“All right,” I says,“I don’t want nothing more out of _you_ than just your word—I druther have it than another man’s kiss-the-Bible.” She smiled and reddened up very sweet, and I says, “If you don’t mind it, I’ll shut the door—and bolt it.”
Then I come back and set down again, and says:
“Don’t you holler. Just set still and take it like a man.I got to tell the truth, and you want to brace up,Miss Mary, because it’s a bad kind,and going to be hard to take,but there ain’t no help for it.These uncles of yourn ain’t no uncles at all;they’re a couple of frauds—regular dead-beats. There,now we’re over the worst of it,you can stand the rest middling easy.”
It jolted her up like everything, of course;but I was over the shoal water now,so I went right along,her eyes a-blazing higher and higher all the time,and told her every blame thing,from where we first struck that young fool going up to the steamboat,clear through to where she flung herself on to the king’s breast at the front door and he kissed her sixteen or seventeen times—and then up she jumps, with her face afire like sunset, and says:
“The brute!Come, don’t waste a minute—not a _second_—we’ll have them tarred and feathered,and flung in the river!”
Says I:
“Cert’nly. But do you mean _before_ you go to Mr. Lothrop’s, or—”
“Oh,” she says, “what am I _thinking_ about!” she says, and set right down again.“Don’t mind what I said—please don’t—you _won’t,_ now, _will_ you?” Laying her silky hand on mine in that kind of a way that I said I would die first. “I never thought, I was so stirred up,” she says; “now go on, and I won’t do so any more. You tell me what to do, and whatever you say I’ll do it.”
“Well,” I says, “it’s a rough gang, them two frauds,and I’m fixed so I got to travel with them a while longer,whether I want to or not—I druther not tell you why;and if you was to blow on them this town would get me out of their claws,and _I_’d be all right;but there’d be another person that you don’t know about who’d be in big trouble. Well, we got to save _him_, hain’t we?Of course. Well, then, we won’t blow on them.”
Saying them words put a good idea in my head.I see how maybe I could get me and Jim rid of the frauds;get them jailed here, and then leave.But I didn’t want to run the raft in the daytime without anybody aboard to answer questions but me; so I didn’t want the plan to begin working till pretty late to-night. I says:
“Miss Mary Jane, I’ll tell you what we’ll do,and you won’t have to stay at Mr. Lothrop’s so long,nuther. How fur is it?”
“A little short of four miles—right out in the country, back here.”
“Well, that’ll answer. Now you go along out there,and lay low till nine or half-past to-night,and then get them to fetch you home again—tell them you’ve thought of something. If you get here before eleven put a candle in this window, and if I don’t turn up wait _till_ eleven, and _then_ if I don’t turn up it means I’m gone, and out of the way, and safe. Then you come out and spread the news around, and get these beats jailed.”
“Good,” she says, “I’ll do it.”
“And if it just happens so that I don’t get away,but get took up along with them,you must up and say I told you the whole thing beforehand,and you must stand by me all you can.”
“Stand by you!indeed I will. They sha’n’t touch a hair of your head!” she says, and I see her nostrils spread and her eyes snap when she said it, too.
“If I get away I sha’n’t be here,” I says,“to prove these rapscallions ain’t your uncles,and I couldn’t do it if I _was_ here.I could swear they was beats and bummers, that’s all,though that’s worth something. Well,there’s others can do that better than what I can,and they’re people that ain’t going to be doubted as quick as I’d be.I’ll tell you how to find them.Gimme a pencil and a piece of paper.There—‘_Royal Nonesuch, Bricksville_.’ Put it away,and don’t lose it. When the court wants to find out something about these two,let them send up to Bricksville and say they’ve got the men that played the Royal Nonesuch, and ask for some witnesses—why, you’ll have that entire town down here before you can hardly wink, Miss Mary. And they’ll come a-biling, too.”
I judged we had got everything fixed about right now. So I says:
“Just let the auction go right along, and don’t worry.Nobody don’t have to pay for the things they buy till a whole day after the auction on accounts of the short notice, and they ain’t going out of this till they get that money; and the way we’ve fixed it the sale ain’t going to count, and they ain’t going to _get_ no money. It’s just like the way it was with the niggers—it warn’t no sale, and the niggers will be back before long. Why, they can’t collect the money for the _niggers_ yet—they’re in the worst kind of a fix, Miss Mary.”
“Well,” she says, “I’ll run down to breakfast now,and then I’ll start straight for Mr. Lothrop’s.”
“’Deed, _that_ ain’t the ticket, Miss Mary Jane,” I says, “by no manner of means; go _before_ breakfast. ”
“Why?”
“What did you reckon I wanted you to go at all for, Miss Mary?”
“Well, I never thought—and come to think, I don’t know. What was it?”
“Why, it’s because you ain’t one of these leather-face people.I don’t want no better book than what your face is.A body can set down and read it off like coarse print.Do you reckon you can go and face your uncles when they come to kiss you good-morning, and never—”
“There, there, don’t!Yes, I’ll go before breakfast—I’ll be glad to.And leave my sisters with them?”
“Yes; never mind about them.They’ve got to stand it yet a while.They might suspicion something if all of you was to go.I don’t want you to see them, nor your sisters,nor nobody in this town;if a neighbor was to ask how is your uncles this morning your face would tell something. No, you go right along, Miss Mary Jane, and I’ll fix it with all of them. I’ll tell Miss Susan to give your love to your uncles and say you’ve went away for a few hours for to get a little rest and change, or to see a friend, and you’ll be back to-night or early in the morning.”
“Gone to see a friend is all right,but I won’t have my love given to them.”
“Well, then, it sha’n’t be.” It was well enough to tell _her_ so—no harm in it.It was only a little thing to do, and no trouble;and it’s the little things that smooths people’s roads the most,down here below; it would make Mary Jane comfortable,and it wouldn’t cost nothing. Then I says:“There’s one more thing—that bag of money.”
“Well, they’ve got that;and it makes me feel pretty silly to think _how_ they got it. ”
“No, you’re out, there. They hain’t got it.”
“Why, who’s got it?”
“I wish I knowed, but I don’t. I _had_ it,because I stole it from them;and I stole it to give to you;and I know where I hid it,but I’m afraid it ain’t there no more. I’m awful sorry,Miss Mary Jane, I’m just as sorry as I can be;but I done the best I could; I did honest.I come nigh getting caught,and I had to shove it into the first place I come to,and run—and it warn’t a good place.”
“Oh, stop blaming yourself—it’s too bad to do it,and I won’t allow it—you couldn’t help it;it wasn’t your fault. Where did you hide it?”
I didn’t want to set her to thinking about her troubles again;and I couldn’t seem to get my mouth to tell her what would make her see that corpse laying in the coffin with that bag of money on his stomach. So for a minute I didn’t say nothing; then I says:
“I’d ruther not _tell_ you where I put it,Miss Mary Jane, if you don’t mind letting me off;but I’ll write it for you on a piece of paper,and you can read it along the road to Mr. Lothrop’s,if you want to. Do you reckon that’ll do?”
“Oh, yes.”
So I wrote: “I put it in the coffin.It was in there when you was crying there,away in the night. I was behind the door,and I was mighty sorry for you, Miss Mary Jane.”