Chapter 28: Page 4
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Pray for me! I reckoned if she knowed me she’d take a job that was more nearer her size. But I bet she done it, just the same—she was just that kind. She had the grit to pray for Judus if she took the notion—there warn’t no back-down to her, I judge. You may say what you want to, but in my opinion she had more sand in her than any girl I ever see; in my opinion she was just full of sand. It sounds like flattery, but it ain’t no flattery. And when it comes to beauty—and goodness, too—she lays over them all. I hain’t ever seen her since that time that I see her go out of that door; no, I hain’t ever seen her since, but I reckon I’ve thought of her a many and a many a million times, and of her saying she would pray for me; and if ever I’d a thought it would do any good for me to pray for HER, blamed if I wouldn’t a done it or bust.
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She’d pray for me! I’m sure if she knew me better she would have settled on something a bit easier considering how much praying for I needed. But I bet she prayed for me anyway—she was just that kind hearted. She’d pray for Judas if she got it in her head—she wasn’t the type to go back on her word, I figure. You can say what you want, but in my opinion she had a lot of guts—more guts than any girl I’d ever seen. That sounds like flattery, but I’m not trying to flatter her. And when it comes to beauty—goodness. She’s more beautiful than anyone else. I haven’t seen her since I let her walk out that door. Nope, haven’t seen her since, but I’ve probably thought of her a million times and remembered her saying she’d pray for me. If I ever thought it’d do any good for me to pray for HER, I would die trying.
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Well, Mary Jane she lit out the back way, I reckon; because nobody see her go. When I struck Susan and the hare-lip, I says:
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Well I suppose Mary Jane left through the back door, since no one saw her go. When I met up with Susan and the harelip, I said:
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“What’s the name of them people over on t’other side of the river that you all goes to see sometimes?”
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“What’s the name of those people over on the other side of the river that you all go and visit sometimes?”
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They says:
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The said:
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“There’s several; but it’s the Proctors, mainly.”
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“There’s several, but mostly the Proctors.”
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“That’s the name,” I says; “I most forgot it. Well, Miss Mary Jane she told me to tell you she’s gone over there in a dreadful hurry—one of them’s sick.”
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“That’s the name,” I said. “I must have forgotten it. Well, Miss Mary Jane told me to tell you she had to leave in an awful hurry to go over there—one of them is sick.”
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“Which one?”
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“Which one?”
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“I don’t know; leastways, I kinder forget; but I thinks it’s—”
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“I don’t know. Well, maybe I just forgot. But I think it’s….”
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“Sakes alive, I hope it ain’t HANNER?”
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“Land’s sakes alives, I hope it isn’t HANNAH!”
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“I’m sorry to say it,” I says, “but Hanner’s the very one.”
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“I’m sorry to say it,” I said, “but it was Hannah.”
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“My goodness, and she so well only last week! Is she took bad?”
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“My goodness! And she looked so well just last week! Is she really sick?”
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“It ain’t no name for it. They set up with her all night, Miss Mary Jane said, and they don’t think she’ll last many hours.”
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“Bad doesn’t do it justice. They sat up with her all night, Miss Mary Jane said, and they don’t think she’ll live many more hours.”
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“Only think of that, now! What’s the matter with her?”
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“Just think of that! What’s the matter with her?”
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I couldn’t think of anything reasonable, right off that way, so I says:
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I couldn’t think of anything appropriate right off the bat, so I said:
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“Mumps.”
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“Mumps.”
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“Mumps your granny! They don’t set up with people that’s got the mumps.”
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“Mumps, my left foot! They don’t sit up all night with people who have the mumps.”
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“They don’t, don’t they? You better bet they do with THESE mumps. These mumps is different. It’s a new kind, Miss Mary Jane said.”
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“Oh, they don’t? You better bet they do with THESE mumps. These mumps are different. It’s a new kind, Miss Mary Jane said.”
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“How’s it a new kind?”
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“How so?”
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“Because it’s mixed up with other things.”
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“Because it’s mixed up with other diseases.”
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“What other things?”
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“What other things?”
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“Well, measles, and whooping-cough, and erysiplas, and consumption, and yaller janders, and brain-fever, and I don’t know what all.”
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“Well, measles and whooping cough and erysipelas and consumption and yellow jaundice and brain fever and I don’t know what all else.”
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“My land! And they call it the MUMPS?”
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“My word! And they call that the MUMPS?”
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“That’s what Miss Mary Jane said.”
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“That’s what Miss Mary Jane said.”
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“Well, what in the nation do they call it the MUMPS for?”
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“Well, why in the world do they call it the MUMPS?”
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“Why, because it IS the mumps. That’s what it starts with.”
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“Well, because it IS the mumps. That’s how it all starts.”
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“Well, ther’ ain’t no sense in it. A body might stump his toe, and take pison, and fall down the well, and break his neck, and bust his brains out, and somebody come along and ask what killed him, and some numskull up and say, ’Why, he stumped his TOE.’ Would ther’ be any sense in that? NO. And ther’ ain’t no sense in THIS, nuther. Is it ketching?”
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“Well, that doesn’t make any sense. A guy could stub his toe, take poison, fall down a well, break his neck, and crack his head open so that his brains fell out. Then someone would come along and ask what killed him, and some numbskull would say, “Why, he stubbed his TOE. What would be the sense in that? NO. There’s no sense in this either. Is it contagious?”
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“Is it KETCHING? Why, how you talk. Is a HARROW catching—in the dark? If you don’t hitch on to one tooth, you’re bound to on another, ain’t you? And you can’t get away with that tooth without fetching the whole harrow along, can you? Well, these kind of mumps is a kind of a harrow, as you may say—and it ain’t no slouch of a harrow, nuther, you come to get it hitched on good.”
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“Contagious?! Listen to you talk! Is a HARROW contagious in the dark? If you don’t get snagged on one spike, you’ll get caught on another, won’t you. And you can’t walk away caught on that one spike without pulling the whole harrow along, can you? Well, this kind of mumps are like that harrow, you could say—it’s no wimpy harrow either. You get caught on it good.”
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“Well, it’s awful, I think,” says the hare-lip. “I’ll go to Uncle Harvey and—”
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“Well, it’s awful, I think,” said the harelip. “I’ll go to Uncle Harvey and....”
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“Oh, yes,” I says, “I WOULD. Of COURSE I would. I wouldn’t lose no time.”
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“Oh, sure,” I said. “That’s exactly what I’D DO. OF COURSE, I would. Don’t waste your time.”
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“Well, why wouldn’t you?”
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“Well, why wouldn’t you tell him?”
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“Just look at it a minute, and maybe you can see. Hain’t your uncles obleegd to get along home to England as fast as they can? And do you reckon they’d be mean enough to go off and leave you to go all that journey by yourselves? YOU know they’ll wait for you. So fur, so good. Your uncle Harvey’s a preacher, ain’t he? Very well, then; is a PREACHER going to deceive a steamboat clerk? is he going to deceive a SHIP CLERK?—so as to get them to let Miss Mary Jane go aboard? Now YOU know he ain’t. What WILL he do, then? Why, he’ll say, ’It’s a great pity, but my church matters has got to get along the best way they can; for my niece has been exposed to the dreadful pluribus-unum mumps, and so it’s my bounden duty to set down here and wait the three months it takes to show on her if she’s got it.’ But never mind, if you think it’s best to tell your uncle Harvey—”
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“Just think a minute, and maybe you’ll understand. Haven’t your uncles said they want to get along home to England as fast as they can? And do you think they’d be mean enough to go off and leave you to follow them on that journey all by yourself? You KNOW they’ll wait for you. So far, so good. Your Uncle Harvey’s a preacher, isn’t her? Well then, is a PREACHER going to lie to a steamboat clerk? Is he going to lie to a SHIP CLERK so they’d let Miss Mary Jane go aboard? You know he wouldn’t. So what WILL he do instead? Why, he’ll say, ‘It’s such a pity, but they’ll just have to get on at church without me because my neice has been exposed to the dreadful pluribus unum mumps. It’s my bound duty to sit down here and wait the three months it’ll take to show if she’s got it.’ But never mind—if you think it’s best to tell your Uncle Harvey….”
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Chapter 28: Page 5
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“Shucks, and stay fooling around here when we could all be having good times in England whilst we was waiting to find out whether Mary Jane’s got it or not? Why, you talk like a muggins.”
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“Shoot, and have to stick around here waiting to see if Mary Jane’s caught it or not when we could all be in England having fun? You talk like an idiot.”
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“Well, anyway, maybe you’d better tell some of the neighbors.”
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“Well, anyways, maybe you’d better tell some of the neighbors.”
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“Listen at that, now. You do beat all for natural stupidness. Can’t you SEE that THEY’D go and tell? Ther’ ain’t no way but just to not tell anybody at ALL.”
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“Tell the neighbors? Listen to you talk. You are the most naturally stupid person I’ve ever met. Don’t you UNDERSTAND that THEY’d go and tell? All you can do is not tell anyone at ALL.”
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“Well, maybe you’re right—yes, I judge you ARE right.”
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“Well, maybe you’re right…. Yes, I guess you ARE right.”
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“But I reckon we ought to tell Uncle Harvey she’s gone out a while, anyway, so he won’t be uneasy about her?”
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“Well, I guess we ought to tell Uncle Harvey she’s gone out a while. That way they won’t wonder where she is.”
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“Yes, Miss Mary Jane she wanted you to do that. She says, ’Tell them to give Uncle Harvey and William my love and a kiss, and say I’ve run over the river to see Mr.’—Mr.—what IS the name of that rich family your uncle Peter used to think so much of?—I mean the one that—”
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“Yes, Miss Mary Jane wanted you to tell him. She said, ‘Tell them to give Uncle Harvey and Uncle William my love and a kiss. Tell them I’ve gone across the river to see Mr….’ Mr…. what IS the name of that rich family your uncle Peter used to think so much of? I mean the one that….”
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“Why, you must mean the Apthorps, ain’t it?”
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“Why, you must mean the Apthorps, don’t you?”
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“Of course; bother them kind of names, a body can’t ever seem to remember them, half the time, somehow. Yes, she said, say she has run over for to ask the Apthorps to be sure and come to the auction and buy this house, because she allowed her uncle Peter would ruther they had it than anybody else; and she’s going to stick to them till they say they’ll come, and then, if she ain’t too tired, she’s coming home; and if she is, she’ll be home in the morning anyway. She said, don’t say nothing about the Proctors, but only about the Apthorps—which ’ll be perfectly true, because she is going there to speak about their buying the house; I know it, because she told me so herself.”
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“Of course. Darn those strange names—a guy can’t remember them half the time. Yes, she said, tell them she’s run over to ask the Apthorps to be sure and come to the auction to buy this house. She figured her uncle Peter would prefer they buy it than anyone else. And she going to stay with them and keep pressuring them to come until they DO come. Then, if she isn’t too tired, she’ll come home. But if she is too tired, then she’ll be home in the morning. She didn’t want you to say anything about the Proctors. Just talk about the Apthorps, which will be perfectly true, because she is going over there to talk to them about buying the house. I know this because she told me so herself.”
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“All right,” they said, and cleared out to lay for their uncles, and give them the love and the kisses, and tell them the message.
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“All right,” they said, and they left to wait for their uncles so that they could give them love and kisses and the message.
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Everything was all right now. The girls wouldn’t say nothing because they wanted to go to England; and the king and the duke would ruther Mary Jane was off working for the auction than around in reach of Doctor Robinson. I felt very good; I judged I had done it pretty neat—I reckoned Tom Sawyer couldn’t a done it no neater himself. Of course he would a throwed more style into it, but I can’t do that very handy, not being brung up to it.
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Everything was all right now. The girls wouldn’t say anything because they wanted to go to England. The king and the duke would rather Mary Jane was off preparing things for the auction than around here near Doctor Robinson. I felt pretty good—I figured I had done a good job. In fact, I figured that not even Tom Sawyer could have done a better job. Of course, he would have done it was more style, but I’m not good with that. I wasn’t raised to be stylish.
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Well, they held the auction in the public square, along towards the end of the afternoon, and it strung along, and strung along, and the old man he was on hand and looking his level pisonest, up there longside of the auctioneer, and chipping in a little Scripture now and then, or a little goody-goody saying of some kind, and the duke he was around goo-gooing for sympathy all he knowed how, and just spreading himself generly.
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Well, they held the auction in the town square in the late afternoon and it went on a long time. The king was up there, looking pretty slimy as he stood next to the auctioneer, chipping in every now and then with sayings from the scriptures and other warm fuzzies. The duke went around the whole square goo-gooing with all his might to drum up as much sympathy from potential buyers as he could.
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But by and by the thing dragged through, and everything was sold—everything but a little old trifling lot in the graveyard. So they’d got to work that off—I never see such a girafft as the king was for wanting to swallow EVERYTHING. Well, whilst they was at it a steamboat landed, and in about two minutes up comes a crowd a-whooping and yelling and laughing and carrying on, and singing out:
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Eventually the auction ended and everything had been sold—everything, that is, except a plot in the graveyard. So they kept going until they sold that too. I never saw ANYONE greedier than the king. While they were finishing up, a steamboat landed. In about two minutes, a crowd of people come whooping and yelling and carrying on toward us, crying out:
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“HERE’S your opposition line! here’s your two sets o’ heirs to old Peter Wilks—and you pays your money and you takes your choice!”
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“HERE’s some competition for you! Now, we’ve got two sets of heirs to old Peter Wilks’s fortune! Put down your money and take your pick as to which pair is the real one!”
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Chapter 29
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THEY was fetching a very nice-looking old gentleman along, and a nice-looking younger one, with his right arm in a sling. And, my souls, how the people yelled and laughed, and kept it up. But I didn’t see no joke about it, and I judged it would strain the duke and the king some to see any. I reckoned they’d turn pale. But no, nary a pale did THEY turn. The duke he never let on he suspicioned what was up, but just went a goo-gooing around, happy and satisfied, like a jug that’s googling out buttermilk; and as for the king, he just gazed and gazed down sorrowful on them new-comers like it give him the stomach-ache in his very heart to think there could be such frauds and rascals in the world. Oh, he done it admirable. Lots of the principal people gethered around the king, to let him see they was on his side. That old gentleman that had just come looked all puzzled to death. Pretty soon he begun to speak, and I see straight off he pronounced LIKE an Englishman—not the king’s way, though the king’s WAS pretty good for an imitation. I can’t give the old gent’s words, nor I can’t imitate him; but he turned around to the crowd, and says, about like this:
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In walked a very nice looking old gentleman, as well as a nice looking younger one, who had his right arm in a sling. And, my goodness, the people yelled and laughed for a while. I didn’t see what was so funny about it all, and I figured the king and duke probably didn’t either. I figured they would turn pale, but no, they DIDN’T turn pale. The duke never let on that he suspected something was up. Instead, he just went on googling out buttermilk. As for the king, he just kept on looking sorrowfully down at the newcomers, like it caused his heart pain to think there could be frauds and rascals like that in the world. Oh, he did an admirable job. Lots of the most important people in town gathered around the king to show him that they were on his side. The old gentleman that had just arrived looked like he was going to die of confusion. Eventually he began to speak, and I saw right away that he SOUNDED like an Englishman. He didn’t sound like the king, even though the king was good at imitating an English accent. I don’t remember the exact words the old gentleman said, nor can I imitate him, but he turned around to the crowd and said something like:
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“This is a surprise to me which I wasn’t looking for; and I’ll acknowledge, candid and frank, I ain’t very well fixed to meet it and answer it; for my brother and me has had misfortunes; he’s broke his arm, and our baggage got put off at a town above here last night in the night by a mistake. I am Peter Wilks’ brother Harvey, and this is his brother William, which can’t hear nor speak—and can’t even make signs to amount to much, now’t he’s only got one hand to work them with. We are who we say we are; and in a day or two, when I get the baggage, I can prove it. But up till then I won’t say nothing more, but go to the hotel and wait.”
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“Well, this is an unexpected surprise, and I can say honestly and frankly that I’m not really prepared to face it. My brother and I have had some misfortunes—he’s broken his arm, and our baggage got unloaded at a town upriver from here last night by mistake. I am Peter Wilks’s brother Harvey, and this is his brother William. William can’t hear or speak and can’t even make signs that mean much of anything, now that he has only one arm to make them with. We are who we say we are, and in a day or two when I get the baggage back, I can prove it. Until then, I won’t say anything more. I’ll go the hotel and wait.”
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So him and the new dummy started off; and the king he laughs, and blethers out:
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So he and the new mute started off for the hotel. The king laughed and managed to say:
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“Broke his arm—VERY likely, AIN’T it?—and very convenient, too, for a fraud that’s got to make signs, and ain’t learnt how. Lost their baggage! That’s MIGHTY good!—and mighty ingenious—under the CIRCUMSTANCES!”
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“Broke his arm? VERY likely, ISN’T it? And very convenient, too, for a fraud who has to make signs and hasn’t learned how. Lost their baggage! That’s a MIGHTY good story! And mighty ingenious too under the CIRCUMSTANCES!”
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So he laughed again; and so did everybody else, except three or four, or maybe half a dozen. One of these was that doctor; another one was a sharp-looking gentleman, with a carpet-bag of the old-fashioned kind made out of carpet-stuff, that had just come off of the steamboat and was talking to him in a low voice, and glancing towards the king now and then and nodding their heads—it was Levi Bell, the lawyer that was gone up to Louisville; and another one was a big rough husky that come along and listened to all the old gentleman said, and was listening to the king now. And when the king got done this husky up and says:
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He laughed again, and so did everyone else, except for three or four people—well, maybe half a dozen. One of these people was the doctor. Another was an intelligent looking gentleman with an old fashioned carpetbag made out of actual carpet material. He’d just come off the steamboat too and was talking to the doctor in a low voice. They were glancing toward the king now and then, nodding their heads. His name was Levi Bell, the lawyer that had been up in Louisville. Another man who didn’t laugh was a big, rough looking, husky fellow that had come over and listend to everything the old gentleman had said. Now he was listening to the king, and when the king finished, he said:
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“Say, looky here; if you are Harvey Wilks, when’d you come to this town?”
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“Hey, look here. If you are Harvey Wilks, then when did you come to this town?”
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“The day before the funeral, friend,” says the king.
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“The day before the funeral, friend,” said the king.
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“But what time o’ day?”
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“But what time of day?”
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“In the evenin’—’bout an hour er two before sundown.”
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“In the evening—about an hour or two before sundown.”
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“HOW’D you come?”
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“HOW did you come?”
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“I come down on the Susan Powell from Cincinnati.”
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“I came down on the Steamboat Susan Powell from Cincinnati.”
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“Well, then, how’d you come to be up at the Pint in the MORNIN’—in a canoe?”
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“Well, then how did you come to be up at the point in the MORNING? In a canoe?”
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“I warn’t up at the Pint in the mornin’.”
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“I wasn’t up at the point in the morning.”
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“It’s a lie.”
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“You’re lying.”
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Several of them jumped for him and begged him not to talk that way to an old man and a preacher.
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Several people in the crowd interrupted and begged him not to talk that way to an old man and a preacher.
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“Preacher be hanged, he’s a fraud and a liar. He was up at the Pint that mornin’. I live up there, don’t I? Well, I was up there, and he was up there. I see him there. He come in a canoe, along with Tim Collins and a boy.”
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“Preacher, my butt—he’s a fraud and a liar. He was up at the point in the morning. I live up there, don’t I? Well, I was up there, and so was he. I saw him up there. He came in a canoe along with Tim Collins and a boy.”
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The doctor he up and says:
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The doctor then said:
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“Would you know the boy again if you was to see him, Hines?”
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“Would you be able to recognize the boy if you saw him again, Hines?”
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“I reckon I would, but I don’t know. Why, yonder he is, now. I know him perfectly easy.”
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“I suppose I probably would, but I’m not sure. Why—there is over there right now. I recognize him easily.”
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It was me he pointed at. The doctor says:
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He was pointing at me. The doctor said:
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