Chapter 31

17 min

We dasn’t stop again at any town for days and days; kept right along down the river. We was down south in the warm weather now, and a mighty long ways from home. We begun to come to trees with Spanish moss on them, hanging down from the limbs like long, gray beards. It was the first I ever see it growing, and it made the woods look solemn and dismal. So now the frauds reckoned they was out of danger, and they begun to work the villages again.

We daren't stop again at any town for days and days. We kept right on down the river. We was down south in the warm weather now, and a mighty long way from home. We begun to come to trees with Spanish moss hanging from their branches like long, gray beards. It was the first I ever see Spanish moss growing, and it made the woods look solemn and gloomy. So now the frauds figured they was out of danger, and they begun to scam the villages again.

First they done a lecture on temperance; but they didn’t make enough for them both to get drunk on. Then in another village they started a dancing-school; but they didn’t know no more how to dance than a kangaroo does; so the first prance they made the general public jumped in and pranced them out of town. Another time they tried to go at yellocution; but they didn’t yellocute long till the audience got up and give them a solid good cussing, and made them skip out. They tackled missionarying, and mesmerizing, and doctoring, and telling fortunes, and a little of everything; but they couldn’t seem to have no luck. So at last they got just about dead broke, and laid around the raft as she floated along, thinking and thinking, and never saying nothing, by the half a day at a time, and dreadful blue and desperate.

First they done a lecture against drinking, but they didn’t make enough for them both to get drunk on. Then in another village they started a dancing school. But they didn’t know no more how to dance than a kangaroo does. So at their first prance, the general public jumped in and pranced them out of town. Another time they tried their hand at yellocution. But they didn’t yellocute long before the audience got up and give them a good, solid cussing. The audience made them skip out, too. They tried missionary work, hypnotism, doctoring, fortune-telling, and a little of everything. But they couldn’t seem to have no luck. So at last they got just about dead broke. They laid around the raft as she floated along, thinking and thinking. They never said nothing for half a day at a time, and they felt dreadful low and desperate.

And at last they took a change and begun to lay their heads together in the wigwam and talk low and confidential two or three hours at a time. Jim and me got uneasy. We didn’t like the look of it. We judged they was studying up some kind of worse deviltry than ever. We turned it over and over, and at last we made up our minds they was going to break into somebody’s house or store, or was going into the counterfeit-money business, or something. So then we was pretty scared, and made up an agreement that we wouldn’t have nothing in the world to do with such actions, and if we ever got the least show we would give them the cold shake and clear out and leave them behind. Well, early one morning we hid the raft in a good, safe place about two mile below a little bit of a shabby village named Pikesville, and the king he went ashore and told us all to stay hid whilst he went up to town and smelt around to see if anybody had got any wind of the Royal Nonesuch there yet. (“House to rob, you mean,” says I to myself; “and when you get through robbing it you’ll come back here and wonder what has become of me and Jim and the raft—and you’ll have to take it out in wondering.”) And he said if he warn’t back by midday the duke and me would know it was all right, and we was to come along.

And at last there come a change in them, and they begun to lay their heads together in the wigwam and talk low and private, two or three hours at a time. Jim and me got uneasy. We didn’t like the look of it. We judged they was studying up some kind of worse deviltry than ever. We turned it over and over, and at last we made up our minds they was going to break into somebody’s house or store, or was going into the counterfeit-money business, or something. So then we was pretty scared. We made up an agreement that we wouldn’t have nothing in the world to do with such actions, and that if we ever got the least chance, we would give them the cold shake and clear out and leave them behind. Well, early one morning we hid the raft in a good, safe place about two mile below a shabby little bit of a village named Pikesville. The king he went ashore and told us all to stay hid while he went up to town and smelt around to see if anybody had got any wind of the Royal Nonesuch there yet. (“House to rob, you mean,” says I to myself. “And when you get through robbing it you’ll come back here and wonder what has become of me and Jim and the raft, and you’ll have to take it out in wondering.”) And he said if he wasn’t back by midday, the duke and me would know it was all right, and we was to come along.

So we stayed where we was. The duke he fretted and sweated around, and was in a mighty sour way. He scolded us for everything, and we couldn’t seem to do nothing right; he found fault with every little thing. Something was a-brewing, sure. I was good and glad when midday come and no king; we could have a change, anyway—and maybe a chance for the change on top of it. So me and the duke went up to the village, and hunted around there for the king, and by-and-by we found him in the back room of a little low doggery, very tight, and a lot of loafers bullyragging him for sport, and he a-cussing and a-threatening with all his might, and so tight he couldn’t walk, and couldn’t do nothing to them. The duke he begun to abuse him for an old fool, and the king begun to sass back, and the minute they was fairly at it I lit out and shook the reefs out of my hind legs, and spun down the river road like a deer, for I see our chance; and I made up my mind that it would be a long day before they ever see me and Jim again. I got down there all out of breath but loaded up with joy, and sung out:

So we stayed where we was. The duke he fretted and sweated, and was in a mighty bad mood. He scolded us for everything, and we couldn’t seem to do nothing right. He found fault with every little thing. Something was brewing, sure. I was good and glad when midday come and still no king. We could have a change, anyway, and maybe a chance for the change on top of it. So me and the duke went up to the village and looked around for the king. After a while we found him in the back room of a shabby little bar, very drunk. A lot of loafers was picking on him for sport, and he was cursing and threatening with all his might. But he was so drunk he couldn’t walk, and couldn’t do nothing to them. The duke he begun to insult him and call him an old fool, and the king begun to sass back. The minute they was really at it, I took off and let my legs go as fast as they could. I raced down the river road like a deer, for I see our chance. I made up my mind it would be a long time before they ever see me and Jim again. I got down there all out of breath but full of joy, and called out:

“Set her loose, Jim! we’re all right now!”

“Let her loose, Jim! We’re all right now!”

But there warn’t no answer, and nobody come out of the wigwam. Jim was gone! I set up a shout—and then another—and then another one; and run this way and that in the woods, whooping and screeching; but it warn’t no use—old Jim was gone. Then I set down and cried; I couldn’t help it. But I couldn’t set still long. Pretty soon I went out on the road, trying to think what I better do, and I run across a boy walking, and asked him if he’d seen a strange dressed so and so, and he says:

But there wasn't no answer, and nobody come out of the wigwam. Jim was gone! I set up a shout, and then another, and then another. I run this way and that in the woods, whooping and screeching. But it wasn't no use. Old Jim was gone. Then I set down and cried. I couldn't help it. But I couldn't set still long. Pretty soon I went out on the road, trying to think what I better do. I run across a boy walking and asked him if he'd seen a strange dressed so and so. And he says:

“Yes.”

“Whereabouts?” says I.

“Where exactly?” says I.

“Down to Silas Phelps’ place, two mile below here. He’s a runaway , and they’ve got him. Was you looking for him?”

“You bet I ain’t! I run across him in the woods about an hour or two ago, and he said if I hollered he’d cut my livers out—and told me to lay down and stay where I was; and I done it. Been there ever since; afeard to come out.”

“You bet I ain’t! I run across him in the woods about an hour or two ago. He said if I hollered he’d cut my livers out. And he told me to lay down and stay where I was, and I done it. Been there ever since, afraid to come out.”

“Well,” he says, “you needn’t be afeard no more, becuz they’ve got him. He run off f’m down South, som’ers.”

“Well,” he says, “you needn’t be afraid no more, because they’ve got him. He run off from somewhere down South.”

“It’s a good job they got him.”

“It’s a good thing they got him.”

“Well, I reckon! There’s two hunderd dollars reward on him. It’s like picking up money out’n the road.”

“Well, I reckon! There’s two hundred dollars reward on him. It’s like picking up money off the road.”

“Yes, it is—and I could a had it if I’d been big enough; I see him first. Who nailed him?”

“Yes, it is. And I could have had it if I’d been big enough. I see him first. Who caught him?”

“It was an old fellow—a stranger—and he sold out his chance in him for forty dollars, becuz he’s got to go up the river and can’t wait. Think o’ that, now! You bet I’d wait, if it was seven year.”

“It was an old fellow, a stranger. He sold his claim on him for forty dollars because he’s got to go upriver and can’t wait. Think of that, now! You bet I’d wait, if it was seven year.”

“That’s me, every time,” says I. “But maybe his chance ain’t worth no more than that, if he’ll sell it so cheap. Maybe there’s something ain’t straight about it.”

“That’s me, every time,” says I. “But maybe his chance ain’t worth no more than that, if he’ll sell it so cheap. Maybe there’s something ain’t right about it.”

“But it is, though—straight as a string. I see the handbill myself. It tells all about him, to a dot—paints him like a picture, and tells the plantation he’s frum, below Newrleans. No-sirree-bob, they ain’t no trouble ’bout that speculation, you bet you. Say, gimme a chaw tobacker, won’t ye?”

“But it is, though, straight as a string. I see the flyer myself. It tells all about him, down to the last detail. It describes him like a picture and names the plantation he’s from, below New Orleans. No-sirree-bob, there ain’t no trouble about that deal, you bet you. Say, give me a chew of tobacco, won’t you?”

I didn’t have none, so he left. I went to the raft, and set down in the wigwam to think. But I couldn’t come to nothing. I thought till I wore my head sore, but I couldn’t see no way out of the trouble. After all this long journey, and after all we’d done for them scoundrels, here it was all come to nothing, everything all busted up and ruined, because they could have the heart to serve Jim such a trick as that, and make him a slave again all his life, and amongst strangers, too, for forty dirty dollars.

I didn’t have none, so he left. I went to the raft and set down in the wigwam to think. But I couldn’t come to nothing. I thought till my head hurt, but I couldn’t see no way out of the trouble. After this whole long journey, and after all we’d done for them scoundrels, it had all come to nothing. Everything was all busted up and ruined because they could be heartless enough to play that trick on Jim. They’d make him a slave again for the rest of his life, and among strangers, too, for forty dirty dollars.

Once I said to myself it would be a thousand times better for Jim to be a slave at home where his family was, as long as he’d got to be a slave, and so I’d better write a letter to Tom Sawyer and tell him to tell Miss Watson where he was. But I soon give up that notion for two things: she’d be mad and disgusted at his rascality and ungratefulness for leaving her, and so she’d sell him straight down the river again; and if she didn’t, everybody naturally despises an ungrateful , and they’d make Jim feel it all the time, and so he’d feel ornery and disgraced. And then think of me! It would get all around that Huck Finn helped a to get his freedom; and if I was ever to see anybody from that town again I’d be ready to get down and lick his boots for shame. That’s just the way: a person does a low-down thing, and then he don’t want to take no consequences of it. Thinks as long as he can hide it, it ain’t no disgrace. That was my fix exactly. The more I studied about this, the more my conscience went to grinding me, and the more wicked and low-down and ornery I got to feeling. And at last, when it hit me all of a sudden that here was the plain hand of Providence slapping me in the face and letting me know my wickedness was being watched all the time from up there in heaven, whilst I was stealing a poor old woman’s that hadn’t ever done me no harm, and now was showing me there’s One that’s always on the lookout, and ain’t a-going to allow no such miserable doings to go only just so fur and no further, I most dropped in my tracks I was so scared. Well, I tried the best I could to kinder soften it up somehow for myself by saying I was brung up wicked, and so I warn’t so much to blame; but something inside of me kept saying, “There was the Sunday-school, you could a gone to it; and if you’d a done it they’d a learnt you there that people that acts as I’d been acting about that goes to everlasting fire.”

Once I said to myself it would be a thousand times better for Jim to be a slave at home where his family was, as long as he’d got to be a slave. So I’d better write a letter to Tom Sawyer and tell him to tell Miss Watson where he was. But I soon give up that notion, for two reasons. She’d be mad and disgusted at his rascality and ungratefulness for leaving her, and so she’d sell him straight down the river again. And if she didn’t, everybody naturally despises an ungrateful , and they’d make Jim feel it all the time, and so he’d feel ornery and disgraced. And then think of me! It would get all around that Huck Finn helped a to get his freedom. And if I was ever to see anybody from that town again, I’d be ready to get down and lick his boots for shame. That’s just the way: a person does a low-down thing, and then he don’t want to take no consequences of it. Thinks as long as he can hide it, it ain’t no disgrace. That was my fix exactly. The more I studied about this, the more my conscience went to grinding me, and the more wicked and low-down and ornery I got to feeling. And at last it hit me all of a sudden. Here was the plain hand of Providence slapping me in the face, and letting me know my wickedness was being watched all the time from up there in heaven, while I was stealing a poor old woman’s that hadn’t ever done me no harm. And now it was showing me there’s One that’s always on the lookout, and ain’t a-going to allow no such miserable doings to go only just so far and no further. When that hit me, I almost dropped in my tracks, I was so scared. Well, I tried the best I could to kind of soften it up somehow for myself by saying I was brung up wicked, and so I wasn’t so much to blame. But something inside of me kept saying, “There was the Sunday-school. You could have gone to it. And if you’d done it, they’d have learnt you there that people that acts as I’d been acting about that goes to everlasting fire.”

It made me shiver. And I about made up my mind to pray, and see if I couldn’t try to quit being the kind of a boy I was and be better. So I kneeled down. But the words wouldn’t come. Why wouldn’t they? It warn’t no use to try and hide it from Him. Nor from me, neither. I knowed very well why they wouldn’t come. It was because my heart warn’t right; it was because I warn’t square; it was because I was playing double. I was letting on to give up sin, but away inside of me I was holding on to the biggest one of all. I was trying to make my mouth say I would do the right thing and the clean thing, and go and write to that ’s owner and tell where he was; but deep down in me I knowed it was a lie, and He knowed it. You can’t pray a lie—I found that out.

It made me shiver. And I about made up my mind to pray, and see if I couldn’t try to quit being the kind of a boy I was and be better. So I kneeled down. But the words wouldn’t come. Why wouldn’t they? It wasn’t no use to try and hide it from Him. Nor from me, neither. I knowed very well why they wouldn’t come. It was because my heart wasn’t right. It was because I wasn’t square. It was because I was playing double. I was letting on to give up sin, but away inside of me I was holding on to the biggest one of all. I was trying to make my mouth say I would do the right thing and the clean thing, and go and write to that ’s owner and tell where he was. But deep down in me I knowed it was a lie, and He knowed it. You can’t pray a lie. I found that out.

So I was full of trouble, full as I could be; and didn’t know what to do. At last I had an idea; and I says, I’ll go and write the letter—and then see if I can pray. Why, it was astonishing, the way I felt as light as a feather right straight off, and my troubles all gone. So I got a piece of paper and a pencil, all glad and excited, and set down and wrote:

So I was full of trouble, as full as I could be. And I didn’t know what to do. At last I had an idea. And I says, I’ll go and write the letter, and then see if I can pray. Why, it was amazing how I felt as light as a feather right away, with all my troubles gone. So I got a piece of paper and a pencil, all glad and excited, and set down and wrote:

Miss Watson, your runaway Jim is down here two mile below Pikesville, and Mr. Phelps has got him and he will give him up for the reward if you send.

Miss Watson, your runaway Jim is down here two mile below Pikesville. Mr. Phelps has got him and will hand him over for the reward if you send for him.

HUCK FINN.

I felt good and all washed clean of sin for the first time I had ever felt so in my life, and I knowed I could pray now. But I didn’t do it straight off, but laid the paper down and set there thinking—thinking how good it was all this happened so, and how near I come to being lost and going to hell. And went on thinking. And got to thinking over our trip down the river; and I see Jim before me all the time: in the day and in the night-time, sometimes moonlight, sometimes storms, and we a-floating along, talking and singing and laughing. But somehow I couldn’t seem to strike no places to harden me against him, but only the other kind. I’d see him standing my watch on top of his’n, ’stead of calling me, so I could go on sleeping; and see him how glad he was when I come back out of the fog; and when I come to him again in the swamp, up there where the feud was; and such-like times; and would always call me honey, and pet me and do everything he could think of for me, and how good he always was; and at last I struck the time I saved him by telling the men we had small-pox aboard, and he was so grateful, and said I was the best friend old Jim ever had in the world, and the only one he’s got now; and then I happened to look around and see that paper.

I felt good and all washed clean of sin for the first time in my life. And I knowed I could pray now. But I didn’t do it right away. I laid the paper down and set there thinking. I thought how good it was that everything happened this way. And I thought how near I come to being lost and going to hell. And I went on thinking. And I got to thinking over our trip down the river. I see Jim before me all the time, in the day and at night, sometimes in moonlight, sometimes in storms. And we was floating along, talking and singing and laughing. But somehow I couldn’t seem to find no memories to harden me against him, only the other kind. I’d see him standing my watch on top of his own, instead of calling me, so I could keep sleeping. And I’d see how glad he was when I come back out of the fog. And how glad he was when I come to him again in the swamp, up there where the feud was. And I remembered other times like those. He would always call me honey, and fuss over me, and do everything he could think of for me. And I remembered how good he always was. And at last I remembered the time I saved him by telling the men we had smallpox aboard. He was so grateful. He said I was the best friend old Jim ever had in the world, and the only one he’s got now. And then I happened to look around and see that paper.

It was a close place. I took it up, and held it in my hand. I was a-trembling, because I’d got to decide, forever, betwixt two things, and I knowed it. I studied a minute, sort of holding my breath, and then says to myself:

It was a tight spot. I picked it up and held it in my hand. I was trembling because I’d got to choose, once and for all, between two things, and I knowed it. I thought for a minute, sort of holding my breath, and then says to myself:

“All right, then, I’ll go to hell”—and tore it up.

“All right, then, I’ll go to hell.” And I tore it up.

It was awful thoughts and awful words, but they was said. And I let them stay said; and never thought no more about reforming. I shoved the whole thing out of my head, and said I would take up wickedness again, which was in my line, being brung up to it, and the other warn’t. And for a starter I would go to work and steal Jim out of slavery again; and if I could think up anything worse, I would do that, too; because as long as I was in, and in for good, I might as well go the whole hog.

It was awful thoughts and awful words, but they was said. And I let them stay said, and never thought no more about reforming. I shoved the whole thing out of my head, and said I would take up wickedness again, which was in my line, being brung up to it, and the other wasn’t. And for a starter, I would go to work and steal Jim out of slavery again. And if I could think up anything worse, I would do that, too. Because as long as I was in, and in for good, I might as well go the whole hog.

Then I set to thinking over how to get at it, and turned over some considerable many ways in my mind; and at last fixed up a plan that suited me. So then I took the bearings of a woody island that was down the river a piece, and as soon as it was fairly dark I crept out with my raft and went for it, and hid it there, and then turned in. I slept the night through, and got up before it was light, and had my breakfast, and put on my store clothes, and tied up some others and one thing or another in a bundle, and took the canoe and cleared for shore. I landed below where I judged was Phelps’s place, and hid my bundle in the woods, and then filled up the canoe with water, and loaded rocks into her and sunk her where I could find her again when I wanted her, about a quarter of a mile below a little steam sawmill that was on the bank.

Then I set to thinking over how to get at it, and turned over some considerable many ways in my mind, and at last fixed up a plan that suited me. So then I took the bearings of a woody island that was a piece down the river. As soon as it was fairly dark I crept out with my raft and went for it, and hid it there, and then turned in. I slept the night through, and got up before it was light, and had my breakfast, and put on my store clothes. I tied up some others and one thing or another in a bundle, and took the canoe and cleared for shore. I landed below where I judged Phelps’s place was, and hid my bundle in the woods. Then I filled up the canoe with water, and loaded rocks into her, and sunk her where I could find her again when I wanted her, about a quarter of a mile below a little steam sawmill that was on the bank.

Then I struck up the road, and when I passed the mill I see a sign on it, “Phelps’s Sawmill,” and when I come to the farm-houses, two or three hundred yards further along, I kept my eyes peeled, but didn’t see nobody around, though it was good daylight now. But I didn’t mind, because I didn’t want to see nobody just yet—I only wanted to get the lay of the land. According to my plan, I was going to turn up there from the village, not from below. So I just took a look, and shoved along, straight for town. Well, the very first man I see when I got there was the duke. He was sticking up a bill for the Royal Nonesuch—three-night performance—like that other time. They had the cheek, them frauds! I was right on him before I could shirk. He looked astonished, and says:

Then I headed up the road. When I passed the mill, I see a sign on it, “Phelps’s Sawmill.” Two or three hundred yards further along, I come to the farmhouses. I kept my eyes peeled, but didn’t see nobody around, though it was broad daylight now. But I didn’t mind, because I didn’t want to see nobody just yet. I only wanted to get the lay of the land. According to my plan, I was going to show up there from the village, not from below. So I just took a look and kept going, straight for town. Well, the very first man I see when I got there was the duke. He was putting up a poster for the Royal Nonesuch, advertising three nights of performances, like that other time. They had some nerve, them frauds! I was right next to him before I could dodge him. He looked astonished, and says:

“Hel-lo! Where’d you come from?” Then he says, kind of glad and eager, “Where’s the raft?—got her in a good place?”

“Hel-lo! Where did you come from?” Then he says, kind of glad and eager, “Where’s the raft? Got her in a good place?”

I says:

“Why, that’s just what I was going to ask your grace.”

“Well, that’s exactly what I was going to ask you, Your Grace.”

Then he didn’t look so joyful, and says:

Then he didn’t look so happy, and says:

“What was your idea for asking me?” he says.

“Why did you ask me?” he says.

“Well,” I says, “when I see the king in that doggery yesterday I says to myself, we can’t get him home for hours, till he’s soberer; so I went a-loafing around town to put in the time and wait. A man up and offered me ten cents to help him pull a skiff over the river and back to fetch a sheep, and so I went along; but when we was dragging him to the boat, and the man left me a-holt of the rope and went behind him to shove him along, he was too strong for me and jerked loose and run, and we after him. We didn’t have no dog, and so we had to chase him all over the country till we tired him out. We never got him till dark; then we fetched him over, and I started down for the raft. When I got there and see it was gone, I says to myself, ‘they’ve got into trouble and had to leave; and they’ve took my , which is the only I’ve got in the world, and now I’m in a strange country, and ain’t got no property no more, nor nothing, and no way to make my living;’ so I set down and cried. I slept in the woods all night. But what did become of the raft, then?—and Jim—poor Jim!”

“Well,” I says, “when I see the king in that rundown bar yesterday, I says to myself, we can’t get him home for hours, till he’s soberer. So I went loafing around town to pass the time and wait. A man came up and offered me ten cents to help him row a skiff across the river and back. We was going to fetch a sheep, and so I went along. But when we was dragging the sheep to the boat, the man left me holding the rope. He went behind the sheep to shove him along. But the sheep was too strong for me and jerked loose and run, and we went after him. We didn’t have no dog, and so we had to chase him all over the country till we tired him out. We never got him till dark. Then we brought him across, and I started down for the raft. When I got there and see the raft was gone, I says to myself, ‘they’ve got into trouble and had to leave. And they’ve took my , which is the only I’ve got in the world. And now I’m in a strange country, and ain’t got no property no more, nor nothing. And I got no way to make my living.’ So I set down and cried. I slept in the woods all night. But what did become of the raft, then? And Jim, poor Jim!”

“Blamed if I know—that is, what’s become of the raft. That old fool had made a trade and got forty dollars, and when we found him in the doggery the loafers had matched half-dollars with him and got every cent but what he’d spent for whisky; and when I got him home late last night and found the raft gone, we said, ‘That little rascal has stole our raft and shook us, and run off down the river.’”

“Blamed if I know. That is, what’s become of the raft. That old fool had made a trade and got forty dollars, and when we found him in the saloon, the loafers had matched half-dollars with him and got every cent but what he’d spent for whisky. And when I got him home late last night and found the raft gone, we said, ‘That little rascal has stole our raft and shook us, and run off down the river.’”

“I wouldn’t shake my , would I?—the only I had in the world, and the only property.”

“I wouldn’t abandon my , would I? He was the only I had in the world, and my only property.”

“We never thought of that. Fact is, I reckon we’d come to consider him our ; yes, we did consider him so—goodness knows we had trouble enough for him. So when we see the raft was gone and we flat broke, there warn’t anything for it but to try the Royal Nonesuch another shake. And I’ve pegged along ever since, dry as a powder-horn. Where’s that ten cents? Give it here.”

“We never thought of that. Fact is, I reckon we’d come to think of him as our . Yes, we did think of him that way. Goodness knows we had enough trouble over him. So when we see the raft was gone and we flat broke, there wasn’t anything else to do. We had to give the Royal Nonesuch another try. And I’ve kept going ever since, dry as a powder horn. Where’s that ten cents? Give it here.”

I had considerable money, so I give him ten cents, but begged him to spend it for something to eat, and give me some, because it was all the money I had, and I hadn’t had nothing to eat since yesterday. He never said nothing. The next minute he whirls on me and says:

I had plenty of money, so I give him ten cents. But I begged him to buy something to eat and give me some, because it was all the money I had. And I hadn’t had nothing to eat since yesterday. He never said nothing. The next minute he turns on me and says:

“Do you reckon that would blow on us? We’d skin him if he done that!”

“Do you reckon that would tell on us? We’d skin him if he done that!”

“How can he blow? Hain’t he run off?”

“How can he tell on us? Ain’t he run off?”

“No! That old fool sold him, and never divided with me, and the money’s gone.”

“No! That old fool sold him and never shared the money with me. And now the money’s gone.”

“Sold him?” I says, and begun to cry; “why, he was my , and that was my money. Where is he?—I want my .”

“Sold him?” I says, and begun to cry. “Why, he was my , and that was my money. Where is he? I want my .”

“Well, you can’t get your , that’s all—so dry up your blubbering. Looky here—do you think you’d venture to blow on us? Blamed if I think I’d trust you. Why, if you was to blow on us—”

“Well, you can’t get your , that’s all. So quit your blubbering. Look here, do you think you’d dare to tell on us? Blamed if I think I’d trust you. Why, if you was to tell on us...”

He stopped, but I never see the duke look so ugly out of his eyes before. I went on a-whimpering, and says:

He stopped, but I never see such a nasty look in the duke's eyes before. I kept whimpering, and says:

“I don’t want to blow on nobody; and I ain’t got no time to blow, nohow. I got to turn out and find my .”

“I don’t want to tell on nobody. And I ain’t got no time to tell, nohow. I got to head out and find my .”

He looked kinder bothered, and stood there with his bills fluttering on his arm, thinking, and wrinkling up his forehead. At last he says:

He looked kind of bothered and stood there with his bills fluttering on his arm. He was thinking and wrinkling his forehead. At last he says:

“I’ll tell you something. We got to be here three days. If you’ll promise you won’t blow, and won’t let the blow, I’ll tell you where to find him.”

“I’ll tell you something. We got to stay here three days. If you promise you won’t tell anyone, and won’t let the tell anyone, I’ll tell you where to find him.”

So I promised, and he says:

“A farmer by the name of Silas Ph—” and then he stopped. You see, he started to tell me the truth; but when he stopped that way, and begun to study and think again, I reckoned he was changing his mind. And so he was. He wouldn’t trust me; he wanted to make sure of having me out of the way the whole three days. So pretty soon he says:

“A farmer named Silas Ph...” and then he stopped. You see, he started to tell me the truth. But when he stopped like that, and begun to think it over again, I reckoned he was changing his mind. And he was. He wouldn’t trust me. He wanted to make sure he had me out of the way for the whole three days. So pretty soon he says:

“The man that bought him is named Abram Foster—Abram G. Foster—and he lives forty mile back here in the country, on the road to Lafayette.”

“The man that bought him is named Abram Foster. His full name is Abram G. Foster. He lives forty mile back here in the country, on the road to Lafayette.”

“All right,” I says, “I can walk it in three days. And I’ll start this very afternoon.”

“No you wont, you’ll start now; and don’t you lose any time about it, neither, nor do any gabbling by the way. Just keep a tight tongue in your head and move right along, and then you won’t get into trouble with us, d’ye hear?”

“No you won't. You'll start now; and don't you waste any time about it, neither. And don't do any talking along the way. Just keep your mouth shut and move right along, and then you won't get into trouble with us, do you hear?”

That was the order I wanted, and that was the one I played for. I wanted to be left free to work my plans.

That was the order I wanted, and it was the one I was trying to get. I wanted to be left free to carry out my plans.

“So clear out,” he says; “and you can tell Mr. Foster whatever you want to. Maybe you can get him to believe that Jim is your —some idiots don’t require documents—leastways I’ve heard there’s such down South here. And when you tell him the handbill and the reward’s bogus, maybe he’ll believe you when you explain to him what the idea was for getting ’em out. Go ’long now, and tell him anything you want to; but mind you don’t work your jaw any between here and there.”

“So clear out,” he says, “and you can tell Mr. Foster whatever you want to. Maybe you can get him to believe that Jim is your . Some idiots don’t require documents. Leastways, I’ve heard there’s such down South here. And when you tell him the handbill and the reward’s bogus, maybe he’ll believe you when you explain to him what the idea was for getting ’em out. Go along now, and tell him anything you want to, but mind you don’t work your jaw any between here and there.”

So I left, and struck for the back country. I didn’t look around, but I kinder felt like he was watching me. But I knowed I could tire him out at that. I went straight out in the country as much as a mile before I stopped; then I doubled back through the woods towards Phelps’. I reckoned I better start in on my plan straight off without fooling around, because I wanted to stop Jim’s mouth till these fellows could get away. I didn’t want no trouble with their kind. I’d seen all I wanted to of them, and wanted to get entirely shut of them.

So I left and headed for the back country. I didn’t look around, but I kind of felt like he was watching me. But I knowed I could tire him out at that. I went straight out into the country about a mile before I stopped. Then I doubled back through the woods toward Phelps’. I reckoned I better start in on my plan right away without fooling around. That was because I wanted to keep Jim quiet till these fellows could get away. I didn’t want no trouble with their kind. I’d seen all I wanted to of them and wanted to be rid of them completely.