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Chapter XXIII.
WELL, all day him and the king was hard at
it, rigging up a stage and a curtain and a
row of candles for footlights; and that
night the house was jam full of men in no
time.
When the place couldn't hold no more, the
duke he quit tending door and went around
the back way and come on to the stage and
stood up before the curtain and made a
little speech, and praised up this tragedy,
and said it was the most thrillingest one
that ever was; and so he went on a-bragging
about the tragedy, and about Edmund Kean
the Elder, which was to play the main
principal part in it; and at last when he'd
got everybody's expectations up high
enough, he rolled up the curtain, and the
next minute the king come a-prancing out on
all fours, naked; and he was painted all
over, ring-streaked-and- striped, all sorts
of colors, as splendid as a rainbow.
And--but never mind the rest of his outfit;
it was just wild, but it was awful funny.
The people most killed themselves laughing;
and when the king got done capering and
capered off behind the scenes, they roared
and clapped and stormed and haw-hawed till
he come back and done it over again, and
after that they made him do it another
time.
Well, it would make a cow laugh to see the
shines that old idiot cut.
Then the duke he lets the curtain down, and
bows to the people, and says the great
tragedy will be performed only two nights
more, on accounts of pressing London
engagements, where the seats is all sold
already for it in Drury Lane; and then he
makes them another bow, and says if he has
succeeded in pleasing them and instructing
them, he will be deeply obleeged if they
will mention it to their friends and get
them to come and see it.
Twenty people sings out:
"What, is it over?
Is that ALL?"
The duke says yes.
Then there was a fine time.
Everybody sings out, "Sold!" and rose up
mad, and was a-going for that stage and
them tragedians.
But a big, fine looking man jumps up on a
bench and shouts:
"Hold on!
Just a word, gentlemen."
They stopped to listen.
"We are sold--mighty badly sold.
But we don't want to be the laughing stock
of this whole town, I reckon, and never
hear the last of this thing as long as we
live.
NO.
What we want is to go out of here quiet,
and talk this show up, and sell the REST of
the town!
Then we'll all be in the same boat.
Ain't that sensible?"
("You bet it is!--the jedge is right!"
everybody sings out.)
"All right, then--not a word about any
sell.
Go along home, and advise everybody to come
and see the tragedy."
Next day you couldn't hear nothing around
that town but how splendid that show was.
House was jammed again that night, and we
sold this crowd the same way.
When me and the king and the duke got home
to the raft we all had a supper; and by and
by, about midnight, they made Jim and me
back her out and float her down the middle
of the river, and fetch her in and hide her
about two mile below town.
The third night the house was crammed
again--and they warn't new-comers this
time, but people that was at the show the
other two nights.
I stood by the duke at the door, and I see
that every man that went in had his pockets
bulging, or something muffled up under his
coat--and I see it warn't no perfumery,
neither, not by a long sight.
I smelt sickly eggs by the barrel, and
rotten cabbages, and such things; and if I
know the signs of a dead cat being around,
and I bet I do, there was sixty-four of
them went in.
I shoved in there for a minute, but it was
too various for me; I couldn't stand it.
Well, when the place couldn't hold no more
people the duke he give a fellow a quarter
and told him to tend door for him a minute,
and then he started around for the stage
door, I after him; but the minute we turned
the corner and was in the dark he says:
"Walk fast now till you get away from the
houses, and then shin for the raft like the
dickens was after you!"
I done it, and he done the same.
We struck the raft at the same time, and in
less than two seconds we was gliding down
stream, all dark and still, and edging
towards the middle of the river, nobody
saying a word.
I reckoned the poor king was in for a gaudy
time of it with the audience, but nothing
of the sort; pretty soon he crawls out from
under the wigwam, and says:
"Well, how'd the old thing pan out this
time, duke?"
He hadn't been up-town at all.
We never showed a light till we was about
ten mile below the village.
Then we lit up and had a supper, and the
king and the duke fairly laughed their
bones loose over the way they'd served them
people.
The duke says:
"Greenhorns, flatheads!
I knew the first house would keep mum and
let the rest of the town get roped in; and
I knew they'd lay for us the third night,
and consider it was THEIR turn now.
Well, it IS their turn, and I'd give
something to know how much they'd take for
it.
I WOULD just like to know how they're
putting in their opportunity.
They can turn it into a picnic if they want
to--they brought plenty provisions."
Them rapscallions took in four hundred and
sixty-five dollars in that three nights.
I never see money hauled in by the wagon-
load like that before.
By and by, when they was asleep and
snoring, Jim says:
"Don't it s'prise you de way dem kings
carries on, Huck?"
"No," I says, "it don't."
"Why don't it, Huck?"
"Well, it don't, because it's in the breed.
I reckon they're all alike,"
"But, Huck, dese kings o' ourn is reglar
rapscallions; dat's jist what dey is; dey's
reglar rapscallions."
"Well, that's what I'm a-saying; all kings
is mostly rapscallions, as fur as I can
make out."
"Is dat so?"
"You read about them once--you'll see.
Look at Henry the Eight; this 'n 's a
Sunday-school Superintendent to HIM.
And look at Charles Second, and Louis
Fourteen, and Louis Fifteen, and James
Second, and Edward Second, and Richard
Third, and forty more; besides all them
Saxon heptarchies that used to rip around
so in old times and raise Cain.
My, you ought to seen old Henry the Eight
when he was in bloom.
He WAS a blossom.
He used to marry a new wife every day, and
chop off her head next morning.
And he would do it just as indifferent as
if he was ordering up eggs.
'Fetch up Nell Gwynn,' he says.
They fetch her up.
Next morning, 'Chop off her head!'
And they chop it off.
'Fetch up Jane Shore,' he says; and up she
comes, Next morning, 'Chop off her head'--
and they chop it off.
'Ring up Fair Rosamun.'
Fair Rosamun answers the bell.
Next morning, 'Chop off her head.'
And he made every one of them tell him a
tale every night; and he kept that up till
he had hogged a thousand and one tales that
way, and then he put them all in a book,
and called it Domesday Book--which was a
good name and stated the case.
You don't know kings, Jim, but I know them;
and this old rip of ourn is one of the
cleanest I've struck in history.
Well, Henry he takes a notion he wants to
get up some trouble with this country.
How does he go at it --give notice?--give
the country a show?
No.
All of a sudden he heaves all the tea in
Boston Harbor overboard, and whacks out a
declaration of independence, and dares them
to come on.
That was HIS style--he never give anybody a
chance.
He had suspicions of his father, the Duke
of Wellington.
Well, what did he do?
Ask him to show up?
No--drownded him in a butt of mamsey, like
a cat.
S'pose people left money laying around
where he was--what did he do?
He collared it.
S'pose he contracted to do a thing, and you
paid him, and didn't set down there and see
that he done it--what did he do?
He always done the other thing.
S'pose he opened his mouth--what then?
If he didn't shut it up powerful quick he'd
lose a lie every time.
That's the kind of a bug Henry was; and if
we'd a had him along 'stead of our kings
he'd a fooled that town a heap worse than
ourn done.
I don't say that ourn is lambs, because
they ain't, when you come right down to the
cold facts; but they ain't nothing to THAT
old ram, anyway.
All I say is, kings is kings, and you got
to make allowances.
Take them all around, they're a mighty
ornery lot.
It's the way they're raised."
"But dis one do SMELL so like de nation,
Huck."
"Well, they all do, Jim.
We can't help the way a king smells;
history don't tell no way."
"Now de duke, he's a tolerble likely man in
some ways."
"Yes, a duke's different.
But not very different.
This one's a middling hard lot for a duke.
When he's drunk there ain't no near-sighted
man could tell him from a king."
"Well, anyways, I doan' hanker for no mo'
un um, Huck.
Dese is all I kin stan'."
"It's the way I feel, too, Jim.
But we've got them on our hands, and we got
to remember what they are, and make
allowances.
Sometimes I wish we could hear of a country
that's out of kings."
What was the use to tell Jim these warn't
real kings and dukes?
It wouldn't a done no good; and, besides,
it was just as I said: you couldn't tell
them from the real kind.
I went to sleep, and Jim didn't call me
when it was my turn.
He often done that.
When I waked up just at daybreak he was
sitting there with his head down betwixt
his knees, moaning and mourning to himself.
I didn't take notice nor let on.
I knowed what it was about.
He was thinking about his wife and his
children, away up yonder, and he was low
and homesick; because he hadn't ever been
away from home before in his life; and I do
believe he cared just as much for his
people as white folks does for their'n.
It don't seem natural, but I reckon it's
so.
He was often moaning and mourning that way
nights, when he judged I was asleep, and
saying, "Po' little 'Lizabeth! po' little
Johnny! it's mighty hard; I spec' I ain't
ever gwyne to see you no mo', no mo'!"
He was a mighty good ***, Jim was.
But this time I somehow got to talking to
him about his wife and young ones; and by
and by he says:
"What makes me feel so bad dis time 'uz
bekase I hear sumpn over yonder on de bank
like a whack, er a slam, while ago, en it
mine me er de time I treat my little
'Lizabeth so ornery.
She warn't on'y 'bout fo' year ole, en she
tuck de sk'yarlet fever, en had a powful
rough spell; but she got well, en one day
she was a-stannin' aroun', en I says to
her, I says:
"'Shet de do'.'
"She never done it; jis' stood dah, kiner
smilin' up at me.
It make me mad; en I says agin, mighty
loud, I says:
"'Doan' you hear me?
Shet de do'!'
"She jis stood de same way, kiner smilin'
up.
I was a-bilin'!
I says:
"'I lay I MAKE you mine!'
"En wid dat I fetch' her a slap side de
head dat sont her a-sprawlin'.
Den I went into de yuther room, en 'uz gone
'bout ten minutes; en when I come back dah
was dat do' a-stannin' open YIT, en dat
chile stannin' mos' right in it, a-lookin'
down and mournin', en de tears runnin'
down.
My, but I WUZ mad!
I was a-gwyne for de chile, but jis' den--
it was a do' dat open innerds--jis' den,
'long come de wind en slam it to, behine de
chile, ker-BLAM!--en my lan', de chile
never move'!
My breff mos' hop outer me; en I feel so--
so--I doan' know HOW I feel.
I crope out, all a-tremblin', en crope
aroun' en open de do' easy en slow, en poke
my head in behine de chile, sof' en still,
en all uv a sudden I says POW! jis' as loud
as I could yell.
SHE NEVER BUDGE!
Oh, Huck, I bust out a-cryin' en grab her
up in my arms, en say, 'Oh, de po' little
thing!
De Lord God Amighty fogive po' ole Jim,
kaze he never gwyne to fogive hisself as
long's he live!'
Oh, she was plumb deef en dumb, Huck, plumb
deef en dumb--en I'd ben a-treat'n her so!"