It was after sun-up now, but we went right on and didn't tie up. The
king and the duke turned out by and by looking pretty rusty; but after
they'd jumped overboard and took a swim it chippered them up a good
deal. After breakfast the king he took a seat on the corner of the
raft, and pulled off his boots and rolled up his britches, and let his
legs dangle in the water, so as to be comfortable, and lit his pipe,
and went to getting his "Romeo and Juliet" by heart. When he had got
it pretty good him and the duke begun to practise it together. The
duke had to learn him over and over again how to say every speech; and
he made him sigh, and put his hand on his heart, and after a while he
said he done it pretty well; "only," he says, "you mustn't bellow out
_Romeo!_ that way, like a bull--you must say it soft and sick and
languishy, so--R-o-o-meo! that is the idea; for Juliet's a dear sweet
mere child of a girl, you know, and she doesn't bray like a jackass."

Well, next they got out a couple of long swords that the duke made out
of oak laths, and begun to practise the sword-fight--the duke called
himself Richard III.; and the way they laid on and pranced around the
raft was grand to see. But by and by the king tripped and fell
overboard, and after that they took a rest, and had a talk about all
kinds of adventures they'd had in other times along the river.

After dinner the duke says:

"Well, Capet, we'll want to make this a first-class show, you know, so
I guess we'll add a little more to it. We want a little something to
answer encores with, anyway."

"What's onkores, Bilgewater?"

The duke told him, and then says:

"I'll answer by doing the Highland fling or the sailor's hornpipe; and
you--well, let me see--oh, I've got it--you can do Hamlet's
soliloquy."

"Hamlet's which?"

"Hamlet's soliloquy, you know; the most celebrated thing in
Shakespeare. Ah, it's sublime, sublime! Always fetches the house. I
haven't got it in the book--I've only got one volume--but I reckon I
can piece it out from memory. I'll just walk up and down a minute, and
see if I can call it back from recollection's vaults."

So he went to marching up and down, thinking, and frowning horrible
every now and then; then he would hoist up his eyebrows; next he would
squeeze his hand on his forehead and stagger back and kind of moan;
next he would sigh, and next he'd let on to drop a tear. It was
beautiful to see him. By and by he got it. He told us to give
attention. Then he strikes a most noble attitude, with one leg shoved
forwards, and his arms stretched away up, and his head tilted back,
looking up at the sky; and then he begins to rip and rave and grit his
teeth; and after that, all through his speech, he howled, and spread
around, and swelled up his chest, and just knocked the spots out of
any acting ever _I_ see before. This is the speech--I learned it, easy
enough, while he was learning it to the king:

    To be, or not to be; that is the bare bodkin
    That makes calamity of so long life;
    For who would fardels bear, till Birnam Wood do come to
        Dunsinane,
    But that the fear of something after death
    Murders the innocent sleep,
    Great nature's second course,
    And makes us rather sling the arrows of outrageous fortune
    Than fly to others that we know not of.
    There's the respect must give us pause:
    Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst;
    For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
    The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
    The law's delay, and the quietus which his pangs might take,
    In the dead waste and middle of the night, when churchyards
        yawn
    In customary suits of solemn black,
    But that the undiscovered country from whose bourne no
        traveler returns,
    Breathes forth contagion on the world,
    And thus the native hue of resolution, like the poor cat i' the
        adage,
    Is sicklied o'er with care,
    And all the clouds that lowered o'er our housetops,
    With this regard their currents turn awry,
    And lose the name of action.
    'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. But soft you, the
        fair Ophelia:
    Ope not thy ponderous and marble jaws,
    But get thee to a nunnery--go!

Well, the old man he liked that speech, and he mighty soon got it so
he could do it first rate. It seemed like he was just born for it; and
when he had his hand in and was excited, it was perfectly lovely the
way he would rip and tear and rair up behind when he was getting it
off.

The first chance we got the duke he had some show-bills printed; and
after that, for two or three days as we floated along, the raft was a
most uncommon lively place, for there warn't nothing but
sword-fighting and rehearsing--as the duke called it--going on all the
time. One morning, when we was pretty well down the state of Arkansaw,
we come in sight of a little one-horse town in a big bend; so we tied
up about three-quarters of a mile above it, in the mouth of a crick
which was shut in like a tunnel by the cypress trees, and all of us
but Jim took the canoe and went down there to see if there was any
chance in that place for our show.

We struck it mighty lucky; there was going to be a circus there that
afternoon, and the country-people was already beginning to come in, in
all kinds of old shackly wagons, and on horses. The circus would leave
before night, so our show would have a pretty good chance. The duke he
hired the court-house, and we went around and stuck up our bills. They
read like this:

   Shaksperean Revival ! ! !
   Wonderful Attraction!
   For One Night Only!
   The world renowned tragedians,
   David Garrick the younger, of Drury Lane Theatre, London,
      and
   Edmund Kean the elder, of the Royal Haymarket Theatre,
   Whitechapel, Pudding Lane, Piccadilly, London, and the
   Royal Continental Theatres, in their sublime
   Shaksperean Spectacle entitled
   The Balcony Scene
      in
   Romeo and Juliet ! ! !
   Romeo...................Mr. Garrick
   Juliet..................Mr. Kean
   Assisted by the whole strength of the company!
   New costumes, new scenery, new appointments!
      Also:
   The thrilling, masterly, and blood-curdling
   Broad-sword conflict
   In Richard III. ! ! !
   Richard III.............Mr. Garrick
   Richmond................Mr. Kean
      Also:
   (by special request)
   Hamlet's Immortal Soliloquy ! !
   By the Illustrious Kean!
   Done by him 300 consecutive nights in Paris!
   For One Night Only,
   On account of imperative European engagements!
   Admission 25 cents; children and servants, 10 cents.

Then we went loafing around town. The stores and houses was most all
old, shackly, dried-up frame concerns that hadn't ever been painted;
they was set up three or four foot above ground on stilts, so as to be
out of reach of the water when the river was overflowed. The houses
had little gardens around them, but they didn't seem to raise hardly
anything in them but jimpson-weeds, and sunflowers, and ash-piles, and
old curled-up boots and shoes, and pieces of bottles, and rags, and
played-out tinware. The fences was made of different kinds of boards,
nailed on at different times; and they leaned every which way, and had
gates that didn't generly have but one hinge--a leather one. Some of
the fences had been whitewashed some time or another, but the duke
said it was in Columbus's time, like enough. There was generly hogs in
the garden, and people driving them out.

All the stores was along one street. They had white domestic awnings
in front, and the country-people hitched their horses to the
awning-posts. There was empty dry-goods boxes under the awnings, and
loafers roosting on them all day long, whittling them with their
Barlow knives; and chawing tobacco, and gaping and yawning and
stretching--a mighty ornery lot. They generly had on yellow straw hats
most as wide as an umbrella, but didn't wear no coats nor waistcoats;
they called one another Bill, and Buck, and Hank, and Joe, and Andy,
and talked lazy and drawly, and used considerable many cuss-words.
There was as many as one loafer leaning up against every awning-post,
and he most always had his hands in his britches pockets, except when
he fetched them out to lend a chaw of tobacco or scratch. What a body
was hearing amongst them all the time was:

"Gimme a chaw 'v tobacker, Hank."

"Cain't; I hain't got but one chaw left. Ask Bill."

Maybe Bill he gives him a chaw; maybe he lies and says he ain't got
none. Some of them kinds of loafers never has a cent in the world, nor
a chaw of tobacco of their own. They get all their chawing by
borrowing; they say to a fellow, "I wisht you'd len' me a chaw, Jack,
I jist this minute give Ben Thompson the last chaw I had"--which is a
lie pretty much every time; it don't fool nobody but a stranger; but
Jack ain't no stranger, so he says:

"_You_ give him a chaw, did you? So did your sister's cat's
grandmother. You pay me back the chaws you've awready borry'd off'n
me, Lafe Buckner, then I'll loan you one or two ton of it, and won't
charge you no back intrust, nuther."

"Well, I _did_ pay you back some of it wunst."

"Yes, you did--'bout six chaws. You borry'd store tobacker and paid
back nigger-head."

Store tobacco is flat black plug, but these fellows mostly chaws the
natural leaf twisted. When they borrow a chaw they don't generly cut
it off with a knife, but set the plug in between their teeth, and gnaw
with their teeth and tug at the plug with their hands till they get it
in two; then sometimes the one that owns the tobacco looks mournful at
it when it's handed back, and says, sarcastic:

"Here, gimme the _chaw_, and you take the _plug_."

[Illustration:"'GIMME A CHAW'"]

All the streets and lanes was just mud; they warn't nothing else _but_
mud--mud as black as tar and nigh about a foot deep in some places,
and two or three inches deep in _all_ the places. The hogs loafed and
grunted around everywheres.  You'd see a muddy sow and a litter of
pigs come lazying along the street and whollop herself right down in
the way, where folks had to walk around her, and she'd stretch out and
shut her eyes and wave her ears whilst the pigs was milking her, and
look as happy as if she was on salary. And pretty soon you'd hear a
loafer sing out, "Hi! _so_ boy! sick him, Tige!" and away the sow
would go, squealing most horrible, with a dog or two swinging to each
ear, and three or four dozen more a-coming; and then you would see all
the loafers get up and watch the thing out of sight, and laugh at the
fun and look grateful for the noise. Then they'd settle back again
till there was a dog-fight. There couldn't anything wake them up all
over, and make them happy all over, like a dog-fight--unless it might
be putting turpentine on a stray dog and setting fire to him, or tying
a tin pan to his tail and see him run himself to death.

On the river-front some of the houses was sticking out over the bank,
and they was bowed and bent, and about ready to tumble in. The people
had moved out of them. The bank was caved away under one corner of
some others, and that corner was hanging over. People lived in them
yet, but it was dangersome, because sometimes a strip of land as wide
as a house caves in at a time. Sometimes a belt of land a quarter of a
mile deep will start in and cave along and cave along till it all
caves into the river in one summer. Such a town as that has to be
always moving back, and back, and back, because the river's always
gnawing at it.

The nearer it got to noon that day the thicker and thicker was the
wagons and horses in the streets, and more coming all the time.
Families fetched their dinners with them from the country, and eat
them in the wagons. There was considerable whisky-drinking going on,
and I seen three fights. By and by somebody sings out:

"Here comes old Boggs!--in from the country for his little old monthly
drunk; here he comes, boys!"

All the loafers looked glad; I reckoned they was used to having fun
out of Boggs. One of them says:

"Wonder who he's a-gwyne to chaw up this time. If he'd a-chawed up all
the men he's ben a-gwyne to chaw up in the last twenty year he'd have
considerable ruputation now."

Another one says, "I wisht old Boggs 'd threaten me, 'cuz then I'd
know I warn't gwyne to die for a thousan' year."

Boggs comes a-tearing along on his horse, whooping and yelling like an
Injun, and singing out:

"Cler the track, thar. I'm on the waw-path, and the price uv coffins
is a-gwyne to raise."

He was drunk, and weaving about in his saddle; he was over fifty year
old, and had a very red face. Everybody yelled at him and laughed at
him and sassed him, and he sassed back, and said he'd attend to them
and lay them out in their regular turns, but he couldn't wait now
because he'd come to town to kill old Colonel Sherburn, and his motto
was, "Meat first, and spoon vittles to top off on."

He see me, and rode up and says:

"Whar'd you come f'm, boy? You prepared to die?"

Then he rode on. I was scared, but a man says:

"He don't mean nothing; he's always a-carryin' on like that when he's
drunk. He's the best-naturedest old fool in Arkansaw--never hurt
nobody, drunk nor sober."

Boggs rode up before the biggest store in town, and bent his head down
so he could see under the curtain of the awning and yells:

"Come out here, Sherburn! Come out and meet the man you've swindled.
You're the houn' I'm after, and I'm a-gwyne to have you, too!"

And so he went on, calling Sherburn everything he could lay his tongue
to, and the whole street packed with people listening and laughing and
going on. By and by a proud-looking man about fifty-five--and he was a
heap the best-dressed man in that town, too--steps out of the store,
and the crowd drops back on each side to let him come. He says to
Boggs, mighty ca'm and slow--he says:

"I'm tired of this, but I'll endure it till one o'clock. Till one
o'clock, mind--no longer. If you open your mouth against me only once
after that time you can't travel so far but I will find you."

Then he turns and goes in. The crowd looked mighty sober; nobody
stirred, and there warn't no more laughing. Boggs rode off
blackguarding Sherburn as loud as he could yell, all down the street;
and pretty soon back he comes and stops before the store, still
keeping it up. Some men crowded around him and tried to get him to
shut up, but he wouldn't; they told him it would be one o'clock in
about fifteen minutes, and so he _must_ go home--he must go right
away. But it didn't do no good. He cussed away with all his might, and
throwed his hat down in the mud and rode over it, and pretty soon away
he went a-raging down the street again, with his gray hair a-flying.
Everybody that could get a chance at him tried their best to coax him
off of his horse so they could lock him up and get him sober; but it
warn't no use--up the street he would tear again, and give Sherburn
another cussing. By and by somebody says:

"Go for his daughter!--quick, go for his daughter; sometimes he'll
listen to her. If anybody can persuade him, she can."

So somebody started on a run. I walked down street a ways and stopped.
In about five or ten minutes here comes Boggs again, but not on his
horse. He was a-reeling across the street towards me, bareheaded, with
a friend on both sides of him a-holt of his arms and hurrying him
along. He was quiet, and looked uneasy; and he warn't hanging back
any, but was doing some of the hurrying himself. Somebody sings out:

"Boggs!"

I looked over there to see who said it, and it was that Colonel
Sherburn. He was standing perfectly still in the street, and had a
pistol raised in his right hand--not aiming it, but holding it out
with the barrel tilted up towards the sky. The same second I see a
young girl coming on the run, and two men with her. Boggs and the men
turned round to see who called him, and when they see the pistol the
men jumped to one side, and the pistol-barrel come down slow and
steady to a level--both barrels cocked. Boggs throws up both of his
hands and says, "O Lord, don't shoot!" Bang! goes the first shot, and
he staggers back, clawing at the air--bang! goes the second one, and
he tumbles backwards onto the ground, heavy and solid, with his arms
spread out. That young girl screamed out and comes rushing, and down
she throws herself on her father, crying, and saying, "Oh, he's killed
him, he's killed him!" The crowd closed up around them, and shouldered
and jammed one another, with their necks stretched, trying to see, and
people on the inside trying to shove them back and shouting, "Back,
back! give him air, give him air!"

Colonel Sherburn he tossed his pistol onto the ground, and turned
around on his heels and walked off.

They took Boggs to a little drug store, the crowd pressing around just
the same, and the whole town following, and I rushed and got a good
place at the window, where I was close to him and could see in. They
laid him on the floor and put one large Bible under his head, and
opened another one and spread it on his breast; but they tore open his
shirt first, and I seen where one of the bullets went in. He made
about a dozen long gasps, his breast lifting the Bible up when he
drawed in his breath, and letting it down again when he breathed it
out--and after that he laid still; he was dead. Then they pulled his
daughter away from him, screaming and crying, and took her off. She
was about sixteen, and very sweet and gentle looking, but awful pale
and scared.

Well, pretty soon the whole town was there, squirming and scrouging
and pushing and shoving to get at the window and have a look, but
people that had the places wouldn't give them up, and folks behind
them was saying all the time, "Say, now, you've looked enough, you
fellows; 'tain't right and 'tain't fair for you to stay thar all the
time, and never give nobody a chance; other folks has their rights as
well as you."

There was considerable jawing back, so I slid out, thinking maybe
there was going to be trouble. The streets was full, and everybody was
excited. Everybody that seen the shooting was telling how it happened,
and there was a big crowd packed around each one of these fellows,
stretching their necks and listening. One long, lanky man, with long
hair and a big white fur stovepipe hat on the back of his head, and a
crooked-handled cane, marked out the places on the ground where Boggs
stood and where Sherburn stood, and the people following him around
from one place to t'other and watching everything he done, and bobbing
their heads to show they understood, and stooping a little and resting
their hands on their thighs to watch him mark the places on the ground
with his cane; and then he stood up straight and stiff where Sherburn
had stood, frowning and having his hat-brim down over his eyes, and
sung out, "Boggs!" and then fetched his cane down slow to a level, and
says "Bang!" staggered backwards, says "Bang!" again, and fell down
flat on his back. The people that had seen the thing said he done it
perfect; said it was just exactly the way it all happened. Then as
much as a dozen people got out their bottles and treated him.

Well, by and by somebody said Sherburn ought to be lynched. In about a
minute everybody was saying it; so away they went, mad and yelling,
and snatching down every clothes-line they come to to do the hanging
with.

They swarmed up towards Sherburn's house, a-whooping and raging like
Injuns, and everything had to clear the way or get run over and
tromped to mush, and it was awful to see. Children was heeling it
ahead of the mob, screaming and trying to get out of the way; and
every window along the road was full of women's heads, and there was
nigger boys in every tree, and bucks and wenches looking over every
fence; and as soon as the mob would get nearly to them they would
break and skaddle back out of reach. Lots of the women and girls was
crying and taking on, scared most to death.

They swarmed up in front of Sherburn's palings as thick as they could
jam together, and you couldn't hear yourself think for the noise. It
was a little twenty-foot yard. Some sung out "Tear down the fence!
tear down the fence!" Then there was a racket of ripping and tearing
and smashing, and down she goes, and the front wall of the crowd
begins to roll in like a wave.

Just then Sherburn steps out onto the roof of his little front porch,
with a double-barrel gun in his hand, and takes his stand, perfectly
ca'm and deliberate, not saying a word. The racket stopped, and the
wave sucked back.

Sherburn never said a word--just stood there, looking down. The
stillness was awful creepy and uncomfortable. Sherburn run his eye
slow along the crowd; and wherever it struck the people tried a little
to outgaze him, but they couldn't; they dropped their eyes and looked
sneaky. Then pretty soon Sherburn sort of laughed; not the pleasant
kind, but the kind that makes you feel like when you are eating bread
that's got sand in it.

Then he says, slow and scornful:

"The idea of _you_ lynching anybody! It's amusing. The idea of you
thinking you had pluck enough to lynch a _man!_ Because you're brave
enough to tar and feather poor friendless cast-out women that come
along here, did that make you think you had grit enough to lay your
hands on a _man?_ Why, a _man's_ safe in the hands of ten thousand of
your kind--as long as it's daytime and you're not behind him.

"Do I know you? I know you clear through. I was born and raised in the
South, and I've lived in the North; so I know the average all around.
The average man's a coward. In the North he lets anybody walk over him
that wants to, and goes home and prays for a humble spirit to bear it.
In the South one man, all by himself, has stopped a stage full of men
in the daytime, and robbed the lot. Your newspapers call you a brave
people so much that you think you are braver than any other
people--whereas you're just _as_ brave, and no braver. Why don't your
juries hang murderers? Because they're afraid the man's friends will
shoot them in the back, in the dark--and it's just what they _would_
do.

"So they always acquit; and then a _man_ goes in the night, with a
hundred masked cowards at his back, and lynches the rascal. Your
mistake is, that you didn't bring a man with you; that's one mistake,
and the other is that you didn't come in the dark and fetch your
masks. You brought _part_ of a man--Buck Harkness, there--and if you
hadn't had him to start you, you'd 'a' taken it out in blowing.

"You didn't want to come. The average man don't like trouble and
danger. _You_ don't like trouble and danger. But if only _half_ a
man--like Buck Harkness, there--shouts 'Lynch him! lynch him!' you're
afraid to back down--afraid you'll be found out to be what you
are--_cowards_--and so you raise a yell, and hang yourselves onto that
half-a-man's coat-tail, and come raging up here, swearing what big
things you're going to do. The pitifulest thing out is a mob; that's
what an army is--a mob; they don't fight with courage that's born in
them, but with courage that's borrowed from their mass, and from their
officers. But a mob without any _man_ at the head of it is _beneath_
pitifulness. Now the thing for _you_ to do is to droop your tails and
go home and crawl in a hole. If any real lynching's going to be done
it will be done in the dark, Southern fashion; and when they come
they'll bring their masks, and fetch a _man_ along. Now _leave_--and
take your half-a-man with you"--tossing his gun up across his left arm
and cocking it when he says this.

The crowd washed back sudden, and then broke all apart, and went
tearing off every which way, and Buck Harkness he heeled it after
them, looking tolerable cheap. I could 'a' stayed if I wanted to, but
I didn't want to.

I went to the circus and loafed around the back side till the watchman
went by, and then dived in under the tent. I had my twenty-dollar gold
piece and some other money, but I reckoned I better save it, because
there ain't no telling how soon you are going to need it, away from
home and amongst strangers that way. You can't be too careful. I ain't
opposed to spending money on circuses when there ain't no other way,
but there ain't no use in _wasting_ it on them.

It was a real bully circus. It was the splendidest sight that ever was
when they all come riding in, two and two, and gentleman and lady,
side by side, the men just in their drawers and undershirts, and no
shoes nor stirrups, and resting their hands on their thighs easy and
comfortable--there must 'a' been twenty of them--and every lady with a
lovely complexion, and perfectly beautiful, and looking just like a
gang of real sure-enough queens, and dressed in clothes that cost
millions of dollars, and just littered with diamonds. It was a
powerful fine sight; I never see anything so lovely. And then one by
one they got up and stood, and went a-weaving around the ring so
gentle and wavy and graceful, the men looking ever so tall and airy
and straight, with their heads bobbing and skimming along, away up
there under the tent-roof, and every lady's rose-leafy dress flapping
soft and silky around her hips, and she looking like the most
loveliest parasol.

And then faster and faster they went, all of them dancing, first one
foot out in the air and then the other, the horses leaning more and
more, and the ringmaster going round and round the center pole,
cracking his whip and shouting "Hi!--hi!" and the clown cracking jokes
behind him; and by and by all hands dropped the reins, and every lady
put her knuckles on her hips and every gentleman folded his arms, and
then how the horses did lean over and hump themselves! And so one
after the other they all skipped off into the ring, and made the
sweetest bow I ever see, and then scampered out, and everybody clapped
their hands and went just about wild. Well, all through the circus
they done the most astonishing things; and all the time that clown
carried on so it most killed the people. The ringmaster couldn't ever
say a word to him but he was back at him quick as a wink with the
funniest things a body ever said; and how he ever _could_ think of so
many of them, and so sudden and so pat, was what I couldn't no way
understand. Why, I couldn't 'a' thought of them in a year. And by and
by a drunken man tried to get into the ring--said he wanted to ride;
said he could ride as well as anybody that ever was. They argued and
tried to keep him out, but he wouldn't listen, and the whole show come
to a standstill. Then the people begun to holler at him and make fun
of him, and that made him mad, and he begun to rip and tear; so that
stirred up the people, and a lot of men begun to pile down off of the
benches and swarm toward the ring, saying, "Knock him down! throw him
out!" and one or two women begun to scream. So, then, the ringmaster
he made a little speech, and said he hoped there wouldn't be no
disturbance, and if the man would promise he wouldn't make no more
trouble he would let him ride if he thought he could stay on the
horse. So everybody laughed and said all right, and the man got on.
The minute he was on, the horse begun to rip and tear and jump and
cavort around, with two circus men hanging on to his bridle trying to
hold him, and the drunk man hanging on to his neck, and his heels
flying in the air every jump, and the whole crowd of people standing
up shouting and laughing till tears rolled down. And at last, sure
enough, all the circus men could do, the horse broke loose, and away
he went like the very nation, round and round the ring, with that sot
laying down on him and hanging to his neck, with first one leg hanging
most to the ground on one side, and then t'other one on t'other side,
and the people just crazy. It warn't funny to me, though; I was all of
a tremble to see his danger. But pretty soon he struggled up astraddle
and grabbed the bridle, a-reeling this way and that; and the next
minute he sprung up and dropped the bridle and stood! and the horse
a-going like a house afire, too. He just stood up there, a-sailing
around as easy and comfortable as if he warn't ever drunk in his
life--and then he begun to pull off his clothes and sling them. He
shed them so thick they kind of clogged up the air, and altogether he
shed seventeen suits. And, then, there he was, slim and handsome, and
dressed the gaudiest and prettiest you ever saw, and he lit into that
horse with his whip and made him fairly hum--and finally skipped off,
and made his bow and danced off to the dressing-room, and everybody
just a-howling with pleasure and astonishment.

Then the ringmaster he see how he had been fooled, and he _was_ the
sickest ringmaster you ever see, I reckon. Why, it was one of his own
men! He had got up that joke all out of his own head, and never let on
to nobody. Well, I felt sheepish enough to be took in so, but I
wouldn't 'a' been in that ringmaster's place, not for a thousand
dollars. I don't know; there may be bullier circuses than what that
one was, but I never struck them yet. Anyways, it was plenty good
enough for _me_; and wherever I run across it, it can have all of _my_
custom every time.

Well, that night we had _our_ show; but there warn't only about twelve
people there--just enough to pay expenses. And they laughed all the
time, and that made the duke mad; and everybody left, anyway, before
the show was over, but one boy which was asleep. So the duke said
these Arkansaw lunkheads couldn't come up to Shakespeare; what they
wanted was low comedy--and maybe something ruther worse than low
comedy, he reckoned. He said he could size their style. So next
morning he got some big sheets of wrapping-paper and some black paint,
and drawed off some handbills, and stuck them up all over the village.
The bills said:

   AT THE COURT HOUSE!
   FOR 3 NIGHTS ONLY!
   _The World-Renowned Tragedians_
   DAVID GARRICK THE YOUNGER!
      AND
   EDMUND KEAN THE ELDER!
   Of the London and Continental
   Theatres,
   In their Thrilling Tragedy of
   THE KING'S CAMELEOPARD,
      OR
   THE ROYAL NONESUCH ! ! !
   _Admission 50 cents._

Then at the bottom was the biggest line of all, which said:

   LADIES AND CHILDREN NOT ADMITTED

"There," says he, "if that line don't fetch them, I don't know
Arkansaw!"

Well, all day him and the king was hard at it, rigging up a stage and
a curtain and a row of candles for footlights; and that night the
house was jam full of men in no time. When the place couldn't hold no
more, the duke he quit tending door and went around the back way and
come onto the stage and stood up before the curtain and made a little
speech, and praised up this tragedy, and said it was the most
thrillingest one that ever was; and so he went on a-bragging about the
tragedy, and about Edmund Kean the Elder, which was to play the main
principal part in it; and at last when he'd got everybody's
expectations up high enough, he rolled up the curtain, and the next
minute the king come a-prancing out on all fours, naked; and he was
painted all over, ring-streaked-and-striped, all sorts of colors, as
splendid as a rainbow. And--but never mind the rest of his outfit; it
was just wild, but it was awful funny. The people most killed
themselves laughing; and when the king got done capering and capered
off behind the scenes, they roared and clapped and stormed and
haw-hawed till he come back and done it over again, and after that
they made him do it another time. Well, it would make a cow laugh to
see the shines that old idiot cut.

Then the duke he lets the curtain down, and bows to the people, and
says the great tragedy will be performed only two nights more, on
accounts of pressing London engagements, where the seats is all sold
already for it in Drury Lane; and then he makes them another bow, and
says if he has succeeded in pleasing them and instructing them, he
will be deeply obleeged if they will mention it to their friends and
get them to come and see it.

Twenty people sings out:

"What, is it over?  Is that _all_?"

The duke says yes. Then there was a fine time. Everybody sings out,
"Sold!" and rose up mad, and was a-going for that stage and them
tragedians. But a big, fine-looking man jumps up on a bench and
shouts:

"Hold on! Just a word, gentlemen." They stopped to listen. "We are
sold--mighty badly sold. But we don't want to be the laughing-stock of
this whole town, I reckon, and never hear the last of this thing as
long as we live. _No_. What we want is to go out of here quiet, and
talk this show up, and sell the _rest_ of the town! Then we'll all be
in the same boat. Ain't that sensible?" ("You bet it is!--the jedge is
right!" everybody sings out.) "All right, then--not a word about any
sell. Go along home, and advise everybody to come and see the
tragedy."

Next day you couldn't hear nothing around that town but how splendid
that show was. House was jammed again that night, and we sold this
crowd the same way. When me and the king and the duke got home to the
raft we all had a supper; and by and by, about midnight, they made Jim
and me back her out and float her down the middle of the river, and
fetch her in and hide her about two mile below town.

The third night the house was crammed again--and they warn't
new-comers this time, but people that was at the show the other two
nights. I stood by the duke at the door, and I see that every man that
went in had his pockets bulging, or something muffled up under his
coat--and I see it warn't no perfumery, neither, not by a long sight.
I smelt sickly eggs by the barrel, and rotten cabbages, and such
things; and if I know the signs of a dead cat being around, and I bet
I do, there was sixty-four of them went in. I shoved in there for a
minute, but it was too various for me; I couldn't stand it. Well, when
the place couldn't hold no more people the duke he give a fellow a
quarter and told him to tend door for him a minute, and then he
started around for the stage door, I after him; but the minute we
turned the corner and was in the dark he says:

"Walk fast now till you get away from the houses, and then shin for
the raft like the dickens was after you!"

I done it, and he done the same. We struck the raft at the same time,
and in less than two seconds we was gliding down-stream, all dark and
still, and edging towards the middle of the river, nobody saying a
word. I reckoned the poor king was in for a gaudy time of it with the
audience, but nothing of the sort; pretty soon he crawls out from
under the wigwam, and says:

"Well, how'd the old thing pan out this time, duke?" He hadn't been
up-town at all.

We never showed a light till we was about ten mile below the village.
Then we lit up and had a supper, and the king and the duke fairly
laughed their bones loose over the way they'd served them people. The
duke says:

"Greenhorns, flatheads! I knew the first house would keep mum and let
the rest of the town get roped in; and I knew they'd lay for us the
third night, and consider it was _their_ turn now. Well, it _is_ their
turn, and I'd give something to know how much they'd take for it. I
_would_ just like to know how they're putting in their opportunity.
They can turn it into a picnic if they want to--they brought plenty
provisions."

Them rapscallions took in four hundred and sixty-five dollars in that
three nights. I never see money hauled in by the wagon-load like that
before.

By and by, when they was asleep and snoring, Jim says:

"Don't it s'prise you de way dem kings carries on, Huck?"

"No," I says, "it don't."

"Why don't it, Huck?"

"Well, it don't, because it's in the breed. I reckon they're all
alike."

"But, Huck, dese kings o' ourn is reglar rapscallions; dat's jist what
dey is; dey's reglar rapscallions."

"Well, that's what I'm a-saying; all kings is mostly rapscallions, as
fur as I can make out."

"Is dat so?"

"You read about them once--you'll see. Look at Henry the Eight; this
'n' 's a Sunday-school Superintendent to _him_. And look at Charles
Second, and Louis Fourteen, and Louis Fifteen, and James Second, and
Edward Second, and Richard Third, and forty more; besides all them
Saxon heptarchies that used to rip around so in old times and raise
Cain. My, you ought to seen old Henry the Eight when he was in bloom.
He _was_ a blossom. He used to marry a new wife every day, and chop
off her head next morning. And he would do it just as indifferent as
if he was ordering up eggs. 'Fetch up Nell Gwynn,' he says. They fetch
her up. Next morning, 'Chop off her head!' And they chop it off.
'Fetch up Jane Shore,' he says; and up she comes. Next morning, 'Chop
off her head'--and they chop it off. 'Ring up Fair Rosamun.' Fair
Rosamun answers the bell. Next morning, 'Chop off her head.' And he
made every one of them tell him a tale every night; and he kept that
up till he had hogged a thousand and one tales that way, and then he
put them all in a book, and called it Domesday Book--which was a good
name and stated the case. You don't know kings, Jim, but I know them;
and this old rip of ourn is one of the cleanest I've struck in
history. Well, Henry he takes a notion he wants to get up some trouble
with this country. How does he go at it--give notice?--give the
country a show? No. All of a sudden he heaves all the tea in Boston
Harbor overboard, and whacks out a declaration of independence, and
dares them to come on. That was _his_ style--he never give anybody a
chance. He had suspicions of his father, the Duke of Wellington. Well,
what did he do?  Ask him to show up?  No--drownded him in a butt of
mamsey, like a cat. S'pose people left money laying around where he
was--what did he do? He collared it. S'pose he contracted to do a
thing, and you paid him, and didn't set down there and see that he
done it--what did he do? He always done the other thing. S'pose he
opened his mouth--what then? If he didn't shut it up powerful quick
he'd lose a lie every time. That's the kind of a bug Henry was; and if
we'd 'a' had him along 'stead of our kings he'd 'a' fooled that town a
heap worse than ourn done. I don't say that ourn is lambs, because
they ain't, when you come right down to the cold facts; but they ain't
nothing to _that_ old ram, anyway. All I say is, kings is kings, and
you got to make allowances. Take them all around, they're a mighty
ornery lot. It's the way they're raised."

"But dis one do _smell_ so like de nation, Huck."

"Well, they all do, Jim. We can't help the way a king smells; history
don't tell no way."

"Now de duke, he's a tolerble likely man in some ways."

"Yes, a duke's different. But not very different. This one's a
middling hard lot for a duke. When he's drunk there ain't no
near-sighted man could tell him from a king."

"Well, anyways, I doan' hanker for no mo' un um, Huck. Dese is all I
kin stan'."

"It's the way I feel, too, Jim. But we've got them on our hands, and
we got to remember what they are, and make allowances. Sometimes I
wish we could hear of a country that's out of kings."

What was the use to tell Jim these warn't real kings and dukes?  It
wouldn't 'a' done no good; and, besides, it was just as I said: you
couldn't tell them from the real kind.

I went to sleep, and Jim didn't call me when it was my turn. He often
done that. When I waked up just at daybreak he was sitting there with
his head down betwixt his knees, moaning and mourning to himself. I
didn't take notice nor let on. I knowed what it was about. He was
thinking about his wife and his children, away up yonder, and he was
low and homesick; because he hadn't ever been away from home before in
his life; and I do believe he cared just as much for his people as
white folks does for their'n. It don't seem natural, but I reckon it's
so. He was often moaning and mourning that way nights, when he judged
I was asleep, and saying, "Po' little 'Lizabeth! po' little Johnny!
it's mighty hard; I spec' I ain't ever gwyne to see you no mo', no
mo'!" He was a mighty good nigger, Jim was.

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

"What makes me feel so bad dis time 'uz bekase I hear sumpn over
yonder on de bank like a whack, er a slam, while ago, en it mine me er
de time I treat my little 'Lizabeth so ornery. She warn't on'y 'bout
fo' year ole, en she tuck de sk'yarlet fever, en had a powful rough
spell; but she got well, en one day she was a-stannin' aroun', en I
says to her, I says:

"'Shet de do'.'

"She never done it; jis' stood dah, kiner smilin' up at me. It make me
mad; en I says ag'in, mighty loud, I says:

"'Doan' you hear me? Shet de do'!"

"She jis stood de same way, kiner smilin' up. I was a-bilin'! I says:

"'I lay I _make_ you mine!'

"En wid dat I fetch' her a slap side de head dat sont her a-sprawlin'.
Den I went into de yuther room, en 'uz gone 'bout ten minutes; en when
I come back dah was dat do' a-stannin' open _yit_, en dat chile
stannin' mos' right in it, a-lookin' down and mournin', en de tears
runnin' down. My, but I _wuz_ mad! I was a-gwyne for de chile, but
jis' den--it was a do' dat open innerds--jis' den, 'long come de wind
en slam it to, behine de chile, ker-_blam!_--en my lan', de chile
never move'! My breff mos' hop outer me; en I feel so--so--I doan'
know _how_ I feel. I crope out, all a-tremblin', en crope aroun' en
open de do' easy en slow, en poke my head in behine de chile, sof' en
still, en all uv a sudden I says _pow!_ jis' as loud as I could yell.
She _never budge!_ Oh, Huck, I bust out a-cryin' en grab her up in my
arms, en say, 'Oh, de po' little thing! De Lord God Amighty fogive po'
ole Jim, kaze he never gwyne to fogive hisself as long's he live!' Oh,
she was plumb deef en dumb, Huck, plumb deef en dumb--en I'd ben
a-treat'n her so!"

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

He was uncommon bright, the duke was, and he soon struck it. He
dressed Jim up in King Lear's outfit--it was a long curtain-calico
gown, and a white horse-hair wig and whiskers; and then he took his
theater paint and painted Jim's face and hands and ears and neck all
over a dead, dull solid blue, like a man that's been drownded nine
days. Blamed if he warn't the horriblest-looking outrage I ever see.
Then the duke took and wrote out a sign on a shingle so:

_Sick Arab--but harmless when not out of his head._

And he nailed that shingle to a lath, and stood the lath up four or
five foot in front of the wigwam. Jim was satisfied. He said it was a
sight better than lying tied a couple of years every day, and
trembling all over every time there was a sound. The duke told him to
make himself free and easy, and if anybody ever come meddling around,
he must hop out of the wigwam, and carry on a little, and fetch a howl
or two like a wild beast, and he reckoned they would light out and
leave him alone. Which was sound enough judgment; but you take the
average man, and he wouldn't wait for him to howl. Why, he didn't only
look like he was dead, he looked considerable more than that.

These rapscallions wanted to try the Nonesuch again, because there was
so much money in it, but they judged it wouldn't be safe, because
maybe the news might 'a' worked along down by this time. They couldn't
hit no project that suited exactly; so at last the duke said he
reckoned he'd lay off and work his brains an hour or two and see if he
couldn't put up something on the Arkansaw village; and the king he
allowed he would drop over to t'other village without any plan, but
just trust in Providence to lead him the profitable way--meaning the
devil, I reckon. We had all bought store clothes where we stopped
last; and now the king put his'n on, and he told me to put mine on. I
done it, of course. The king's duds was all black, and he did look
real swell and starchy. I never knowed how clothes could change a body
before. Why, before, he looked like the orneriest old rip that ever
was; but now, when he'd take off his new white beaver and make a bow
and do a smile, he looked that grand and good and pious that you'd say
he had walked right out of the ark, and maybe was old Leviticus
himself. Jim cleaned up the canoe, and I got my paddle ready. There
was a big steamboat laying at the shore away up under the point, about
three mile above the town--been there a couple of hours, taking on
freight. Says the king:

"Seein' how I'm dressed, I reckon maybe I better arrive down from St.
Louis or Cincinnati, or some other big place. Go for the steamboat,
Huckleberry; we'll come down to the village on her."

I didn't have to be ordered twice to go and take a steamboat ride. I
fetched the shore a half a mile above the village, and then went
scooting along the bluff bank in the easy water. Pretty soon we come
to a nice innocent-looking young country jake setting on a log
swabbing the sweat off of his face, for it was powerful warm weather;
and he had a couple of big carpet-bags by him.

"Run her nose inshore," says the king. I done it. "Wher' you bound
for, young man?"

"For the steamboat; going to Orleans."

"Git aboard," says the king. "Hold on a minute, my servant 'll
he'p you with them bags. Jump out and he'p the gentleman,
Adolphus"--meaning me, I see.

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

"When I first see you I says to myself, 'It's Mr. Wilks, sure, and he
come mighty near getting here in time.' But then I says again, 'No, I
reckon it ain't him, or else he wouldn't be paddling up the river.'
You _ain't_ him, are you?"

"No, my name's Blodgett--Elexander Blodgett--_Reverend_ Elexander
Blodgett, I s'pose I must say, as I'm one o' the Lord's poor servants.
But still I'm jist as able to be sorry for Mr. Wilks for not arriving
in time, all the same, if he's missed anything by it--which I hope he
hasn't."

"Well, he don't miss any property by it, because he'll get that all
right; but he's missed seeing his brother Peter die--which he mayn't
mind, nobody can tell as to that--but his brother would 'a' give
anything in this world to see _him_ before he died; never talked about
nothing else all these three weeks; hadn't seen him since they was
boys together--and hadn't ever seen his brother William at all--that's
the deef and dumb one--William ain't more than thirty or thirty-five.
Peter and George were the only ones that come out here; George was the
married brother; him and his wife both died last year. Harvey and
William's the only ones that's left now; and, as I was saying, they
haven't got here in time."

"Did anybody send 'em word?"

"Oh, yes; a month or two ago, when Peter was first took; because Peter
said then that he sorter felt like he warn't going to get well this
time. You see, he was pretty old, and George's g'yirls was too young
to be much company for him, except Mary Jane, the red-headed one; and
so he was kinder lonesome after George and his wife died, and didn't
seem to care much to live. He most desperately wanted to see
Harvey--and William, too, for that matter--because he was one of them
kind that can't bear to make a will. He left a letter behind for
Harvey, and said he'd told in it where his money was hid, and how he
wanted the rest of the property divided up so George's g'yirls would
be all right--for George didn't leave nothing. And that letter was all
they could get him to put a pen to."

"Why do you reckon Harvey don't come? Wher' does he live?"

"Oh, he lives in England--Sheffield--preaches there--hasn't ever been
in this country. He hasn't had any too much time--and besides he
mightn't 'a' got the letter at all, you know."

"Too bad, too bad he couldn't 'a' lived to see his brothers, poor
soul. You going to Orleans, you say?"

"Yes, but that ain't only a part of it. I'm going in a ship, next
Wednesday, for Ryo Janeero, where my uncle lives."

"It's a pretty long journey. But it'll be lovely; I wisht I was
a-going. Is Mary Jane the oldest?  How old is the others?"

"Mary Jane's nineteen, Susan's fifteen, and Joanna's about
fourteen--that's the one that gives herself to good works and has a
hare-lip."

"Poor things! to be left alone in the cold world so."

"Well, they could be worse off. Old Peter had friends, and they ain't
going to let them come to no harm. There's Hobson, the Babtis'
preacher; and Deacon Lot Hovey, and Ben Rucker, and Abner Shackleford,
and Levi Bell, the lawyer; and Dr. Robinson, and their wives, and the
widow Bartley, and--well, there's a lot of them; but these are the
ones that Peter was thickest with, and used to write about sometimes,
when he wrote home; so Harvey 'll know where to look for friends when
he gets here."

Well, the old man went on asking questions till he just fairly emptied
that young fellow. Blamed if he didn't inquire about everybody and
everything in that blessed town, and all about the Wilkses; and about
Peter's business--which was a tanner; and about George's--which was a
carpenter; and about Harvey's--which was a dissentering minister; and
so on, and so on. Then he says:

"What did you want to walk all the way up to the steamboat for?"

"Because she's a big Orleans boat, and I was afeard she mightn't stop
there. When they're deep they won't stop for a hail. A Cincinnati boat
will, but this is a St. Louis one."

"Was Peter Wilks well off?"

"Oh, yes, pretty well off. He had houses and land, and it's reckoned
he left three or four thousand in cash hid up som'ers."

"When did you say he died?"

"I didn't say, but it was last night."

"Funeral to-morrow, likely?"

"Yes, 'bout the middle of the day."

"Well, it's all terrible sad; but we've all got to go, one time or
another. So what we want to do is to be prepared; then we're all
right."

"Yes, sir, it's the best way. Ma used to always say that."

When we struck the boat she was about done loading, and pretty soon
she got off. The king never said nothing about going aboard, so I lost
my ride, after all. When the boat was gone the king made me paddle up
another mile to a lonesome place, and then he got ashore and says:

"Now hustle back, right off, and fetch the duke up here, and the new
carpet-bags. And if he's gone over to t'other side, go over there and
git him. And tell him to git himself up regardless. Shove along, now."

I see what _he_ was up to; but I never said nothing, of course. When I
got back with the duke we hid the canoe, and then they set down on a
log, and the king told him everything, just like the young fellow had
said it--every last word of it. And all the time he was a-doing it he
tried to talk like an Englishman; and he done it pretty well, too, for
a slouch. I can't imitate him, and so I ain't a-going to try to; but
he really done it pretty good. Then he says:

"How are you on the deef and dumb, Bilgewater?"

The duke said, leave him alone for that; said he had played a deef and
dumb person on the histrionic boards. So then they waited for a
steamboat.

About the middle of the afternoon a couple of little boats come along,
but they didn't come from high enough up the river; but at last there
was a big one, and they hailed her. She sent out her yawl, and we went
aboard, and she was from Cincinnati; and when they found we only
wanted to go four or five mile they was booming mad, and gave us a
cussing, and said they wouldn't land us. But the king was ca'm. He
says:

"If gentlemen kin afford to pay a dollar a mile apiece to be took on
and put off in a yawl, a steamboat kin afford to carry 'em, can't it?"

So they softened down and said it was all right; and when we got to
the village they yawled us ashore. About two dozen men flocked down
when they see the yawl a-coming, and when the king says:

"Kin any of you gentlemen tell me wher' Mr. Peter Wilks lives?" they
give a glance at one another, and nodded their heads, as much as to
say, "What 'd I tell you?" Then one of them says, kind of soft and
gentle:

"I'm sorry, sir, but the best we can do is to tell you where he _did_
live yesterday evening."

Sudden as winking the ornery old cretur went all to smash, and fell up
against the man, and put his chin on his shoulder, and cried down his
back, and says:

"Alas, alas, our poor brother--gone, and we never got to see him; oh,
it's too, too hard!"

Then he turns around, blubbering, and makes a lot of idiotic signs to
the duke on his hands, and blamed if he didn't drop a carpet-bag and
bust out a-crying. If they warn't the beatenest lot, them two frauds,
that ever I struck.

Well, the men gathered around and sympathized with them, and said all
sorts of kind things to them, and carried their carpet-bags up the
hill for them, and let them lean on them and cry, and told the king
all about his brother's last moments, and the king he told it all over
again on his hands to the duke, and both of them took on about that
dead tanner like they'd lost the twelve disciples. Well, if ever I
struck anything like it, I'm a nigger. It was enough to make a body
ashamed of the human race.

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.

The King and Duke turn their attention to performing scenes from Shakespeare. The King learns the lines for Juliet and practices sword-fighting with the Duke in order to perform part of Richard III. The Duke decides that a great encore would be for the King to perform Hamlet's soliloquy. Unfortunately, without the text at hand, the Duke must piece the famous lines together from memory. The end result is quite different from the true soliloquy, but still contains some elements of drama. The men stop in a nearby town and decide to set up their show. They rent the courthouse for a night and print up bills proclaiming how wonderful the performance will be. Unfortunately, a circus is also in town, but they hope people will still attend their dramatic performances. During the day of the show a man named Boggs rides into town. He is a drunk who comes in each month and threatens to kill a man, but never actually harms anyone. This time, he is after a Colonel Sherburn, the wealthiest man in town and a storeowner. Boggs stands outside the store and screams insults at the Colonel. The Colonel comes out of his store and tells Boggs that he will put up with the insults until one o'clock and after that he will kill him if Boggs utters even one word. Boggs continues relentlessly, and at exactly 1pm, the Colonel appears and kills Boggs on the spot. At that exact moment, Boggs's daughter approaches, hoping to save her father, but she is too late. After Boggs is laid to rest, the crowd turns into a mob and concludes that Sherburn should be lynched for the killing. Chapter 22 The crowd travels to Sherburn's store and rips down the front fence. They halt when Sherburn emerges with a shotgun and calmly stands in front of them. He lectures the mob on how pathetic they are, tells them they are being led by half of a man, Buck Harkness, and calls them all cowards. When he finishes his speech, he cocks his gun and the crowd runs off in every direction. Huck leaves and goes to the circus which is in town until late that night, and after which the Duke and King plan to perform their show. He sneaks in and watches all the fun activities, such as the clown and showgirls. Huck then remarks that it is the best circus he has ever witnessed and the most fun. That night, the Shakespearean show is a disaster, with only twelve people showing up and none of them staying until the end. In response, the Duke prints up some new handbills touting a show titled the Royal Nonesuch. He then cleverly adds the line, "Ladies and Children Not Admitted" and comments that if such a line does not bring an audience, then he does not know Arkansas. Chapter 23 The Royal Nonesuch opens to a house packed with men. The Duke greets them and hypes up the audience for the King. The King emerges completely naked, covered in paint, and crawling on all fours. The audience laughs their heads off, and he is called back to do it twice more. Then the Duke thanks them all and wishes them a good night. The men are furious that the show is so short and realize they have been "sold," or cheated. But, before they can rush the stage in protest, one man stands up and tells them that they will be the laughingstocks of the town if it ever is revealed how badly they were cheated. They all agree to leave and tout the show for being wonderful so the rest of the town can be cheated as well. As a result, the next night's performance is also full, and the audience leaves just as angry. The third night, all the men show up, carrying rotten eggs, dead cats, and other foul items with them. The Duke pays a man to mind the door and he and Huck rush away to the raft. They immediately push out onto the river and the King emerges from the wigwam where he and Jim have been hiding all along. Together, the two con-artists made four hundred sixty-five dollars. That night, Jim grieves over no longer being able to see his wife and children. Huck remarks that Jim cares almost as much about his family as a white person would. Jim then tells Huck a story about when he was with his daughter, Elizabeth, one day. Jim told her to shut the door and she just stood there smiling at him. Jim got mad that she did not obey and yelled at her until he finally whacked her on the side of the head for not listening to him. Ten minutes later Jim returned and his daughter still had not closed the door. She was standing in the same place, crying. At that moment, a strong wind slammed the door behind her, causing Jim to jump. However, his daughter never moved an inch. Jim realized his poor daughter had lost her hearing. Jim tells Huck that he burst out crying upon making this realization and grabbed his daughter to give her a hug. Ever since, he has felt terrible about how he treated her. Chapter 24 To avoid tying Jim up in ropes during the day , the Duke figures out a better solution. He paints Jim in blue and makes him wear a costume. Then, he writes a sign that reads, "Sick Arab - but harmless when not out of his head." Jim is happy that he can now move around. The King and Huck cross the river and meet a young fool waiting for the ferry to Orleans. He proceeds to tell them all about how a Peter Wilks has died, leaving his whole estate to his daughters and brothers. The two brothers have not yet arrived from England, which greatly saddened the man before he died. The King takes a keen interest in the story and gathers every detail he can. Once he has all the details, the King gets the Duke and tells him the entire story. The two men agree to pretend to be Peter Wilks's brothers from Sheffield, England. Together, with Huck acting as a servant, they get a steamboat to take them to the town and drop them off. Their ploy works perfectly and when they hear that Peter is dead, both men put up a huge cry and lament. Huck remarks that, "It was enough to make a body ashamed of the human race." Chapter 25 The two con artists are taken by the crowd that greeted them upon arrival to visit the family, which consists of three orphaned girls: Mary Jane, Susan, and Joanna. Everyone exchanges hugs and cries, and then the King and Duke go to view the coffin. The two men burst out crying again, and finally the King makes a speech about how sad the whole situation is. They finish off by kissing all the women on the forehead and acting heartbroken. Huck comments that the whole scene is "disgusting." The King and Duke discover they have received the bulk of the estate holdings as well as three thousand dollars cash. The three girls have also received three thousand dollars and the house they live in. Wilks's will tells them where in the cellar to find the cash, and the two men go downstairs and find it. The King and Duke count the money and come up four hundred and fifteen dollars short. To alleviate any suspicion, they add the money they made from the Royal Nonesuch to the pile. Then, to permanently win the town over to their side, they graciously give their share of the money to the three girls, knowing they can steal it back at anytime. The King gives a speech and foolishly digresses. A Doctor Robinson enters the crowd, hears the King and laughs heartily, calling the King a fraud because his British accent is such a bad imitation. The townspeople rally around the King, who has been so generous, and defend him. The Doctor warns Mary Jane directly, but in response, she hands the bag of money to the King and tells him to invest it for her. The doctor warns them one final time of the mistakes they are making, and then departs.

In these chapters, Twain again provides commentary on human nature and presents a scathing portrayal of society. Twain's 'version' of Shakespeare, Boggs's death, Jim's feelings about his family, and the Royal Nonesuch all seek to provoke the reader into analyzing the foolish ways of society. Huck assists in this encouragement by adding commentary that brings Twain's critiques into sharper focus. The use of Shakespeare is at once funny and tragic. In describing the butchered Hamlet's soliloquy, it is immediately obvious that the Duke has muddled the lines. Moreover, the vision of the King, with his white hair and whiskers, playing fair Juliet makes even more of a mockery of the plays. Boggs's death focuses the reader's attention on a much more serious aspect of the society. Boggs is shot to death in front of a crowd of people, including his daughter. The disrespect Boggs showed to Colonel Sherburn hardly justifies murder.  Twain further derides the society for is cowardly actions, as the mob ready to lynch Sherburn is easily manipulated and succumbs to cowardice. Twain also makes several pointed comments about the general attitude towards blacks when Jim discusses his family. Huck comments that he is surprised to find that Jim is almost as concerned about his family as a white person. This prevailing attitude, often invoked to justify breaking up slave families, is something Huck is beginning to overcome. Jim's touching story about his daughter Elizabeth, in which he hits her for not obeying him, is a powerful indication to Huck that Jim is in fact more concerned about his children than Huck's father ever was about him. The Royal Nonesuch is perhaps Twain's most brilliant philosophical creation, a show in which the audience sees exactly what it pays for: nothing. Not only does the title accurately describe the show, but Twain cleverly has the Duke and King add the line, "Ladies and Children Not Admitted." Thus the show comments on human nature, namely that we cannot imagine a show being about nothing, even when the very title states it. The men are further fooled into thinking the Nonesuch must be some great, sexual thing, since their wives are excluded. Moreover, to avoid embarrassment, the duped men then talk up the show to their friends. Again, Twain gives a scathing review of his fellow citizens by demonstrating how fragile human egos are. The final showing, which truly is non-existent since the Duke and King run off before it starts, is a coup for the two conmen, who once again give the citizens exactly what they pay for. One wonders whether it is possible to hold them guilty of a crime, considering that in reality, they were honest about the content of the show. However, the conmen's next adventure proves them highly despicable individuals. The Duke and King sink even lower in their abuse of human gullibility and nature by pretending to be the uncles of three orphaned girls in order to steal their inheritance. Huck's views on this scheme are clear, as he calls the King and Duke "disgusting" and remarks that he is "ashamed of the human race." These chapters offer us a great deal of new insight into Huck Finn. He is obviously maturing in his views, as evidenced by his belief that black and white people are not so different. He is also changing from a boy who lacks firm morals to a man with a commitment to values. Thus, his commentary is no longer merely descriptive, but increasingly evaluative. It is becoming obvious that Huck will soon not be content to stand aside and let things slide past, as the metaphor of gliding down the river suggests. Instead, Huck will take a stand and assert himself as an individual. Huck's attitudes will eventually bear fruit in his actions, marking the final step in his journey towards maturity.