Kabanata Kabanata 41 · 第41章

The doctor was an old man; a very nice, kind-looking old man when I got

him up. I told him me and my brother was over on Spanish Island hunting

yesterday afternoon, and camped on a piece of a raft we found, and

about midnight he must a kicked his gun in his dreams, for it went off

and shot him in the leg, and we wanted him to go over there and fix it

and not say nothing about it, nor let anybody know, because we wanted

to come home this evening and surprise the folks.

“Who is your folks?” he says.

“The Phelpses, down yonder.”

“Oh,” he says. And after a minute, he says:

“How’d you say he got shot?”

“He had a dream,” I says, “and it shot him.”

“Singular dream,” he says.

So he lit up his lantern, and got his saddle-bags, and we started. But

when he sees the canoe he didn’t like the look of her—said she was big

enough for one, but didn’t look pretty safe for two. I says:

“Oh, you needn’t be afeard, sir, she carried the three of us easy

enough.”

“What three?”

“Why, me and Sid, and—and—and _the guns;_ that’s what I mean.”

“Oh,” he says.

But he put his foot on the gunnel and rocked her, and shook his head,

and said he reckoned he’d look around for a bigger one. But they was

all locked and chained; so he took my canoe, and said for me to wait

till he come back, or I could hunt around further, or maybe I better go

down home and get them ready for the surprise if I wanted to. But I

said I didn’t; so I told him just how to find the raft, and then he

started.

I struck an idea pretty soon. I says to myself, spos’n he can’t fix

that leg just in three shakes of a sheep’s tail, as the saying is?

spos’n it takes him three or four days? What are we going to do?—lay

around there till he lets the cat out of the bag? No, sir; I know what

_I’ll_ do. I’ll wait, and when he comes back if he says he’s got to go

any more I’ll get down there, too, if I swim; and we’ll take and tie

him, and keep him, and shove out down the river; and when Tom’s done

with him we’ll give him what it’s worth, or all we got, and then let

him get ashore.

So then I crept into a lumber-pile to get some sleep; and next time I

waked up the sun was away up over my head! I shot out and went for the

doctor’s house, but they told me he’d gone away in the night some time

or other, and warn’t back yet. Well, thinks I, that looks powerful bad

for Tom, and I’ll dig out for the island right off. So away I shoved,

and turned the corner, and nearly rammed my head into Uncle Silas’s

stomach! He says:

“Why, _Tom!_ Where you been all this time, you rascal?”

“_I_ hain’t been nowheres,” I says, “only just hunting for the runaway

nigger—me and Sid.”

“Why, where ever did you go?” he says. “Your aunt’s been mighty

uneasy.”

“She needn’t,” I says, “because we was all right. We followed the men

and the dogs, but they outrun us, and we lost them; but we thought we

heard them on the water, so we got a canoe and took out after them and

crossed over, but couldn’t find nothing of them; so we cruised along

up-shore till we got kind of tired and beat out; and tied up the canoe

and went to sleep, and never waked up till about an hour ago; then we

paddled over here to hear the news, and Sid’s at the post-office to see

what he can hear, and I’m a-branching out to get something to eat for

us, and then we’re going home.”

So then we went to the post-office to get “Sid”; but just as I

suspicioned, he warn’t there; so the old man he got a letter out of the

office, and we waited a while longer, but Sid didn’t come; so the old

man said, come along, let Sid foot it home, or canoe it, when he got

done fooling around—but we would ride. I couldn’t get him to let me

stay and wait for Sid; and he said there warn’t no use in it, and I

must come along, and let Aunt Sally see we was all right.

When we got home Aunt Sally was that glad to see me she laughed and

cried both, and hugged me, and give me one of them lickings of hern

that don’t amount to shucks, and said she’d serve Sid the same when he

come.

And the place was plum full of farmers and farmers’ wives, to dinner;

and such another clack a body never heard. Old Mrs. Hotchkiss was the

worst; her tongue was a-going all the time. She says:

“Well, Sister Phelps, I’ve ransacked that-air cabin over, an’ I b’lieve

the nigger was crazy. I says to Sister Damrell—didn’t I, Sister

Damrell?—s’I, he’s crazy, s’I—them’s the very words I said. You all

hearn me: he’s crazy, s’I; everything shows it, s’I. Look at that-air

grindstone, s’I; want to tell _me_’t any cretur ’t’s in his right mind

’s a goin’ to scrabble all them crazy things onto a grindstone, s’I?

Here sich ’n’ sich a person busted his heart; ’n’ here so ’n’ so pegged

along for thirty-seven year, ’n’ all that—natcherl son o’ Louis

somebody, ’n’ sich everlast’n rubbage. He’s plumb crazy, s’I; it’s what

I says in the fust place, it’s what I says in the middle, ’n’ it’s what

I says last ’n’ all the time—the nigger’s crazy—crazy ’s

Nebokoodneezer, s’I.”

“An’ look at that-air ladder made out’n rags, Sister Hotchkiss,” says

old Mrs. Damrell; “what in the name o’ goodness _could_ he ever want

of—”

“The very words I was a-sayin’ no longer ago th’n this minute to Sister

Utterback, ’n’ she’ll tell you so herself. Sh-she, look at that-air rag

ladder, sh-she; ’n’ s’I, yes, _look_ at it, s’I—what _could_ he

a-wanted of it, s’I. Sh-she, Sister Hotchkiss, sh-she—”

“But how in the nation’d they ever _git_ that grindstone _in_ there,

_any_way? ’n’ who dug that-air _hole?_ ’n’ who—”

“My very _words_, Brer Penrod! I was a-sayin’—pass that-air sasser o’

m’lasses, won’t ye?—I was a-sayin’ to Sister Dunlap, jist this minute,

how _did_ they git that grindstone in there, s’I. Without _help_, mind

you—’thout _help! Thar’s_ wher ’tis. Don’t tell _me_, s’I; there

_wuz_ help, s’I; ’n’ ther’ wuz a _plenty_ help, too, s’I; ther’s ben a

_dozen_ a-helpin’ that nigger, ’n’ I lay I’d skin every last nigger on

this place but _I’d_ find out who done it, s’I; ’n’ moreover, s’I—”

“A _dozen_ says you!—_forty_ couldn’t a done every thing that’s been

done. Look at them case-knife saws and things, how tedious they’ve been

made; look at that bed-leg sawed off with ’m, a week’s work for six

men; look at that nigger made out’n straw on the bed; and look at—”

“You may _well_ say it, Brer Hightower! It’s jist as I was a-sayin’ to

Brer Phelps, his own self. S’e, what do _you_ think of it, Sister

Hotchkiss, s’e? Think o’ what, Brer Phelps, s’I? Think o’ that bed-leg

sawed off that a way, s’e? _think_ of it, s’I? I lay it never sawed

_itself_ off, s’I—somebody _sawed_ it, s’I; that’s my opinion, take it

or leave it, it mayn’t be no ’count, s’I, but sich as ’t is, it’s my

opinion, s’I, ’n’ if any body k’n start a better one, s’I, let him _do_

it, s’I, that’s all. I says to Sister Dunlap, s’I—”

“Why, dog my cats, they must a ben a house-full o’ niggers in there

every night for four weeks to a done all that work, Sister Phelps. Look

at that shirt—every last inch of it kivered over with secret African

writ’n done with blood! Must a ben a raft uv ’m at it right along, all

the time, amost. Why, I’d give two dollars to have it read to me; ’n’

as for the niggers that wrote it, I ’low I’d take ’n’ lash ’m t’ll—”

“People to _help_ him, Brother Marples! Well, I reckon you’d _think_ so

if you’d a been in this house for a while back. Why, they’ve stole

everything they could lay their hands on—and we a-watching all the

time, mind you. They stole that shirt right off o’ the line! and as for

that sheet they made the rag ladder out of, ther’ ain’t no telling how

many times they _didn’t_ steal that; and flour, and candles, and

candlesticks, and spoons, and the old warming-pan, and most a thousand

things that I disremember now, and my new calico dress; and me and

Silas and my Sid and Tom on the constant watch day _and_ night, as I

was a-telling you, and not a one of us could catch hide nor hair nor

sight nor sound of them; and here at the last minute, lo and behold

you, they slides right in under our noses and fools us, and not only

fools _us_ but the Injun Territory robbers too, and actuly gets _away_

with that nigger safe and sound, and that with sixteen men and

twenty-two dogs right on their very heels at that very time! I tell

you, it just bangs anything I ever _heard_ of. Why, _sperits_ couldn’t

a done better and been no smarter. And I reckon they must a _been_

sperits—because, _you_ know our dogs, and ther’ ain’t no better; well,

them dogs never even got on the _track_ of ’m once! You explain _that_

to me if you can!—_any_ of you!”

“Well, it does beat—”

“Laws alive, I never—”

“So help me, I wouldn’t a be—”

“_House_-thieves as well as—”

“Goodnessgracioussakes, I’d a ben afeard to _live_ in sich a—”

“’Fraid to _live!_—why, I was that scared I dasn’t hardly go to bed, or

get up, or lay down, or _set_ down, Sister Ridgeway. Why, they’d steal

the very—why, goodness sakes, you can guess what kind of a fluster _I_

was in by the time midnight come last night. I hope to gracious if I

warn’t afraid they’d steal some o’ the family! I was just to that pass

I didn’t have no reasoning faculties no more. It looks foolish enough

_now_, in the daytime; but I says to myself, there’s my two poor boys

asleep, ’way up stairs in that lonesome room, and I declare to goodness

I was that uneasy ’t I crep’ up there and locked ’em in! I _did_. And

anybody would. Because, you know, when you get scared that way, and it

keeps running on, and getting worse and worse all the time, and your

wits gets to addling, and you get to doing all sorts o’ wild things,

and by-and-by you think to yourself, spos’n _I_ was a boy, and was away

up there, and the door ain’t locked, and you—” She stopped, looking

kind of wondering, and then she turned her head around slow, and when

her eye lit on me—I got up and took a walk.

Says I to myself, I can explain better how we come to not be in that

room this morning if I go out to one side and study over it a little.

So I done it. But I dasn’t go fur, or she’d a sent for me. And when it

was late in the day the people all went, and then I come in and told

her the noise and shooting waked up me and “Sid,” and the door was

locked, and we wanted to see the fun, so we went down the

lightning-rod, and both of us got hurt a little, and we didn’t never

want to try _that_ no more. And then I went on and told her all what I

told Uncle Silas before; and then she said she’d forgive us, and maybe

it was all right enough anyway, and about what a body might expect of

boys, for all boys was a pretty harum-scarum lot as fur as she could

see; and so, as long as no harm hadn’t come of it, she judged she

better put in her time being grateful we was alive and well and she had

us still, stead of fretting over what was past and done. So then she

kissed me, and patted me on the head, and dropped into a kind of a

brown study; and pretty soon jumps up, and says:

“Why, lawsamercy, it’s most night, and Sid not come yet! What _has_

become of that boy?”

I see my chance; so I skips up and says:

“I’ll run right up to town and get him,” I says.

“No you won’t,” she says. “You’ll stay right wher’ you are; _one’s_

enough to be lost at a time. If he ain’t here to supper, your uncle ’ll

go.”

Well, he warn’t there to supper; so right after supper uncle went.

He come back about ten a little bit uneasy; hadn’t run across Tom’s

track. Aunt Sally was a good _deal_ uneasy; but Uncle Silas he said

there warn’t no occasion to be—boys will be boys, he said, and you’ll

see this one turn up in the morning all sound and right. So she had to

be satisfied. But she said she’d set up for him a while anyway, and

keep a light burning so he could see it.

And then when I went up to bed she come up with me and fetched her

candle, and tucked me in, and mothered me so good I felt mean, and like

I couldn’t look her in the face; and she set down on the bed and talked

with me a long time, and said what a splendid boy Sid was, and didn’t

seem to want to ever stop talking about him; and kept asking me every

now and then if I reckoned he could a got lost, or hurt, or maybe

drownded, and might be laying at this minute somewheres suffering or

dead, and she not by him to help him, and so the tears would drip down

silent, and I would tell her that Sid was all right, and would be home

in the morning, sure; and she would squeeze my hand, or maybe kiss me,

and tell me to say it again, and keep on saying it, because it done her

good, and she was in so much trouble. And when she was going away she

looked down in my eyes so steady and gentle, and says:

“The door ain’t going to be locked, Tom, and there’s the window and the

rod; but you’ll be good, _won’t_ you? And you won’t go? For _my_ sake.”

Laws knows I _wanted_ to go bad enough to see about Tom, and was all

intending to go; but after that I wouldn’t a went, not for kingdoms.

But she was on my mind and Tom was on my mind, so I slept very

restless. And twice I went down the rod away in the night, and slipped

around front, and see her setting there by her candle in the window

with her eyes towards the road and the tears in them; and I wished I

could do something for her, but I couldn’t, only to swear that I

wouldn’t never do nothing to grieve her any more. And the third time I

waked up at dawn, and slid down, and she was there yet, and her candle

was most out, and her old gray head was resting on her hand, and she

was asleep.