Chapter 24

Tom was a glittering hero once more—the pet of the old, the envy of the young. His name even went into immortal print, for the village paper magnified him. There were some that believed he would be President, yet, if he escaped hanging.

Tom was a shining hero once more, adored by the old and envied by the young. His name even lived forever in print, because the village newspaper made him out to be larger than life. Some people believed he would become President someday, if he escaped hanging.

As usual, the fickle, unreasoning world took Muff Potter to its bosom and fondled him as lavishly as it had abused him before. But that sort of conduct is to the world’s credit; therefore it is not well to find fault with it.

As usual, the fickle, irrational world welcomed Muff Potter with open arms. It showered him with as much affection as it had showered him with abuse before. But that kind of behavior does the world credit. So we shouldn't criticize the world for behaving that way.

Tom’s days were days of splendor and exultation to him, but his nights were seasons of horror. Injun Joe infested all his dreams, and always with doom in his eye. Hardly any temptation could persuade the boy to stir abroad after nightfall. Poor Huck was in the same state of wretchedness and terror, for Tom had told the whole story to the lawyer the night before the great day of the trial, and Huck was sore afraid that his share in the business might leak out, yet, notwithstanding Injun Joe’s flight had saved him the suffering of testifying in court. The poor fellow had got the attorney to promise secrecy, but what of that? Since Tom’s harassed conscience had managed to drive him to the lawyer’s house by night and wring a dread tale from lips that had been sealed with the dismalest and most formidable of oaths, Huck’s confidence in the human race was wellnigh obliterated.

Tom’s days were full of glory and joy, but his nights were full of horror. Injun Joe haunted all his dreams, always with a look in his eyes that promised doom. Hardly anything could tempt the boy to go out after dark. Poor Huck was just as miserable and terrified. Tom had told the lawyer the whole story the night before the big day of the trial. Huck was terribly afraid that his part in the affair might still come out. Injun Joe’s escape had spared him the ordeal of testifying in court, but it had not ended his fear. The poor fellow had gotten the lawyer to promise secrecy, but what good was that? Tom’s guilty conscience had driven him to the lawyer’s house at night and forced him to tell the dreadful story. His lips had been sealed by the darkest, most fearsome oaths, yet he had broken his silence. Because of that, Huck had almost entirely lost his faith in people.

Daily Muff Potter’s gratitude made Tom glad he had spoken; but nightly he wished he had sealed up his tongue.

Every day, Muff Potter’s gratitude made Tom glad he had spoken up. But every night, he wished he had kept his mouth shut.

Half the time Tom was afraid Injun Joe would never be captured; the other half he was afraid he would be. He felt sure he never could draw a safe breath again until that man was dead and he had seen the corpse.

Half the time, Tom was afraid Injun Joe would never be caught. The other half, he was afraid he would be. Tom felt sure he could never breathe easily again until that man was dead and he had seen the body.

Rewards had been offered, the country had been scoured, but no Injun Joe was found. One of those omniscient and awe-inspiring marvels, a detective, came up from St. Louis, moused around, shook his head, looked wise, and made that sort of astounding success which members of that craft usually achieve. That is to say, he “found a clew.” But you can’t hang a “clew” for murder, and so after that detective had got through and gone home, Tom felt just as insecure as he was before.

Rewards had been offered, and the countryside had been searched thoroughly, but Injun Joe had not been found. A detective came up from St. Louis, one of those all-knowing wonders who fill everyone with awe. He snooped around, shook his head, looked wise, and achieved the sort of astounding success detectives usually manage. That is to say, he “found a clue.” But you can’t hang a “clue” for murder. So after the detective finished and went home, Tom felt just as unsafe as before.

The slow days drifted on, and each left behind it a slightly lightened weight of apprehension.

The days drifted slowly by, and each one eased the weight of worry a little.