The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Complete
whisper was hardly audible when he said:
“Oh, Huck, _it’s a stray dog_!”
“Quick, Tom, quick! Who does he mean?”
“Huck, he must mean us both—we’re right together.”
“Oh, Tom, I reckon we’re goners. I reckon there ain’t no mistake ’bout
where _I’ll_ go to. I been so wicked.”
“Dad fetch it! This comes of playing hookey and doing everything a
feller’s told _not_ to do. I might a been good, like Sid, if I’d a
tried—but no, I wouldn’t, of course. But if ever I get off this time,
I lay I’ll just _waller_ in Sunday-schools!” And Tom began to snuffle a
little.
“_You_ bad!” and Huckleberry began to snuffle too. “Consound it, Tom
Sawyer, you’re just old pie, ’long-side o’ what I am. Oh, _lordy_,
lordy, lordy, I wisht I only had half your chance.”
Tom choked off and whispered:
“Look, Hucky, look! He’s got his _back_ to us!”
Hucky looked, with joy in his heart.
“Well, he has, by jingoes! Did he before?”
“Yes, he did. But I, like a fool, never thought. Oh, this is bully, you
know. _Now_ who can he mean?”
The howling stopped. Tom pricked up his ears.
“Sh! What’s that?” he whispered.
“Sounds like—like hogs grunting. No—it’s somebody snoring, Tom.”
“That _is_ it! Where ’bouts is it, Huck?”
“I bleeve it’s down at ’tother end. Sounds so, anyway. Pap used to sleep
there, sometimes, ’long with the hogs, but laws bless you, he just lifts
things when _he_ snores. Besides, I reckon he ain’t ever coming back to
this town any more.”
The spirit of adventure rose in the boys’ souls once more.
“Hucky, do you das’t to go if I lead?”
“I don’t like to, much. Tom, s’pose it’s Injun Joe!”
Tom quailed. But presently the temptation rose up strong again and the
boys agreed to try, with the understanding that they would take to their
heels if the snoring stopped. So they went tiptoeing stealthily down,
the one behind the other. When they had got to within five steps of the
snorer, Tom stepped on a stick, and it broke with a sharp snap. The man
moaned, writhed a little, and his face came into the moonlight. It was
Muff Potter. The boys’ hearts had stood still, and their hopes too,
when the man moved, but their fears passed away now. They tip-toed out,
through the broken weather-boarding, and stopped at a little distance
to exchange a parting word. That long, lugubrious howl rose on the night
air again! They turned and saw the strange dog standing within a few
feet of where Potter was lying, and _facing_ Potter, with his nose
pointing heavenward.
“Oh, geeminy, it’s _him_!” exclaimed both boys, in a breath.
“Say, Tom—they say a stray dog come howling around Johnny Miller’s
house, ’bout midnight, as much as two weeks ago; and a whippoorwill come
in and lit on the banisters and sung, the very same evening; and there
ain’t anybody dead there yet.”
“Well, I know that. And suppose there ain’t. Didn’t Gracie Miller fall
in the kitchen fire and burn herself terrible the very next Saturday?”
“Yes, but she ain’t _dead_. And what’s more, she’s getting better, too.”
“All right, you wait and see. She’s a goner, just as dead sure as Muff
Potter’s a goner. That’s what the niggers say, and they know all about
these kind of things, Huck.”
Then they separated, cogitating. When Tom crept in at his bedroom window
the night was almost spent. He undressed with excessive caution, and
fell asleep congratulating himself that nobody knew of his escapade. He
was not aware that the gently-snoring Sid was awake, and had been so for
an hour.
When Tom awoke, Sid was dressed and gone. There was a late look in the
light, a late sense in the atmosphere. He was startled. Why had he not
been called—persecuted till he was up, as usual? The thought filled
him with bodings. Within five minutes he was dressed and down-stairs,
feeling sore and drowsy. The family were still at table, but they had
finished breakfast. There was no voice of rebuke; but there were averted
eyes; there was a silence and an air of solemnity that struck a chill
to the culprit’s heart. He sat down and tried to seem gay, but it
was up-hill work; it roused no smile, no response, and he lapsed into
silence and let his heart sink down to the depths.
After breakfast his aunt took him aside, and Tom almost brightened in
the hope that he was going to be flogged; but it was not so. His aunt
wept over him and asked him how he could go and break her old heart so;
and finally told him to go on, and ruin himself and bring her gray hairs
with sorrow to the grave, for it was no use for her to try any more.
This was worse than a thousand whippings, and Tom’s heart was sorer now
than his body. He cried, he pleaded for forgiveness, promised to reform
over and over again, and then received his dismissal, feeling that
he had won but an imperfect forgiveness and established but a feeble
confidence.
He left the presence too miserable to even feel revengeful toward
Sid; and so the latter’s prompt retreat through the back gate was
unnecessary. He moped to school gloomy and sad, and took his flogging,
along with Joe Harper, for playing hookey the day before, with the
air of one whose heart was busy with heavier woes and wholly dead to
trifles. Then he betook himself to his seat, rested his elbows on his
desk and his jaws in his hands, and stared at the wall with the stony
stare of suffering that has reached the limit and can no further go.
His elbow was pressing against some hard substance. After a long time
he slowly and sadly changed his position, and took up this object with
a sigh. It was in a paper. He unrolled it. A long, lingering, colossal
sigh followed, and his heart broke. It was his brass andiron knob!
This final feather broke the camel’s back.
CHAPTER XI
Close upon the hour of noon the whole village was suddenly electrified
with the ghastly news. No need of the as yet un-dreamed-of telegraph;
the tale flew from man to man, from group to group, from house to house,
with little less than telegraphic speed. Of course the schoolmaster gave
holiday for that afternoon; the town would have thought strangely of
him if he had not.
A gory knife had been found close to the murdered man, and it had been
recognized by somebody as belonging to Muff Potter—so the story ran. And
it was said that a belated citizen had come upon Potter washing himself
in the “branch” about one or two o’clock in the morning, and that Potter
had at once sneaked off—suspicious circumstances, especially the washing
which was not a habit with Potter. It was also said that the town had
been ransacked for this “murderer” (the public are not slow in the
matter of sifting evidence and arriving at a verdict), but that he
could not be found. Horsemen had departed down all the roads in every
direction, and the Sheriff “was confident” that he would be captured
before night.
All the town was drifting toward the graveyard. Tom’s heartbreak
vanished and he joined the procession, not because he would not
a thousand times rather go anywhere else, but because an awful,
unaccountable fascination drew him on. Arrived at the dreadful place, he
wormed his small body through the crowd and saw the dismal spectacle.
It seemed to him an age since he was there before. Somebody pinched
his arm. He turned, and his eyes met Huckleberry’s. Then both looked
elsewhere at once, and wondered if anybody had noticed anything in their
mutual glance. But everybody was talking, and intent upon the grisly
spectacle before them.
“Poor fellow!” “Poor young fellow!” “This ought to be a lesson to grave
robbers!” “Muff Potter’ll hang for this if they catch him!” This was the
drift of remark; and the minister said, “It was a judgment; His hand is
here.”
Now Tom shivered from head to heel; for his eye fell upon the stolid
face of Injun Joe. At this moment the crowd began to sway and struggle,
and voices shouted, “It’s him! it’s him! he’s coming himself!”
“Who? Who?” from twenty voices.
“Muff Potter!”
“Hallo, he’s stopped!—Look out, he’s turning! Don’t let him get away!”
People in the branches of the trees over Tom’s head said he wasn’t
trying to get away—he only looked doubtful and perplexed.
“Infernal impudence!” said a bystander; “wanted to come and take a quiet
look at his work, I reckon—didn’t expect any company.”
The crowd fell apart, now, and the Sheriff came through, ostentatiously
leading Potter by the arm. The poor fellow’s face was haggard, and
his eyes showed the fear that was upon him. When he stood before the
murdered man, he shook as with a palsy, and he put his face in his hands
and burst into tears.
“I didn’t do it, friends,” he sobbed; “’pon my word and honor I never
done it.”
“Who’s accused you?” shouted a voice.
This shot seemed to carry home. Potter lifted his face and looked around
him with a pathetic hopelessness in his eyes. He saw Injun Joe, and
exclaimed:
“Oh, Injun Joe, you promised me you’d never—”
“Is that your knife?” and it was thrust before him by the Sheriff.
Potter would have fallen if they had not caught him and eased him to the
ground. Then he said:
“Something told me ’t if I didn’t come back and get—” He shuddered; then
waved his nerveless hand with a vanquished gesture and said, “Tell ’em,
Joe, tell ’em—it ain’t any use any more.”
Then Huckleberry and Tom stood dumb and staring, and heard the
stony-hearted liar reel off his serene statement, they expecting every
moment that the clear sky would deliver God’s lightnings upon his head,
and wondering to see how long the stroke was delayed. And when he had
finished and still stood alive and whole, their wavering impulse to
break their oath and save the poor betrayed prisoner’s life faded and
vanished away, for plainly this miscreant had sold himself to Satan and
it would be fatal to meddle with the property of such a power as that.
“Why didn’t you leave? What did you want to come here for?” somebody
said.
“I couldn’t help it—I couldn’t help it,” Potter moaned. “I wanted to
run away, but I couldn’t seem to come anywhere but here.” And he fell to
sobbing again.
Injun Joe repeated his statement, just as calmly, a few minutes
afterward on the inquest, under oath; and the boys, seeing that the
lightnings were still withheld, were confirmed in their belief that
Joe had sold himself to the devil. He was now become, to them, the most
balefully interesting object they had ever looked upon, and they could
not take their fascinated eyes from his face.
They inwardly resolved to watch him nights, when opportunity should
offer, in the hope of getting a glimpse of his dread master.
Injun Joe helped to raise the body of the murdered man and put it in
a wagon for removal; and it was whispered through the shuddering
crowd that the wound bled a little! The boys thought that this happy
circumstance would turn suspicion in the right direction; but they were
disappointed, for more than one villager remarked:
“It was within three feet of Muff Potter when it done it.”
Tom’s fearful secret and gnawing conscience disturbed his sleep for as
much as a week after this; and at breakfast one morning Sid said:
“Tom, you pitch around and talk in your sleep so much that you keep me
awake half the time.”
Tom blanched and dropped his eyes.
“It’s a bad sign,” said Aunt Polly, gravely. “What you got on your mind,
Tom?”
“Nothing. Nothing ’t I know of.” But the boy’s hand shook so that he
spilled his coffee.
“And you do talk such stuff,” Sid said. “Last night you said, ‘It’s
blood, it’s blood, that’s what it is!’ You said that over and over.
And you said, ‘Don’t torment me so—I’ll tell!’ Tell _what_? What is it
you’ll tell?”
Everything was swimming before Tom. There is no telling what might have
happened, now, but luckily the concern passed out of Aunt Polly’s face