Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (Tom Sawyer's
comrade). Scene: The Mississippi Valley. Time: forty to fifty years ago |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
Chapter VII.
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VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
XII. |
XIII. |
XIV. |
XV. |
XVI. |
XVII. |
XVIII. |
XIX. |
XX. |
XXI. |
XXII. |
XXIII. |
XXIV. |
XXV. |
XXVI. |
XXVII. |
XXVIII. |
XXIX. |
XXX. |
XXXI. |
XXXII. |
XXXIII. |
XXXIV. |
XXXV. |
XXXVI. |
XXXVII. |
XXXVIII. |
XXXIX. |
XL. |
XLI. |
XLII. |
Chapter VII.
Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (Tom Sawyer's
comrade). | ||
Chapter VII.
Git up! what you 'bout!"
I opened my eyes and looked
around, trying to make out where I
was.
It was after sun-up, and I had
been sound asleep. Pap was standing
over me, looking sour—and sick, too.
He says—
"What you doin' with this
gun?"
I judged he didn't know nothing
about what he had been doing, so I
says:
"Somebody tried to get in, so I
was laying for him."
"Why didn't you roust me out?"
"Well I tried to, but I couldn't;
I
couldn't budge you."
"GIT UP."
"Well, all right. Don't stand there palavering all day, but out with
you
and see if there's a fish on the lines for breakfast. I'll be along in
a minute."
He unlocked the door and I cleared out, up the river bank. I
noticed
some pieces of limbs and such things floating down, and a sprinkling
of bark; so I knowed the river
had begun to rise. I reckoned I
would have great times, now, if I was
over at the town. The June rise
used to be always luck for me; because
as soon as that rise begins, here
comes cord-wood floating down, and
pieces of log rafts—sometimes a dozen
wood yards and the sawmill.
I went along up the bank with one eye out for pap and 'tother one out
for
what the rise might fetch along. Well, all at once, here comes a
canoe; just a
beauty, too, about thirteen or fourteen foot long, riding
high like a duck. I
shot head first off of the bank, like a frog,
clothes and all on, and struck out
for the canoe. I just expected
there'd be somebody laying down in it, because
people often done that
to fool folks, and when a chap had pulled a skiff out most
to it they'd
raise up and laugh at him. But it warn't so this time. It was a
drift-canoe, sure enough, and I clumb in and paddled her ashore. Thinks
I,
the old man will be glad when he sees this—she's worth
ten dollars. But when
I got to shore pap wasn't in sight yet, and as I
was running her into a little
creek like a gully, all hung over with
vines and willows, I struck another idea;
I judged I'd hide her good,
and then, stead of taking to the woods when I run
off, I'd go down the
river about fifty mile and camp in one place for good, and
not have
such a rough time tramping on foot.
the shanty.
It was pretty close to the shanty, and I thought I heard the old man
coming,
all the time; but I got her hid; and then I out and looked
around a bunch of
willows, and there was the old man down the path
apiece just drawing a bead on
a bird with his gun. So he hadn't seen
anything.
When he got along, I was hard at it taking up a "trot" line. He abused me
a
little for being so slow, but I told him I fell in the river and that
was what made
me so long. I knowed he would see I was wet, and then he
would be asking
questions. We got five cat-fish off of the lines and
went home.
While we laid off, after breakfast, to sleep up, both of us being about
wore
out, I got to thinking that if I could fix up some way to keep pap
and the widow
from trying to follow me, it would be a certainer thing
than trusting to luck to
get far enough off before they missed me; you
see, all kinds of things might
happen. Well, I didn't see no way for a
while, but by-and-by pap raised up a
minute, to drink another barrel of
water, and he says:
"Another time a man comes a-prowling round here, you roust me out, you
hear? That man warn't here for no good. I'd a shot him. Next time, you
roust me out, you hear?"
Then he dropped down and went to sleep again—but what he had been
saying
give me the very idea I wanted. I says to myself, I can fix it
now so nobody
won't think of following me.
About twelve o'clock we turned out and went along up the bank. The river
was coming up pretty fast, and lots of drift-wood going by on the rise.
By-and-by,
along comes part of a log
raft—nine logs fast together. We went out with
the skiff and
towed it ashore. Then we had dinner. Anybody but pap would a
waited and
seen the day through, so as to catch more stuff; but that warn't pap's
style. Nine logs was enough for one time; he must shove right over to
town
and sell. So he locked me in and took the skiff and started off
towing the raft
about half-past three. I judged he wouldn't come back
that night. I waited
till I reckoned he had got a good start, then I
out with my saw and went to
work on that log again. Before he was
'tother side of the river I was out of the
hole; him and his raft was
just a speck on the water away off yonder.
I took the sack of corn meal and took it to where the canoe was hid, and
shoved the vines and branches apart and put it in; then I done the same with
was, and all the ammunition; I took the wadding; I took the bucket and gourd,
I took a dipper and a tin cup, and my old saw and two blankets, and the skillet
and the coffee-pot. I took fish-lines and matches and other things—everything
that was worth a cent. I cleaned out the place. I wanted an axe, but there
wasn't any, only the one out at the wood pile, and I knowed why I was going to
leave that. I fetched out the gun, and now I was done.
I had wore the ground a good deal, crawling out of the hole and dragging
out
so many things. So I fixed that as good as I could from the outside
by scattering
dust on the place, which covered up the smoothness and
the sawdust. Then I
fixed the piece of log back into its place, and put
two rocks under it and one
against it to hold it there,—for
it was bent up at that place, and didn't quite
touch ground. If you
stood four or five foot away and didn't know it was sawed,
you wouldn't
ever notice it; and besides, this was the back of the cabin and it
warn't likely anybody would go fooling around there.
shooting the pig.
It was all grass clear to the canoe; so I hadn't left a track. I followed
So I took the gun and went up a piece into the woods and was hunting around
for some birds, when I see a wild pig; hogs soon went wild in them bottoms
after they had got away from the prairie farms. I shot this fellow and took
him into camp.
I took the axe and smashed in the door—I beat it and hacked it
considerable,
a-doing it. I fetched the pig in and took him back nearly
to the table and
hacked into his throat with the ax, and laid him down
on the ground to bleed—
I say ground, because it was ground—hard packed, and no boards.
Well, next I
took an old sack and put a lot of big rocks in
it,—all I could drag—and I started
it from the
pig and dragged it to the door and through the woods down to the
river
and dumped it in, and down it sunk, out of sight. You could easy see
that
something had been dragged over the ground. I did wish Tom Sawyer
was
there, I knowed he would take an interest in this kind of business,
and throw in
the fancy touches. Nobody could spread himself like Tom
Sawyer in such a
thing as that.
Well, last I pulled out some of my hair, and bloodied the ax good, and stuck
it
on the back side, and slung the ax in the corner. Then I took up the
pig and held
him to my breast with my jacket (so he couldn't
drip) till I got a good piece below
the house and then dumped him into the river. Now I thought of
something
else. So I went and got the bag of meal and my old saw out of
the canoe and
fetched them to the house. I took the bag to where it
used to stand, and ripped
a hole in the bottom of it with the saw, for
there warn't no knives and forks on
the place—pap done
everything with his clasp-knife, about the cooking. Then
I carried the
sack about a hundred yards across the grass and through the willows
east of the house, to a shallow lake that was five mile wide and full of
rushes—
and ducks too, you might say, in the season. There
was a slough or a creek
leading out of it on the other side, that went
miles away, I don't know where,
but it didn't go to the river. The meal
sifted out and made a little track all the
way to the lake. I dropped
pap's whetstone there too, so as to look like it had
been done by
accident. Then I tied up the rip in the meal sack with a string,
so it
wouldn't leak no more, and took it and my saw to the canoe again.
It was about dark, now; so I dropped the canoe down the river under some
to a willow; then I took a bite to eat, and by-and-by laid down in the canoe to
smoke a pipe and lay out a plan. I says to myself, they'll follow the track of
that sackful of rocks to the shore and then drag the river for me. And they'll
follow that meal track to the lake and go browsing down the creek that leads
out of it to find the robbers that killed me and took the things. They won't
ever hunt the river for anything but my dead carcass. They'll soon get tired of
that, and won't bother no more about me. All right; I can stop anywhere I
want to. Jackson's Island is good enough for me; I know that island pretty
well, and nobody ever comes there. And then I can paddle over to town, nights,
and slink around and pick up things I want. Jackson's Island's the place.
I was pretty tired, and the first thing I knowed, I was asleep. When I
woke up I didn't know where I was, for a minute. I set up and looked
around, a little scared. Then I remembered. The river looked miles and
miles
across. The moon was so bright I could a counted the drift logs
that went a
slipping along, black and still, hundred of yards out from
shore. Everything was
dead quiet, and it looked late, and smelt late. You know what I mean—I
don't
know the words to put it in.
I took a good gap and a stretch, and was just going to unhitch and start,
when
I heard a sound away over the water. I listened. Pretty soon I
made it out. It
was that dull kind of a regular sound that comes from
oars working in rowlocks
when it's a still night. I peeped out through
the willow branches, and there
it was—a skiff, away across
the water. I couldn't tell how many was in it. It
kept a-coming, and
when it was abreast of me I see there warn't but one man in
it. Thinks
I, maybe it's pap, though I warn't expecting him. He dropped
below me,
with the current, and by-and-by he come a-swinging up shore in the
easy
water, and he went by so close I could a reached out the gun and
touched
him. Well, it was pap, sure
enough—and sober, too, by the way he laid to his
oars.
I didn't lose no time. The next minute I was a-spinning down stream soft
but
quick in the shade of the bank. I made two mile and a half, and
then struck
out a quarter of a mile or more towards the middle of the
river, because pretty
soon I would be passing the ferry landing and
people might see me and hail
canoe and let her float. I laid there and had a good rest and a smoke out of my
pipe, looking away into the sky, not a cloud in it. The sky looks ever so deep
when you lay down on your back in the moonshine; I never knowed it before.
And how far a body can hear on the water such nights! I heard people talking at
the ferry landing. I heard what they said, too, every word of it. One man said
it was getting towards the long days and the short nights, now. 'Tother one said
this warn't one of the short ones, he reckoned—and then they laughed, and he said it
over again and they laughed again; then they waked up another fellow and told
him, and laughed, but he didn't laugh; he ripped out something brisk and said let
him alone. The first fellow said he 'lowed to tell it to his old woman—she would
think it was pretty good; but he said that warn't nothing to some things he had
said in his time. I heard one man say it was nearly three o'clock, and he hoped
daylight wouldn't wait more than about a week longer. After that, the talk got
further and further away, and I couldn't make out the words any more, but I could
hear the mumble; and now and then a laugh, too, but it seemed a long ways off. [ILLUSTRATION]
taking a rest.
I was away below the ferry now. I rose up and there was Jackson's
Island, about two mile and a half down stream, heavy-timbered and
standing
up out of the middle of the river, big and dark and solid,
like a steamboat
without any lights. There warn't any signs of the bar
at the head—it was
all under water, now.
It didn't take me long to get there. I shot past the head at a ripping
rate, the current was so swift, and then I got into the dead water and
landed
on the side towards the Illinois shore. I run the canoe into a
deep dent in
the bank that I knowed about; I had to part the willow
branches to get in;
and when I made fast nobody could a seen the canoe
from the outside.
I went up and set down on a log at the head of the island and looked
out
on the big river and the black driftwood, and away over to the town,
three mile away, where there was three or four lights twinkling. A
monstrous
big lumber raft was about a mile up stream, coming along
down, with a
lantern in the middle of it. I watched it come creeping
down, and when it
was most abreast of where I stood I heard a man say,
"Stern oars, there!
heave her head to stabboard!" I heard that just as
plain as if the man was
by my side.
There was a little gray in the sky, now; so I stepped into the woods and
laid down for a nap before breakfast.
Chapter VII.
Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (Tom Sawyer's
comrade). | ||