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on.  I knowed what it was about.  He was thinking about his wife and his children, away up yonder, and he was low and homesick; because he hadnā€™t ever been away from home before in his life; and I do believe he cared just as much for his people as white folks does for theirā€™n.  It donā€™t seem natural, but I reckon itā€™s so.  He was often moaning and mourning that way nights, when he judged I was asleep, and saying, ā€œPoā€™ little ā€™Lizabeth! poā€™ little Johnny! itā€™s mighty hard; I specā€™ I ainā€™t ever gwyne to see you no moā€™, no moā€™!ā€  He was a mighty good nigger, Jim was.

But this time I somehow got to talking to him about his wife and young ones; and by and by he says:

ā€œWhat makes me feel so bad dis time ā€™uz bekase I hear sumpn over yonder on de bank like a whack, er a slam, while ago, en it mine me er de time I treat my little ā€™Lizabeth so ornery.  She warnā€™t onā€™y ā€™bout foā€™ year ole, en she tuck de skā€™yarlet fever, en had a powful rough spell; but she got well, en one day she was a-stanninā€™ arounā€™, en I says to her, I says:

ā€œā€˜Shet de doā€™.ā€™

ā€œShe never done it; jisā€™ stood dah, kiner smilinā€™ up at me.  It make me mad; en I says agin, mighty loud, I says:

ā€œā€˜Doanā€™ you hear me?  Shet de doā€™!ā€™

ā€œShe jis stood de same way, kiner smilinā€™ up.  I was a-bilinā€™!  I says:

ā€œā€˜I lay I make you mine!ā€™

ā€œEn wid dat I fetchā€™ her a slap side de head dat sont her a-sprawlinā€™. Den I went into de yuther room, en ā€™uz gone ā€™bout ten minutes; en when I come back dah was dat doā€™ a-stanninā€™ open yit, en dat chile stanninā€™ mosā€™ right in it, a-lookinā€™ down and mourninā€™, en de tears runninā€™ down.  My, but I wuz mad!  I was a-gwyne for de chile, but jisā€™ denā€”it was a doā€™ dat open innerdsā€”jisā€™ den, ā€™long come de wind en slam it to, behine de chile, ker-BLAM!ā€”en my lanā€™, de chile never moveā€™!  My breff mosā€™ hop outer me; en I feel soā€”soā€”I doanā€™ know HOW I feel.  I crope out, all a-tremblinā€™, en crope arounā€™ en open de doā€™ easy en slow, en poke my head in behine de chile, sofā€™ en still, en all uv a sudden I says POW! jisā€™ as loud as I could yell.  She never budge!  Oh, Huck, I bust out a-cryinā€™ en grab her up in my arms, en say, ā€˜Oh, de poā€™ little thing!  De Lord God Amighty fogive poā€™ ole Jim, kaze he never gwyne to fogive hisself as longā€™s he live!ā€™  Oh, she was plumb deef en dumb, Huck, plumb deef en dumbā€”en Iā€™d ben a-treatā€™n her so!ā€









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CHAPTER XXIV.

NEXT day, towards night, we laid up under a little willow towhead out in the middle, where there was a village on each side of the river, and the duke and the king begun to lay out a plan for working them towns.  Jim he spoke to the duke, and said he hoped it wouldnā€™t take but a few hours, because it got mighty heavy and tiresome to him when he had to lay all day in the wigwam tied with the rope.  You see, when we left him all alone we had to tie him, because if anybody happened on to him all by himself and not tied it wouldnā€™t look much like he was a runaway nigger, you know. So the duke said it was kind of hard to have to lay roped all day, and heā€™d cipher out some way to get around it.

He was uncommon bright, the duke was, and he soon struck it.  He dressed Jim up in King Learā€™s outfitā€”it was a long curtain-calico gown, and a white horse-hair wig and whiskers; and then he took his theater paint and painted Jimā€™s face and hands and ears and neck all over a dead, dull, solid blue, like a man thatā€™s been drownded nine days.  Blamed if he warnā€™t the horriblest looking outrage I ever see.  Then the duke took and wrote out a sign on a shingle so:

Sick Arabā€”but harmless when not out of his head.

And he nailed that shingle to a lath, and stood the lath up four or five foot in front of the wigwam.  Jim was satisfied.  He said it was a sight better than lying tied a couple of years every day, and trembling all over every time there was a sound.  The duke told him to make himself free and easy, and if anybody ever come meddling around, he must hop out of the wigwam, and carry on a little, and fetch a howl or two like a wild beast, and he reckoned they would light out and leave him alone.  Which was sound enough judgment; but you take the average man, and he wouldnā€™t wait for him to howl.  Why, he didnā€™t only look like he was dead, he looked considerable more than that.

These rapscallions wanted to try the Nonesuch again, because there was so much money in it, but they judged it wouldnā€™t be safe, because maybe the news might a worked along down by this time.  They couldnā€™t hit no project that suited exactly; so at last the duke said he reckoned heā€™d lay off and work his brains an hour or two and see if he couldnā€™t put up something on the Arkansaw village; and the king he allowed he would drop over to tā€™other village without any plan, but just trust in Providence to lead him the profitable wayā€”meaning the devil, I reckon.  We had all bought store clothes where we stopped last; and now the king put hisā€™n on, and he told me to put mine on.  I done it, of course.  The kingā€™s duds was all black, and he did look real swell and starchy.  I never knowed how clothes could change a body before.  Why, before, he looked like the orneriest old rip that ever was; but now, when heā€™d take off his new white beaver and make a bow and do a smile, he looked that grand and good and pious that youā€™d say he had walked right out of the ark, and maybe was old Leviticus himself.  Jim cleaned up the canoe, and I got my paddle ready.  There was a big steamboat laying at the shore away up under the point, about three mile above the townā€”been there a couple of hours, taking on freight.  Says the king:

ā€œSeeinā€™ how Iā€™m dressed, I reckon maybe I better arrive down from St. Louis or Cincinnati, or some other big place.  Go for the steamboat, Huckleberry; weā€™ll come down to the village on her.ā€

I didnā€™t have to be ordered twice to go and take a steamboat ride.  I fetched the shore a half a mile above the village, and then went scooting along the bluff bank in the easy water.  Pretty soon we come to a nice innocent-looking young country jake setting on a log swabbing the sweat off of his face, for it was powerful warm weather; and he had a couple of big carpet-bags by him.

ā€œRun her nose in shore,ā€ says the king.  I done it.  "Wherā€™ you bound for, young man?ā€

ā€œFor the steamboat; going to Orleans.ā€

ā€œGit aboard,ā€ says the king.  "Hold on a minute, my servant ā€™ll heā€™p you with them bags.  Jump out and heā€™p the gentleman, Adolphusā€ā€”meaning me, I see.







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I done so, and then we all three started on again.  The young chap was mighty thankful; said it was tough work toting his baggage such weather. He asked the king where he was going, and the king told him heā€™d come down the river and landed at the other village this morning, and now he was going up a few mile to see an old friend on a farm up there.  The young fellow says:

ā€œWhen I first see you I says to myself, ā€˜Itā€™s Mr. Wilks, sure, and he come mighty near getting here in time.ā€™  But then I says again, ā€˜No, I reckon it ainā€™t him, or else he wouldnā€™t be paddling up the river.ā€™  You ainā€™t him, are you?ā€

ā€œNo, my nameā€™s Blodgettā€”Elexander Blodgettā€”Reverend Elexander Blodgett, I sā€™pose I must say, as Iā€™m one oā€™ the Lordā€™s poor servants.  But still Iā€™m jist as able to be sorry for Mr. Wilks for not arriving in time, all the same, if heā€™s missed anything by itā€”which I hope he hasnā€™t.ā€

ā€œWell, he donā€™t miss any property by it, because heā€™ll get that all right; but heā€™s missed seeing his brother Peter dieā€”which he maynā€™t mind, nobody can tell as to thatā€”but his brother would a give anything in this world to see him before he died; never talked about nothing else all these three weeks; hadnā€™t seen him since they was boys togetherā€”and hadnā€™t ever seen his brother William at allā€”thatā€™s the deef and dumb oneā€”William ainā€™t more than thirty or thirty-five.  Peter and George were the only ones that come out here; George was the married brother; him and his wife both died last year.  Harvey and Williamā€™s the only ones thatā€™s left now; and, as I was saying, they havenā€™t got here in time.ā€

ā€œDid anybody send ā€™em word?ā€

ā€œOh, yes; a month or two ago, when Peter was first took; because Peter said then that he sorter felt like he warnā€™t going to get well this time. You see, he was pretty old, and Georgeā€™s gā€™yirls was too young to be much company for him, except Mary Jane, the red-headed one; and so he was kinder lonesome after George and his wife died, and didnā€™t seem to care much to live.  He most desperately wanted to see Harveyā€”and William, too, for that matterā€”because he was one of them kind that canā€™t bear to make a will.  He left a letter behind for Harvey, and said heā€™d told in it where his money was hid, and how he wanted the rest of the property divided up so Georgeā€™s gā€™yirls would be all rightā€”for George didnā€™t leave nothing.  And that letter was all they could get him to put a pen to.ā€

ā€œWhy do you reckon Harvey donā€™t come?  Wherā€™ does he live?ā€

ā€œOh, he lives in Englandā€”Sheffieldā€”preaches thereā€”hasnā€™t ever been in this country.  He hasnā€™t had any too much timeā€”and besides he mightnā€™t a got the letter at all, you know.ā€

ā€œToo bad, too bad he couldnā€™t a lived to see his brothers, poor soul. You going to Orleans, you say?ā€

ā€œYes, but that ainā€™t only a part of it.  Iā€™m going in a ship, next Wednesday, for Ryo Janeero, where my uncle lives.ā€

ā€œItā€™s a pretty long journey.  But itā€™ll be lovely; wisht I was a-going. Is Mary Jane the oldest?  How old is the others?ā€

ā€œMary Janeā€™s nineteen, Susanā€™s fifteen, and Joannaā€™s about fourteenā€”thatā€™s the one that gives herself to good works and has a hare-lip.ā€

ā€œPoor things! to be left alone in the cold world so.ā€

ā€œWell, they could be worse off.  Old Peter had friends, and they ainā€™t going to let them come to no harm.  Thereā€™s Hobson, the Babtisā€™ preacher; and Deacon Lot Hovey, and Ben Rucker, and Abner Shackleford, and Levi Bell, the lawyer; and Dr. Robinson, and their wives, and the widow Bartley, andā€”well, thereā€™s a lot of them; but these are the ones that Peter was thickest with, and used to write about sometimes, when he wrote home; so Harvey ā€™ll know where to look for friends when he gets here.ā€







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Well, the old man went on asking questions till he just fairly emptied that young fellow.  Blamed if he didnā€™t inquire about everybody and everything in that blessed town, and all about the Wilkses; and about Peterā€™s businessā€”which was a tanner; and about Georgeā€™sā€”which was a carpenter; and about Harveyā€™sā€”which was a dissentering minister; and so on, and so on.  Then he says:

ā€œWhat did you want to

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