 18. Colonel Grangerford, aristocracy, feuds, the testament, recovering the raft, the woodpile, pork and cabbage. Colonel Grangerford was a gentleman, you see. He was a gentleman all over, and so was his family. He was well-born, as the saying is, and that's worth as much in a man as it is in a horse, so the widow Douglas said. And nobody ever denied that she was one of the first aristocracy in our town, and Pap, he always said it, too, though he weren't no more quality than a mudcat himself. Colonel Grangerford was very tall and very slim, and had a darkish-paley complexion, not a sign of red in it, anywheres. He was clean, shaved, every morning all over his thin face, and he had the thinnest kind of lips, and the thinnest kind of nostrils, and a high nose, and heavy eyebrows, and the blackest kind of eyes sunk so deep back that they seemed like they was looking out of caverns at you, as you may say. His forehead was high, and his hair was black and straight and hung to his shoulders. His hands was long and thin, and every day of his life he put on a clean shirt and a full suit from head to foot, made out of linen, so white it hurt your eyes to look at it. And on Sundays he wore a blue tailcoat with brass buttons on it. He carried a mahogany cane with a silver head to it. There weren't no frivolousness about him, not a bit, and he weren't ever loud. He was as kind as he could be, you could feel that, you know, and so you had confidence. Sometimes he smiled, and it was good to see, but when he straightened himself up like a liberty pole, and the lightning began to flicker out from under his eyebrows, you wanted to climb a tree first, and find out what the matter was afterwards. He didn't ever have to tell anybody to mind their manners. Everybody was always good-mannered where he was. Everybody loved to have him around, too. He was sunshine, most always. I mean, he made it seem like good weather. When he turned into a cloud bank it was awful dark for half a minute, and that was enough. There wouldn't nothing go wrong again for a week. When him and the old lady come down in the morning all the family got up out of their chairs and give them good day, and didn't set down again till they had set down. Then Tom and Bob went to the sideboard where the decanter was, and mixed a glass of bitters and handed it to him, and he held it in his hand and waited till Tom's and Bob's was mixed, and then they bowed and said, Our duty to you, sir, and madam, and they bowed, the least bit in the world, and said, Thank you, and so they drank, all three, and Bob and Tom poured a spoonful of water on the sugar, and the might of whiskey or apple brandy in the bottom of their tumblers, and give it to me and Buck, and we drank to the old people, too. Bob was the oldest, and Tom next, tall, beautiful men with their very broad shoulders and brown faces, and long black hair and black eyes. They dressed in white linen, from head to foot, like the old gentleman, and wore broad Panama hats. Then there was Miss Charlotte. She was twenty-five, and tall, and proud, and grand, but as good as she could be when she weren't stirred up. But when she was, she had a look that would wilt you in your tracks, like her father. She was beautiful. So was her sister Miss Sophia, but it was a different kind. She was gentle and sweet like a dove, and she was only twenty. Each person had their own nigger to wait on them, Buck, too. My nigger had a monstrous easy time because I weren't used to having anybody do anything for me, but Buck's was on the jump most of the time. This was all there was of the family now, but there used to be more, three sons. They got killed, and Emmeline, the died. The old gentleman owned a lot of farms and over a hundred niggers. Sometimes a stack of people would come there, horseback, from ten or fifteen mile round, and stay five or six days, and have such junketings round about and on the river, and dances and picnics in the woods day-times and balls at the house nights. These people was mostly kin folks of the family. The men brought their guns with them. It was a handsome lot of quality, I tell you. There was another clan of aristocracy around there, five or six families, mostly of the name of Shepardson. They was as high-toned and well-born and rich and grand as the tribe of Grangerfords. The Shepardsons and Grangerfords used the same steamboat landing, which was about two miles above our house. So sometimes when I went up there with a lot of our folks, I used to see a lot of Shepardsons there on their fine horses. One day Buck and me was away out in the woods hunting, and heard a horse coming. We was crossing the road. Buck says, Quick, jump for the woods! We done it, and then peep down the woods through the leaves. Pretty soon a splendid young man come galloping down the road, setting his horse easy and looking like a soldier. He had his gun across his pommel. I had seen him before. It was young Harnie Shepardson. I heard Buck's gun go off at my ear, and Harnie's hat tumbled off from his head. He grabbed his gun and rode straight to the place where we was hid. But we didn't wait. We started through the woods on a run. The woods weren't thick, so I looked over my shoulder to dodge the bullet, and twice I seen Harnie cover Buck with his gun. And then he rode away the way he came to get his hat, I reckon, but I couldn't see. We never stopped running till we got home. The old gentleman's eyes blazed a minute to his pleasure, mainly, I judged. Then his face sort of smoothed down, and he says, kind of gentle, I don't like that shooting from behind a bush. Why didn't you step into the road, my boy? The Shepardsons don't, Father. They always take advantage. Miss Charlotte, she held her head up like a queen while Buck was telling his tale, and her nostrils spread and her eyes snapped. The two young men looked dark, but never said nothing. Miss Sophia, she turned pale, but the color come back when she found the man warn't hurt. Soon as I could get Buck down by the corn crib under the trees by ourselves, I says, Did you want to kill him, Buck? Well, I bet I did. What did he do to you? Him? He never done nothing to me. Well, then what did you want to kill him for? Why, nothing. Only it's on account of the feud. What's a feud? Why, where was you raised? Don't you know what a feud is? Never heard of it before. Tell me about it. Well, says Buck, a feud is this way. A man has a quarrel with another man and kills him. Then that other man's brother kills him. Then the other brother's, on both sides, goes for one another. Then the cousins chip in, and by and by everybody's killed off, and there ain't no more feud. But it's kind of slow and takes a long time. Has this one been going on long, Buck? Well, I should reckon. It started thirty years ago, or summers along there, there was trouble about something, and then a lawsuit to settle it, and the suit went again one of the men, and so he up and shot the man that won the suit, which he would naturally do, of course, and anybody would. What was the trouble about, Buck? Land? I reckon maybe, I don't know. Well, who done the shooting? Was it a Grangerford or a Shepardson? Laws, how do I know? It was so long ago. Don't anybody know? Oh, yes, Panos, I reckon, and some of the other old people, but they don't know now what the row was about in the first place. Has there been many killed, Buck? Yes, it's smart chants of funerals, but they don't always kill. Pa's got a few buckshot at him, but he don't mind it because he don't weigh much anyway. Bob's been carved up some with a bowie, and Tom's been hurt once or twice. Has anybody been killed this year, Buck? Yes, we got one and they got one. About three months ago my cousin Bud, fourteen years old, was riding through the woods on the other side of the river, and didn't have no weapon with him, which was blamed foolishness, and in a lonesome place he hears a horse that's coming behind him, and sees old Baldi Shepardson alinking after him with his gun in his hand, and his white hair flying in the wind. Instead of jumping off and taking the brush, Bud, loud, he could outrun him. So they had it, nip and tuck for five mile or more. The old man againing all the time. So at last Bud's seen it weren't any use, so he stopped and faced around so as to have the bullet holes in the front, you know. The old man he rode up, and shot him down. But he didn't get much chance to enjoy his luck, for inside of a week our folks laid him out. I reckon that old man was a coward, Buck. I reckon he weren't a coward, not by a blames sight. There ain't a coward amongst them Shepardsons, not a one, and there ain't no cowards amongst the Grangerfords, either. Why, that old man kept up his end in a fight one day for a half an hour against three Grangerfords and come out winner. They was all a horseback. He lit off of his horse and got behind a little woodpile, and kept his horse before him to stop the bullets. But the Grangerfords stayed on their horses and capered around the old man and peppered away at him, and he peppered away at them. Him and his horse both went home pretty leaky and crippled, but the Grangerfords had to be fetched home, and one of them was dead, another died the next day. No sir, if a body's out hunting for cowards, we don't want to fool away any time amongst them Shepardsons, because they don't breed any of that kind. Next Sunday we all went to church, about three mile, everybody a horseback. The men took their guns along, so did Buck, and kept them between their knees or stood them handy against the wall. The Shepardsons done the same. It was pretty ornery preaching all about brotherly love and such like tiresomeness, but everybody said it was a good sermon, and they all talked it over going home, and had such a powerful lot to say about faith and good works and free grace and preferorore destination, and I don't know what all, that it did seem to me to be one of the roughest Sundays I have run across yet. About an hour after dinner everybody was dozing around, some in their chairs and some in their rooms, and it got to be pretty dull. Buck and a dog was stretched out on the grass and the sun sound asleep. I went up to our room and judged I would take a nap myself. I found that sweet Miss Sophia standing in her door, which was next to ours, and she took me in her room and shut the door very soft and asked me if I liked her, and I said I did, and she asked me if I would do something for her and not tell anybody, and I said I would. Then she said she'd forgot her testament and left it in the seat at church between two other books, and would I slip out quiet and go there and fetch it to her and not say nothing to nobody, and I said I would. So I slid out and slipped off up the road and there weren't anybody at the church except maybe a hog or two, for there weren't any lock on the door, and hogs likes a punchin' floor in summertime because it's cool. If you notice, most folks don't go to church only when they've got to go, but a hog is different. Says I to myself, something's up, it ain't natural for a girl to be in such a sweat about a testament, so I give it a shake, and out drops a little piece of paper with half-pass two wrote on it with a pencil. I ransacked it and couldn't find anything else. I couldn't make anything out of that, so I put the paper in the book again, and when I got home and upstairs there was Miss Sophia in her door waiting for me. She pulled me in and shut the door. Then she looked in the testament till she found the paper, and as soon as she read it she looked glad, and before her body could think she grabbed me and gave me a squeeze, and said I was the best boy in the world, and not to tell anybody. She was mighty red in the face for a minute, and her eyes lighted up, and it made her powerful pretty. I was a good deal astonished, but when I got my breath I asked her what the paper was about, and she asked me if I had read it, and I said no, and she asked me if I could read writing, and I told her no, only course-hand, and then she said the paper weren't anything but a bookmark to keep her place, and I might go and play now. I went off down to the river, studying over this thing, and pretty soon I noticed that my nigger was following along behind. When we was out of sight of the house, he looked back and around a second, and then comes a running and says, Mars George, if you'll come down into the swamp I'll show you a whole stack of water moccasins. Thinks I, that's mighty curious. He said that yesterday. He ought to know a body don't love water moccans enough to go round hunting for them. What is he up to, anyway? So I says, all right, trot ahead. I followed a half a mile. Then he struck out over the swamp and waded ankle-deep as much as another half-mile. We come to a little flat piece of land which was dry and very thick with trees and bushes and vines, and he says, You shove right in there just a few steps, Mars George. That's why they is. I see them before. I don't care to see them no more. Then he slopped right along and went away, and pretty soon the trees hit him. I poked into the place a ways, and come to a little open patch as big as a bedroom all hung round with vines and found a man laying there asleep. And by jings it was my old gym. I waked him up, and I reckoned it was going to be a grand surprise to him to see me again. But it weren't. He nearly cried, he was so glad, but he weren't surprised. Said he swum along behind me that night and heard me yell every time, but doesn't answer because he didn't want nobody to pick him up and take him into slavery again. Says he, I got hurt a little and couldn't swim fast, so I was a considerable ways behind you towards the last. When you landed I reckoned I could catch up with you and land, without having to shout at you. But when I see that house I begin to go slow. I was off too fur to hear what they say to you. I was afraid of the dogs. But when it was all quiet again I had no use in the house. So I struck out for the woods to wait for a day. Early in the morning some of the niggers come along, go on to the fields, and they took me and showed me this place, where the dogs can't track me on a counts of the water, and they brings me truck to eat every night, and tells me how as you're getting along. Why didn't you tell my Jack to fetch me here sooner, Jim? Well, it weren't no use to disturb you, Huck, till we could do something. But we's all right now. I've been to buyin' pots and pans and viddles, as I got a chance, and to patchin' up the raff nights when—what raff, Jim? Our old raff. You mean to say our old raff weren't smashed all the flinders? No, she weren't. She would tore up a good deal. One end to her was. But there he wasn't no great harm done. Only our traps was most in a loss. If we hadn't a dive so deep and swum so fur under water in the night hadn't been so dark, and we weren't so scared, and been such pumpkin heads, as they say it is, we'd accede the raft. But it's just as well we didn't. Case now, she's all fixed up again, most as good as new, and we's got a new lot of stuff in the place of what is lost. Why, how did you get a hold of the raft again, Jim? Did you catch her? How I'd gone to catch her, and eye out in the woods. No! Some of the niggers found her catched on a snag along here in the bend, and they hid her in a crick amongst the willows. And they were so much jawn about which of them she belonged to do the most debt that I come to hear about it pretty soon, so Epson settles the trouble by telling them she don't belong to none of them, but to you and me. And I asked them if they'd go and grab a young white gentleman's property, and get a hidein' for it. Then I'd give them a ten cents apiece, and they is mighty well satisfied, and wish some more rafts had come along and make them rich again. They is mighty good to me, these niggers, and whatever I want them to do for me I don't have to ask them twice, honey. That jack's a good nigger and poody smart. Yes, he is. He ain't ever told me you was here, told me to come, and he'd show me a lot of water moccasins. If anything happens he ain't mixed up in it. He can say he never seen us together, and it'll be the truth. I don't want to talk much about the next day. I reckon I'll cut it pretty short. I waked up about dawn, and was going to turn over and go to sleep again when I noticed how still it was. Didn't seem to be anybody stirring. That weren't usual. Next I noticed that Buck was up and gone. Well, I get up, wondering, and goes downstairs. Nobody around. Everything is still as a mouse, just the same outside. Thinks I—what does it mean? Down by the woodpile I comes across my jack and says, What's it all about? says he. Don't you know Mars George? No, says I. I don't. Well, then, Miss Sophia's run off. Indeed she has. She run off into night sometime. Nobody knows just when. Run off to get married to that young Harney Shepardson, you know, least wise so they spec. The family found it out about half an hour ago, maybe a little more. And I tell you, they weren't no time loss. Such another hurrying up guns and horses you never see. The womenfolk has gone for stir up the relations. An old Mars Saul and the boys tucked their guns and rode up the river road for to try to catch that young man and kill him, for he can get across the river with Miss Sophia. I reckon they's going to be mighty rough times. Buck went off without waking me up. Well, I reckon he did. They weren't going to mix you up in it. Mars Buck, he loaded up his gun and loud he's going to fetch home a Shepardson or bust. Well, there'll be plenty in him there, I reckon. And you bet he'll fetch one of you gets a chance. I took up the river road as hard as I could put. By and by I begin to hear guns a good ways off. When I come inside at the log store and the woodpile where the steamboat lands, I worked along under the trees and brush till I got to a good place, and then I clump up into the forks of a cottonwood that was out of reach and watched. There was a wood rank four foot high and a little ways in front of the tree, and first I was going to hide behind that, but maybe it was luckier I didn't. There was four or five men cavorting around on their horses in the open place before the log store, cussing and yelling, and trying to get at a couple of young chaps that was behind the wood rank alongside of the steamboat landing. But they couldn't come at every time one of them showed himself on the river side of the woodpile he got shot at. The two boys were squatting back to back behind the pile so they could watch both ways. By and by the men stopped cavorting around and yelling. They started riding towards the store. Then up gets one of the boys, draws a steady bead over the wood rank, and drops one of them out of his saddle. All the men jumped off of their horses and grabbed the hurt one and started to carry him to the store. And that minute the two boys started on the run. They got half way to the tree I was in before the men noticed. Then the men see them and jumped on their horses and took out after them. They gained on the boys, but it didn't do no good. The boys had too good a start. They got to the woodpile that was in front of my tree and slipped in behind it. And so they had the bulge on the men again. One of the boys was Buck. And the other was a slim young chap about nineteen years old. The men ripped around awhile and then rode away. As soon as they was out of sight I sung out to Buck and told him. He didn't know what to make of my voice coming out of the tree at first. He was awful surprised. He told me to watch out sharp and let him know when the men come in sight again. Said they was up to some devilment or other, wouldn't be gone long. I wished I was out of that tree, but I doesn't come down. Buck began to cry and rip and loud that him and his cousin Joe, and that was the other young chap, would make up for this day yet. He said his father and his two brothers was killed and two or three of the enemy. Said that Shepherdsons laid for them in the ambush. Buck said his father and brothers ought to wait for their relations. The Shepherdsons was too strong for them. I asked him what was become of young Harnie and Miss Sophia. He said they'd got across the river and was safe. I was glad of that. But the way Buck did take on because he didn't manage to kill Harnie that day he shot at him. I ain't ever heard anything like it. All of a sudden, bang, bang, bang, goes three or four guns. The men had slipped around through the woods and come in from behind without their horses. The boys jumped for the river, both of them hurt, and as they swum down the current the men run along the bank shooting at them and singing out, kill them, kill them! It made me so sick I most fell out of the tree. I ain't going to tell all that happened. It would make me sick again if I was to do that. I wished I hadn't ever come ashore that night to see such things. I ain't ever going to get shut of them. Lots of times I dream about them. I stayed in the tree till it begun to get dark, afraid to come down. Sometimes I heard guns away off in the woods, and twice I seen little gangs of men gallop past the log store with guns, so I reckoned the trouble was still a going on. I was mighty downhearted. So I made up my mind I wouldn't ever go near that house again, because I reckoned I was to blame somehow. I judged that that piece of paper meant that Miss Sophia was to meet Harney somewheres at half-past two and run off, and I judged I ought to told her father about that paper and the curious way she acted, and then maybe he would have locked her up and this awful mess wouldn't ever happen. When I got down out of the tree I crept along down the river bank apiece, and found the two bodies laying in the edge of the water, and tugged at them till I got them ashore. Then I covered up their faces and got away as quick as I could. I cried a little when I was covering up Buck's face, for he was mighty good to me. It was just dark now, I never went near the house, but struck through the woods and made for the swamp. Jim warrant on his island so I tramped off in a hurry for the creek, and crowded through the willows, red-hot to jump aboard and get out of that awful country. The raft was gone. My souls, but I was scared. I couldn't get my breath for most a minute. Then I raised a yell. A voice, not twenty-five foot from me, says, Good land! Is that you, honey? Don't make no noise. It was Jim's voice. Nothing ever sounded so good before. I run along the bank apiece and got aboard, and Jim he grabbed me and hugged me. He was so glad to see me. He says, Loes, bless you, child! I was right down shore, you's dead again. Jack's been here. He say he reckoned you's been shot, case he didn't come home no more. So I was just this minute of starting the raft down toward the mouth of the creek, so as to be all ready for to shove out, and leave soon as Jack comes again and tells me for certain you is dead. Loes, he has mighty glad to get you back again, honey. I says, All right, that's mighty good. They won't find me, and they'll think I've been killed, and floated down the river. There's something up there that'll help them think so. So don't you lose no time, Jim, but just shove off for the big water as fast as ever you can. I never felt easy, till the raft was two miles below there, and out in the middle of the Mississippi. Then we hung up our signal lantern, and judged that we was free and safe once more. I hadn't had a bite to eat since yesterday, so Jim he got out some corn dodgers and buttermilk, and pork, and cabbage, and greens. There ain't nothing in the world so good when it's cooked right. And whilst I eat my supper, we talked and had a good time. I was powerful glad to get away from the feuds, and so was Jim to get away from the swamp. We said there weren't no home like a raft, after all. Other places do seem so cramped up and smothery, but a raft don't. You feel mighty free and easy and comfortable on a raft. CHAPTER XIX Two or three days and nights went by, I reckon I might say they swum by, they slid along so quiet and smooth and lovely. Here's the way we put in the time. It was a monstrous big river down there, sometimes a mile and a half wide. We run nights, and laid up and hid day times. Soon as night was most gone we stopped navigating and tied up, nearly always in the dead water under a tow-head, and then cut young cotton-woods and willows and hid the raft with them. Then we set out the lines. Next we slid into the river and had a swim, so as to freshen up and cool off. Then we sat down on the sandy bottom where the water was about knee-deep, and watched the daylight come. Not a sound anywheres, perfectly still, just like the whole world was asleep. Only sometimes the bullfrogs are cluttering, maybe. The first thing to see, looking away over the water, was a kind of dull line. That was the woods on the other side. You couldn't make nothing else out. Then a pale place in the sky. Then more paleness spreading around. Then the river softened up away off, and weren't black any more. But gray. You could see little dark spots drifting along ever so far away. Trading scows and such things. And long black streaks, rafts. Sometimes you could hear a sweep, screeking, or jumbled up voices, it was so still, and sounds come so far. And by and by you could see a streak on the water, which you know by the look of the streak that there's a snag there in a swift current which breaks on it and makes that streak look that way. And you see the mist curl up off of the water, and the east reddens up, and the river. And you make out a log cabin in the edge of the woods, away on the bank on the other side of the river, being a woodyard likely, and piled up by them cheats so you can throw a dog through it anywheres. Then the nice breeze springs up, and comes fanning you from over there, so cool and fresh, and sweet to smell on account of the woods and the flowers. But sometimes not that way, because they've left dead fish laying around, gars and such, and they do get pretty rank, and next you've got the full day, and everything's smiling in the sun, and the songbird's just going it. A little smoke couldn't be noticed now, so we would take some fish off the lines and cook up a hot breakfast, and afterwards we would watch the lonesomeness of the river, and kind of lazy along and by and by lazy off to sleep. Wake up by and by and look to see what done it, and maybe see a steamboat coughing long upstream, so far off towards the other side, you couldn't tell nothing about her only whether she was a stern wheel or a side wheel. Then for by an hour there wouldn't be nothing to hear nor nothing to see, just solid lonesomeness. Next you'd see a raft sliding by, way off yonder, and maybe a galoot on it, chopping, because they're most always doing it on a raft. You'd see the axe flash and come down, you don't hear nothing. You see that axe go up again, and by the time it's above the man's head, then you hear the kchunk, and it took all that time to come over the water. So we would put in the day, lazing around, listening to the stillness. Once there was a thick fog, and the rafts and things that went by was beating tin pans so the steamboats wouldn't run over them. A scow or a raft went by so close we could hear them talking and cussing and laughing. Heard them plain, but we couldn't see no sign of them. They made you feel crawly. It was like spirits carrying on that way in the air. Jim said he believed it was spirits, but I says, no, spirits wouldn't say Dern the Dern fog. Soon as it was night out we shoved. When we got her out to about the middle we let her alone, and let her float wherever the current wanted her to. Then we lit the pipes, and dangled our legs in the water, and talked about all kinds of things. We was always naked day and night whenever the mosquitoes would let us. The new clothes Bucks folks made for me was too good to be comfortable, and besides I didn't go much on clothes, know how. Sometimes we'd have that whole river all to ourselves for the longest time. Yonder was the banks and the islands across the water, and maybe a spark, which was a candle in the cabin window. Sometimes on the water you could see a spark or two, on a raft or a scowl, you know, and maybe you could hear a fiddle or a song coming over from one of them crafts. It's lovely to live on a raft. We had the sky up there, all speckled with stars, and we used to lay on our backs and look up at them, and discuss about whether they was made or only just happened. Jim he loud they was made, but I loud they happened. I judged it would have took too long to make so many. Jim said the moon could lay them. Well, that looked kind of reasonable, so I didn't say nothing against it, because I've seen a frog lay most as many, so, of course, it could be done. We used to watch the stars that fell too, and see them streak down. Jim loud they got spoiled and was half out of the nest. Once or twice of a night we would see a steamboat slipping along in the dark, and now and then she would belch a whole world of sparks up out of her jimblies, and they would rain down in the river and look awful pretty. Then she would turn a corner and her lights would wink out and her pow-owl shut off and leave the river still again, and by and by her waves would get to us a long time after she was gone, and juggle the raft a bit, and after that you wouldn't hear nothing for you, couldn't tell how long, except maybe frogs or something. After midnight the people on shore went to bed, and then for two or three hours the shores was black. No more sparks in the cabin windows. These sparks was our clock. The first one that showed again meant morning was coming, so we hunted a place to hide and tie up right away. One morning about daybreak I found a canoe and crossed over a chute to the main shore. It was only two hundred yards, and paddled about a mile up a creek amongst the Cyprus woods to see if I couldn't get some berries. Just as I was passing a place where a kind of cow-paths crossed the creek, here comes a couple of men tearing up the path as tight as they could foot it. I thought I was a donner, for whenever anybody was after anybody I judged it was me, or maybe Jim. I was about to dig out from there in a hurry, but they was pretty close to me then, and sung out and begged me to save their lives, said they hadn't been doing nothing and was being chased for it, said there was men and dogs are coming. They wanted to jump right in, but I says, Don't you do it. I don't hear the dogs and horses yet. You've got time to crowd through the brush and get up the creek a little ways. Then you take to the water and wade down to me and get in. That'll throw the dogs off the scent. They done it. And soon as they was aboard, I lit out for our tow-head. In about five or ten minutes we heard the dogs and the men away all shouting. We heard them come along towards the creek, but couldn't see them. They seemed to stop and fool around a while. Then as we got further and further away all the time, couldn't hardly hear them at all. And by the time we had left a mile of woods behind us and struck the river, everything was quiet. And we paddled over to the tow-head and hid in the cotton woods and was safe. One of these fellows was about seventy or upwards and had a bald head and very gray whiskers. He had an old battered-up slouch hat on and a greasy blue woolen shirt and ragged old blue-jeans' britches stuffed into his boot tops and home-knit glasses. No, he only had one. He had an old long-tailed blue-jeans' coat with slick brass buttons flung over his arm, and both of them had big, fat, ratty-looking carpet bags. The other fellow was about thirty and dressed about as ornery. After breakfast we all laid off and talked, and the first thing that come out was that these chaps didn't know one another. What got you into trouble, says the bald head to the other chap? Well, I've been selling an article to take the tartar off the teeth, and it does take it off, too, and generally the enamel along with it, but I stayed about one night longer than I ought to and was just in the act of sliding out when I ran across you on the trail this side of town, and you told me they were coming and begged me to help you to get off. So I told you I was expecting trouble myself and would scatter out with you. And that's the whole yarn. What's yarn? Well, I'd been a-running a little temperance revival about a week, and was the pet of the women, folks, big and little, for I was making it mighty warm for the rummies, I tell you, and taken as much as five or six dollars a night, ten cents ahead, children and niggers free, and business had grown all the time, when, somehow or another, a little report got round last night that I had a way of putting in my time with a private jug on the sly. A nigger rousted me out this morning and told me the people was together and on the quiet with their dogs and horses, and they'd be along pretty soon and give me about half an hour's start, and then run me down if they could, and if they got me they'd tar and feather me and ride me on the rail, sure. I didn't wait for no breakfast, I warn't hungry. "'Old man,' said the young one, "'I reckon we might double team at it together. What do you think?' "'I ain't undisposed. What's your line, mainly?' "'Jure printer by trade. Do a little in patent medicines, theater actor, tragedy, you know, take a turn to mesmerism and phrenology when there's a chance. Teach singing, geography school for a change. Sling a lecture sometimes. Oh, I do lots of things, most anything that comes handy, so it ain't work. What's your lay?' "'I've done considerable in the doctoring way in my time. Laying on hands is my best halt for cancer and paralysis and such things. And I can tell a fortune pretty good when I've got somebody along to find out the facts for me. Preachens my line, too, and work in camp meetings and missionarying round.' Nobody never said anything for a while. Then the young man hove a sigh and says, "'Alas!'' "'What are you lastin' about?' says the baldhead. "'To think I should have lived to be leading such a life and be degraded down into such company.' He began to wipe the corner of his eye with a rag. "'Darn, your skin ain't the company good enough for you?' says the baldhead, pretty pert and upish. "'Yes, it is good enough for me. And it's as good as I deserve. For who fetched me so low when I was so high? I did myself. I don't blame you, gentlemen. Far from it. I don't blame anybody. I deserve it all. Let the cold world do its worst. One thing I know. There's a grave somewhere for me. The world may go on, just as it's always done, and take everything from me. Loved ones, property, everything. But it can't take that. Someday I'll lie down in it and forget it all. And my poor broken heart will be at rest.' He went on a wiping. "'Drop your poor broken heart,' says the baldhead. "'What are you heaving your poor broken heart at us for?' "'We ain't done nothin.' "'No. I know you haven't. I ain't blaming you, gentlemen. I brought myself down. Yes, I did it myself. It's right I should suffer. Perfectly right. I don't make any moan.' "'Rotcha down from war. Where was you brought down from?' "'Ah, you would not believe me. The world never believes. Let it pass. It is no matter. The secret of my birth—a secret of your birth. Do you mean to say, gentlemen,' says the young man, very solemn, "'I will reveal it to you, for I feel I may have confidence in you. By rights, I am a duke.' Jim's eyes bugged out when he heard that. And I reckon mine did, too. Then the baldhead said, "'No. You can't mean it.' "'Yes. My great-grandfather, eldest son of the duke of Bridge Water, fled to this country about the end of last century to breathe the pure air of freedom. Married here and died, leaving a son, his own father dying about the same time. The second son of the late duke seized the titles and estates. The infant, real duke, was ignored. I am the lineal descendant of that infant. I am the rightful duke of Bridge Water. And here I am, forlorn, torn from my high estate, hunted of men despised by the cold world, ragged, worn, heartbroken, and degraded to the companionship of felons on a raft. Jim pitted him ever so much, and so did I. We tried to comfort him, but he said it weren't much use. He couldn't be much comforted. Said if we was a mind to acknowledge him, that would do him more good than most anything else. So we said we would, if he would tell us how. He said, we ought to bow when we spoke to him and say, Your Grace, or my Lord, or your Lordship, and he wouldn't mind it if we called him plain Bridge Water, which he said was a title anyway and not a name. And one of us ought to wait on him at dinner and do any little thing for him he wanted done. Well, that was all easy, so we done it. All through dinner Jim stood around and waited on him and said, Will Your Grace have some of this or that? And so on, and a body could see it was mighty pleasing to him. But the old man got pretty silent by and by, didn't have much to say, and didn't look pretty comfortable over all that petting that was going on around that duke. He seemed to have something on his mind. So along in the afternoon he says, Looky here, Bilgewater, he says, I'm nation sorry for you, but you ain't the only person that's had troubles like that. No? No, you ain't. You ain't the only person that's been snaked down wrongfully out in a high place. Alas, no, you ain't the only person that's had a secret of his birth, and by jings he begins to cry. Hold, what do you mean? Bilgewater, can I trust you? Says the old man, still sort of sobbing. To the bitter death. He took the old man by the hand and squeezed it and says, That's secret of your being. Speak. Bilgewater, I am the late Dauphin. You bet you, Jim and me, stare this time. Then the duke says, You are what? Yes, my friend, it is too true. Your eyes is looking at this very moment on the poor disappeared Dauphin, Louis the 17th, son of Louis the 16th, and Mary Antoinette. You, at your age, no. You mean you're the late Charlemagne? You must be six or seven hundred years old, at the very least. Trouble has done it, Bilgewater. Trouble has done it. Trouble has brung these gray hairs and this premature balditude. Yes, gentlemen, you see before you, in blue jeans and misery, the wandering, exiled, trampled on and suffering, rightful, King of France. Well, we cried and took on so that me and Jim didn't know hardly what to do. We was so sorry and so glad and proud we'd got him with us, too. So we sat in, like we'd done before with the duke, and tried to comfort him. But he said it weren't no use. Nothing but to be dead and done with it all could do him any good. Though he said it often made him feel easier and better for a while, if people treated him according to his rites and got down on one knee to speak to him, and always called him Your Majesty, and waited on him first at meals, and didn't sit down in his presence till he asked them. So Jim and me set to majestying him and doing this and that and tether for him, and standing up till he told us we might sit down. This done him heaps of good, and so he got cheerful and comfortable. But the duke kind of soured on him and didn't look a bit satisfied with the way things was going. Still, the king acted real friendly towards him, and said the duke's great grandfather and all the other dukes of Bilgewater was a good deal thought of by his father, and was allowed to come to the palace considerable. But the duke stayed huffy a good while, till by and by the king says, Like is not. We got to be together a blamed long time on this here raft, Bilgewater, and so what's the use of you being sour? It'll only make things uncomfortable. It ain't my fault I weren't born a duke. It ain't your fault you weren't born a king. So what's the use to worry? Make the best of things the way you find them, says I. That's my motto. This ain't no bad thing that we've struck here. Plenty grub and an easy life. Come, give us your hand, duke, and let's all be friends. The duke done it, and Jim and me was pretty glad to see it. It took away all the uncomfortableness and we felt mighty good over it, because it would have been a miserable business to have any unfriendliness on the raft, for what you want above all things on the raft is for everybody to be satisfied and feel right and kind towards the others. It didn't take me long to make up my mind that these liars weren't no kings nor dukes at all, but just low down the humbugs and frauds. But I never said nothing, never let on. Kept it to myself. It's the best way. Then you don't have no quarrels and don't get into no trouble. If they wanted us to call them kings and dukes I had no objections, long as it would keep peace in the family, and it weren't no use to tell Jim, so I didn't tell him. If I never learned nothing else out of PAP, I learned that the best way to get along with his kind of people is to let them have their own way. CHAPTER XXI. They asked us considerable many questions, wanted to know what we covered up the raft that way for, and laid by in the daytime instead of running. Was Jim a runaway nigger? Says I, goodness sakes! Would a runaway nigger run south? No, they allowed he wouldn't. I had to account for things some way, so I says, my folks was living in Pike County in Missouri, where I was born, and they all died off, but me and Pa and my brother Ike, Pa he loud he'd break up and go down and live with Uncle Ben, who's got a little one-horse place on the river forty-four miles below Orleans. Pa was pretty poor and had some debts, so when he'd squared up there weren't nothing left but sixteen dollars in our nigger gym. That weren't enough to take us fourteen hundred miles deck passage, nor no other way. Well, when the river rose Pa had a streak of luck one day. He catched this piece of a raft, so we reckoned we'd go down to Orleans on it. Pa's luck didn't hold out. A steamboat run over the fort, a corner of the raft one night, and we all went overboard and dove under the wheel. Jim and me come up all right, but Pa was drunk, and Ike was only four years old, so they never come up no more. Well, for the next day or two we had considerable trouble, because people was always coming out in skiffs and trying to take Jim away from me, saying they believed he was a runaway nigger. We don't run day-times no more now. Nights they don't bother us. The duke says, Leave me alone to cipher out away so we can run in the daytime if we want to. I'll think the thing over. I'll invent a plan that'll fix it. We'll let it alone for today, because, of course, we don't want to go by that town yonder in daylight. It mightn't be healthy. Towards night it begun to darken up and look like rain. The heat lightning was squirting round low down in the sky, and the leaves was beginning to shiver. It was going to be pretty ugly. It was easy to see that. So the duke and the king went to overhauling our wigwamp to see what the beds was like. My bed was a straw-tick better than Jim's, which was a corn-suck-tick. There's always cobs around about in the shuck-tick, and they poke into you and hurt. And when you roll over the dry shucks sound like you was rolling over in a pile of dead leaves. It makes such a rustling that you wake up. Well, the duke loud. He would take my bed. But the king loud. He wouldn't. He says, I should reckon the difference in rank would suggest it to you that a corn-suck bed weren't just fitting for me to sleep on. Your grace will take the shuck bed yourself. Jim and me was in a sweat again for a minute. Being afraid there was going to be some more trouble amongst them. So we was pretty glad when the duke says, Tis my fate to be always ground into the mire under the iron heel of oppression. Miss Fortune has broken my once haughty spirit. I yield. I submit. Tis my fate. I am alone in the world. Let me suffer. I can bear it. We got away as soon as it was good and dark. The king told us to stand well out towards the middle of the river and not show a light till we got a long ways below the town. We come inside of the little bunch of lights by and by, and that was the town, you know, and slid by about a half a mile out all right. When we was three quarters of a mile below, we hoisted up our signal lantern, and about ten o'clock it come on to rain and blow and thunder and lightning like everything. So the king told us to both stay on watch till the weather got better. Then him and the duke crawled into the wigwam and turned in for the night. It was my watch below till twelve. But I wouldn't have turned in anyway if I had a bed, because the body don't see such a storm as that every day in the week, not by a long sight. My soul's how the wind did scream along. And every second or two there'd come a glare that lit up the whitecaps for half a mile around, and you'd see the islands looking dusty through the rain and the trees thrashing around in the wind. Then comes a whack, boom, boom, boom, and the thunder would go rumbling and grumbling away and quit. And then rip comes another flash and another sock-dollager. The waves most washed me off the raft sometimes, but I hadn't any clothes on and didn't mind. We didn't have no trouble about snags. The lightning was glaring and flittering around so constant that we could see them plenty soon enough to throw her head in this way or that and miss them. I had the middle watch, you know, but I was pretty sleepy by that time, so Jim, he said he would stand the first half of it for me. He was always mighty good that way, Jim, was. I crawled into the wigwam. But the king and the duke had their legs sprawled around so there weren't no show for me. So I laid outside. I didn't mind the rain, because it was warm and the waves weren't running so high now. Not too they come up again, though, and Jim was going to call me, but he changed his mind, because he reckoned there weren't high enough yet to do any harm. But he was mistaken about that, for pretty soon all of a sudden along comes a regular ripper and washed me overboard. It most killed Jim laughing. He was the easiest nigger to laugh that ever was, anyway. I took the watch, and Jim he laid down and snored away. And by and by the storm led up for good and all, and the first cabin light that showed I rousted him out, and we slid the raft into hiding quarters for the day. The king got out an old rowdy deck of cards after breakfast, and him and the duke played seven up a while, five cents a game. Then they got tired of it, and allowed they would lay out a campaign, as they called it. The duke went down into his carpet-bag and fetched up a lot of little printed bills and read them out aloud. One bill said, The celebrated Dr. Armand de Montelouin of Paris would lecture on the science of phrenology, at such and such a place, on the blank day of blank, at ten cents admission, and furnish charts of character at twenty-five cents apiece. The duke said that was him. In another bill he was the world-renowned Shakespearean Tragedian and Garrick the Younger of Drury Lane London. In other bills he had a lot of other names and done other wonderful things like finding water and gold with a divining rod, dissipating witch spells, and so on. By and by he says, But the histrionic muse is the darling. Have you ever trod the board's royalty? No, says the king. You shall then, before your three days old or fallen grandeur, says the duke. The first good town we come to will hire a hall and do the sword fight in Richard III, and the balcony scene in Romeo and Juliet. How does that strike you? I'm in, up to the hub, for anything that'll pay, Bilgewater, but you see, I don't know nothing about play acting, and ain't ever seen much of it. I was too small when Pap used to have him at the palace. Do you reckon you can learn me? Easy! All right, I'm just freezing for something fresh, anyway. Let's commence right away. So the duke told him all about who Romeo was and who Juliet was, and said he was used to being Romeo, so the king could be Juliet. But if Juliet's such a young gal, duke, my peeled head and my white whiskers is going to look on common odd on her, maybe. No, don't you worry. These country-jakes won't ever think of that. Besides, you know, you'll be in a costume. And that makes all the difference in the world. Juliet's in a balcony, enjoying the moonlight before she goes to bed, and she's got on her nightgown and her ruffled nightcap. Here are the costumes for the parts. He got out two or three curtain calico suits, which he said was medieval armor for Richard III, and tether-chap, and a long white cotton nightshirt and a ruffled nightcap to match. The king was satisfied, so the duke got out his book and read the parts over in the most splendid, spread-eagle way, prancing around and acting at the same time to show how it had got to be done. Then he gave the book to the king and told him to get his part by heart. There was a little one horse town about three miles down the bend, and after dinner the duke said he had ciphered out his idea about how to run in daylight without it being dangerous for Jim, so he allowed he would go down to the town and fix that thing. The king allowed he would go, too, and see if he couldn't strike something. We was out of coffee, so Jim said I'd better go along with them in the canoe and get some. When we got there there weren't nobody stirring. Streets empty and perfectly dead and still, like Sunday. We found a sick nigger sonning himself in a backyard, and he said everybody that weren't too young or too sick or too old was gone to Camp Meaton, about two miles back in the woods. The king got the directions and allowed he'd go and work that Camp Meaton for all it was worth, and I might go, too. The duke said what he was after was a printing office. We found it, a little bit of a concern, up over a carpenter's shop. Carpenters and printers all gone to the meeting, and no doors locked. It was a dirty, littered-up place and had ink marks and handbills with pictures of horses and runaway niggers on them all over the walls. The duke shed his coat and said he was all right now. So me and the king lit out for the camp meeting. We got there in about half an hour, fairly dripping, for it was a most awful hot day. There was as much as a thousand people there from twenty miles around. The woods was full of teams and wagons hitched everywhere, feeding out of the wagon troughs and stomping to keep off the flies. There were sheds made out of poles and roofed over with branches where they had lemonade and gingerbread to sell and piles of watermelons and green corn and such like truck. The preaching was going on under the same kinds of sheds, only they was bigger and held crowds of people. The benches was made out of outside slabs of logs with holes bored in the round side to drive sticks into for legs. They didn't have no backs. The preachers had high platforms to stand on at one end of the sheds. The women had on sun-bonnets and some had Lindsay Woolsey frocks, some gingham ones, and a few of the young ones had on calico. Some of the young men was barefooted and some of the children didn't have on any clothes, but just a tolin in a shirt. Some of the old women was knittin' and some of the young folks was courtin' on the sly. The first shed we come to, the preacher, was lining out of him. He lined out two lines, everybody sung it, and it was kind of grand to hear it. There were so many of them and they'd done it in such a rousing way. Then he lined out two more for them to sing and so on. The people woke up more and more and sung louder and louder, and towards the end some begun to groan and some begun to shout. Then the preacher begun to preach and begun in earnest, too, and went weave and first to one side of the platform and then the other, and then a leaning down over the front of it, with his arms and his body going all the time, and shouting his words out with all his might. And every now and then he would hold up his Bible and spread it open and kind of pass it around this way and that, shouting, it's the brazen serpent in the wilderness. Look upon it and live, and people would shout out, Glory, Amen! And so he went on and the people groaning and crying and saying Amen. Oh, come to the mourners bench, come black with sin, Amen! Come sick and sore, Amen! Come lame and halt and blind, Amen! Come poor and needy, sunk in shame, Amen! Come, and all that's worn and soiled and suffering, come with a broken spirit, come with a contrite heart, come in your rags and sin and dirt, the waters that cleanse is free, the door of heaven stands open. Oh, enter in and be at rest, Amen! Glory, glory, hallelujah! And so on. You couldn't make out what the preacher said any more on account of the shouting and crying. Folks got up everywhere as in the crowd and worked their way just by main strength to the mourners bench, with the tears running down their faces, and when all the mourners had got up there to the front benches in the crowd, they sung and shouted and flung themselves down on the straw just crazy and wild. Well, the first I knowed the king got a-going, and you could hear him over everybody, and next he went to charge and up on the platform, and the preacher he begged him to speak to the people, and he done it. He told them he was a pirate, been a pirate for thirty years out in the Indian ocean, and his crew was thinned out considerable last spring in a fight, and he was home now to take out some fresh men, and thanks to goodness he'd been robbed last night and put ashore off of a steamboat without a cent, and he was glad of it. It was the blessedest thing that had ever happened to him, because he was a changed man now and happy for the first time in his life, and, poor as he was, he was going to start right off and work his way back to the Indian ocean, and put in the rest of his life trying to turn the pirates into the true path. For he could do it better than anybody else, being acquainted with all pirate crews in that ocean, and though it would take him a long time to get there without money, he would get there anyway, and every time he convinced a pirate he would say to him, Don't you thank me? Don't you give me no credit? It all belongs to them dear people in Polkville Camp meeting, natural brothers and benefactors of the race, and that dear preacher there, the truest friend a pirate ever had, and then he busted into tears and so did everybody. Then somebody sings out, Take up a collection for him! Take up a collection! Well, a half a dozen made a jump to do it, but somebody sings out, Let him pass the hat around! Then everybody said it, the preacher too. So the king went all through the crowd with his hat, swabbing his eyes, and blessing the people, and praising them, and thanking them for being so good to the poor pirates away off there, and every little while the prettiest kind of girls, with the tears running down their cheeks, would up and ask him, Would he let them kiss him for to remember him by? And he always done it, and some of them he hugged and kissed as many as five or six times, and he was invited to stay a week, and everybody wanted him to live in their houses, and said they'd think it was an honor, but he said as this was the last day of the camp meeting he couldn't do no good, and besides he was in a sweat to get to the Indian Ocean right off and go to work on the pirates. When we got back to the raft and he come to count up he found he had collected eighty-seven dollars and seventy-five cents, and then he had fetched away a three-gallon jug of whiskey too, that he found under a wagon when he was starting home through the woods. The king said, take it all around, it laid over any day he'd ever put in a missionarying line. He said it warn't no use talking, he then is don't amount to shucks alongside of pirates to work a camp meeting with. The duke was thinking he'd been doing pretty well till the king come to show up, but after that he didn't think so so much. He had set up and printed off two little jobs for farmers in that printing-office, horse-bills, and took the money, four dollars, and he had got in ten dollars worth of advertisements for the paper, which he said he would put in for four dollars if they would pay in advance, so they'd done it. The price of the paper was two dollars a year, but he took it in three subscriptions for half a dollar apiece on a condition of them paying him in advance. They were going to pay in cordwood and onions as usual, but he said he had just bought the concern and knocked down the price as low as he could afford it, and was going to run it for cash. He set up a little piece of poetry which he made himself out of his own head, three verses, kind of sweet and sad-ish. The name of it was Yes Crush Cold World This Breaking Heart. And he left that all set up and ready to print in the paper and didn't charge nothing for it. Well, he took in nine dollars and a half and said he'd done a pre-square day's work for it. Then he showed us another little job he'd printed and hadn't charged for because it was for us. It had a picture of a runaway nigger with a bundle on a stick over his shoulder and two hundred dollars reward under it. The reading was all about Jim and just described him to a dot. It said he run away from St. Jack's plantation forty miles below New Orleans last winter and likely went north and whoever would catch him and send him back he could have the reward and expenses. Now, says the Duke, after tonight we can run in the daytime if we want to. Whenever we see anybody coming we can tie Jim hand and foot with a rope and lay him in the wigwam and show this handbill and say we captured him up the river and we're too poor to travel on a steamboat so we got this little raft on credit from our friends and are going down to get the reward. Handcuffs and chains would look still better on Jim but it wouldn't go well with the story of us being so poor. Too much like jewelry. Ropes are the correct thing. We must preserve the unities, as we say on the boards. We all said the Duke was pretty smart and there couldn't be no trouble about running daytimes. We judged we could make miles enough that night to get out of the reach of the powwow we reckoned the Duke's work in the printing office was going to make in that little town. Then we could boom right along if we wanted to. We laid low and kept still and never shoved out till nearly ten o'clock. Then we slid by, pretty wide away from the town, and didn't hoist our lantern till we was clear out of sight of it. When Jim called me to take the watch at four in the morning he says, Huck, does you reckon we'd quite a run crossed any more kings on this trip? No, I says, I reckon not. Well, says he. That's all right then. I don't mind one or two kings, but that's enough. This one's powerful drunk, and a Duke ain't much better. I found Jim had been trying to get him to talk French so he could hear what it was like. But he said he had been in this country so long and had so much trouble he'd forgot it. End of Chapter 20 This is Chapter 21 of Huckleberry Finn. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain, Chapter 21. Sword Exercise. Hamlet's Soliloquy. They loafed around town. A lazy town. Old Boggs. Dead. It was after sun-up now, but we went right on and didn't tie up. The king and the Duke turned out by and by, looking pretty rusty. But after they had jumped overboard and took a swim it chippered them up a good deal. After breakfast, the king he took a seat on the corner of the raft and pulled off his boots and rolled up his britches and let his legs dangle in the water so as to be comfortable, and lit his pipe and went to get in his Romeo and Juliet by heart. When he had got it pretty good, him and the Duke began to practice it together. The Duke had to learn him over and over again how to say every speech. He made him sigh and put his hand on his heart, and after a while he said he'd done it pretty well. Only, he says, you mustn't bellow out Romeo, that way like a bull. You must say it soft and sick and languishy, so Romeo! That is the idea. For Juliet's a dear, sweet, mere child of a girl, you know, and she doesn't bray like a jackass. Well, next they got out a couple of long swords that the Duke made out of oak laths, and began to practice a sword fight. The Duke called himself Richard III, and the way they laid on and pranced around the raft was grand to see. But by and by the king tripped and fell overboard, and after that they took a rest, and had to talk about all kinds of adventures they'd had in other times along the river. After dinner the Duke says, well, Capet, we'll want to make this a first-class show, you know, so I guess we'll add a little more to it. We want a little something to answer Encore's with, anyway. What's the Encore's, Bilgewater? The Duke told him, and then says, I'll answer by doing the Highland Fling or the Sailor's Hornpipe, and you? Well, let me see. Oh, I've got it. You can do Hamlet's soliloquy. Hamlet's witch? Hamlet's soliloquy, you know. The most celebrated thing in Shakespeare. I had sublime, sublime. Always fetches the house. I haven't got it in the book. I've only got one volume. But I reckon I can piece it out from memory. I'll just walk up and down a minute and see if I can call it back from Recollection's vaults. So he went to marching up and down, thinking, and frowning horrible every now and then. And then he would hoist up his eyebrows. Next he would squeeze his hand on his forehead and stagger back and kind of moan. Next he would sigh. And next he led on to drop a tear. It was beautiful to see him. By and by he got it. He told us to give attention. Then he strikes a most noble attitude, with one leg shoved forwards, and his arms stretched away up, and his head tilted back, looking up at the sky. And then he begins to rip and rave and grit his teeth, and after that all through his speech he howled and spread around and swelled up his chest, and just knocked the spots out of any acting ever I see before. This is the speech. I learned it easy enough while he was learning it to the king. To be or not to be, that is the bear bodkin. That makes calamity of so long life. For who would fartles bear till Burnham Wood do come to Dunsenane? But that the fear of something after death murders the innocent sleep. Great nature's second course, and makes us rather sling the arrows of outrageous fortune than fly to others that we know not of. There's the respect must give us pause. Wake, Duncan, with thy knocking. I would, thou couldst. For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, the oppressors wrong, the proud man's contumely, the law's delay, and the quietest which his pangs might take in the dead waste and middle of the night, when church yards yawn in customary suits of solemn black, but that the undiscovered country from whose born no traveler returns, breathes forth contagion on the world, and thus the native hue of resolution, like the poor cat in the adage, is sickly to oar with care, and all the clouds that lord oar our housetops with this regard their currents turn rarai, and lose the name of action. Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished, but soft you, the fair Ophelia. Ope not thy ponderous and marble jaws, but get thee to a nunnery. Go! Well, the old man he liked that speech, and he mighty soon got it so he could do at first rate. It seemed like he was just born for it, and when he had his hand in and was excited, it was perfectly lovely the way he would rip and tear and rarer up behind when he was getting it off. The first chance we got, the duke he made some showbills printed, and after that, for two or three days as we floated along, the raft was the most uncommon lively place, for there warn't nothing but sword fighting and rehearsing, as the duke called it, going on all the time. One morning, when we was pretty well down the state of Arkansas, we come inside of a little one-horse town in a big bend, so we tied up about three-quarters of a mile above it in the mouth of a creek which was shut in like a tunnel by the cypress trees, and all of us but Jim took the canoe and went down there to see if there was any chance in that place for our show. We struck it mighty lucky. There was going to be a circus there that afternoon, and the country people was already beginning to come in, in all kinds of old shakely wagons and on horses. The circus would leave before night, so our show would have a pretty good chance. The duke he hired the courthouse, and we went around and stuck up our bills. They read like this, Shakespeare Revival, wonderful attraction for one night only. The world-renowned tragedians David Garrick, the younger of Drury Lane Theatre London, and Edmund Keane, the elder of the Royal Haymarket Theatre Whitechapel Pudding Lane Piccadilly London, and the Royal Continental Theatres, in their sublime Shakespearean spectacle entitled The Balcony Scene in Romeo and Juliet, Romeo, Mr. Garrick, Juliet, Mr. Keane, assisted by the whole strength of the company, new costumes, new scenery, new appointments, also the thrilling masterly and blood-curdling broadsword conflict in Richard III, Richard III, Mr. Garrick, Richmond, Mr. Keane, also by special request Hamlet's immortal soliloquy by the illustrious Keane, done by him three hundred consecutive nights in Paris for one night only on account of imperative European engagements, admission twenty-five cents, children and servants ten cents. Then we went loafing around town. The stores and houses was most all old, shakely dried up frame concerns that hadn't ever been painted. They were set up three or four foot above ground on stilts, so as to be out of reach of the water when the river was overflowed. The houses had little gardens around them, but they didn't seem to raise hardly anything in them but gymson weeds and sunflowers and ash piles and old curled-up boots and shoes and pieces of bottles and rags and played-out tinware. The fences was made of different kinds of boards, nailed on at different times, and they leaned every which way, and had gates that didn't generally have but one hinge, a leather one. Some of the fences had been whitewashed some time or another, but the Duke said it was in Columbus time, lack enough. There was generally hogs in the garden, and people driving them out. All the stores was along one street. They had white domestic awnings in front, and the country people hitched their horses to the awning posts. There was empty dry-goods boxes under the awnings and loafers roosting on them all day long, whittling them with their barlow knives and charring tobacco, and gaping and yawning and stretching mighty ornery lot. They generally had on yellow straw hats most as wide as an umbrella, but they didn't wear no coats nor waistcoats. They called one another Bill and Buck and Hank and Joe and Andy and talked lazy and drawly and used considerable many cuss words. There was as many as one loafer leaning up against every awning post, and he most always had his hands in his britches' pockets, except when he fetched them out to lend a straw of tobacco or scratch. What a body was hearing amongst them all the time was, Give me a chaff, Tracker, Hank! Hank! Hank got but one chaw left! Ask Bill! Maybe Bill, he gives him a chaw. Maybe he lies and says he ain't got none. Some of them kinds of loafers never has a scent in the world, nor a chaw of tobacco of their own. They get all their chawing by borrowing. They say to a fellow, I wish you'd lend me a chaw, Jack. I'd just as minute give Ben Johnson the last chaw I had. Which is a lie pretty much every time. They don't fool nobody but a stranger, but Jack ain't no stranger, so he says, You give him a chaw, did you? So did your sister's cat's grandmother. You pay me back the chaws you've already borrowed off of me, Leif Buckner. Then I'll loan you one or two ton of it, and won't charge you no back interest another. Well, I did pay you back some of it once. Yes, you did, about six chaws. You've borrowed store tobacco and paid back niggerhead. Store tobacco is flat black plug, but these fellows mostly chaws the natural leaf twisted. When they borrow a chaw they don't generally cut it off with a knife but set the plug in between their teeth and gnaw with their teeth and tug at the plug with their hands till they get it in two. Then sometimes the one that owns the tobacco looks mournful at it when it's handed back and says sarcastic, Here, give me the chaw, and you take the plug. All the streets and lanes was just mud. They weren't nothing else but mud. Mud is black as tar and nigh about a foot deep in some places, and two or three inches deep in all the places. The hogs loafed and grunted around everywhere's. You'd see a muddy sow and a litter of pigs come lazing along their street and wallop herself right down in the way, where folks had to walk around her. And she'd stretch out and shut her eyes and wave her ears whilst the pigs was milking her. And look as happy as if she was on salary. And pretty soon you'd hear a loafer sing out, Hey, sow-boy, sick'em, tag! And away the sow would go, squealing most horrible with a dog or two swinging to each ear, and three or four dozen more are coming. And then you would see all the loafers get up and watch the thing out of sight, and laugh at the fun and look grateful for the noise. Then they'd settle back again till there was a dog-fight. There couldn't anything wake them up all over and make them happy all over like a dog-fight, unless it might be putting turpentine on a stray dog and setting fire to him, or tying a tin pan to his tail and see him run himself to death. On the riverfront some of the houses was sticking out over the bank, and they was bowed and bent, and about ready to tumble in. The people had moved out of them. The bank was caved away under one corner of some others, and that corner was hanging over. People lived in them yet, but it was dangerousome, because sometimes a strip of land as wide as a house caves in at a time. Sometimes a belt of land a quarter mile deep will start in and cave along and cave along till it all caves into the river in one summer. Such a town as that has to be always moving back and back and back, because the river's always gnawing at it. The nearer it got to noon that day, the thicker and thicker was the wagons and horses in the streets, and more coming all the time. Families fetched their dinners with them from the country, and eat them in the wagons. There was considerable whiskey-drinking going on, and I seen three fights. By and by somebody sings out, Here comes old Boggs in from the country for his little old monthly drunk. Here he comes, boys! All the loafers looked glad. I reckon they was used to having fun out of Boggs. One of them says, Wonder who he's a guana-chop this time? If he'd a-chot up all the men he's been a guana-chop in the last twenty years, he'd a-consider a reputation now. Another one says, I wished old Boggs to threaten me, because then I'd know I weren't guana die for a thousand years. Boggs comes a-tearing along on his horse, whooping and yelling like an engine, and singing out, Clare the tractor! I'm on a wall path, and the price of coffins is guana-raise! He was drunk, and weaving about in his saddle. He was over fifty years old, and had a very red face. Everybody yelled at him, and laughed at him, and sassed him, and he sassed back, and said he'd attend to them, and lay them out in their regular turns. But he couldn't wait now, because he'd come to town to kill old Colonel Sherburne, and his motto was, Meet first, and spoon vitals to top off on. He sees me, and wrote up, and says, Urge come from, boy! You prepared to die? Then he wrote on. I was scared. But a man says, You don't mean nothing. He's always a carrying on like that when he's drunk. He's the best nature it is to old fool in Arkansas, never hurt nobody, drunk nor sober. Boggs rode up before the biggest store in town, and bent his head down so he could see under the curtain of the awning, and yells, Come out here, Sherburne! Come out, and meet the man you swindled! You're the hound I'm after, and I'm guana have you too! And so he went on, calling Sherburne everything he could lay his tongue to, and the whole street packed with people listening and laughing and going on, by and by a proud-looking man about fifty-five, and he was a heap the best-dressed man in that town, too. Steps out of the store, and the crowd drops back on each side to let him come. He says to Boggs, mighty calm and slow, he says, I'm tired of this, but I'll endure it till one o'clock. Till one o'clock, mine, no longer. If you open your mouth against me only once after that time, you can't travel so far, but I will find you. Then he turns and goes in. The crowd looked mighty sober, nobody stirred, and there weren't no more laughing. Boggs rode off, blackguarding Sherburne as loud as he could yell all down the street, and pretty soon back he comes and stops before the store still keeping it up. Some men crowded around him and tried to get him to shut up, but he wouldn't. They told him it would be one o'clock in about fifteen minutes, so he must go home, he must go right away. But it didn't do no good. He cussed away with all his might, and throwed his hat down in the mud, and rode over it, and pretty soon away he went a-raging down the street again, with his gray hair a-flying. Everybody that could get a chance at him tried their best to coax him off of his horse, so they could lock him up and get him sober. But it warn't no use. Up the street he would tear again and give Sherburne another cussing. Buy and buy, somebody says. Go for his daughter! Quick! Go for his daughter! Sometimes he'll listen to her. If anybody can persuade him, she can! So somebody started on a run. I walked down the street away and stopped. In about five or ten minutes here comes Boggs again, but not on his horse. He was a-reeling across the street towards me, bare-headed, with a friend on both sides of him, a-hold of his arms, and herring him along. He was quiet and looked uneasy, and he weren't hanging back any, but was doing some of the herring himself. Somebody sings out, Boggs! I looked over there to see who had said it, and it was that Colonel Sherburne. He was standing perfectly still in the street and had a pistol raised in his right hand, not aiming it, but holding it out with a barrel tilted up toward the sky. The same second I see a young girl coming on the run and two men with her. Boggs and the men turn round to see who called him, and when they see the pistol, the men jump to one side, and the pistol barrel come down slow and steady to a level. Both barrels cocked. Boggs throws up both of his hands and says, Oh, Lord, don't shoot! Bang goes the first shot, and he staggers back, clawing at the air. Bang goes the second one, and he tumbles backwards onto the ground, heavy and solid with his arms spread out. That young girl screamed out and comes rushing, and down she throws herself on her father, crying and saying, Oh, he's killed him, he's killed him! The crowd closed up around them and shouldered and jammed one another with their necks stretched, trying to see, and people on the inside trying to shove them back and shouting, Back! Back! Give him air! Give him air! Colonel Sherburn, he tossed his pistol onto the ground and turned round on his heels and walked off. They took Boggs to a little drugstore, the crowd pressing around just the same, and the whole town following, and I rushed and got a good place at the window where I was close to him and could see in. They laid him on the floor and put one large Bible under his head and opened another one and spread it on his breast, but they tore open his shirt first, and I seen where one of the bullets went in. He made about a dozen long gasps, his breast lifting the Bible up when he drawed in his breath, and letting it down again when he breathed it out, and after that he laid still. He was dead. Then they pulled his daughter away from him, screaming and crying, and took her off. She was about sixteen, and very sweet and gentle-looking, but awful pale and scared. Well, pretty soon the whole town was there, squirming and scrouging and pushing and shoving to get at the window and have a look, but people that had the places wouldn't give them up, and folks behind them were saying all the time, Say, now, you've looked enough, you fellas! Taint right, and taint fair for you to stay there all the time, and never give nobody a chance. Other folks has their rats as well as you! There was considerable joy in back, so I slid out, thinking maybe there was going to be trouble. The streets was full, and everybody was excited. Everybody that seen the shooting was telling how it happened, and there was a big crowd packed around each one of these fellows, stretching their necks and listening. One long, lanky man, with long hair and a big white fur stovepipe hat on the back of his head, and a crooked handle came, marked out the places on the ground where Boggs stood and where Sherburn stood, and the people following him around, from one place to other, and watching everything he done, and bobbing their heads to show they understood, and stooping a little and resting their hands on their thighs to watch him mark the places on the ground with his cane, and then he stood up straight and stiff where Sherburn had stood, frowning and having his hat brimmed down over his eyes and sung out Boggs, and then fetched his cane down slow to a level and says BANG! staggered backwards, says BANG! again, and fell down flat on his back. The people that had seen the thing said he'd done it perfect, said it was just exactly the way it all happened, then as much as a dozen people got out their bottles and treated him. Well, by and by somebody said Sherburn ought to be lynched. In about a minute everybody was saying it, so away they went, mad and yelling, and snatching down every clothesline they come to to do the hangin' with. XXI. They swarmed up toward Sherburn's house, a whooping and raging like engines, and everything had to clear the way or get run over and tromp to mush, and it was awful to see. Children was healing it, ahead of the mob, screaming and trying to get out of the way, and every window along the road was full of women's heads, and there was nigger-boys in every tree and bucks and wenches looking over every fence, and as soon as the mob would get nearly to them they would break and scattle back out of reach. Lots of the women and girls was crying and takin' on, scared most to death. They swarmed up in front of Sherburn's palings as thick as they could jam together, and you couldn't hear yourself think for the noise. It was a little twenty foot yard, some sung out, tear down the fence, tear down the fence, and there was a racket of ripping and tearing and smashing and down she goes, and the front wall of the crowd begins to roll in like a wave. Just then Sherburn steps out onto the roof of his little front porch with a double-barreled gun in his hand and takes his stand, perfectly calm and deliberate, not saying a word. The racket stopped, and the wave sucked back. Sherburn never said a word, just stood there, looking down. The stillness was awful creepy and uncomfortable. Sherburn run his eyes slow along the crowd, and wherever it struck the people tried a little to outgaze him, but they couldn't. They dropped their eyes and looked sneaky, then pretty soon Sherburn sort of laughed. Not the pleasant kind, but the kind that makes you feel like when you are eating bread that's got sand in it. Then he says slow and scornful, The idea of you lynching anybody. It's amusing. The idea of you thinking you had pluck enough to lynch a man, because you're brave enough to tar and feather-poor, friendless, cast-out women that come along here. Did that make you think you had grit enough to lay your hands on a man? Why, a man safe in the hands of ten thousand of your kind, as long as it's daytime, and you're not behind him. Do I know you? I know you clear through was born and raised in the south, and I've lived in the north, so I know the average all round. The average man's a coward. In the north he lets anybody walk over him that wants to, and goes home and prays for a humble spirit to bear it. In the south one man all by himself has stopped a stage full of men in the daytime and robbed the lot. Your newspapers call you a brave people so much that you think you are braver than any other people, whereas you're just as brave and no braver. Why don't your juries hang murderers? Because they're afraid the man's friends will shoot them in the back, in the dark, and it's just what they would do. So they all was a quit, and then a man goes in the night, with a hundred masked cowards at his back, and lynches the rascal. Your mistake is that you didn't bring a man with you. That's one mistake, and the other is that you didn't come in the dark and fetch your masks. You brought part of a man, buck harkness there, and if you hadn't had him to start you, you'd have taken it out in blowing. You didn't want to come. The average man don't like trouble and danger. You don't like trouble and danger. But if only half a man, like buck harkness there, shouts, Linch him! Linch him! You're afraid to back down. Afraid you'll be found out to be what you are, cowards! And so you raise a yell, and hang yourselves on to that half a man's coattail, and come raging up here, swearing what big things you're going to do. The pitifulest thing out is a mob. That's what an army is, a mob. They don't fight with courage, that's born in them, but with courage that's borrowed from their mass, and from their officers. But a mob without any man at the head of it is beneath pitifulness. Now the thing for you to do is to droop your tails and go home and crawl in a hole. If any real lynching is going to be done, it will be done in the dark, southern fashion. And when they come, they'll bring their masks and fetch a man along. Now leave, and take your half a man with you, tossing his gun up across his left arm and cocking it when he says this. The crowd washed back sudden, then broke all apart, and went tearing off in every which way, and buck harkness he healed it after them, looking tolerable cheap. I could have stayed if I wanted to, but I didn't want to. I went to the circus and loafed around the back side till the watchmen went by, and then dived in under the tent. I had my twenty dollar gold piece and some other money, but I reckon I better save it, because there ain't no telling how soon you're going to need it, away from home and amongst strangers that way. You can't be too careful. I ain't opposed to spending money on circuses when there ain't no use in wasting it on them. It was a real bully circus. It was the splendidest sight that ever was, when they all come riding in, two and two, a gentleman and lady, side by side, the men just in their drawers and undershirts and no shoes nor stirrups, and resting their hands on their thighs easy and comfortable. There must have been twenty of them, and every lady with a lovely complexion and perfectly beautiful, and looking just like a gang of real sure-enough queens, and dressed in clothes that cost millions of dollars, and just littered with diamonds. It was a powerful, fine sight. I never see anything so lovely. And then, one by one, they got up and stood, and went to weaving around the ring so gentle and wavy and graceful, the men looking ever so tall and airy and straight, with their heads bobbing and skimming along, away up there under their tent roof, and every lady's rose leafy dress, flapping soft and silky around her hips, and she looking like the most loveliest parasol. And then, faster and faster, they went all of them dancing, first one foot out in the air, and then the other, the horses leaning more and more, and the ringmaster going round and round the center pole, cracking his whip and shouting, Hi! Hi! And the clown cracking jokes behind him, and flying by, all hands dropped the reins, and every lady put her knuckles on her hips, and every gentleman folded his arms, and then how the horses did lean over and hump themselves. And so, one after the other, they all skipped off into the ring, and made the sweetest bow I ever see, and then scampered out, and everybody clapped their hands and went just about wild. Well, all through the circus they'd done the most astonishing things, and all the time that clown carried on so it most killed the people. The ringmaster couldn't ever say a word to him, but he was back at him quick as a wink with the funniest things the body ever said, and how he ever could think of so many of them, and so sudden and so pat was what I couldn't no way understand. Why, I couldn't have thought of them in a year. And by and by a drunk man tried to get into the ring, said he wanted to ride, said he could ride as anybody that ever was. They argued and tried to keep him out, but he wouldn't listen, and the whole show come to a standstill. Then the people began to holler at him and make fun of him, and that made him mad, and he began to rip and tear, so that stirred up the people, and a lot of men began to pile down off the benches and swarm towards the ring saying, knock him down, throw him out! And one or two women began to scream. So then, the ringmaster, he made a little speech, and said he hoped there wouldn't be no disturbance, and if the man would promise he wouldn't make no more trouble, he would let him ride if he thought he could stay on the horse. So everybody laughed and said, all right, and the man got on. The minute he was on, the horse began to rip and tear and jump and cavort around with two circus men hanging on to his bridle trying to hold him, and the drunk man hanging on to his neck, and his heels flying in the air every jump, and the whole crowd of people standing up shouting and laughing till tears rolled down. And at last, sure enough, all the circus men could do, the horse broke loose, and away he went like the very nation, round and round the ring, with that sought laying down on him and hanging to his neck, with first one leg hanging most to the ground on one side, and then another one on the other side, and the people just crazy. It weren't funny to me, though, I was all of a tremble to see his danger, but pretty soon he struggled up a straddle and grabbed the bridle, a reeling this way and that, and the next minute he sprung up and dropped the bridle and stood. And the horse, they're going like a house of fire too. He just stood up there, assailing around as easy and comfortable as if he weren't ever drunk in his life. And then he began to pull off his clothes and sling them. He shed them so thick they kind of clogged up the air, and altogether he shed seventeen suits, and then, there he was, slim and handsome, and dressed the gaudiest and prettiest you ever saw, and he lit into that horse with his whip and made him fairly hum and finally skipped off, and made his bow and danced off to the dressing-room, and everybody just a howling with pleasure and astonishment. Then the ringmaster he see how he had been fooled, and he was the sickest ringmaster you ever see, I reckon. Why, it was one of his own men. He had got up that joke all out of his own head and never led on to nobody. Well, I felt sheepish enough to be took in so, but I wouldn't have been in that ringmaster's place not for a thousand dollars. I don't know. There may be bullier circuses than what that one was, but I never struck them yet. Anyways, it was plenty good enough for me, and wherever I run across it, it can have all of my custom every time. Well, that night we had our show, but there weren't only about twelve people there, just enough to pay expenses, and they laughed all the time, and that made the Duke mad, and everybody left anyway before the show was over but one boy which was asleep. So the Duke said these Arkansas lunkheads couldn't come up to Shakespeare. What they wanted was low comedy, and maybe something rather worse than low comedy, he reckoned. He said he could size their style, so next morning he got some big sheets of wrapping paper and some black paint and drawed off some hand-bills and stuck them up all over the village. The bills said, at the courthouse for three nights only, the world-renowned Tragedians, David Garrick the Younger and Edmund Keane the Elder of the London and Continental Theatres in their thrilling tragedy of the King's camel leopard, or the Royal Nunsuch, admission fifty cents. Then at the bottom was the biggest line of all which said, ladies and children, not admitted. There, says he, if that line don't fetch them, I don't know Arkansas. CHAPTER XXIII Well, all day him and the King was hard at it, rigging up a stage and a curtain and a row of candles for footlights, and that night the house was jam-full of men in no time. When the place couldn't hold no more, the Duke he quit tending door and went round the back way and come on to the stage and stood up before the curtain and made a little speech, and praised up this tragedy and said it was the most thrillingest one that ever was, and so he went on bragging about the tragedy and about Edmund Keane the Elder, which was to play the main principal part in it, and at last, when he'd got everybody's expectations up high enough, he rolled up the curtain, and the next minute the King came up prancing out on all fours naked, and he was painted all over, rings streaked and striped, all sorts of colors as splendid as a rainbow, and—but never mind the rest of his outfit. It was just wild, but it was awful funny. The people most killed themselves laughing, and when the King got done capering and capered off behind the scenes, they roared and clapped and stormed and ha-ha-d till he come back and done it over again, and after that they made him do it another time. Well, it would make a cow laugh to see the shines that old idiot cut. Then the Duke he lets the curtain down and bows to the people and says the great tragedy will be performed only two nights more on accounts of pressing London engagements, where the seats is all sold already for it in Drury Lane. Then he makes them another bow and says if he has succeeded in pleasing them and instructing them, he will be deeply obliged if they will mention it to their friends and get them to come and see it. Twenty people sings out, Why? Is it over? Is that all? Duke says yes, and there was a fine time. Everybody sings out, Sold! and rose up mad and was aggoing for that stage and them Tragedians, but a big fine-looking man jumps up on a bench and shouts, Hold on! Just a word, gentlemen! They stop to listen. We are sold, mighty badly sold, but we don't want to be the laughing stock of this whole town, I reckon, and never hear the last of this thing as long as we live. No! What we want is to go out of here quiet and talk this show up and sell the rest of the town. Then we'll all be in the same boat. Ain't that sensible? You bet it is! The judge is right! Everybody sings out, All right then. Not a word about any sell. Go along home and advise everybody to come and see the tragedy. Next day you couldn't hear nothing around that town but how splendid that show was. House was jammed again that night and we sold this crowd the same way. When me and the king and the duke got home to the raft, we all had a supper and by and by about midnight they made Jim and me back her out and float her down the middle of the river and fetch her in and hide her about two miles below town. The third night the house was crammed again and they weren't newcomers this time but people that was at the show the other two nights. I stood by the duke at the door and I see that every man that went in had his pockets bulging or something muffled up under his coat and I see it warn't no perfumery neither, not by a long sight. I smelt sickly eggs by the barrel and rotten cabbages and such things and if I know the signs of a dead cat being around, and I bet I do, there was sixty-four of them and went in. I shoved in there for a minute but it was too various for me. I couldn't stand it. Well, when a place couldn't hold no more people the duke he'd give a fellow a quarter and told him to ten door for him a minute and then he started round for the stage door high after him. But the minute we turned the corner and was in the dark he says, Walk fast now till you get away from the houses and then shin for the raft like the dickens was after you. I'd done it and he'd done the same. We struck the raft at the same time and in less than two seconds we was gliding stream all dark and still and edging toward the middle of the river nobody saying a word. I reckon the poor king was in for a gaudy time of it with the audience but nothing of the sort. Pretty soon he crawls out from under the wigwam and says, Well, how'd the old thing pan out this time, duke? He hadn't been uptown at all. We never showed a like till we was about ten miles below the village then we lit up and had a supper and the king and the duke fairly laughed their bones loose over the way they'd serve them people. The duke says, Green horns, flat heads. I knew the first house would keep mum and let the rest of the town get roped in and I knew they'd lay for us the third night and consider it was their turn now. Well, it is their turn and I'd give something to know how much they'd take for it. I would just like to know how they're putting in their opportunity. They could turn it into a picnic if they wanted to. They brought plenty provisions. Them rapscallions took in four hundred and sixty-five dollars in that three nights and never seen money hauled in by the wagon-load like that before. By and by, when they was asleep and snoring, Jim says, Don't it surprise you to weigh them king's carry-on hook? No, I says, it don't. Why don't it hook? Well, it don't, because it's in the breed. I reckon they're all alike. But, hug, these king's-harn is regular rapscallions. That's just what they is. Day's regular rapscallions. Well, that's what I'm saying. All king's is mostly rapscallions as far as I can make out. Is that so? You read about them once. You'll see. Look at Henry VIII. This one's a Sunday school superintendent to him. And look at Charles II and Louis XIV and Louis XV and James II and Edward II and Richard III and forty more. Besides all of them Saxon heptarkies that used to rip round so in old times and raise canes. My, you ought to seen old Henry VIII when he was in bloom. He was a blossom. He used to marry a new wife every day and chop off her head next morning. And he would do it just as indifferent as if he was ordering up eggs. Fetch up Nell Gwynn, he says. They fetch her up next morning, chop off her head. And they chop it off. Fetch up Jane Shore, he says. And up she comes next morning, chop off her head. And they chop it off. Ring up Fair Rosamond. Fair Rosamond answers the bell. Next morning, chop off her head. And he made every one of them tell him a tale every night. And he kept that up till he had hogged a thousand and one tales that way. And then he put them all in a book and called it Doomsday Book, which was a good name and stated the case. You don't know Kings, Jim, but I know them. And this old rip of iron is one of the cleanest I've struck in history. Well, Henry, he takes a notion he wants to get up some trouble with this country. How does he go at it? Give notice? Give the country a show? No. All of a sudden he heaves all the tea in Boston Harbor overboard and wax out a declaration of independence and dares them to come on. That was his style. He never give anybody a chance. He had suspicions of his father, the Duke of Wellington. Well, what did he do? Ask him to show up? No. Drowned him in a butt of maimsy. Like a cat. Suppose people left money laying round where he was. What did he do? He collared it. Suppose he contracted to do a thing and you paid him and didn't sit down there and see that he'd done it. What did he do? He always done the other thing. Suppose he opened his mouth. What then? If he didn't shut it up powerful, quick, he'd lose a lie every time. That's the kind of a bug Henry was. And if we'd have had him along instead of our kings, he'd have fooled that town a heap worse than Arne did. I don't say that Arne is lambs, because they ain't, when you come right down to the cold facts, but they ain't nothing to that old ram, anyway. All I say is, kings is kings, and you got to make allowances. Take them all round. They're a mighty ornery lot. It's the way they're raised. But this one do smell so like the nation hook. Well, they all do, Jim. We can't help the way a king smells. History don't tell no way. Now, the Duke, he's a taller likely man in some ways. Yes, a Duke's different. But not very different. This one's a middling hard lot for a Duke. When he's drunk, there ain't no near-sighted man could tell him from a king. Well, anyways, I don't hanker for no more in a mouth. These is all I can stand. It's the way I feel, too, Jim. But we've got them on our hands, and we've got to remember what they are and make allowances. Sometimes I wish we could hear of a country that's out of kings. What was the use to tell Jim these weren't real kings and dukes? It wouldn't have done no good. And besides, it was just, as I said, you couldn't tell them from the real kind. I went to sleep, and Jim didn't call me when it was my turn. He often done that. When I waked up, just a daybreak, he was in there with his head down, twix his knees, moaning and moaning to himself. I didn't take notice nor let on. I knowed what it was about. He was thinking about his wife and his children way up yonder. And he was low and homesick, because he hadn't ever been away from home before in his life. And I do believe he cared just as much for his people as white folks does for their own. They don't seem natural, but I reckon it's so. He was often moaning and moaning that way nights, when he judged I was asleep, and saying, Poor little Elizabeth, poor little Johnny, it's mighty hard. I suspect I ain't ever going to see you no more, no more. He was a mighty good nigger, Jim was. But this time I somehow got to talking to him about his wife and young ones, and by and by he says, What makes me feel so bad this time is because I hear him over yonder on the bank like a whack or a slam a while ago, and it remind me of the time I treat my little Elizabeth so ornery. She warned only about four-year-old, and she took the scarlet fever and had a powerful rough spell. But she got well, and one day she was a stand-around, and I says to her, I says, Shetty-doe, she never done it, just stood there, kind of smiling up at me, and make me mad. And then I says again, mighty loud, I says, Don't you hear me? Shut the door. She just stood the same way, kind of smiling up. I was violent. I says, I lay, I make you mine. And with that I fetch her a slap-side-ahead that stoned her sprawling. Then I went into the other room and was gone about ten minutes, and when I come back there was that door was standing open yet, and that child standing most right in it, looking down and mourning, and the tears running down. My but I was mad. I was a-glaring for the child, but just then it was a door that opened innards. Just then long come to win and slam it, too, behind the child, kablam! And my land of child never move, my breath most hop out of me. And I feel so, so I don't know how I feel. I croak out all the trembling, and croak round and open the door easy and slow, and poke my head in behind the child, soft and still, and all of a sudden I says, Pow! Just as loud as I could yell. She never budge. Oh, huck, I bust out a cryin' and grab her up in my arm and say, Oh, the poor little thing, the Lord God of mighty forgive, poor old Jim, because he never going to forgive himself as long as he lived. Oh, she was plum-deep and dumb, huck, plum-deep and dumb, and I'd been a-treatin' her so.