The news was all over town in two minutes, and you could see the
people tearing down on the run from every which way, some of them
putting on their coats as they come. Pretty soon we was in the middle
of a crowd, and the noise of the tramping was like a soldier march.
The windows and dooryards was full; and every minute somebody would
say, over a fence:

"Is it _them?_"

And somebody trotting along with the gang would answer back and say:

"You bet it is."

When we got to the house the street in front of it was packed, and the
three girls was standing in the door. Mary Jane _was_ red-headed, but
that don't make no difference, she was most awful beautiful, and her
face and her eyes was all lit up like glory, she was so glad her
uncles was come. The king he spread his arms, and Mary Jane she jumped
for them, and the hare-lip jumped for the duke, and there they _had_
it! Everybody most, leastways women, cried for joy to see them meet
again at last and have such good times.

Then the king he hunched the duke private--I see him do it--and then
he looked around and see the coffin, over in the corner on two chairs;
so then him and the duke, with a hand across each other's shoulder,
and t'other hand to their eyes, walked slow and solemn over there,
everybody dropping back to give them room, and all the talk and noise
stopping, people saying "'Sh!" and all the men taking their hats off
and drooping their heads, so you could 'a' heard a pin fall. And when
they got there they bent over and looked in the coffin, and took one
sight, and then they bust out a-crying so you could 'a' heard them to
Orleans, most; and then they put their arms around each other's necks,
and hung their chins over each other's shoulders; and then for three
minutes, or maybe four, I never see two men leak the way they done.
And, mind you, everybody was doing the same; and the place was that
damp I never see anything like it. Then one of them got on one side of
the coffin, and t'other on t'other side, and they kneeled down and
rested their foreheads on the coffin, and let on to pray all to
themselves. Well, when it come to that it worked the crowd like you
never see anything like it, and everybody broke down and went to
sobbing right out loud--the poor girls, too; and every woman, nearly,
went up to the girls, without saying a word, and kissed them, solemn,
on the forehead, and then put their hand on their head, and looked up
towards the sky, with the tears running down, and then busted out and
went off sobbing and swabbing, and give the next woman a show. I never
see anything so disgusting. Well, by and by the king he gets up and
comes forward a little, and works himself up and slobbers out a
speech, all full of tears and flapdoodle, about its being a sore trial
for him and his poor brother to lose the diseased, and to miss seeing
diseased alive after the long journey of four thousand mile, but it's
a trial that's sweetened and sanctified to us by this dear sympathy
and these holy tears, and so he thanks them out of his heart and out
of his brother's heart, because out of their mouths they can't, words
being too weak and cold, and all that kind of rot and slush, till it
was just sickening; and then he blubbers out a pious goody-goody Amen,
and turns himself loose and goes to crying fit to bust.

And the minute the words were out of his mouth somebody over in the
crowd struck up the doxolojer, and everybody joined in with all their
might, and it just warmed you up and made you feel as good as church
letting out. Music is a good thing; and after all that soul-butter and
hogwash I never see it freshen up things so, and sound so honest and
bully.

Then the king begins to work his jaw again, and says how him and his
nieces would be glad if a few of the main principal friends of the
family would take supper here with them this evening, and help set up
with the ashes of the diseased; and says if his poor brother laying
yonder could speak he knows who he would name, for they was names that
was very dear to him, and mentioned often in his letters; and so he
will name the same, to wit, as follows, viz.:--Rev. Mr. Hobson, and
Deacon Lot Hovey, and Mr. Ben Rucker, and Abner Shackleford, and Levi
Bell, and Dr. Robinson, and their wives, and the widow Bartley.

Rev. Hobson and Dr. Robinson was down to the end of the town a-hunting
together--that is, I mean the doctor was shipping a sick man to
t'other world, and the preacher was pinting him right. Lawyer Bell was
away up to Louisville on business. But the rest was on hand, and so
they all come and shook hands with the king and thanked him and talked
to him; and then they shook hands with the duke and didn't say
nothing, but just kept a-smiling and bobbing their heads like a passel
of sapheads whilst he made all sorts of signs with his hands and said
"Goo-goo--goo-goo-goo" all the time, like a baby that can't talk.

So the king he blattered along, and managed to inquire about pretty
much everybody and dog in town, by his name, and mentioned all sorts
of little things that happened one time or another in the town, or to
George's family, or to Peter. And he always let on that Peter wrote
him the things; but that was a lie: he got every blessed one of them
out of that young flathead that we canoed up to the steamboat.

Then Mary Jane she fetched the letter her father left behind, and the
king he read it out loud and cried over it. It give the dwelling-house
and three thousand dollars, gold, to the girls; and it give the
tanyard (which was doing a good business), along with some other
houses and land (worth about seven thousand), and three thousand
dollars in gold to Harvey and William, and told where the six thousand
cash was hid down cellar. So these two frauds said they'd go and fetch
it up, and have everything square and above-board; and told me to come
with a candle. We shut the cellar door behind us, and when they found
the bag they spilt it out on the floor, and it was a lovely sight, all
them yaller-boys. My, the way the king's eyes did shine! He slaps the
duke on the shoulder and says:

"Oh, _this_ ain't bully nor noth'n! Oh, no, I reckon not! Why, Biljy,
it beats the Nonesuch, _don't_ it?"

The duke allowed it did. They pawed the yaller-boys, and sifted them
through their fingers and let them jingle down on the floor; and the
king says:

"It ain't no use talkin'; bein' brothers to a rich dead man and
representatives of furrin heirs that's got left is the line for you
and me, Bilge. Thish yer comes of trust'n to Providence. It's the best
way, in the long run. I've tried 'em all, and ther' ain't no better
way."

Most everybody would 'a' been satisfied with the pile, and took it on
trust; but no, they must count it. So they counts it, and it comes out
four hundred and fifteen dollars short. Says the king:

"Dern him, I wonder what he done with that four hundred and fifteen
dollars?"

They worried over that awhile, and ransacked all around for it. Then
the duke says:

"Well, he was a pretty sick man, and likely he made a mistake--I
reckon that's the way of it. The best way's to let it go, and keep
still about it. We can spare it."

"Oh, shucks, yes, we can _spare_ it. I don't k'yer noth'n 'bout
that--it's the _count_ I'm thinkin' about. We want to be awful square
and open and above-board here, you know. We want to lug this h'yer
money up-stairs and count it before everybody--then ther' ain't noth'n
suspicious. But when the dead man says ther's six thous'n dollars, you
know, we don't want to--"

"Hold on," says the duke. "Le's make up the deffisit," and he begun to
haul out yaller-boys out of his pocket.

"It's a most amaz'n' good idea, duke--you _have_ got a rattlin' clever
head on you," says the king. "Blest if the old Nonesuch ain't a
heppin' us out ag'in," and _he_ begun to haul out yaller-jackets and
stack them up.

It most busted them, but they made up the six thousand clean and
clear.

"Say," says the duke, "I got another idea. Le's go up-stairs and count
this money, and then take and _give it to the girls."_

"Good land, duke, lemme hug you! It's the most dazzling idea 'at ever
a man struck. You have cert'nly got the most astonishin' head I ever
see. Oh, this is the boss dodge, ther' ain't no mistake 'bout it. Let
'em fetch along their suspicions now if they want to--this 'll lay 'em
out."

When we got up-stairs everybody gethered around the table, and the
king he counted it and stacked it up, three hundred dollars in a
pile--twenty elegant little piles. Everybody looked hungry at it, and
licked their chops. Then they raked it into the bag again, and I see
the king begin to swell himself up for another speech. He says:

"Friends all, my poor brother that lays yonder has done generous by
them that's left behind in the vale of sorrers. He has done generous
by these yer poor little lambs that he loved and sheltered, and that's
left fatherless and motherless. Yes, and we that knowed him knows that
he would 'a' done _more_ generous by 'em if he hadn't ben afeard o'
woundin' his dear William and me. Now,  _wouldn't_ he? Ther' ain't no
question 'bout it in _my_ mind. Well, then, what kind o' brothers
would it be that 'd stand in his way at sech a time? And what kind o'
uncles would it be that 'd rob--yes, _Rob_--sech poor sweet lambs as
these 'at he loved so at sech a time? If I know William--and I _think_
I do--he--well, I'll jest ask him." He turns around and begins to make
a lot of signs to the duke with his hands, and the duke he looks at
him stupid and leather-headed awhile; then all of a sudden he seems to
catch his meaning, and jumps for the king, goo-gooing with all his
might for joy, and hugs him about fifteen times before he lets up.
Then the king says, "I knowed it; I reckon _that_ 'll convince anybody
the way _he_ feels about it. Here, Mary Jane, Susan, Joanner, take the
money--take it _all._ It's the gift of him that lays yonder, cold but
joyful."

Mary Jane she went for him, Susan and the hare-lip went for the duke,
and then such another hugging and kissing I never see yet. And
everybody crowded up with the tears in their eyes, and most shook the
hands off of them frauds, saying all the time:

"You _dear_ good souls!--how _lovely!_--how _could_ you!"

Well, then, pretty soon all hands got to talking about the diseased
again, and how good he was, and what a loss he was, and all that; and
before long a big iron-jawed man worked himself in there from outside,
and stood a-listening and looking, and not saying anything; and nobody
saying anything to him either, because the king was talking and they
was all busy listening. The king was saying--in the middle of
something he'd started in on--

"--they bein' partickler friends o' the diseased. That's why they're
invited here this evenin'; but tomorrow we want _all_ to
come--everybody; for he respected everybody, he liked everybody, and
so it's fitten that his funeral orgies sh'd be public."

And so he went a-mooning on and on, liking to hear himself talk, and
every little while he fetched in his funeral orgies again, till the
duke he couldn't stand it no more; so he writes on a little scrap of
paper, "_Obsequies_, you old fool," and folds it up, and goes to
goo-gooing and reaching it over people's heads to him. The king he
reads it and puts it in his pocket, and says:

"Poor William, afflicted as he is, his _heart's_ aluz right. Asks me
to invite everybody to come to the funeral--wants me to make 'em all
welcome. But he needn't 'a' worried--it was jest what I was at."

Then he weaves along again, perfectly ca'm, and goes to dropping in
his funeral orgies again every now and then, just like he done before.
And when he done it the third time he says:

"I say orgies, not because it's the common term, because it
ain't--obsequies bein' the common term--but because orgies is the
right term. Obsequies ain't used in England no more now--it's gone
out. We say orgies now in England. Orgies is better, because it means
the thing you're after more exact. It's a word that's made up out'n
the Greek _orgo_, outside, open, abroad; and the Hebrew _jeesum_, to
plant, cover up; hence in_ter_. So, you see, funeral orgies is an open
er public funeral."

He was the _worst_ I ever struck. Well, the iron-jawed man he laughed
right in his face. Everybody was shocked. Everybody says, "Why,
_doctor!_" and Abner Shackleford says:

"Why, Robinson, hain't you heard the news? This is Harvey Wilks."

The king he smiled eager, and shoved out his flapper, and says:

"_Is_ it my poor brother's dear good friend and physician? I--"

"Keep your hands off me!" says the doctor. "_You_ talk like an
Englishman, _don't_ you? It's the worst imitation I ever heard. _You_
Peter Wilks's brother! You're a fraud, that's what you are!"

Well, how they all took on! They crowded around the doctor and tried
to quiet him down, and tried to explain to him and tell him how
Harvey's showed in forty ways that he _was_ Harvey, and knowed
everybody by name, and the names of the very dogs, and begged and
_begged_ him not to hurt Harvey's feelings and the poor girls'
feelings, and all that. But it warn't no use; he stormed right along,
and said any man that pretended to be an Englishman and couldn't
imitate the lingo no better than what he did was a fraud and a liar.
The poor girls was hanging to the king and crying; and all of a sudden
the doctor ups and turns on _them._ He says:

"I was your father's friend, and I'm your friend; and I warn you as a
friend, and an honest one that wants to protect you and keep you out
of harm and trouble, to turn your backs on that scoundrel and have
nothing to do with him, the ignorant tramp, with his idiotic Greek and
Hebrew, as he calls it. He is the thinnest kind of an impostor--has
come here with a lot of empty names and facts which he picked up
somewheres; and you take them for _proofs_, and are helped to fool
yourselves by these foolish friends here, who ought to know better.
Mary Jane Wilks, you know me for your friend, and for your unselfish
friend, too. Now listen to me; turn this pitiful rascal out--I _beg_
you to do it. Will you?"

Mary Jane straightened herself up, and my, but she was handsome! She
says:

"_Here_ is my answer." She hove up the bag of money and put it in the
king's hands, and says, "Take this six thousand dollars, and invest
for me and my sisters any way you want to, and don't give us no
receipt for it."

Then she put her arm around the king on one side, and Susan and the
hare-lip done the same on the other. Everybody clapped their hands and
stomped on the floor like a perfect storm, whilst the king held up his
head and smiled proud. The doctor says:

"All right; I wash _my_ hands of the matter. But I warn you all that a
time's coming when you're going to feel sick whenever you think of
this day." And away he went.

"All right, doctor," says the king, kinder mocking him; "we'll try and
get 'em to send for you;" which made them all laugh, and they said it
was a prime good hit.

A crowd gathers before the Wilks home to watch Wilks's three nieces tearfully greet the duke and the dauphin, whom they believe to be their English uncles. The entire town then joins in the "blubbering. Huck has "never seen anything so disgusting. The letter Wilks has left behind bequeaths the house and $3,000 to his nieces. His brothers stand to inherit another $3,000, along with more than double that amount in real estate. After finding Wilks's money in the basement, where the letter had said it would be, the duke and the dauphin privately count the money. They add $415 of their own money when they discover that the stash comes up short of the letter's promised $6,000. Then, they hand all the money over to the Wilks sisters in a great show before a crowd of townspeople. Doctor Robinson, an old friend of the deceased, interrupts to declare the duke and the dauphin frauds, noting that their accents are ridiculously phony. He asks Mary Jane, the eldest Wilks sister, to listen to him as a friend and dismiss the impostors. In reply, Mary Jane hands the dauphin the $6,000 to invest as he sees fit


Well, when they was all gone the king he asks Mary Jane how they was
off for spare rooms, and she said she had one spare room, which would
do for Uncle William, and she'd give her own room to Uncle Harvey,
which was a little bigger, and she would turn into the room with her
sisters and sleep on a cot; and up garret was a little cubby, with a
pallet in it. The king said the cubby would do for his valley--meaning
me.

So Mary Jane took us up, and she showed them their rooms, which was
plain but nice. She said she'd have her frocks and a lot of other
traps took out of her room if they was in Uncle Harvey's way, but he
said they warn't. The frocks was hung along the wall, and before them
was a curtain made out of calico that hung down to the floor. There
was an old hair trunk in one corner, and a guitar-box in another, and
all sorts of little knickknacks and jimcracks around, like girls
brisken up a room with. The king said it was all the more homely and
more pleasanter for these fixings, and so don't disturb them. The
duke's room was pretty small, but plenty good enough, and so was my
cubby.

That night they had a big supper, and all them men and women was
there, and I stood behind the king and the duke's chairs and waited on
them, and the niggers waited on the rest. Mary Jane she set at the
head of the table, with Susan alongside of her, and said how bad the
biscuits was, and how mean the preserves was, and how ornery and tough
the fried chickens was--and all that kind of rot, the way women always
do for to force out compliments; and the people all knowed everything
was tiptop, and said so--said "How _do_ you get biscuits to brown so
nice?" and "Where, for the land's sake, _did_ you get these amaz'n
pickles?" and all that kind of humbug talky-talk, just the way people
always does at a supper, you know.

And when it was all done me and the hare-lip had supper in the kitchen
off of the leavings, whilst the others was helping the niggers clean
up the things. The hare-lip she got to pumping me about England, and
blest if I didn't think the ice was getting mighty thin sometimes. She
says:

"Did you ever see the king?"

"Who? William Fourth? Well, I bet I have--he goes to our church." I
knowed he was dead years ago, but I never let on. So when I says he
goes to our church, she says:

"What--regular?"

"Yes--regular. His pew's right over opposite ourn--on t'other side the
pulpit."

"I thought he lived in London?"

"Well, he does. Where _would_ he live?"

"But I thought _you_ lived in Sheffield?"

I see I was up a stump. I had to let on to get choked with a
chicken-bone, so as to get time to think how to get down again. Then I
says:

"I mean he goes to our church regular when he's in Sheffield. That's
only in the summer-time, when he comes there to take the sea baths."

"Why, how you talk--Sheffield ain't on the sea."

"Well, who said it was?"

"Why, you did."

"I _didn't_, nuther."

"You did!"

"I didn't."

"You did."

"I never said nothing of the kind."

"Well, what _did_ you say, then?"

"Said he come to take the sea _baths_--that's what I said."

"Well, then, how's he going to take the sea baths if it ain't on the
sea?"

"Looky here," I says; "did you ever see any Congress-water?"

"Yes."

"Well, did you have to go to Congress to get it?"

"Why, no."

"Well, neither does William Fourth have to go to the sea to get a sea
bath."

"How does he get it, then?"

"Gets it the way people down here gets Congress-water--in barrels.
There in the palace at Sheffield they've got furnaces, and he wants
his water hot. They can't bile that amount of water away off there at
the sea. They haven't got no conveniences for it."

"Oh, I see, now. You might 'a' said that in the first place and saved
time."

When she said that I see I was out of the woods again, and so I was
comfortable and glad. Next, she says:

"Do you go to church, too?"

"Yes--regular."

"Where do you set?"

"Why, in our pew."

"_Whose_ pew?"

"Why, _ourn_--your Uncle Harvey's."

"His'n? What does _he_ want with a pew?"

"Wants it to set in. What did you _reckon_ he wanted with it?"

"Why, I thought he'd be in the pulpit."

Rot him, I forgot he was a preacher. I see I was up a stump again, so
I played another chicken-bone and got another think. Then I says:

"Blame it, do you suppose there ain't but one preacher to a church?"

"Why, what do they want with more?"

"What!--to preach before a king? I never did see such a girl as you.
They don't have no less than seventeen."

"Seventeen! My land! Why, I wouldn't set out such a string as that,
not if I _never_ got to glory. It must take 'em a week."

"Shucks, they don't _all_ of 'em preach the same day--only _one_ of
'em."

"Well, then, what does the rest of 'em do?"

"Oh, nothing much. Loll around, pass the plate--and one thing or
another. But mainly they don't do nothing."

"Well, then, what are they _for_?"

"Why, they're for _style_. Don't you know nothing?"

"Well, I don't _want_ to know no such foolishness as that. How is
servants treated in England? Do they treat 'em better 'n we treat our
niggers?"

"_No!_ A servant ain't nobody there. They treat them worse than dogs."

"Don't they give 'em holidays, the way we do, Christmas and New Year's
week, and Fourth of July?"

"Oh, just listen! A body could tell _you_ hain't ever been to England
by that. Why, Hare-l--why, Joanna, they never see a holiday from
year's end to year's end; never go to the circus, nor theater, nor
nigger shows, nor nowheres."

"Nor church?"

"Nor church."

"But _you_ always went to church."

Well, I was gone up again. I forgot I was the old man's servant. But
next minute I whirled in on a kind of an explanation how a valley was
different from a common servant, and _had_ to go to church whether he
wanted to or not, and set with the family, on account of its being the
law. But I didn't do it pretty good, and when I got done I see she
warn't satisfied. She says:

"Honest injun, now, hain't you been telling me a lot of lies?"

"Honest injun," says I.

"None of it at all?"

"None of it at all. Not a lie in it," says I.

"Lay your hand on this book and say it."

I see it warn't nothing but a dictionary, so I laid my hand on it and
said it. So then she looked a little better satisfied, and says:

"Well, then, I'll believe some of it; but I hope to gracious if I'll
believe the rest."

"What is it you won't believe, Jo?" says Mary Jane, stepping in with
Susan behind her. "It ain't right nor kind for you to talk so to him,
and him a stranger and so far from his people. How would you like to
be treated so?"

"That's always your way, Maim--always sailing in to help somebody
before they're hurt. I hain't done nothing to him. He's told some
stretchers, I reckon, and I said I wouldn't swallow it all; and that's
every bit and grain I _did_ say. I reckon he can stand a little thing
like that, can't he?"

"I don't care whether 'twas little or whether 'twas big; he's here in
our house and a stranger, and it wasn't good of you to say it. If you
was in his place it would make you feel ashamed; and so you oughtn't
to say a thing to another person that will make _them_ feel ashamed."

"Why, Maim, he said--"

"It don't make no difference what he _said_--that ain't the thing. The
thing is for you to treat him _kind,_ and not be saying things to make
him remember he ain't in his own country and amongst his own folks."

I says to myself, _this_ is a girl that I'm letting that old reptile
rob her of her money!

Then Susan _she_ waltzed in; and if you'll believe me, she did give
Hare-lip hark from the tomb!

Says I to myself, and this is _another_ one that I'm letting him rob
her of her money!

Then Mary Jane she took another inning, and went in sweet and lovely
again--which was her way; but when she got done there warn't hardly
anything left o' poor Hare-lip. So she hollered.

"All right, then," says the other girls; "you just ask his pardon."

She done it, too; and she done it beautiful. She done it so beautiful
it was good to hear; and I wished I could tell her a thousand lies, so
she could do it again.

I says to myself, this is _another_ one that I'm letting him rob her
of her money. And when she got through they all jest laid theirselves
out to make me feel at home and know I was amongst friends. I felt so
ornery and low down and mean that I says to myself, my mind's made up;
I'll hive that money for them or bust.

So then I lit out--for bed, I said, meaning some time or another. When
I got by myself I went to thinking the thing over. I says to myself,
shall I go to that doctor, private, and blow on these frauds? No--that
won't do. He might tell who told him; then the king and the duke would
make it warm for me. Shall I go, private, and tell Mary Jane? No--I
dasn't do it. Her face would give them a hint, sure; they've got the
money, and they'd slide right out and get away with it. If she was to
fetch in help I'd get mixed up in the business before it was done
with, I judge. No; there ain't no good way but one. I got to steal
that money, somehow; and I got to steal it some way that they won't
suspicion that I done it. They've got a good thing here, and they
ain't a-going to leave till they've played this family and this town
for all they're worth, so I'll find a chance time enough. I'll steal
it and hide it; and by and by, when I'm away down the river, I'll
write a letter and tell Mary Jane where it's hid. But I better hive it
to-night if I can, because the doctor maybe hasn't let up as much as
he lets on he has; he might scare them out of here yet.

So, thinks I, I'll go and search them rooms. Upstairs the hall was
dark, but I found the duke's room, and started to paw around it with
my hands; but I recollected it wouldn't be much like the king to let
anybody else take care of that money but his own self; so then I went
to his room and begun to paw around there. But I see I couldn't do
nothing without a candle, and I dasn't light one, of course. So I
judged I'd got to do the other thing--lay for them and eavesdrop.
About that time I hears their footsteps coming, and was going to skip
under the bed; I reached for it, but it wasn't where I thought it
would be; but I touched the curtain that hid Mary Jane's frocks, so I
jumped in behind that and snuggled in amongst the gowns, and stood
there perfectly still. They come in and shut the door; and the first
thing the duke done was to get down and look under the bed. Then I was
glad I hadn't found the bed when I wanted it. And yet, you know, it's
kind of natural to hide under the bed when you are up to anything
private. They sets down then, and the king says:

"Well, what is it? And cut it middlin' short, because it's better for
us to be down there a-whoopin' up the mournin' than up here givin' 'em
a chance to talk us over."

"Well, this is it, Capet. I ain't easy; I ain't comfortable. That
doctor lays on my mind. I wanted to know your plans. I've got a
notion, and I think it's a sound one."

"What is it, duke?"

"That we better glide out of this before three in the morning, and
clip it down the river with what we've got. Specially, seeing we got
it so easy--_given_ back to us, flung at our heads, as you may say,
when of course we allowed to have to steal it back. I'm for knocking
off and lighting out."

That made me feel pretty bad. About an hour or two ago it would 'a'
been a little different, but now it made me feel bad and disappointed.
The king rips out and says:

"What! And not sell out the rest o' the property? March off like a
passel of fools and leave eight or nine thous'n' dollars' worth o'
property layin' around jest sufferin' to be scooped in?--and all good,
salable stuff, too."

The duke he grumbled; said the bag of gold was enough, and he didn't
want to go no deeper--didn't want to rob a lot of orphans of
_everything_ they had.

"Why, how you talk!" says the king. "We sha'n't rob 'em of nothing at
all but jest this money. The people that _buys_ the property is the
suff'rers; because as soon 's it's found out 'at we didn't own
it--which won't be long after we've slid--the sale won't be valid, and
it 'll all go back to the estate. These yer orphans 'll git their
house back ag'in, and that's enough for _them;_ they're young and
spry, and k'n easy earn a livin'. _They_ ain't a-goin' to suffer. Why,
jest think--there's thous'n's and thous'n's that ain't nigh so well
off. Bless you, _they_ ain't got noth'n' to complain of."

Well, the king he talked him blind; so at last he give in, and said
all right, but said he believed it was blamed foolishness to stay, and
that doctor hanging over them. But the king says:

"Cuss the doctor! What do we k'yer for _him?_ Hain't we got all the
fools in town on our side? And ain't that a big enough majority in any
town?"

So they got ready to go down-stairs again. The duke says:

"I don't think we put that money in a good place."

That cheered me up. I'd begun to think I warn't going to get a hint of
no kind to help me. The king says:

"Why?"

"Because Mary Jane 'll be in mourning from this out; and first you
know the nigger that does up the rooms will get an order to box these
duds up and put 'em away; and do you reckon a nigger can run across
money and not borrow some of it?"

"Your head's level ag'in, duke," says the king; and he comes
a-fumbling under the curtain two or three foot from where I was. I
stuck tight to the wall and kept mighty still, though quivery; and I
wondered what them fellows would say to me if they catched me; and I
tried to think what I'd better do if they did catch me. But the king
he got the bag before I could think more than about a half a thought,
and he never suspicioned I was around. They took and shoved the bag
through a rip in the straw tick that was under the feather-bed, and
crammed it in a foot or two amongst the straw and said it was all
right now, because a nigger only makes up the feather-bed, and don't
turn over the straw tick only about twice a year, and so it warn't in
no danger of getting stole now.

But I knowed better. I had it out of there before they was half-way
down-stairs. I groped along up to my cubby, and hid it there till I
could get a chance to do better. I judged I better hide it outside of
the house somewheres, because if they missed it they would give the
house a good ransacking: I knowed that very well. Then I turned in,
with my clothes all on; but I couldn't 'a' gone to sleep if I'd 'a'
wanted to, I was in such a sweat to get through with the business. By
and by I heard the king and the duke come up; so I rolled off my
pallet and laid with my chin at the top of my ladder, and waited to
see if anything was going to happen. But nothing did.

So I held on till all the late sounds had quit and the early ones
hadn't begun yet; and then I slipped down the ladder.

The dauphin arranges to stay in the Wilks house. Huck has supper with Joanna, the youngest Wilks sister, whom he calls "the hare-lip" because of her cleft lip, a birth defect. Joanna tests Huck's knowledge of England, and he makes several slips, forgetting that he is supposedly from Sheffield and that the dauphin is supposed to be a Protestant minister. Finally, Joanna asks if he has made the entire thing up. Joanna's sisters, Mary Jane and Susan, interrupt and instruct Joanna to be courteous to their guest, and she graciously apologizes. Huck feels terrible about letting such sweet women be swindled and resolves to get them their money back. He goes to the con men's room to search for the money and hides when they enter. The duke wants to leave town that night, but the dauphin convinces him to stay until they have stolen all the family's property. After the men leave the room, Huck finds the $6,000 in gold, takes it to his sleeping cubby, and then sneaks out late at night

These chapters mark several milestones in Huck's development, as he acts on his conscience for the first time and takes concrete steps to thwart the schemes of the duke and the dauphin. Although Huck has shown an increasing maturity and sense of morality as the novel has progressed, he has been tentative in taking sides or action, frequently hedging his bets and qualifying the statements he makes. He has chosen not to challenge or expose the duke and the dauphin even though he has been aware from the start that they are frauds. Earlier, watching as the con men scam the Wilks sisters in Chapter 24, Huck tells him that the sight makes him ashamed to be part of the human race. Though this strong statement is, in itself, a step for Huck, he does not act on it until now. The first concrete action Huck takes is his retrieval of the $6,000 in gold, which he places in Wilks's coffin. Despite these developments, however, Huck still has several lessons to learn and still struggles with the conflicting messages he receives from society and from his personal experiences. Even though Huck rightly takes the money from the con men, he does not give it to the Wilks sisters directly, and he still cannot bring himself to expose the con men to the Wilkses. It is not until two chapters later that Huck, seeing Mary Jane crying in her bedroom, blurts out that the duke and the dauphin are frauds. Also, Huck seems relatively unfazed when he hears that the dauphin's plan to liquidate the Wilks's property will require the separation of a slave woman from her children. Huck confesses to Mary Jane not because he is upset about the splitting of the slave family but because he feels bad that she is upset about it. Twain implies, through Huck's struggle with the issue, that the attitudes and assumptions that enable racism and slavery in the South are deep-seated and difficult to overcome. Although Huck has made great strides, he still struggles to make sense of the confusing world around him. His predicament is understandable: after all, a world in which both seemingly good people  and clearly evil people  are willing to perpetrate great cruelty--separating a mother from her children--is a confusing world indeed.  Although these chapters are generally serious in tone, Twain maintains his characteristic mix of absurdity, suspense, humor, and biting cynicism throughout. The funeral scene is one of Twain's brilliant comic set pieces, complete with screechy music, blubbering mourners, and a smarmy undertaker, all of which enable Huck to make wry observations about human nature while he sweats out the fate of the money he has hidden in the coffin. Then, the climactic appearance of an alternate set of Wilks brothers at the end of Chapter 28 sets the stage for more absurdity and confrontation. The remarkable mix of serious social commentary and entertaining suspense and humor is what Twain is perhaps best known for--and what has made The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn such an enduring work.


I crept to their doors and listened; they was snoring. So I tiptoed
along, and got downstairs all right. There warn't a sound anywheres. I
peeped through a crack of the dining-room door, and see the men that
was watching the corpse all sound asleep on their chairs. The door was
open into the parlor, where the corpse was laying, and there was a
candle in both rooms. I passed along, and the parlor door was open;
but I see there warn't nobody in there but the remainders of Peter; so
I shoved on by; but the front door was locked, and the key wasn't
there. Just then I heard somebody coming down the stairs, back behind
me. I run in the parlor and took a swift look around, and the only
place I see to hide the bag was in the coffin. The lid was shoved
along about a foot, showing the dead man's face down in there, with a
wet cloth over it, and his shroud on. I tucked the money-bag in under
the lid, just down beyond where his hands was crossed, which made me
creep, they was so cold, and then I run back across the room and in
behind the door.

The person coming was Mary Jane. She went to the coffin, very soft,
and kneeled down and looked in; then she put up her handkerchief, and
I see she begun to cry, though I couldn't hear her, and her back was
to me. I slid out, and as I passed the dining-room I thought I'd make
sure them watchers hadn't seen me; so I looked through the crack, and
everything was all right. They hadn't stirred.

I slipped up to bed, feeling ruther blue, on accounts of the thing
playing out that way after I had took so much trouble and run so much
resk about it. Says I, if it could stay where it is, all right;
because when we get down the river a hundred mile or two I could write
back to Mary Jane, and she could dig him up again and get it; but that
ain't the thing that's going to happen; the thing that's going to
happen is, the money'll be found when they come to screw on the lid.
Then the king 'll get it again, and it 'll be a long day before he
gives anybody another chance to smouch it from him. Of course I
_wanted_ to slide down and get it out of there, but I dasn't try it.
Every minute it was getting earlier now, and pretty soon some of them
watchers would begin to stir, and I might get catched--catched with
six thousand dollars in my hands that nobody hadn't hired me to take
care of. I don't wish to be mixed up in no such business as that, I
says to myself.

When I got down-stairs in the morning the parlor was shut up, and the
watchers was gone. There warn't nobody around but the family and the
widow Bartley and our tribe. I watched their faces to see if anything
had been happening, but I couldn't tell.

Towards the middle of the day the undertaker come with his man, and
they set the coffin in the middle of the room on a couple of chairs,
and then set all our chairs in rows, and borrowed more from the
neighbors till the hall and the parlor and the dining-room was full. I
see the coffin lid was the way it was before, but I dasn't go to look
in under it, with folks around.

Then the people begun to flock in, and the beats and the girls took
seats in the front row at the head of the coffin, and for a half an
hour the people filed around slow, in single rank, and looked down at
the dead man's face a minute, and some dropped in a tear, and it was
all very still and solemn, only the girls and the beats holding
handkerchiefs to their eyes and keeping their heads bent, and sobbing
a little. There warn't no other sound but the scraping of the feet on
the floor and blowing noses--because people always blows them more at
a funeral than they do at other places except church.

When the place was packed full the undertaker he slid around in his
black gloves with his softy soothering ways, putting on the last
touches, and getting people and things all ship-shape and comfortable,
and making no more sound than a cat. He never spoke; he moved people
around, he squeezed in late ones, he opened up passageways, and done
it with nods, and signs with his hands. Then he took his place over
against the wall. He was the softest, glidingest, stealthiest man I
ever see; and there warn't no more smile to him than there is to a
ham.

They had borrowed a melodeum--a sick one; and when everything was
ready a young woman set down and worked it, and it was pretty skreeky
and colicky, and everybody joined in and sung, and Peter was the only
one that had a good thing, according to my notion. Then the Reverend
Hobson opened up, slow and solemn, and begun to talk; and straight off
the most outrageous row busted out in the cellar a body ever heard; it
was only one dog, but he made a most powerful racket, and he kept it
up right along; the parson he had to stand there, over the coffin, and
wait--you couldn't hear yourself think. It was right down awkward, and
nobody didn't seem to know what to do. But pretty soon they see that
long-legged undertaker make a sign to the preacher as much as to say,
"Don't you worry--just depend on me." Then he stooped down and begun
to glide along the wall, just his shoulders showing over the people's
heads. So he glided along, and the powwow and racket getting more and
more outrageous all the time; and at last, when he had gone around two
sides of the room, he disappears down cellar. Then in about two
seconds we heard a whack, and the dog he finished up with a most
amazing howl or two, and then everything was dead still, and the
parson begun his solemn talk where he left off. In a minute or two
here comes this undertaker's back and shoulders gliding along the wall
again; and so he glided and glided around three sides of the room, and
then rose up, and shaded his mouth with his hands, and stretched his
neck out towards the preacher, over the people's heads, and says, in a
kind of a coarse whisper, "_He had a rat!_" Then he drooped down and
glided along the wall again to his place. You could see it was a great
satisfaction to the people, because naturally they wanted to know. A
little thing like that don't cost nothing, and it's just the little
things that makes a man to be looked up to and liked. There warn't no
more popular man in town than what that undertaker was.

Well, the funeral sermon was very good, but pison long and tiresome;
and then the king he shoved in and got off some of his usual rubbage,
and at last the job was through, and the undertaker begun to sneak up
on the coffin with his screw-driver. I was in a sweat then, and
watched him pretty keen. But he never meddled at all; just slid the
lid along as soft as mush, and screwed it down tight and fast. So
there I was! I didn't know whether the money was in there or not. So,
says I, s'pose somebody has hogged that bag on the sly?--now how do
_I_ know whether to write to Mary Jane or not? S'pose she dug him up
and didn't find nothing, what would she think of me? Blame it, I says,
I might get hunted up and jailed; I'd better lay low and keep dark,
and not write at all; the thing's awful mixed now; trying to better
it, I've worsened it a hundred times, and I wish to goodness I'd just
let it alone, dad fetch the whole business!

They buried him, and we come back home, and I went to watching faces
again--I couldn't help it, and I couldn't rest easy. But nothing come
of it; the faces didn't tell me nothing.

The king he visited around in the evening, and sweetened everybody up,
and made himself ever so friendly; and he give out the idea that his
congregation over in England would be in a sweat about him, so he must
hurry and settle up the estate right away and leave for home. He was
very sorry he was so pushed, and so was everybody; they wished he
could stay longer, but they said they could see it couldn't be done.
And he said of course him and William would take the girls home with
them; and that pleased everybody too, because then the girls would be
well fixed and amongst their own relations; and it pleased the girls,
too--tickled them so they clean forgot they ever had a trouble in the
world; and told him to sell out as quick as he wanted to, they would
be ready. Them poor things was that glad and happy it made my heart
ache to see them getting fooled and lied to so, but I didn't see no
safe way for me to chip in and change the general tune.

Well, blamed if the king didn't bill the house and the niggers and all
the property for auction straight off--sale two days after the
funeral; but anybody could buy private beforehand if they wanted to.

So the next day after the funeral, along about noon-time, the girls'
joy got the first jolt. A couple of nigger-traders come along, and the
king sold them the niggers reasonable, for three-day drafts as they
called it, and away they went, the two sons up the river to Memphis,
and their mother down the river to Orleans. I thought them poor girls
and them niggers would break their hearts for grief; they cried around
each other, and took on so it most made me down sick to see it. The
girls said they hadn't ever dreamed of seeing the family separated or
sold away from the town. I can't ever get it out of my memory, the
sight of them poor miserable girls and niggers hanging around each
other's necks and crying; and I reckon I couldn't 'a' stood it all,
but would 'a' had to bust out and tell on our gang if I hadn't knowed
the sale warn't no account and the niggers would be back home in a
week or two.

The thing made a big stir in the town, too, and a good many come out
flatfooted and said it was scandalous to separate the mother and the
children that way. It injured the frauds some; but the old fool he
bulled right along, spite of all the duke could say or do, and I tell
you the duke was powerful uneasy.

Next day was auction day. About broad day in the morning the king and
the duke come up in the garret and woke me up, and I see by their look
that there was trouble. The king says:

"Was you in my room night before last?"

"No, your majesty"--which was the way I always called him when nobody
but our gang warn't around.

"Was you in there yisterday er last night?"

"No, your majesty."

"Honor bright, now--no lies."

"Honor bright, your majesty, I'm telling you the truth. I hain't been
a-near your room since Miss Mary Jane took you and the duke and showed
it to you."

The duke says:

"Have you seen anybody else go in there?"

"No, your grace, not as I remember, I believe."

"Stop and think."

I studied awhile and see my chance; then I says: "Well, I see the
niggers go in there several times."

Both of them gave a little jump, and looked like they hadn't ever
expected it, and then like they _had_. Then the duke says:

"What, _all_ of them?"

"No--leastways, not all at once--that is, I don't think I ever see
them all come _out_ at once but just one time."

"Hello!  When was that?"

"It was the day we had the funeral. In the morning. It warn't early,
because I overslept. I was just starting down the ladder, and I see
them."

"Well, go on, _go_ on! What did they do? How'd they act?"

"They didn't do nothing. And they didn't act anyway much, as fur as I
see. They tiptoed away; so I seen, easy enough, that they'd shoved in
there to do up your majesty's room, or something, s'posing you was up;
and found you _warn't_ up, and so they was hoping to slide out of the
way of trouble without waking you up, if they hadn't already waked you
up."

"Great guns, _this_ is a go!" says the king; and both of them looked
pretty sick and tolerable silly. They stood there a-thinking and
scratching their heads a minute, and the duke he bust into a kind of a
little raspy chuckle, and says:

"It does beat all how neat the niggers played their hand. They let on
to be _sorry_ they was going out of this region! And I believed they
_was_ sorry, and so did you, and so did everybody. Don't ever tell
_me_ any more that a nigger ain't got any histrionic talent. Why, the
way they played that thing it would fool _anybody._ In my opinion,
there's a fortune in 'em. If I had capital and a theater, I wouldn't
want a better lay-out than that--and here we've gone and sold 'em for
a song. Yes, and ain't privileged to sing the song yet. Say, where
_is_ that song--that draft?"

"In the bank for to be collected. Where _would_ it be?"

"Well, that's all right then, thank goodness."

Says I, kind of timid-like:

"Is something gone wrong?"

The king whirls on me and rips out:

"None o' your business! You keep your head shet, and mind y'r own
affairs--if you got any. Long as you're in this town don't you forgit
_that_--you hear?" Then he says to the duke, "We got to jest swaller
it and say noth'n': mum's the word for _us_."

As they was starting down the ladder the duke he chuckles again, and
says:

"Quick sales _and_ small profits! It's a good business--yes."

The king snarls around on him and says:

"I was trying to do for the best in sellin' 'em out so quick. If the
profits has turned out to be none, lackin' considable, and none to
carry, is it my fault any more'n it's yourn?"

"Well, _they'd_ be in this house yet and we _wouldn't_ if I could 'a'
got my advice listened to."

The king sassed back as much as was safe for him, and then swapped
around and lit into _me_ again. He give me down the banks for not
coming and _telling_ him I see the niggers come out of his room acting
that way--said any fool would 'a' _knowed_ something was up. And then
waltzed in and cussed _himself_ awhile, and said it all come of him
not laying late and taking his natural rest that morning, and he'd be
blamed if he'd ever do it again. So they went off a-jawing; and I felt
dreadful glad I'd worked it all off onto the niggers, and yet hadn't
done the niggers no harm by it.

Huck hides the sack of money in Peter Wilks's coffin as Mary Jane, crying, enters the front room where her dead father's body lies. Huck, who doesn't get another opportunity to remove the money safely, worries about what will happen to it. The next day, a dog barking in the cellar disrupts the funeral. The undertaker slips out and returns after a "whack" is heard from downstairs. In a voice that everyone present can hear, he whispers that the dog has caught a rat. In the next moment, though, Huck watches with horror as the undertaker seals the coffin without looking inside. Huck realizes he will never know whether the duke and the dauphin have gotten the money back. He wonders if he should write to Mary Jane after he has left town to tell her to have the coffin dug up. Saying he will take the Wilks girls to England, the dauphin sells off the estate and the slaves, sending a slave mother to New Orleans and her two sons to Memphis. The scene at the grief-stricken family's separation is heart-rending, and the Wilks women are upset. Huck comforts himself with the knowledge that the slave family will be reunited in a week or so when the duke and the dauphin are exposed. When the con men question Huck about the missing money, he manages to make them think the Wilks family slaves were responsible for the disappearance


By and by it was getting-up time. So I come down the ladder and
started for down-stairs; but as I come to the girls' room the door was
open, and I see Mary Jane setting by her old hair trunk, which was
open and she'd been packing things in it--getting ready to go to
England. But she had stopped now with a folded gown in her lap, and
had her face in her hands, crying. I felt awful bad to see it; of
course anybody would. I went in there and says:

"Miss Mary Jane, you can't a-bear to see people in trouble, and _I_
can't--most always. Tell me about it."

So she done it. And it was the niggers--I just expected it. She said
the beautiful trip to England was most about spoiled for her; she
didn't know _how_ she was ever going to be happy there, knowing the
mother and the children warn't ever going to see each other no
more--and then busted out bitterer than ever, and flung up her hands,
and says:

"Oh, dear, dear, to think they ain't _ever_ going to see each other
any more!"

"But they _will_--and inside of two weeks--and I _know_ it!" says I.

Laws, it was out before I could think! And before I could budge she
throws her arms around my neck and told me to say it _again_, say it
_again_, say it _again!_

I see I had spoke too sudden and said too much, and was in a close
place. I asked her to let me think a minute; and she set there, very
impatient and excited and handsome, but looking kind of happy and
eased-up, like a person that's had a tooth pulled out. So I went to
studying it out. I says to myself, I reckon a body that ups and tells
the truth when he is in a tight place is taking considerable many
resks, though I ain't had no experience, and can't say for certain;
but it looks so to me, anyway; and yet here's a case where I'm blest
if it don't look to me like the truth is better and actuly _safer_
than a lie. I must lay it by in my mind, and think it over some time
or other, it's so kind of strange and unregular. I never see nothing
like it. Well, I says to myself at last, I'm a-going to chance it;
I'll up and tell the truth this time, though it does seem most _like_
setting down on a kag of powder and touching it off just to see where
you'll go to. Then I says:

"Miss Mary Jane, is there any place out of town a little ways where
you could go and stay three or four days?"

"Yes; Mr. Lothrop's. Why?"

"Never mind why yet. If I'll tell you how I know the niggers will see
each other again--inside of two weeks--here in this house--and _prove_
how I know it--will you go to Mr. Lothrop's and stay four days?"

"Four days!" she says; "I'll stay a year!"

"All right," I says, "I don't want nothing more out of _you_ than just
your word--I druther have it than another man's kiss-the-Bible."  She
smiled and reddened up very sweet, and I says, "If you don't mind it,
I'll shut the door--and bolt it."

Then I come back and set down again, and says:

"Don't you holler. Just set still and take it like a man. I got to
tell the truth, and you want to brace up, Miss Mary, because it's a
bad kind, and going to be hard to take, but there ain't no help for
it. These uncles of yourn ain't no uncles at all; they're a couple of
frauds--regular dead-beats. There, now we're over the worst of it, you
can stand the rest middling easy."

It jolted her up like everything, of course; but I was over the shoal
water now, so I went right along, her eyes a-blazing higher and higher
all the time, and told her every blame thing, from where we first
struck that young fool going up to the steamboat, clear through to
where she flung herself onto the king's breast at the front door and
he kissed her sixteen or seventeen times--and then up she jumps, with
her face afire like sunset, and says:

"The brute! Come, don't waste a minute--not a _second_--we'll have
them tarred and feathered, and flung in the river!"

Says I:

"Cert'nly. But do you mean _before_ you go to Mr. Lothrop's, or--"

"Oh," she says, "what am I _thinking_ about!" she says, and set right
down again. "Don't mind what I said--please don't--you _won't_, now,
_will_ you?" Laying her silky hand on mine in that kind of a way that
I said I would die first. "I never thought, I was so stirred up," she
says; "now go on, and I won't do so any more. You tell me what to do,
and whatever you say I'll do it."

"Well," I says, "it's a rough gang, them two frauds, and I'm fixed so
I got to travel with them a while longer, whether I want to or not--I
druther not tell you why; and if you was to blow on them this town
would get me out of their claws, and I'd be all right; but there'd be
another person that you don't know about who'd be in big trouble.
Well, we got to save _him_, hain't we? Of course. Well, then, we won't
blow on them."

Saying them words put a good idea in my head. I see how maybe I could
get me and Jim rid of the frauds; get them jailed here, and then
leave. But I didn't want to run the raft in the daytime without
anybody aboard to answer questions but me; so I didn't want the plan
to begin working till pretty late to-night. I says:

"Miss Mary Jane, I'll tell you what we'll do, and you won't have to
stay at Mr. Lothrop's so long, nuther. How fur is it?"

"A little short of four miles--right out in the country, back here."

"Well, that 'll answer. Now you go along out there, and lay low till
nine or half past to-night, and then get them to fetch you home
again--tell them you've thought of something. If you get here before
eleven put a candle in this window, and if I don't turn up wait _till_
eleven, and _then_ if I don't turn up it means I'm gone, and out of
the way, and safe. Then you come out and spread the news around, and
get these beats jailed."

"Good," she says, "I'll do it."

"And if it just happens so that I don't get away, but get took up
along with them, you must up and say I told you the whole thing
beforehand, and you must stand by me all you can."

"Stand by you! indeed I will. They sha'n't touch a hair of your head!"
she says, and I see her nostrils spread and her eyes snap when she
said it, too.

"If I get away I sha'n't be here," I says, "to prove these
rapscallions ain't your uncles, and I couldn't do it if I _was_ here.
I could swear they was beats and bummers, that's all, though that's
worth something. Well, there's others can do that better than what I
can, and they're people that ain't going to be doubted as quick as I'd
be. I'll tell you how to find them. Gimme a pencil and a piece of
paper. There--'_Royal Nonesuch,  Bricksville._' Put it away, and don't
lose it. When the court wants to find out something about these two,
let them send up to Bricksville and say they've got the men that
played the 'Royal Nonesuch,' and ask for some witnesses--why, you'll
have that entire town down here before you can hardly wink, Miss Mary.
And they'll come a-biling, too."

I judged we had got everything fixed about right now. So I says:

"Just let the auction go right along, and don't worry. Nobody don't
have to pay for the things they buy till a whole day after the auction
on accounts of the short notice, and they ain't going out of this till
they get that money; and the way we've fixed it the sale ain't going
to count, and they ain't going to get no money. It's just like the way
it was with the niggers--it warn't no sale, and the niggers will be
back before long. Why, they can't collect the money for the _niggers_
yet--they're in the worst kind of a fix, Miss Mary."

"Well," she says, "I'll run down to breakfast now, and then I'll start
straight for Mr. Lothrop's."

"'Deed, _that_ ain't the ticket, Miss Mary Jane," I says, "by no
manner of means; go _before_ breakfast."

"Why?"

"What did you reckon I wanted you to go at all for, Miss Mary?"

"Well, I never thought--and come to think, I don't know. What was it?"

"Why, it's because you ain't one of these leather-face people. I don't
want no better book than what your face is. A body can set down and
read it off like coarse print. Do you reckon you can go and face your
uncles when they come to kiss you good-morning, and never--"

"There, there, don't! Yes, I'll go before breakfast--I'll be glad to.
And leave my sisters with them?"

"Yes; never mind about them. They've got to stand it yet awhile. They
might suspicion something if all of you was to go. I don't want you to
see them, nor your sisters, nor nobody in this town; if a neighbor was
to ask how is your uncles this morning your face would tell something.
No, you go right along, Miss Mary Jane, and I'll fix it with all of
them. I'll tell Miss Susan to give your love to your uncles and say
you've went away for a few hours for to get a little rest and change,
or to see a friend, and you'll be back to-night or early in the
morning."

"Gone to see a friend is all right, but I won't have my love given to
them."

"Well, then, it sha'n't be." It was well enough to tell _her_ so--no
harm in it. It was only a little thing to do, and no trouble; and it's
the little things that smooths people's roads the most, down here
below; it would make Mary Jane comfortable, and it wouldn't cost
nothing. Then I says: "There's one more thing--that bag of money."

"Well, they've got that; and it makes me feel pretty silly to think
_how_ they got it."

"No, you're out, there. They hain't got it."

"Why, who's got it?"

"I wish I knowed, but I don't. I _had_ it, because I stole it from
them; and I stole it to give to you; and I know where I hid it, but
I'm afraid it ain't there no more. I'm awful sorry, Miss Mary Jane,
I'm just as sorry as I can be; but I done the best I could; I did
honest. I come nigh getting caught, and I had to shove it into the
first place I come to, and run--and it warn't a good place."

"Oh, stop blaming yourself--it's too bad to do it, and I won't allow
it--you couldn't help it; it wasn't your fault. Where did you hide
it?"

I didn't want to set her to thinking about her troubles again; and I
couldn't seem to get my mouth to tell her what would make her see that
corpse laying in the coffin with that bag of money on his stomach. So
for a minute I didn't say nothing; then I says:

"I'd ruther not _tell_ you where I put it, Miss Mary Jane, if you
don't mind letting me off; but I'll write it for you on a piece of
paper, and you can read it along the road to Mr. Lothrop's, if you
want to. Do you reckon that 'll do?"

"Oh, yes."

So I wrote: "I put it in the coffin. It was in there when you was
crying there, away in the night. I was behind the door, and I was
mighty sorry for you, Miss Mary Jane."

It made my eyes water a little to remember her crying there all by
herself in the night, and them devils laying there right under her own
roof, shaming her and robbing her; and when I folded it up and give it
to her I see the water come into her eyes, too; and she shook me by
the hand, hard, and says:

"_Good_-by. I'm going to do everything just as you've told me; and if
I don't ever see you again, I sha'n't ever forget you, and I'll think
of you a many and a many a time, and I'll _pray_ for you, too!"--and
she was gone.

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.

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:

"What's the name of them people over on t'other side of the river that
you all goes to see sometimes?"

They says:

"There's several; but it's the Proctors, mainly."

"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."

"Which one?"

"I don't know; leastways, I kinder forget; but I thinks it's--"

"Sakes alive, I hope it ain't _Hanner?_"

"I'm sorry to say it," I says, "but Hanner's the very one."

"My goodness, and she so well only last week! Is she took bad?"

"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."

"Only think of that, now! What's the matter with her?"

I couldn't think of anything reasonable, right off that way, so I
says:

"Mumps."

"Mumps your granny! They don't set up with people that's got the
mumps."

"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."

"How's it a new kind?"

"Because it's mixed up with other things."

"What other things?"

"Well, measles, and whooping-cough, and erysiplas, and consumption,
and yaller janders, and brain-fever, and I don't know what all."

"My land! And they call it the _mumps?_"

"That's what Miss Mary Jane said."

"Well, what in the nation do they call it the _mumps_ for?"

"Why, because it _is_ the mumps. That's what it starts with."

"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?"

"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."

"Well, it's awful, I think," says the hare-lip. "I'll go to Uncle
Harvey and--"

"Oh, yes," I says, "I _would._ Of _course_ I would. I wouldn't lose no
time."

"Well, why wouldn't you?"

"Just look at it a minute, and maybe you can see. Hain't your uncles
obleeged 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--"

"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."

"Well, anyway, maybe you'd better tell some of the neighbors."

"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_."

"Well, maybe you're right--yes, I judge you _are_ right."

"But I reckon we ought to tell Uncle Harvey she's gone out awhile,
anyway, so he won't be uneasy about her?"

"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--"

"Why, you must mean the Apthorps, ain't it?"

"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."

"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.

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.

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.

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:

"_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!"

The next morning, Huck finds Mary Jane crying in her bedroom. All her joy about the trip to England has given way to distress over the separation of the slave family. Touched, Huck unthinkingly blurts out that the family will be reunited in less than two weeks. Mary Jane, overjoyed, asks Huck to explain. Huck feels uneasy, for he has little experience telling the truth while in a predicament. He tells Mary Jane the truth but asks her to wait at a friend's house until later that night in order to give him time to get away, because the fate of another person also hangs in the balance. Huck instructs Mary Jane to leave without seeing her "uncles," for her innocent face would give away their secret. Huck leaves her a note with the location of the money. She promises to remember him forever and to pray for him. In retrospect, Huck tells us that he has never seen Mary Jane since but that he thinks of her often. Shortly after Mary Jane leaves the house, Huck encounters Susan and Joanna and tells them that their sister has gone to see a sick friend. Joanna cross-examines him about this, but he manages to trick them into staying quiet about the whole thing. Later that day, a mob interrupts the auction of the family's possessions. Among the mob are two men who claim to be the real Harvey and William Wilks


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:

"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's 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."

So him and the new dummy started off; and the king he laughs, and
blethers out:

"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!_"

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 gentlemen said, and was
listening to the king now. And when the king got done this husky up
and says:

"Say, looky here; if you are Harvey Wilks, when'd you come to this
town?"

"The day before the funeral, friend," says the king.

"But what time o' day?"

"In the evenin'--'bout an hour er two before sundown."

"How'd you come?"

"I come down on the _Susan Powell_ from Cincinnati."

"Well, then, how'd you come to be up at the Pint in the _mornin_'--in
a canoe?"

"I warn't up at the Pint in the mornin'."

"It's a lie."

Several of them jumped for him and begged him not to talk that way to
an old man and a preacher.

"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."

The doctor he up and says:

"Would you know the boy again if you was to see him, Hines?"

"I reckon I would, but I don't know. Why, yonder he is, now. I know
him perfectly easy."

It was me he pointed at. The doctor says:

"Neighbors, I don't know whether the new couple is frauds or not; but
if _these_ two ain't frauds, I am an idiot, that's all. I think it's
our duty to see that they don't get away from here till we've looked
into this thing. Come along, Hines; come along, the rest of you. We'll
take these fellows to the tavern and affront them with t'other couple,
and I reckon we'll find out _something_ before we get through."

It was nuts for the crowd, though maybe not for the king's friends; so
we all started. It was about sundown. The doctor he led me along by
the hand, and was plenty kind enough, but he never let go my hand.

We all got in a big room in the hotel, and lit up some candles, and
fetched in the new couple. First, the doctor says:

"I don't wish to be too hard on these two men, but I think they're
frauds, and they may have complices that we don't know nothing about.
If they have, won't the complices get away with that bag of gold Peter
Wilks left? It ain't unlikely.  If these men ain't frauds, they won't
object to sending for that money and letting us keep it till they
prove they're all right--ain't that so?"

Everybody agreed to that. So I judged they had our gang in a pretty
tight place right at the outstart. But the king he only looked
sorrowful, and says:

"Gentlemen, I wish the money was there, for I ain't got no disposition
to throw anything in the way of a fair, open, out-and-out
investigation o' this misable business; but, alas, the money ain't
there; you k'n send and see, if you want to."

"Where is it, then?"

"Well, when my niece give it to me to keep for her I took and hid it
inside o' the straw tick o' my bed, not wishin' to bank it for the few
days we'd be here, and considerin' the bed a safe place, we not bein'
used to niggers, and suppos'n' 'em honest, like servants in England.
The niggers stole it the very next mornin' after I had went
down-stairs; and when I sold 'em I hadn't missed the money yit, so
they got clean away with it. My servant here k'n tell you 'bout it,
gentlemen."

The doctor and several said "Shucks!" and I see nobody didn't
altogether believe him. One man asked me if I see the niggers steal
it. I said no, but I see them sneaking out of the room and hustling
away, and I never thought nothing, only I reckoned they was afraid
they had waked up my master and was trying to get away before he made
trouble with them. That was all they asked me. Then the doctor whirls
on me and says:

"Are _you_ English, too?"

I says yes; and him and some others laughed, and said, "Stuff!"

Well, then they sailed in on the general investigation, and there we
had it, up and down, hour in, hour out, and nobody never said a word
about supper, nor ever seemed to think about it--and so they kept it
up, and kept it up; and it _was_ the worst mixed-up thing you ever
see. They made the king tell his yarn, and they made the old gentleman
tell his'n; and anybody but a lot of prejudiced chuckleheads would 'a'
_seen_ that the old gentleman was spinning truth and t'other one lies.
And by and by they had me up to tell what I knowed. The king he give
me a left-handed look out of the corner of his eye, and so I knowed
enough to talk on the right side. I begun to tell about Sheffield, and
how we lived there, and all about the English Wilkses, and so on; but
I didn't get pretty fur till the doctor begun to laugh; and Levi Bell,
the lawyer, says:

"Set down, my boy; I wouldn't strain myself if I was you. I reckon you
ain't used to lying, it don't seem to come handy; what you want is
practice. You do it pretty awkward."

I didn't care nothing for the compliment, but I was glad to be let
off, anyway.

The doctor he started to say something, and turns and says:

"If you'd been in town at first, Levi Bell--"

The king broke in and reached out his hand, and says:

"Why, is this my poor dead brother's old friend that he's wrote so
often about?"

The lawyer and him shook hands, and the lawyer smiled and looked
pleased, and they talked right along awhile, and then got to one side
and talked low; and at last the lawyer speaks up and says:

"That 'll fix it. I'll take the order and send it, along with your
brother's, and then they'll know it's all right."

So they got some paper and a pen, and the king he set down and twisted
his head to one side, and chawed his tongue, and scrawled off
something; and then they give the pen to the duke--and then for the
first time the duke looked sick. But he took the pen and wrote. So
then the lawyer turns to the new old gentleman and says:

"You and your brother please write a line or two and sign your names."

The old gentleman wrote, but nobody couldn't read it. The lawyer
looked powerful astonished, and says:

"Well, it beats _me_--and snaked a lot of old letters out of his
pocket, and examined them, and then examined the old man's writing,
and then _them_ again; and then says: "These old letters is from
Harvey Wilks; and here's _these_ two handwritings, and anybody can see
_they_ didn't write them" (the king and the duke looked sold and
foolish, I tell you, to see how the lawyer had took them in), "and
here's _this_ old gentleman's handwriting, and anybody can tell, easy
enough, _he_ didn't write them--fact is, the scratches he makes ain't
properly _writing_ at all. Now, here's some letters from--"

The new old gentleman says:

"If you please, let me explain. Nobody can read my hand but my brother
there--so he copies for me. It's _his_ hand you've got there, not
mine."

"_Well!_" says the lawyer, "this _is_ a state of things. I've got some
of William's letters, too; so if you'll get him to write a line or so
we can com--"

"He _can't_ write with his left hand," says the old gentleman. "If he
could use his right hand, you would see that he wrote his own letters
and mine too. Look at both, please--they're by the same hand."

The lawyer done it, and says:

"I believe it's so--and if it ain't so, there's a heap stronger
resemblance than I'd noticed before, anyway. Well, well, well! I
thought we was right on the track of a slution, but it's gone to
grass, partly. But anyway, _one_ thing is proved--_these_ two ain't
either of 'em Wilkses"--and he wagged his head towards the king and
the duke.

Well, what do you think? That mule-headed old fool wouldn't give in
_then!_ Indeed he wouldn't. Said it warn't no fair test. Said his
brother William was the cussedest joker in the world, and hadn't
_tried_ to write--_he_ see William was going to play one of his jokes
the minute he put the pen to paper. And so he warmed up and went
warbling right along till he was actuly beginning to believe what he
was saying _himself_; but pretty soon the new gentleman broke in, and
says:

"I've thought of something. Is there anybody here that helped to lay
out my br--helped to lay out the late Peter Wilks for burying?"

"Yes," says somebody, "me and Ab Turner done it. We're both here."

Then the old man turns toward the king, and says:

"Peraps this gentleman can tell me what was tattooed on his breast?"

Blamed if the king didn't have to brace up mighty quick, or he'd 'a'
squshed down like a bluff bank that the river has cut under, it took
him so sudden; and, mind you, it was a thing that was calculated to
make most _anybody_ sqush to get fetched such a solid one as that
without any notice, because how was _he_ going to know what was
tattooed on the man?  He whitened a little; he couldn't help it; and
it was mighty still in there, and everybody bending a little forwards
and gazing at him. Says I to myself, _Now_ he'll throw up the
sponge--there ain't no more use. Well, did he? A body can't hardly
believe it, but he didn't. I reckon he thought he'd keep the thing up
till he tired them people out, so they'd thin out, and him and the
duke could break loose and get away. Anyway, he set there, and pretty
soon he begun to smile, and says:

"Mf! It's a _very_ tough question, _ain't_ it! _Yes_, sir, I k'n tell
you what's tattooed on his breast. It's jest a small, thin, blue
arrow--that's what it is; and if you don't look clost, you can't see
it. _Now_ what do you say--hey?"

Well, _I_ never see anything like that old blister for clean
out-and-out cheek.

The new old gentleman turns brisk towards Ab Turner and his pard, and
his eye lights up like he judged he'd got the king _this_ time, and
says:

"There--you've heard what he said! Was there any such mark on Peter
Wilks's breast?"

Both of them spoke up and says:

"We didn't see no such mark."

"Good!" says the old gentleman. "Now, what you _did_ see on his breast
was a small dim P, and a B (which is an initial he dropped when he was
young), and a W, and dashes between them, so: P--B--W"--and he marked
them that way on a piece of paper. "Come, ain't that what you saw?"

Both of them spoke up again, and says:

"No, we _didn't_. We never seen any marks at all."

Well, everybody _was_ in a state of mind now, and they sings out:

"The whole _bilin'_ of 'm 's frauds! Le's duck 'em! le's drown 'em!
le's ride 'em on a rail!" and everybody was whooping at once, and
there was a rattling powwow. But the lawyer he jumps on the table and
yells, and says:

"Gentlemen--gentle_men!_ Hear me just a word--just a _single_ word--if
you PLEASE! There's one way yet--let's go and dig up the corpse and
look."

That took them.

"Hooray!" they all shouted, and was starting right off; but the lawyer
and the doctor sung out:

"Hold on, hold on! Collar all these four men and the boy, and fetch
_them_ along, too!"

"We'll do it!" they all shouted; "and if we don't find them marks
we'll lynch the whole gang!"

I _was_ scared, now, I tell you. But there warn't no getting away, you
know. They gripped us all, and marched us right along, straight for
the graveyard, which was a mile and a half down the river, and the
whole town at our heels, for we made noise enough, and it was only
nine in the evening.

As we went by our house I wished I hadn't sent Mary Jane out of town;
because now if I could tip her the wink she'd light out and save me,
and blow on our dead-beats.

Well, we swarmed along down the river road, just carrying on like
wildcats; and to make it more scary the sky was darking up, and the
lightning beginning to wink and flitter, and the wind to shiver
amongst the leaves. This was the most awful trouble and most
dangersome I ever was in; and I was kinder stunned; everything was
going so different from what I had allowed for; stead of being fixed
so I could take my own time if I wanted to, and see all the fun, and
have Mary Jane at my back to save me and set me free when the
close-fit come, here was nothing in the world betwixt me and sudden
death but just them tattoo-marks. If they didn't find them--

I couldn't bear to think about it; and yet, somehow, I couldn't think
about nothing else. It got darker and darker, and it was a beautiful
time to give the crowd the slip; but that big husky had me by the
wrist--Hines--and a body might as well try to give Goliar the slip. He
dragged me right along, he was so excited, and I had to run to keep
up.

When they got there they swarmed into the graveyard and washed over it
like an overflow. And when they got to the grave they found they had
about a hundred times as many shovels as they wanted, but nobody
hadn't thought to fetch a lantern. But they sailed into digging anyway
by the flicker of the lightning, and sent a man to the nearest house,
a half a mile off, to borrow one.

So they dug and dug like everything; and it got awful dark, and the
rain started, and the wind swished and swushed along, and the
lightning come brisker and brisker, and the thunder boomed; but them
people never took no notice of it, they was so full of this business;
and one minute you could see everything and every face in that big
crowd, and the shovelfuls of dirt sailing up out of the grave, and the
next second the dark wiped it all out, and you couldn't see nothing at
all.

At last they got out the coffin and begun to unscrew the lid, and then
such another crowding and shouldering and shoving as there was, to
scrouge in and get a sight, you never see; and in the dark, that way,
it was awful. Hines he hurt my wrist dreadful pulling and tugging so,
and I reckon he clean forgot I was in the world, he was so excited and
panting.

All of a sudden the lightning let go a perfect sluice of white glare,
and somebody sings out:

"By the living jingo, here's the bag of gold on his breast!"

Hines let out a whoop, like everybody else, and dropped my wrist and
give a big surge to bust his way in and get a look, and the way I lit
out and shinned for the road in the dark there ain't nobody can tell.

I had the road all to myself, and I fairly flew--leastways, I had it
all to myself except the solid dark, and the now-and-then glares, and
the buzzing of the rain, and the thrashing of the wind, and the
splitting of the thunder; and sure as you are born I did clip it
along!

When I struck the town I see there warn't nobody out in the storm, so
I never hunted for no back streets, but humped it straight through the
main one; and when I begun to get towards our house I aimed my eye and
set it. No light there; the house all dark--which made me feel sorry
and disappointed, I didn't know why. But at last, just as I was
sailing by, _flash_ comes the light in Mary Jane's window! and my
heart swelled up sudden, like to bust; and the same second the house
and all was behind me in the dark, and wasn't ever going to be before
me no more in this world. She _was_ the best girl I ever see, and had
the most sand.

The minute I was far enough above the town to see I could make the
towhead, I begun to look sharp for a boat to borrow, and the first
time the lightning showed me one that wasn't chained I snatched it and
shoved. It was a canoe, and warn't fastened with nothing but a rope.
The towhead was a rattling big distance off, away out there in the
middle of the river, but I didn't lose no time; and when I struck the
raft at last I was so fagged I would 'a' just laid down to blow and
gasp if I could afforded it. But I didn't. As I sprung aboard I sung
out:

"Out with you, Jim, and set her loose! Glory be to goodness, we're
shut of them!"

Jim lit out, and was a-coming for me with both arms spread, he was so
full of joy; but when I glimpsed him in the lightning my heart shot up
in my mouth and I went overboard backwards; for I forgot he was old
King Lear and a drownded A-rab all in one, and it most scared the
livers and lights out of me. But Jim fished me out, and was going to
hug me and bless me, and so on, he was so glad I was back and we was
shut of the king and the duke, but I says:

"Not now; have it for breakfast, have it for breakfast! Cut loose and
let her slide!"

So in two seconds away we went a-sliding down the river, and it _did_
seem so good to be free again and all by ourselves on the big river,
and nobody to bother us. I had to skip around a bit, and jump up and
crack my heels a few times--I couldn't help it; but about the third
crack I noticed a sound that I knowed mighty well, and held my breath
and listened and waited; and sure enough, when the next flash busted
out over the water, here they come!--and just a-laying to their oars
and making their skiff hum! It was the king and the duke.

So I wilted right down onto the planks then, and give up; and it was
all I could do to keep from crying.

The real Harvey Wilks, in an authentic English accent, explains the reasons he and his brother, William, were delayed: their luggage was misdirected, and his mute brother broke his arm, leaving him unable to communicate by signs. Doctor Robinson again declares the duke and the dauphin to be frauds and has the crowd bring the real and the fraudulent Wilks brothers to a tavern for examination. The frauds draw suspicion when they fail to produce the $6,000 from the Wilks inheritance. A lawyer friend of the deceased then asks the duke, the dauphin, and the real Harvey to sign a piece of paper. When the lawyer compares the writing samples to letters he has from the real Harvey, the frauds are exposed. The dauphin, however, refuses to give up and claims that the duke is playing a joke on everyone by disguising his handwriting. Because the real William serves as scribe for the real Harvey and cannot write due to his broken arm, the crowd cannot prove that the real Wilkses are indeed who they say they are. To put an end to the situation, the real Harvey declares he knows of a tattoo on his brother's chest, asking the undertaker who dressed the body to back him up. But after the dauphin and Harvey each offer a different version of the tattoo's appearance, the undertaker surprises everyone by telling the crowd he saw no tattoo. The mob cries out for the blood of all four men, but the lawyer instead sends them out to exhume the body and check for the tattoo themselves. The mob carries the four Wilks claimants and Huck with them. The mob is in an uproar when the $6,000 in gold is discovered in the coffin. In the excitement, Huck escapes. Passing the Wilks house, he notices a light in the upstairs window and thinks of Mary Jane. Huck steals a canoe and makes his way to the raft, and he and Jim shove off once again. Huck dances for joy on the raft. His heart sinks, however, when the duke and the dauphin approach in a boat

In the aftermath of the Wilks episode, the duke and the dauphin lose the last vestiges of their inept, bumbling charm and become purely menacing and dangerous figures. Although the standoff over the Wilks estate ultimately is resolved without any physical or financial harm to anyone, the depth of greed and sliminess the con men display is astonishing. Then, just when it appears the duke and the dauphin can sink no lower, the catastrophe that Twain has foreshadowed for the last few chapters materializes when Huck discovers that Jim is missing. Just as it has throughout The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, evil follows Huck and Jim onto the raft and thwarts their best attempts to escape it. Jim's capture significantly matures Huck, for it convinces him to break with the con men for good and leads him to a second moment of moral reckoning. Huck searches the social and religious belief systems that white society has taught him for a way out of his predicament about turning Jim in. In the end, Huck is unable to pray because he cannot truly believe in these systems, for he cares too much about Jim to deny Jim's existence and humanity. Huck's thoughts of his friendship with Jim lead him to listen to his own conscience, and, echoing his sentiments from Chapter 1, Huck resolves to act justly by helping Jim and "go to hell" if necessary. Once again, Huck turns received notions upside down, as he figures that even hell would be better than the society in which he lives. Huck then sets out on his first truly adult endeavor--setting off to free Jim at whatever moral or physical cost to himself. It is vital to note that Huck undertakes this action with the belief that it might send him to hell. Though he does not articulate this truth to himself, he trades his fate for Jim's and thereby accepts the life of a black man as equal to his own.


When they got aboard the king went for me, and shook me by the collar,
and says:

"Tryin' to give us the slip, was ye, you pup! Tired of our company,
hey?"

I says:

"No, your majesty, we warn't--_please_ don't, your majesty!"

"Quick, then, and tell us what _was_ your idea, or I'll shake the
insides out o' you!"

"Honest, I'll tell you everything just as it happened, your majesty.
The man that had a-holt of me was very good to me, and kept saying he
had a boy about as big as me that died last year, and he was sorry to
see a boy in such a dangerous fix; and when they was all took by
surprise by finding the gold, and made a rush for the coffin, he lets
go of me and whispers, 'Heel it now, or they'll hang ye, sure!' and I
lit out. It didn't seem no good for _me_ to stay--I couldn't do
nothing, and I didn't want to be _hung_ if I could get away. So I
never stopped running till I found the canoe; and when I got here I
told Jim to hurry, or they'd catch me and hang me yet, and said I was
afeard you and the duke wasn't alive now, and I was awful sorry, and
so was Jim, and was awful glad when we see you coming; you may ask Jim
if I didn't." Jim said it was so; and the king told him to shut up,
and said, "Oh, yes, it's _mighty_ likely!" and shook me up again, and
said he reckoned he'd drownd me. But the duke says:

"Leggo the boy, you old idiot! Would _you_ 'a' done any different?
Did you inquire around for _him_ when you got loose? I don't remember
it."

So the king let go of me, and begun to cuss that town and everybody in
it. But the duke says:

"You better a blame' sight give _yourself_ a good cussing, for you're
the one that's entitled to it most. You hain't done a thing from the
start that had any sense in it, except coming out so cool and cheeky
with that imaginary blue-arrow mark. That _was_ bright--it was right
down bully; and it was the thing that saved us. For if it hadn't been
for that they'd 'a' jailed us till them Englishmen's baggage come--and
then--the penitentiary, you bet! But that trick took 'em to the
graveyard, and the gold done us a still bigger kindness; for if the
excited fools hadn't let go all holts and made that rush to get a look
we'd 'a' slept in our cravats to-night--cravats warranted to _wear_,
too--longer than _we'd_ need 'em."

They was still a minute--thinking; then the king says, kind of
absent-minded like:

"Mf! And we reckoned the _niggers_ stole it!"

That made me squirm!

"Yes," says the duke, kinder slow and deliberate and sarcastic, "_we_
did."

After about a half a minute the king drawls out:

"Leastways, I did."

The duke says, the same way:

"On the contrary, _I_ did."

The king kind of ruffles up, and says:

"Looky here, Bilgewater, what'r you referrin' to?" The duke says,
pretty brisk:

"When it comes to that, maybe you'll let me ask what was _you_
referring to?"

"Shucks!" says the king, very sarcastic; "but _I_ don't know--maybe
you was asleep, and didn't know what you was about."

The duke bristles up now, and says:

"Oh, let _up_ on this cussed nonsense; do you take me for a blame'
fool? Don't you reckon I know who hid that money in that coffin?"

"_Yes_, sir! I know you _do_ know, because you done it yourself!"

"It's a lie!"--and the duke went for him. The king sings out:

"Take y'r hands off!--leggo my throat!--I take it all back!"

The duke says:

"Well, you just own up, first, that you _did_ hide that money there,
intending to give me the slip one of these days, and come back and dig
it up, and have it all to yourself."

"Wait jest a minute, duke--answer me this one question, honest and
fair; if you didn't put the money there, say it, and I'll b'lieve you,
and take back everything I said."

"You old scoundrel, I didn't, and you know I didn't. There, now!"

"Well, then, I b'lieve you. But answer me only jest this one more--now
_don't_ git mad; didn't you have it in your mind to hook the money and
hide it?"

The duke never said nothing for a little bit; then he says:

"Well, I don't care if I _did_, I didn't _do_ it, anyway. But you not
only had it in mind to do it, but you _done_ it."

"I wisht I never die if I done it, duke, and that's honest. I won't
say I warn't goin' to do it, because I _was_; but you--I mean
somebody--got in ahead o' me."

"It's a lie! You done it, and you got to _say_ you done it, or--"

The king began to gurgle, and then he gasps out:

"'Nough!--I _own up!_"

I was very glad to hear him say that; it made me feel much more easier
than what I was feeling before. So the duke took his hands off and
says:

"If you ever deny it again I'll drown you. It's _well_ for you to set
there and blubber like a baby--it's fitten for you, after the way
you've acted. I never see such an old ostrich for wanting to gobble
everything--and I a-trusting you all the time, like you was my own
father. You ought to been ashamed of yourself to stand by and hear it
saddled on to a lot of poor niggers, and you never say a word for 'em.
It makes me feel ridiculous to think I was soft enough to _believe_
that rubbage. Cuss you, I can see now why you was so anxious to make
up the deffisit--you wanted to get what money I'd got out of the
'None-such' and one thing or another, and scoop it _all!_"

The king says, timid, and still a-snuffling:

"Why, duke, it was you that said make up the deffersit; it warn't me."

"Dry up! I don't want to hear no more out of you!" says the duke. "And
_now_ you see what you _got_ by it. They've got all their own money
back, and all of _ourn_ but a shekel or two _besides_. G'long to bed,
and don't you deffersit _me_ no more deffersits, long 's _you_ live!"

So the king sneaked into the wigwam and took to his bottle for
comfort, and before long the duke tackled _his_ bottle; and so in
about a half an hour they was as thick as thieves again, and the
tighter they got the lovinger they got, and went off a-snoring in each
other's arms. They both got powerful mellow, but I noticed the king
didn't get mellow enough to forget to remember to not deny about
hiding the money-bag again. That made me feel easy and satisfied. Of
course when they got to snoring we had a long gabble, and I told Jim
everything.

The dauphin nearly strangles Huck out of anger at his desertion, but the duke stops him. The con men explain that they escaped after the gold was found. The duke and the dauphin each believe that the other hid the gold in the coffin to retrieve it later, without the other knowing. They nearly come to blows but eventually make up and go to sleep