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X
Chapter XI.
"COME in," says the woman, and I did.
She says: "Take a cheer."
I done it.
She looked me all over with her little
shiny eyes, and says:
"What might your name be?"
"Sarah Williams."
"Where 'bouts do you live?
In this neighborhood?'
"No'm.
In Hookerville, seven mile below.
I've walked all the way and I'm all tired
out."
"Hungry, too, I reckon.
I'll find you something."
"No'm, I ain't hungry.
I was so hungry I had to stop two miles
below here at a farm; so I ain't hungry no
more.
It's what makes me so late.
My mother's down sick, and out of money and
everything, and I come to tell my uncle
Abner Moore.
He lives at the upper end of the town, she
says.
I hain't ever been here before.
Do you know him?"
"No; but I don't know everybody yet.
I haven't lived here quite two weeks.
It's a considerable ways to the upper end
of the town.
You better stay here all night.
Take off your bonnet."
"No," I says; "I'll rest a while, I reckon,
and go on.
I ain't afeared of the dark."
She said she wouldn't let me go by myself,
but her husband would be in by and by,
maybe in a hour and a half, and she'd send
him along with me.
Then she got to talking about her husband,
and about her relations up the river, and
her relations down the river, and about how
much better off they used to was, and how
they didn't know but they'd made a mistake
coming to our town, instead of letting well
alone--and so on and so on, till I was
afeard I had made a mistake coming to her
to find out what was going on in the town;
but by and by she dropped on to pap and the
***, and then I was pretty willing to
let her clatter right along.
She told about me and Tom Sawyer finding
the six thousand dollars (only she got it
ten) and all about pap and what a hard lot
he was, and what a hard lot I was, and at
last she got down to where I was murdered.
I says:
"Who done it?
We've heard considerable about these goings
on down in Hookerville, but we don't know
who 'twas that killed Huck Finn."
"Well, I reckon there's a right smart
chance of people HERE that'd like to know
who killed him.
Some think old Finn done it himself."
"No--is that so?"
"Most everybody thought it at first.
He'll never know how nigh he come to
getting lynched.
But before night they changed around and
judged it was done by a runaway ***
named Jim."
"Why HE--"
I stopped.
I reckoned I better keep still.
She run on, and never noticed I had put in
at all:
"The *** run off the very night Huck
Finn was killed.
So there's a reward out for him--three
hundred dollars.
And there's a reward out for old Finn, too-
-two hundred dollars.
You see, he come to town the morning after
the ***, and told about it, and was out
with 'em on the ferryboat hunt, and right
away after he up and left.
Before night they wanted to lynch him, but
he was gone, you see.
Well, next day they found out the ***
was gone; they found out he hadn't ben seen
sence ten o'clock the night the *** was
done.
So then they put it on him, you see; and
while they was full of it, next day, back
comes old Finn, and went boo-hooing to
Judge Thatcher to get money to hunt for the
*** all over Illinois with.
The judge gave him some, and that evening
he got drunk, and was around till after
midnight with a couple of mighty hard-
looking strangers, and then went off with
them.
Well, he hain't come back sence, and they
ain't looking for him back till this thing
blows over a little, for people thinks now
that he killed his boy and fixed things so
folks would think robbers done it, and then
he'd get Huck's money without having to
bother a long time with a lawsuit.
People do say he warn't any too good to do
it.
Oh, he's sly, I reckon.
If he don't come back for a year he'll be
all right.
You can't prove anything on him, you know;
everything will be quieted down then, and
he'll walk in Huck's money as easy as
nothing."
"Yes, I reckon so, 'm.
I don't see nothing in the way of it.
Has everybody quit thinking the *** done
it?"
"Oh, no, not everybody.
A good many thinks he done it.
But they'll get the *** pretty soon now,
and maybe they can scare it out of him."
"Why, are they after him yet?"
"Well, you're innocent, ain't you!
Does three hundred dollars lay around every
day for people to pick up?
Some folks think the *** ain't far from
here.
I'm one of them--but I hain't talked it
around.
A few days ago I was talking with an old
couple that lives next door in the log
shanty, and they happened to say hardly
anybody ever goes to that island over
yonder that they call Jackson's Island.
Don't anybody live there? says I.
No, nobody, says they.
I didn't say any more, but I done some
thinking.
I was pretty near certain I'd seen smoke
over there, about the head of the island, a
day or two before that, so I says to
myself, like as not that ***'s hiding
over there; anyway, says I, it's worth the
trouble to give the place a hunt.
I hain't seen any smoke sence, so I reckon
maybe he's gone, if it was him; but
husband's going over to see --him and
another man.
He was gone up the river; but he got back
to-day, and I told him as soon as he got
here two hours ago."
I had got so uneasy I couldn't set still.
I had to do something with my hands; so I
took up a needle off of the table and went
to threading it.
My hands shook, and I was making a bad job
of it.
When the woman stopped talking I looked up,
and she was looking at me pretty curious
and smiling a little.
I put down the needle and thread, and let
on to be interested --and I was, too--and
says:
"Three hundred dollars is a power of money.
I wish my mother could get it.
Is your husband going over there to-night?"
"Oh, yes.
He went up-town with the man I was telling
you of, to get a boat and see if they could
borrow another gun.
They'll go over after midnight."
"Couldn't they see better if they was to
wait till daytime?"
"Yes. And couldn't the *** see better,
too?
After midnight he'll likely be asleep, and
they can slip around through the woods and
hunt up his camp fire all the better for
the dark, if he's got one."
"I didn't think of that."
The woman kept looking at me pretty
curious, and I didn't feel a bit
comfortable.
Pretty soon she says,
"What did you say your name was, honey?"
"M--Mary Williams."
Somehow it didn't seem to me that I said it
was Mary before, so I didn't look up--
seemed to me I said it was Sarah; so I felt
sort of cornered, and was afeared maybe I
was looking it, too.
I wished the woman would say something
more; the longer she set still the uneasier
I was.
But now she says:
"Honey, I thought you said it was Sarah
when you first come in?"
"Oh, yes'm, I did.
Sarah Mary Williams.
Sarah's my first name.
Some calls me Sarah, some calls me Mary."
"Oh, that's the way of it?"
"Yes'm."
I was feeling better then, but I wished I
was out of there, anyway.
I couldn't look up yet.
Well, the woman fell to talking about how
hard times was, and how poor they had to
live, and how the rats was as free as if
they owned the place, and so forth and so
on, and then I got easy again.
She was right about the rats.
You'd see one stick his nose out of a hole
in the corner every little while.
She said she had to have things handy to
throw at them when she was alone, or they
wouldn't give her no peace.
She showed me a bar of lead twisted up into
a knot, and said she was a good shot with
it generly, but she'd wrenched her arm a
day or two ago, and didn't know whether she
could throw true now.
But she watched for a chance, and directly
banged away at a rat; but she missed him
wide, and said "Ouch!" it hurt her arm so.
Then she told me to try for the next one.
I wanted to be getting away before the old
man got back, but of course I didn't let
on.
I got the thing, and the first rat that
showed his nose I let drive, and if he'd a
stayed where he was he'd a been a tolerable
sick rat.
She said that was first-rate, and she
reckoned I would hive the next one.
She went and got the lump of lead and
fetched it back, and brought along a hank
of yarn which she wanted me to help her
with.
I held up my two hands and she put the hank
over them, and went on talking about her
and her husband's matters.
But she broke off to say:
"Keep your eye on the rats.
You better have the lead in your lap,
handy."
So she dropped the lump into my lap just at
that moment, and I clapped my legs together
on it and she went on talking.
But only about a minute.
Then she took off the hank and looked me
straight in the face, and very pleasant,
and says:
"Come, now, what's your real name?"
"Wh--what, mum?"
"What's your real name?
Is it Bill, or Tom, or Bob?--or what is
it?"
I reckon I shook like a leaf, and I didn't
know hardly what to do.
But I says:
"Please to don't poke fun at a poor girl
like me, mum.
If I'm in the way here, I'll--"
"No, you won't.
Set down and stay where you are.
I ain't going to hurt you, and I ain't
going to tell on you, nuther.
You just tell me your secret, and trust me.
I'll keep it; and, what's more, I'll help
you.
So'll my old man if you want him to.
You see, you're a runaway 'prentice, that's
all.
It ain't anything.
There ain't no harm in it.
You've been treated bad, and you made up
your mind to cut.
Bless you, child, I wouldn't tell on you.
Tell me all about it now, that's a good
boy."
So I said it wouldn't be no use to try to
play it any longer, and I would just make a
clean breast and tell her everything, but
she musn't go back on her promise.
Then I told her my father and mother was
dead, and the law had bound me out to a
mean old farmer in the country thirty mile
back from the river, and he treated me so
bad I couldn't stand it no longer; he went
away to be gone a couple of days, and so I
took my chance and stole some of his
daughter's old clothes and cleared out, and
I had been three nights coming the thirty
miles.
I traveled nights, and hid daytimes and
slept, and the bag of bread and meat I
carried from home lasted me all the way,
and I had a-plenty.
I said I believed my uncle Abner Moore
would take care of me, and so that was why
I struck out for this town of Goshen.
"Goshen, child?
This ain't Goshen.
This is St.
Petersburg.
Goshen's ten mile further up the river.
Who told you this was Goshen?"
"Why, a man I met at daybreak this morning,
just as I was going to turn into the woods
for my regular sleep.
He told me when the roads forked I must
take the right hand, and five mile would
fetch me to Goshen."
"He was drunk, I reckon.
He told you just exactly wrong."
"Well, he did act like he was drunk, but it
ain't no matter now.
I got to be moving along.
I'll fetch Goshen before daylight."
"Hold on a minute.
I'll put you up a snack to eat.
You might want it."
So she put me up a snack, and says:
"Say, when a cow's laying down, which end
of her gets up first?
Answer up prompt now--don't stop to study
over it.
Which end gets up first?"
"The hind end, mum."
"Well, then, a horse?"
"The for'rard end, mum."
"Which side of a tree does the moss grow
on?"
"North side."
"If fifteen cows is browsing on a hillside,
how many of them eats with their heads
pointed the same direction?"
"The whole fifteen, mum."
"Well, I reckon you HAVE lived in the
country.
I thought maybe you was trying to hocus me
again.
What's your real name, now?"
"George Peters, mum."
"Well, try to remember it, George.
Don't forget and tell me it's Elexander
before you go, and then get out by saying
it's George Elexander when I catch you.
And don't go about women in that old
calico.
You do a girl tolerable poor, but you might
fool men, maybe.
Bless you, child, when you set out to
thread a needle don't hold the thread still
and fetch the needle up to it; hold the
needle still and poke the thread at it;
that's the way a woman most always does,
but a man always does t'other way.
And when you throw at a rat or anything,
hitch yourself up a tiptoe and fetch your
hand up over your head as awkward as you
can, and miss your rat about six or seven
foot.
Throw stiff-armed from the shoulder, like
there was a pivot there for it to turn on,
like a girl; not from the wrist and elbow,
with your arm out to one side, like a boy.
And, mind you, when a girl tries to catch
anything in her lap she throws her knees
apart; she don't clap them together, the
way you did when you catched the lump of
lead.
Why, I spotted you for a boy when you was
threading the needle; and I contrived the
other things just to make certain.
Now trot along to your uncle, Sarah Mary
Williams George Elexander Peters, and if
you get into trouble you send word to Mrs.
Judith Loftus, which is me, and I'll do
what I can to get you out of it.
Keep the river road all the way, and next
time you *** take shoes and socks with
you.
The river road's a rocky one, and your
feet'll be in a condition when you get to
Goshen, I reckon."
I went up the bank about fifty yards, and
then I doubled on my tracks and slipped
back to where my canoe was, a good piece
below the house.
I jumped in, and was off in a hurry.
I went up-stream far enough to make the
head of the island, and then started
across.
I took off the sun-bonnet, for I didn't
want no blinders on then.
When I was about the middle I heard the
clock begin to strike, so I stops and
listens; the sound come faint over the
water but clear--eleven.
When I struck the head of the island I
never waited to blow, though I was most
winded, but I shoved right into the timber
where my old camp used to be, and started a
good fire there on a high and dry spot.
Then I jumped in the canoe and dug out for
our place, a mile and a half below, as hard
as I could go.
I landed, and slopped through the timber
and up the ridge and into the cavern.
There Jim laid, sound asleep on the ground.
I roused him out and says:
"Git up and hump yourself, Jim!
There ain't a minute to lose.
They're after us!"
Jim never asked no questions, he never said
a word; but the way he worked for the next
half an hour showed about how he was
scared.
By that time everything we had in the world
was on our raft, and she was ready to be
shoved out from the willow cove where she
was hid.
We put out the camp fire at the cavern the
first thing, and didn't show a candle
outside after that.
I took the canoe out from the shore a
little piece, and took a look; but if there
was a boat around I couldn't see it, for
stars and shadows ain't good to see by.
Then we got out the raft and slipped along
down in the shade, past the foot of the
island dead still--never saying a word.