the adventures of huckleberry finn: summary & analysis | chapter 24 | study guide | cliffsnotes

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 next day, the duke paints Jim's face solid blue so they can navigate the river during the day. To complete the disguise, the duke posts a sign on the raft reading "Sick Arab -- but harmless when not out of his head." The two con men decide to scout the surrounding towns, and while the king and Huck are heading to the steamboat, they pick up a young boy in their canoe. The king questions the talkative boy thoroughly about the town and discovers a local man, Peter Wilks, has just died and left all his fortune to his English brothers. After learning the details of the Wilks family and its friends, the king sends Huck to fetch the duke, and the con men pose as Peter Wilks' English brothers, Harvey and William. They enter the town and begin to cry and moan when they hear of their "brothers" death. The cruel approach of the scam surprises even Huck, and he comments that "it was enough to make a body ashamed of the human race."

The events of Chapter 24 reveal that the duke and the king have taken complete control of the raft and its travelers. The fact that the duke unties Jim and uses a disguise to give him freedom during the day is overshadowed by the latest ploy to inherit a dead man's fortune. Similar to their earlier methods that played off of faith and conviction, the duke and the king plot to earn the confidence of an entire town. The task becomes ludicrous when readers realize that the duke and king must convince everyone of their English heritage and that William  is "deef and dumb." The humor of the con men's upcoming scam is apparent, as is the realization that this plot is more callous than their previous pranks. Twain's burlesque on the ignorance of humankind is evident, for to succeed, the con men need a community of fools. Huck's somber observation that "it was enough to make a body ashamed of the human race" alerts readers that he has again been forced to evaluate his society. Whereas earlier events took place with little judgment, the Wilks scam, coupled with the death of Buck Grangerford, forces Huck to condemn the entire race. The statement underscores Huck's constant struggle.

As the duke and the dauphin tie up the raft to work over another town, Jim complains about having to wait, frightened, in the boat, tied up as a runaway slave in order to avoid suspicion, while the others are gone. In response, the duke disguises Jim in a calico stage robe and blue face paint and posts a sign on him that reads, "Sick Arab--but harmless when not out of his head. The dauphin, dressed up in his newly bought clothes, decides he wants to make a big entrance into the next town, so he and Huck board a steamboat docked several miles above the town. The dauphin encounters a talkative young man who tells him about a recently deceased local man, Peter Wilks. Wilks had recently sent for his two brothers from Sheffield, England--Harvey, whom Peter had not seen since they were boys, and William, who is deaf and mute. Wilks left much of his property to these brothers when he died, but it seems uncertain whether they will ever arrive. The dauphin wheedles the young traveler, who is en route to South America, to provide him with details concerning the Wilks family. Arriving in Wilks's hometown, the duke and the dauphin ask for Wilks and feign anguish when told of his death. The dauphin even makes strange hand gestures to the duke, feigning sign language. The scene is enough to make Huck "ashamed of the human race

Although the duke and the dauphin become increasingly malicious and cruel in their scams, Twain continues to portray the victims of the con men's schemes as unflatteringly as the con men themselves. The duke and the dauphin's production of The Royal Nonesuch, for example, is a complete farce, a brief, insubstantial show for which the audience is grossly overcharged. But what makes the con men's show a real success, however, is not any ingenuity on their part--they are as inept as ever--but rather the audience's own selfishness and vindictiveness. Rather than warn the other townspeople that the show was terrible, the first night's ticketholders would rather see everyone else get ripped off in the same way they did. Thus, the con men's scheme becomes even more successful because the townspeople display vindictiveness rather than selflessness. In much the same way, the cruel scheme to steal the Wilks family's inheritance succeeds only because of the stupidity and gullibility of the Wilks sisters, particularly Mary Jane. Admittedly, the grieving Wilks sisters likely are not in the best frame of mind to think rationally after their loss. Nonetheless, despite the fact that the duke and the dauphin are hilariously inept in their role-playing and fake in their accents, the only person who even begins to suspect them is Doctor Robinson--and Mary Jane dismisses his advice without a thought. But even the Doctor comes across as annoyingly self-righteous. Together, these episodes contribute to the overall sense of moral confusion in the world of Huckleberry Finn. Although the con men's audacity and maliciousness are sometimes shocking, Twain's portrayal of the victims is often equally unsympathetic. Jim, meanwhile, displays an honest sensitivity that contrasts him ever more strongly with the debased white characters who surround him. Jim bares himself emotionally to Huck, expressing a poignant longing for his family and admitting his errors as a father when he tells of the time he beat his daughter when she did not deserve it. Jim's willingness to put himself in a vulnerable position and admit his failings to Huck adds a new dimension of humanity to his character. Jim's nobility becomes even more apparent when we recall that he has been willing to forgive others throughout the novel, even though he is unable to forgive himself for one honest mistake. As we see in these chapters, Jim's honesty and emotional openness have a profound effect on Huck. Having been brought up among racist white assumptions, Huck is surprised to see that ties of familial love can be as strong among blacks as among whites. Although Huck's development is still incomplete--he still qualifies his observations a bit, noting that it doesn't seem "natural" for Jim to be so attached to his family--his mind is open and he clearly views Jim more as a human and less as a slave.


the adventures of huckleberry finn: summary & analysis | chapter 25-26 | study guide | cliffsnotes

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.

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 king and the duke put on a dramatic display and convince the family and most of the town that they are, indeed, Wilks' brothers. Sobbing, they greet Peter Wilks' daughters as their nieces and cry over the coffin. The king gives a speech that, according to Huck, is "all full of tears and flapdoodle." Peter Wilks' will gives all of his possessions to his brothers and divides $6,000 in gold among the daughters and Harvey and William. In order to cement the confidence of the town, the duke and the king offer their portion of gold to the daughters, and the king invites everyone to Peter's funeral "orgies." The misuse of "obsequies" confirms the suspicions of the local doctor, who laughs as he realizes the two are frauds. When the doctor tries to convince the daughters to reject the duke and the king, the daughters give the money back to prove their faith in their "uncles." The next morning, Joanna quizzes Huck about England, the king, and church. Similar to his disguise as "Sarah Mary Williams," Huck becomes confused trying to keep up with his lies, and the trust and kindness of the daughters makes him realize that he has to act. Later that evening, Huck discovers where the duke and the king hid the gold. He takes the $6,000 and waits for the opportunity to restore it to the rightful owners.

The king's "tears and flapdoodle" speech is a hilarious example of a con man at work, preying on the faith and the perceptions of conventional grief of his victims. Despite the obvious fraud recognized by readers, the family and the town easily accept the king and the duke as English. Huck is appalled by the act, but he also recognizes the persuasive power of "soul-butter"  and its effect on the ignorant townspeople. The humor increases when the king confuses "orgies" with funeral "obsequies," and his explanation of the Greek and Hebrew origins of the word only adds to the ridiculousness of the scene. In a sense, Twain is commenting on humankind's capacity for ignorance, for everyone except the doctor falls victim to the scam. After viewing the king's speech, Huck realizes how clever, and thus how dangerous, the duke and the king actually are. To act against them clearly jeopardizes his own well being, but, more important, it also jeopardizes the chances of freedom for Jim. Despite the danger, Huck concludes he must return the gold to the daughters. Glossary doxolojer the doxology; a hymn of praise to God. soul-butter flattery. yaller-boys gold coins. obsequies funeral rites or ceremonies. Congress-water mineral water from Saratoga said to have medicinal properities.


the adventures of huckleberry finn: summary & analysis | chapter 27-28 | study guide | cliffsnotes

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.

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 same evening, Huck sneaks downstairs to try and hide the bag of gold. The front door is locked, however, and when Huck hears Mary Jane coming, he is forced to hide the gold in Peter Wilks' coffin. Because so many people are in the house, Huck does not have the opportunity to retrieve the money. The funeral proceeds, and Huck realizes he does not know whether the gold is still in the coffin or if someone else has discovered it. After the funeral, the king announces that the estate will be sold in two days. The daughters appear to accept the sale until the king breaks up a slave family and sells them to different traders. Mary Jane cannot bear to think of the separated family and the mother and the children never seeing one another again. Because he wants to comfort her, Huck blurts out that the slave family will see each other in the next two weeks. When Mary Jane promises to leave the house if Huck will tell her how he knows this, Huck tells the entire story of the king and the duke and how they have fooled everyone. Mary Jane wants to tar and feather the con men immediately, but Huck reminds her of her promise and explains that "I'd be all right; but there'd be another person that you don't know about who'd be in big trouble." She honors her promise, and Huck gives her a note that explains where the missing gold can be found. The other daughters are confused about Mary Jane's absence, and the confusion grows when two more men arrive claiming to be Harvey and William.

In Chapter 27, Twain extends his satire to the pomp and circumstance surrounding the funeral service of Peter Wilks. The dark humor of the funeral scene is evident with the actions of the undertaker and the comical interlude of the dog and the rat. When the service is interrupted by the noise of the dog, the undertaker solves the disturbance and then proceeds to tell the mourners that "He had a rat!" Huck's following comment that "there warn't no more popular man in town than what that undertaker was" is yet another satiric barb directed at the subject of death. In contrast to the burlesque humor of the funeral and its concerned mourners, Chapter 28 serves to establish Mary Jane's sense of compassion, an important example for Huck to follow. In witnessing her reaction to the plight of the slave family, Huck learns another valuable lesson about the humanity of slaves and their close familial bonds. The scene provokes memories of Jim's own claim that he will steal his children out of slavery in order to preserve his family. More important, the scene forces Huck to act based on both his instincts and his conscience. Not only will he tell the daughters where to find the gold, he will also tell them of the entire scam so that the slave family will not be separated. Huck's decision to help the daughters should not be overlooked. To this point, Huck has generally aligned himself with tricksters and con men; he displays, after all, all of the huckster qualities that the duke and the king use. When the duke and king dupe the people of Bricksville, Huck feels no remorse because the town is morally void and generally squalid. When the duke and the king con the Wilks daughters, however, Huck is outraged and realizes he must intervene, regardless of the consequences. One of the more powerful human statements is the act of sacrifice, and Huck's resolve to help the daughters illustrates the change that has come over his character. His decision to act foreshadows the novel's climatic moment in Chapter 31. Glossary smouch steal. melodeum melodeon; a small keyboard organ. erysipelas an acute infectious disease of the skin or mucous membranes caused by a streptococcus and characterized by local inflammation and fever. consumption tuberculosis. harrow a frame with spikes or sharp-edged disks, drawn by a horse or tractor and used for breaking up and leveling plowed ground, covering seeds, rooting up weeds, etc. muggins a fool.