“For the land’s sake what is the matter with the child!—he’s got the brain fever as shore as you’re born, and they’re oozing out!”
And everybody runs to see, and she snatches off my hat, and out comes the bread, and what was left of the butter, and she grabbed me, and hugged me, and says:
“Oh, what a turn you did give me! and how glad and grateful I am it ain’t no worse; for luck’s against us, and it never rains but it pours, and when I see that truck I thought we’d lost you, for I knowed by the color and all, it was just like your brains would be if—Dear, dear, whyd‘nt you
tell
me that was what you’d been down there for,
I
wouldn’t a cared. Now cler out to bed, and don’t lemme see no more of you till morning!”
I was up stairs in a second, and down the lightning-rod in another one, and shinning through the dark for the lean-to. I couldn’t hardly get my words out, I was so anxious; but I told Tom as quick as I could, we must jump for it, now, and not a minute to lose—the house full of men, yonder, with guns!
His eyes just blazed; and he says:
“No!—is that so?
Ain’t
it bully! Why, Huck, if it was to do over again, I bet I could fetch two hundred! If we could put it off till———”
“Hurry!
hurry!”
I says. “Where’s Jim?”
“Right at your elbow; if you reach out your arm you can touch him. He’s dressed, and everything’s ready. Now we’ll slide out and give the sheep-signal.”
But then we heard the tramp of men, coming to the door, and heard them begin to fumble with the padlock; and heard a man say:
“I
told
you we’d be too soon; they haven’t come—the door is locked. Here, I’ll lock some of you into the cabin and you lay for ‘em in the dark and kill ’em when they come; and the rest scatter around a piece, and listen if you can hear ‘em coming.”
So in they come, but couldn’t see us in the dark, and most trod on us whilst we was hustling to get under the bed. But we got under all right, and out through the hole, swift but soft—Jim first, me next, and Tom last, which was according to Tom’s orders. Now we was in the lean-to, and heard trampings close by outside. So we crept to the door, and Tom stopped us there and put his eye to the crack, but couldn’t make out nothing, it was so dark; and whispered and said he would listen for the steps to get further, and when he nudged us Jim must glide out first, and him last. So he set his ear to the crack and listened, and listened, and listened, and the steps a scraping around, out there, all the time; and at last he nudged us, and we slid out, and stooped down, not breathing, and not making the least noise, and slipped stealthy towards the fence, in Injun file, and got to it, all right, and me and Jim over it; but Tom’s britches catched fast on a splinter on the top rail, and then he hear the steps coming, so he had to pull loose, which snapped the splinter and made a noise; and as he dropped in our tracks and started, somebody sings out:
“Who’s that? Answer, or I’ll shoot!”
But we didn’t answer; we just unfurled our heels and shoved. Then there was a rush, and a
bang, bang, bang!
and the bullets fairly whizzed around us! We heard them sing out:
“Here they are! They’ve broke for the river! after ‘em, boys! And turn loose the dogs!”
So here they come, full tilt. We could hear them, because they wore boots, and yelled, but we didn’t wear no boots, and didn’t yell. We was in the path to the mill; and when they got pretty close onto us, we dodged into the bush and let them go by, and then dropped in behind them. They’d had all the dogs shut up, so they wouldn’t scare off the robbers; but by this time somebody had let them loose, and here they come, making pow-wow enough for a million; but they was our dogs; so we stopped in our tracks till they catched up; and when they see it warn’t nobody but us, and no excitement to offer them, they only just said howdy, and tore right ahead towards the shouting and clattering; and then we up steam again and whizzed along after them till we was nearly to the mill, and then struck up through the bush to where my canoe was tied, and hopped in and pulled for dear life towards the middle of the river, but didn’t make no more noise than we was obleeged to. Then we struck out, easy and comfortable, for the island where my raft was; and we could hear them yelling and barking at each other all up and down the bank, till we was so far away the sounds got dim and died out. And when we stepped onto the raft, I says:
“Now,
old Jim, you’re a free man
again,
and I bet you won’t ever be a slave no more.”
“En a mighty good job it wuz, too, Huck. It ‘uz planned beautiful, en it ’uz
done
beautiful; en dey ain’t
nobody
kin git up a plan dat’s mo’ mixed-up en splendid den what dat one wuz.”
We was all as glad as we could be, but Tom was the gladdest of all, because he had a bullet in the calf of his leg.
When me and Jim heard that, we didn’t feel so brash as what we did before. It was hurting him considerble, and bleeding; so we laid him in the wigwam and tore up one of the duke’s shirts for to bandage him, but he says:
“Gimme the rags, I can do it myself. Don’t stop, now; don’t fool around here, and the evasion booming along so handsome; man the sweeps, and set her loose! Boys, we done it elegant!—‘deed we did. I wish
we’d
a had the handling of Louis XVI., there wouldn’t a been no ’Son of Saint Louis, ascend to heaven!‘
fn
wrote down in
his
biography: no, sir, we’d a whooped him over the
border—
that’s what we’d a done with
him
—and done it just as slick as nothing at all, too. Man the sweeps—man the sweeps!“
But me and Jim was consulting—and thinking. And after we’d thought a minute, I says:
“Say it, Jim.”
So he says:
“Well, den, dis is de way it look to me, Huck. Ef it wuz
him
dat‘uz bein’ sot free, en one er de boys wuz to git shot, would he say, ’Go on en save me, nemmine ‘bout a doctor f’r to save dis one?‘ Is dat like Mars Tom Sawyer? Would he say dat? You
bet
he wouldn’t!
Well,
den, is
Jim
gwyne to say it? No, sah—I doan’ budge a step out’n dis place, ‘dout a
doctor,
not if it’s forty year!”
I knowed he was white inside, and I reckoned he’d say what he did say—so it was all right, now, and I told Tom I was agoing for a doctor. He raised considerble row about it, but me and Jim stuck to it and wouldn’t budge; so he was for crawling out and setting the raft loose himself; but we wouldn’t let him. Then he give us a piece of his mind—but it didn’t do no good.
So when he see me getting the canoe ready, he says:
“Well, then, if you’re bound to go, I’ll tell you the way to do, when you get to the village. Shut the door, and blindfold the doctor tight and fast, and make him swear to be silent as the grave, and put a purse full of gold in his hand, and then take and lead him all around the back alleys and everywheres, in the dark, and then fetch him here in the canoe, in a roundabout way amongst the islands, and search him and take his chalk away from him, and don’t give it back to him till you get him back to the village, or else he will chalk this raft so he can find it again. It’s the way they all do.”
So I said I would, and left, and Jim was to hide in the woods when he see the doctor coming, till he was gone again.
CHAPTER 41
T
he doctor was an old man; a very nice, kind-looking old man, when I got him up. I told him me and my brother was over on Spanish Island hunting, yesterday afternoon, and camped on a piece of a raft we found, and about midnight he must a kicked his gun in his dreams, for it went off and shot him in the leg, and we wanted him to go over there and fix it and not say nothing about it, nor let anybody know, because we wanted to come home this evening, and surprise the folks.
“Who is your folks?” he says.
“The Phelpses, down yonder.”
“Oh,” he says. And after a minute, he says: “How’d you say he got shot?”
“He had a dream,” I says, “and it shot him.”
“Singular dream,” he says.
So he lit up his lantern, and got his saddle-bags, and we started. But when he see the canoe, he didn’t like the look of her—said she was big enough for one, but didn’t look pretty safe for two. I says:
“Oh, you needn’t be afeard, sir, she carried the three of us, easy enough.”
“What three?”
“Why, me and Sid, and—and—and
the guns;
that’s what I mean.”
“Oh,” he says.
But he put his foot on the gunnel, and rocked her; and shook his head, and said he reckoned he’d look around for a bigger one. But they was all locked and chained; so he took my canoe, and said for me to wait till he come back, or I could hunt around further, or maybe I better go down home and get them ready for the surprise, if I wanted to. But I said I didn’t; so I told him just how to find the raft, and then he started.
I struck an idea, pretty soon. I says to myself, spos’n he can’t fix that leg just in three shakes of a sheep’s tail, as the saying is? spos’n it takes him three or four days? What are we going to do?—lay around there till he lets the cat out of the bag? No, sir, I know what
I’ll
do. I’ll wait, and when he comes back, if he says he’s got to go any more, I’ll get down there, too, if I swim; and we’ll take and tie him, and keep him, and shove out down the river; and when Tom’s done with him, we’ll give him what it’s worth, or all we got, and then let him get shore.
So then I crept into a lumber pile to get some sleep; and next time I waked up the sun was away up over my head! I shot out and went for the doctor’s house, but they told me he’d gone away in the night, some time or other, and warn’t back yet. Well, thinks I, that looks powerful bad for Tom, and I’ll dig out for the island, right off. So away I shoved, and turned the corner, and nearly rammed my head into Uncle Silas’s stomach! He says:
“Why,
Tom!
Where you been, all this time, you rascal?”
“I
hain’t been nowheres,” I says, “only just hunting for the runaway nigger—me and Sid.”
“Why, where ever did you go?” he says. “Your aunt’s been mighty uneasy.”
“She needn‘t,” I says, “because we was all right. We followed the men and the dogs, but they out-run us, and we lost them; but we thought we heard them on the water, so we got a canoe and took out after them, and crossed over but couldn’t find nothing of them; so we cruised along up-shore till we got kind of tired and beat out; and tied up the canoe and went to sleep, and never waked up till about an hour ago, then we paddled over here to hear the news, and Sid’s at the post-office to see what he can hear, and I’m a branching out to get something to eat for us, and then we’re going home.”
So then we went to the post-office to get “Sid”; but just as I suspicioned, he warn’t there; so the old man he got a letter out of the office, and we waited a while longer but Sid didn’t come; so the old man said come along, let Sid foot it home, or canoe-it, when he got done fooling around—but we would ride. I couldn’t get him to let me stay and wait for Sid; and he said there warn’t no use in it, and I must come along, and let Aunt Sally see we was all right.
When we got home, Aunt Sally was that glad to see me she laughed and cried both, and hugged me, and give me one of them lickings of hern that don’t amount to shucks, and said she’d serve Sid the same when he come.
And the place was plumb full of farmers and farmers’ wives, to dinner; and such another clack a body never heard. Old Mrs. Hotchkiss was the worst; her tongue was agoing all the time. She says:
“Well, Sister Phelps, I’ve ransacked that-air cabin over an’ I b‘lieve the nigger was crazy. I says so to Sister Damrell—didn’t I, Sister Damrell? —s’I, he’s crazy, s‘I—them’s the very words I said. You all hearn me: he’s crazy, s’I; everything shows it, s‘I. Look at that-air grindstone, s’I; want to tell
me‘
t any cretur ’ts in his right mind ’s agoin’ to scrabble all them crazy things onto a grindstone, s‘I? Here sich ’n’ sich a person busted his heart; ‘n’ here so ’n’ so pegged along for thirty-seven year, ‘n’ all that—natcheri son o’ Louis somebody, ’n’ sich everlast’n rubbage. He’s plumb crazy, s‘I; it’s what I says in the fust place, it’s what I says in the middle, ’n’ it’s what I says last ‘n’ all the time—the nigger’s crazy—crazy ’s Nebokoodneezer, s’I.”
“An’ look at that-air ladder made out’n rags, Sister Hotchkiss,” says old Mrs. Damrell, “what in the name o’ goodness
could
he ever want of——”
“The very words I was a-sayin’ no longer ago th’n this minute to Sister Utterback, ‘n’ she’ll tell you so herself. Sh-she, look at that-air rag ladder, sh-she; ’n’ s‘I, yes,
look
at it, s’I—what
could
he a wanted of it, s‘I. Sh-she, Sister Hotchkiss, sh-she——”
“But how in the nation’d they ever
git
that grindstone in there,
anyway?
‘n’ who dug that-air
hole?
’n’ who——”
“My very
words,
Brer Penrod! I was a-sayin‘—pass that-air sasser o’ m’lasses, won’t ye?—I was a-sayin’ to Sister Dunlap, jist this minute, how did they git that grindstone in there, s‘I. Without
help,
mind you—’thout
help! Thar’s
wher’ ‘tis. Don’t tell
me,
s’I; there
wuz
help, s‘I; ’n’ ther’ wuz a
plenty
help, too, s‘I; ther’s ben a
dozen
a-helpin’ that nigger, ’n’ I lay I’d skin every last nigger on this place, but I’d find out who done it, s‘I; ’n’ moreover, s‘I——”
“A
dozen
says you!—
forty
couldn’t a done everything that’s been done. Look at them case-knife saws and things, how tedious they’ve been made; look at that bed-leg sawed off with ‘m, a week’s work for six men; look at that nigger made out’n straw on the bed; and look at——”
“You may
well
say it, Brer Hightower! It’s jist as I was a-sayin’ to Brer Phelps, his own self. S‘e, what do
you
think of it, Sister Hotchkiss, s’e? think o’ what, Brer Phelps, s‘I? think o’ that bed-leg sawed off that a way, s’e?
think
of it, s‘l? I lay it never sawed
itself
off, s’I—somebody
sawed
it, s‘I; that’s my opinion, take it or leave it, it mayn’t be no ’count, s‘I, but sich as ’t is, it’s my opinion, s’I, ‘n’ if anybody k’n start a better one, s’I, let him
do
it, s‘I, that’s all. I says to Sister Dunlap, s’I———”