



Produced by David Widger





HUCKLEBERRY FINN

By Mark Twain

Part 4.



CHAPTER XVI.

WE slept most all day, and started out at night, a little ways behind a
monstrous long raft that was as long going by as a procession.  She had
four long sweeps at each end, so we judged she carried as many as thirty
men, likely.  She had five big wigwams aboard, wide apart, and an open
camp fire in the middle, and a tall flag-pole at each end.  There was a
power of style about her.  It AMOUNTED to something being a raftsman on
such a craft as that.

We went drifting down into a big bend, and the night clouded up and got
hot.  The river was very wide, and was walled with solid timber on both
sides; you couldn't see a break in it hardly ever, or a light.  We talked
about Cairo, and wondered whether we would know it when we got to it.  I
said likely we wouldn't, because I had heard say there warn't but about a
dozen houses there, and if they didn't happen to have them lit up, how
was we going to know we was passing a town?  Jim said if the two big
rivers joined together there, that would show.  But I said maybe we might
think we was passing the foot of an island and coming into the same old
river again. That disturbed Jim--and me too.  So the question was, what
to do?  I said, paddle ashore the first time a light showed, and tell
them pap was behind, coming along with a trading-scow, and was a green
hand at the business, and wanted to know how far it was to Cairo.  Jim
thought it was a good idea, so we took a smoke on it and waited.

There warn't nothing to do now but to look out sharp for the town, and
not pass it without seeing it.  He said he'd be mighty sure to see it,
because he'd be a free man the minute he seen it, but if he missed it
he'd be in a slave country again and no more show for freedom.  Every
little while he jumps up and says:

"Dah she is?"

But it warn't.  It was Jack-o'-lanterns, or lightning bugs; so he set
down again, and went to watching, same as before.  Jim said it made him
all over trembly and feverish to be so close to freedom.  Well, I can
tell you it made me all over trembly and feverish, too, to hear him,
because I begun to get it through my head that he WAS most free--and who
was to blame for it?  Why, ME.  I couldn't get that out of my conscience,
no how nor no way. It got to troubling me so I couldn't rest; I couldn't
stay still in one place.  It hadn't ever come home to me before, what
this thing was that I was doing.  But now it did; and it stayed with me,
and scorched me more and more.  I tried to make out to myself that I
warn't to blame, because I didn't run Jim off from his rightful owner;
but it warn't no use, conscience up and says, every time, "But you knowed
he was running for his freedom, and you could a paddled ashore and told
somebody."  That was so--I couldn't get around that noway.  That was
where it pinched.  Conscience says to me, "What had poor Miss Watson done
to you that you could see her <DW65> go off right under your eyes and
never say one single word?  What did that poor old woman do to you that
you could treat her so mean?  Why, she tried to learn you your book, she
tried to learn you your manners, she tried to be good to you every way
she knowed how.  THAT'S what she done."

I got to feeling so mean and so miserable I most wished I was dead.  I
fidgeted up and down the raft, abusing myself to myself, and Jim was
fidgeting up and down past me.  We neither of us could keep still.  Every
time he danced around and says, "Dah's Cairo!" it went through me like a
shot, and I thought if it WAS Cairo I reckoned I would die of
miserableness.

Jim talked out loud all the time while I was talking to myself.  He was
saying how the first thing he would do when he got to a free State he
would go to saving up money and never spend a single cent, and when he
got enough he would buy his wife, which was owned on a farm close to
where Miss Watson lived; and then they would both work to buy the two
children, and if their master wouldn't sell them, they'd get an
Ab'litionist to go and steal them.

It most froze me to hear such talk.  He wouldn't ever dared to talk such
talk in his life before.  Just see what a difference it made in him the
minute he judged he was about free.  It was according to the old saying,
"Give a <DW65> an inch and he'll take an ell."  Thinks I, this is what
comes of my not thinking.  Here was this <DW65>, which I had as good as
helped to run away, coming right out flat-footed and saying he would
steal his children--children that belonged to a man I didn't even know; a
man that hadn't ever done me no harm.

I was sorry to hear Jim say that, it was such a lowering of him.  My
conscience got to stirring me up hotter than ever, until at last I says
to it, "Let up on me--it ain't too late yet--I'll paddle ashore at the
first light and tell."  I felt easy and happy and light as a feather
right off.  All my troubles was gone.  I went to looking out sharp for a
light, and sort of singing to myself.  By and by one showed.  Jim sings
out:

"We's safe, Huck, we's safe!  Jump up and crack yo' heels!  Dat's de good
ole Cairo at las', I jis knows it!"

I says:

"I'll take the canoe and go and see, Jim.  It mightn't be, you know."

He jumped and got the canoe ready, and put his old coat in the bottom for
me to set on, and give me the paddle; and as I shoved off, he says:

"Pooty soon I'll be a-shout'n' for joy, en I'll say, it's all on accounts
o' Huck; I's a free man, en I couldn't ever ben free ef it hadn' ben for
Huck; Huck done it.  Jim won't ever forgit you, Huck; you's de bes' fren'
Jim's ever had; en you's de ONLY fren' ole Jim's got now."

I was paddling off, all in a sweat to tell on him; but when he says this,
it seemed to kind of take the tuck all out of me.  I went along slow
then, and I warn't right down certain whether I was glad I started or
whether I warn't.  When I was fifty yards off, Jim says:

"Dah you goes, de ole true Huck; de on'y white genlman dat ever kep' his
promise to ole Jim."

Well, I just felt sick.  But I says, I GOT to do it--I can't get OUT of
it.  Right then along comes a skiff with two men in it with guns, and
they stopped and I stopped.  One of them says:

"What's that yonder?"

"A piece of a raft," I says.

"Do you belong on it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Any men on it?"

"Only one, sir."

"Well, there's five <DW65>s run off to-night up yonder, above the head of
the bend.  Is your man white or black?"

I didn't answer up prompt.  I tried to, but the words wouldn't come. I
tried for a second or two to brace up and out with it, but I warn't man
enough--hadn't the spunk of a rabbit.  I see I was weakening; so I just
give up trying, and up and says:

"He's white."

"I reckon we'll go and see for ourselves."

"I wish you would," says I, "because it's pap that's there, and maybe
you'd help me tow the raft ashore where the light is.  He's sick--and so
is mam and Mary Ann."

"Oh, the devil! we're in a hurry, boy.  But I s'pose we've got to.  Come,
buckle to your paddle, and let's get along."

I buckled to my paddle and they laid to their oars.  When we had made a
stroke or two, I says:

"Pap'll be mighty much obleeged to you, I can tell you.  Everybody goes
away when I want them to help me tow the raft ashore, and I can't do it
by myself."

"Well, that's infernal mean.  Odd, too.  Say, boy, what's the matter with
your father?"

"It's the--a--the--well, it ain't anything much."

They stopped pulling.  It warn't but a mighty little ways to the raft
now. One says:

"Boy, that's a lie.  What IS the matter with your pap?  Answer up square
now, and it'll be the better for you."

"I will, sir, I will, honest--but don't leave us, please.  It's the--the
--Gentlemen, if you'll only pull ahead, and let me heave you the
headline, you won't have to come a-near the raft--please do."

"Set her back, John, set her back!" says one.  They backed water.  "Keep
away, boy--keep to looard.  Confound it, I just expect the wind has
blowed it to us.  Your pap's got the small-pox, and you know it precious
well.  Why didn't you come out and say so?  Do you want to spread it all
over?"

"Well," says I, a-blubbering, "I've told everybody before, and they just
went away and left us."

"Poor devil, there's something in that.  We are right down sorry for you,
but we--well, hang it, we don't want the small-pox, you see.  Look here,
I'll tell you what to do.  Don't you try to land by yourself, or you'll
smash everything to pieces.  You float along down about twenty miles, and
you'll come to a town on the left-hand side of the river.  It will be
long after sun-up then, and when you ask for help you tell them your
folks are all down with chills and fever.  Don't be a fool again, and let
people guess what is the matter.  Now we're trying to do you a kindness;
so you just put twenty miles between us, that's a good boy.  It wouldn't
do any good to land yonder where the light is--it's only a wood-yard.
Say, I reckon your father's poor, and I'm bound to say he's in pretty
hard luck.  Here, I'll put a twenty-dollar gold piece on this board, and
you get it when it floats by.  I feel mighty mean to leave you; but my
kingdom! it won't do to fool with small-pox, don't you see?"

"Hold on, Parker," says the other man, "here's a twenty to put on the
board for me.  Good-bye, boy; you do as Mr. Parker told you, and you'll
be all right."

"That's so, my boy--good-bye, good-bye.  If you see any runaway <DW65>s
you get help and nab them, and you can make some money by it."

"Good-bye, sir," says I; "I won't let no runaway <DW65>s get by me if I
can help it."

They went off and I got aboard the raft, feeling bad and low, because I
knowed very well I had done wrong, and I see it warn't no use for me to
try to learn to do right; a body that don't get STARTED right when he's
little ain't got no show--when the pinch comes there ain't nothing to
back him up and keep him to his work, and so he gets beat.  Then I
thought a minute, and says to myself, hold on; s'pose you'd a done right
and give Jim up, would you felt better than what you do now?  No, says I,
I'd feel bad--I'd feel just the same way I do now.  Well, then, says I,
what's the use you learning to do right when it's troublesome to do right
and ain't no trouble to do wrong, and the wages is just the same?  I was
stuck.  I couldn't answer that.  So I reckoned I wouldn't bother no more
about it, but after this always do whichever come handiest at the time.

I went into the wigwam; Jim warn't there.  I looked all around; he warn't
anywhere.  I says:

"Jim!"

"Here I is, Huck.  Is dey out o' sight yit?  Don't talk loud."

He was in the river under the stern oar, with just his nose out.  I told
him they were out of sight, so he come aboard.  He says:

"I was a-listenin' to all de talk, en I slips into de river en was gwyne
to shove for sho' if dey come aboard.  Den I was gwyne to swim to de raf'
agin when dey was gone.  But lawsy, how you did fool 'em, Huck!  Dat WUZ
de smartes' dodge!  I tell you, chile, I'spec it save' ole Jim--ole Jim
ain't going to forgit you for dat, honey."

Then we talked about the money.  It was a pretty good raise--twenty
dollars apiece.  Jim said we could take deck passage on a steamboat now,
and the money would last us as far as we wanted to go in the free States.
He said twenty mile more warn't far for the raft to go, but he wished we
was already there.

Towards daybreak we tied up, and Jim was mighty particular about hiding
the raft good.  Then he worked all day fixing things in bundles, and
getting all ready to quit rafting.

That night about ten we hove in sight of the lights of a town away down
in a left-hand bend.

I went off in the canoe to ask about it.  Pretty soon I found a man out
in the river with a skiff, setting a trot-line.  I ranged up and says:

"Mister, is that town Cairo?"

"Cairo? no.  You must be a blame' fool."

"What town is it, mister?"

"If you want to know, go and find out.  If you stay here botherin' around
me for about a half a minute longer you'll get something you won't want."

I paddled to the raft.  Jim was awful disappointed, but I said never
mind, Cairo would be the next place, I reckoned.

We passed another town before daylight, and I was going out again; but it
was high ground, so I didn't go.  No high ground about Cairo, Jim said.
I had forgot it.  We laid up for the day on a towhead tolerable close to
the left-hand bank.  I begun to suspicion something.  So did Jim.  I
says:

"Maybe we went by Cairo in the fog that night."

He says:

"Doan' le's talk about it, Huck.  Po' <DW65>s can't have no luck.  I
awluz'spected dat rattlesnake-skin warn't done wid its work."

"I wish I'd never seen that snake-skin, Jim--I do wish I'd never laid
eyes on it."

"It ain't yo' fault, Huck; you didn' know.  Don't you blame yo'self 'bout
it."

When it was daylight, here was the clear Ohio water inshore, sure enough,
and outside was the old regular Muddy!  So it was all up with Cairo.

We talked it all over.  It wouldn't do to take to the shore; we couldn't
take the raft up the stream, of course.  There warn't no way but to wait
for dark, and start back in the canoe and take the chances.  So we slept
all day amongst the cottonwood thicket, so as to be fresh for the work,
and when we went back to the raft about dark the canoe was gone!

We didn't say a word for a good while.  There warn't anything to say.  We
both knowed well enough it was some more work of the rattlesnake-skin; so
what was the use to talk about it?  It would only look like we was
finding fault, and that would be bound to fetch more bad luck--and keep
on fetching it, too, till we knowed enough to keep still.

By and by we talked about what we better do, and found there warn't no
way but just to go along down with the raft till we got a chance to buy a
canoe to go back in.  We warn't going to borrow it when there warn't
anybody around, the way pap would do, for that might set people after us.

So we shoved out after dark on the raft.

Anybody that don't believe yet that it's foolishness to handle a
snake-skin, after all that that snake-skin done for us, will believe
it now if they read on and see what more it done for us.

The place to buy canoes is off of rafts laying up at shore.  But we
didn't see no rafts laying up; so we went along during three hours and
more.  Well, the night got gray and ruther thick, which is the next
meanest thing to fog.  You can't tell the shape of the river, and you
can't see no distance. It got to be very late and still, and then along
comes a steamboat up the river.  We lit the lantern, and judged she would
see it.  Up-stream boats didn't generly come close to us; they go out and
follow the bars and hunt for easy water under the reefs; but nights like
this they bull right up the channel against the whole river.

We could hear her pounding along, but we didn't see her good till she was
close.  She aimed right for us.  Often they do that and try to see how
close they can come without touching; sometimes the wheel bites off a
sweep, and then the pilot sticks his head out and laughs, and thinks he's
mighty smart.  Well, here she comes, and we said she was going to try and
shave us; but she didn't seem to be sheering off a bit.  She was a big
one, and she was coming in a hurry, too, looking like a black cloud with
rows of glow-worms around it; but all of a sudden she bulged out, big and
scary, with a long row of wide-open furnace doors shining like red-hot
teeth, and her monstrous bows and guards hanging right over us.  There
was a yell at us, and a jingling of bells to stop the engines, a powwow
of cussing, and whistling of steam--and as Jim went overboard on one side
and I on the other, she come smashing straight through the raft.

I dived--and I aimed to find the bottom, too, for a thirty-foot wheel had
got to go over me, and I wanted it to have plenty of room.  I could
always stay under water a minute; this time I reckon I stayed under a
minute and a half.  Then I bounced for the top in a hurry, for I was
nearly busting.  I popped out to my armpits and blowed the water out of
my nose, and puffed a bit.  Of course there was a booming current; and of
course that boat started her engines again ten seconds after she stopped
them, for they never cared much for raftsmen; so now she was churning
along up the river, out of sight in the thick weather, though I could
hear her.

I sung out for Jim about a dozen times, but I didn't get any answer; so I
grabbed a plank that touched me while I was "treading water," and struck
out for shore, shoving it ahead of me.  But I made out to see that the
drift of the current was towards the left-hand shore, which meant that I
was in a crossing; so I changed off and went that way.

It was one of these long, slanting, two-mile crossings; so I was a good
long time in getting over.  I made a safe landing, and clumb up the bank.
I couldn't see but a little ways, but I went poking along over rough
ground for a quarter of a mile or more, and then I run across a big
old-fashioned double log-house before I noticed it.  I was going to rush
by and get away, but a lot of dogs jumped out and went to howling and
barking at me, and I knowed better than to move another peg.




CHAPTER XVII.

IN about a minute somebody spoke out of a window without putting his head
out, and says:

"Be done, boys!  Who's there?"

I says:

"It's me."

"Who's me?"

"George Jackson, sir."

"What do you want?"

"I don't want nothing, sir.  I only want to go along by, but the dogs
won't let me."

"What are you prowling around here this time of night for--hey?"

"I warn't prowling around, sir, I fell overboard off of the steamboat."

"Oh, you did, did you?  Strike a light there, somebody.  What did you say
your name was?"

"George Jackson, sir.  I'm only a boy."

"Look here, if you're telling the truth you needn't be afraid--nobody'll
hurt you.  But don't try to budge; stand right where you are.  Rouse out
Bob and Tom, some of you, and fetch the guns.  George Jackson, is there
anybody with you?"

"No, sir, nobody."

I heard the people stirring around in the house now, and see a light.
The man sung out:

"Snatch that light away, Betsy, you old fool--ain't you got any sense?
Put it on the floor behind the front door.  Bob, if you and Tom are
ready, take your places."

"All ready."

"Now, George Jackson, do you know the Shepherdsons?"

"No, sir; I never heard of them."

"Well, that may be so, and it mayn't.  Now, all ready.  Step forward,
George Jackson.  And mind, don't you hurry--come mighty slow.  If there's
anybody with you, let him keep back--if he shows himself he'll be shot.
Come along now.  Come slow; push the door open yourself--just enough to
squeeze in, d' you hear?"

I didn't hurry; I couldn't if I'd a wanted to.  I took one slow step at a
time and there warn't a sound, only I thought I could hear my heart.  The
dogs were as still as the humans, but they followed a little behind me.
When I got to the three log doorsteps I heard them unlocking and
unbarring and unbolting.  I put my hand on the door and pushed it a
little and a little more till somebody said, "There, that's enough--put
your head in." I done it, but I judged they would take it off.

The candle was on the floor, and there they all was, looking at me, and
me at them, for about a quarter of a minute:  Three big men with guns
pointed at me, which made me wince, I tell you; the oldest, gray and
about sixty, the other two thirty or more--all of them fine and handsome
--and the sweetest old gray-headed lady, and back of her two young women
which I couldn't see right well.  The old gentleman says:

"There; I reckon it's all right.  Come in."

As soon as I was in the old gentleman he locked the door and barred it
and bolted it, and told the young men to come in with their guns, and
they all went in a big parlor that had a new rag carpet on the floor, and
got together in a corner that was out of the range of the front windows
--there warn't none on the side.  They held the candle, and took a good
look at me, and all said, "Why, HE ain't a Shepherdson--no, there ain't
any Shepherdson about him."  Then the old man said he hoped I wouldn't
mind being searched for arms, because he didn't mean no harm by it--it
was only to make sure.  So he didn't pry into my pockets, but only felt
outside with his hands, and said it was all right.  He told me to make
myself easy and at home, and tell all about myself; but the old lady
says:

"Why, bless you, Saul, the poor thing's as wet as he can be; and don't
you reckon it may be he's hungry?"

"True for you, Rachel--I forgot."

So the old lady says:

"Betsy" (this was a <DW65> woman), "you fly around and get him something
to eat as quick as you can, poor thing; and one of you girls go and wake
up Buck and tell him--oh, here he is himself.  Buck, take this little
stranger and get the wet clothes off from him and dress him up in some of
yours that's dry."

Buck looked about as old as me--thirteen or fourteen or along there,
though he was a little bigger than me.  He hadn't on anything but a
shirt, and he was very frowzy-headed.  He came in gaping and digging one
fist into his eyes, and he was dragging a gun along with the other one.
He says:

"Ain't they no Shepherdsons around?"

They said, no, 'twas a false alarm.

"Well," he says, "if they'd a ben some, I reckon I'd a got one."

