So we stayed where we was. The duke he fretted and sweated around, and was in a mighty sour way.He scolded us for everything, and we couldn’t seem to do nothing right;he found fault with every little thing. Something was a-brewing, sure.I was good and glad when midday come and no king; we could have a change,anyway—and maybe a chance for _the_ change on top of it. So me and the duke went up to the village,and hunted around there for the king, and by-and-by we found him in the back room of a little low doggery,very tight, and a lot of loafers bullyragging him for sport,and he a-cussing and a-threatening with all his might, and so tight he couldn’t walk,and couldn’t do nothing to them. The duke he begun to abuse him for an old fool,and the king begun to sass back, and the minute they was fairly at it I lit out and shook the reefs out of my hind legs,and spun down the river road like a deer, for I see our chance;and I made up my mind that it would be a long day before they ever see me and Jim again.I got down there all out of breath but loaded up with joy, and sung out:
“Set her loose, Jim!we’re all right now!”
But there warn’t no answer, and nobody come out of the wigwam. Jim was gone!I set up a shout—and then another—and then another one; and run this way and that in the woods,whooping and screeching; but it warn’t no use—old Jim was gone. Then I set down and cried;I couldn’t help it. But I couldn’t set still long. Pretty soon I went out on the road,trying to think what I better do, and I run across a boy walking,and asked him if he’d seen a strange nigger dressed so and so, and he says:
“Yes.”
“Whereabouts?” says I.
“Down to Silas Phelps’ place, two mile below here. He’s a runaway nigger, and they’ve got him. Was you looking for him?”
“You bet I ain’t!I run across him in the woods about an hour or two ago,and he said if I hollered he’d cut my livers out—and told me to lay down and stay where I was;and I done it. Been there ever since; afeard to come out.”
“Well,” he says, “you needn’t be afeard no more, becuz they’ve got him. He run off f’m down South, som’ers.”
“It’s a good job they got him.”
“Well, I _reckon!_ There’s two hunderd dollars reward on him. It’s like picking up money out’n the road.”
“Yes, it is—and _I_ could a had it if I’d been big enough; I see him _first_. Who nailed him?”
“It was an old fellow—a stranger—and he sold out his chance in him for forty dollars,becuz he’s got to go up the river and can’t wait. Think o’ that, now!You bet _I’d_ wait, if it was seven year.”
“That’s me, every time,” says I. “But maybe his chance ain’t worth no more than that,if he’ll sell it so cheap. Maybe there’s something ain’t straight about it.”
“But it _is_, though—straight as a string. I see the handbill myself. It tells all about him,to a dot—paints him like a picture, and tells the plantation he’s frum, below Newr_leans_.No-sirree-_bob_, they ain’t no trouble ’bout _that_ speculation, you bet you. Say, gimme a chaw tobacker, won’t ye?”
I didn’t have none, so he left. I went to the raft, and set down in the wigwam to think.But I couldn’t come to nothing. I thought till I wore my head sore,but I couldn’t see no way out of the trouble. After all this long journey,and after all we’d done for them scoundrels, here it was all come to nothing,everything all busted up and ruined, because they could have the heart to serve Jim such a trick as that,and make him a slave again all his life, and amongst strangers, too, for forty dirty dollars.
Once I said to myself it would be a thousand times better for Jim to be a slave at home where his family was,as long as he’d _got_ to be a slave, and so I’d better write a letter to Tom Sawyer and tell him to tell Miss Watson where he was.But I soon give up that notion for two things:she’d be mad and disgusted at his rascality and ungratefulness for leaving her,and so she’d sell him straight down the river again; and if she didn’t,everybody naturally despises an ungrateful nigger, and they’d make Jim feel it all the time,and so he’d feel ornery and disgraced. And then think of _me!_ It would get all around that Huck Finn helped a nigger to get his freedom;and if I was ever to see anybody from that town again I’d be ready to get down and lick his boots for shame.That’s just the way: a person does a low-down thing,and then he don’t want to take no consequences of it. Thinks as long as he can hide it,it ain’t no disgrace. That was my fix exactly. The more I studied about this,the more my conscience went to grinding me,and the more wicked and low-down and ornery I got to feeling. And at last,when it hit me all of a sudden that here was the plain hand of Providence slapping me in the face and letting me know my wickedness was being watched all the time from up there in heaven, whilst I was stealing a poor old woman’s nigger that hadn’t ever done me no harm, and now was showing me there’s One that’s always on the lookout, and ain’t a-going to allow no such miserable doings to go only just so fur and no further, I most dropped in my tracks I was so scared. Well, I tried the best I could to kinder soften it up somehow for myself by saying I was brung up wicked, and so I warn’t so much to blame; but something inside of me kept saying, “There was the Sunday-school, you could a gone to it; and if you’d a done it they’d a learnt you there that people that acts as I’d been acting about that nigger goes to everlasting fire.”
It made me shiver. And I about made up my mind to pray,and see if I couldn’t try to quit being the kind of a boy I was and be better. So I kneeled down.But the words wouldn’t come. Why wouldn’t they?It warn’t no use to try and hide it from Him. Nor from _me_, neither.I knowed very well why they wouldn’t come. It was because my heart warn’t right;it was because I warn’t square; it was because I was playing double.I was letting _on_ to give up sin, but away inside of me I was holding on to the biggest one of all.I was trying to make my mouth _say_ I would do the right thing and the clean thing,and go and write to that nigger’s owner and tell where he was;but deep down in me I knowed it was a lie, and He knowed it. You can’t pray a lie—I found that out.
So I was full of trouble, full as I could be; and didn’t know what to do. At last I had an idea;and I says, I’ll go and write the letter—and _then_ see if I can pray. Why, it was astonishing,the way I felt as light as a feather right straight off, and my troubles all gone.So I got a piece of paper and a pencil, all glad and excited, and set down and wrote:
Miss Watson, your runaway nigger Jim is down here two mile below Pikesville, and Mr.Phelps has got him and he will give him up for the reward if you send.
_Huck Finn._
I felt good and all washed clean of sin for the first time I had ever felt so in my life,and I knowed I could pray now. But I didn’t do it straight off,but laid the paper down and set there thinking—thinking how good it was all this happened so,and how near I come to being lost and going to hell. And went on thinking.And got to thinking over our trip down the river; and I see Jim before me all the time:in the day and in the night-time, sometimes moonlight, sometimes storms, and we a-floating along,talking and singing and laughing. But somehow I couldn’t seem to strike no places to harden me against him,but only the other kind. I’d see him standing my watch on top of his’n, ’stead of calling me,so I could go on sleeping; and see him how glad he was when I come back out of the fog;and when I come to him again in the swamp, up there where the feud was; and such-like times;and would always call me honey, and pet me and do everything he could think of for me,and how good he always was; and at last I struck the time I saved him by telling the men we had small-pox aboard,and he was so grateful, and said I was the best friend old Jim ever had in the world,and the _only_ one he’s got now; and then I happened to look around and see that paper.
It was a close place. I took it up, and held it in my hand. I was a-trembling,because I’d got to decide, forever, betwixt two things, and I knowed it. I studied a minute,sort of holding my breath, and then says to myself:
“All right, then, I’ll _go_ to hell”—and tore it up.
It was awful thoughts and awful words, but they was said. And I let them stay said;and never thought no more about reforming. I shoved the whole thing out of my head,and said I would take up wickedness again, which was in my line, being brung up to it,and the other warn’t. And for a starter I would go to work and steal Jim out of slavery again;and if I could think up anything worse, I would do that, too; because as long as I was in,and in for good, I might as well go the whole hog.
Then I set to thinking over how to get at it,and turned over some considerable many ways in my mind; and at last fixed up a plan that suited me.So then I took the bearings of a woody island that was down the river a piece,and as soon as it was fairly dark I crept out with my raft and went for it, and hid it there,and then turned in. I slept the night through, and got up before it was light,and had my breakfast, and put on my store clothes,and tied up some others and one thing or another in a bundle,and took the canoe and cleared for shore. I landed below where I judged was Phelps’s place,and hid my bundle in the woods, and then filled up the canoe with water,and loaded rocks into her and sunk her where I could find her again when I wanted her,about a quarter of a mile below a little steam sawmill that was on the bank.
Then I struck up the road, and when I passed the mill I see a sign on it, “Phelps’s Sawmill,” and when I come to the farm-houses, two or three hundred yards further along,I kept my eyes peeled, but didn’t see nobody around, though it was good daylight now.But I didn’t mind, because I didn’t want to see nobody just yet—I only wanted to get the lay of the land.According to my plan, I was going to turn up there from the village, not from below.So I just took a look, and shoved along, straight for town. Well,the very first man I see when I got there was the duke.He was sticking up a bill for the Royal Nonesuch—three-night performance—like that other time. _They_ had the cheek, them frauds!I was right on him before I could shirk. He looked astonished, and says:
“Hel-_lo!_ Where’d _you_ come from?” Then he says, kind of glad and eager, “Where’s the raft?—got her in a good place?”
I says:
“Why, that’s just what I was going to ask your grace.”
Then he didn’t look so joyful, and says:
“What was your idea for asking _me?_” he says.
“Well,” I says, “when I see the king in that doggery yesterday I says to myself,we can’t get him home for hours, till he’s soberer;so I went a-loafing around town to put in the time and wait.A man up and offered me ten cents to help him pull a skiff over the river and back to fetch a sheep,and so I went along; but when we was dragging him to the boat,and the man left me a-holt of the rope and went behind him to shove him along,he was too strong for me and jerked loose and run, and we after him. We didn’t have no dog,and so we had to chase him all over the country till we tired him out. We never got him till dark;then we fetched him over, and I started down for the raft. When I got there and see it was gone,I says to myself, ‘they’ve got into trouble and had to leave; and they’ve took my nigger,which is the only nigger I’ve got in the world, and now I’m in a strange country,and ain’t got no property no more, nor nothing, and no way to make my living;’ so I set down and cried. I slept in the woods all night. But what _did_ become of the raft, then?—and Jim—poor Jim!”
“Blamed if _I_ know—that is, what’s become of the raft.That old fool had made a trade and got forty dollars,and when we found him in the doggery the loafers had matched half-dollars with him and got every cent but what he’d spent for whisky;and when I got him home late last night and found the raft gone, we said,‘That little rascal has stole our raft and shook us, and run off down the river.’”
“I wouldn’t shake my _nigger_, would I?—the only nigger I had in the world, and the only property.”
“We never thought of that. Fact is, I reckon we’d come to consider him _our_ nigger; yes,we did consider him so—goodness knows we had trouble enough for him.So when we see the raft was gone and we flat broke,there warn’t anything for it but to try the Royal Nonesuch another shake.And I’ve pegged along ever since, dry as a powder-horn. Where’s that ten cents?Give it here.”
I had considerable money, so I give him ten cents, but begged him to spend it for something to eat,and give me some, because it was all the money I had,and I hadn’t had nothing to eat since yesterday. He never said nothing.The next minute he whirls on me and says:
“Do you reckon that nigger would blow on us?We’d skin him if he done that!”
“How can he blow?Hain’t he run off?”
“No!That old fool sold him, and never divided with me, and the money’s gone.”
“_Sold_ him?” I says, and begun to cry; “why, he was _my_ nigger, and that was my money. Where is he?—I want my nigger.”
“Well, you can’t _get_ your nigger, that’s all—so dry up your blubbering.Looky here—do you think _you’d_ venture to blow on us?Blamed if I think I’d trust you. Why, if you _was_ to blow on us—”
He stopped, but I never see the duke look so ugly out of his eyes before. I went on a-whimpering, and says:
“I don’t want to blow on nobody; and I ain’t got no time to blow, nohow. I got to turn out and find my nigger.”
He looked kinder bothered, and stood there with his bills fluttering on his arm, thinking,and wrinkling up his forehead. At last he says:
“I’ll tell you something. We got to be here three days. If you’ll promise you won’t blow,and won’t let the nigger blow, I’ll tell you where to find him.”
So I promised, and he says:
“A farmer by the name of Silas Ph—” and then he stopped. You see, he started to tell me the truth;but when he stopped that way, and begun to study and think again,I reckoned he was changing his mind. And so he was. He wouldn’t trust me;he wanted to make sure of having me out of the way the whole three days. So pretty soon he says:
“The man that bought him is named Abram Foster—Abram G.Foster—and he lives forty mile back here in the country, on the road to Lafayette.”
“All right,” I says, “I can walk it in three days. And I’ll start this very afternoon.”
“No you wont, you’ll start _now;_ and don’t you lose any time about it, neither,nor do any gabbling by the way. Just keep a tight tongue in your head and move right along,and then you won’t get into trouble with _us_, d’ye hear?”
That was the order I wanted, and that was the one I played for.I wanted to be left free to work my plans.
“So clear out,” he says; “and you can tell Mr. Foster whatever you want to.Maybe you can get him to believe that Jim _is_ your nigger—some idiots don’t require documents—leastways I’ve heard there’s such down South here.And when you tell him the handbill and the reward’s bogus,maybe he’ll believe you when you explain to him what the idea was for getting ’em out.Go ’long now, and tell him anything you want to;but mind you don’t work your jaw any _between_ here and there.”
So I left, and struck for the back country. I didn’t look around,but I kinder felt like he was watching me. But I knowed I could tire him out at that.I went straight out in the country as much as a mile before I stopped;then I doubled back through the woods towards Phelps’.I reckoned I better start in on my plan straight off without fooling around,because I wanted to stop Jim’s mouth till these fellows could get away.I didn’t want no trouble with their kind. I’d seen all I wanted to of them,and wanted to get entirely shut of them.
CHAPTER XXXII.
When I got there it was all still and Sunday-like, and hot and sunshiny;the hands was gone to the fields; and there was them kind of faint dronings of bugs and flies in the air that makes it seem so lonesome and like everybody’s dead and gone; and if a breeze fans along and quivers the leaves it makes you feel mournful, because you feel like it’s spirits whispering—spirits that’s been dead ever so many years—and you always think they’re talking about _you_. As a general thing it makes a body wish _he_ was dead, too, and done with it all.
Phelps’ was one of these little one-horse cotton plantations, and they all look alike.A rail fence round a two-acre yard; a stile made out of logs sawed off and up-ended in steps,like barrels of a different length, to climb over the fence with,and for the women to stand on when they are going to jump on to a horse;some sickly grass-patches in the big yard, but mostly it was bare and smooth,like an old hat with the nap rubbed off; big double log-house for the white folks—hewed logs,with the chinks stopped up with mud or mortar,and these mud-stripes been whitewashed some time or another; round-log kitchen, with a big broad,open but roofed passage joining it to the house; log smoke-house back of the kitchen;three little log nigger-cabins in a row t’other side the smoke-house;one little hut all by itself away down against the back fence,and some outbuildings down a piece the other side;ash-hopper and big kettle to bile soap in by the little hut; bench by the kitchen door,with bucket of water and a gourd; hound asleep there in the sun; more hounds asleep round about;about three shade trees away off in a corner;some currant bushes and gooseberry bushes in one place by the fence;outside of the fence a garden and a watermelon patch; then the cotton fields begins, and after the fields the woods.
I went around and clumb over the back stile by the ash-hopper, and started for the kitchen.When I got a little ways I heard the dim hum of a spinning-wheel wailing along up and sinking along down again;and then I knowed for certain I wished I was dead—for that _is_ the lonesomest sound in the whole world.
I went right along, not fixing up any particular plan,but just trusting to Providence to put the right words in my mouth when the time come;for I’d noticed that Providence always did put the right words in my mouth if I left it alone.
When I got half-way, first one hound and then another got up and went for me,and of course I stopped and faced them, and kept still. And such another powwow as they made!In a quarter of a minute I was a kind of a hub of a wheel,as you may say—spokes made out of dogs—circle of fifteen of them packed together around me,with their necks and noses stretched up towards me, a-barking and howling; and more a-coming;you could see them sailing over fences and around corners from everywheres.
A nigger woman come tearing out of the kitchen with a rolling-pin in her hand, singing out, “Begone _you_ Tige!you Spot!begone sah!” and she fetched first one and then another of them a clip and sent them howling,and then the rest followed; and the next second half of them come back,wagging their tails around me, and making friends with me. There ain’t no harm in a hound, nohow.
And behind the woman comes a little nigger girl and two little nigger boys without anything on but tow-linen shirts,and they hung on to their mother’s gown, and peeped out from behind her at me, bashful,the way they always do. And here comes the white woman running from the house,about forty-five or fifty year old, bareheaded, and her spinning-stick in her hand;and behind her comes her little white children, acting the same way the little niggers was doing.She was smiling all over so she could hardly stand—and says:
“It’s _you_, at last!—_ain’t_ it?”
I out with a “Yes’m” before I thought.
She grabbed me and hugged me tight; and then gripped me by both hands and shook and shook;and the tears come in her eyes, and run down over; and she couldn’t seem to hug and shake enough,and kept saying, “You don’t look as much like your mother as I reckoned you would; but law sakes,I don’t care for that, I’m _so_ glad to see you!Dear, dear, it does seem like I could eat you up!Children, it’s your cousin Tom!—tell him howdy.”
But they ducked their heads, and put their fingers in their mouths, and hid behind her. So she run on:
“Lize, hurry up and get him a hot breakfast right away—or did you get your breakfast on the boat?”
I said I had got it on the boat. So then she started for the house, leading me by the hand,and the children tagging after. When we got there she set me down in a split-bottomed chair,and set herself down on a little low stool in front of me, holding both of my hands, and says:
“Now I can have a _good_ look at you; and, laws-a-me,I’ve been hungry for it a many and a many a time, all these long years, and it’s come at last!We been expecting you a couple of days and more. What kep’ you?—boat get aground?”
“Yes’m—she—”
“Don’t say yes’m—say Aunt Sally. Where’d she get aground?”
I didn’t rightly know what to say, because I didn’t know whether the boat would be coming up the river or down.But I go a good deal on instinct; and my instinct said she would be coming up—from down towards Orleans.That didn’t help me much, though; for I didn’t know the names of bars down that way.I see I’d got to invent a bar, or forget the name of the one we got aground on—or—Now I struck an idea, and fetched it out:
“It warn’t the grounding—that didn’t keep us back but a little. We blowed out a cylinder-head.”
“Good gracious!anybody hurt?”
“No’m. Killed a nigger.”
“Well, it’s lucky; because sometimes people do get hurt.Two years ago last Christmas your uncle Silas was coming up from Newrleans on the old _Lally Rook_,and she blowed out a cylinder-head and crippled a man. And I think he died afterwards.He was a Baptist. Your uncle Silas knowed a family in Baton Rouge that knowed his people very well.Yes, I remember now, he _did_ die. Mortification set in, and they had to amputate him.But it didn’t save him. Yes, it was mortification—that was it. He turned blue all over,and died in the hope of a glorious resurrection. They say he was a sight to look at.Your uncle’s been up to the town every day to fetch you. And he’s gone again,not more’n an hour ago; he’ll be back any minute now. You must a met him on the road, didn’t you?—oldish man, with a—”
“No, I didn’t see nobody, Aunt Sally. The boat landed just at daylight,and I left my baggage on the wharf-boat and went looking around the town and out a piece in the country,to put in the time and not get here too soon; and so I come down the back way.”
“Who’d you give the baggage to?”
“Nobody.”
“Why, child, it’ll be stole!”
“Not where _I_ hid it I reckon it won’t,” I says.
“How’d you get your breakfast so early on the boat?”
It was kinder thin ice, but I says:
“The captain see me standing around, and told me I better have something to eat before I went ashore;so he took me in the texas to the officers’ lunch, and give me all I wanted.”
I was getting so uneasy I couldn’t listen good. I had my mind on the children all the time;I wanted to get them out to one side and pump them a little, and find out who I was.But I couldn’t get no show, Mrs. Phelps kept it up and run on so.Pretty soon she made the cold chills streak all down my back, because she says:
“But here we’re a-running on this way, and you hain’t told me a word about Sis, nor any of them.Now I’ll rest my works a little, and you start up yourn;just tell me _everything_—tell me all about ’m all every one of ’m; and how they are,and what they’re doing, and what they told you to tell me; and every last thing you can think of.”
Well, I see I was up a stump—and up it good. Providence had stood by me this fur all right,but I was hard and tight aground now. I see it warn’t a bit of use to try to go ahead—I’d _got_ to throw up my hand.So I says to myself, here’s another place where I got to resk the truth.I opened my mouth to begin; but she grabbed me and hustled me in behind the bed, and says:
“Here he comes!Stick your head down lower—there, that’ll do; you can’t be seen now. Don’t you let on you’re here.I’ll play a joke on him. Children, don’t you say a word.”
I see I was in a fix now. But it warn’t no use to worry;there warn’t nothing to do but just hold still,and try and be ready to stand from under when the lightning struck.
I had just one little glimpse of the old gentleman when he come in; then the bed hid him. Mrs. Phelps she jumps for him, and says:
“Has he come?”
“No,” says her husband.
“Good-_ness_ gracious!” she says, “what in the world can have become of him?”
“I can’t imagine,” says the old gentleman; “and I must say it makes me dreadful uneasy.”
“Uneasy!” she says; “I’m ready to go distracted!He _must_ a come; and you’ve missed him along the road. I _know_ it’s so—something tells me so.”
“Why, Sally, I _couldn’t_ miss him along the road—_you_ know that.”
“But oh, dear, dear, what _will_ Sis say!He must a come!You must a missed him. He—”
“Oh, don’t distress me any more’n I’m already distressed.I don’t know what in the world to make of it. I’m at my wit’s end,and I don’t mind acknowledging ’t I’m right down scared. But there’s no hope that he’s come;for he _couldn’t_ come and me miss him. Sally,it’s terrible—just terrible—something’s happened to the boat, sure!”
“Why, Silas!Look yonder!—up the road!—ain’t that somebody coming?”
He sprung to the window at the head of the bed, and that give Mrs. Phelps the chance she wanted.She stooped down quick at the foot of the bed and give me a pull, and out I come;and when he turned back from the window there she stood,a-beaming and a-smiling like a house afire, and I standing pretty meek and sweaty alongside. The old gentleman stared, and says:
“Why, who’s that?”
“Who do you reckon ’t is?”
“I hain’t no idea. Who _is_ it?”
“It’s _Tom Sawyer!_”
By jings, I most slumped through the floor!But there warn’t no time to swap knives; the old man grabbed me by the hand and shook,and kept on shaking; and all the time how the woman did dance around and laugh and cry;and then how they both did fire off questions about Sid, and Mary, and the rest of the tribe.
But if they was joyful, it warn’t nothing to what I was; for it was like being born again,I was so glad to find out who I was. Well, they froze to me for two hours; and at last,when my chin was so tired it couldn’t hardly go any more,I had told them more about my family—I mean the Sawyer family—than ever happened to any six Sawyer families.And I explained all about how we blowed out a cylinder-head at the mouth of White River,and it took us three days to fix it. Which was all right, and worked first-rate;because _they_ didn’t know but what it would take three days to fix it.If I’d a called it a bolthead it would a done just as well.
Now I was feeling pretty comfortable all down one side, and pretty uncomfortable all up the other.Being Tom Sawyer was easy and comfortable,and it stayed easy and comfortable till by-and-by I hear a steamboat coughing along down the river.Then I says to myself, s’pose Tom Sawyer comes down on that boat?And s’pose he steps in here any minute, and sings out my name before I can throw him a wink to keep quiet?Well, I couldn’t _have_ it that way; it wouldn’t do at all. I must go up the road and waylay him.So I told the folks I reckoned I would go up to the town and fetch down my baggage.The old gentleman was for going along with me, but I said no, I could drive the horse myself,and I druther he wouldn’t take no trouble about me.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
So I started for town in the wagon, and when I was half-way I see a wagon coming,and sure enough it was Tom Sawyer, and I stopped and waited till he come along. I says “Hold on!” and it stopped alongside, and his mouth opened up like a trunk, and stayed so;and he swallowed two or three times like a person that’s got a dry throat, and then says:
“I hain’t ever done you no harm. You know that. So, then,what you want to come back and ha’nt _me_ for?”
I says:
“I hain’t come back—I hain’t been _gone_.”
When he heard my voice it righted him up some, but he warn’t quite satisfied yet. He says:
“Don’t you play nothing on me, because I wouldn’t on you. Honest injun, now, you ain’t a ghost?”
“Honest injun, I ain’t,” I says.
“Well—I—I—well, that ought to settle it, of course;but I can’t somehow seem to understand it no way. Looky here, warn’t you ever murdered _at all?_”
“No. I warn’t ever murdered at all—I played it on them.You come in here and feel of me if you don’t believe me.”
So he done it; and it satisfied him; and he was that glad to see me again he didn’t know what to do.And he wanted to know all about it right off, because it was a grand adventure, and mysterious,and so it hit him where he lived. But I said, leave it alone till by-and-by;and told his driver to wait, and we drove off a little piece,and I told him the kind of a fix I was in, and what did he reckon we better do?He said, let him alone a minute, and don’t disturb him. So he thought and thought, and pretty soon he says:
“It’s all right; I’ve got it. Take my trunk in your wagon, and let on it’s your’n;and you turn back and fool along slow, so as to get to the house about the time you ought to;and I’ll go towards town a piece, and take a fresh start,and get there a quarter or a half an hour after you; and you needn’t let on to know me at first.”
I says:
“All right; but wait a minute. There’s one more thing—a thing that _nobody_ don’t know but me.And that is, there’s a nigger here that I’m a-trying to steal out of slavery,and his name is _Jim_—old Miss Watson’s Jim.”
He says:
“What!Why, Jim is—”
He stopped and went to studying. I says: