"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 murder, 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 nigger 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 nigger
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 murder, 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 nigger was gone; they found
out he hadn't ben seen sence
ten o'clock the night the murder
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 nigger 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 guit thinking the
nigger done it?"
"Oh, no, not
everybody. A good many thinks
he done it. But they'll
get the nigger 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 nigger 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 nigger'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 nigger 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 tramp
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. |