 CHAPTER XIII. TOM STAIRS AT RUIN. When I reflect upon the number of disagreeable people who I know have gone to a better world, I am moved to lead a different life. Puddinhead Wilson's Calendar. October. This is one of the peculiarly dangerous months to speculate and stocks in. The others are July, January, September, April, November, May, March, June, December, August, and February. Puddinhead Wilson's Calendar. Thus, mournfully communing with himself, Tom moped along the lane past Puddinhead Wilson's house, and still on and on between fences and closing vacant country on each hand, till he neared the haunted house, then he came moping back again with many sighs and heavy with trouble. He sorely wanted cheerful company. Rowena. His heart gave a bound at the thought, but the next thought quieted it. The detested twins would be there. He was on the inhabited side of Wilson's house, and now as he approached it he noticed that the sitting-room was lighted. This would do. Others made him feel unwelcome sometimes, but Wilson never failed in courtesy toward him, and a kindly courtesy does at least save one's feelings, even if it is not professing to stand for a welcome. Wilson heard footsteps at his threshold, then the clearing of a throat. It's that fickle-tempered, dissipated young goose, poor devil. He finds friends pretty scarce today, likely after the disgrace of carrying a personal assault case into a law court. A dejected knock. Come in. Tom entered and dropped into a chair without saying anything. Wilson said kindly, Why, my boy, you look desolate. Don't take it so hard. Try and forget you have been kicked. Oh, dear, said Tom, wretchedly. It's not that, put in head. It's not that. It's a thousand times worse than that. Oh, yes, a million times worse. Why, Tom, what do you mean? Has Rowena flung me? No. But the old man has. Wilson said to himself, Ah-ha! And thought of the mysterious girl in the bedroom. The driscals have been making discoveries. Then he said aloud, gravely, Tom, there are some kinds of dissipation, which, oh, shucks, this hasn't got anything to do with dissipation. He wanted me to challenge that darned Italian savage, and I wouldn't do it. Yes, of course he would do that, said Wilson in a meditative matter-of-course way. But the thing that puzzled me was why he didn't look to that last night for one thing, and why he let you carry such a matter into a court of law at all, either before the duel or after it. It's no place for it. It was not like him. I couldn't understand it. How did it happen? It happened because he didn't know anything about it. He was asleep when I got home last night. And you didn't wake him? Tom, is that possible? Tom was not getting much comfort here. He fidgeted a moment, then said, I didn't choose to tell him, that's all. He was going a-fishing before dawn with Pembroke Howard, and if I got the twins into the common Calibus, and I thought sure I could, I never dreamed of their slipping out on a paltry fine for such an outrageous offense. Well, once in the Calibus they would be disgraced, and Uncle wouldn't want any duels with that sort of characters, and wouldn't allow any. Tom, I'm ashamed of you. I don't see how you could treat your good old uncle so. I am a better friend of his than you are, for if I had known the circumstances, I would have kept that case out of court, until I got word to him and let him have the gentleman's chance. You would, exclaimed Tom, with lively surprise. And it, your first case? And you know perfectly well there never would have been any case if he had got that chance, don't you? And you'd have finished your days a pauper nobody instead of being an actually launched and recognized lawyer today. And you would really have done that, would you? Certainly. Tom looked at him a moment or two, then shook his head sorrowfully and said, I believe you, upon my word I do. I don't know why I do, but I do. Couldn't head Wilson? I think you're the biggest fool I ever saw. Thank you. Don't mention it. Well, he has been requiring you to fight the Italian, and you have refused. You degenerate remnant of an honorable line. I'm thoroughly ashamed of you, Tom. Oh, that's nothing. I don't care for anything, now that the wills torn up again. Tom, tell me squarely. Didn't he find any fault with you for anything but those two things, carrying the case into court and refusing to fight? He watched the young fellow's face narrowly, but it was entirely reposeful, and so also was the voice that answered. No, he didn't find any other fault with me. If he had had any to find, he would have begun yesterday, for he was just in the humor for it. He drove that jack-pairer around town, and showed them the sights, and when he came home, he couldn't find his father's old silver watch that don't keep time, and he thinks so much of, and he couldn't remember what he did with it three or four days ago when he saw it last. And when I suggested that it probably wasn't lost but stolen, it put him in a regular passion, and he said I was a fool, which convinced me without any trouble that that was just what he was afraid had happened himself, but did not want to believe it, because lost things stand a better chance of being found again than stolen ones. Old Wilson. Score another one on the list. Another what? Another theft. Theft? Yes. Theft. That watch isn't lost. It's stolen. There's been another raid on the town, and just the same old mysterious sort of thing that has happened once before as you remember. You don't mean it. This is sure as you were born. Have you missed anything yourself? No. That is, I did miss a silver pencil case that Aunt Mary Pratt gave me last birthday. You'll find it stolen. That's what you'll find. No, I shan't, for when I suggested theft about the watch and got such a wrap, I went and examined my room, and the pencil case was missing, but it was only mislaid, and I found it again. You're sure you've missed nothing else? Well nothing of consequence. I missed a small plain gold ring worth two or three dollars, but that will turn up. I'll look again. In my opinion, you'll not find it. There's been a raid, I tell you. Come in. Sir Justice Robinson entered, followed by Buckstone and the town constable, Jim Blake. They sat down, and after some wandering and aimless weather conversation, Wilson said, By the way, we've just added another to the list of thefts, maybe two. Judge Driscoll's old silver watch is gone, and Tom here has missed a gold ring. Well, it's a bad business, said the Justice, and gets worse the further it goes. The hankses, the dobsons, the pilgrims, the orphans, the drangers, the hails, the fullers, the hall-comes. In fact, everybody that lives around about Patsy Cooper's had been robbed of little things like trinkets and teaspoons and such-like small valuables that are easily carried off. It's perfectly plain that the thief took advantage of the reception at Patsy Cooper's when all the neighbors were in her house, and all their niggers hanging around her fence for a look at the show, to raid the vacant houses undisturbed. Patsy is miserable about it, miserable on account of the neighbors, and particularly miserable on account of her foreigners, of course, so miserable on their account that she hasn't any room to worry about her own little losses. "'It's the same old raider,' said Wilson. I suppose there isn't any doubt about that.' "'Constable Blake doesn't think so.' "'No, you're wrong there,' said Blake. The other times it was a man. There was plenty of signs of that, as we know in the profession, though we never got hands on him. But this time it's a woman.' Wilson thought of the mysterious girl straight off. She was always in his mind now, but she failed him again. Blake continued, "'She's a stoop-shouldered old woman with a covered basket on her arm and a black veil, dressed in mourning. I saw her going aboard the ferryboat yesterday. Lives in Illinois, I reckon. But I don't care where she lives. I'm going to get her. She can make herself sure of that.' "'What makes you think she's the thief?' "'Well, there ain't any other, for one thing. And for another, some nigger-draman that happened to be driving along, saw her coming out or going into houses, and told me so. And it just happens that they was robbed every time. It was granted that this was plenty good enough circumstantial evidence. A punse of silence followed, which lasted some moments. Then Wilson said, "'There's one good thing, anyway. She can't either pawn or sell Count Luigi's costly Indian dagger.' "'My,' said Tom, "'is that gone?' "'Yes.' "'Well, that was a haul. But why can't she pawn or sell it?' Because when the twins went home from the Sons of Liberty meeting last night, news of the raid was sifting in from everywhere, and Aunt Patsy was in distress to know if they had lost anything. They found that the dagger was gone, and they notified the police and pawnbrokers everywhere. It was a great haul, yes. But the old woman won't get anything out of it, because she'll get caught. "'Did they offer a reward?' asked Buckstone. "'Yes, five hundred dollars for the knife, and five hundred more for the thief.' "'What a leather-headed idea!' exclaimed the constable. The thief doesn't go near them nor send anybody. Forgoes is going to get himself nabbed, for there ain't any pawnbroker that's going to lose the chance to—' If anybody had noticed Tom's face at that time, the gray-green color of it might have provoked curiosity. But nobody did. He said to himself, "'I'm gone. I never can square up. The rest of the plunder won't pawn or sell for half of the bill. Oh, I know it. I'm gone. I'm gone. And this time it's for good. Oh, this is awful. I don't know what to do, nor which way to turn.' "'Softly, softly,' said Wilson to Blake. I planned their scheme for them at midnight last night, and it was all finished up ship-shape by two this morning. They'll get their dagger back, and then I'll explain to you how the thing was done.' There were strong signs of a general curiosity. And Buckstone said, "'Well, you have whirred us up pretty sharp, Wilson, and I'm free to say that if you don't mind telling us in confidence—' "'Oh, I'd as soon as tell as not, Buckstone. But as long as the twins and I agreed to say nothing about it, we must let it stand so. But you can take my word for it. You won't be kept waiting three days. Somebody will apply for that reward pretty promptly, and I'll show you the thief and the dagger both very soon afterward.' The constable was disappointed, and also perplexed. He said, "'It may all be, yes, and I hope it will. But I'm blamed if I can see my way through it. It's too many for yours truly.' The subject seemed about talked out. Nobody seemed to have anything further to offer. After a silence the justice of the peace informed Wilson that he and Buckstone and the constable had come as a committee on the part of the Democratic Party to ask him to run for mayor. For the little town was about to become a city, and the first charter election was approaching. It was the first attention which Wilson had ever received at the hands of any party. It was a sufficiently humble one, but it was a recognition of his debut into the town's life and activities at last. It was a step upward, and he was deeply gratified. He accepted, and the committee departed, followed by young Tom. End of CHAPTER XIII. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Tragedy of Puddinhead Wilson by Mark Twain. CHAPTER XIV. Roxanna insists upon reform. The true southern watermelon is a boon apart, and not to be mentioned with commoner things. It is chief of this world's luxuries. Being by the grace of God over all the fruits of the earth, when one has tasted it he knows what the angels eat. It was not a southern watermelon that Eve took. We know it, because she repented. Puddinhead Wilson's calendar. About the time that Wilson was bowing the committee out, Pimbro Coward was entering the next house to report. He found the old judge sitting grim and strayed in his chair, waiting. Well, Howard, the news? The best in the world. Excepts does he. And the light of battle gleamed joyously in the judge's eye. Excepts why he jumped at it. Did he? Now that's fine. That's very fine. I like that. When is it to be? Now, straight off, to-night, an admirable fellow. Admirable. Admirable. He's a darling. Why, it's an honor as well as a pleasure to stand up before such a man. Come off with you. Go and arrange everything and give him my heartiest compliments. A rare fellow indeed. An admirable fellow, as you have said. I'll have him in the vacant stretch between Wilson's and the haunted house within the hour, and I'll bring my own pistols. Judge Driscoll began to walk the floor in a state of pleased excitement. But presently he stopped and began to think of Tom. Twice he moved toward the secretary. And twice he turned away again. But finally he said, this may be my last night on the earth. I must not take the chance. He is worthless and unworthy. But it is largely my fault. He was entrusted to me by my brother on his dying bed, and I have indulged him to his hurt instead of training him up severely and making a man of him. I have violated my trust. And I must not add the sin of desertion to that. I have forgiven him once already, and would subject him to a long and hard trial before forgiving him again if I could live. But I must not run that risk. No. I must restore the will. But if I survive the duel I will hide it away, and he will not know, and I will not tell him until he reforms, and I see that his reformation is going to be permanent. He redrew the will, and his ostensible nephew was heir to a fortune again. As he was finishing his task, Tom, worried with another brooding tramp, entered the house, and went tiptoeing past the sitting-room door. He glanced in and hurried on, for the sight of his uncle was nothing but terrors for him to-night. But his uncle was writing. That was unusual at this late hour. What could he be writing? A chill of anxiety settled down upon Tom's heart. Did that writing concern him? He was afraid so. He reflected that when ill luck begins it does not come in sprinkles but in showers. He said he would get a glimpse of that document or know the reason why. He heard someone coming, and stepped out of sight and hearing. It was Pembroke Howard. What could be hatching? Howard said with great satisfaction, Everything is right and ready. He's gone to the battleground with his second, and the surgeon, also with his brother. I've arranged it all with Wilson. Wilson's is second. We are to have three shots apiece. Good! How is the moon? Bright as day, nearly. Perfect for the distance, fifteen yards. No wind, not a breath, hot and still. All good, all first rate. Here, Pembroke, read this, and witness it. Pembroke read and witnessed the will, then gave the old man's hand a hearty shake, and said, Now that's right, York. But I knew you would do it. You couldn't leave that poor chap to fight along without means or profession, with certain defeat before him. And I knew you wouldn't, for his father's sake, if not for his own. For his father's sake I couldn't, I know, for poor Percy. But you know what Percy was to me. But mind, Tom is not to know of this unless I fall to-night. I understand, I'll keep the secret. The judge put the will away, and the two started for the battleground. In another minute the will was in Tom's hands. His misery vanished. His feelings underwent a tremendous revolution. He put the will carefully back in its place, and spread his mouth, and swung his hat once, twice, three times around his head, in imitation of three rousing hazzas, no sound issuing from his lips. He fell to communing with himself excitedly and joyously, but every now and then he let off another volley of dumb hurrahs. He said to himself, I've got the fortune again, but I'll not let on that I know about it. And this time I'm going to hang on to it. I take no more risks. I'll gamble no more. I'll drink no more. Because, well, because I'll not go where there is any of that sort of thing going on again. It's the sure way, and the only sure way. I might have thought of that sooner. Well, yes, if I had wanted to. But now, dear me, I've had a scare this time, and I'll take no more chances. Not a single chance more. Land. I persuaded myself this evening that I could fetch him around without any great amount of effort, but I've been getting more and more heavy-hearted and doubtful straight along ever since. If he tells me about this thing, all right. But if he doesn't, I shan't let on. I, well, I'd like to tell Putinhead Wilson. But no, I'll think about that. Perhaps I won't. He whirled off another dead hizah, and said, I'm reformed, and this time I'll stay so sure. He was about to close with a final grand silent demonstration, when he suddenly recollected that Wilson had put it out of his power to pawn or sell the Indian knife, and that he was once more an awful peril of exposure by his creditors for that reason. His joy collapsed utterly, and he turned away and moped toward the door, moaning and lamenting over the bitterness of his luck. He dragged himself upstairs, and brooded in his room a long time, disconsolate and forlorn, with Luigi's Indian knife for a text. At last he sighed and said, When I supposed these stones were glass and this ivory bone, the thing hadn't any interest for me, because it hadn't any value and couldn't help me out of my trouble. But now, why, now it is full of interest. Yes, and of a sort to break a body's heart. It's a bag of gold that has turned to dirt and ashes in my hands. It could save me, and save me so easily. And yet I've got to go to ruin. It's like drowning with a life-preserver in my reach. All the hard luck comes to me, and all the good luck goes to other people. Put in head, Wilson, for instance. Even his career has got a sort of a little start at last, but has he done to deserve it, I should like to know? Yes, he has opened his own road. But he isn't content with that, but must block mine. It's a sordid, selfish world, and I wish I was out of it. He allowed the light of the candle to play upon the jewels of the sheath, but the flashings and sparkleings had no charm for his eye. They were only just so many pangs to his heart. I must not say anything to Roxy about this thing, he said. She is too daring. She would be for digging these stones out and selling them, and then, why, she would be arrested, and the stones traced, and then, the thought made him quake, and he hid the knife away, trembling all over, and glancing furtively about like a criminal who fancies that the accuser is already at hand. Should he try to sleep? Oh, no. Sleep was not for him. His trouble was too haunting, too afflicting for that. He must have somebody to mourn with. He would carry his despair to Roxy. He had heard several distant gunshots, but that sort of thing was not uncommon, and they had made no impression upon him. He went out at the back door and turned westward. He passed Wilson's house, and proceeded along the lane, and presently saw several figures approaching Wilson's place through the vacant lots. These were the dualists returning from the fight. He thought he recognized them. But as he had no desire for white people's company, he stooped down behind the fence until they were out of his way. Roxy was feeling fine. She said, "'Where was you, child? Weren't you in it?' "'In what?' "'In the dual.' "'Dual? Has there been a dual?' "'Coste has. The old judge has been having a dual with one of them twins.' "'Great Scott!' Then he added to himself, "'That's what made him remake the will. He thought he might get killed, and it softened him toward me. And that's what he and Howard were so busy about. "'Oh, dear, if the twin had only killed him, I should be out of my—' "'What is you mumbling about, Chambers? Where was you? Didn't you know there was going to be a dual?' "'No, I didn't. The old man tried to get me to fight one with Count Luigi, but he didn't succeed, so I reckon he concluded to patch up the family honor himself.' He laughed at the idea, and went rambling on with a detailed account of his talk with the judge, and how shocked and ashamed the judge was to find that he had a coward in his family. He glanced up at last, and got a shock himself. Roxana's bosom was heaving with suppressed passion, and she was glowering down upon him with measureless contempt written in her face. And you refused to fight a man that kicked you, instead of jumping at the chance, and you ain't got no more feeling than to come and tell me that fetched such a pole-loaded-down ornery rabbet into the world? Pah! It make me sick. It's the nigger in you. That's what it is. Thirty-one parts of you is white, and only one part nigger, and that pole-little one part is your soul. Tain't worth saving. Tain't worth toting out on a shovel and throwing into gutter. You has disgraced your birth. What would your Pah think of you? It's enough to make him turn in his grave. The last three sentences stung Tom into a fury, and he said to himself that if his father were only alive and in reach of assassination his mother would soon find that he had a very clear notion of the size of his indebtedness to that man, and was willing to pay it up in full, and would do it, too, even at risk of his life. But he kept his thought to himself. That was the safest in his mother's present state. Whatever has come, a yo' Essex blood! That's what I can't understand. And it ain't only just Essex blood that's in you, not by a long sight. Deed it ain't. My great-great-great-grandfather, and yo' great-great-great-great-grandfather, was old Cap and John Smith, the highest blood that old Virginia ever turned out. And his great-great-grandmother, or Summers along back there, was Pocahontas, the engine queen. And her husband was a nigger king out in Africa? And yet here you is, a slinkin' out in a duel, and disgracein' our whole line like a ornery low-down hound. Yes, it's the nigger in you. She sat down on her candle-box, and fell into a reverie. Tom did not disturb her. He sometimes lacked prudence. And it was not in circumstances of this kind. Roxana's storm went gradually down. But it died hard. And even when it seemed to be quite gone it would now and then break out in a distant rumble, so to speak, in the form of muttered ejaculations. One of these was, ain't nigger enough in him to show in his fingernails, and that takes mighty little. Yet there's enough to pain his soul. Presently she muttered, Yes, sir, enough to paint a whole thimbleful of him. At last her ramblings seized all together, and her countenance began to clear. A welcome sight to Tom, who had learned her moods, and knew she was on the threshold of good humor now. He noticed that, from time to time, she unconsciously carried her finger to the end of her nose. He looked closer and said, Why, Mammy, the end of your nose is skinned. How did that come? She sent out the sort of whole-hearted peel of laughter which God had vouchsafed in its perfection to none but the happy angels in heaven, and the bruised and broken black slave on the earth, and said, Dad, fetch that duel, I've been in it myself. Gracious, did a bullet do that? Yes, sir, you bet it did. Well, I declare, why, how did that happen? Happened disaway. Eyes is set in here, kind of dozen into dark, and cha-bang goes a gun right out there. I skips along out towards the other end of the house to see what's going on, and stops by the old window on the side towards Puddinhead Wilson's house that ain't got no sash in it. But ain't none of them got any sashes for as that's concerned. And I stood down to dark and look out, and I earned a moonlight right down under me as one of the twins, a cussin'—not much, but just a cussin' soft. It is the brown man that is cussin' because he is hittin' the shoulder. And Dr. Claypool, he's a workin' on him, and Puddinhead Wilson, he is a hep and old judge Driscoll and Pem Howard is a standin' out yonder a little piece, waitin' for him to get ready again. And directly they squared off and give the word, and bang, bang, went the pistols. And the twin, he say, ouch, hit him in the hand this time, and I hear that same bullet go, spat, again the logs under the window, and the next time they shoot the twin say, ouch, again, and I'd done it, too, because the bullet glanced on his cheekbone and skipped up here, and glanced on the side of the window and whizzed right across my face, and tucked a hide off in my nose. Why, if I'd have been just an inch or an inch and a half further, it would have tucked a whole nose and disfigured me. Here's the bullet. I hunted her up. Did you stand there all the time? That's a question to ask, ain't it? What else would I do? Does I get a chance to see a duel every day? Why, you were right in range, weren't you afraid? The woman gave a sniff of scorn. Frade, the smith Pocahontas is ain't free to nothing, let alone bullets. They pluck enough, I suppose, what they lack as judgment. I wouldn't have stood there. Nobody's accusing you. Did anybody else get hurt? Yes, we all got hit, except the blonde twin and the doctor and the seconds. The judge didn't get hurt, but I hear Puddinhead say to bullets, nip some his hair off. George, said Tom to himself, to come so nearer being out of my trouble and miss it by an inch. Oh, dear, dear, he will live to find me out and sell me to some nigger trader yet. Yes, and he would do it in a minute. Then he said aloud in a grave tone, Mother, we are in an awful fix. Roxana caught her breath with a spasm and said, Child, what you hit a body so sudden for like that. It's been and gone and happened. Well, there's one thing I didn't tell you. When I wouldn't fight, he tore up the will again, and Roxana's face turned dead white, and she said, Now, use done, done forever. That's the end. Both of us is Gwanda starved to wait and hear me through, can't you? I reckon that when he resolved to fight himself, he thought he might get killed and not have a chance to forgive me any more in this life. So he made the will again, and I have seen it. And it's all right. But oh, thank goodness, then we safe again, safe. And so what did you want to come here and talk such dreadful? Hold on, I tell you, and let me finish. The swag I gathered won't half square me up, and the first thing we know, my creditors, well, you know what'll happen. Roxana dropped her chin and told her son to leave her alone. She must think this matter out. Presently, she said impressively, You've got to go mighty careful now, I tell you, and here's what you've got to do. She didn't get killed, and if you gives him the least reason he'll bust the will again, and that's the last time now you hear me. So you've got to show him what you can do in the next few days. You've got to be pious and good, and let him see it. You've got to do everything that'll make him believe in you, and you've got to sweeten around ol' Aunt Pratt, too. She's powerful, strong with the judge, and the best friend you've got. Next you'll go long way to St. Louis, and that'll keep him in your favor. Then you go and make a bargain with them people. You tell them he ain't going to live long, and that's the fact, too, and tell them you'll pay him interest, and big interest, too. Then per what you call it, ten percent a month, that's it. Then you take and sell your truck around a little at a time and pay to interest. How long will it last? I think there's enough to pay the interest five or six months. Didn't use all right. If he don't die in six months, that don't make no difference. Providence'll provide. Use Gwanda be safe, if you behave. She bent an austere eye on him and added, And you is Gwanda behave, does you know that? He laughed, and said he was going to try, anyway. She did not unbend. She said gravely, Try and ain't the thing. Use Gwanda, do it. You ain't Gwanda steal a pin, because it ain't safe no more. And you ain't Gwanda into no bad company, not even once. You understand? And you ain't Gwanda drink a drop, nary a single drop. And you ain't Gwanda gamble, one single gamble, not one. This ain't what use Gwanda try to do. It's what use Gwanda do. And I'll tell you how I knows it. This is how. I is Gwanda follow along to St. Louis my own self, And you's Gwanda come to me every day of your life, And I'll look you over, and if you fails in one single one of them things, just one. I take my oath, I'll come straight down to this town, And tell the judge use a nigger and a slave, and prove it. She paused to let her words sink home. Then she added, Chambers, does you believe me when I says that? Tom was sober enough now. There was no levity in his voice when he answered, Yes, mother, I know now that I am reformed, and permanently, permanently, and beyond the reach of any human temptation. Then go long home, and begin. End of chapter 14. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Tragedy of Puddin Head Wilson by Mark Twain. Chapter 15. The Robber Robbed. Nothing so needs reforming as other people's habits. Puddin Head Wilson's calendar. Behold the fool, saith, put not all thine eggs in the one basket, which is but a manner of saying scatter your money and your attention. But the wise man, saith, put all your eggs in the one basket, and watch that basket. Puddin Head Wilson's calendar. What a time of it Dawson's landing was having. All its life it had been asleep. But now it hardly got a chance for a nod, so swiftly did big events and crashing surprises come along in one another's wake. Friday morning, first glimpse of real nobility, also grand reception at Aunt Patsy Cooper's, also great robber raid. Friday evening, dramatic kicking of the air of the chief citizen in presence of 400 people. Saturday morning, emergence as practicing lawyer of the long submerged Puddin Head Wilson. Saturday night, duel between chief citizen and titled stranger. The people took more pride in the duel than in all the other events put together, perhaps. It was a glory to their town to have such a thing happen there. In their eyes the principles had reached the summit of human honor. Everybody paid homage to their names. Their praises were in all mouths. Even the dualists subordinates came in for a handsome share of the public approbation, wherefor Puddin Head Wilson was suddenly become a man of consequence. When asked to run for the mayoralty Saturday night, he was risking defeat. But Sunday morning found him a made man, and his success assured. The twins were prodigiously great now. The town took them to its bosom with enthusiasm. Day after day and night after night they went dining and visiting from house to house, making friends, enlarging and solidifying their popularity, and charming and surprising all with their musical prodigies, and now and then heightening the effects with samples of what they could do in other directions, out of their stock of rare and curious accomplishments. They were so pleased that they gave the regulation 30 days notice, the required preparation for citizenship, and resolved to finish their days in this pleasant place. That was the climax. The delighted community rose as one man and applauded, and when the twins were asked to stand for seats in the forthcoming aldermanic board and consented, the public contentment was rounded and complete. Tom Driscoll was not happy over these things. They sunk deep and hurt all the way down. He hated the one twin for kicking him and the other one for being the kicker's brother. Now and then the people wondered why nothing was heard of the raider or of the stolen knife or the other plunder, but nobody was able to throw any light on that matter. Nearly a week had drifted by, and still the thing remained a vexed mystery. On Sunday Constable Blake and Puddinhead Wilson met on the street, and Tom Driscoll joined them in time to open their conversation for them. He said to Blake, You're not looking well, Blake. You seem to be annoyed about something. Has anything gone wrong in the detective business? I believe you fairly and justifiably claim to have a pretty good reputation in that line, isn't it so? Which made Blake feel good and look it, but Tom added, for country detective, which made Blake feel the other way and not only look it, but betray it in his voice. Yes, sir, I have got a reputation, and it's as good as anybody's in the profession to country or no country. Oh, I beg pardon. I didn't mean any offense. What I started out to ask was only about the old woman that raided the town, the stoop-shouldered old woman, you know, that you said you were going to catch, and I knew you would, too, because you have the reputation of never boasting, and, well, you've caught the old woman? Damn the old woman. Why, show, you don't mean to say you haven't caught her? No, I haven't caught her. If anybody could have caught her, I could. But nobody couldn't. I don't care who he is. I am sorry, real sorry, for your sake, because when it gets around that a detective has expressed himself confidently, and then don't you worry. That's all. Don't you worry. And as for the town, the town needn't worry either. She's my meat. Make yourself easy about that. I'm on her track. I've got clues that, well, that's good. Now, if you could get an old veteran detective down from St. Louis to help you find out what the clues mean and where they lead to, and then I'm plenty veteran enough myself, and I don't need anybody's help. I'll have her inside of a month. That I'll swear to. Tom said carelessly, I suppose that will answer. Yes, that will answer. But I reckon she is pretty old, and old people don't often outlive the cautious pace of the professional detective when he has got his clues together and is out on his still hunt. Blake's dull face fleshed under this jibe. But before he could set his retort in order, Tom had turned to Wilson and was saying with placid indifference of manner and voice. Who got the reward, put in head? Wilson winced slightly and saw that his own turn was come. What reward? Why, the reward for the thief and the other one for the knife. Wilson answered, and rather uncomfortably, to judge by his hesitating fashion of delivering himself. Well, in face nobody has claimed it yet. Tom seemed surprised. Why, is that so? Wilson showed a trifle of irritation when he replied. Yes, it's so, and what of it? Oh, nothing. Only I thought you had struck out a new idea and invented a scheme that was going to revolutionize the time-worn and ineffectual methods of the... He stopped and turned to Blake, who was happy now that another had taken his place on the gridiron. Blake, didn't you understand him to intimate that it wouldn't be necessary for you to hunt the old woman down? But George, he said, he'd have thief and swag both inside of three days he did by hokey, and that's just about a week ago. Why, I said at the time that no thief and no thief's pal was going to try to pawn or sell a thing where he know'd the pawnbroker could get both rewards by taking him into camp with the swag. It was the blessedest idea that ever I struck. You'd change your mind, said Wilson with irritated bluntness, if you knew the entire scheme, instead of only part of it. Well, said the Constable pensively, I had the idea that it wouldn't work, and up to now I'm right, anyway. Very well, then, let it stand at that, and give it a further show. It has worked at least as well as your own methods, you perceive. The Constable hadn't anything handy to hit back with, so he discharged a discontented sniff and said nothing. After the night that Wilson had partly revealed his scheme at his house, Tom had tried for several days to guess out the secret of the rest of it, but had failed. Then it occurred to him to give Roxana's smarter-head a chance at it. He made up a superstitious case and laid it before her. She thought it over and delivered her verdict upon it. Tom said to himself, she's hit it, sure. He thought he would test that verdict now and watch Wilson's face. So he said, reflectively, Wilson, you're not a fool. A fact of recent discovery. Whatever your scheme was, it had sense in it, Blake's opinion, to the contrary, notwithstanding. I don't ask you to reveal it, but I will suppose a case, a case which you will answer as a starting point for the real thing I am going to come at, and that's all I want. You offered five hundred dollars for the knife, and five hundred for the thief. We will suppose, for arguments' sake, that the first reward is advertised, and the second, offered by private letter to pawnbrokers. And Blake slapped his thigh and cried out, By Jackson he's got you, put in head. Now why couldn't I, or any fool, have thought of that? Wilson said to himself, Anybody with a reasonably good head would have thought of it. I am not surprised that Blake didn't detect it. I am only surprised that Tom did. There is more to him than I supposed. He said nothing aloud, and Tom went on. Very well. The thief would not suspect that there was a trap. And he would bring or send the knife, and say he bought it for a song, or found it in the road, or something like that, and try to collect the reward, and be arrested. Wouldn't he? Yes, said Wilson. I think so, said Tom. There can't be any doubt of it. Have you ever seen that knife? No. Has any friend of yours? Not that I know of. Well, I begin to think I understand why your scheme failed. What do you mean, Tom? What are you driving at? Asked Wilson, with a dawning sense of discomfort. Why, that there isn't any such knife. Look here, Wilson, said Blake. Tom Driscoll's right. For a thousand dollars, if I had it. Wilson's blood warmed a little, and he wondered if he had been played upon by those strangers. It certainly had something of that look. But what could they gain by it? He threw out that suggestion. Tom replied, Gain, oh, nothing that you would value, maybe. But they are strangers making their way in a new community. Is it nothing to them to appear as pets of an oriental prince at no expense? Is it nothing to them to be able to dazzle this poor town with thousand dollar rewards at no expense? Wilson, there isn't any such knife, or your scheme would have fetched it to light. Or if there is any such knife, they've got it yet. I believe myself that they've seen such a knife, for Angelo pictured it out with his pencil too swiftly and handily for him to have been inventing it. And of course, I can't swear that they've never had it. But this I'll go bail for. If they had it when they came to this town, they've got it yet. Blake said, It looks mighty reasonable the way Tom puts it. It most certainly does. Tom responded, turning to leave. You find the old woman Blake. And if she can't furnish the knife, go search the twins. Tom sauntered away. Wilson felt a good deal depressed. He hardly knew what to think. He was loath to withdraw his faith from the twins, and was resolved not to do it on the present indecisive evidence. But, well, he would think, and then decide how to act. Blake, what do you think of this matter? Well, put in head, I'm bound to say I put it up the way Tom does. They hadn't the knife. Or if they had it, they've got it yet. The men parted. Wilson said to himself, I believe they had it. If it had been stolen, the scheme would have restored it. That is certain. And so I believe they've got it. Tom had no purpose in his mind when he encountered those two men. When he began his talk, he hoped to be able to gall them a little and get a trifle of malicious entertainment out of it. But when he left, he left in great spirits, for he perceived that just by pure luck and no troublesome labor he had accomplished several delightful things. He had touched both men on a raw spot and seen them squirm. He had modified Wilson's sweetness for the twins with one small bitter taste that he wouldn't be able to get out of his mouth right away. And best of all, he had taken the hated twins down a peg with the community. For Blake would gossip around freely after the manner of detectives, and within a week the town would be laughing at them in its sleeve for offering a gaudy reward for a bobble which they either never possessed or hadn't lost. Tom was very well satisfied with himself. Tom's behavior at home had been perfect during the entire week. His uncle and aunt had seen nothing like it before. They could find no fault with him anywhere. Saturday evening he said to the judge, I've had something preying on my mind, uncle, and as I'm going away and might never see you again, I can't bear it any longer. I made you believe I was afraid to fight that Italian adventurer. I had to get out of it, on some pretext or other. And maybe I chose badly, being taken unawares. But no honorable person could consent to meet him in the field knowing what I knew about him. Indeed, what was that? Count Luigi is a confessed assassin. Incredible. It's perfectly true. Wilson detected it in his hand by palmistry and charged him with it and cornered him up so close that he had to confess. But both twins begged us on their knees to keep the secret and swore they would lead straight lives here. And it was all so pitiful that we gave our word of honour never to expose them while they kept the promise. You would have done it yourself, uncle. You're right, my boy, I would. A man's secret is still his own property and sacred when it has been surprised out of him like that. You did well, and I am proud of you. Then he added mournfully. But I wish I could have been saved the shame of meeting an assassin on the field of honour. It couldn't be helped, uncle. If I had known you were going to challenge him, I should have felt obliged to sacrifice my pledged word in order to stop it. But Wilson couldn't be expected to do otherwise than keep silent. Oh no, Wilson did right and is in no way to blame. Tom, Tom, you have lifted a heavy load from my heart. I was stung to the very soul when I seemed to have discovered that I had a coward in my family. You may imagine what it cost me to assume such a part, uncle. Oh, I know it, poor boy. I know it, and I can understand how much it has cost you to remain under that unjust stigma to this time. But it is all right now, and no harm is done. You have restored my comfort of mind and with it your own, and both of us have suffered enough. The old man sat a while, plunged in thought. Then he looked up with a satisfied light in his eye and said, That this assassin should have put the affront upon me of letting me meet him on the field of honour, as if he were a gentleman, as a matter which I will presently settle, but not now. I will not shoot him until after election. I see a way to ruin them both before. I will attend to that first. Neither of them shall be elected that, I promise. You are sure the fact that he as an assassin has not got abroad? Perfectly certain of it, sir. It will be a good card. I will fling a hint at it from the stump on the polling day. It will sweep the ground from under both of them. There is not a doubt of it. It will finish them. That and outside work among the voters will to a certainty. I want you to come down here by and by, and work privately among the rag-tag and bob-tail. You shall spend money among them. I will furnish it. Another point scored against the detested twins. Really, it was a great day for Tom. He was encouraged to chance a parting shot now at the same target, and did it. You know that wonderful Indian knife that the twins have been making such a to-do about. Well there is no track or trace of it yet. So the town is beginning to sneer and gossip and laugh. Half the people believe they never had any such knife. The other half believe they had it and have got it still. I've heard twenty people talking like that today. Yes, Tom's blemishless week had restored him to the favour of his aunt and uncle. His mother was satisfied with him too. Privately she believed she was coming to love him, but she did not say so. She told him to go along to St. Louis now, and she would get ready and follow. Then she smashed her whiskey-bottle and said, Dad, now I is going to make you walk as straight as a string, Chambers, and so I's bone you ain't going to get no bad example out of your mommy. I told you you couldn't go into no bad company. Well you's going into my company, and I's going to fill the bill. Now then trot along, trot along. Tom went aboard one of the big transient boats that night with his heavy satchel of miscellaneous plunder, and slept the sleep of the unjust, which is serener and sounder than the other kind, as we know by the hanging Eve history of a million rascals. But when he got up in the morning, luck was against him again. A brother thief had robbed him while he slept, and gone ashore at some intermediate landing. CHAPTER XVI. If you pick up a starving dog and make him prosperous, he will not bite you. This is the principal difference between a dog and a man. Puddin' Head Wilson's calendar. We all know about the habits of the ant. We know all about the habits of the bee. But we know nothing at all about the habits of the oyster. It seems almost certain that we have been choosing the wrong time for studying the oyster. Puddin' Head Wilson's calendar. When Roxanna arrived, she found her son in such despair and misery that her heart was touched, and her motherhood rose up strong in her. He was ruined, past hope now. His destruction would be immediate and sure, and he would be an outcast and friendless. That was reason enough for a mother to love a child, so she loved him and told him so. It made him wince secretly, for she was a nigger. But he was one himself, was far from reconciling him to that despised race. Roxanna poured out endearments upon him, to which he responded uncomfortably, but as well as he could. And she tried to comfort him, but that was not possible. These intimacies quickly became horrible to him, and within the hour he began to try to get up courage enough to tell her so, and require that they be discontinued, or very considerably modified. But he was afraid of her. And besides, there came a lull now, for she had begun to think. She was trying to invent a saving plan. Finally she started up and said she had found a way out. Tom was almost suffocated by the joy of this sudden good news. Roxanna said, Here is the plan, and she'll win, sure. I's a nigger, and nobody ain't going to doubt it that here's me talk. I's worth six hundred dollars. Take and sell me, and pay off these gamblers. Tom was dazed. He was not sure he had heard it all right. He was dumb for a moment. Then he said, Do you mean that you would be sold into slavery to save me? Ain't you my child? And does you know anything that a mother won't do for her child? There ain't nothing a white mother won't do for her child. Who made him so? The Lord done it. And who made the niggers? The Lord made him. And inside, mothers is all the same. The good Lord, he made him so. I's going to be sold into slavery, and in a year use going to buy your old mammy free again. I'll show you how. That's the plan. Tom's hopes began to rise, and his spirits along with them. He said, It's lovely of you, mammy. Let's just say it again, and keep on saying it. It's all to pay a body can want in this world, and it's mowed in enough. Lous bless you, honey, when I slave round, and Dave boob uses me, if I know's use a say in that way off yonder summers, it'll heal up all dim sore places, and I can stand them. I do say it again, mammy. And I'll keep on saying it, too. But how am I going to sell you? You're free, you know. Much difference that make. White folks ain't particular. The law can sell me now, if they tell me to leave the state in six months, and I don't go. You draw up a paper, bill a sale, and put it way off yonder, down into middle of Kentuck summers, and sign some names to it, and say you'll sell me cheap. Because you's hard up. You'll find you ain't going to have no trouble. You take me up to country apiece and sell me on a farm. Dim people ain't going to ask no questions if I's a bargain. Tom forged a bill of sale, and sold his mother to an Arkansas cotton planter for a trifle over six hundred dollars. He did not want to commit this treachery, but luck threw the man in his way, and this saved him the necessity of going up country to hunt up a purchaser, with the added risk of having to answer a lot of questions. Whereas this planter was so pleased with Roxy that he asked, next to none at all. Besides, the planter insisted that Roxy wouldn't know where she was at first, and that by the time she found out, she would already have been contented. So Tom argued with himself that it was an immense advantage for Roxy to have a master who was pleased with her, as this planter manifestly was. In almost no time his flowing reasonings carried him to the point of even half believing he was doing Roxy a splendid, surreptitious service in selling her down the river. And then he kept diligently saying to himself all the time, It's only for a year. In a year I buy her free again. She'll keep that in mind, and it'll reconcile her. Yes, the little deception could do no harm, and everything would come out right and pleasant in the end, anyway. By agreement the conversation in Roxy's presence was all about the man's up-country farm, and how pleasant a place it was, and how happy the slaves were there. So poor Roxy was entirely deceived, and easily, for she was not dreaming that her son could be guilty of treason to a mother who, involuntarily going into slavery, slavery of any kind, mild or severe, or of any duration, brief or long, was making a sacrifice for him, compared with which death would have been a poor and common place one. She lavished tears and loving caresses upon him privately, and then went away with her owner. She went away, broken-hearted, and yet proud to do it. Tom scored his accounts, and resolved to keep to the very letter of his reform, and never to put that will in jeopardy again. He had three hundred dollars left. According to his mother's plan he was to put that safely away, and add her half of his pension to it monthly. One year this fund would buy her free again. For a whole week he was not able to sleep well, so much the villainy which he had played upon his trusting mother, preyed upon his rag of a conscience. But after that he began to get comfortable again, and was able to sleep like any other miscreant. The boat bore Roxy away from St. Louis at four in the afternoon, and she stood on the lower guard, abaffed the paddle-box, and watched Tom through a blur of tears, until he melted into the throng of people and disappeared. Then she looked no more, but sat there on a coil of cable, crying, till far into the night. When she went to her foul-stirridge bunk at last, between the clashing engines, it was not to sleep, but only to wait for the morning, and waiting, grieve. It had been imagined that she would not know, and would think she was travelling upstream. She, why, she had been steam-boating for years. At dawn she got up and went listlessly and sat down on the cable-coil again. She passed many a snag whose break could have told her a thing to break her heart, for it showed a current moving in the same direction that the boat was going. But her thoughts were elsewhere, and she did not notice. But at last the roar of a bigger and nearer break than usual brought her out of her torpor, and she looked up, and her practised eye fell upon that tell-tale rush of water. For one moment her petrified gaze fixed itself there. Then her head dropped upon her breast, and she said, Oh, the good Lord have mercy upon post-sinful me! Eyes sold down the river. End of CHAPTER XVI. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Tragedy of Puddinhead Wilson by Mark Twain. CHAPTER XVII. The Judge Utters Dyer Prophecy. Even popularity can be overdone. In Rome along at first you are full of regrets that Michelangelo died. But by and by you only regret that you didn't see him do it. Puddinhead Wilson's Calendar. CHAPTER IV. Statistics show that we lose more fools on this day than in all the other days of the year put together. This proves, by the number left in stock, that one fourth of July per year is now inadequate. The country has grown so. Puddinhead Wilson's Calendar. Summer weeks dragged by and then the political campaign opened. Opened in pretty warm fashion and waxed hotter and hotter daily. The twins threw themselves into it with their whole heart, for their self-love was engaged. Their popularity, so general at first, had suffered afterward mainly because they had been too popular and so a natural reaction had followed. Besides it had been diligently whispered around that it was curious, indeed very curious, that that wonderful knife of theirs did not turn up, if it was so valuable, or if it had ever existed. And with the whisperings went chucklings and nudgings and winks, and such things have an effect. The twins considered that success in the election would reinstate them, and that defeat would work them in irreparable damage. Therefore they worked hard, but not harder than Judge Driscoll and Tom worked against them in the closing days of the canvas. Tom's conduct had remained so letter-perfect during two whole months now that his uncle not only trusted him with money with which to persuade voters, but trusted him to go and get it himself out of the safe in the private sitting-room. The closing speech of the campaign was made by Judge Driscoll, and he made it against both of the foreigners. It was disastrously effective. He poured out rivers of ridicule upon them, and forced the big mass meeting to laugh and applaud. He scoffed at them as, adventures, mount-banks, side-show riff-raff, dime-museum freaks. He assailed their showy titles with measureless derision. He said they were back-alley barbers disguised as nobilities, peanut-peddlers masquerading as gentlemen, organ-grinders bereft of their brother-monkey. At last he stopped and stood still. He waited until the place had become absolutely silent and expectant. Then he delivered his deadliest shot. He ordered it with ice-cold seriousness and deliberation, with a significant emphasis upon the closing words. He said he believed that the reward offered for the lost night was humbug and bunkum, and that its owner would know where to find it whenever he should have occasion to assassinate somebody. Then he stepped from the stand, leaving a startled and impressive hush behind him, instead of the customary explosion of cheers and party cries. The strange remark flew far and wide over the town, and made an extraordinary sensation. Everybody was asking, what could he mean by that? And everybody went on asking that question, but in vain, for the judge only said he knew what he was talking about, and stopped there. Tom said he hadn't any idea what his uncle meant, and Wilson, whenever he was asked what he thought it meant, parried the question by asking the questioner what he thought it meant. Wilson was elected. The twins were defeated. They were pushed in fact, and left forlorn and substantially friendless. Tom went back to St. Louis, happy. Dawson's landing had a week of repose now, and it needed it. But it was in an expectant state, for the air was full of rumours of a new duel. Judge Driscoll's election labours had prostrated him, but it was said that, as soon as he was well enough to entertain a challenge, he would get one from Count Luigi. The brothers withdrew entirely from society, and nursed their humiliation in privacy. They avoided the people, and went out for exercise only late at night, when the streets were deserted. CHAPTER 18 ROXANA COMMANDS Gratitude and treachery are merely the two extremities of the same procession. You have seen all of it that is worth staying for, when the band and the gaudy officials have gone by. Puddinhead Wilson's calendar. Thanksgiving day. Let us all give humble, hearty, and sincere thanks now, but the turkeys. In the island of Fiji they do not use turkeys, they use plumbers. It does not become you and me to sneer at Fiji. Puddinhead Wilson's calendar. The Friday after the election was a rainy one in St. Louis. It rained all day long, and rained hard, apparently trying its best to wash that sick blackened town white, but of course not succeeding. Toward midnight Tom Driscoll arrived at his lodgings from the theatre in the heavy downpour, and closed his umbrella, and led himself in. But when he would have shut the door he found that there was another person entering, doubtless another lodger. This person closed the door and tramped upstairs behind Tom. Tom found his door in the dark, and entered it, and turned up the gas. When he faced about, lightly whistling, he saw the back of a man. The man was closing and locking his door from him. His whistle faded out, and he felt uneasy. The man turned around, a wreck of shabby old clothes, sodden with rain and all a drip, and showed a black face under an old slouch hat. Tom was frightened. He tried to order the man out, but the words refused to come, and the other man got the start. He said in a low voice, Keep still, eyes your mother. Tom sunk in a heap on a chair, and gasped out. It was mean of me, and base, I know it, but I meant it for the best. I did indeed. I can swear it. Roxana stood awhile, looking mutely down on him while he writhed in shame, and went on incoherently babbling self-accusations mixed with pitiful attempts at explanation and palliation of his crime. Then she seated herself, and took off her hat, and her unkept masses of long brown hair tumbled down about her shoulders. It was no fault of young that that ain't gray, she said sadly, noticing the hair. I know it. I know it. I'm a scoundrel. But I swear I meant it for the best. It was a mistake, of course, but I thought it was for the best. I truly did. Roxana began to cry softly, and presently words began to find their way out between her sobs. They were uttered lamentingly, rather than angrily. I sell a person down to river, down to river. For the best? I wouldn't treat a dog so. I has all broke down and wore out now, and so I reckon it ain't in me to storm around no more like I used to when I was trampled on and abused. I don't know, but maybe it's so. Most ways I suffered so much that mourning seemed to come more handy to me now than storming. These words should have touched Tom Driscoll. But if they did, that effect was obliterated by a stronger one. One which removed the heavy weight of fear which lay upon him, and gave his crushed spirit a most grateful rebound, and filled all his small soul with a deep sense of relief. But he kept prudently still, and ventured no comment. There was a voiceless interval of some duration now in which no sounds were heard but the beating of the rain upon the pains, the sighing and complaining of the winds, and now and then a muffled sob from Roxanna. The sobs became more and more infrequent, and at last seized. Then the refugee began to talk again. Shut down that light a little. More. More yet. A person that is hunted don't like the light. There, that'll do. I can see where you is, and that's enough. I's gone to tell you to tail, and cut it just as short as I can, and then I'll tell you what you's got to do. That man that bought me ain't a bad man. He's good enough as planters go, and if he could have had his way, I'd have been a house servant in his family and been comfortable. But his wife, she was a yank, and not right down good-looking, and she rizz up again me straight off. So then they sent me out to the quarter amongst the common-feel hands. That woman weren't satisfied even with that, but she worked up to overseer again me. She is that jealous and hateful. To the overseer, he had me out before day and the mornings, and worked me to a whole long day, as long as day is any light to see by, and many's the lashes I got, because I couldn't come up to work at the strongest. That overseer was a yank, too, out in New England, and anybody down south can tell you what that mean. They knows how to work a nigger to death, and they knows how to wail them, too. Wail them till day backs as welted like a washboard. Long at first my master said a good word for me to the overseer, but that is bad for me, for the missus, she find it out, and after that I just catched it at every turn. They weren't no mercy for me, no moan. Tom's heart was fired, with fury against the planter's wife, and he said to himself, But for that meddlesome fool everything would have gone all right. He added a deep and bitter curse against her. The expression of this sentiment was fiercely written in his face, and stood thus revealed to Roxanna by a white glare of lightning, which turned the somber desk of the room into dazzling day at that moment. She was pleased, pleased and grateful, for did not that expression show that her child was capable of grieving for his mother's wrongs, and a feeling resentment toward her persecutors, a thing which she had been doubting. But her flash of happiness was only a flash, and went out again, and left her spirit dark. For she said to herself, He sold me down the river. He can't feel, for a body long, this'll pass and go. Then she took up her tail again. About ten days ago I was saying to myself that I couldn't last many more weeks, I was so wore out with the awful work and the lassions, and so downhearted and miserable. And I didn't care no more, neither. Life weren't worth nothing to me if I got to go on like that. Well when a body is in a frame of mine like that, what do a body care, what a body do? Today was a little sickly nigger wench, about ten-year-old, that is good to me, and hadn't no mammy, poh-thing. And I loved her, and she loved me, and she came out while I was working, and she had a roasted tater, and tried to slip it to me, robbing herself, you see, because she know'd the overseer didn't give me enough to eat. And he catch'd her at it, and give her a lick across the back with his stick, which is as thick as a broom-handle. And she dropped, screaming, on the ground, and squirming, and wallerin' about into dust like a spider that's got crippled. I couldn't stand it, all the hell fired it was ever in my heart, flame up, and I snatched a stick out in his hand and laid him flat. He laid down moanin' and cussin' and all out of his head, you know, and the niggers as plum-scared to death. They gathered round him to help him, and I jumped on his horse, and took off for the river as fast as I could go. I know'd what they would do with me. Soon as he got well he would start in and work me to death, if master let him, and if they didn't do that they'd sell me furter down the river. And that's the same thing, so I allowed to drown myself and get out of my troubles. It is gettin' towards dark. I was at the river in two minutes. Then I see a canoe, and I says, they ain't no use to drown myself till I got to. So I ties the horse and the edge of the timber, and shove out on the river, keepin' in under the shelter at a bluff bank and prayin' for the dark to shut down quick. I had a powerful good start, because the big house is three miles back from the river, and only to work mules to ride down on, and only niggers ride them, and they ain't goin' to hurry. They'd give me all the chance they could. Before a body could go to the house and back it'd be long past dark, and they couldn't track the horse and find out which way I went till Monon, and the niggers would tell them all the lies they could about it. Well the dark come, and I went on a spinnin' down the river. I paddled Monon two hours, then I weren't worried no more, so I quit paddling and floated down the current, considering what I was going to do if I didn't have to drown myself. I made up some plans and floated along, turnin' them over in my mind. Well, when it was a little past midnight, and I reckoned, and I had come fifteen or twenty mile, I'd see the lights a steamboat layin' at the bank, where there weren't no town and no woodyard, and pretty soon I'd catch the shape of the chimney tops again to stars, and then, good gracious me, I most jumped out of my skin for joy. It is the grand mogul. I was chambermaid on her for eight seasons into Cincinnati and Orleans trade. I slid long past, don't see nobody stirrin' nowhere. Here I'm a hammerin' away in the engine room, then I knowed what the matter was. Some of the machinery's broke. I got a show below the boat and turned to canoe loose. Then I goes long up, and there's just one plank out, and I step board the boat. It is powerful hot. Deckums and roustabouts is sprawled around, sleepin' on the focusle. The second mate, Jim Bangs, he sought down the bits with his head down asleep, because that's the way the second mate stand the cappins watch. And in the old watchman, Billy Hatch, he is a noddin' on the companion way. And I knowed him all, and land but did they look good. I says to myself, I wish the old master had come along now, and try to take me, bless your heart, as mong friends I is. So I trumped right along Munchstem, and went on to Biler Deck, and way back aft to the ladies' cabin-guard, and sought down there in the same cheer that I'd sought in Mosa a hundred million times, I reckon. And it is just home again, I tell ya. In about an hour I heard the ready bell jingle, and then the racket begin. Putty soon I heard a gong strike. Set her back on the outside, I says to myself, I reckon I knowed that music. I heard a gong again. Come ahead on the inside, I says. Gong again. Stop the outside. Gong again. Come ahead on the outside. Now we's pinted for St. Louis and eyes out of the woods, and ain't got to drown myself at all. I knowed the mogul is in St. Louis trade now, you see. It is just fair daylight when we passed our plantation, and I see the gang and niggers and white folks hunting up and down the show, and trouble in day sells a good deal about me. But I warn't trouble on myself none about them. About that time Sally Jackson, that used to be my second chambermaid and is head chambermaid now, she come out on the guard, and is powerful glad to see me, and so is all the officers. And I told them I'd got kidnapped and sold down the river, and they made me up twenty dollars and give it to me. And Sally, she rigged me out with good clothes, and when I got here I went straight to where you used to was, and then I come to this house, and they say use away, but expect it back every day. So I didn't dast go down the river to Dawson's, because I might miss you. Well last Monday I was passing by one of them places in Fourth Street where they sticks up, run away nigger-bills, and helps to catch them, and I cede my master. I most flopped down on the ground, I felt so gone. He had his back to me, and is talking to the man, and givin' him some bills. After bills I reckon, and I is the nigger. He's offerin' a reward, that's it. Ain't I right, don't you reckon?" Tom had been gradually sinking into a state of ghastly terror, and he said to himself now, I'm lost, no matter what turn things take. This man has said to me that he thinks there was something suspicious about that sale. He said he had a letter from a passenger on the grand mogul saying that Roxy came here on that boat, and that everybody on board knew all about the case. So he says that her coming here instead of flyin' to a free state looks bad for me, and that if I don't find her for him, that pretty soon he'll make trouble for me. I never believed that story. I couldn't believe she would be so dead to all motherly instincts as to come here. Knowin' the risk she would run of gettin' me in irremediable trouble. And after all, here she is. And I stupidly swore I would help find her, thinking it was perfectly safe thing to promise. If I venture to deliver her up, she—but how can I help myself? I've got to do that, or pay the money. And where's the money to come from? I—well, I should think that if he would swear to treat her kindly hereafter, and she says herself that he is a good man, and if he would swear to never allow her to be overworked, or ill-fed, or a flash of lightning exposed to Tom's pallid face, drawn and rigid with these worrying thoughts. Roxana spoke up sharply now, and there was apprehension in her voice. Turn up that light. I want to see your face better. Down now, let me look at you. Yours uses white as your shirt. Has you seen that man? Has he been to see you? Yes. When? Monday noon. Monday noon was he on my track? He—well, he thought he was. That is, he hoped he was. This is the bill you saw. He took it out of his pocket. Read it to me. She was panting with excitement, and there was a dusky glow in her eyes that Tom could not translate with certainty, but there seemed to be something threatening about it. The hand-bill had the usual rude woodcut of a turbaned negro woman running, with the customary bundle on a stick over her shoulder, with the heading and bold type—$100 reward. Tom read the bill aloud, at least the part that described Roxana, and named the master and his St. Louis address, and the address of the Fourth Street Agency, but he left out the item that applicants for the reward might also apply to Mr. Thomas Driscoll. Give me the bill. Tom had folded it, and was putting it in his pocket. He felt a chilly streak creeping down his back, but sad as carelessly as he could. The bill? Why, it isn't any use to you. You can't read it. What do you want with it? Give me the bill. Tom gave it to her, but with a reluctance which he could not entirely disguise. Did you read it all to me? Certainly I did. Hold up your hand and swear to it. Tom did it. Roxana put the bill carefully away in her pocket, with her eyes fixed upon Tom's face all the while. Then she said, Use lion. What would I want to lie about it for? I don't know, but you is. That's my opinion, anyways, but never mind about that. When I see that man, I is that scared that I could scarcely wobble home. Then I give a nigger man a dollar for these clothes, and I ain't been in a house since night and her day till now. I blacked my face and laid hid in the cellar of an old house that's burnt down day times, and robbed the sugar hog's heads and grain sacks on the wharf nights to get something to eat, and never dashed to try to buy nothing. And I was most starved. And I never dashed to come near this place till this rainy night when there ain't no people around scarcely. But tonight I've been a-standin' in the dark alley ever since night come, waitin' for you to go by. And here I is. She fell to thinking. Presently, she said, you see that man at noon last Monday? Yes. I see'd him middle of that afternoon. He hunted you up, didn't he? Yes. Did he give you to bill that time? No, he hadn't got it printed yet. Roxana darted a suspicious glance at him. Did you help him fix up the bill? Tom cursed himself for making that stupid blunder and tried to rectify it by saying he remembered now that it was at noon Monday that the man gave him the bill. Roxana said, you's lyin' again, show! Then she straightened up and raised her finger. Now, then, I is going to ask you a question. And I wants to know how you's going to get around it. You knowed he is after me. And if you run off, still to stay in here to help him, he'd know there's something wrong about this business. And then he would inquire about you. And that would take him to your uncle. And your uncle would read the bill and see that you've been sellin' a free nigger down the river. And you know him, I reckon. He'd tear up that will and kick you out in the house. Now, then, you answer me this question. Hey, you told that man that I would be show to come here. And then you would fix it so he could set a trap and catch me. Tom recognized that neither lies nor arguments could help him any longer. He was in a vice, with the screw turned on, and out of it there was no budging. His face began to take on an ugly look. And presently he said with a snarl, well, what could I do? You see yourself that I was in his grip and couldn't get out. Roxy scorched him with a scornful gaze a while. Then she said, what could you do? You could be Judas to your own mother to save your worthless hide. Would anybody believe it? No, a dog couldn't. You is the low, downest, ornest hound that was ever popped into this world and eyes responsible for it. And she spat on him. He made no effort to resent this. Roxy reflected a moment. Then she said, now I'll tell you what you's going to do. You's going to give that man the money that you's got laid up and make him wait till you can go to the judge and get the rest and buy me free again. Thunder, what are you thinking of? Go and ask him for three hundred dollars and odd? What would I tell him I want it for, pray? Roxy's answer was delivered in a serene and level voice. You'll tell him you sold me to pay your gambling debts and that you lied to me and was a villain and that I acquires you to get that money and buy me back again. Why, you've gone stark mad. He would tear the will to shreds in a minute. Don't you know that? Yes, I does. Then you don't believe I'm idiot enough to go to him, do you? I don't believe nothing about it. I knows you's are going. I knows it, because you knows that if you don't raise that money I'll go to him myself, and then he'll sell you down to River, and you can see how you like it. Tom rose, trembling and excited, and there was an evil light in his eye. He strode to the door and said he must get out of this suffocating place for a moment and clear his brain and the fresh air, so that he could determine what to do. The door wouldn't open. Roxy smiled grimly and said, I's got a key, honey. Sit down. You needn't clear up your brain none to find out what you's going to do. I knows what you's going to do. Tom sat down and began to pass his hands through his hair with a helpless and desperate air. Roxy said, Is that man in this house? Tom glanced up with a surprised expression and asked, What gave you such an idea? You'd done it, going out to clear your brain, and the first place you ain't got none to clear, and in the second place you only eye-toll on you. Used to load down his hound, did ever, but I'd done told you that before. Now then, this is Friday. You can fix it up with that man and tell him you's going away to get the rest of the money, and that you'll be back with it next Tuesday or maybe Wednesday. You understand? Tom answered solemnly. Yes. And when you gets the new bill of sale that sells me back to my own self, take and send it into mail to Mr. Puddinhead Wilson, and write on the back that he's to keep it till I come. You understand? Yes. That's all then. Take your umbrella and put on your hat. Why? Because you's going to see me home to the wharf. You see this knife? I's toted it round, since today I see'd that man and bought these clothes in it. If he catch me, I's going to kill myself with it. And I start along and go soft and lead the way. And if you gives a sign in this house, or if anybody comes up to you and the street, I's going to jam it right into you. Chambers, does you believe me when I says that? It's no use to bother me with that question. I know your words good. Yeah, it's different from yelling. Shet the light out and move along. Here's the key. They were not followed. Tom trembled every time a late straggler brushed by them on the street, and half expected to feel the cold steel in his back. Roxy was right at his heels, and always in reach. After tramping a mile, they reached a wide vacancy on the deserted wharves, and in this dark and rainy desert they parted. As Tom trudged home, his mind was full of dreary thoughts and wild plans. But at last he said to himself, wearily, there is but one way out. I must follow her plan, but with the variation. I will not ask for the money and ruin myself. I will rob the old skin flint. End of chapter 18.