Chapter 14
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BY and by, when we got up, we turned over the truck the gang had stole off of the wreck, and found boots, and blankets, and clothes, and all sorts of other things, and a lot of books, and a spyglass, and three boxes of seegars. We hadn’t ever been this rich before in neither of our lives. The seegars was prime. We laid off all the afternoon in the woods talking, and me reading the books, and having a general good time. I told Jim all about what happened inside the wreck and at the ferryboat, and I said these kinds of things was adventures; but he said he didn’t want no more adventures. He said that when I went in the texas and he crawled back to get on the raft and found her gone he nearly died, because he judged it was all up with HIM anyway it could be fixed; for if he didn’t get saved he would get drownded; and if he did get saved, whoever saved him would send him back home so as to get the reward, and then Miss Watson would sell him South, sure. Well, he was right; he was most always right; he had an uncommon level head for a nigger.
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After we woke up, we looked through the loot the gang had stolen from the wreck. We found boots, blankets, clothes, books, a spyglass, three boxes of cigars, and all sorts of other things. Neither of us had ever in our lives been this rich before. The cigars were excellent. We spent the entire afternoon talking in the woods. I read the books, and we had a great time. I told Jim everything that had happened in the wreck and at the ferry. I explained that these were adventures, but he said he didn’t want to have any more adventures. He said that he’d nearly died when I went in the cabin and when he crawled back to the raft and found it gone. He figured he was screwed either way: If no one was around to save him he’d drown, but if someone did save him then they’d turn him in to collect the reward. Then Miss Watson would definitely sell him to someone in the South. Well, he was right, as usual. That’s pretty much what would have happened. He was pretty smart for a n-----.
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I read considerable to Jim about kings and dukes and earls and such, and how gaudy they dressed, and how much style they put on, and called each other your majesty, and your grace, and your lordship, and so on, ’stead of mister; and Jim’s eyes bugged out, and he was interested. He says:
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I read to Jim quite a lot about kings and dukes and earls and all. I read about how they dressed flashy, put on airs, and called each other names like your majesty, your grace, your lordship, instead of mister. Jim was so interested that his eyes bugged out. He said:
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“I didn’ know dey was so many un um. I hain’t hearn ’bout none un um, skasely, but ole King Sollermun, onless you counts dem kings dat’s in a pack er k’yards. How much do a king git?”
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“I didn’t know there were so many of them. I’ve hardly heard of any royalty, except old King Solomon. That is, unless you count the kings that are in a pack of cards. How much money does a king make?”
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“Get?” I says; “why, they get a thousand dollars a month if they want it; they can have just as much as they want; everything belongs to them.”
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“Make?” I said. “Why, they can make a thousand dollars a month if they want. They can have all the money they want since everything belongs to them.”
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“AIN’ dat gay? En what dey got to do, Huck?”
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“Isn’t that something? And what do they have to do to get that money, Huck?”
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“THEY don’t do nothing! Why, how you talk! They just set around.”
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“What are you talking about?! THEY don’t do anything! They just sit around.”
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“No; is dat so?”
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“No way! Really?”
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“Of course it is. They just set around—except, maybe, when there’s a war; then they go to the war. But other times they just lazy around; or go hawking—just hawking and sp—Sh!—d’ you hear a noise?”
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“Of course. They just sit around, except maybe when there’s a war. Then they go to war. But usually they just sit around being lazy. Or they go hawking and sp…. Sh! Did you hear a noise?”
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We skipped out and looked; but it warn’t nothing but the flutter of a steamboat’s wheel away down, coming around the point; so we come back.
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We left our hiding spot and looked around, but the noise turned out to be the flutter of the paddles on a distant steamboat that just coming around the point. So we went back.
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“Yes,” says I, “and other times, when things is dull, they fuss with the parlyment; and if everybody don’t go just so he whacks their heads off. But mostly they hang round the harem.”
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“Yes,” I said. “And other times, when things get slow and boring, they mess around with parliament. And if the people don’t do exactly what he says, he just whacks off their heads. But usually they just hang out in the harem.”
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“Roun’ de which?”
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“Hang out where?”
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“Harem.”
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“The harem.”
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“What’s de harem?”
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“What’s the harem?”
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“The place where he keeps his wives. Don’t you know about the harem? Solomon had one; he had about a million wives.”
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“That’s the place where the king keeps his wives. Don’t you know about harems? Solomon had one with about a million wives.”
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“Why, yes, dat’s so; I—I’d done forgot it. A harem’s a bo’d’n-house, I reck’n. Mos’ likely dey has rackety times in de nussery. En I reck’n de wives quarrels considable; en dat ’crease de racket. Yit dey say Sollermun de wises’ man dat ever live’. I doan’ take no stock in dat. Bekase why would a wise man want to live in de mids’ er sich a blim-blammin’ all de time? No—’deed he wouldn’t. A wise man ’ud take en buil’ a biler-factry; en den he could shet DOWN de biler-factry when he want to res’.”
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“Yeah, that’s true. I’d completely forgotten about that. A harem is a boarding house, I guess. The nursery is probably pretty noisy. And I bet the wives fight all the time, making it even noisier. And still they say Solomon was the wisest man that ever lived. I don’t believe it. Why would a wise man want to live in the midst of all that craziness? No, he probably wouldn’t. A wise man would build himself a boiler factory where he could go when he wanted to rest.”
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“Well, but he WAS the wisest man, anyway; because the widow she told me so, her own self.”
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“Well, whatever. He WAS the wisest man, since that’s what the widow told me so herself.”
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“I doan k’yer what de widder say, he WARN’T no wise man nuther. He had some er de dad-fetchedes’ ways I ever see. Does you know ’bout dat chile dat he ’uz gwyne to chop in two?”
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“He wasn’t a wise man. I don’t care what the widow says. He had the strangest ways of doing things that I’ve ever heard of. You know about that child that he was going to chop in two?”
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“Yes, the widow told me all about it.”
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“Yes, the widow told me about that.”
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“WELL, den! Warn’ dat de beatenes’ notion in de worl’? You jes’ take en look at it a minute. Dah’s de stump, dah—dat’s one er de women; heah’s you—dat’s de yuther one; I’s Sollermun; en dish yer dollar bill’s de chile. Bofe un you claims it. What does I do? Does I shin aroun’ mongs’ de neighbors en fine out which un you de bill DO b’long to, en han’ it over to de right one, all safe en soun’, de way dat anybody dat had any gumption would? No; I take en whack de bill in TWO, en give half un it to you, en de yuther half to de yuther woman. Dat’s de way Sollermun was gwyne to do wid de chile. Now I want to ast you: what’s de use er dat half a bill?—can’t buy noth’n wid it. En what use is a half a chile? I wouldn’ give a dern for a million un um.”
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“Well there you go! Wasn’t that the craziest thing in the whole world? Just think about it a minute. Let’s say that stump over there was one of the women, and that other one was you. I’m Solomon, and this dollar bill is the child. Both you and the other woman say it’s yours. What do I do? Do I ask all the neighbors to find out which one of you the bill belongs to and then give it safe and sound to the right one? That’s what any person with common sense would do. But, no. Instead, I’d whack the bill in two and give one half to you and one half to the other woman. That’s what Solomon was going to do with the child. Now I ask you: What’s the use of half a dollar bill? You can’t buy anything with it. And what’s the use of half a child? I wouldn’t care for a million of them.”
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“But hang it, Jim, you’ve clean missed the point—blame it, you’ve missed it a thousand mile.”
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“But, man, Jim. You missed the whole point—missed it by a thousand miles.”
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“Who? Me? Go ’long. Doan’ talk to me ’bout yo’ pints. I reck’n I knows sense when I sees it; en dey ain’ no sense in sich doin’s as dat. De ’spute warn’t ’bout a half a chile, de ’spute was ’bout a whole chile; en de man dat think he kin settle a ’spute ’bout a whole chile wid a half a chile doan’ know enough to come in out’n de rain. Doan’ talk to me ’bout Sollermun, Huck, I knows him by de back.”
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“Who? Me? Get outta here. Don’t talk to me about your points. I imagine I know common sense when I see it, and there isn’t any sense in that. The women’s dispute wasn’t about half a child, it was about a whole child. And any man who thinks he can settle a dispute about a whole child by giving a woman half a child wouldn’t be smart enough to know to come inside when it rains. Don’t talk to man any more about Solomon, Huck. I know enough already.”
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“But I tell you you don’t get the point.”
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“But I’m telling you you’re not getting the point.”
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“Blame de point! I reck’n I knows what I knows. En mine you, de REAL pint is down furder—it’s down deeper. It lays in de way Sollermun was raised. You take a man dat’s got on’y one or two chillen; is dat man gwyne to be waseful o’ chillen? No, he ain’t; he can’t ’ford it. HE know how to value ’em. But you take a man dat’s got ’bout five million chillen runnin’ roun’ de house, en it’s diffunt. HE as soon chop a chile in two as a cat. Dey’s plenty mo’. A chile er two, mo’ er less, warn’t no consekens to Sollermun, dad fatch him!”
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“Damn the point! I know what I know. Besides, the real point is even deeper than that. It all goes back to the way Solomon was raised. For example, take a man who’s got only one or two children. Is that man going to be wasteful with kids? No, he isn’t—he can’t afford to be. He knows the value of a child. But it’s different with a man who’s got about five million children running around the house. HE would just as soon chop a child in two as he would a cat, since he has plenty of other kids. A child or two aren’t that important to Solomon, darn it.”
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I never see such a nigger. If he got a notion in his head once, there warn’t no getting it out again. He was the most down on Solomon of any nigger I ever see. So I went to talking about other kings, and let Solomon slide. I told about Louis Sixteenth that got his head cut off in France long time ago; and about his little boy the dolphin, that would a been a king, but they took and shut him up in jail, and some say he died there.
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I never saw such a n-----. Once he got an idea in his head, there was no use trying to get it out. He disliked Solomon more than any other n----- I ever knew. So I dropped the topic of Solomon and started talking about other kings. I told him about Louis XVI, who got his head chopped off in France a long time ago. And I talked about his son, the dolphin, who would have been king if he hadn’t been shut up in jail. Some say he died there.
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“Po’ little chap.”
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“Poor little kid.”
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“But some says he got out and got away, and come to America.”
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“But others say he escaped and came to America.”
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“Dat’s good! But he’ll be pooty lonesome—dey ain’ no kings here, is dey, Huck?”
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“Well that’s good! But he’ll be pretty lonesome here. There aren’t any kings here, are there, Huck?”
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“No.”
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“No.”
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“Den he cain’t git no situation. What he gwyne to do?”
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“Then he can’t go back to the way of life he’s used to. What’s he going to do?”
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“Well, I don’t know. Some of them gets on the police, and some of them learns people how to talk French.”
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“Well, I don’t know. Some of them become policemen and others teach people how to speak French.”
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“Why, Huck, doan’ de French people talk de same way we does?”
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“What do you mean, Huck? Don’t the French people talk the same way we do?”
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“NO, Jim; you couldn’t understand a word they said—not a single word.”
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“NO, Jim. You can’t understand a word the French say. Not a single word.”
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“Well, now, I be ding-busted! How do dat come?”
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“Well I’ll be damned! How did that come to be?”
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“I don’t know; but it’s so. I got some of their jabber out of a book. S’pose a man was to come to you and say Polly-voo-franzy—what would you think?”
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“I don’t know, but it’s true. I learned some of their nonsense out of a book. Suppose a man came up to you and said, Polly voo franzy. What would you think about that?”
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“I wouldn’ think nuff’n; I’d take en bust him over de head—dat is, if he warn’t white. I wouldn’t ’low no nigger to call me dat.”
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“I wouldn’t think at all. I’d hit him over the head—if he’s not a white man, that is. I wouldn’t allow a n----- to call me a name like that.”
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“Shucks, it ain’t calling you anything. It’s only saying, do you know how to talk French?”
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“Shucks, Jim. He wouldn’t be calling you a name. He’d only be saying, ‘Do you speak French?’”
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“Well, den, why couldn’t he SAY it?”
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“Well then why wouldn’t he just SAY that?”
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“Why, he IS a-saying it. That’s a Frenchman’s WAY of saying it.”
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“But he IS saying that. That’s the way a Frenchman says it.”
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“Well, it’s a blame ridicklous way, en I doan’ want to hear no mo’ ’bout it. Dey ain’ no sense in it.”
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“Well, he’s got a pretty ridiculous way of talking then. And I don’t want to hear any more about it. It doesn’t make any sense.”
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“Looky here, Jim; does a cat talk like we do?”
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“Look, Jim. Does a cat talk like we do?”
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“No, a cat don’t.”
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“No, a cat doesn’t.”
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“Well, does a cow?”
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“Well, does a cow talk like we do?”
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“No, a cow don’t, nuther.”
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“No, a cow doesn’t either.”
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“Does a cat talk like a cow, or a cow talk like a cat?”
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“Does a cat talk like a cow? Does a cow talk like a cat?”
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“No, dey don’t.”
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“No, they don’t.”
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“It’s natural and right for ’em to talk different from each other, ain’t it?”
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“Isn’t it natural and proper that they talk differently than each other?”
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“Course.”
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“Of course.”
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“And ain’t it natural and right for a cat and a cow to talk different from US?”
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“And isn’t it natural and proper that a cat and cow talk differently from humans?”
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“Why, mos’ sholy it is.”
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“Why, of course it is.”
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“Well, then, why ain’t it natural and right for a FRENCHMAN to talk different from us? You answer me that.”
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“Well then, why isn’t it natural and proper for a Frenchman to talk differently than us? Answer me that.”
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“Is a cat a man, Huck?”
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“Is a cat a man, Huck?”
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“No.”
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“No.”
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“Well, den, dey ain’t no sense in a cat talkin’ like a man. Is a cow a man?—er is a cow a cat?”
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“Well then, it wouldn’t make any sense for a cat to talk like a man. Is a cow a man? I mean, is a cow a cat?”
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“No, she ain’t either of them.”
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“No, a cow is neither a man nor a cat.”
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“Well, den, she ain’t got no business to talk like either one er the yuther of ’em. Is a Frenchman a man?”
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“Well then, a cow’s got no business talking like either one of them. Is a Frenchman a man?”
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“Yes.”
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“Yes.”
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“WELL, den! Dad blame it, why doan’ he TALK like a man? You answer me DAT!”
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“Well, there you go! Darn it, then why doesn’t a Frenchman TALK like a man? Answer me THAT!”
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I see it warn’t no use wasting words—you can’t learn a nigger to argue. So I quit.
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I saw it was no use wasting words—you can’t teach a n----- how to argue. So I quit.
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Chapter 15
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WE judged that three nights more would fetch us to Cairo, at the bottom of Illinois, where the Ohio River comes in, and that was what we was after. We would sell the raft and get on a steamboat and go way up the Ohio amongst the free States, and then be out of trouble.
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We figured that it would take three more nights to reach the city of Cairo in southern Illinois. That’s where the Ohio River empties into the Mississippi, and it was the Ohio River we wanted. We could sell the raft and take a steamboat up the Ohio River and into the free states. Then we’d be out of trouble.
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Well, the second night a fog begun to come on, and we made for a towhead to tie to, for it wouldn’t do to try to run in a fog; but when I paddled ahead in the canoe, with the line to make fast, there warn’t anything but little saplings to tie to. I passed the line around one of them right on the edge of the cut bank, but there was a stiff current, and the raft come booming down so lively she tore it out by the roots and away she went. I see the fog closing down, and it made me so sick and scared I couldn’t budge for most a half a minute it seemed to me—and then there warn’t no raft in sight; you couldn’t see twenty yards. I jumped into the canoe and run back to the stern, and grabbed the paddle and set her back a stroke. But she didn’t come. I was in such a hurry I hadn’t untied her. I got up and tried to untie her, but I was so excited my hands shook so I couldn’t hardly do anything with them.
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On the second night, it began to get foggy. It wouldn’t make any sense to navigate in the fog, so we headed toward a towhead to wait it out. I paddled ahead in the canoe with a rope to tie the raft, but when I got ot the towhead, I found only little saplings. I threw the rope around one of the saplings on the edge of the bank, but the current was so strong that the raft came zooming down and tore out the sapling by the roots. I got sick and scared as the fog closed in and the raft disappeared. I couldn’t see twenty yards ahead. I stood frozen with fear for a moment, then I jumped back into the canoe, ran to the stern, grabbed the oar, and started paddling. But the canoe didn’t move. I’d been in such a hurry that I forgot to untie it. I got out and tried to untie the canoe, but I was shaking so much from excitement that my hands were useless.
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As soon as I got started I took out after the raft, hot and heavy, right down the towhead. That was all right as far as it went, but the towhead warn’t sixty yards long, and the minute I flew by the foot of it I shot out into the solid white fog, and hadn’t no more idea which way I was going than a dead man.
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As soon as I got the canoe untied, I took off after the raft. I paddled furiously along the bank of the towhead. That part went fine, but the towhead wasn’t longer than sixty yards, and the minute I got past the foot of, it I shot out into the solid white fog. A dead man would have had no better idea of which way he was going than I did.
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Thinks I, it won’t do to paddle; first I know I’ll run into the bank or a towhead or something; I got to set still and float, and yet it’s mighty fidgety business to have to hold your hands still at such a time. I whooped and listened. Away down there somewheres I hears a small whoop, and up comes my spirits. I went tearing after it, listening sharp to hear it again. The next time it come I see I warn’t heading for it, but heading away to the right of it. And the next time I was heading away to the left of it—and not gaining on it much either, for I was flying around, this way and that and t’other, but it was going straight ahead all the time.
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I figured I’d be more likely to run into a bank or towhead if I paddled, so I didn’t. I decided to just sit still and float, even though it was pretty nerve wracking to have to hold my hands still at a time like that. I heard a small whooping sound from farther down the river, and my spirits lifted. I started paddling after it, listening carefully to hear it again. The next time I heard it, I realized I wasn’t headed straight toward it, but away and to the right from it. The time after that, I was heading to the left of it. And I wasn’t gaining on it much, since I was paddling all over the place instead of just heading straight for it.
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I did wish the fool would think to beat a tin pan, and beat it all the time, but he never did, and it was the still places between the whoops that was making the trouble for me. Well, I fought along, and directly I hears the whoop BEHIND me. I was tangled good now. That was somebody else’s whoop, or else I was turned around.
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I wished that the fool would think to beat repeatedly on a tin pan. The quiet times between the whoops are what made it hard for me to steer. But he never did. I continued paddling until pretty soon I hear the whoops BEHIND me. I was in a fix now. EitherI was hearing someone else’s whooping or I was turned completely around.
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I throwed the paddle down. I heard the whoop again; it was behind me yet, but in a different place; it kept coming, and kept changing its place, and I kept answering, till by and by it was in front of me again, and I knowed the current had swung the canoe’s head down-stream, and I was all right if that was Jim and not some other raftsman hollering. I couldn’t tell nothing about voices in a fog, for nothing don’t look natural nor sound natural in a fog.
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I threw the paddle down. I heard the whoop again; it was still behind me but in a different place. It kept coming toward me, and changing its place. I kept answering, and soon enough it was in front of me again. Now I knew the current had swung the canoe’s head down stream, and that I’d be alright as long as Jim was the one whooping and not some other guy. It was hard to identify voices in the fog, since things don’t look or sound natural.
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The whooping went on, and in about a minute I come a-booming down on a cut bank with smoky ghosts of big trees on it, and the current throwed me off to the left and shot by, amongst a lot of snags that fairly roared, the currrent was tearing by them so swift.
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The whooping continued. In a minute or so I realized I was sliding across a steep bank with the smoky ghosts of big trees on it. The current had thrown me off to the left and was shooting by. The water was roaring loudly as it passed through some snags.
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In another second or two it was solid white and still again. I set perfectly still then, listening to my heart thump, and I reckon I didn’t draw a breath while it thumped a hundred.
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After a second or two, things became solid white and still again. I sat perfectly still, listening to my heart thump. I held my breath and I’ll bet my heart thumped a hundred times before I breathed again.
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I just give up then. I knowed what the matter was. That cut bank was an island, and Jim had gone down t’other side of it. It warn’t no towhead that you could float by in ten minutes. It had the big timber of a regular island; it might be five or six miles long and more than half a mile wide.
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At that point, I gave up. I figured out what was going on. The steep bank was on an island, and Jim had floated down the other side of it. This wasn’t a towhead that you could float past in ten minutes. It was a regular island with big trees on it. It might be five or six miles long and more than half a mile wide.
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