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 andI'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 belowhere 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 totell my uncle Abner Moore. ?He lives at the upper end of the town, shesays. ?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 twoweeks. It's a considerable ways to the upper end of the town. ?Youbetter stay here all night. ?Take off your bonnet."
"No," I says; "I'll rest a while, I reckon, and go on. ?I ain't afearedof the dark."
She said she wouldn't let me go by myself, but her husband would be inby and by, maybe in a hour and a half, and she'd send him along with me.Then she got to talking about her husband, and about her relations upthe river, and her relations down the river, and about how much betteroff they used to was, and how they didn't know but they'd made a mistakecoming 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 whatwas going on in the town; but by and by she dropped on to pap and themurder, and then I was pretty willing to let her clatter right along.?She told about me and Tom Sawyer finding the six thousand dollars (onlyshe got it ten) and all about pap and what a hard lot he was, and whata hard lot I was, and at last she got down to where I was murdered. ?Isays:
"Who done it? ?We've heard considerable about these goings on down inHookerville, but we don't know who 'twas that killed Huck Finn."
"Well, I reckon there's a right smart chance of people _here_ that'dlike 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 cometo getting lynched. ?But before night they changed around and judged itwas done by a runaway nigger named Jim."
"Why _he_--"
I stopped. ?I reckoned I better keep still. ?She run on, and nevernoticed I had put in at all:
"The nigger run off the very night Huck Finn was killed. ?So there's areward out for him--three hundred dollars. ?And there's a reward out forold Finn, too--two hundred dollars. ?You see, he come to town themorning after the murder, and told about it, and was out with 'em on theferryboat hunt, and right away after he up and left. ?Before night theywanted to lynch him, but he was gone, you see. ?Well, next day theyfound out the nigger was gone; they found out he hadn't ben seen senceten 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 thenigger all over Illinois with. The judge gave him some, and that eveninghe got drunk, and was around till after midnight with a couple of mightyhard-looking strangers, and then went off with them. ?Well, he hain'tcome back sence, and they ain't looking for him back till this thingblows over a little, for people thinks now that he killed his boy andfixed things so folks would think robbers done it, and then he'd getHuck'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 proveanything on him, you know; everything will be quieted down then, andhe'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. ?Haseverybody quit thinking the nigger done it?"
"Oh, no, not everybody. ?A good many thinks he done it. ?But they'll getthe 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 hundred dollars layaround every day for people to pick up? ?Some folks think the niggerain't far from here. ?I'm one of them--but I hain't talked it around. ?Afew days ago I was talking with an old couple that lives next door inthe log shanty, and they happened to say hardly anybody ever goes tothat island over yonder that they call Jackson's Island. ?Don't anybodylive there? says I. No, nobody, says they. ?I didn't say any more, butI done some thinking. ?I was pretty near certain I'd seen smoke overthere, about the head of the island, a day or two before that, so I saysto myself, like as not that nigger's hiding over there; anyway, saysI, it's worth the trouble to give the place a hunt. ?I hain't seen anysmoke sence, so I reckon maybe he's gone, if it was him; but husband'sgoing over to see--him and another man. ?He was gone up the river; but hegot 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 myhands; so I took up a needle off of the table and went to threadingit. My hands shook, and I was making a bad job of it. ?When the womanstopped talking I looked up, and she was looking at me pretty curiousand smiling a little. ?I put down the needle and thread, and let on tobe interested--and I was, too--and says:
"Three hundred dollars is a power of money. ?I wish my mother could getit. Is your husband going over there to-night?"
"Oh, yes. ?He went up-town with the man I was telling you of, to get aboat and see if they could borrow another gun. ?They'll go over aftermidnight."
"Couldn't they see better if they was to wait till daytime?"
"Yes. ?And couldn't the nigger see better, too? ?After midnight he'lllikely be asleep, and they can slip around through the woods and hunt uphis 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 bitcomfortable. ?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'tlook 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 wouldsay something more; the longer she set still the uneasier I was. ?Butnow 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. ?Somecalls 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. ?Icouldn't look up yet.
Well, the woman fell to talking about how hard times was, and how poorthey had to live, and how the rats was as free as if they owned theplace, and so forth and so on, and then I got easy again. ?She was rightabout the rats. You'd see one stick his nose out of a hole in the cornerevery little while. ?She said she had to have things handy to throw atthem when she was alone, or they wouldn't give her no peace. ?She showedme a bar of lead twisted up into a knot, and said she was a good shotwith it generly, but she'd wrenched her arm a day or two ago, and didn'tknow 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 courseI didn't let on. ?I got the thing, and the first rat that showed hisnose I let drive, and if he'd a stayed where he was he'd a been atolerable sick rat. ?She said that was first-rate, and she reckoned Iwould hive the next one. ?She went and got the lump of lead and fetchedit back, and brought along a hank of yarn which she wanted me to helpher with. ?I held up my two hands and she put the hank over them, andwent on talking about her and her husband's matters. ?But she broke offto 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 clappedmy legs together on it and she went on talking. ?But only about aminute. 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. ?ButI says:
"Please to don't poke fun at a poor girl like me, mum. ?If I'm in theway here, I'll--"
"No, you won't. ?Set down and stay where you are. ?I ain't going to hurtyou, and I ain't going to tell on you, nuther. ?You just tell me yoursecret, and trust me. ?I'll keep it; and, what's more, I'll helpyou. 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 goodboy."
So I said it wouldn't be no use to try to play it any longer, and Iwould just make a clean breast and tell her everything, but she musn'tgo 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 thirtymile back from the river, and he treated me so bad I couldn't stand itno longer; he went away to be gone a couple of days, and so I took mychance and stole some of his daughter's old clothes and cleared out, andI 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 fromhome lasted me all the way, and I had a-plenty. ?I said I believed myuncle Abner Moore would take care of me, and so that was why I struckout for this town of Goshen.
"Goshen, child? ?This ain't Goshen. ?This is St. Petersburg. ?Goshen'sten 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 turninto the woods for my regular sleep. ?He told me when the roads forked Imust 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 gotto 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? ?Answerup 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 withtheir heads pointed the same direction?"
"The whole fifteen, mum."
"Well, I reckon you _have_ lived in the country. ?I thought maybe youwas 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'sElexander before you go, and then get out by saying it's GeorgeElexander when I catch you. ?And don't go about women in that oldcalico. ?You do a girl tolerable poor, but you might fool men, maybe.?Bless you, child, when you set out to thread a needle don't hold thethread still and fetch the needle up to it; hold the needle still andpoke the thread at it; that's the way a woman most always does, but aman 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 asawkward as you can, and miss your rat about six or seven foot. Throwstiff-armed from the shoulder, like there was a pivot there for it toturn on, like a girl; not from the wrist and elbow, with your arm outto one side, like a boy. ?And, mind you, when a girl tries to catchanything in her lap she throws her knees apart; she don't clap themtogether, the way you did when you catched the lump of lead. ?Why, Ispotted you for a boy when you was threading the needle; and I contrivedthe other things just to make certain. ?Now trot along to your uncle,Sarah Mary Williams George Elexander Peters, and if you get into troubleyou send word to Mrs. Judith Loftus, which is me, and I'll do what I canto get you out of it. ?Keep the river road all the way, and next timeyou 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 tracksand slipped back to where my canoe was, a good piece below the house. ?Ijumped in, and was off in a hurry. ?I went up-stream far enough tomake the head of the island, and then started across. ?I took off thesun-bonnet, for I didn't want no blinders on then. ?When I was about themiddle I heard the clock begin to strike, so I stops and listens; thesound come faint over the water but clear--eleven. ?When I struck thehead of the island I never waited to blow, though I was most winded, butI shoved right into the timber where my old camp used to be, and starteda 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 halfbelow, as hard as I could go. ?I landed, and slopped through the timberand up the ridge and into the cavern. ?There Jim laid, sound asleep onthe ground. ?I roused him out and says:
"Git up and hump yourself, Jim! ?There ain't a minute to lose. ?They'reafter us!"
Jim never asked no questions, he never said a word; but the way heworked for the next half an hour showed about how he was scared. ?Bythat time everything we had in the world was on our raft, and she wasready to be shoved out from the willow cove where she was hid. ?Weput out the camp fire at the cavern the first thing, and didn't show acandle 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 shadowsain't good to see by. ?Then we got out the raft and slipped along downin the shade, past the foot of the island dead still--never saying aword.