Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
come in close, where the bread did. When she’d got pretty well along
down towards me, I put out my pipe and went to where I fished out the
bread, and laid down behind a log on the bank in a little open place.
Where the log forked I could peep through.
By-and-by she come along, and she drifted in so close that they could a
run out a plank and walked ashore. Most everybody was on the boat. Pap,
and Judge Thatcher, and Bessie Thatcher, and Jo Harper, and Tom Sawyer,
and his old Aunt Polly, and Sid and Mary, and plenty more. Everybody
was talking about the murder, but the captain broke in and says:
“Look sharp, now; the current sets in the closest here, and maybe he’s
washed ashore and got tangled amongst the brush at the water’s edge. I
hope so, anyway.”
I didn’t hope so. They all crowded up and leaned over the rails, nearly
in my face, and kept still, watching with all their might. I could see
them first-rate, but they couldn’t see me. Then the captain sung out:
“Stand away!” and the cannon let off such a blast right before me that
it made me deef with the noise and pretty near blind with the smoke,
and I judged I was gone. If they’d a had some bullets in, I reckon
they’d a got the corpse they was after. Well, I see I warn’t hurt,
thanks to goodness. The boat floated on and went out of sight around
the shoulder of the island. I could hear the booming now and then,
further and further off, and by-and-by, after an hour, I didn’t hear it
no more. The island was three mile long. I judged they had got to the
foot, and was giving it up. But they didn’t yet a while. They turned
around the foot of the island and started up the channel on the
Missouri side, under steam, and booming once in a while as they went. I
crossed over to that side and watched them. When they got abreast the
head of the island they quit shooting and dropped over to the Missouri
shore and went home to the town.
I knowed I was all right now. Nobody else would come a-hunting after
me. I got my traps out of the canoe and made me a nice camp in the
thick woods. I made a kind of a tent out of my blankets to put my
things under so the rain couldn’t get at them. I catched a catfish and
haggled him open with my saw, and towards sundown I started my camp
fire and had supper. Then I set out a line to catch some fish for
breakfast.
When it was dark I set by my camp fire smoking, and feeling pretty well
satisfied; but by-and-by it got sort of lonesome, and so I went and set
on the bank and listened to the current swashing along, and counted the
stars and drift logs and rafts that come down, and then went to bed;
there ain’t no better way to put in time when you are lonesome; you
can’t stay so, you soon get over it.
And so for three days and nights. No difference—just the same thing.
But the next day I went exploring around down through the island. I was
boss of it; it all belonged to me, so to say, and I wanted to know all
about it; but mainly I wanted to put in the time. I found plenty
strawberries, ripe and prime; and green summer grapes, and green
razberries; and the green blackberries was just beginning to show. They
would all come handy by-and-by, I judged.
Well, I went fooling along in the deep woods till I judged I warn’t far
from the foot of the island. I had my gun along, but I hadn’t shot
nothing; it was for protection; thought I would kill some game nigh
home. About this time I mighty near stepped on a good-sized snake, and
it went sliding off through the grass and flowers, and I after it,
trying to get a shot at it. I clipped along, and all of a sudden I
bounded right on to the ashes of a camp fire that was still smoking.
My heart jumped up amongst my lungs. I never waited for to look
further, but uncocked my gun and went sneaking back on my tiptoes as
fast as ever I could. Every now and then I stopped a second amongst the
thick leaves and listened, but my breath come so hard I couldn’t hear
nothing else. I slunk along another piece further, then listened again;
and so on, and so on. If I see a stump, I took it for a man; if I trod
on a stick and broke it, it made me feel like a person had cut one of
my breaths in two and I only got half, and the short half, too.
When I got to camp I warn’t feeling very brash, there warn’t much sand
in my craw; but I says, this ain’t no time to be fooling around. So I
got all my traps into my canoe again so as to have them out of sight,
and I put out the fire and scattered the ashes around to look like an
old last year’s camp, and then clumb a tree.
I reckon I was up in the tree two hours; but I didn’t see nothing, I
didn’t hear nothing—I only _thought_ I heard and seen as much as a
thousand things. Well, I couldn’t stay up there forever; so at last I
got down, but I kept in the thick woods and on the lookout all the
time. All I could get to eat was berries and what was left over from
breakfast.
By the time it was night I was pretty hungry. So when it was good and
dark I slid out from shore before moonrise and paddled over to the
Illinois bank—about a quarter of a mile. I went out in the woods and
cooked a supper, and I had about made up my mind I would stay there all
night when I hear a _plunkety-plunk, plunkety-plunk_, and says to
myself, horses coming; and next I hear people’s voices. I got
everything into the canoe as quick as I could, and then went creeping
through the woods to see what I could find out. I hadn’t got far when I
hear a man say:
“We better camp here if we can find a good place; the horses is about
beat out. Let’s look around.”
I didn’t wait, but shoved out and paddled away easy. I tied up in the
old place, and reckoned I would sleep in the canoe.
I didn’t sleep much. I couldn’t, somehow, for thinking. And every time
I waked up I thought somebody had me by the neck. So the sleep didn’t
do me no good. By-and-by I says to myself, I can’t live this way; I’m
a-going to find out who it is that’s here on the island with me; I’ll
find it out or bust. Well, I felt better right off.
So I took my paddle and slid out from shore just a step or two, and
then let the canoe drop along down amongst the shadows. The moon was
shining, and outside of the shadows it made it most as light as day. I
poked along well on to an hour, everything still as rocks and sound
asleep. Well, by this time I was most down to the foot of the island. A
little ripply, cool breeze begun to blow, and that was as good as
saying the night was about done. I give her a turn with the paddle and
brung her nose to shore; then I got my gun and slipped out and into the
edge of the woods. I sat down there on a log, and looked out through
the leaves. I see the moon go off watch, and the darkness begin to
blanket the river. But in a little while I see a pale streak over the
treetops, and knowed the day was coming. So I took my gun and slipped
off towards where I had run across that camp fire, stopping every
minute or two to listen. But I hadn’t no luck somehow; I couldn’t seem
to find the place. But by-and-by, sure enough, I catched a glimpse of
fire away through the trees. I went for it, cautious and slow.
By-and-by I was close enough to have a look, and there laid a man on
the ground. It most give me the fan-tods. He had a blanket around his
head, and his head was nearly in the fire. I set there behind a clump
of bushes, in about six foot of him, and kept my eyes on him steady. It
was getting gray daylight now. Pretty soon he gapped and stretched
himself and hove off the blanket, and it was Miss Watson’s Jim! I bet I
was glad to see him. I says:
“Hello, Jim!” and skipped out.
He bounced up and stared at me wild. Then he drops down on his knees,
and puts his hands together and says:
“Doan’ hurt me—don’t! I hain’t ever done no harm to a ghos’. I alwuz
liked dead people, en done all I could for ’em. You go en git in de
river agin, whah you b’longs, en doan’ do nuffn to Ole Jim, ’at ’uz
awluz yo’ fren’.”
Well, I warn’t long making him understand I warn’t dead. I was ever so
glad to see Jim. I warn’t lonesome now. I told him I warn’t afraid of
_him_ telling the people where I was. I talked along, but he only set
there and looked at me; never said nothing. Then I says:
“It’s good daylight. Le’s get breakfast. Make up your camp fire good.”
“What’s de use er makin’ up de camp fire to cook strawbries en sich
truck? But you got a gun, hain’t you? Den we kin git sumfn better den
strawbries.”
“Strawberries and such truck,” I says. “Is that what you live on?”
“I couldn’ git nuffn else,” he says.
“Why, how long you been on the island, Jim?”
“I come heah de night arter you’s killed.”
“What, all that time?”
“Yes—indeedy.”
“And ain’t you had nothing but that kind of rubbage to eat?”
“No, sah—nuffn else.”
“Well, you must be most starved, ain’t you?”
“I reck’n I could eat a hoss. I think I could. How long you ben on de
islan’?”
“Since the night I got killed.”
“No! W’y, what has you lived on? But you got a gun. Oh, yes, you got a
gun. Dat’s good. Now you kill sumfn en I’ll make up de fire.”
So we went over to where the canoe was, and while he built a fire in a
grassy open place amongst the trees, I fetched meal and bacon and
coffee, and coffee-pot and frying-pan, and sugar and tin cups, and the
nigger was set back considerable, because he reckoned it was all done
with witchcraft. I catched a good big catfish, too, and Jim cleaned him
with his knife, and fried him.
When breakfast was ready we lolled on the grass and eat it smoking hot.
Jim laid it in with all his might, for he was most about starved. Then
when we had got pretty well stuffed, we laid off and lazied. By-and-by
Jim says:
“But looky here, Huck, who wuz it dat ’uz killed in dat shanty ef it
warn’t you?”
Then I told him the whole thing, and he said it was smart. He said Tom
Sawyer couldn’t get up no better plan than what I had. Then I says:
“How do you come to be here, Jim, and how’d you get here?”
He looked pretty uneasy, and didn’t say nothing for a minute. Then he
says:
“Maybe I better not tell.”
“Why, Jim?”
“Well, dey’s reasons. But you wouldn’ tell on me ef I uz to tell you,
would you, Huck?”
“Blamed if I would, Jim.”
“Well, I b’lieve you, Huck. I—I _run off_.”
“Jim!”
“But mind, you said you wouldn’ tell—you know you said you wouldn’
tell, Huck.”
“Well, I did. I said I wouldn’t, and I’ll stick to it. Honest _injun_,
I will. People would call me a low-down Abolitionist and despise me for
keeping mum—but that don’t make no difference. I ain’t a-going to tell,
and I ain’t a-going back there, anyways. So, now, le’s know all about
it.”
“Well, you see, it ’uz dis way. Ole missus—dat’s Miss Watson—she pecks
on me all de time, en treats me pooty rough, but she awluz said she
wouldn’ sell me down to Orleans. But I noticed dey wuz a nigger trader
roun’ de place considable lately, en I begin to git oneasy. Well, one
night I creeps to de do’ pooty late, en de do’ warn’t quite shet, en I
hear old missus tell de widder she gwyne to sell me down to Orleans,
but she didn’ want to, but she could git eight hund’d dollars for me,
en it ’uz sich a big stack o’ money she couldn’ resis’. De widder she
try to git her to say she wouldn’ do it, but I never waited to hear de
res’. I lit out mighty quick, I tell you.
“I tuck out en shin down de hill, en ’spec to steal a skift ’long de
sho’ som’ers ’bove de town, but dey wuz people a-stirring yit, so I hid
in de ole tumble-down cooper-shop on de bank to wait for everybody to
go ’way. Well, I wuz dah all night. Dey wuz somebody roun’ all de time.
’Long ’bout six in de mawnin’ skifts begin to go by, en ’bout eight er
nine every skift dat went ’long wuz talkin’ ’bout how yo’ pap come over