“Mars Sid, you’ll say I’s a fool,but if I didn’t b’lieve I see most a million dogs,er devils, er some’n,I wisht I may die right heah in dese tracks. I did,mos’ sholy. Mars Sid, I _felt_ um—I _felt_ um, sah;dey was all over me. Dad fetch it,I jis’ wisht I could git my han’s on one er dem witches jis’ wunst—on’y jis’ wunst—it’s all _I_’d ast. But mos’ly I wisht dey’d lemme ’lone, I does.”
Tom says:
“Well, I tell you what _I_ think.What makes them come here just at this runaway nigger’s breakfast-time?It’s because they’re hungry; that’s the reason.You make them a witch pie;that’s the thing for _you_ to do.”
“But my lan’, Mars Sid,how’s _I_ gwyne to make ’m a witch pie?I doan’ know how to make it.I hain’t ever hearn er sich a thing b’fo’.”
“Well, then, I’ll have to make it myself.”
“Will you do it, honey?—will you?I’ll wusshup de groun’ und’ yo’ foot, I will!”
“All right, I’ll do it, seeing it’s you,and you’ve been good to us and showed us the runaway nigger.But you got to be mighty careful. When we come around,you turn your back;and then whatever we’ve put in the pan,don’t you let on you see it at all.And don’t you look when Jim unloads the pan—something might happen,I don’t know what. And above all,don’t you _handle_ the witch-things.”
“_Hannel_ ’m, Mars Sid?What _is_ you a-talkin’ ’bout?I wouldn’ lay de weight er my finger on um,not f’r ten hund’d thous’n billion dollars, I wouldn’t. ”
CHAPTER XXXVII.
That was all fixed. So then we went away and went to the rubbage-pile in the back yard, where they keep the old boots, and rags, and pieces of bottles, and wore-out tin things, and all such truck, and scratched around and found an old tin washpan, and stopped up the holes as well as we could, to bake the pie in, and took it down cellar and stole it full of flour and started for breakfast, and found a couple of shingle-nails that Tom said would be handy for a prisoner to scrabble his name and sorrows on the dungeon walls with, and dropped one of them in Aunt Sally’s apron-pocket which was hanging on a chair, and t’other we stuck in the band of Uncle Silas’s hat, which was on the bureau, because we heard the children say their pa and ma was going to the runaway nigger’s house this morning, and then went to breakfast, and Tom dropped the pewter spoon in Uncle Silas’s coat-pocket, and Aunt Sally wasn’t come yet, so we had to wait a little while.
And when she come she was hot and red and cross,and couldn’t hardly wait for the blessing;and then she went to sluicing out coffee with one hand and cracking the handiest child’s head with her thimble with the other, and says:
“I’ve hunted high and I’ve hunted low,and it does beat all what _has_ become of your other shirt. ”
My heart fell down amongst my lungs and livers and things,and a hard piece of corn-crust started down my throat after it and got met on the road with a cough, and was shot across the table, and took one of the children in the eye and curled him up like a fishing-worm, and let a cry out of him the size of a warwhoop, and Tom he turned kinder blue around the gills, and it all amounted to a considerable state of things for about a quarter of a minute or as much as that, and I would a sold out for half price if there was a bidder. But after that we was all right again—it was the sudden surprise of it that knocked us so kind of cold. Uncle Silas he says:
“It’s most uncommon curious, I can’t understand it.I know perfectly well I took it _off_, because—”
“Because you hain’t got but one _on_.Just _listen_ at the man!_I_ know you took it off,and know it by a better way than your wool-gethering memory,too, because it was on the clo’s-line yesterday—I see it there myself.But it’s gone, that’s the long and the short of it,and you’ll just have to change to a red flann’l one till I can get time to make a new one. And it’ll be the third I’ve made in two years. It just keeps a body on the jump to keep you in shirts; and whatever you do manage to _do_ with ’m all is more’n _I_ can make out. A body ’d think you _would_ learn to take some sort of care of ’em at your time of life.”
“I know it, Sally, and I do try all I can.But it oughtn’t to be altogether my fault, because,you know, I don’t see them nor have nothing to do with them except when they’re on me; and I don’t believe I’ve ever lost one of them _off_ of me.”
“Well, it ain’t _your_ fault if you haven’t, Silas;you’d a done it if you could, I reckon.And the shirt ain’t all that’s gone, nuther.Ther’s a spoon gone; and _that_ ain’t all.There was ten, and now ther’s only nine.The calf got the shirt, I reckon,but the calf never took the spoon, _that’s_ certain.”
“Why, what else is gone, Sally?”
“Ther’s six _candles_ gone—that’s what.The rats could a got the candles,and I reckon they did;I wonder they don’t walk off with the whole place,the way you’re always going to stop their holes and don’t do it;and if they warn’t fools they’d sleep in your hair,Silas—_you’d_ never find it out;but you can’t lay the _spoon_ on the rats, and that I _know_.”
“Well, Sally, I’m in fault, and I acknowledge it;I’ve been remiss; but I won’t let to-morrow go by without stopping up them holes.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t hurry; next year’ll do.Matilda Angelina Araminta _Phelps!_”
Whack comes the thimble,and the child snatches her claws out of the sugar-bowl without fooling around any. Just then the nigger woman steps on to the passage, and says:
“Missus, dey’s a sheet gone.”
“A _sheet_ gone!Well, for the land’s sake!”
“I’ll stop up them holes _to-day_,” says Uncle Silas, looking sorrowful.
“Oh, _do_ shet up!—s’pose the rats took the _sheet?Where’s_ it gone, Lize?”
“Clah to goodness I hain’t no notion, Miss’ Sally.She wuz on de clo’sline yistiddy, but she done gone:she ain’ dah no mo’ now.”
“I reckon the world _is_ coming to an end.I _never_ see the beat of it in all my born days.A shirt, and a sheet, and a spoon, and six can—”
“Missus,” comes a young yaller wench,“dey’s a brass cannelstick miss’n.”
“Cler out from here, you hussy,er I’ll take a skillet to ye!”
Well, she was just a-biling.I begun to lay for a chance;I reckoned I would sneak out and go for the woods till the weather moderated.She kept a-raging right along,running her insurrection all by herself,and everybody else mighty meek and quiet;and at last Uncle Silas, looking kind of foolish,fishes up that spoon out of his pocket. She stopped,with her mouth open and her hands up; and as for me,I wished I was in Jeruslem or somewheres. But not long, because she says:
“It’s _just_ as I expected.So you had it in your pocket all the time;and like as not you’ve got the other things there, too. How’d it get there?”
“I reely don’t know, Sally,” he says,kind of apologizing, “or you know I would tell.I was a-studying over my text in Acts Seventeen before breakfast,and I reckon I put it in there, not noticing,meaning to put my Testament in, and it must be so,because my Testament ain’t in; but I’ll go and see;and if the Testament is where I had it,I’ll know I didn’t put it in,and that will show that I laid the Testament down and took up the spoon, and—”
“Oh, for the land’s sake!Give a body a rest!Go ’long now, the whole kit and biling of ye;and don’t come nigh me again till I’ve got back my peace of mind. ”
_I’d_ a heard her if she’d a said it to herself,let alone speaking it out;and I’d a got up and obeyed her if I’d a been dead.As we was passing through the setting-room the old man he took up his hat,and the shingle-nail fell out on the floor,and he just merely picked it up and laid it on the mantel-shelf,and never said nothing, and went out.Tom see him do it, and remembered about the spoon, and says: