CHAPTER XI
" COME in," says the woman, and I did. She says:
"Take a cheer."
I done it. She looked me all over with her little
shiny eyes, and says:
"What might your name be?"
"Sarah Williams."
"Where 'bouts do you live? In this neighborhood?'
"No'm. In Hookerville, seven mile below. I've walked
all the way and I'm all tired out."
"Hungry, too, I reckon. I'll find you something."
"No'm, I ain't hungry. I was so hungry I had to stop
two miles below here at a farm; so I ain't hungry no
more. It's what makes me so late. My mother's down
sick, and out of money and everything, and I come to
tell my uncle Abner Moore. He lives at the upper end
of the town, she says. I hain't ever been here
before. Do you know him?"
"No; but I don't know everybody yet. I haven't lived
here quite two weeks. It's a considerable ways to
the upper end of the town. You better stay here all
night. Take off your bonnet."
"No," I says; "I'll rest a while, I reckon, and go
on. I ain't afeared of the dark."
She said she wouldn't let me go by myself, but her
husband would be in by and by, maybe in a hour and
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a half, and she'd send him along with me. Then she
got to talking about her husband, and about her
relations up the river, and her relations down the
river, and about how much better off they used to
was, and how they didn't know but they'd made a
mistake coming to our town, instead of letting well
alone -- and so on and so on, till I was afeard I
had made a mistake coming to her to find out what
was going on in the town; but by and by she dropped
on to pap and the murder, and then I was pretty
willing to let her clatter right along. She told
about me and Tom Sawyer finding the six thousand
dollars (only she got it ten) and all about pap and
what a hard lot he was, and what a hard lot I was,
and at last she got down to where I was murdered. I
says:
"Who done it? We've heard considerable about these
goings on down in Hookerville, but we don't know who
'twas that killed Huck Finn."
"Well, I reckon there's a right smart chance of
people here that'd like to know who killed him. Some
think old Finn done it himself."
"No -- is that so?"
"Most everybody thought it at first. He'll never
know how nigh he come to getting lynched. But before
night they changed around and judged it was done by
a runaway nigger named Jim."
"Why he -- "
I stopped. I reckoned I better keep still. She run
on, and never noticed I had put in at all:
"The nigger run off the very night Huck Finn was
killed. So there's a reward out for him -- three
hundred dollars. And there's a reward out for old
Finn, too -- two hundred dollars. You see, he come
to town
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the morning after the murder, and told about it, and
was out with 'em on the ferryboat hunt, and right
away after he up and left. Before night they wanted
to lynch him, but he was gone, you see. Well, next
day they found out the nigger was gone; they found
out he hadn't ben seen sence ten o'clock the night
the murder was done. So then they put it on him, you
see; and while they was full of it, next day, back
comes old Finn, and went boo-hooing to Judge
Thatcher to get money to hunt for the nigger all
over Illinois with. The judge gave him some, and
that evening he got drunk, and was around till after
midnight with a couple of mighty hard-looking
strangers, and then went off with them. Well, he
hain't come back sence, and they ain't looking for
him back till this thing blows over a little, for
people thinks now that he killed his boy and fixed
things so folks would think robbers done it, and
then he'd get Huck's money without having to bother
a long time with a lawsuit. People do say he warn't
any too good to do it. Oh, he's sly, I reckon. If he
don't come back for a year he'll be all right. You
can't prove anything on him, you know; everything
will be quieted down then, and he'll walk in Huck's
money as easy as nothing."
"Yes, I reckon so, 'm. I don't see nothing in the
way of it. Has everybody guit thinking the nigger
done it?"
"Oh, no, not everybody. A good many thinks he done
it. But they'll get the nigger pretty soon now, and
maybe they can scare it out of him."
"Why, are they after him yet?"
"Well, you're innocent, ain't you! Does three hun-
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dred dollars lay around every day for people to pick
up? Some folks think the nigger ain't far from here.
I'm one of them -- but I hain't talked it around. A
few days ago I was talking with an old couple that
lives next door in the log shanty, and they happened
to say hardly anybody ever goes to that island over
yonder that they call Jackson's Island. Don't
anybody live there? says I. No, nobody, says they. I
didn't say any more, but I done some thinking. I was
pretty near certain I'd seen smoke over there, about
the head of the island, a day or two before that, so
I says to myself, like as not that nigger's hiding
over there; anyway, says I, it's worth the trouble
to give the place a hunt. I hain't seen any smoke
sence, so I reckon maybe he's gone, if it was him;
but husband's going over to see -- him and another
man. He was gone up the river; but he got back
to-day, and I told him as soon as he got here two
hours ago."
I had got so uneasy I couldn't set still. I had to
do something with my hands; so I took up a needle
off of the table and went to threading it. My hands
shook, and I was making a bad job of it. When the
woman stopped talking I looked up, and she was
looking at me pretty curious and smiling a little. I
put down the needle and thread, and let on to be
interested -- and I was, too -- and says:
"Three hundred dollars is a power of money. I wish
my mother could get it. Is your husband going over
there to-night?"
"Oh, yes. He went up-town with the man I was telling
you of, to get a boat and see if they could borrow
another gun. They'll go over after midnight."
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"Couldn't they see better if they was to wait till
daytime?"
"Yes. And couldn't the nigger see better, too? After
midnight he'll likely be asleep, and they can slip
around through the woods and hunt up his camp fire
all the better for the dark, if he's got one."
"I didn't think of that."
The woman kept looking at me pretty curious, and I
didn't feel a bit comfortable. Pretty soon she says:
"What did you say your name was, honey?"
"M -- Mary Williams."
Somehow it didn't seem to me that I said it was Mary
before, so I didn't look up -- seemed to me I said
it was Sarah; so I felt sort of cornered, and was
afeared maybe I was looking it, too. I wished the
woman would say something more; the longer she set
still the uneasier I was. But now she says:
"Honey, I thought you said it was Sarah when you
first come in?"
"Oh, yes'm, I did. Sarah Mary Williams. Sarah's my
first name. Some calls me Sarah, some calls me
Mary."
"Oh, that's the way of it?"
"Yes'm."
I was feeling better then, but I wished I was out of
there, anyway. I couldn't look up yet.
Well, the woman fell to talking about how hard times
was, and how poor they had to live, and how the rats
was as free as if they owned the place, and so forth
and so on, and then I got easy again. She was right
about the rats. You'd see one stick his nose out of
a hole in the corner every little while. She said
she had to have things handy to throw at them
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when she was alone, or they wouldn't give her no
peace. She showed me a bar of lead twisted up into a
knot, and said she was a good shot with it generly,
but she'd wrenched her arm a day or two ago, and
didn't know whether she could throw true now. But
she watched for a chance, and directly banged away
at a rat; but she missed him wide, and said "Ouch!"
it hurt her arm so. Then she told me to try for the
next one. I wanted to be getting away before the old
man got back, but of course I didn't let on. I got
the thing, and the first rat that showed his nose I
let drive, and if he'd a stayed where he was he'd a
been a tolerable sick rat. She said that was
first-rate, and she reckoned I would hive the next
one. She went and got the lump of lead and fetched
it back, and brought along a hank of yarn which she
wanted me to help her with. I held up my two hands
and she put the hank over them, and went on talking
about her and her husband's matters. But she broke
off to say:
"Keep your eye on the rats. You better have the lead
in your lap, handy."
So she dropped the lump into my lap just at that
moment, and I clapped my legs together on it and she
went on talking. But only about a minute. Then she
took off the hank and looked me straight in the
face, and very pleasant, and says:
"Come, now, what's your real name?"
"Wh -- what, mum?"
"What's your real name? Is it Bill, or Tom, or Bob?
-- or what is it?"
I reckon I shook like a leaf, and I didn't know
hardly what to do. But I says:
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"Please to don't poke fun at a poor girl like me,
mum. If I'm in the way here, I'll -- "
"No, you won't. Set down and stay where you are. I
ain't going to hurt you, and I ain't going to tell
on you, nuther. You just tell me your secret, and
trust me. I'll keep it; and, what's more, I'll help
you. So'll my old man if you want him to. You see,
you're a runaway 'prentice, that's all. It ain't
anything. There ain't no harm in it. You've been
treated bad, and you made up your mind to cut. Bless
you, child, I wouldn't tell on you. Tell me all
about it now, that's a good boy."
So I said it wouldn't be no use to try to play it
any longer, and I would just make a clean breast and
tell her everything, but she musn't go back on her
promise. Then I told her my father and mother was
dead, and the law had bound me out to a mean old
farmer in the country thirty mile back from the
river, and he treated me so bad I couldn't stand it
no longer; he went away to be gone a couple of days,
and so I took my chance and stole some of his
daughter's old clothes and cleared out, and I had
been three nights coming the thirty miles. I
traveled nights, and hid daytimes and slept, and the
bag of bread and meat I carried from home lasted me
all the way, and I had a-plenty. I said I believed
my uncle Abner Moore would take care of me, and so
that was why I struck out for this town of Goshen.
"Goshen, child? This ain't Goshen. This is St.
Petersburg. Goshen's ten mile further up the river.
Who told you this was Goshen?"
"Why, a man I met at daybreak this morning, just as
I was going to turn into the woods for my regular
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sleep. He told me when the roads forked I must take
the right hand, and five mile would fetch me to
Goshen."
"He was drunk, I reckon. He told you just exactly
wrong."
"Well,,he did act like he was drunk, but it ain't no
matter now. I got to be moving along. I'll fetch
Goshen before daylight."
"Hold on a minute. I'll put you up a snack to eat.
You might want it."
So she put me up a snack, and says:
"Say, when a cow's laying down, which end of her
gets up first? Answer up prompt now -- don't stop to
study over it. Which end gets up first?"
"The hind end, mum."
"Well, then, a horse?"
"The for'rard end, mum."
"Which side of a tree does the moss grow on?"
"North side."
"If fifteen cows is browsing on a hillside, how many
of them eats with their heads pointed the same
direction?"
"The whole fifteen, mum."
"Well, I reckon you have lived in the country. I
thought maybe you was trying to hocus me again.
What's your real name, now?"
"George Peters, mum."
"Well, try to remember it, George. Don't forget and
tell me it's Elexander before you go, and then get
out by saying it's George Elexander when I catch
you. And don't go about women in that old calico.
You do a girl tolerable poor, but you might fool
men, maybe. Bless you, child, when you set out to
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thread a needle don't hold the thread still and
fetch the needle up to it; hold the needle still and
poke the thread at it; that's the way a woman most
always does, but a man always does t'other way. And
when you throw at a rat or anything, hitch yourself
up a tiptoe and fetch your hand up over your head as
awkward as you can, and miss your rat about six or
seven foot. Throw stiff-armed from the shoulder,
like there was a pivot there for it to turn on, like
a girl; not from the wrist and elbow, with your arm
out to one side, like a boy. And, mind you, when a
girl tries to catch anything in her lap she throws
her knees apart; she don't clap them together, the
way you did when you catched the lump of lead. Why,
I spotted you for a boy when you was threading the
needle; and I contrived the other things just to
make certain. Now trot along to your uncle, Sarah
Mary Williams George Elexander Peters, and if you
get into trouble you send word to Mrs. Judith
Loftus, which is me, and I'll do what I can to get
you out of it. Keep the river road all the way, and
next time you tramp take shoes and socks with you.
The river road's a rocky one, and your feet'll be in
a condition when you get to Goshen, I reckon."
I went up the bank about fifty yards, and then I
doubled on my tracks and slipped back to where my
canoe was, a good piece below the house. I jumped
in, and was off in a hurry. I went up-stream far
enough to make the head of the island, and then
started across. I took off the sun-bonnet, for I
didn't want no blinders on then. When I was about
the middle I heard the clock begin to strike, so I
stops and listens; the sound come faint over the
water but
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clear -- eleven. When I struck the head of the
island I never waited to blow, though I was most
winded, but I shoved right into the timber where my
old camp used to be, and started a good fire there
on a high and dry spot.
Then I jumped in the canoe and dug out for our
place, a mile and a half below, as hard as I could
go. I landed, and slopped through the timber and up
the ridge and into the cavern. There Jim laid, sound
asleep on the ground. I roused him out and says:
"Git up and hump yourself, Jim! There ain't a minute
to lose. They're after us!"
Jim never asked no questions, he never said a word;
but the way he worked for the next half an hour
showed about how he was scared. By that time
everything we had in the world was on our raft, and
she was ready to be shoved out from the willow cove
where she was hid. We put out the camp fire at the
cavern the first thing, and didn't show a candle
outside after that.
I took the canoe out from the shore a little piece,
and took a look; but if there was a boat around I
couldn't see it, for stars and shadows ain't good to
see by. Then we got out the raft and slipped along
down in the shade, past the foot of the island dead
still -- never saying a word.
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