The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn - Mark Twain (the false prince .txt) š
- Author: Mark Twain
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One of these fellows was about seventy or upwards, and had a bald head and very gray whiskers. He had an old battered-up slouch hat on, and a greasy blue woollen shirt, and ragged old blue jeans britches stuffed into his boot-tops, and home-knit gallusesā āno, he only had one. He had an old long-tailed blue jeans coat with slick brass buttons flung over his arm, and both of them had big, fat, ratty-looking carpetbags.
The other fellow was about thirty, and dressed about as ornery. After breakfast we all laid off and talked, and the first thing that come out was that these chaps didnāt know one another.
āWhat got you into trouble?ā says the baldhead to tāother chap.
āWell, Iād been selling an article to take the tartar off the teethā āand it does take it off, too, and generly the enamel along with itā ābut I stayed about one night longer than I ought to, and was just in the act of sliding out when I ran across you on the trail this side of town, and you told me they were coming, and begged me to help you to get off. So I told you I was expecting trouble myself, and would scatter out with you. Thatās the whole yarnā āwhatās yourn?
āWell, Iād ben a-runningā a little temperance revival thar ābout a week, and was the pet of the women folks, big and little, for I was makinā it mighty warm for the rummies, I tell you, and takinā as much as five or six dollars a nightā āten cents a head, children and niggers freeā āand business a-growinā all the time, when somehow or another a little report got around last night that I had a way of puttinā in my time with a private jug on the sly. A nigger rousted me out this morninā, and told me the people was getherinā on the quiet with their dogs and horses, and theyād be along pretty soon and give me ābout half an hourās start, and then run me down if they could; and if they got me theyād tar and feather me and ride me on a rail, sure. I didnāt wait for no breakfastā āI warnāt hungry.ā
āOld man,ā said the young one, āI reckon we might double-team it together; what do you think?ā
āI aināt undisposed. Whatās your lineā āmainly?ā
āJour printer by trade; do a little in patent medicines; theater-actorā ātragedy, you know; take a turn to mesmerism and phrenology when thereās a chance; teach singing-geography school for a change; sling a lecture sometimesā āoh, I do lots of thingsā āmost anything that comes handy, so it aināt work. Whatās your lay?ā
āIāve done considerble in the doctoring way in my time. Layinā on oā hands is my best holtā āfor cancer and paralysis, and sich things; and I kān tell a fortune pretty good when Iāve got somebody along to find out the facts for me. Preachinās my line, too, and workinā camp-meetinās, and missionaryinā around.ā
Nobody never said anything for a while; then the young man hove a sigh and says:
āAlas!ā
āWhat āre you alassinā about?ā says the baldhead.
āTo think I should have lived to be leading such a life, and be degraded down into such company.ā And he begun to wipe the corner of his eye with a rag.
āDern your skin, aināt the company good enough for you?ā says the baldhead, pretty pert and uppish.
āYes, it is good enough for me; itās as good as I deserve; for who fetched me so low when I was so high? I did myself. I donāt blame you, gentlemenā āfar from it; I donāt blame anybody. I deserve it all. Let the cold world do its worst; one thing I knowā āthereās a grave somewhere for me. The world may go on just as itās always done, and take everything from meā āloved ones, property, everything; but it canāt take that. Some day Iāll lie down in it and forget it all, and my poor broken heart will be at rest.ā He went on a-wiping.
āDrot your pore broken heart,ā says the baldhead; āwhat are you heaving your pore broken heart at us fār? We haināt done nothing.ā
āNo, I know you havenāt. I aināt blaming you, gentlemen. I brought myself downā āyes, I did it myself. Itās right I should sufferā āperfectly rightā āI donāt make any moan.ā
āBrought you down from whar? Whar was you brought down from?ā
āAh, you would not believe me; the world never believesā ālet it passā āātis no matter. The secret of my birthā āā
āThe secret of your birth! Do you mean to sayā āā
āGentlemen,ā says the young man, very solemn, āI will reveal it to you, for I feel I may have confidence in you. By rights I am a duke!ā
Jimās eyes bugged out when he heard that; and I reckon mine did, too. Then the baldhead says: āNo! you canāt mean it?ā
āYes. My great-grandfather, eldest son of the Duke of Bridgewater, fled to this country about the end of the last century, to breathe the pure air of freedom; married here, and died, leaving a son, his own father dying about the same time. The second son of the late duke seized the titles and estatesā āthe infant real duke was ignored. I am the lineal descendant of that infantā āI am the rightful Duke of Bridgewater; and here am I, forlorn, torn from my high estate, hunted of men, despised by the cold world, ragged, worn, heartbroken, and degraded to the companionship of felons on a raft!ā
Jim pitied him ever so much, and so did I. We tried to comfort him, but he said it warnāt much use, he couldnāt be much comforted; said if we was a mind to acknowledge him, that would do him more good than most anything else; so we said we would, if he would tell us how. He said we ought to bow when we spoke to him, and say āYour Grace,ā or āMy Lord,ā or āYour Lordshipāā āand he wouldnāt mind it if we called him plain āBridgewater,ā which, he said, was a title anyway, and not
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