الفصل الفصل 11 · CHAPTER XI. Muff Potter Comes Himself—Tom’s Conscience at Work

. CHAPTER XI. Muff Potter Comes Himself—Tom’s Conscience at Work

Close upon the hour of noon the whole village was suddenly electrified

with the ghastly news. No need of the as yet un-dreamed-of telegraph;

the tale flew from man to man, from group to group, from house to house,

with little less than telegraphic speed. Of course the schoolmaster gave

holiday for that afternoon; the town would have thought strangely of

him if he had not.

A gory knife had been found close to the murdered man, and it had been

recognized by somebody as belonging to Muff Potter—so the story ran. And

it was said that a belated citizen had come upon Potter washing himself

in the “branch” about one or two o’clock in the morning, and that Potter

had at once sneaked off—suspicious circumstances, especially the washing

which was not a habit with Potter. It was also said that the town had

been ransacked for this “murderer” (the public are not slow in the

matter of sifting evidence and arriving at a verdict), but that he

could not be found. Horsemen had departed down all the roads in every

direction, and the Sheriff “was confident” that he would be captured

before night.

All the town was drifting toward the graveyard. Tom’s heartbreak

vanished and he joined the procession, not because he would not

a thousand times rather go anywhere else, but because an awful,

unaccountable fascination drew him on. Arrived at the dreadful place, he

wormed his small body through the crowd and saw the dismal spectacle.

It seemed to him an age since he was there before. Somebody pinched

his arm. He turned, and his eyes met Huckleberry’s. Then both looked

elsewhere at once, and wondered if anybody had noticed anything in their

mutual glance. But everybody was talking, and intent upon the grisly

spectacle before them.

“Poor fellow!” “Poor young fellow!” “This ought to be a lesson to grave

robbers!” “Muff Potter’ll hang for this if they catch him!” This was the

drift of remark; and the minister said, “It was a judgment; His hand is

here.”

Now Tom shivered from head to heel; for his eye fell upon the stolid

face of Injun Joe. At this moment the crowd began to sway and struggle,

and voices shouted, “It’s him! it’s him! he’s coming himself!”

“Who? Who?” from twenty voices.

“Muff Potter!”

“Hallo, he’s stopped!—Look out, he’s turning! Don’t let him get away!”

People in the branches of the trees over Tom’s head said he wasn’t

trying to get away—he only looked doubtful and perplexed.

“Infernal impudence!” said a bystander; “wanted to come and take a quiet

look at his work, I reckon—didn’t expect any company.”

The crowd fell apart, now, and the Sheriff came through, ostentatiously

leading Potter by the arm. The poor fellow’s face was haggard, and

his eyes showed the fear that was upon him. When he stood before the

murdered man, he shook as with a palsy, and he put his face in his hands

and burst into tears.

“I didn’t do it, friends,” he sobbed; “’pon my word and honor I never

done it.”

“Who’s accused you?” shouted a voice.

This shot seemed to carry home. Potter lifted his face and looked around

him with a pathetic hopelessness in his eyes. He saw Injun Joe, and

exclaimed:

“Oh, Injun Joe, you promised me you’d never—”

“Is that your knife?” and it was thrust before him by the Sheriff.

Potter would have fallen if they had not caught him and eased him to the

ground. Then he said:

“Something told me ’t if I didn’t come back and get—” He shuddered; then

waved his nerveless hand with a vanquished gesture and said, “Tell ’em,

Joe, tell ’em—it ain’t any use any more.”

Then Huckleberry and Tom stood dumb and staring, and heard the

stony-hearted liar reel off his serene statement, they expecting every

moment that the clear sky would deliver God’s lightnings upon his head,

and wondering to see how long the stroke was delayed. And when he had

finished and still stood alive and whole, their wavering impulse to

break their oath and save the poor betrayed prisoner’s life faded and

vanished away, for plainly this miscreant had sold himself to Satan and

it would be fatal to meddle with the property of such a power as that.

“Why didn’t you leave? What did you want to come here for?” somebody

said.

“I couldn’t help it—I couldn’t help it,” Potter moaned. “I wanted to

run away, but I couldn’t seem to come anywhere but here.” And he fell to

sobbing again.

Injun Joe repeated his statement, just as calmly, a few minutes

afterward on the inquest, under oath; and the boys, seeing that the

lightnings were still withheld, were confirmed in their belief that

Joe had sold himself to the devil. He was now become, to them, the most

balefully interesting object they had ever looked upon, and they could

not take their fascinated eyes from his face.

They inwardly resolved to watch him nights, when opportunity should

offer, in the hope of getting a glimpse of his dread master.

Injun Joe helped to raise the body of the murdered man and put it in

a wagon for removal; and it was whispered through the shuddering

crowd that the wound bled a little! The boys thought that this happy

circumstance would turn suspicion in the right direction; but they were

disappointed, for more than one villager remarked:

“It was within three feet of Muff Potter when it done it.”

Tom’s fearful secret and gnawing conscience disturbed his sleep for as

much as a week after this; and at breakfast one morning Sid said:

“Tom, you pitch around and talk in your sleep so much that you keep me

awake half the time.”

Tom blanched and dropped his eyes.

“It’s a bad sign,” said Aunt Polly, gravely. “What you got on your mind,

Tom?”

“Nothing. Nothing ’t I know of.” But the boy’s hand shook so that he

spilled his coffee.

“And you do talk such stuff,” Sid said. “Last night you said, ‘It’s

blood, it’s blood, that’s what it is!’ You said that over and over.

And you said, ‘Don’t torment me so—I’ll tell!’ Tell _what_? What is it

you’ll tell?”

Everything was swimming before Tom. There is no telling what might have

happened, now, but luckily the concern passed out of Aunt Polly’s face

and she came to Tom’s relief without knowing it. She said:

“Sho! It’s that dreadful murder. I dream about it most every night

myself. Sometimes I dream it’s me that done it.”

Mary said she had been affected much the same way. Sid seemed satisfied.

Tom got out of the presence as quick as he plausibly could, and after

that he complained of toothache for a week, and tied up his jaws every

night. He never knew that Sid lay nightly watching, and frequently

slipped the bandage free and then leaned on his elbow listening a good

while at a time, and afterward slipped the bandage back to its place

again. Tom’s distress of mind wore off gradually and the toothache grew

irksome and was discarded. If Sid really managed to make anything out of

Tom’s disjointed mutterings, he kept it to himself.

It seemed to Tom that his schoolmates never would get done holding

inquests on dead cats, and thus keeping his trouble present to his mind.

Sid noticed that Tom never was coroner at one of these inquiries,

though it had been his habit to take the lead in all new enterprises;

he noticed, too, that Tom never acted as a witness—and that was strange;

and Sid did not overlook the fact that Tom even showed a marked aversion

to these inquests, and always avoided them when he could. Sid marvelled,

but said nothing. However, even inquests went out of vogue at last, and

ceased to torture Tom’s conscience.

Every day or two, during this time of sorrow, Tom watched his

opportunity and went to the little grated jail-window and smuggled such

small comforts through to the “murderer” as he could get hold of. The

jail was a trifling little brick den that stood in a marsh at the edge

of the village, and no guards were afforded for it; indeed, it

was seldom occupied. These offerings greatly helped to ease Tom’s

conscience.

The villagers had a strong desire to tar-and-feather Injun Joe and ride

him on a rail, for body-snatching, but so formidable was his character

that nobody could be found who was willing to take the lead in the

matter, so it was dropped. He had been careful to begin both of his

inquest-statements with the fight, without confessing the grave-robbery

that preceded it; therefore it was deemed wisest not to try the case in

the courts at present.