LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

fetched back the iron thing they lift the lid with; so he took it and prized out one of the staples. The chain fell down, and we opened the door and went in, and shut it, and struck a match, and see the shed was only built against a cabin and hadn’t no connection with it; and there warn’t no floor to the shed, nor nothing in it but some old rusty played-out hoes and spades and picks and a crippled plow. The match went out, and so did we, and shoved in the staple again, and the door was locked as good as ever. Tom was joyful. He says;

      “Now we’re all right. We’ll dig him out. It ‘ll take about a week!”

      Then we started for the house, and I went in the back door—you only have to pull a buckskin latch-string, they don’t fasten the doors—but that warn’t romantical enough for Tom Sawyer; no way would do him but he must climb up the lightning-rod. But after he got up half way about three times, and missed fire and fell every time, and the last time most busted his brains out, he thought he’d got to give it up; but after he was rested he allowed he would give her one more turn for luck, and this time he made the trip.

      In the morning we was up at break of day, and down to the nigger cabins to pet the dogs and make friends with the nigger that fed Jim—if it was Jim that was being fed. The niggers was just getting through breakfast and starting for the fields; and Jim’s nigger was piling up a tin pan with bread and meat and things; and whilst the others was leaving, the key come from the house.

      This nigger had a good-natured, chuckle-headed face, and his wool was all tied up in little bunches with thread. That was to keep witches off. He said the witches was pestering him awful these nights, and making him see all kinds of strange things, and hear all kinds of strange words and noises, and he didn’t believe he was ever witched so long before in his life. He got so worked up, and got to running on so about his troubles, he forgot all about what he’d been a-going to do. So Tom says:

      “What’s the vittles for? Going to feed the dogs?”

      The nigger kind of smiled around gradually over his face, like when you heave a brickbat in a mud-puddle, and he says:

      “Yes, Mars Sid, A dog. Cur’us dog, too. Does you want to go en look at ‘im?”

      “Yes.”

      I hunched Tom, and whispers:

      “You going, right here in the daybreak? that warn’t the plan.”

      “No, it warn’t; but it’s the plan now.”

      So, drat him, we went along, but I didn’t like it much. When we got in we couldn’t hardly see anything, it was so dark; but Jim was there, sure enough, and could see us; and he sings out:

      “Why, Huck! En good lan’! ain’ dat Misto Tom?”

      I just knowed how it would be; I just expected it. I didn’t know nothing to do; and if I had I couldn’t a done it, because that nigger busted in and says:

      “Why, de gracious sakes! do he know you genlmen?”

      We could see pretty well now. Tom he looked at the nigger, steady and kind of wondering, and says:

      “Does who know us?”

      “Why, dis-yer runaway nigger.”

      “I don’t reckon he does; but what put that into your head?”

      “What put it dar? Didn’ he jis’ dis minute sing out like he knowed you?”

      Tom says, in a puzzled-up kind of way:

      “Well, that’s mighty curious. Who sung out? when did he sing out? what did he sing out?” And turns to me, perfectly ca’m, and says, “Did you hear anybody sing out?”

      Of course there warn’t nothing to be said but the one thing; so I says:

      “No; I ain’t heard nobody say nothing.”

      Then he turns to Jim, and looks him over like he never see him before, and says:

      “Did you sing out?”

      “No, sah,” says Jim; “I hain’t said nothing, sah.”

      “Not a word?”

      “No, sah, I hain’t said a word.”

      “Did you ever see us before?”

      “No, sah; not as I knows on.”

      So Tom turns to the nigger, which was looking wild and distressed, and says, kind of severe:

      “What do you reckon’s the matter with you, anyway? What made you think somebody sung out?”

      “Oh, it’s de dad-blame’ witches, sah, en I wisht I was dead, I do. Dey’s awluz at it, sah, en dey do mos’ kill me, dey sk’yers me so. Please to don’t tell nobody ‘bout it sah, er ole Mars Silas he’ll scole me; ‘kase he say dey ain’t no witches. I jis’ wish to goodness he was heah now—den what would he say! I jis’ bet he couldn’ fine no way to git aroun’ it dis time. But it’s awluz jis’ so; people dat’s sot, stays sot; dey won’t look into noth’n’en fine it out f’r deyselves, en when you fine it out en tell um ‘bout it, dey doan’ b’lieve you.”

      Tom give him a dime, and said we wouldn’t tell nobody; and told him to buy some more thread to tie up his wool with; and then looks at Jim, and says:

      “I wonder if Uncle Silas is going to hang this nigger. If I was to catch a nigger that was ungrateful enough to run away, I wouldn’t give him up, I’d hang him.” And whilst the nigger stepped to the door to look at the dime and bite it to see if it was good, he whispers to Jim and says:

      “Don’t ever let on to know us. And if you hear any digging going on nights, it’s us; we’re going to set you free.”

      Jim only had time to grab us by the hand and squeeze it; then the nigger come back, and we said we’d come again some time if the nigger wanted us to; and he said he would, more particular if it was dark, because the witches went for him mostly in the dark, and it was good to have folks around then.

      Chapter XXXV.

       Table of Contents

      It would be most an hour yet till breakfast, so we left and struck down into the woods; because Tom said we got to have some light to see how to dig by, and a lantern makes too much, and might get us into trouble; what we must have was a lot of them rotten chunks that’s called fox-fire, and just makes a soft kind of a glow when you lay them in a dark place. We fetched an armful and hid it in the weeds, and set down to rest, and Tom says, kind of dissatisfied:

      “Blame it, this whole thing is just as easy and awkward as it can be. And so it makes it so rotten difficult to get up a difficult plan. There ain’t no watchman to be drugged—now there ought to be a watchman. There ain’t even a dog to give a sleeping-mixture to. And there’s Jim chained by one leg, with a ten-foot chain, to the leg of his bed: why, all you got to do is to lift up the bedstead and slip off the chain. And Uncle Silas he trusts everybody; sends the key to the punkin-headed nigger, and don’t send nobody to watch the nigger. Jim could a got out of that window-hole before this, only there wouldn’t be no use trying to travel with a ten-foot chain on his leg. Why, drat it, Huck, it’s the stupidest arrangement I ever see. You got to invent all the difficulties. Well, we can’t help it; we got to do the best we can with the materials we’ve got. Anyhow, there’s one thing—there’s more honor in getting him out through a lot of difficulties and dangers, where there warn’t one of them furnished to you by the people who it was their duty to furnish them, and you had to contrive them all out of your own head. Now look at just that one thing of the lantern. When you come down to the cold facts, we simply

Скачать книгу