The first of all the negro minstrel shows came to town,and made a sensation.Tom and Joe Harper got up a band of performers and were happy for two days.
Even the Glorious Fourth was in some sense a failure,for it rained hard,there was no procession in consequence,and the greatest man in the world (as Tom supposed),Mr. Benton, an actual United States Senator,proved an overwhelming disappointment—for he was not twenty-five feet high,nor even anywhere in the neighborhood of it.
A circus came. The boys played circus for three days afterward in tents made of rag carpeting—admission, three pins for boys, two for girls—and then circusing was abandoned.
A phrenologist and a mesmerizer came—and went again and left the village duller and drearier than ever.
There were some boys-and-girls’ parties,but they were so few and so delightful that they only made the aching voids between ache the harder.
Becky Thatcher was gone to her Constantinople home to stay with her parents during vacation—so there was no bright side to life anywhere.
The dreadful secret of the murder was a chronic misery.It was a very cancer for permanency and pain.
Then came the measles.
During two long weeks Tom lay a prisoner,dead to the world and its happenings. He was very ill,he was interested in nothing.When he got upon his feet at last and moved feebly downtown,a melancholy change had come over everything and every creature.There had been a “revival,” and everybody had “got religion,” not only the adults,but even the boys and girls. Tom went about,hoping against hope for the sight of one blessed sinful face,but disappointment crossed him everywhere.He found Joe Harper studying a Testament,and turned sadly away from the depressing spectacle.He sought Ben Rogers,and found him visiting the poor with a basket of tracts.He hunted up Jim Hollis,who called his attention to the precious blessing of his late measles as a warning. Every boy he encountered added another ton to his depression; and when, in desperation, he flew for refuge at last to the bosom of Huckleberry Finn and was received with a Scriptural quotation, his heart broke and he crept home and to bed realizing that he alone of all the town was lost, forever and forever.
And that night there came on a terrific storm,with driving rain, awful claps of thunder and blinding sheets of lightning.He covered his head with the bedclothes and waited in a horror of suspense for his doom; for he had not the shadow of a doubt that all this hubbub was about him. He believed he had taxed the forbearance of the powers above to the extremity of endurance and that this was the result. It might have seemed to him a waste of pomp and ammunition to kill a bug with a battery of artillery, but there seemed nothing incongruous about the getting up such an expensive thunderstorm as this to knock the turf from under an insect like himself.
By and by the tempest spent itself and died without accomplishing its object.The boy’s first impulse was to be grateful, and reform.His second was to wait—for there might not be any more storms.
The next day the doctors were back; Tom had relapsed.The three weeks he spent on his back this time seemed an entire age.When he got abroad at last he was hardly grateful that he had been spared,remembering how lonely was his estate,how companionless and forlorn he was.He drifted listlessly down the street and found Jim Hollis acting as judge in a juvenile court that was trying a cat for murder, in the presence of her victim, a bird. He found Joe Harper and Huck Finn up an alley eating a stolen melon. Poor lads!they—like Tom—had suffered a relapse.
CHAPTER XXIII
At last the sleepy atmosphere was stirred—and vigorously:the murder trial came on in the court.It became the absorbing topic of village talk immediately.Tom could not get away from it.Every reference to the murder sent a shudder to his heart,for his troubled conscience and fears almost persuaded him that these remarks were put forth in his hearing as “feelers”; he did not see how he could be suspected of knowing anything about the murder, but still he could not be comfortable in the midst of this gossip. It kept him in a cold shiver all the time. He took Huck to a lonely place to have a talk with him. It would be some relief to unseal his tongue for a little while; to divide his burden of distress with another sufferer. Moreover, he wanted to assure himself that Huck had remained discreet.
“Huck, have you ever told anybody about—that?”
“’Bout what?”
“You know what.”
“Oh—’course I haven’t.”
“Never a word?”
“Never a solitary word, so help me. What makes you ask?”
“Well, I was afeard.”
“Why, Tom Sawyer, we wouldn’t be alive two days if that got found out. _You_ know that.”
Tom felt more comfortable. After a pause:
“Huck, they couldn’t anybody get you to tell, could they?”
“Get me to tell?Why, if I wanted that halfbreed devil to drownd me they could get me to tell.They ain’t no different way.”
“Well, that’s all right, then.I reckon we’re safe as long as we keep mum.But let’s swear again, anyway. It’s more surer.”
“I’m agreed.”
So they swore again with dread solemnities.
“What is the talk around, Huck?I’ve heard a power of it.”
“Talk?Well, it’s just Muff Potter, Muff Potter,Muff Potter all the time. It keeps me in a sweat,constant, so’s I want to hide som’ers.”
“That’s just the same way they go on round me.I reckon he’s a goner. Don’t you feel sorry for him, sometimes?”
“Most always—most always. He ain’t no account;but then he hain’t ever done anything to hurt anybody.Just fishes a little,to get money to get drunk on—and loafs around considerable;but lord, we all do that—leastways most of us—preachers and such like.But he’s kind of good—he give me half a fish, once,when there warn’t enough for two;and lots of times he’s kind of stood by me when I was out of luck. ”
“Well, he’s mended kites for me, Huck,and knitted hooks on to my line.I wish we could get him out of there.”
“My!we couldn’t get him out, Tom. And besides,’twouldn’t do any good; they’d ketch him again.”
“Yes—so they would. But I hate to hear ’em abuse him so like the dickens when he never done—that.”
“I do too, Tom. Lord,I hear ’em say he’s the bloodiest looking villain in this country,and they wonder he wasn’t ever hung before.”
“Yes, they talk like that, all the time.I’ve heard ’em say that if he was to get free they’d lynch him. ”
“And they’d do it, too.”
The boys had a long talk,but it brought them little comfort.As the twilight drew on,they found themselves hanging about the neighborhood of the little isolated jail, perhaps with an undefined hope that something would happen that might clear away their difficulties. But nothing happened; there seemed to be no angels or fairies interested in this luckless captive.
The boys did as they had often done before—went to the cell grating and gave Potter some tobacco and matches. He was on the ground floor and there were no guards.
His gratitude for their gifts had always smote their consciences before—it cut deeper than ever, this time. They felt cowardly and treacherous to the last degree when Potter said: