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Chapter XVIII
THAT was Tom's great secret--the scheme to
return home with his brother pirates and
attend their own funerals.
They had paddled over to the Missouri
shore on a log, at dusk on Saturday,
landing five or six miles below the
village; they had slept in the woods at
the edge of the town till nearly daylight,
and had then crept through back lanes and
alleys and finished their sleep in the
gallery of the church among a chaos of
invalided benches.
At breakfast, Monday morning, Aunt Polly
and Mary were very loving to Tom, and very
attentive to his wants.
There was an unusual amount of talk.
In the course of it Aunt Polly said:
"Well, I don't say it wasn't a fine joke,
Tom, to keep everybody suffering 'most a
week so you boys had a good time, but it
is a pity you could be so hard-hearted as
to let me suffer so.
If you could come over on a log to go to
your funeral, you could have come over and
give me a hint some way that you warn't
dead, but only run off."
"Yes, you could have done that, Tom," said
Mary; "and I believe you would if you had
thought of it."
"Would you, Tom?"
said Aunt Polly, her face lighting
wistfully.
"Say, now, would you, if you'd thought of
it?"
"I--well, I don't know.
'Twould 'a' spoiled everything."
"Tom, I hoped you loved me that much,"
said Aunt Polly, with a grieved tone that
discomforted the boy.
"It would have been something if you'd
cared enough to THINK of it, even if you
didn't DO it."
"Now, auntie, that ain't any harm,"
pleaded Mary; "it's only Tom's giddy way--
he is always in such a rush that he never
thinks of anything."
"More's the pity.
Sid would have thought.
And Sid would have come and DONE it, too.
Tom, you'll look back, some day, when it's
too late, and wish you'd cared a little
more for me when it would have cost you so
little."
"Now, auntie, you know I do care for you,"
said Tom.
"I'd know it better if you acted more like
it."
"I wish now I'd thought," said Tom, with a
repentant tone; "but I dreamt about you,
anyway.
That's something, ain't it?"
"It ain't much--a cat does that much--but
it's better than nothing.
What did you dream?"
"Why, Wednesday night I dreamt that you
was sitting over there by the bed, and Sid
was sitting by the woodbox, and Mary next
to him."
"Well, so we did.
So we always do.
I'm glad your dreams could take even that
much trouble about us."
"And I dreamt that Joe Harper's mother was
here."
"Why, she was here!
Did you dream any more?"
"Oh, lots.
But it's so dim, now."
"Well, try to recollect--can't you?"
"Somehow it seems to me that the wind--the
wind blowed the--the--"
"Try harder, Tom!
The wind did blow something.
Come!"
Tom pressed his fingers on his forehead an
anxious minute, and then said:
"I've got it now!
I've got it now!
It blowed the candle!"
"Mercy on us!
Go on, Tom--go on!"
"And it seems to me that you said, 'Why, I
believe that that door--'"
"Go ON, Tom!"
"Just let me study a moment--just a
Oh, yes--you said you believed the door
was open."
"As I'm sitting here, I did!
Didn't I, Mary!
Go on!"
"And then--and then--well I won't be
certain, but it seems like as if you made
Sid go and--and--"
"Well?
Well?
What did I make him do, Tom?
What did I make him do?"
"You made him--you--Oh, you made him shut
it."
"Well, for the land's sake!
I never heard the beat of that in all my
days!
Don't tell ME there ain't anything in
dreams, any more.
Sereny Harper shall know of this before
I'm an hour older.
I'd like to see her get around THIS with
her rubbage 'bout superstition.
Go on, Tom!"
"Oh, it's all getting just as bright as
day, now.
Next you said I warn't BAD, only
mischeevous and harum-scarum, and not any
more responsible than--than--I think it
was a colt, or something."
"And so it was!
Well, goodness gracious!
Go on, Tom!"
"And then you began to cry."
"So I did.
So I did.
Not the first time, neither.
And then--"
"Then Mrs. Harper she began to cry, and
said Joe was just the same, and she wished
she hadn't whipped him for taking cream
when she'd throwed it out her own self--"
"Tom!
The sperrit was upon you!
You was a prophesying--that's what you was
doing!
Land alive, go on, Tom!"
"Then Sid he said--he said--"
"I don't think I said anything," said Sid.
"Yes you did, Sid," said Mary.
"Shut your heads and let Tom go on!
What did he say, Tom?"
"He said--I THINK he said he hoped I was
better off where I was gone to, but if I'd
been better sometimes--"
"THERE, d'you hear that!
It was his very words!"
"And you shut him up sharp."
"I lay I did!
There must 'a' been an angel there.
There WAS an angel there, somewheres!"
"And Mrs. Harper told about Joe scaring
her with a firecracker, and you told about
Peter and the Painkiller--"
"Just as true as I live!"
"And then there was a whole lot of talk
'bout dragging the river for us, and 'bout
having the funeral Sunday, and then you
and old Miss Harper hugged and cried, and
she went."
"It happened just so!
It happened just so, as sure as I'm a-
sitting in these very tracks.
Tom, you couldn't told it more like if
you'd 'a' seen it!
And then what?
Go on, Tom!"
"Then I thought you prayed for me--and I
could see you and hear every word you
said.
And you went to bed, and I was so sorry
that I took and wrote on a piece of
sycamore bark, 'We ain't dead--we are only
off being pirates,' and put it on the
table by the candle; and then you looked
so good, laying there asleep, that I
thought I went and leaned over and kissed
you on the lips."
"Did you, Tom, DID you!
I just forgive you everything for that!"
And she seized the boy in a crushing
embrace that made him feel like the
guiltiest of villains.
"It was very kind, even though it was only
a--dream," Sid soliloquized just audibly.
"Shut up, Sid!
A body does just the same in a dream as
he'd do if he was awake.
Here's a big Milum apple I've been saving
for you, Tom, if you was ever found again-
-now go 'long to school.
I'm thankful to the good God and Father of
us all I've got you back, that's long-
suffering and merciful to them that
believe on Him and keep His word, though
goodness knows I'm unworthy of it, but if
only the worthy ones got His blessings and
had His hand to help them over the rough
places, there's few enough would smile
here or ever enter into His rest when the
long night comes.
Go 'long Sid, Mary, Tom--take yourselves
off--you've hendered me long enough."
The children left for school, and the old
lady to call on Mrs. Harper and vanquish
her realism with Tom's marvellous dream.
Sid had better judgment than to utter the
thought that was in his mind as he left
the house.
It was this: "Pretty thin--as long a dream
as that, without any mistakes in it!"
What a hero Tom was become, now!
He did not go skipping and prancing, but
moved with a dignified swagger as became a
pirate who felt that the public eye was on
him.
And indeed it was; he tried not to seem to
see the looks or hear the remarks as he
passed along, but they were food and drink
to him.
Smaller boys than himself flocked at his
heels, as proud to be seen with him, and
tolerated by him, as if he had been the
drummer at the head of a procession or the
elephant leading a menagerie into town.
Boys of his own size pretended not to know
he had been away at all; but they were
consuming with envy, nevertheless.
They would have given anything to have
that swarthy suntanned skin of his, and
his glittering notoriety; and Tom would
not have parted with either for a circus.
At school the children made so much of him
and of Joe, and delivered such eloquent
admiration from their eyes, that the two
heroes were not long in becoming
insufferably "stuck-up."
They began to tell their adventures to
hungry listeners--but they only began; it
was not a thing likely to have an end,
with imaginations like theirs to furnish
material.
And finally, when they got out their pipes
and went serenely puffing around, the very
summit of glory was reached.
Tom decided that he could be independent
of Becky Thatcher now.
Glory was sufficient.
He would live for glory.
Now that he was distinguished, maybe she
would be wanting to "make up."
Well, let her--she should see that he
could be as indifferent as some other
people.
Presently she arrived.
Tom pretended not to see her.
He moved away and joined a group of boys
and girls and began to talk.
Soon he observed that she was tripping
gayly back and forth with flushed face and
dancing eyes, pretending to be busy
chasing schoolmates, and screaming with
laughter when she made a capture; but he
noticed that she always made her captures
in his vicinity, and that she seemed to
cast a conscious eye in his direction at
such times, too.
It gratified all the vicious vanity that
was in him; and so, instead of winning
him, it only "set him up" the more and
made him the more diligent to avoid
betraying that he knew she was about.
Presently she gave over skylarking, and
moved irresolutely about, sighing once or
twice and glancing furtively and wistfully
toward Tom.
Then she observed that now Tom was talking
more particularly to Amy Lawrence than to
any one else.
She felt a sharp pang and grew disturbed
and uneasy at once.
She tried to go away, but her feet were
treacherous, and carried her to the group
instead.
She said to a girl almost at Tom's elbow--
with sham vivacity:
"Why, Mary Austin!
you bad girl, why didn't you come to
Sunday-school?"
"I did come--didn't you see me?"
"Why, no!
Did you?
Where did you sit?"
"I was in Miss Peters' class, where I
always go.
I saw YOU."
"Did you?
Why, it's funny I didn't see you.
I wanted to tell you about the picnic."
"Oh, that's jolly.
Who's going to give it?"
"My ma's going to let me have one."
"Oh, goody; I hope she'll let ME come."
"Well, she will.
The picnic's for me.
She'll let anybody come that I want, and I
want you."
"That's ever so nice.
When is it going to be?"
"By and by.
Maybe about vacation."
"Oh, won't it be fun!
You going to have all the girls and boys?"
"Yes, every one that's friends to me--or
wants to be"; and she glanced ever so
furtively at Tom, but he talked right
along to Amy Lawrence about the terrible
storm on the island, and how the lightning
tore the great sycamore tree "all to
flinders" while he was "standing within
three feet of it."
"Oh, may I come?"
said Grace Miller.
"Yes."
"And me?"
said Sally Rogers.
"Yes."
"And me, too?"
said Susy Harper.
"And Joe?"
"Yes."
And so on, with clapping of joyful hands
till all the group had begged for
invitations but Tom and Amy.
Then Tom turned coolly away, still
talking, and took Amy with him.
Becky's lips trembled and the tears came
to her eyes; she hid these signs with a
forced gayety and went on chattering, but
the life had gone out of the picnic, now,
and out of everything else; she got away
as soon as she could and hid herself and
had what her sex call "a good cry."
Then she sat moody, with wounded pride,
till the bell rang.
She roused up, now, with a vindictive cast
in her eye, and gave her plaited tails a
shake and said she knew what SHE'D do.
At recess Tom continued his flirtation
with Amy with jubilant self-satisfaction.
And he kept drifting about to find Becky
and lacerate her with the performance.
At last he spied her, but there was a
sudden falling of his mercury.
She was sitting cosily on a little bench
behind the schoolhouse looking at a
picture-book with Alfred Temple--and so
absorbed were they, and their heads so
close together over the book, that they
did not seem to be conscious of anything
in the world besides.
Jealousy ran red-hot through Tom's veins.
He began to hate himself for throwing away
the chance Becky had offered for a
reconciliation.
He called himself a fool, and all the hard
names he could think of.
He wanted to cry with vexation.
Amy chatted happily along, as they walked,
for her heart was singing, but Tom's
tongue had lost its function.
He did not hear what Amy was saying, and
whenever she paused expectantly he could
only stammer an awkward assent, which was
as often misplaced as otherwise.
He kept drifting to the rear of the
schoolhouse, again and again, to sear his
eyeballs with the hateful spectacle there.
He could not help it.
And it maddened him to see, as he thought
he saw, that Becky Thatcher never once
suspected that he was even in the land of
the living.
But she did see, nevertheless; and she
knew she was winning her fight, too, and
was glad to see him suffer as she had
suffered.
Amy's happy prattle became intolerable.
Tom hinted at things he had to attend to;
things that must be done; and time was
fleeting.
But in vain--the girl chirped on.
Tom thought, "Oh, hang her, ain't I ever
going to get rid of her?"
At last he must be attending to those
things--and she said artlessly that she
would be "around" when school let out.
And he hastened away, hating her for it.
"Any other boy!"
Tom thought, grating his teeth.
"Any boy in the whole town but that Saint
Louis smarty that thinks he dresses so
fine and is aristocracy!
Oh, all right, I licked you the first day
you ever saw this town, mister, and I'll
lick you again!
You just wait till I catch you out!
I'll just take and--"
And he went through the motions of
thrashing an imaginary boy --pummelling
the air, and kicking and gouging.
"Oh, you do, do you?
You holler 'nough, do you?
Now, then, let that learn you!"
And so the imaginary flogging was finished
to his satisfaction.
Tom fled home at noon.
His conscience could not endure any more
of Amy's grateful happiness, and his
jealousy could bear no more of the other
distress.
Becky resumed her picture inspections with
Alfred, but as the minutes dragged along
and no Tom came to suffer, her triumph
began to cloud and she lost interest;
gravity and absent-mindedness followed,
and then melancholy; two or three times
she pricked up her ear at a footstep, but
it was a false hope; no Tom came.
At last she grew entirely miserable and
wished she hadn't carried it so far.
When poor Alfred, seeing that he was
losing her, he did not know how, kept
exclaiming: "Oh, here's a jolly one!
look at this!"
she lost patience at last, and said, "Oh,
don't bother me!
I don't care for them!"
and burst into tears, and got up and
walked away.
Alfred dropped alongside and was going to
try to comfort her, but she said:
"Go away and leave me alone, can't you!
I hate you!"
So the boy halted, wondering what he could
have done--for she had said she would look
at pictures all through the nooning--and
she walked on, crying.
Then Alfred went musing into the deserted
schoolhouse.
He was humiliated and angry.
He easily guessed his way to the truth--
the girl had simply made a convenience of
him to vent her spite upon Tom Sawyer.
He was far from hating Tom the less when
this thought occurred to him.
He wished there was some way to get that
boy into trouble without much risk to
himself.
Tom's spelling-book fell under his eye.
Here was his opportunity.
He gratefully opened to the lesson for the
afternoon and poured ink upon the page.
Becky, glancing in at a window behind him
at the moment, saw the act, and moved on,
without discovering herself.
She started homeward, now, intending to
find Tom and tell him; Tom would be
thankful and their troubles would be
healed.
Before she was half way home, however, she
had changed her mind.
The thought of Tom's treatment of her when
she was talking about her picnic came
scorching back and filled her with shame.
She resolved to let him get whipped on the
damaged spelling-book's account, and to
hate him forever, into the bargain.