Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain (good book club books .TXT) 📖

“Well, then,” I says, “how ’ll it do to saw him out, the way I done before I was murdered that time?”

“That’s more like,” he says.  "It’s real mysterious, and troublesome, and good,” he says; “but I bet we can find a way that’s twice as long.  There ain’t no hurry; le’s keep on looking around.”

Betwixt the hut and the fence, on the back side, was a lean-to that joined the hut at the eaves, and was made out of plank.  It was as long as the hut, but narrow—only about six foot wide.  The door to it was at the south end, and was padlocked.  Tom he went to the soap-kettle and searched around, and fetched back the iron thing they lift the lid with; so he took it and prized out one of the staples.  The chain fell down, and we opened the door and went in, and shut it, and struck a match, and see the shed was only built against a cabin and hadn’t no connection with it; and there warn’t no floor to the shed, nor nothing in it but some old rusty played-out hoes and spades and picks and a crippled plow.  The match went out, and so did we, and shoved in the staple again, and the door was locked as good as ever. Tom was joyful.  He says;

“Now we’re all right.  We’ll dig him out.  It ’ll take about a week!”

Then we started for the house, and I went in the back door—you only have to pull a buckskin latch-string, they don’t fasten the doors—but that warn’t romantical enough for Tom Sawyer; no way would do him but he must climb up the lightning-rod.  But after he got up half way about three times, and missed fire and fell every time, and the last time most busted his brains out, he thought he’d got to give it up; but after he was rested he allowed he would give her one more turn for luck, and this time he made the trip.

In the morning we was up at break of day, and down to the nigger cabins to pet the dogs and make friends with the nigger that fed Jim—if it was Jim that was being fed.  The niggers was just getting through breakfast and starting for the fields; and Jim’s nigger was piling up a tin pan with bread and meat and things; and whilst the others was leaving, the key come from the house.

This nigger had a good-natured, chuckle-headed face, and his wool was all tied up in little bunches with thread.  That was to keep witches off.  He said the witches was pestering him awful these nights, and making him see all kinds of strange things, and hear all kinds of strange words and noises, and he didn’t believe he was ever witched so long before in his life.  He got so worked up, and got to running on so about his troubles, he forgot all about what he’d been a-going to do.  So Tom says:

“What’s the vittles for?  Going to feed the dogs?”

The nigger kind of smiled around gradually over his face, like when you heave a brickbat in a mud-puddle, and he says:

“Yes, Mars Sid, A dog.  Cur’us dog, too.  Does you want to go en look at ’im?”

“Yes.”

I hunched Tom, and whispers:

“You going, right here in the daybreak?  that warn’t the plan.”

“No, it warn’t; but it’s the plan now.”

So, drat him, we went along, but I didn’t like it much.  When we got in we couldn’t hardly see anything, it was so dark; but Jim was there, sure enough, and could see us; and he sings out:

“Why, Huck!  En good lan’! ain’ dat Misto Tom?”

I just knowed how it would be; I just expected it.  I didn’t know nothing to do; and if I had I couldn’t a done it, because that nigger busted in and says:

“Why, de gracious sakes! do he know you genlmen?”

We could see pretty well now.  Tom he looked at the nigger, steady and kind of wondering, and says:

“Does who know us?”

“Why, dis-yer runaway nigger.”

“I don’t reckon he does; but what put that into your head?”

“What put it dar?  Didn’ he jis’ dis minute sing out like he knowed you?”

Tom says, in a puzzled-up kind of way:

“Well, that’s mighty curious.  Who sung out? when did he sing out?  what did he sing out?” And turns to me, perfectly ca’m, and says, “Did you hear anybody sing out?”

Of course there warn’t nothing to be said but the one thing; so I says:

“No; I ain’t heard nobody say nothing.”

Then he turns to Jim, and looks him over like he never see him before, and says:

“Did you sing out?”

“No, sah,” says Jim; “I hain’t said nothing, sah.”

“Not a word?”

“No, sah, I hain’t said a word.”

“Did you ever see us before?”

“No, sah; not as I knows on.”

So Tom turns to the nigger, which was looking wild and distressed, and says, kind of severe:

“What do you reckon’s the matter with you, anyway?  What made you think somebody sung out?”

“Oh, it’s de dad-blame’ witches, sah, en I wisht I was dead, I do.  Dey’s awluz at it, sah, en dey do mos’ kill me, dey sk’yers me so.  Please to don’t tell nobody ’bout it sah, er ole Mars Silas he’ll scole me; ’kase he say dey ain’t no witches.  I jis’ wish to goodness he was heah now—den what would he say!  I jis’ bet he couldn’ fine no way to git aroun’ it dis time.  But it’s awluz jis’ so; people dat’s sot, stays sot; dey won’t look into noth’n’en fine it out f’r deyselves, en when you fine it out en tell um ’bout it, dey doan’ b’lieve you.”