第 二十九 章 · CHAPTER XXIX. The Pic-nic—Huck on Injun Joe’s Track—The “Revenge”

. CHAPTER XXIX. The Pic-nic—Huck on Injun Joe’s Track—The “Revenge”

The first thing Tom heard on Friday morning was a glad piece of

news—Judge Thatcher’s family had come back to town the night before.

Both Injun Joe and the treasure sunk into secondary importance for a

moment, and Becky took the chief place in the boy’s interest. He saw her

and they had an exhausting good time playing “hispy” and “gully-keeper”

with a crowd of their schoolmates. The day was completed and crowned in

a peculiarly satisfactory way: Becky teased her mother to appoint

the next day for the long-promised and long-delayed picnic, and she

consented. The child’s delight was boundless; and Tom’s not more

moderate. The invitations were sent out before sunset, and straightway

the young folks of the village were thrown into a fever of preparation

and pleasurable anticipation. Tom’s excitement enabled him to keep

awake until a pretty late hour, and he had good hopes of hearing Huck’s

“maow,” and of having his treasure to astonish Becky and the picnickers

with, next day; but he was disappointed. No signal came that night.

Morning came, eventually, and by ten or eleven o’clock a giddy and

rollicking company were gathered at Judge Thatcher’s, and everything was

ready for a start. It was not the custom for elderly people to mar the

picnics with their presence. The children were considered safe enough

under the wings of a few young ladies of eighteen and a few young

gentlemen of twenty-three or thereabouts. The old steam ferry-boat was

chartered for the occasion; presently the gay throng filed up the main

street laden with provision-baskets. Sid was sick and had to miss

the fun; Mary remained at home to entertain him. The last thing Mrs.

Thatcher said to Becky, was:

“You’ll not get back till late. Perhaps you’d better stay all night with

some of the girls that live near the ferry-landing, child.”

“Then I’ll stay with Susy Harper, mamma.”

“Very well. And mind and behave yourself and don’t be any trouble.”

Presently, as they tripped along, Tom said to Becky:

“Say—I’ll tell you what we’ll do. ’Stead of going to Joe Harper’s we’ll

climb right up the hill and stop at the Widow Douglas’. She’ll have

ice-cream! She has it most every day—dead loads of it. And she’ll be

awful glad to have us.”

“Oh, that will be fun!”

Then Becky reflected a moment and said:

“But what will mamma say?”

“How’ll she ever know?”

The girl turned the idea over in her mind, and said reluctantly:

“I reckon it’s wrong—but—”

“But shucks! Your mother won’t know, and so what’s the harm? All she

wants is that you’ll be safe; and I bet you she’d ’a’ said go there if

she’d ’a’ thought of it. I know she would!”

The Widow Douglas’ splendid hospitality was a tempting bait. It and

Tom’s persuasions presently carried the day. So it was decided to say

nothing to anybody about the night’s programme. Presently it occurred to

Tom that maybe Huck might come this very night and give the signal. The

thought took a deal of the spirit out of his anticipations. Still he

could not bear to give up the fun at Widow Douglas’. And why should he

give it up, he reasoned—the signal did not come the night before, so

why should it be any more likely to come tonight? The sure fun of the

evening outweighed the uncertain treasure; and, boy-like, he determined

to yield to the stronger inclination and not allow himself to think of

the box of money another time that day.

Three miles below town the ferryboat stopped at the mouth of a woody

hollow and tied up. The crowd swarmed ashore and soon the forest

distances and craggy heights echoed far and near with shoutings and

laughter. All the different ways of getting hot and tired were gone

through with, and by-and-by the rovers straggled back to camp fortified

with responsible appetites, and then the destruction of the good things

began. After the feast there was a refreshing season of rest and chat in

the shade of spreading oaks. By-and-by somebody shouted:

“Who’s ready for the cave?”

Everybody was. Bundles of candles were procured, and straightway there

was a general scamper up the hill. The mouth of the cave was up the

hillside—an opening shaped like a letter A. Its massive oaken door stood

unbarred. Within was a small chamber, chilly as an icehouse, and walled

by Nature with solid limestone that was dewy with a cold sweat. It was

romantic and mysterious to stand here in the deep gloom and look out

upon the green valley shining in the sun. But the impressiveness of the

situation quickly wore off, and the romping began again. The moment

a candle was lighted there was a general rush upon the owner of it; a

struggle and a gallant defence followed, but the candle was soon knocked

down or blown out, and then there was a glad clamor of laughter and a

new chase. But all things have an end. By-and-by the procession went

filing down the steep descent of the main avenue, the flickering rank of

lights dimly revealing the lofty walls of rock almost to their point of

junction sixty feet overhead. This main avenue was not more than

eight or ten feet wide. Every few steps other lofty and still narrower

crevices branched from it on either hand—for McDougal’s cave was but a

vast labyrinth of crooked aisles that ran into each other and out again

and led nowhere. It was said that one might wander days and nights

together through its intricate tangle of rifts and chasms, and never

find the end of the cave; and that he might go down, and down, and

still down, into the earth, and it was just the same—labyrinth under

labyrinth, and no end to any of them. No man “knew” the cave. That was

an impossible thing. Most of the young men knew a portion of it, and it

was not customary to venture much beyond this known portion. Tom Sawyer

knew as much of the cave as any one.

The procession moved along the main avenue some three-quarters of

a mile, and then groups and couples began to slip aside into branch

avenues, fly along the dismal corridors, and take each other by surprise

at points where the corridors joined again. Parties were able to elude

each other for the space of half an hour without going beyond the

“known” ground.

By-and-by, one group after another came straggling back to the mouth

of the cave, panting, hilarious, smeared from head to foot with tallow

drippings, daubed with clay, and entirely delighted with the success of

the day. Then they were astonished to find that they had been taking

no note of time and that night was about at hand. The clanging bell had

been calling for half an hour. However, this sort of close to the day’s

adventures was romantic and therefore satisfactory. When the ferryboat

with her wild freight pushed into the stream, nobody cared sixpence for

the wasted time but the captain of the craft.

Huck was already upon his watch when the ferryboat’s lights went

glinting past the wharf. He heard no noise on board, for the young

people were as subdued and still as people usually are who are nearly

tired to death. He wondered what boat it was, and why she did not

stop at the wharf—and then he dropped her out of his mind and put his

attention upon his business. The night was growing cloudy and dark. Ten

o’clock came, and the noise of vehicles ceased, scattered lights began

to wink out, all straggling foot-passengers disappeared, the village

betook itself to its slumbers and left the small watcher alone with the

silence and the ghosts. Eleven o’clock came, and the tavern lights were

put out; darkness everywhere, now. Huck waited what seemed a weary long

time, but nothing happened. His faith was weakening. Was there any use?

Was there really any use? Why not give it up and turn in?

A noise fell upon his ear. He was all attention in an instant. The alley

door closed softly. He sprang to the corner of the brick store. The next

moment two men brushed by him, and one seemed to have something under

his arm. It must be that box! So they were going to remove the treasure.

Why call Tom now? It would be absurd—the men would get away with the box

and never be found again. No, he would stick to their wake and follow

them; he would trust to the darkness for security from discovery. So

communing with himself, Huck stepped out and glided along behind the

men, cat-like, with bare feet, allowing them to keep just far enough

ahead not to be invisible.

They moved up the river street three blocks, then turned to the left up

a crossstreet. They went straight ahead, then, until they came to the

path that led up Cardiff Hill; this they took. They passed by the old

Welshman’s house, halfway up the hill, without hesitating, and still

climbed upward. Good, thought Huck, they will bury it in the old quarry.

But they never stopped at the quarry. They passed on, up the summit.

They plunged into the narrow path between the tall sumach bushes, and

were at once hidden in the gloom. Huck closed up and shortened his

distance, now, for they would never be able to see him. He trotted along

awhile; then slackened his pace, fearing he was gaining too fast; moved

on a piece, then stopped altogether; listened; no sound; none, save that

he seemed to hear the beating of his own heart. The hooting of an

owl came over the hill—ominous sound! But no footsteps. Heavens, was

everything lost! He was about to spring with winged feet, when a man

cleared his throat not four feet from him! Huck’s heart shot into his

throat, but he swallowed it again; and then he stood there shaking as

if a dozen agues had taken charge of him at once, and so weak that he

thought he must surely fall to the ground. He knew where he was. He

knew he was within five steps of the stile leading into Widow Douglas’

grounds. Very well, he thought, let them bury it there; it won’t be hard

to find.

Now there was a voice—a very low voice—Injun Joe’s:

“Damn her, maybe she’s got company—there’s lights, late as it is.”

“I can’t see any.”

This was that stranger’s voice—the stranger of the haunted house. A

deadly chill went to Huck’s heart—this, then, was the “revenge” job! His

thought was, to fly. Then he remembered that the Widow Douglas had been

kind to him more than once, and maybe these men were going to murder

her. He wished he dared venture to warn her; but he knew he didn’t

dare—they might come and catch him. He thought all this and more in

the moment that elapsed between the stranger’s remark and Injun Joe’s

next—which was—

“Because the bush is in your way. Now—this way—now you see, don’t you?”

“Yes. Well, there _is_ company there, I reckon. Better give it up.”

“Give it up, and I just leaving this country forever! Give it up and

maybe never have another chance. I tell you again, as I’ve told you

before, I don’t care for her swag—you may have it. But her husband was

rough on me—many times he was rough on me—and mainly he was the justice

of the peace that jugged me for a vagrant. And that ain’t all. It ain’t

a millionth part of it! He had me _horsewhipped_!—horsewhipped in

front of the jail, like a nigger!—with all the town looking on!

_Horsewhipped_!—do you understand? He took advantage of me and died. But

I’ll take it out of _her_.”

“Oh, don’t kill her! Don’t do that!”

“Kill? Who said anything about killing? I would kill _him_ if he was

here; but not her. When you want to get revenge on a woman you don’t

kill her—bosh! you go for her looks. You slit her nostrils—you notch her

ears like a sow!”

“By God, that’s—”

“Keep your opinion to yourself! It will be safest for you. I’ll tie her

to the bed. If she bleeds to death, is that my fault? I’ll not cry, if

she does. My friend, you’ll help me in this thing—for _my_ sake—that’s

why you’re here—I mightn’t be able alone. If you flinch, I’ll kill you.

Do you understand that? And if I have to kill you, I’ll kill her—and

then I reckon nobody’ll ever know much about who done this business.”

“Well, if it’s got to be done, let’s get at it. The quicker the

better—I’m all in a shiver.”

“Do it _now_? And company there? Look here—I’ll get suspicious of you,

first thing you know. No—we’ll wait till the lights are out—there’s no

hurry.”

Huck felt that a silence was going to ensue—a thing still more awful

than any amount of murderous talk; so he held his breath and stepped

gingerly back; planted his foot carefully and firmly, after balancing,

one-legged, in a precarious way and almost toppling over, first on one

side and then on the other. He took another step back, with the same

elaboration and the same risks; then another and another, and—a twig

snapped under his foot! His breath stopped and he listened. There was no

sound—the stillness was perfect. His gratitude was measureless. Now he

turned in his tracks, between the walls of sumach bushes—turned

himself as carefully as if he were a ship—and then stepped quickly but

cautiously along. When he emerged at the quarry he felt secure, and

so he picked up his nimble heels and flew. Down, down he sped, till he

reached the Welshman’s. He banged at the door, and presently the heads

of the old man and his two stalwart sons were thrust from windows.

“What’s the row there? Who’s banging? What do you want?”

“Let me in—quick! I’ll tell everything.”

“Why, who are you?”

“Huckleberry Finn—quick, let me in!”

“Huckleberry Finn, indeed! It ain’t a name to open many doors, I judge!

But let him in, lads, and let’s see what’s the trouble.”

“Please don’t ever tell I told you,” were Huck’s first words when he got

in. “Please don’t—I’d be killed, sure—but the widow’s been good friends

to me sometimes, and I want to tell—I _will_ tell if you’ll promise you

won’t ever say it was me.”

“By George, he _has_ got something to tell, or he wouldn’t act so!”

exclaimed the old man; “out with it and nobody here’ll ever tell, lad.”

Three minutes later the old man and his sons, well armed, were up the

hill, and just entering the sumach path on tiptoe, their weapons in

their hands. Huck accompanied them no further. He hid behind a great

bowlder and fell to listening. There was a lagging, anxious silence, and

then all of a sudden there was an explosion of firearms and a cry.

Huck waited for no particulars. He sprang away and sped down the hill as

fast as his legs could carry him.