 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Tragedy of Puddinhead Wilson by Mark Twain. CHAPTER VIII. Martha Tom tramples his chance. The holy passion of friendship is of sweet and steady and loyal and enduring a nature that it will last through a whole lifetime, if not asked to lend money. Puddinhead Wilson's calendar. Consider well the proportions of things. It is better to be a young Junebug than an old bird of paradise. Puddinhead Wilson's calendar. It is now necessary to hunt up Roxy. At the time she was set free and went away chamber-mating she was thirty-five. She got a berth as second chamber-made on a Cincinnati boat in the New Orleans trade, the Grand Mogul. A couple of trips made her wanted and easygoing at the work and infatuated her with the stir and adventure and independence of steamboat life. Then she was promoted and became head chamber-made. She was a favorite with the officers and exceedingly proud of their joking and friendly way with her. During eight years she served three parts of the year on that boat, and the winters on a Vicksburg packet. But now for two months she had had rheumatism in her arms and was obliged to let the wash-tub alone. So she resigned. But she was well-fixed, rich as she would have described it, for she had lived a steady life and had banked four dollars every month in New Orleans as a provision for her old age. She said in the start that she had put shoes on one bare-footed nigger to tromple on her with, and that one mistake like that was enough. She would be independent of the human race thenceforth for evermore if hard work and economy could accomplish it. When the boat touched the levee at New Orleans she bade good-bye to her comrades on the grand mogul and moved her kit ashore. But she was back in an hour. The bank had gone to smash and carried her four hundred dollars with it. She was a pauper and homeless, also disabled bodily, at least for the present. The officers were full of sympathy for her and her trouble and made up a little purse for her. She resolved to go to her birth-place. She had friends there among the Negroes, and the unfortunate always helped the unfortunate. She was well aware of that. Those lowly comrades of her youth would not let her starve. She took the little local packet at Cairo, and now she was on the home stretch. Time had worn away her bitterness against her son, and she was able to think of him with serenity. She put the vile side of him out of her mind, and dwelt only on recollections of his occasional acts of kindness to her. She gilded and otherwise decorated these and made them very pleasant to contemplate. She began to long to see him. She would go and fawn upon him, slave-like, for this would have to be her attitude, of course, and maybe she would find that time had modified him, and that he would be glad to see his long-forgotten old nurse and treat her gently. That would be lovely. That would make her forget her woes and her poverty, her poverty. That thought inspired her to add another castle to her dream. Maybe he would give her a trifle now and then. Maybe a dollar once a month, say, any little thing like that would help, oh, ever so much. By the time she reached Dawson's Landing she was her old self again. Her blues were gone. She was in high feather. She would get along, surely. There were many kitchens where the servants would share their meals with her, and also steal sugar and apples and other dainties for her to carry home, or give her a chance to pilfer them herself, which would answer just as well. And there was the church. She was a more rabid and devoted Methodist than ever, and her piety was no sham, but was strong and sincere. Yes, with plenty of creature comforts and her old place in the amen corner and her possession again, she would be perfectly happy and at peace thenceforward to the end. She went to Judge Driscoll's kitchen first of all. She was received there in great form and with vast enthusiasm. Her wonderful travels in the strange countries she had seen and the adventures she had had made her a marvel and a heroine of romance. The negroes hung and chanted upon a great story of her experiences, interrupting her all along with eager questions, with laughter, exclamations of delight and expressions of applause, and she was obliged to confess to herself that if there was anything better in this world than steam-boating, it was the glory to be got by telling about it. The audience loaded her stomach with their dinners, and then stole the pantry bear to load up her basket. Tom was in St. Louis. The servants said he had spent the best part of his time there during the previous two years. Roxy came every day and had many talks about the family and its affairs. Once she asked why Tom was away so much. The ostensible chambers said, The fact is, old master can get along better when young master's away than he can when he's into town. Yes, and he loves him better too, so he gives him fifty dollars a month. No, is that so? Chambers use a joke and ain't you? Glad of goodness I ain't, mammy. Marce Tom told me so his own self. But now mine taint enough. My land, what the reason taint enough? Well, I was going to tell you if you give me a chance, mammy. The reason taint enough is cause Marce Tom gambles. Roxy threw up her hands in astonishment, and the chambers went on. Old master found it out cause he had to pay two hundred dollars for Marce Tom's gambling debts. And that's true, mammy, just as dead certain as you's bond. Two hundred dollars? Why, what is you talking about? Two hundred dollars? Sakes alive? It's most enough to buy a tolerable good second hand nigger with. And you ain't lying, honey? You wouldn't lie to your old mammy? It's God's own truth, just as I tell you. Two hundred dollars. I wish I may never stir out in my tracks if it ain't so. And oh, my land, old Marce was just a hoppin'. He is violent mad, I'll tell you. He took an disinheritim. Disinwitched him? Disinheritim. What's that? What do you want? Means he busted DeWille. Busted DeWille? He would never treat him so. Take it back, you miserable imitation nigger that I bore in sorrow and tribulation. Roxy's pet castle, an occasional dollar from Tom's pocket, was tumbling to ruin before his eyes. She could not abide such a disaster as that. She couldn't endure the thought of it. Her remark amused chambers. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Just listen to that. If I as imitation would as you, both of us as imitation white, that's what we is. And powerful good imitation too. Yeah, yeah, yeah. We don't mountain nothing as imitation niggers. And as for, shut up, you fool, and foe, I knock you to sight ahead, and tell me about that will. Tell me, taint busted, do, honey, and I'll never forget you. Well, taint, cause there's a new one made, and Marsa Tom's all right again. But what is you in such a sweat bout for it, mammy? Taint none of your business, I don't reckon. Taint none of my business? Well, whose business is it, then, I'd like to know. Was I his mother till he was fifteen years old, or wasn't I? You answer me that. And you spec I could see him turned out poor and ornery into whirl, and never care nothing about it? I reckon if you'd ever been a mother to yourself, valeted chambers, you wouldn't at talk such foolishness as that. Well, then, old Marsa, forgive him, and fixed up the will again. Do that satisfy you? Yes, she was satisfied now, and quite happy and sentimental over it. She kept coming daily, and at last she was told that Tom had come home. She began to tremble with emotion, and straight away sent to beg him to let his pole-nigger mammy have just one side of him and die for joy. Tom was stretched at his lazy ease on a sofa when chambers brought the petition. Time had not modified his ancient detestation of the humble dredge and protector of his boyhood. It was still bitter and uncompromising. He sat up, and bent a severe gaze upon the face of the young fellow whose name he was unconsciously using, and whose family rights he was enjoying. He maintained the gaze until the victim of it had become satisfactorily pallid with terror. Then he said, What does the old rip want with me? The petition was meekly repeated. Who gave you permission to come and disturb me with the social attentions of niggers? Tom had risen. The other young man was trembling now visibly. He saw what was coming, and bent his head sideways and put up his left arm to shield it. Tom reigned cuffs upon the head and its shield, saying no word. The victim received each blow with a beseeching, Please, Master Tom! Oh, please, Master Tom! Seven blows. Then Tom said, Face the door! March! He followed behind with one, two, three solid kicks. The last one helped the pure white slave over the door-sill, and he limped away, mopping his eyes with his old ragged sleeve. Tom shouted after him, Send her in. Then he flung himself, panting on the sofa again, and rasped out the remark. He arrived just at the right moment. I was full to the brim with bitter thinkings, and nobody to take it out of. How refreshing it was! I feel better. Tom's mother entered now, closing behind her, and approached her son with all the wheezing and supplication servilities that fear and interest can impart to the words and attitudes of the born slave. She stopped a yard from her boy, and made two or three admiring exclamations over his manly stature and general handsomeness. And Tom put an arm under his head, and hoisted a leg over the sofa back in order to look properly indifferent. My land, how you has growed, honey! Clad a goodness! I wouldn't have known you, Marcee Tom. Deed I wouldn't. Look at me good. Does you remember old Roxy? Does you know your old nigger mammy, honey? Well, now I can lay down and die in peace, because I cede. Cut it short, goddammit! Cut it short! What is it you want? You hear that? Just the same old Marcee Tom, always so gay and funnin' with the old mammy? I just as sure. Cut it short, I tell you, and get along. What do you want? This was a bitter disappointment. Roxy had for so many days nourished and fondled and petted her notion that Tom would be glad to see his old nurse, and would make her proud and happy to the marrow with a cordial word or two, that it took two rebuffs to convince her that he was not funning, and that her beautiful dream was a fond and foolish charity, a shabby and pitiful mistake. She was hurt to the heart, and so ashamed that for a moment she did not quite know what to do or how to act. Then her breast began to heave, the tears came, and in her forlornness she was moved to try that other dream of hers, an appeal to her boy's charity. And so upon the impulse and without reflection she offered her supplication. Oh, Marcee Tom, the poor old mammy, is in such hard luck these days, and she's kind of crippled into arms, and can't work. And if you could give me a dollar, only just one little dollar, Tom was on his feet so suddenly that the supplicant was startled into a jump herself. A dollar give you a dollar? I have a notion to strangle you. Is that your errand here? Clear out, and be quick about it. Roxy backed slowly toward the door. When she was halfway she stopped and said mournfully, Marcee Tom, I nest you when you was a little baby, and I raised you all by myself till you was almost a young man. And now you as young and rich, and I as Poe and Gettin' Old, and I come here believin' that you would help the old mammy long down the little road that's left, wicks her into grave, and Tom relished this tune less than any that had preceded it. For it began to wake up a sort of echo in his conscience, so he interrupted and said with decision, though without asperity, that he was not in a situation to help her and wasn't going to do it. Ain't you ever going to help me, Marcee Tom? No. Now go away, and don't bother me any more. Roxy's head was down in an attitude of humility. But now the fires of her old rongs flamed up in her breast and began to burn fiercely. She raised her head slowly till it was well up, and at the same time her great frame unconsciously assumed an erect and masterful attitude with all the majesty and grace of her vanished youth in it. She raised her finger and punctuated with it. You has said the word. You has had your chance, and you has trampled it under your foot. When you get another one, you'll get down on your knees and beg for it. A cold chill went to Tom's heart. He didn't know why, for he did not reflect that such words from such an incongruous source and so solemnly delivered could not easily fail of that effect. However, he did the natural thing. He replied with bluster and mockery, You'll give me a chance? You? Perhaps I'd better get down on my knees now. But in case I don't, just for argument's sake, what's going to happen, pray? This is what is going to happen. I's going as straight to your uncle as I can walk and tell him every last thing I knows about you. Tom's cheek blanched and she saw it. Disturbing thoughts began to chase each other through his head. How can she know? And yet she must have found out. She looks at. I've had the will back only three months, and I'm already deep and dead again, and moving heaven and earth to save myself from exposure and destruction with a reasonably fair show of getting the thing covered up if I'm just let alone. And now this fiend has gone and found me out somehow or other. I wonder how much she knows. Oh, oh, oh, it's enough to break a body's heart. But I've got to humor her. There's no other way. Then he worked up a rather sickly sample of a gay laugh and a hollow chipperness of manner and said, Well, well, Roxy dear, old friends like you and me mustn't quarrel. Here's your dollar. Now tell me what you know. He held out the wild cat bill. She stood as she was and made no movement. It was her turn to scorn persuasive foolery now and did not waste it. She said with a grim implacability and voice and manner which made Tom almost realize that even a former slave can remember for ten minutes insults and injuries returned for compliments and flatteries received, and can also enjoy taking revenge for them when the opportunity offers. What does I know? I'll tell you what I know's. I know's enough to bust that will to flinders and more, mind you, more. Tom was aghast. More, he said. What do you call more? Where's there any room for more? Roxy laughed a mocking laugh and said scoffingly with the toss of her head and her hands on her hips. Yes. Oh, I reckon, of course, you'd like to know what your po little ragdollah. What you reckon I's going to tell you for? You ain't got no money. I's going to tell your uncle and I'll do it this minute too. He'll give me five dollars for the news and mighty glad too. She swung herself around disdainfully and started away. Tom was in a panic. He seized her skirts and implored her to wait. She turned and said loftily, Look here, what is it I told you? You, you, I don't remember anything. What was it you told me? I told you that the next time I give you a chance you'd get down on your knees and beg for it. Tom was stupefied for a moment. He was panting with excitement. Then he said, Oh, Roxy, you wouldn't require your young master to do such a horrible thing. You can't mean it. I'll let you know mighty quick whether I means it or not. You call me names and as good as spit on me when I comes here, Poe and Ornery and Humble, to praise you for being grown up so fine and handsome and tell you how I used to mess you and tend to you and watch you when you as sick and hadn't no mother but me and the whole world and beg you to give to Poe old nigger a dollar for to get her something to eat. And you call me names. Names, I blame you. Yes, sir, I give you just one chance, Moe, and that's now. And it lasts only half a second. You hear? Tom slumped to his knees and began to beg, saying, You see, I'm begging. And it's honest begging, too. Now tell me, Roxy, tell me. The error of two centuries of unattoned insult and outrage looked down on him and seemed to drink in deep drafts of satisfaction. Then she said, Find nice young white gentleman kneeling down to a nigger winch. I as wanted to see that just once before I as called. Now Gabriel blowed a horn. I as ready. Get up. Tom did it. He said humbly. Now, Roxy, don't punish me any more. I deserved what I've got. But be good and let me off with that. Don't go to Uncle. Tell me. I'll give you the five dollars. Yes, I bet you will. And you won't stop dead another. But I ain't going to tell you here. Good gracious. No. Is you fear to the haunted house? No. Well then you come to the haunted house about ten or eleven tonight and climb up the ladder because the stair steps is broke down and you'll find me. I as Rooston in the haunted house because I can't forward the Roost nowhere else. She started toward the door but stopped and said give me the dollar bill. He gave it to her. She examined it and said hum, like enough the banks busted. She started again but halted again. Has you got any whiskey? Yes, a little. Fetch it. He ran to his room overhead and brought down a bottle which was two thirds full. She tilted it up and took a drink. Her eyes sparkled with satisfaction and she tucked the bottle under her shawl, saying, It's prime. I'll take it along. Tom humbly held the door for her. And she marched out as grim and erect as a grenadier. The Tragedy of Puddinhead Wilson by Mark Twain. CHAPTER IX Tom practice sycophancy. Why is it that we rejoice at a birth and grieve at a funeral? It is because we are not the person involved. Puddinhead Wilson's calendar. It is easy to find fault if one has that disposition. There was once a man who, not being able to find any other fault with his coal, complained that there were too many prehistoric toads in it. Puddinhead Wilson's calendar. Tom flung himself on the sofa and put his throbbing head in his hands and rested his elbows on his knees. He rocked himself back and forth and moaned. I've knelt to a nigger wench, he muttered. I thought I had struck the deepest depths of degradation before, but, oh dear, it was nothing to this. Well, there's one consolation such as it is. I've struck bottom this time. There's nothing lower. But that was a hasty conclusion. At ten that night he climbed the ladder in the haunted house, pale, weak, and wretched. Roxy was standing in the door of one of the rooms waiting, for she had heard him. This was a two-story log-house which had acquired the reputation a few years ago of being haunted, and that was the end of its usefulness. Nobody would live in it afterward or go near it by night, and most people even gave it a wide berth in the daytime. As it had no competition it was called the haunted house. It was getting crazy and ruinous now from long neglect. It stood three hundred yards beyond Puddinhead Wilson's house, with nothing between but vacancy. It was the last house in the town at that end. Tom followed Roxy into the room. She had a pile of clean straw in the corner for a bed. Some cheap but well-kept clothing was hanging on the wall. There was a tin lantern freckling the floor with little spots of light, and there were various soap and candle boxes scattered about which served for chairs. The two sat down. Roxy said, "'Now, Din, I'll tell you straight off, and I'll begin to click the money later on. I ain't no hurry. What does you reckon I can ask one to tell you?' "'Well, you—' "'Oh, Roxy, don't make it too hard for me. Come right out and tell me. You've found out something. What a shape I'm in on account of dissipation and foolishness.' "'Disappation and foolishness?' "'No, sir. That ain't it. That just ain't nothing at all long side of what I know.' Tom stared at her and said, "'Why, Roxy, what do you mean?' She rose and gloomed above him like a fate. "'I mean this, and it's the Lord's truth. "'You ain't no more kind old Marcia Driscold than I is. That's what I means.' And her eyes flamed with triumph. "'What?' "'Yes, sir, and that ain't all. Use a nigger, born a nigger and a slave, and use a nigger and a slave this minute. And if I opens my mouth, old Marcia Driscold sell you down the river before you as two days older than what you is now. "'It's a thundering lie, you miserable old blather-skite. "'It ain't no lie, nether. It's just the truth, and nothing but the truth. So help me. "'Yes, sir. Use my son.' "'You devil!' "'And that, po-boy, that you's been a kickin' and a cuffin' today is Percy Driscold's son. "'And yo, master! "'You beast!' "'And his name is Tom Driscold, "'and yo's names valed the chambers, "'and you ain't got no family name, "'cause niggers don't have them.' Tom sprang up and seized a billet of wood and raised it. "'But his mother only laughed at him and said, "'Set down, you pup. "'Does you think you can scare me? "'It ain't in you, nor the likes of you. "'I reckon you'd shoot me in the back, "'maybe, if you got a chance, for that's just yo' style. "'I knows you through and through. "'But I don't mind gettin' killed, "'because all this is down and writin', "'and it's in safe hands, too, "'and a man that's got it knows where to look "'for the right man when I get's killed. "'Oh, bless yo, so, if you puts your mother up "'for as big a fool as you is, "'you's powerful, mistaken. "'I can tell you. "'Now then, you set still and behave yourself, "'and don't you get up again till I tell you.'" Tom fredded and chafed awhile in a whirlwind of disorganizing sensations and emotions, and finally said with something like settled conviction, "'The whole thing is moonshine. "'Now then, go and do your worst. "'I'm done with you.'" Roxy made no answer. She took the lantern and started for the door. Tom was in a cold panic in a moment. "'Come back! Come back!' he wailed. "'I didn't mean it, Roxy. "'Take it all back, and I'll never say it again. "'Please come back, Roxy.'" The woman stood a moment. Then she said gravely, "'That's one thing you's got to stop, valet of chambers. "'You can't call me Roxy, same as if you was my equal. "'Chillin', don't speak to them mammies like that. "'You'll call me ma or mammy. "'That's what you'll call me. "'Least ways when there ain't nobody around. "'Say it.'" It cost Tom a struggle, but he got it out. "'That's all right. "'Don't you ever forget it again "'if you know what's good for you?' "'Now then, you had said "'you wouldn't ever call it lies and moonshine again. "'I'll tell you this for a warning. "'If you ever does say it again, "'it's the last time you'll ever say it to me. "'I'll tramp as straight to the judge as I can walk "'and tell him who you is and prove it. "'Do you believe me when I says that?' "'Oh,' groaned Tom, "'I more than believe it. "'I know it.'" Roxy knew her conquest was complete. She could have proved nothing to anybody, and her threat of writings was a lie. But she knew the person she was dealing with and had made both statements without any doubt as to the effect they would produce. She went and sat down on her candle-box, and the pride and pomp of her victorious attitude made it a throne. She said, "'Now then, Chambers, we's going to talk business "'and they ain't going to be no more foolishness. "'And the first place you gets fifty dollars a month, "'you's going to hand over half of it to your ma. "'Plank it out.'" But Tom had only six dollars in the world. He gave her that and promised to start fair on next month's pension. "'Chambers, how much is you in debt?' Tom shuddered and said, "'Nearly three hundred dollars. "'How is you going to pay it?' Tom groaned out. "'Oh, I don't know. "'Don't ask me such awful questions.'" But she stuck to her point until she wearied a confession out of him. He had been prowling about in disguise, stealing small valuables from private houses. In fact, he made a good deal of a raid on his fellow villagers a fortnight before when he was supposed to be on St. Louis. But he doubted if he had sent away enough stuff to realize the required amount, and was afraid to make a further venture in the present excited state of the town. His mother approved of his conduct and offered to help. But this frightened him. He tremblingly ventured to say that if she would retire from the town he should feel better and safer and could hold his head higher, and was going on to make an argument. But she interrupted and surprised him pleasantly by saying she was ready. It didn't make any difference to her where she stayed so that she got her share of the pension regularly. She said she would not go far and would call at the haunted house once a month for her money. Then she said, "'I don't hate you so much now, but I've hated you many a year and anybody would. Didn't I change you off and give you a good family and a good name to a white gentleman and rich? Would store clothes on? And what did I get for it? You despised me all the time and was always saying mean-hard things to me before, folks, and would never let me forget as a nigger. And—and— She fell to sobbing and broke down. Tom said, "'But you know I didn't know you were my mother. Besides, well, never mind about that now. Let it go. I was going to forget it.' Then she added fiercely, "'And don't ever make me remember it again, or you'll be sorry. I'll tell you.' When they were parting Tom said in the most persuasive way he could command, "'Ma, would you mind telling me who was my father?' He had supposed he was asking an embarrassing question. He was mistaken. Roxy drew herself up with a proud toss of her head and said, "'Does I mind telling you?' "'No, Dad, I don't. You ain't got no occasion to be ashamed of your father, I can tell you. He was the highest quality in this whole town, old Virginia stock. The first families he was, just as good a stock as the Driscoll's and the Howard's, the best day they ever seed.' She put on a little prouder air, if possible, and added impressively, "'Does you remember Colonel Cecil Burley Essex that died the same year your young Martha Tom Driscoll's pappy died and all the masons and odd fellers and churches turned out to give him the biggest funeral this town ever seed?' That's the man. Under the inspiration of her soaring complacency the departed graces of her earlier days returned to her, and her bearing took to itself a dignity and state that might have passed for queenly if her surroundings had been a little more in keeping with it. They ain't another nigger in this town that's as high-born as you is. Now, then, go long, and just you hold your head up as high as you want to. You has the right, and that I can swear." End of chapter 9 This was a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Tragedy of Puddinhead Wilson by Mark Twain Chapter 10 The Nymph Revealed All say how hard it is that we have to die. A strange complaint to come from the mouths of people who have had to live. Puddinhead Wilson's calendar When angry count four When very angry swear Puddinhead Wilson's calendar Every now and then, after Tom went to bed, he had sudden wakings out of his sleep, and his first thought was, oh, joy, it was all a dream. Then he laid himself heavily down again with a groan, and the muttered words, a nigger, I am a nigger. Oh, I wish I was dead. He woke at dawn with one more repetition of this horror, and then he resolved to meddle no more with that treacherous sleep. He began to think. Sufficiently bitter thinkings they were. They wandered along something after this fashion. Why were niggers and whites made? What crime did the uncreated first nigger commit that the curse of birth was decreed for him? And why is this awful difference made between white and black? How hard the nigger's fate seems this morning. Yet until last night such a thought had never entered my head. He sighed and groaned an hour or more away. Then chambers came humbly in to say that breakfast was nearly ready. Tom blushed scarlet to see this aristocratic white youth cringe to him a nigger and call him young master. He said roughly, get out of my sight. And when the youth was gone he muttered, he has done me no harm, poor wretch, but he is an eyesore to me now, for he is Driscoll, the young gentleman, and I am—oh, I wish I was dead. A gigantic eruption like that of Krakatoa a few years ago with the accompanying earthquakes, tidal waves, and clouds of volcanic dust changes the face of the surrounding landscape beyond recognition, bringing down the high lands, elevating the low, making fair lakes where deserts had been and deserts where green prairies had smiled before. The tremendous catastrophe which had befallen Tom had changed his moral landscape in much the same way. Some of his low places he found lifted to ideals. Some of his ideas had sunk to the valleys and lay there with the sec cloth and ashes of pumice stone and sulfur on their ruined heads. For days he wandered in lonely places, thinking, thinking, thinking, trying to get his bearings. It was new work. If he met a friend he found that the habit of a lifetime had in some mysterious way vanished. His arm hung limp instead of involuntarily extending the hand for a shake. It was the nigger in him asserting its humility, and he blushed and was abashed. And the nigger in him was surprised when the white friend put out his hand for a shake with him. He found the nigger in him involuntarily giving the road on the sidewalk to a white rowdy and loafer. When Rowena, the dearest thing his heart knew, the idol of his secret worship, invited him in. The nigger in him made an embarrassed excuse and was afraid to enter and sit with the dread white folks on equal terms. The nigger in him went shrinking and skulking here and there and yonder, and fanciing it saw suspicion and maybe detection in all faces, tones, and gestures. So strange and uncharacteristic was Tom's conduct that people noticed it and turned to look after him when he passed on, and when he glanced back as he could not help doing in spite of his best resistance and caught that puzzled expression in a person's face, it gave him a sick feeling, and he took himself out of view as quickly as he could. He presently came to have a hunted sense and a hunted look, and then he fled away to the hill-tops and the solitudes. He said to himself that the curse of Ham was upon him. He dreaded his meals. The nigger in him was ashamed to sit at the white folks' table and feared discovery all the time, and once when Judge Driscoll said, What's the matter with you? You look as meek as a nigger. He felt as secret murderers are said to feel when the accuser says, Thou art the man. Tom said he was not well and left the table. His ostensible aunts, solitudes, and endearments were become a terror to him, and he avoided them. And all the time hatred of his ostensible uncle was steadily growing in his heart, for he said to himself, He is white, and I am his chattel, his property, his goods, and he can sell me just as he could his dog. For as much as a week after this, Tom imagined that his character had undergone a pretty radical change, but that was because he did not know himself. In several ways his opinions were totally changed and would never go back to what they were before. But the main structure of his character was not changed and could not be changed. One or two very important features of it were altered, and in time effects would result from this if opportunity offered. Effects of a quite serious nature too. Under the influence of a great mental and moral upheaval his character and his habits had taken on the appearance of complete change. But after a while with the subsidence of the storm both began to settle toward their former places. He dropped gradually back into his old frivolous and easygoing ways and conditions of feeling and manner of speech, and no familiar of his could have detected anything in him that differentiated him from the weak and careless Tom of other days. The theft raid which he had made upon the village turned out better than he had ventured to hope. It produced the sum necessary to pay his gaming debts and saved him from exposure to his uncle and another smashing of the will. He and his mother learned to like each other fairly well. She couldn't love him as yet, because there weren't nothing to him, as she expressed it. But her nature needed something or somebody to rule over, and he was better than nothing. Her strong character and aggressive and commanding ways compelled Tom's admiration in spite of the fact that he got more illustrations of them than he needed for his comfort. However, as a rule her conversation was made up of racy tales about the privacies of the chief families of the town, for she went harvesting among their kitchens every time she came to the village, and Tom enjoyed this. It was just in his line. She always collected her half of his pension punctually, and he was always at the haunted house to have a chat with her on these occasions. Every now and then she paid him a visit there on between days also. Occasions he would run up to St. Louis for a few weeks, and at last temptation caught him again. He won a lot of money, but lost it, and with it a deal more besides, which he promised to raise as soon as possible. For this purpose he projected a new raid on his town. He never meddled with any other town, for he was afraid to venture into houses whose ins and outs he did not know, and the habits of whose households he was not acquainted with. He arrived at the haunted house in disguise on the Wednesday before the advent of the twins, after writing his aunt Pratt that he would not arrive until two days after, and laying and hiding there with his mother until toward daylight Friday morning when he went to his uncle's house and entered by the back way with his own key and slipped up to his room where he could have the use of the mirror and toilet articles. He had a suit of girls' clothes with him in a bundle as a disguise for his raid, and was wearing a suit of his mother's clothing with black gloves and veil. By dawn he was tricked out for his raid, but he caught a glimpse of Puddinhead Wilson through the window over the way, and knew that Puddinhead had caught a glimpse of him. So he entertained Wilson with some errors and graces and attitudes for a while, then stepped out of sight and resumed the other disguise, and by and by went down and out the back way and started downtown to reconnoiter the scene of his intended labours. But he was ill at ease. He had changed back to Roxy's dress, with the stoop of age added to the disguise so that Wilson would not bother himself about a humble old woman leaving a neighbor's house by the back way in the early morning in case he was still spying. But supposing Wilson had seen him leave and had thought it suspicious and had also followed him. The thought made Tom cold. He gave up the raid for the day and hurried back to the haunted house by the obscurest route he knew. His mother was gone, but she came back by and by the news of the grand reception at Paddy Cooper's and soon persuaded him that the opportunity was like a special providence. It was so inviting and perfect. So he went raiding after all and made a nice success of it while everybody was gone to Patsy Cooper's. Success gave him nerve and even actual intrepidity indeed that after he had conveyed his harvest to his mother in a back alley he went to the reception himself and added several of the valuables of that house to his takings. After this long digression we have now arrived once more at the point where Puddin had Wilson while waiting for the arrival of the twins on that same Friday evening puzzling over the strange apparition of that morning a girl in young Tom Driscoll's bedroom fretting and guessing and puzzling over it and wondering who the shameless creature might be. End of chapter 10 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org The Tragedy of Puddin Head Wilson by Mark Twain Chapter 11 Puddin Head's Thrilling Discovery There are three infallible ways of pleasing an author and the three former rising scale of compliment. One, to tell him you have read one of his books. Two, to tell him you have read all his books. Three, to ask him to let you read the manuscript of his forthcoming book. Number one admits you to his respect. Number two admits you to his admiration. Number three carries you clear and to his heart. Puddin Head Wilson's calendar adds to the adjective when in doubt strike it out. Puddin Head Wilson's calendar The twins arrived presently and talk began. It flowed along chatily and sociably and under its influence the new friendship gathered ease and strength. Wilson got out his calendar by request and read a passage or two from it which the twins praised quite cordially. This pleased the author so much that he complied gladly when they asked him to lend them a batch of the work to read at home. In the course of their wide travels they had found out there are three sure ways of pleasing an author. They were now working the best of the three. There was an interruption now. Young Driscoll appeared and joined the party. He pretended to be seeing the distinguished strangers for the first time when they rose to shake hands, but this was only a blind as he had already had a glimpse of them at the reception while robbing the house. The twins made mental note that he was smooth-faced and rather handsome and smooth and undulatory in his movements, graceful in fact. Angelo thought he had a good eye. Luigi thought there was something veiled sly about it. Angelo thought he had a pleasant, free and easy way of talking. Luigi thought it was more so than was agreeable. Angelo thought he was a sufficiently nice young man. Luigi reserved his decision. Tom's first contribution to the conversation was a question which he had put to Wilson a hundred times before. It was always cheerily and good-natured put, and always inflicted a little pang for it touched a secret sore. But this time the pang was sharp since strangers were present. Well, how does the law come on? Had a case yet? Wilson bit his lip, but answered, No, not yet, with as much indifference as he could assume. Judge Driscoll had generously left the law feature out of Wilson's biography which he had furnished to the twins. Young Tom laughed pleasantly and said, Wilson's a lawyer, gentlemen, but he doesn't practice now. The sarcasm bit. But Wilson kept himself under control and said without passion, I don't practice it is true. It is true that I have never had a case and have had to earn a poor living for twenty years as an expert accountant in a town where I can't get hold of a set of books to untangle as often as I should like. But it is also true that I did myself well for the practice of the law. By the time I was your age, Tom, I had chosen a profession and was soon competent to enter upon it. Tom winced. I never got a chance to try my hand at it and I may never get a chance. And yet if I ever do get it, I shall be found ready for I have kept up my law studies all these years. That's it. That's good grit. I like to see it. The notion to throw all my business your way, my business and your law practice ought to make a pretty gay team, Dave. And the young fellow laughed again. If you will throw, Wilson had thought of the girl in Tom's bedroom and was going to say, if you will throw the surreptitious and disreputable part of your business my way, that may amount to something. But thought better of it and said, however, this matter doesn't fit well in a general conversation. All right. We'll change the subject. I guess you are about to give me another dig anyway, so unwilling to change. How's the awful mystery flourishing these days? Wilson's got a scheme for driving plain window glass panes out of the market by decorating it with greasy finger marks and getting rich by selling at famine prices to the crowned heads over in Europe to outfit their palaces with. Fetch it out, Dave. Wilson brought out three of his glass strips and said, I get the subject to pass the fingers of his right hand through his hair, so as to get a little coating of the natural oil on them, and then press the balls of them on the glass. A fine and delicate print of the lines in the skin results, and is permanent if it doesn't come in contact with something able to rub it off. You begin, Tom. Why, I think you took my finger marks once or twice before. Yes, but you were a little boy the last time, only about twelve years old. Well, that's so. Of course I've changed entirely since then, and variety is what the crowned heads want, I guess. He passed his fingers through his crop of short hair and pressed them one at a time on the glass. Angelo made a print of his fingers on another glass, and Luigi followed with a third. Wilson marked the glasses with names and dates and put them away. Tom gave one of his little laughs and said, I thought I wouldn't say anything, but if variety is what you're after, you've wasted a piece of glass. The handprint of one twin is the same as the handprint of the fellow twin. Well, it's done now, and I like to have them both anyway, said Wilson, returned to his place. But look here, Dave, said Tom. You used to tell people's fortunes, too, when you took their finger marks. Dave's just an all-around genius, a genius of the first-water gentleman, a great scientist running to seed here in this village, a prophet with the kind of honor the prophets generally get at home. For here they don't give shucks for his scientifics, and they call his school a notion factory. Hey, Dave, ain't it so? But never mind. He'll make his mark some day. A finger mark, you know? But really, you want to let him take a shy at your palms once. It's worth twice the price of admission, or your money's returned the door. Why, he'll read your wrinkles as easy as a book, and not only tell you fifty or sixty things that's going to happen to you, but fifty or sixty thousand that ain't. Come, Dave, show the gentleman what an inspired jack-at-all science we've got in this town and don't know it. Wilson winced under this nagging and not very courteous chaff, and the twins suffered with him and for him. They rightly judged now that the best way to relieve him would be to take the thing in earnest and treat it with respect, ignoring Tom's rather overdone railery. So Luigi said, We have seen something of palmistry in our wanderings and know very well what astonishing things it can do. If it isn't a science and one of the greatest of them, too, I don't know what its other name ought to be. In the Orient Tom looked surprised and incredulous. He said, That juggling a science? But really, you ain't serious, are you? Yes, entirely so. Four years ago we had our hands read to us as if our plans had been covered with print. Well, do you mean to say there was actually anything in it? asked Tom, his incredulity beginning to weaken a little. There was this much in it, said Angelo. What was told us of our characters was minutely exact. We could not have bettered it ourselves. Next two or three memorable things that have happened to us were laid bare. Things which no one present about ourselves could have known about. Why, it's rank sorcery, exclaimed Tom, who is now becoming very much interested. And how did they make out with what was going to happen to you in the future? On the whole quite fairly, said Luigi. Two or three of the most striking things foretold have happened since. Which, the most striking one of all, happened within that same year. Some of the minor prophecies have come true. Some of the minor and some of the major ones have not yet been fulfilled, and of course may never be. Still I should be more surprised if they failed to arrive than if they didn't. Tom was entirely sobered and profoundly impressed. He said apologetically, Dave, I wasn't meanin' to belittle that science. I was only chaffing. Chattering, I reckon I'd better say. I wish you would look at their palms. Come, won't you? I certainly if you want me to, but you know I've had no chance to become an expert and don't claim to be one. When a past event is somewhat prominently recorded in the poem, I can generally detect that. But minor ones often escape me. Not always, of course, but often. But I haven't much confidence in myself when it comes to reading the future. I'm talking as if palmistry was a daily study with me, but that is not so. I haven't examined half a dozen in the last half-dozen years. You see, the people got to joking about it, and I stopped to let the talk die down. I'll tell you what we'll do. Count Luigi, I'll make a try at your past, and if I have any success there, no, on the whole. I'll let the future alone. That's really the affair of an expert. He took Luigi's hand. Tom said, wait, don't look yet, Dave. Count Luigi, here's paper and pencil. Set down that thing that you said was the most striking one that was foretold to you, and happened less than a year afterward, and give it to me, so I can see if Dave finds it in your hand. Luigi wrote a line privately, unfolded up the piece of paper, and handed it to Tom, saying, I'll tell you when to look at it if he finds it. Wilson began to study Luigi's palm, tracing lifelines, heartlines, headlines, and so on, and noting carefully their relations with the cobweb of finer and more delicate marks and lines that enmeshed them on all sides. He felt of the fleshy cushion at the base of the thumb, and noted its shape. He felt of the fleshy side of the hand, between the wrist and the base of the little finger, and noted its shape also. He painstakingly examined the fingers, observing their form, proportions, and natural manner of disposing themselves when in repose. All this process was watched by the three spectators with absorbing interest, their heads bent together over Luigi's palm, and nobody disturbing the stillness with a word. Wilson now entered upon a close survey of the palm again, and his revelations began. He mapped out Luigi's character and disposition, his tastes, aversions, proclivities, ambitions, and eccentricities, in a way which sometimes made Luigi wince and the others laugh. But both twins declared that the chart was artistically drawn and was correct. Next Wilson took up Luigi's history. He proceeded cautiously and with hesitation now, moving his finger slowly along the great lines of the palm, and now and then halting it at a star or some such landmark, and examining that neighborhood minutely. He proclaimed one or two past events, Luigi confirmed his correctness, and the search went on. Presently Wilson glanced up suddenly with a surprised expression. Here is a record of an incident which you would perhaps not wish me to— Bring it out, said Luigi good-naturedly. I promise you shan't embarrass me. But Wilson still hesitated and did not seem quite to know what to do. Then he said, I think it is too delicate a matter to— I believe I would rather write it or whisper it to you and let you decide for yourself whether you want it talked out or not. That will answer, said Luigi, write it. Wilson wrote something on a slip of paper and handed it to Luigi who read it to himself and said to Tom, Unfold your slip and read it, Mr. Driscoll. Tom said, It was prophesied that I would kill a man. It came true before the year was out. Tom added, Great Scott! Luigi handed Wilson's paper to Tom and said, Now, read this one. Tom read, You have killed someone. But whether man, woman, or child, I do not make out. Caesar's ghost, commented Tom with astonishment. It beats anything that was ever heard of. Why a man's own hand is his deadliest enemy. Just think of that. A man's own hand keeps a record of the deepest and fatalist secrets of his life and is treacherously ready to expose himself to any black magic stranger that comes along. But what do you let a person look at your hand for with that awful thing printed on it? Oh, said Luigi, reposefully. I don't mind. I killed the man for good reasons and I don't regret it. What were the reasons? Well, he needed killing. I'll tell you why he did it, since he won't say himself, said Angelo warmly. He did it to save my life. That's what he did it for. So it was a noble act and not a thing to be hid in the dark. So it was, so it was, said Wilson. To do such a thing to save a brother's life is a great and fine action. Now come, said Luigi, it is very pleasant to hear you say these things, but for unselfishness or heroism or magnanimity the circumstances won't stand scrutiny. You overlook one detail. Suppose I hadn't saved Angelo's life. What would have become of mine? If I had let the man kill him, wouldn't he have killed me too? I saved my own life, you see. Yes, that is your way of talking, said Angelo, but I know you. I don't believe you thought of yourself at all. I keep that weapon yet that Luigi killed the man with and I'll show it to you some time. That incident makes it interesting and it had a history before it came into Luigi's hands which adds to its interest. It was given to Luigi by a great Indian prince, the Gaikawar of Baroda. And it had been in his family two or three centuries. It killed a good many disagreeable people who troubled the hearthstone at one time or another. It isn't much to look at except it isn't shaped like other knives or dirks or whatever it may be called. Here, I'll draw it for you. He took a sheet of paper and made a rapid sketch. There it is, a broad and murderous blade with edges like a razor for sharpness. The devices engraved on it are the ciphers or names of its long line of possessors. I had Luigi's name added in Roman letters myself with our coat of arms, as you see. You notice what a curious handle the thing has. It is solid ivory, polished like a mirror and is four or five inches long, round and as thick as a large man's wrist with the end squared off flat for your thumb to rest on, for your grasp it with your thumb resting on the blunt end so and lift it along and strike downward. The Gaikawar showed us how the thing was done when he gave it to Luigi and before that night was ended Luigi had used the knife and the Gaikawar was a man short by reason of it. The sheath is magnificently ornamented with gems of great value. You will find a sheath more worth looking at than the knife itself, of course. Tom said to himself, it's lucky I came here. I would have sold that knife for a song. I supposed the jewels were glass. But go on, don't stop, said Wilson. Our curiosity is up now to hear about the homicide. Tell us about that. Well, briefly the knife was to blame for that all around. A native servant slipped into our room in the palace in the night to kill us and steal the knife on account of the fortune crusted on its sheath without a doubt. Luigi headed under his pillow. We were in bed together. There was a dim nightlight burning. I was asleep, but Luigi was awake and he thought he detected a vague form nearing the bed. He slipped the knife out of the sheath and was ready and unembarrassed by hampering bed-clothes for the weather was hot and we hadn't any. Suddenly that native rose at the bedside and bent over me with his right hand lifted and a dirk in it aimed at my throat. But Luigi grabbed his wrist, pulled him downward, and drove his own knife into the man's neck. That is the whole story. Wilson and Tom drew deep breaths and after some general chat about the tragedy Puddin Head said, taking Tom's hand, Now, Tom, I've never had to look at your palms as it happens. Perhaps you've got some little questionable privacies that need hello. Tom had snatched away his hand and was looking a good deal confused. Why, he's blushing, said Luigi. Well, if I am, it ain't because I'm a murderer. Luigi's dark face flushed. But before he could speak or move Tom added with anxious haste. Oh, I beg a thousand pardons. I didn't mean that. It was out before I thought. And I'm very, very sorry. You must forgive me. Wilson came to the rescue and smoothed things down as well as he could and in fact was entirely successful as far as the twins were concerned for they felt sorry or for the affront put upon him by his guests' outburst of ill manners than for the insult offered to Luigi. But the success was not so pronounced with the offender. Tom tried to seem at his ease and he went through the motions fairly well but at bottom he felt resentful toward all the three witnesses of his exhibition. In fact, he felt so annoyed at them for having witnessed it and noticed it that he almost forgot to feel annoyed at himself for placing it before them. However, something presently happened which made him almost comfortable and brought him nearly back to a state of charity and friendliness. This was a little spat between the twins. Not much of a spat, but still a spat. And before they got far with it they were in a decided condition of irritation while pretending to be actuated by more respectable motives. By his help the fire got warmed up to the blazing point and he might have had the happiness of seeing the flames show up in another moment but for the interruption of a knock on the door. An interruption which fretted him as much as it gratified Wilson. The visitor was a good-natured, ignorant, middle-aged Irishman named John Buckstone who was a great politician in a small way and always took a large share in public matters of every sort. One of the town's chief excitements just now was over the matter of rum. There was a strong rum party and a strong anti-rum party. Buckstone was training with the rum party and he had been sent to hunt up the twins and invite them to attend a mass meeting of that faction. He delivered his errand and said the clans were already gathering in the big hall over the market-house. Luigi accepted the invitation cordially. Angelo less cordially since he disliked crowds and did not drink the powerful intoxicants of America. In fact, he was even a tea-totaler sometimes when it was judicious to be one. The twins left with Buckstone and Tom Driscoll joined the company with them uninvited. In the distance one could see a long wavering line of torches drifting down the main street and could hear the throbbing of the bass drum, the clash of cymbals, the squeaking of a fife or two, and the faint roar of remote hurrahs. The tail end of this procession was climbing the market-house stairs when the twins arrived in its neighborhood. When they reached the hall it was full of people, torches, smoke, noise, and enthusiasm. They were conducted to the platform by Buckstone, Tom Driscoll still following, and were delivered to the chairman in the midst of a prodigious explosion of welcome. When the noise had moderated a little, the chair proposed that our illustrious guests be at once elected by complimentary acclamation to membership in our ever-glorious organization, the paradise of the free and the perdition of the slave. This eloquent discharge opened the flood-gates of enthusiasm again, and the election was carried with thundering unanimity. Then arose a storm of cries. Wet them down! Wet them down! Give them a drink! Glasses of whiskey were handed to the twins. Luigi waves his aloft, then brought it to his lips. But Angelo said his down. There was another storm of cries. What's the matter with the other one? What is the blonde one going back on us for? Explain, explain! The chairman inquired and then reported, We have made an unfortunate mistake, gentlemen. I find that the Count Angelo Capello is opposed to our creed, is a teetotaler, in fact, and was not intending to apply for membership with us. He desires that we reconsider the vote by which he was elected. What is the pleasure of the house? There was a general burst of laughter, plentifully accented with whistlings and cat-calls, but the energetic use of the gavel presently restored something like order. Then a man spoke from the crowd and said that while he was very sorry that the mistake had been made, it would not be possible to rectify it at the present meeting. According to the by-laws, it must go over to the next regular meeting for action. He would not offer a motion, as none was required. He desired to apologize to the gentlemen in the name of the house and begged to assure him that, as far as it might lie in the power of the Sons of Liberty, his temporary membership in the order would be made pleasant to him. The speech was received with great applause, mixed with cries of, that's the talk. He's a good fellow, anyway, if he is a teetotaler. Drink his health, give him a rouser and no heel taps. Glasses were handed around and everybody on the platform drank Angelo's health while the house belled forth in song for he's a jolly good fellow, which nobody can deny. Tom Driscoll drank. It was his second glass, for he had drunk Angelo's the moment that Angelo had set it down. The two drinks made him very merry, almost idiotically so, and he began to take a most lively and prominent part in the proceedings, particularly on the music and cat-calls and side-remarks. The chairman was still standing at the front, the twins at his side. The extraordinarily close resemblance of the brothers to each other suggested a witticism to Tom Driscoll and just as the chairman began a speech he skipped forward and said with an air of tipsy confidence to the audience. Boys, I move that he keeps still and lets this human Philopena snip you out a speech. The descriptive aptness of the phrase caught the house and a mighty burst of laughter followed. Luigi's southern blood leaped to the boiling point in a moment under the sharp humiliation of this insult delivered in the presence of four hundred strangers. It was not in the young man's nature to let the matter pass or to delay the squaring of the account. He took a couple of strides and halted behind the unsuspecting joker. Then he drew back and delivered a kick of such titanic vigor that it lifted Tom clear over the footlights and landed him on the heads of the front row of the Sons of Liberty. Even a sober person does not like to have a human being emptied on him when he is not doing any harm. A person who is not sober cannot endure such an attention at all. The nest of Sons of Liberty that Driscoll landed in had not a sober bird in it. In fact, there was probably not an entirely sober one in the auditorium. Driscoll was promptly and indignantly flung on the heads of the Sons in the next row, and these Sons passed him on toward the rear and then immediately began to pummel the front row Sons who had passed him to them. This course was strictly followed by bench after bench as Driscoll traveled in his tumultuous and airy flight toward the door. So he left behind him an ever-lengthening wake of raging and plunging and fighting and swearing humanity. Down went group after group of torches and presently above the deafening clatter of the gavel roar of angry voices and crash of succumbing benches rose the paralyzing cry of fire. The fighting seized instantly. The cursing seized. For one distinctly defined moment there was a dead hush, a motionless calm where the tempest had been. Then with one impulse the multitude awoke to life and energy again and went surging and struggling and swaying this way and that. Its outer edges melting away through windows and doors and gradually lessening the pressure and relieving the mass. The fire boys were never on hand so suddenly before for there was no distance to go this time, their quarters being on the rear end of the market house. There was an engine company and a hook and ladder company. Half of each was composed of rummies and the other half of anti-rummies after the moral and political share and share alike fashion of the frontier town of the period. Enough anti-rummies were loafing in quarters to man the engine and the ladders. In two minutes they had their red shirts and helmets on. They never stirred officially an unofficial costume. And as the mass meeting overhead smashed through the long row of windows and poured out upon the roof of the arcade the deliverers were ready for them with a powerful stream of water which washed some of them off the roof and nearly drowned the rest. But water was preferable to fire and still the stampede from the windows continued and still the pitiless drenching assailed it until the building was empty. Then the fire boys mounted to the hall and flooded it with water enough to annihilate forty times as much fire as there was there. For a village fire company does not often get a chance to show off. And so when it does get a chance it makes the most of it. Such citizens of that village as were of a thoughtful and judicious temperament did not insure against fire. They insured against the fire company. End of chapter 11 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org The Tragedy of Puddin Head Wilson by Mark Twain Chapter 12 The Shame of Judge Driscoll Courage is resistance to fear mastery of fear not absence of fear except a creature be part coward it is not a compliment to say it is brave it is merely a loose misapplication of the word. Consider the flea incomparably the bravest of all the creatures of God if ignorance of fear were courage whether you are asleep or awake he will attack you caring nothing for the fact that in bulk and strength you are to him as are the massed armies of the earth to a suckling child he lives both day and night and all days and nights in the very lap of peril and the immediate presence of death and yet is no more afraid than one who walks the streets of a city that was threatened by an earthquake ten centuries before. When we speak of Clive Nelson and Putnam as men who didn't know what fear was we ought always to add the flea and put him at the head of the procession Puddin Head Wilson's calendar Judge Driscoll was in bed at four o'clock on Friday night and he was up and gone fishing before daylight in the morning with his friend Pembroke Howard. These two had been boys together in Virginia when that state still ranked as the chief and most imposing member of the Union and they still coupled the proud and affectionate adjective old with her name when they spoke of her. In Missouri a recognized superiority attached to any person who hailed from old Virginia and this superiority was exalted to supremacy when a person of such nativity could also prove descent from the first families of that great commonwealth. The Howard's and Driscoll's were of this aristocracy in their eyes it was a nobility it had its unwritten laws and they were as clearly defined and as strict as any that could be found among the printed statutes of the land the FFV was born a gentleman his highest duty in life was to watch over that grand inheritance and keep it unsmerched he must keep his honor spotless those laws were his chart his course was marked out on it if he swerved from it by so much as half a point of the compass it meant shipwreck to his honor that is to say degradation from his rank as a gentleman these laws required certain things of him which his religion might forbid then his religion must yield the laws could not be relaxed to accommodate religions or anything else honor stood first and the laws defined what it was and wherein it differed in certain details from honor as defined by church creeds and by the social laws and customs of some of the minor divisions crowded out when the sacred boundaries of Virginia were staked out if Judge Driscoll was the recognized first citizen of Dawson's Landing Pembroke Howard was easily its recognized second citizen he was called the great lawyer an earned title he and Driscoll were of the same age a year or two past 60 although Driscoll was a free thinker and Howard a strong and determined presbyterian their warm intimacy suffered no impairment in consequence they were men whose opinions were their own property and not subject to revision and amendment, suggestion or criticism by anybody even their friends the days fishing finished they came floating downstream in their skiff talking national politics and other high matters and presently met a skiff coming up from town with a man in it who said I reckon you know one of the new twins gave your nephew a kickin last night Judge did what gave him a kickin kickin the old Judge's lips paled and his eyes began to flame he choked with anger for a moment then he got out what he was trying to say well well go on give me the details the man did it at the finish the Judge was silent a minute turning over in his mind the shameful picture of Tom's flight over the foot lights then he said as if musing aloud I don't understand it I was asleep at home he didn't wake me thought he was competent to manage his affair without my help I reckon his face lit up with pride and pleasure at that thought and he said with great complacency I like that it's the true old blood a pimp broke Howard smiled an iron smile and nodded his head approvingly then the news bringer spoke again but Tom beat the twin on the trial the Judge looked at the man wonderingly and said the trial why Tom had him up before Judge Robinson for assault and battery the old man shrank suddenly together like one who has received a death stroke Howard sprang for him as he sank forward in a swoon and took him in his arms and bedded him on his back in the boat he sprinkled water in his face with a startled visitor go now don't let him come to and find you here you see what an effect your heedless speech has had you ought to have been more considerate than to blurt out such a cruel piece of slander as that I'm right sorry I did it now Mr. Howard and I wouldn't have done it if I had thought as I told him he rode away presently the old Judge came out of his faint and looked up piteously into the sympathetic face that was bent over him say it ain't true Pembroke tell me it ain't true he said in a weak voice there was nothing weak in the deep organ tones that responded it's a lie as well as I do old friend he is of the best blood of the old dominion God bless you for saying it said the old gentleman fervently ah Pembroke it was such a blow Howard stayed by his friend and saw him home and entered the house with him it was dark and past supper time but the Judge was not thinking of supper he was eager to hear the slander refuted from headquarters and as eager to have Howard hear it too Tom was sent for and he came immediately he was bruised and lame and was not a happy looking object his uncle made him sit down and said we have been hearing about your adventure Tom with a handsome lie added for embellishment now pulverize that lie to dust what measures have you taken how does the thing stand Tom answered guilelessly it don't stand at all it's all over I had him up in court and beat him Putin had Wilson defended him and lost it the Judge find that miserable hound five dollars for the assault Howard and the Judge sprang to their feet with the opening sentence why neither knew then they stood gazing vacantly at each other Howard stood a moment then sat mournfully down without saying anything the Judge's wrath began to kindle and he burst out you cur you scum you vermin do you mean to tell me that blood of my race has suffered a blow and crawled to a court of law about it answer me Tom's head drooped and he answered with an eloquent silence his uncle stared at him with a mixed expression of amazement and shame and incredulity that was sorrowful to see at last he said which of the twins was it Count Luigi you have challenged him no hesitated Tom turning pale you will challenge him tonight Howard will carry it Tom began to turn sick and to show it he turned his hat round and round in his hand his uncle glowering blacker and blacker upon him as the heavy seconds drifted by then at last he began to stammer and said piteously oh please don't ask me to do it uncle he is a murderous devil I never could I I'm afraid of him old Driscoll's mouth opened and closed three times before he could get it to perform its office then he stormed out a coward in my family a Driscoll a coward and to deserve this infamy he tottered to his secretary in the corner repeated that lament again and again in heartbreaking tones and got out of a drawer a paper which he slowly tore to bits scattering the bits absently on his track as he walked up and down the room still grieving and lamenting at last he said there it is shreds and fragments once more my will once more you have forced me to disinherit you you base son of a most noble father leave my sight go before I spit on you the young man did not tarry then the judge turned to Howard you will be my second old friend of course there is pen and paper draft the cartel and lose no time the count shall have it in his hands in fifteen minutes said Howard Tom was very heavy-hearted his appetite was gone with his property and his self-respect he went out the back way and wandered down the obscure lane grieving and wondering if any course of future conduct however discreet and carefully perfected and watched over could win back his uncle's favor and persuade him to reconstruct once more that generous will which had just gone to ruin before his eyes he finally concluded that it could he said to himself that he had accomplished this sort of triumph once already and that what had been done once could be done again he would set about it he would bend every energy to the task and he would score that triumph once more cost what it might to his convenience limit as it might his frivolous and liberty-loving life to begin he says to himself I'll square up with the proceeds of my raid and then gambling has got to be stopped and stopped short off it's the worst vice I've got from my standpoint anyway because it's the one he can most easily find out through the impatience of my creditors he thought it expensive to have to pay $200 to them for me once expensive that why it cost me the whole of his fortune but of course he never thought of that some people can't think of any but their own side of a case if he had known how deep I am in now the will would have gone to pot without waiting for a duel to help $300 it's a pile but he'll never hear of it I'm thankful to say the minute I've cleared it off I'm safe and I'll never touch a card again anyway I won't while he lives I make oath to that I'm entering on my last reform I know it yes and I'll win but after that if I ever slip again I'm gone end of chapter 12