
I
hope
they
are."
"When
would
they
miss
us,
Tom?"
"When
they
get
back
to
the
boat,
I
reckon."
"Tom,
it
might
be
dark
then--would
they
notice
we
hadn't
come?"
"I
don't
know.
But
anyway,
your
mother
would
miss
you
as
soon
as
they
got
home."
A
frightened
look
in
Becky's
face
brought
Tom
to
his
senses
and
he
saw
that
he
had
made
a
blunder.
Becky
was
not
to
have
gone
home
that
night!
The
children
became
silent
and
thoughtful.
In
a
moment
a
new
burst
of
grief
from
Becky
showed
Tom
that
the
thing
in
his
mind
had
struck
hers
also--that
the
Sabbath
morning
might
be
half
spent
before
Mrs.
Thatcher
discovered
that
Becky
was
not
at
Mrs.
Harper's.
The
children
fastened
their
eyes
upon
their
bit
of
candle
and
watched
it
melt
slowly
and
pitilessly
away;
saw
the
half
inch
of
wick
stand
alone
at
last;
saw
the
feeble
flame
rise
and
fall,
climb
the
thin
column
of
smoke,
linger
at
its
top
a
moment,
and
then--the
horror
of
utter
darkness
reigned!
How
long
afterward
it
was
that
Becky
came
to
a
slow
consciousness
that
she
was
crying
in
Tom's
arms,
neither
could
tell.
All
that
they
knew
was,
that
after
what
seemed
a
mighty
stretch
of
time,
both
awoke
out
of
a
dead
stupor
of
sleep
and
resumed
their
miseries
once
more.
Tom
said
it
might
be
Sunday,
now--maybe
Monday.
He
tried
to
get
Becky
to
talk,
but
her
sorrows
were
too
oppressive,
all
her
hopes
were
gone.
Tom
said
that
they
must
have
been
missed
long
ago,
and
no
doubt
the
search
was
going
on.
He
would
shout
and
maybe
some
one
would
come.
He
tried
it;
but
in
the
darkness
the
distant
echoes
sounded
so
hideously
that
he
tried
it
no
more.
The
hours
wasted
away,
and
hunger
came
to
torment
the
captives
again.
A
portion
of
Tom's
half
of
the
cake
was
left;
they
divided
and
ate
it.
But
they
seemed
hungrier
than
before.
The
poor
morsel
of
food
only
whetted
desire.
By-and-by
Tom
said:
"SH!
Did
you
hear
that?"
Both
held
their
breath
and
listened.
There
was
a
sound
like
the
faintest,
far-off
shout.
Instantly
Tom
answered
it,
and
leading
Becky
by
the
hand,
started
groping
down
the
corridor
in
its
direction.
Presently
he
listened
again;
again
the
sound
was
heard,
and
apparently
a
little
nearer.
"It's
them!"
said
Tom;"
they're
coming!
Come
along,
Becky--we're
all
right
now!"
The
joy
of
the
prisoners
was
almost
overwhelming.
Their
speed
was
slow,
however,
because
pitfalls
were
somewhat
common,
and
had
to
be
guarded
against.
They
shortly
came
to
one
and
had
to
stop.
It
might
be
three
feet
deep,
it
might
be
a
hundred--there
was
no
passing
it
at
any
rate.
Tom
got
down
on
his
breast
and
reached
as
far
down
as
he
could.
No
bottom.
They
must
stay
there
and
wait
until
the
searchers
came.
They
listened;
evidently
the
distant
shoutings
were
growing
more
distant!
a
moment
or
two
more
and
they
had
gone
altogether.
The
heart-sinking
misery
of
it!
Tom
whooped
until
he
was
hoarse,
but
it
was
of
no
use.
He
talked
hopefully
to
Becky;
but
an
age
of
anxious
waiting
passed
and
no
sounds
came
again.
The
children
groped
their
way
back
to
the
spring.
The
weary
time
dragged
on;
they
slept
again,
and
awoke
famished
and
woe-stricken.
Tom
believed
it
must
be
Tuesday
by
this
time.
Now
an
idea
struck
him.
There
were
some
side
passages
near
at
hand.
It
would
be
better
to
explore
some
of
these
than
bear
the
weight
of
the
heavy
time
in
idleness.
He
took
a
kite-line
from
his
pocket,
tied
it
to
a
projection,
and
he
and
Becky
started,
Tom
in
the
lead,
unwinding
the
line
as
he
groped
along.
At
the
end
of
twenty
steps
the
corridor
ended
in
a"
jumping-off
place."
Tom
got
down
on
his
knees
and
felt
below,
and
then
as
far
around
the
corner
as
he
could
reach
with
his
hands
conveniently;
he
made
an
effort
to
stretch
yet
a
little
farther
to
the
right,
and
at
that
moment,
not
twenty
yards
away,
a
human
hand,
holding
a
candle,
appeared
from
behind
a
rock!
Tom
lifted
up
a
glorious
shout,
and
instantly
that
hand
was
followed
by
the
body
it
belonged
to--***
Joe's!
Tom
was
paralyzed;
he
could
not
move.
He
was
vastly
gratified
the
next
moment,
to
see
the"
Spaniard"
take
to
his
heels
and
get
himself
out
of
sight.
Tom
wondered
that
Joe
had
not
recognized
his
voice
and
come
over
and
killed
him
for
testifying
in
court.
But
the
echoes
must
have
disguised
the
voice.
Without
doubt,
that
was
it,
he
reasoned.
Tom's
fright
weakened
every
muscle
in
his
body.
He
said
to
himself
that
if
he
had
strength
enough
to
get
back
to
the
spring
he
would
stay
there,
and
nothing
should
tempt
him
to
run
the
risk
of
meeting
***
Joe
again.
He
was
careful
to
keep
from
Becky
what
it
was
he
had
seen.
He
told
her
he
had
only
shouted"
for
luck."
But
hunger
and
wretchedness
rise
superior
to
fears
in
the
long
run.
Another
tedious
wait
at
the
spring
and
another
long
sleep
brought
changes.
The
children
awoke
tortured
with
a
raging
hunger.
Tom
believed
that
it
must
be
Wednesday
or
Thursday
or
even
Friday
or
Saturday,
now,
and
that
the
search
had
been
given
over.
He
proposed
to
explore
another
passage.
He
felt
willing
to
risk
***
Joe
and
all
other
terrors.
But
Becky
was
very
weak.
She
had
sunk
into
a
dreary
apathy
and
would
not
be
roused.
She
said
she
would
wait,
now,
where
she
was,
and
die--it
would
not
be
long.
She
told
Tom
to
go
with
the
kite-line
and
explore
if
he
chose;
but
she
implored
him
to
come
back
every
little
while
and
speak
to
her;
and
she
made
him
promise
that
when
the
awful
time
came,
he
would
stay
by
her
and
hold
her
hand
until
all
was
over.
Tom
kissed
her,
with
a
choking
sensation
in
his
throat,
and
made
a
show
of
being
confident
of
finding
the
searchers
or
an
escape
from
the
cave;
then
he
took
the
kite-line
in
his
hand
and
went
groping
down
one
of
the
passages
on
his
hands
and
knees,
distressed
with
hunger
and
sick
with
bodings
of
coming
doom.
CHAPTER
XXXII
TUESDAY
afternoon
came,
and
waned
to
the
twilight.
The
village
of
St.
Petersburg
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
population
massed
itself
and
moved
toward
the
river,
met
the
children
coming
in
an
open
carriage
drawn
by
shouting
citizens,
thronged
around
it,
joined
its
homeward
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.
Thatcher'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,
however,
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
auditory
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
happened
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
exciting
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,
***
Joe's
in
the
cave!"