Some minutes later the widow’s guests were at the supper-table, and a dozen children were propped up at little side-tables in the same room, after the fashion of that country and that day. At the proper time Mr. Jones made his little speech, in which he thanked the widow for the honor she was doing himself and his sons, but said that there was another person whose modesty —

  And so forth and so on. He sprung his secret about Huck’s share in the adventure in the finest dramatic manner he was master of, but the surprise it occasioned was largely counterfeit and not as clamorous and effusive as it might have been under happier circumstances. However, the widow made a pretty fair show of astonishment, and heaped so many compliments and so much gratitude upon Huck that he almost forgot the nearly intolerable discomfort of his new clothes in the entirely intolerable discomfort of being set up as a target for everybody’s gaze and everybody’s laudations.

  The widow said she meant to give Huck a home under her roof and have him educated; and that when she could spare the money she would start him in business in a modest way. Tom’s chance was come. He said:

  “Huck don’t need it. Huck’s rich.”

  Nothing but a heavy strain upon the good manners of the company kept back the due and proper complimentary laugh at this pleasant joke. But the silence was a little awkward. Tom broke it:

  “Huck’s got money. Maybe you don’t believe it, but he’s got lots of it. Oh, you needn’t smile

  — I reckon I can show you. You just wait a minute.”

  Tom ran out of doors. The company looked at each other with a perplexed interest — and inquiringly at Huck, who was tongue-tied.

  “Sid, what ails Tom?” said Aunt Polly. “He — well, there ain’t ever any making of that boy out. I never — “

  Tom entered, struggling with the weight of his sacks, and Aunt Polly did not finish her sentence. Tom poured the mass of yellow coin upon the table and said:

  “There — what did I tell you? Half of it’s Huck’s and half of it’s mine!”

  The spectacle took the general breath away. All gazed, nobody spoke for a moment. Then there was a unanimous call for an explanation. Tom said he could furnish it, and he did. The tale was long, but brimful of interest. There was scarcely an interruption from any one to break the charm of its flow. When he had finished, Mr. Jones said:

  “I thought I had fixed up a little surprise for this occasion, but it don’t amount to anything now. This one makes it sing mighty small, I’m willing to allow.”

  The money was counted. The sum amounted to a little over twelve thousand dollars. It was more than any one present had ever seen at one time before, though several persons were there who were worth considerably more than that in property.

  Chapter XXXV

  THE reader may rest satisfied that Tom’s and Huck’s windfall made a mighty stir in the poor little village of St. Petersburg. So vast a sum, all in actual cash, seemed next to incredible. It was talked about, gloated over, glorified, until the reason of many of the citizens tottered under the strain of the unhealthy excitement. Every “haunted” house in St. Petersburg and the neighboring villages was dissected, plank by plank, and its foundations dug up and ransacked for hidden treasure — and not by boys, but men — pretty grave, unromantic men, too, some of them. Wherever Tom and Huck appeared they were courted, admired, stared at. The boys were not able to remember that their remarks had possessed weight before; but now their sayings were treasured and repeated; everything they did seemed somehow to be regarded as remarkable; they had evidently lost the power of doing and saying commonplace things; moreover, their past history was raked up and discovered to bear marks of conspicuous originality. The village paper published biographical sketches of the boys.

  The Widow Douglas put Huck’s money out at six per cent., and Judge Thatcher did the same with Tom’s at Aunt Polly’s request. Each lad had an income, now, that was simply prodigious — a dollar for every week-day in the year and half of the Sundays. It was just what the minister got — no, it was what he was promised — he generally couldn’t collect it. A dollar and a quarter a week would board, lodge, and school a boy in those old simple days — and clothe him and wash him, too, for that matter.

  Judge Thatcher had conceived a great opinion of Tom. He said that no commonplace boy would ever have got his daughter out of the cave. When Becky told her father, in strict confidence, how Tom had taken her whipping at school, the Judge was visibly moved; and when she pleaded grace for the mighty lie which Tom had told in order to shift that whipping from her shoulders to his own, the Judge said with a fine outburst that it was a noble, a generous, a magnanimous lie — a lie that was worthy to hold up its head and march down through history breast to breast with George Washington’s lauded Truth about the hatchet! Becky thought her father had never looked so tall and so superb as when he walked the floor and stamped his foot and said that. She went straight off and told Tom about it.

  Judge Thatcher hoped to see Tom a great lawyer or a great soldier some day. He said he meant to look to it that Tom should be admitted to the National Military Academy and afterward trained in the best law school in the country, in order that he might be ready for either career or both.

  Huck Finn’s wealth and the fact that he was now under the Widow Douglas’ protection introduced him into society — no, dragged him into it, hurled him into it — and his sufferings were almost more than he could bear. The widow’s servants kept him clean and neat, combed and brushed, and they bedded him nightly in unsympathetic sheets that had not one little spot or stain which he could press to his heart and know for a friend. He had to eat with a knife and fork; he had to use napkin, cup, and plate; he had to learn his book, he had to go to church; he had to talk so properly that speech was become insipid in his mouth; whithersoever he turned, the bars and shackles of civilization shut him in and bound him hand and foot.

  He bravely bore his miseries three weeks, and then one day turned up missing. For forty-eight hours the widow hunted for him everywhere in great distress. The public were profoundly concerned; they searched high and low, they dragged the river for his body. Early the third morning Tom Sawyer wisely went poking among some old empty hogsheads down behind the abandoned slaughter-house, and in one of them he found the refugee. Huck had slept there; he had just breakfasted upon some stolen odds and ends of food, and was lying off, now, in comfort, with his pipe. He was unkempt, uncombed, and clad in the same old ruin of rags that had made him picturesque in the days when he was free and happy. Tom routed him out, told him the trouble he had been causing, and urged him to go home. Huck’s face lost its tranquil content, and took a melancholy cast. He said:

  “Don’t talk about it, Tom. I’ve tried it, and it don’t work; it don’t work, Tom. It ain’t for me; I ain’t used to it. The widder’s good to me, and friendly; but I can’t stand them ways. She makes me get up just at the same time every morning; she makes me wash, they comb me all to thunder; she won’t let me sleep in the woodshed; I got to wear them blamed clothes that just smothers me, Tom; they don’t seem to any air git through ‘em, somehow; and they’re so rotten nice that I can’t set down, nor lay down, nor roll around anywher’s; I hain’t slid on a cellar-door for — well, it ‘pears to be years; I got to go to church and sweat and sweat — I hate them ornery sermons! I can’t ketch a fly in there, I can’t chaw. I got to wear shoes all Sunday. The widder eats by a bell; she goes to bed by a bell; she gits up by a bell — everything’s so awful reg’lar a body can’t stand it.”

  “Well, everybody does that way, Huck.”

  “Tom, it don’t make no difference. I ain’t everybody, and I can’t stand it. It’s awful to be tied up so. And grub comes too easy — I don’t take no interest in vittles, that way. I got to ask to go a-fishing; I got to ask to go in a-swimming — dern’d if I hain’t got to ask to do everything. Well, I’d got to talk so nice it wasn’t no comfort — I’d got to go up in the attic and rip out awhile, every day, to git a taste in my mouth, or I’d a died, Tom. The widder wouldn’t let me smoke; she wouldn’t let me yell, she wouldn’t let me gape, nor stretch, nor scratch, before folks — “ [Then with a spasm of special irritation and injury] — “And dad fetch it, she prayed all the time! I never see such a woman! I had to shove, Tom — I just had to. And besides, that school’s going to open, and I’d a had to go to it — well, I wouldn’t stand that, Tom. Looky-here, Tom, being rich ain’t what it’s cracked up to be. It’s just worry and worry, and sweat and sweat, and a-wishing you was dead all the time. Now these clothes suits me, and this bar’l suits me, and I ain’t ever going to shake ‘em any more. Tom, I wouldn’t ever got into all this trouble if it hadn’t ‘a’ ben for that money; now you just take my sheer of it along with your’n, and gimme a ten-center sometimes — not many times, becuz I don’t give a dern for a thing ‘thout it’s tollable hard to git — and you go and beg off for me with the widder.”

  “Oh, Huck, you know I can’t do that. ‘Tain’t fair; and besides if you’ll try this thing just a while longer you’ll come to like it.”

  “Like it! Yes — the way I’d like a hot stove if I was to set on it long enough. No, Tom, I won’t be rich, and I won’t live in them cussed smothery houses. I like the woods, and the river, and hogsheads, and I’ll stick to ‘em, too. Blame it all! just as we’d got guns, and a cave, and all just fixed to rob, here this dern foolishness has got to come up and spile it all!”

  Tom saw his opportunity —

  “Lookyhere, Huck, being rich ain’t going to keep me back from turning robber.”

  “No! Oh, good-licks; are you in real dead-wood earnest, Tom?”

  “Just as dead earnest as I’m sitting here. But Huck, we can’t let you into the gang if you ain’t respectable, you know.”

  Huck’s joy was quenched.

  “Can’t let me in, Tom? Didn’t you let me go for a pirate?”

  “Yes, but that’s different. A robber is more high-toned than what a pirate is — as a general thing. In most countries they’re awful high up in the nobility — dukes and such.”

  “Now, Tom, hain’t you always ben friendly to me? You wouldn’t shet me out, would you, Tom? You wouldn’t do that, now, would you, Tom?”

  “Huck, I wouldn’t want to, and I don’t want to — but what would people say? Why, they’d say, ‘Mph! Tom Sawyer’s Gang! pretty low characters in it!’ They’d mean you, Huck. You wouldn’t like that, and I wouldn’t.”

  Huck was silent for some time, engaged in a mental struggle. Finally he said:

  “Well, I’ll go back to the widder for a month and tackle it and see if I can come to stand it, if you’ll let me b’long to the gang, Tom.”

  “All right, Huck, it’s a whiz! Come along, old chap, and I’ll ask the widow to let up on you a little, Huck.”

  “Will you, Tom — now will you? That’s good. If she’ll let up on some of the roughest things, I’ll smoke private and cuss private, and crowd through or bust. When you going to start the gang and turn robbers?”

  “Oh, right off. We’ll get the boys together and have the initiation to-night, maybe.”

  “Have the which?”

  “Have the initiation.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s to swear to stand by one another, and never tell the gang’s secrets, even if you’re chopped all to flinders, and kill anybody and all his family that hurts one of the gang.”

  “That’s gay — that’s mighty gay, Tom, I tell you.”

  “Well, I bet it is. And all that swearing’s got to be done at midnight, in the lonesomest, awfulest place you can find — a ha’nted house is the best, but they’re all ripped up now.”

  “Well, midnight’s good, anyway, Tom.”

  “Yes, so it is. And you’ve got to swear on a coffin, and sign it with blood.”

  “Now, that’s something like! Why, it’s a million times bullier than pirating. I’ll stick to the widder till I rot, Tom; and if I git to be a reg’lar ripper of a robber, and everybody talking ‘bout it, I reckon she’ll be proud she snaked me in out of the wet.”

  CONCLUSION

  SO endeth this chronicle. It being strictly a history of a boy, it must stop here; the story could not go much further without becoming the history of a man. When one writes a novel about grown people, he knows exactly where to stop — that is, with a marriage; but when he writes of juveniles, he must stop where he best can.

  Most of the characters that perform in this book still live, and are prosperous and happy. Some day it may seem worth while to take up the story of the younger ones again and see what sort of men and women they turned out to be; therefore it will be wisest not to reveal any of that part of their lives at present.

  Tom Sawyer Abroad by Mark Twain

  CHAPTER I. TOM SEEKS NEW ADVENTURES

  DO you reckon Tom Sawyer was satisfied after all them adventures? I mean the adventures we had down the river, and the time we set the darky Jim free and Tom got shot in the leg. No, he wasn’t. It only just p’isoned him for more. That was all the effect it had. You see, when we three came back up the river in glory, as you may say, from that long travel, and the village received us with a torchlight procession and speeches, and everybody hurrah’d and shouted, it made us heroes, and that was what Tom Sawyer had always been hankering to be.

  For a while he WAS satisfied. Everybody made much of him, and he tilted up his nose and stepped around the town as though he owned it. Some called him Tom Sawyer the Traveler, and that just swelled him up fit to bust. You see he laid over me and Jim considerable, because we only went down the river on a raft and came back by the steamboat, but Tom went by the steamboat both ways. The boys envied me and Jim a good deal, but land! they just knuckled to the dirt before TOM.

  Well, I don’t know; maybe he might have been satisfied if it hadn’t been for old Nat Parsons, which was postmaster, and powerful long and slim, and kind o’ good-hearted and silly, and bald-headed, on account of his age, and about the talkiest old cretur I ever see. For as much as thirty years he’d been the only man in the village that had a reputation—I mean a reputation for being a traveler, and of course he was mortal proud of it, and it was reckoned that in the course of that thirty years he had told about that journey over a million times and enjoyed it every time. And now comes along a boy not quite fifteen, and sets everybody admiring and gawking over HIS travels, and it just give the poor old man the high strikes. It made him sick to listen to Tom, and to hear the people say “My land!” “Did you ever!” “My goodness sakes alive!” and all such things; but he couldn’t pull away from it, any more than a fly that’s got its hind leg fast in the molasses. And always when Tom come to a rest, the poor old cretur would chip in on HIS same old travels and work them for all they were worth; but they were pretty faded, and didn’t go for much, and it was pitiful to see. And then Tom would take another innings, and then the old man again—and so on, and so on, for an hour and more, each trying to beat out the other.

  You see, Parsons’ travels happened like this: When he first got to be postmaster and was green in the business, there come a letter for somebody he didn’t know, and there wasn’t any such person in the village. Well, he didn’t know what to do, nor how to act, and there the letter stayed and stayed, week in and week out, till the bare sight of it gave him a conniption. The postage wasn’t paid on it, and that was another thing to worry about. There wasn’t any way to collect that ten cents, and he reckon’d the gov’ment would hold him responsible for it and maybe turn him out besides, when they found he hadn’t collected it. Well, at last he couldn’t stand it any longer. He couldn’t sleep nights, he couldn’t eat, he was thinned down to a shadder, yet he da’sn’t ask anybody’s advice, for the very person he asked for advice might go back on him and let the gov’ment know about the letter. He had the letter buried under the floor, but that did no good; if he happened to see a person standing over the place it’d give him the cold shivers, and loaded him up with suspicions, and he would sit up that night till the town was still and dark, and then he would sneak there and get it out and bury it in another place. Of course, people got to avoiding him and shaking their heads and whispering, because, the way he was looking and acting, they judged he had killed somebody or done something terrible, they didn’t know what, and if he had been a stranger they would’ve lynched him.

  Well, as I was saying, it got so he couldn’t stand it any longer; so he made up his mind to pull out for Washington, and just go to the President of the United States and make a clean breast of the whole thing, not keeping back an atom, and then fetch the letter out and lay it before the whole gov’ment, and say, “Now, there she is—do with me what you’re a mind to; though as heaven is my judge I am an innocent man and not deserving of the full penalties of the law and leaving behind me a family that must starve and yet hadn’t had a thing to do with it, which is the whole truth and I can swear to it.”

  So he did it. He had a little wee bit of steamboating, and some stage-coaching, but all the rest of the way was horseback, and it took him three weeks to get to Washington. He saw lots of land and lots of villages and four cities. He was gone ‘most eight weeks, and there never was such a proud man in the village as he when he got back. His travels made him the greatest man in all that region, and the most talked about; and people come from as much as thirty miles back in the country, and from over in the Illinois bottoms, too, just to look at him—and there they’d stand and gawk, and he’d gabble. You never see anything like it.