Chapter 10: Page 2
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Well, the days went along, and the river went down between its banks again; and about the first thing we done was to bait one of the big hooks with a skinned rabbit and set it and catch a catfish that was as big as a man, being six foot two inches long, and weighed over two hundred pounds. We couldn’t handle him, of course; he would a flung us into Illinois. We just set there and watched him rip and tear around till he drownded. We found a brass button in his stomach and a round ball, and lots of rubbage. We split the ball open with the hatchet, and there was a spool in it. Jim said he’d had it there a long time, to coat it over so and make a ball of it. It was as big a fish as was ever catched in the Mississippi, I reckon. Jim said he hadn’t ever seen a bigger one. He would a been worth a good deal over at the village. They peddle out such a fish as that by the pound in the market-house there; everybody buys some of him; his meat’s as white as snow and makes a good fry.
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Well, the days passed and the river receded to normal levels again. The first thing we did was to bait one of the big fishhooks with a skinned rabbit and catch a catfish as big as a man. It was six feet two inches long and weighed over 200 pounds. We couldn’t handle him, of course—he would have tossed us all the way to Illinois. Instead, we just sat there and watched him thrash about until he died. We cut him open and found a brass button and a round ball, along with other junk, in his stomach. We split the ball open with the hatchet and found a spool of thread in it. Jim said the fish must have had the spool in his stomach for a long time for it to get coated and form a ball like that. Jim said he’d never seen a bigger fish, and I figured it was the biggest fish that had ever been caught in the Mississippi River. It would have been worth a lot of money in the village, where they sell fish by the pound in the market house. Everyone would buy some it because his meat was as white as snow and fried up pretty well.
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Next morning I said it was getting slow and dull, and I wanted to get a stirring up some way. I said I reckoned I would slip over the river and find out what was going on. Jim liked that notion; but he said I must go in the dark and look sharp. Then he studied it over and said, couldn’t I put on some of them old things and dress up like a girl? That was a good notion, too. So we shortened up one of the calico gowns, and I turned up my trouser-legs to my knees and got into it. Jim hitched it behind with the hooks, and it was a fair fit. I put on the sun-bonnet and tied it under my chin, and then for a body to look in and see my face was like looking down a joint of stove-pipe. Jim said nobody would know me, even in the daytime, hardly. I practiced around all day to get the hang of the things, and by and by I could do pretty well in them, only Jim said I didn’t walk like a girl; and he said I must quit pulling up my gown to get at my britches-pocket. I took notice, and done better.
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The next morning I said things were getting pretty boring and that I wanted to get up and do something. I said I figured I’d cross the river to see what was going on. Jim liked that idea, but said I should go in the dark and be careful. He thought about it for awhile and suggested I dress up like a girl by putting on some of the old clothes we’d found. That was a pretty good idea. We adjusted the length of one of the calico dresses, and I rolled up my pant legs and put it on. Jim tied me up in the back with the hooks. It fit pretty well. I also put on the sunbonnet and tied it under my chin, which made it seem like my face was down in a stovepipe. Jim said people wouldn’t recognize even if it was daytime. I practiced pretending to be a girl all day to get the hang of it. Eventually, I started doing pretty well. Jim said I didn’t walk like a girl, though, and said I had to stop pulling up my dress to reach into my pants pocket. I took his advice and started doing better.
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I started up the Illinois shore in the canoe just after dark.
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After dark, I took the canoe over to the Illinois shore.
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I started across to the town from a little below the ferry-landing, and the drift of the current fetched me in at the bottom of the town. I tied up and started along the bank. There was a light burning in a little shanty that hadn’t been lived in for a long time, and I wondered who had took up quarters there. I slipped up and peeped in at the window. There was a woman about forty year old in there knitting by a candle that was on a pine table. I didn’t know her face; she was a stranger, for you couldn’t start a face in that town that I didn’t know. Now this was lucky, because I was weakening; I was getting afraid I had come; people might know my voice and find me out. But if this woman had been in such a little town two days she could tell me all I wanted to know; so I knocked at the door, and made up my mind I wouldn’t forget I was a girl.
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I headed toward the town that was just below the ferry landing, and the current took me right to the southern tip. I tied up the canoe, got out, and head up the riverbank. There was a light burning in a little cabin that had been abandoned for some time, and I wondered who had started living there. I snuck up and peered in the window. Inside was a woman about forty years old inside knitting and a pine table with a candle on it. I didn’t recognize her—she was a stranger, since there wasn’t a person in that town that I didn’t know. This was lucky for me because I was starting to lose my nerve. I was starting to regret having come, since people might recognize my voice and figure out who I was. But this woman could tell me everything I wanted to know, even if she’d only been in our tiny town a couple days. So, I told myself not to forget that I was a girl, and then I knocked on the door.
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Chapter 11
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“COME in,” says the woman, and I did. She says: “Take a cheer.”
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“Come in,” said the woman. I went in, and she said: “Have a seat.”
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I done it. She looked me all over with her little shiny eyes, and says:
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I sat down. She looked me up and down with her shiny little eyes and said:
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“What might your name be?”
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“What might your name be?”
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“Sarah Williams.”
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“Sarah Williams.”
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“Where ’bouts do you live? In this neighborhood?’
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“Where do you live? In this neighborhood?”
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“No’m. In Hookerville, seven mile below. I’ve walked all the way and I’m all tired out.”
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“No, ma’am. I live in Hookerville, seven miles down stream. I walked all the way here, and I’m exhausted.”
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“Hungry, too, I reckon. I’ll find you something.”
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“You’re hungry, too, I imagine. I’ll find you something to eat.”
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“No’m, I ain’t hungry. I was so hungry I had to stop two miles below here at a farm; so I ain’t hungry no more. It’s what makes me so late. My mother’s down sick, and out of money and everything, and I come to tell my uncle Abner Moore. He lives at the upper end of the town, she says. I hain’t ever been here before. Do you know him?”
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“No, ma’am, I’m not hungry. I was so hungry that I stopped at a farm two miles back. I ate there, so I’m not hungry any more. That’s why I’m so late getting here. My mother’s sick in bed, and I’ve come here to tell my uncle Abner Moore that she’s run out of money. She said that he lives at the north end of town. I’ve never been here before. Do you know him?”
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“No; but I don’t know everybody yet. I haven’t lived here quite two weeks. It’s a considerable ways to the upper end of the town. You better stay here all night. Take off your bonnet.”
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“No, but I don’t know everyone in town yet. I’ve lived here just under two weeks. It’s pretty far from here to the north end of town. You better stay here tonight. Take off your bonnet.”
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“No,” I says; “I’ll rest a while, I reckon, and go on. I ain’t afeared of the dark.”
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“No,” I said. “I’ll rest awhile, I figure, and then go on. I’m not afraid of the dark.”
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She said she wouldn’t let me go by myself, but her husband would be in by and by, maybe in a hour and a half, and she’d send him along with me. Then she got to talking about her husband, and about her relations up the river, and her relations down the river, and about how much better off they used to was, and how they didn’t know but they’d made a mistake coming to our town, instead of letting well alone—and so on and so on, till I was afeard I had made a mistake coming to her to find out what was going on in the town; but by and by she dropped on to pap and the murder, and then I was pretty willing to let her clatter right along. She told about me and Tom Sawyer finding the six thousand dollars (only she got it ten) and all about pap and what a hard lot he was, and what a hard lot I was, and at last she got down to where I was murdered. I says:
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She said she wouldn’t let me go by myself, but would have her husband go with me when he got home in about an hour and a half. Then she started talking about her husband and all her relatives up and down the river. She talked a lot about how much better off financially they used to be, but they made a mistake in moving to this town instead of staying where they were. She talked on an on, and I started to think I’d made a mistake in coming to her to find out what was going on about town. Pretty soon, though, she started talking about my pap and the murder, so I was happy to let her chatter on. She told me about how Tom Sawyer had found the six thousand dollars (only she thought it was ten thousand). Then she talked about pap and what an unpleasant character he was, and what an unpleasant sort his son, Huckleberry, was. At last she got to my murder. I said:
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“Who done it? We’ve heard considerable about these goings on down in Hookerville, but we don’t know who ’twas that killed Huck Finn.”
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“Who did it? We’ve heard a lot about the murder down in Hookerville, but we don’t know who killed Huck Finn.”
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“Well, I reckon there’s a right smart chance of people HERE that’d like to know who killed him. Some think old Finn done it himself.”
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“Well, I imagine there are quite a few people HERE who’d like to know who killed him, too. Some think old man Finn killed Huck himself.”
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“No—is that so?”
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“No—is that so?”
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“Most everybody thought it at first. He’ll never know how nigh he come to getting lynched. But before night they changed around and judged it was done by a runaway nigger named Jim.”
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“That’s what almost everyone thought at first. He’ll never know how close he was to being hanged. But before nightfall, they changed their minds and figured that Huck had been killed by a runaway n----- named Jim.”
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“Why HE—”
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“But he…”
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I stopped. I reckoned I better keep still. She run on, and never noticed I had put in at all:
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I stopped myself, figuring I had better shut up. She kept on talking without noticing that I had started to interrupt her:
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“The nigger run off the very night Huck Finn was killed. So there’s a reward out for him—three hundred dollars. And there’s a reward out for old Finn, too—two hundred dollars. You see, he come to town the morning after the murder, and told about it, and was out with ’em on the ferryboat hunt, and right away after he up and left. Before night they wanted to lynch him, but he was gone, you see. Well, next day they found out the nigger was gone; they found out he hadn’t ben seen sence ten o’clock the night the murder was done. So then they put it on him, you see; and while they was full of it, next day, back comes old Finn, and went boo-hooing to Judge Thatcher to get money to hunt for the nigger all over Illinois with. The judge gave him some, and that evening he got drunk, and was around till after midnight with a couple of mighty hard-looking strangers, and then went off with them. Well, he hain’t come back sence, and they ain’t looking for him back till this thing blows over a little, for people thinks now that he killed his boy and fixed things so folks would think robbers done it, and then he’d get Huck’s money without having to bother a long time with a lawsuit. People do say he warn’t any too good to do it. Oh, he’s sly, I reckon. If he don’t come back for a year he’ll be all right. You can’t prove anything on him, you know; everything will be quieted down then, and he’ll walk in Huck’s money as easy as nothing.”
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“The n----- ran away the same night that Huck Finn was killed, so there’s a reward of three hundred dollars out for him. And there’s a two hundred dollar reward out for old man Finn, too. You see, he came in to town the morning after the murder and told everyone about it. He even went out with them on the ferryboat to hunt for the body, but right after, he left. By nightfall they wanted to hang him, but he was gone. Well, the next day they found out that the n----- was missing and hadn’t been seen since ten o’clock on the night of the murder. So they pinned it on him, you see. And that’s when old man Finn appears again and goes crying to Judge Thatcher to give him money to hunt for that n----- all over Illinois. The judge gave him some money, but that night, he got drunk and out til well past midnight with couple of tough looking men. He went off with them, and he hasn’t come back since. And he probably won’t come back until this whole thing blows over, since everyone now thinks that he killed his boy and arranged everything to look like robbers had done it. That way, he could get Huck’s money without having to waste time filing another lawsuit. Everyone says it wouldn’t be beneath him to do something like that. Oh, he’s pretty clever. He knows that no one can prove he did it. He’ll be fine if he just stays away for a year or so. Then everything will have quited down, and he’ll be able to get Huck’s money pretty easily.”
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Chapter 11: Page 2
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“Yes, I reckon so, ’m. I don’t see nothing in the way of it. Has everybody quit thinking the nigger done it?”
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“Yes, I guess so, ma’am. I don’t see what would stop him. Has everyone stopped thinking that the n----- did it, then?”
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“Oh, no, not everybody. A good many thinks he done it. But they’ll get the nigger pretty soon now, and maybe they can scare it out of him.”
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“Oh, no, not everyone. A lot of people still think he did it. But they’ll catch that n----- pretty soon, and then maybe they can scare a confession out of him”
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“Why, are they after him yet?”
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“Well, have they started looking for him yet?”
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“Well, you’re innocent, ain’t you! Does three hundred dollars lay around every day for people to pick up? Some folks think the nigger ain’t far from here. I’m one of them—but I hain’t talked it around. A few days ago I was talking with an old couple that lives next door in the log shanty, and they happened to say hardly anybody ever goes to that island over yonder that they call Jackson’s Island. Don’t anybody live there? says I. No, nobody, says they. I didn’t say any more, but I done some thinking. I was pretty near certain I’d seen smoke over there, about the head of the island, a day or two before that, so I says to myself, like as not that nigger’s hiding over there; anyway, says I, it’s worth the trouble to give the place a hunt. I hain’t seen any smoke sence, so I reckon maybe he’s gone, if it was him; but husband’s going over to see—him and another man. He was gone up the river; but he got back to-day, and I told him as soon as he got here two hours ago.”
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“Why, you’re pretty naïve, aren’t you! It isn’t every day that there’s a reward of three hundred dollars just waiting to be claimed! Some folks think the n----- isn’t far from here. That’s what I think, but I haven’t talked to many people about it. A few days ago I was talking with an older couple that lives in the log cabin next door, and they said that hardly anybody ever goes to that island over there called Jackson’s Island. Doesn’t anyone live there? I asked. No, no one, they said. I didn’t say any more, but I did some thinking. I’m pretty sure I saw some smoke at the head of the island about a day or two ago. I said to myself that it’s likely the n------ is hiding over there. Anyway, I said, it’s worth the trouble to look around the island a bit. I haven’t seen any smoke since then, so I guess maybe he’s gone, if it was even him in the first place. My husband and another man went over there to check. He had been up river, but he got back today. I told him all about it as soon as he got here two hours ago.”
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I had got so uneasy I couldn’t set still. I had to do something with my hands; so I took up a needle off of the table and went to threading it. My hands shook, and I was making a bad job of it. When the woman stopped talking I looked up, and she was looking at me pretty curious and smiling a little. I put down the needle and thread, and let on to be interested—and I was, too—and says:
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I’d gotten so nervous I couldn’t sit still. I had to do something with my hands, so I took up a needle off the table and started threading it. My hands shook, and I was doing a pretty bad job with the needle. When the woman stopped talking, I looked up, and she was looking at me funny and smiling a little. I put down the needle and thread, and started to act more interested in what she was saying—which I was—and said:
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“Three hundred dollars is a power of money. I wish my mother could get it. Is your husband going over there to-night?”
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“Three hundred dollars is an awful lot of money. I wish my mother could get it. Is your husband over there tonight?”
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“Oh, yes. He went up-town with the man I was telling you of, to get a boat and see if they could borrow another gun. They’ll go over after midnight.”
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“Why, yes. He went to the north of town with the other man I was telling you about to see if they could get a boat and borrow another gun. They’ll go over after midnight.”
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“Couldn’t they see better if they was to wait till daytime?”
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“Won’t they be able to see better if they wait until the daytime?”
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“Yes. And couldn’t the nigger see better, too? After midnight he’ll likely be asleep, and they can slip around through the woods and hunt up his camp fire all the better for the dark, if he’s got one.”
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“Yes, but that n----- will be able to see better too? He’ll likely be asleep after midnight, and in the dark they’ll be able to sneak through the woods and spot his camp fire better, if he has one.”
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“I didn’t think of that.”
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“I didn’t think of that.”
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The woman kept looking at me pretty curious, and I didn’t feel a bit comfortable. Pretty soon she says,
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The woman kept looking at me funny, which made me feel really uneasy. Pretty soon she said:
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“What did you say your name was, honey?”
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“What did you say your name was, honey?”
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“M—Mary Williams.”
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“M—Mary Williams.”
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Somehow it didn’t seem to me that I said it was Mary before, so I didn’t look up—seemed to me I said it was Sarah; so I felt sort of cornered, and was afeared maybe I was looking it, too. I wished the woman would say something more; the longer she set still the uneasier I was. But now she says:
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Somehow, Mary didn’t seem like the name I’d given before. It seemed to me I’d said it was Sarah. I sort of felt cornered and was afraid that I looked cornered too, so I didn’t look up. I wished the woman would say something—the longer she sat still the worse I felt. But then she said:
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“Honey, I thought you said it was Sarah when you first come in?”
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“Honey, I thought you said your name was Sarah when you first came in.”
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“Oh, yes’m, I did. Sarah Mary Williams. Sarah’s my first name. Some calls me Sarah, some calls me Mary.”
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“Oh yes, ma’am, I did. Sarah Mary Williams. Sarah’s my first name. Some people call me Sarah, others call me Mary.”
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“Oh, that’s the way of it?”
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“Oh, that’s how it is?”
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“Yes’m.”
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“Yes, ma’am.”
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I was feeling better then, but I wished I was out of there, anyway. I couldn’t look up yet.
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I felt better then, but I still wished I wasn’t there anymore. I still couldn’t look up.
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Well, the woman fell to talking about how hard times was, and how poor they had to live, and how the rats was as free as if they owned the place, and so forth and so on, and then I got easy again. She was right about the rats. You’d see one stick his nose out of a hole in the corner every little while. She said she had to have things handy to throw at them when she was alone, or they wouldn’t give her no peace. She showed me a bar of lead twisted up into a knot, and said she was a good shot with it generly, but she’d wrenched her arm a day or two ago, and didn’t know whether she could throw true now. But she watched for a chance, and directly banged away at a rat; but she missed him wide, and said “Ouch!” it hurt her arm so. Then she told me to try for the next one. I wanted to be getting away before the old man got back, but of course I didn’t let on. I got the thing, and the first rat that showed his nose I let drive, and if he’d a stayed where he was he’d a been a tolerable sick rat. She said that was first-rate, and she reckoned I would hive the next one. She went and got the lump of lead and fetched it back, and brought along a hank of yarn which she wanted me to help her with. I held up my two hands and she put the hank over them, and went on talking about her and her husband’s matters. But she broke off to say:
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Well, the woman started talking about what such hard times these were and how poor she and her husband were and how the rats ran around as if they owned the place. She went on an on and I started to relax again. She was right about the rats—every once in a while you could see one stick his nose out of a hole in the corner. She said she had to keep things on hand to throw at them when she was by herself or else they’d take over. She showed me a bar of lead that was twisted up into a knot. She said she was usually a pretty good shot with it, but that she’d twisted her arm a day or two ago. She didn’t know whether she could throw it at the rats anymore. She waited for an opportunity, then tried to hit a rat with it. She missed him, and said “Ouch!” from the pain in her arm. She told me to try and hit the next one. I wanted to leave before the old man got back, but I didn’t let on, of course. I picked up the lead bar and threw it at the first rat that showed its nose. If it had stayed put, it would have been badly hurt, but it got away. The woman said that that had been a fine throw and that she was sure I’d get the next one. She went and got the lead bar and brought it back along with a skein of yarn she wanted me to help her with. I held up my two hands and she started winding the yarn over them and went on talking about her husband’s business. She stopped at one point to say:
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