The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Complete
that she had discovered that the shirt was dry without anybody knowing
that that was what she had in her mind. But in spite of her, Tom knew
where the wind lay, now. So he forestalled what might be the next move:
“Some of us pumped on our heads—mine’s damp yet. See?”
Aunt Polly was vexed to think she had overlooked that bit of
circumstantial evidence, and missed a trick. Then she had a new
inspiration:
“Tom, you didn’t have to undo your shirt collar where I sewed it, to
pump on your head, did you? Unbutton your jacket!”
The trouble vanished out of Tom’s face. He opened his jacket. His shirt
collar was securely sewed.
“Bother! Well, go ’long with you. I’d made sure you’d played hookey
and been a-swimming. But I forgive ye, Tom. I reckon you’re a kind of a
singed cat, as the saying is—better’n you look. _This_ time.”
She was half sorry her sagacity had miscarried, and half glad that Tom
had stumbled into obedient conduct for once.
But Sidney said:
“Well, now, if I didn’t think you sewed his collar with white thread,
but it’s black.”
“Why, I did sew it with white! Tom!”
But Tom did not wait for the rest. As he went out at the door he said:
“Siddy, I’ll lick you for that.”
In a safe place Tom examined two large needles which were thrust into
the lapels of his jacket, and had thread bound about them—one needle
carried white thread and the other black. He said:
“She’d never noticed if it hadn’t been for Sid. Confound it! sometimes
she sews it with white, and sometimes she sews it with black. I wish to
gee-miny she’d stick to one or t’other—I can’t keep the run of ’em. But
I bet you I’ll lam Sid for that. I’ll learn him!”
He was not the Model Boy of the village. He knew the model boy very well
though—and loathed him.
Within two minutes, or even less, he had forgotten all his troubles. Not
because his troubles were one whit less heavy and bitter to him than a
man’s are to a man, but because a new and powerful interest bore
them down and drove them out of his mind for the time—just as men’s
misfortunes are forgotten in the excitement of new enterprises. This new
interest was a valued novelty in whistling, which he had just acquired
from a negro, and he was suffering to practise it undisturbed. It
consisted in a peculiar bird-like turn, a sort of liquid warble,
produced by touching the tongue to the roof of the mouth at short
intervals in the midst of the music—the reader probably remembers how to
do it, if he has ever been a boy. Diligence and attention soon gave him
the knack of it, and he strode down the street with his mouth full of
harmony and his soul full of gratitude. He felt much as an astronomer
feels who has discovered a new planet—no doubt, as far as strong, deep,
unalloyed pleasure is concerned, the advantage was with the boy, not the
astronomer.
The summer evenings were long. It was not dark, yet. Presently Tom
checked his whistle. A stranger was before him—a boy a shade larger
than himself. A new-comer of any age or either sex was an impressive
curiosity in the poor little shabby village of St. Petersburg. This boy
was well dressed, too—well dressed on a week-day. This was simply
astounding. His cap was a dainty thing, his close-buttoned blue cloth
roundabout was new and natty, and so were his pantaloons. He had shoes
on—and it was only Friday. He even wore a necktie, a bright bit of
ribbon. He had a citified air about him that ate into Tom’s vitals. The
more Tom stared at the splendid marvel, the higher he turned up his nose
at his finery and the shabbier and shabbier his own outfit seemed to
him to grow. Neither boy spoke. If one moved, the other moved—but only
sidewise, in a circle; they kept face to face and eye to eye all the
time. Finally Tom said:
“I can lick you!”
“I’d like to see you try it.”
“Well, I can do it.”
“No you can’t, either.”
“Yes I can.”
“No you can’t.”
“I can.”
“You can’t.”
“Can!”
“Can’t!”
An uncomfortable pause. Then Tom said:
“What’s your name?”
“’Tisn’t any of your business, maybe.”
“Well I ’low I’ll _make_ it my business.”
“Well why don’t you?”
“If you say much, I will.”
“Much—much—_much_. There now.”
“Oh, you think you’re mighty smart, _don’t_ you? I could lick you with
one hand tied behind me, if I wanted to.”
“Well why don’t you _do_ it? You _say_ you can do it.”
“Well I _will_, if you fool with me.”
“Oh yes—I’ve seen whole families in the same fix.”
“Smarty! You think you’re _some_, now, _don’t_ you? Oh, what a hat!”
“You can lump that hat if you don’t like it. I dare you to knock it
off—and anybody that’ll take a dare will suck eggs.”
“You’re a liar!”
“You’re another.”
“You’re a fighting liar and dasn’t take it up.”
“Aw—take a walk!”
“Say—if you give me much more of your sass I’ll take and bounce a rock
off’n your head.”
“Oh, of _course_ you will.”
“Well I _will_.”
“Well why don’t you _do_ it then? What do you keep _saying_ you will
for? Why don’t you _do_ it? It’s because you’re afraid.”
“I _ain’t_ afraid.”
“You are.”
“I ain’t.”
“You are.”
Another pause, and more eying and sidling around each other. Presently
they were shoulder to shoulder. Tom said:
“Get away from here!”
“Go away yourself!”
“I won’t.”
“I won’t either.”
So they stood, each with a foot placed at an angle as a brace, and both
shoving with might and main, and glowering at each other with hate. But
neither could get an advantage. After struggling till both were hot and
flushed, each relaxed his strain with watchful caution, and Tom said:
“You’re a coward and a pup. I’ll tell my big brother on you, and he can
thrash you with his little finger, and I’ll make him do it, too.”
“What do I care for your big brother? I’ve got a brother that’s bigger
than he is—and what’s more, he can throw him over that fence, too.”
[Both brothers were imaginary.]
“That’s a lie.”
“_Your_ saying so don’t make it so.”
Tom drew a line in the dust with his big toe, and said:
“I dare you to step over that, and I’ll lick you till you can’t stand
up. Anybody that’ll take a dare will steal sheep.”
The new boy stepped over promptly, and said:
“Now you said you’d do it, now let’s see you do it.”
“Don’t you crowd me now; you better look out.”
“Well, you _said_ you’d do it—why don’t you do it?”
“By jingo! for two cents I _will_ do it.”
The new boy took two broad coppers out of his pocket and held them out
with derision. Tom struck them to the ground. In an instant both boys
were rolling and tumbling in the dirt, gripped together like cats; and
for the space of a minute they tugged and tore at each other’s hair and
clothes, punched and scratched each other’s nose, and covered themselves
with dust and glory. Presently the confusion took form, and through the
fog of battle Tom appeared, seated astride the new boy, and pounding him
with his fists. “Holler ’nuff!” said he.
The boy only struggled to free himself. He was crying—mainly from rage.
“Holler ’nuff!”—and the pounding went on.
At last the stranger got out a smothered “’Nuff!” and Tom let him up and
said:
“Now that’ll learn you. Better look out who you’re fooling with next
time.”
The new boy went off brushing the dust from his clothes, sobbing,
snuffling, and occasionally looking back and shaking his head and
threatening what he would do to Tom the “next time he caught him out.”
To which Tom responded with jeers, and started off in high feather, and
as soon as his back was turned the new boy snatched up a stone, threw it
and hit him between the shoulders and then turned tail and ran like
an antelope. Tom chased the traitor home, and thus found out where he
lived. He then held a position at the gate for some time, daring the
enemy to come outside, but the enemy only made faces at him through the
window and declined. At last the enemy’s mother appeared, and called Tom
a bad, vicious, vulgar child, and ordered him away. So he went away; but
he said he “’lowed” to “lay” for that boy.
He got home pretty late that night, and when he climbed cautiously in
at the window, he uncovered an ambuscade, in the person of his aunt; and
when she saw the state his clothes were in her resolution to turn his
Saturday holiday into captivity at hard labor became adamantine in its
firmness.
CHAPTER II
Saturday morning was come, and all the summer world was bright and
fresh, and brimming with life. There was a song in every heart; and if
the heart was young the music issued at the lips. There was cheer in
every face and a spring in every step. The locust-trees were in bloom
and the fragrance of the blossoms filled the air. Cardiff Hill, beyond
the village and above it, was green with vegetation and it lay just far
enough away to seem a Delectable Land, dreamy, reposeful, and inviting.
Tom appeared on the sidewalk with a bucket of whitewash and a
long-handled brush. He surveyed the fence, and all gladness left him and
a deep melancholy settled down upon his spirit. Thirty yards of board
fence nine feet high. Life to him seemed hollow, and existence but a
burden. Sighing, he dipped his brush and passed it along the topmost
plank; repeated the operation; did it again; compared the insignificant
whitewashed streak with the far-reaching continent of unwhitewashed
fence, and sat down on a tree-box discouraged. Jim came skipping out at
the gate with a tin pail, and singing Buffalo Gals. Bringing water from
the town pump had always been hateful work in Tom’s eyes, before, but
now it did not strike him so. He remembered that there was company at
the pump. White, mulatto, and negro boys and girls were always there
waiting their turns, resting, trading playthings, quarrelling, fighting,
skylarking. And he remembered that although the pump was only a hundred
and fifty yards off, Jim never got back with a bucket of water under an
hour—and even then somebody generally had to go after him. Tom said:
“Say, Jim, I’ll fetch the water if you’ll whitewash some.”
Jim shook his head and said:
“Can’t, Mars Tom. Ole missis, she tole me I got to go an’ git dis water
an’ not stop foolin’ roun’ wid anybody. She say she spec’ Mars Tom gwine
to ax me to whitewash, an’ so she tole me go ’long an’ ’tend to my own
business—she ’lowed _she’d_ ’tend to de whitewashin’.”
“Oh, never you mind what she said, Jim. That’s the way she always talks.
Gimme the bucket—I won’t be gone only a a minute. _She_ won’t ever
know.”
“Oh, I dasn’t, Mars Tom. Ole missis she’d take an’ tar de head off’n me.
’Deed she would.”
“_She_! She never licks anybody—whacks ’em over the head with her
thimble—and who cares for that, I’d like to know. She talks awful, but
talk don’t hurt—anyways it don’t if she don’t cry. Jim, I’ll give you a
marvel. I’ll give you a white alley!”
Jim began to waver.
“White alley, Jim! And it’s a bully taw.”
“My! Dat’s a mighty gay marvel, I tell you! But Mars Tom I’s powerful
’fraid ole missis—”
“And besides, if you will I’ll show you my sore toe.”
Jim was only human—this attraction was too much for him. He put down
his pail, took the white alley, and bent over the toe with absorbing
interest while the bandage was being unwound. In another moment he
was flying down the street with his pail and a tingling rear, Tom was
whitewashing with vigor, and Aunt Polly was retiring from the field with
a slipper in her hand and triumph in her eye.
But Tom’s energy did not last. He began to think of the fun he had
planned for this day, and his sorrows multiplied. Soon the free boys
would come tripping along on all sorts of delicious expeditions, and
they would make a world of fun of him for having to work—the very
thought of it burnt him like fire. He got out his worldly wealth and