LITMIR.BIZ

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so as to get some blood, and then you put the blood on one piece of the bean and take and dig a hole and bury it ’bout midnight at the crossroads in the dark of the moon, and then you burn up the rest of the bean. You see that piece that’s got the blood on it will keep drawing and drawing, trying to fetch the other piece to it, and so that helps the blood to draw the wart, and pretty soon off she comes.”

      “Yes, that’s it, Huck—that’s it; though when you’re burying it if you say ‘Down bean; off wart; come no more to bother me!’ it’s better. That’s the way Joe Harper does, and he’s been nearly to Coonville and most everywheres. But say—how do you cure ’em with dead cats?”

      “Why, you take your cat and go and get in the grave-yard ’long about midnight when somebody that was wicked has been buried; and when it’s midnight a devil will come, or maybe two or three, but you can’t see ’em, you can only hear something like the wind, or maybe hear ’em talk; and when they’re taking that feller away, you heave your cat after ’em and say, ‘Devil follow corpse, cat follow devil, warts follow cat, I’m done with ye!’ That’ll fetch any wart.”

      “Sounds right. D’you ever try it, Huck?”

      “No, but old Mother Hopkins told me.”

      “Well, I reckon it’s so, then. Becuz they say she’s a witch.”

      “Say! Why, Tom, I know she is. She witched pap. Pap says so his own self. He come along one day, and he see she was a-witching him, so he took up a rock, and if she hadn’t dodged, he’d a got her. Well, that very night he rolled off’n a shed wher’ he was a layin drunk, and broke his arm.”

      “Why, that’s awful. How did he know she was a-witching him?”

      “Lord, pap can tell, easy. Pap says when they keep looking at you right stiddy, they’re a-witching you. Specially if they mumble. Becuz when they mumble they’re saying the Lord’s Prayer backards.”

      “Say, Hucky, when you going to try the cat?”

      “To-night. I reckon they’ll come after old Hoss Williams to-night.”

      “But they buried him Saturday. Didn’t they get him Saturday night?”

      “Why, how you talk! How could their charms work till midnight?—and then it’s Sunday. Devils don’t slosh around much of a Sunday, I don’t reckon.”

      “I never thought of that. That’s so. Lemme go with you?”

      “Of course—if you ain’t afeard.”

      “Afeard! ’Tain’t likely. Will you meow?”

      “Yes—and you meow back, if you get a chance. Last time, you kep’ me a-meowing around till old Hays went to throwing rocks at me and says ‘Dern that cat!’ and so I hove a brick through his window—but don’t you tell.”

      “I won’t. I couldn’t meow that night, becuz auntie was watching me, but I’ll meow this time. Say—what’s that?”

      “Nothing but a tick.”

      “Where’d you get him?”

      “Out in the woods.”

      “What’ll you take for him?”

      “I don’t know. I don’t want to sell him.”

      “All right. It’s a mighty small tick, anyway.”

      “Oh, anybody can run a tick down that don’t belong to them. I’m satisfied with it. It’s a good enough tick for me.”

      “Sho, there’s ticks a plenty. I could have a thousand of ’em if I wanted to.”

      “Well, why don’t you? Becuz you know mighty well you can’t. This is a pretty early tick, I reckon. It’s the first one I’ve seen this year.”

      “Say, Huck—I’ll give you my tooth for him.”

      “Less see it.”

      Tom got out a bit of paper and carefully unrolled it. Huckleberry viewed it wistfully. The temptation was very strong. At last he said:

      “Is it genuwyne?”

      Tom lifted his lip and showed the vacancy.

      “Well, all right,” said Huckleberry, “it’s a trade.”

      Tom enclosed the tick in the percussion-cap box that had lately been the pinchbug’s prison, and the boys separated, each feeling wealthier than before.

      When Tom reached the little isolated frame school-house, he strode in briskly, with the manner of one who had come with all honest speed. He hung his hat on a peg and flung himself into his seat with business-like alacrity. The master, throned on high in his great splint-bottom arm-chair, was dozing, lulled by the drowsy hum of study. The interruption roused him.

      “Thomas Sawyer!”

      Tom knew that when his name was pronounced in full, it meant trouble.

      “Sir!”

      “Come up here. Now, sir, why are you late again, as usual?”

      Tom was about to take refuge in a lie, when he saw two long tails of yellow hair hanging down a back that he recognized by the electric sympathy of love; and by that form was the only vacant place on the girls’ side of the school-house. He instantly said:

      “I stopped to talk with Huckleberry Finn!”

      The master’s pulse stood still, and he stared helplessly. The buzz of study ceased. The pupils wondered if this foolhardy boy had lost his mind. The master said:

      “You—you did what?”

      “Stopped to talk with Huckleberry Finn.”

      There was no mistaking the words.

      “Thomas Sawyer, this is the most astounding confession I have ever listened to. No mere ferule will answer for this offence. Take off your jacket.”

      The master’s arm performed until it was tired and the stock of switches notably diminished. Then the order followed:

      “Now, sir, go and sit with the girls! And let this be a warning to you.”

      The titter that rippled around the room appeared to abash the boy, but in reality that result was caused rather more by his worshipful awe of his unknown idol and the dread pleasure that lay in his high good fortune. He sat down upon the end of the pine bench and the girl hitched herself away from him with a toss of her head. Nudges and winks and whispers traversed the room, but Tom sat still, with his arms upon the long, low desk before him, and seemed to study his book.

      By and by attention ceased from him, and the accustomed school murmur rose upon the dull air once more. Presently the boy began to steal furtive glances at the girl. She observed it, “made a mouth” at him and gave him the back of her head for the space of a minute. When she cautiously faced around again, a peach lay before her. She thrust it away. Tom gently put it back. She thrust it away again, but with less animosity. Tom patiently returned it to its place. Then she let it remain. Tom scrawled on his slate, “Please take it—I got more.” The girl glanced at the words, but made no sign. Now the boy began to draw something on the slate, hiding his work with his left hand. For a time the girl refused to notice; but her human curiosity presently began to manifest itself by hardly perceptible signs. The boy worked on, apparently unconscious. The girl made a sort of non-committal attempt to see, but the boy did not betray that he was aware of it. At last she gave in and hesitatingly whispered:

      “Let me see it.”

      Tom partly uncovered a dismal caricature of a house with two gable ends to it and a corkscrew of smoke issuing from the chimney. Then the girl’s interest began to fasten itself upon the work and she forgot everything else. When it was finished, she gazed a moment, then whispered:

      “It’s

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