"Come in," says the woman, and I did. She says: "Take a cheer."

I done it. She looked me all over with her little shiny eyes, and
says:

"What might your name be?"

"Sarah Williams."

"Where'bouts do you live? In this neighborhood?"

"No'm. In Hookerville, seven mile below. I've walked all the way and
I'm all tired out."

"Hungry, too, I reckon. I'll find you something."

"No'm, I ain't hungry. I was so hungry I had to stop two miles below
here at a farm; so I ain't hungry no more. It's what makes me so late.
My mother's down sick, and out of money and everything, and I come to
tell my uncle Abner Moore. He lives at the upper end of the town, she
says. I hain't ever been here before. Do you know him?"

"No; but I don't know everybody yet. I haven't lived here quite two
weeks. It's a considerable ways to the upper end of the town. You
better stay here all night. Take off your bonnet."

"No," I says; "I'll rest awhile, I reckon, and go on. I ain't afeard
of the dark."

She said she wouldn't let me go by myself, but her husband would be in
by and by, maybe in a hour and a half, and she'd send him along with
me. Then she got to talking about her husband, and about her relations
up the river, and her relations down the river, and about how much
better off they used to was, and how they didn't know but they'd made
a mistake coming to our town, instead of letting well alone--and so on
and so on, till I was afeard I had made a mistake coming to her to
find out what was going on in the town; but by and by she dropped on
to pap and the murder, and then I was pretty willing to let her
clatter right along. She told about me and Tom Sawyer finding the
twelve thousand dollars (only she got it twenty) and all about pap and
what a hard lot he was, and what a hard lot I was, and at last she got
down to where I was murdered. I says:

"Who done it? We've heard considerable about these goings-on down in
Hookerville, but we don't know who 'twas that killed Huck Finn."

"Well, I reckon there's a right smart chance of people _here_ that 'd
like to know who killed him. Some think old Finn done it himself."

"No--is that so?"

"Most everybody thought it at first. He'll never know how nigh he come
to getting lynched. But before night they changed around and judged it
was done by a runaway nigger named Jim."

"Why _he_--"

I stopped. I reckoned I better keep still. She run on, and never
noticed I had put in at all:

"The nigger run off the very night Huck Finn was killed. So there's a
reward out for him--three hundred dollars. And there's a reward out
for old Finn, too--two hundred dollars. You see, he come to town the
morning after the murder, and told about it, and was out with 'em on
the ferryboat hunt, and right away after he up and left. Before night
they wanted to lynch him, but he was gone, you see. Well, next day
they found out the nigger was gone; they found out he hadn't ben seen
sence ten o'clock the night the murder was done. So then they put it
on him, you see; and while they was full of it, next day, back comes
old Finn, and went boo-hooing to Judge Thatcher to get money to hunt
for the nigger all over Illinois with. The judge gave him some, and
that evening he got drunk, and was around till after midnight with a
couple of mighty hard-looking strangers, and then went off with them.
Well, he hain't come back sence, and they ain't looking for him back
till this thing blows over a little, for people thinks now that he
killed his boy and fixed things so folks would think robbers done it,
and then he'd get Huck's money without having to bother a long time
with a lawsuit. People do say he warn't any too good to do it. Oh,
he's sly, I reckon. If he don't come back for a year he'll be all
right. You can't prove anything on him, you know; everything will be
quieted down then, and he'll walk in Huck's money as easy as nothing."

"Yes, I reckon so, 'm. I don't see nothing in the way of it. Has
everybody quit thinking the nigger done it?"

"Oh, no, not everybody. A good many thinks he done it. But they'll get
the nigger pretty soon now, and maybe they can scare it out of him."

"Why, are they after him yet?"

"Well, you're innocent, ain't you! Does three hundred dollars lay
around every day for people to pick up? Some folks think the nigger
ain't far from here. I'm one of them--but I hain't talked it around. A
few days ago I was talking with an old couple that lives next door in
the log shanty, and they happened to say hardly anybody ever goes to
that island over yonder that they call Jackson's Island. Don't anybody
live there? says I. No, nobody, says they. I didn't say any more, but
I done some thinking. I was pretty near certain I'd seen smoke over
there, about the head of the island, a day or two before that, so I
says to myself, like as not that nigger's hiding over there; anyway,
says I, it's worth the trouble to give the place a hunt. I hain't seen
any smoke sence, so I reckon maybe he's gone, if it was him; but
husband's going over to see--him and another man. He was gone up the
river; but he got back to-day, and I told him as soon as he got here
two hours ago."

I had got so uneasy I couldn't set still. I had to do something with
my hands; so I took up a needle off of the table and went to threading
it. My hands shook, and I was making a bad job of it. When the woman
stopped talking I looked up, and she was looking at me pretty curious
and smiling a little. I put down the needle and thread, and let on to
be interested--and I was, too--and says:

"Three hundred dollars is a power of money. I wish my mother could get
it. Is your husband going over there to-night?"

"Oh, yes. He went up-town with the man I was telling you of, to get a
boat and see if they could borrow another gun. They'll go over after
midnight."

"Couldn't they see better if they was to wait till daytime?"

"Yes. And couldn't the nigger see better, too? After midnight he'll
likely be asleep, and they can slip around through the woods and hunt
up his campfire all the better for the dark, if he's got one."

"I didn't think of that."

The woman kept looking at me pretty curious, and I didn't feel a bit
comfortable. Pretty soon she says:

"What did you say your name was, honey?"

"M--Mary Williams."

Somehow it didn't seem to me that I said it was Mary before, so I
didn't look up--seemed to me I said it was Sarah; so I felt sort of
cornered, and was afeard maybe I was looking it, too. I wished the
woman would say something more; the longer she set still the uneasier
I was. But now she says:

"Honey, I thought you said it was Sarah when you first come in?"

"Oh, yes'm, I did. Sarah Mary Williams. Sarah's my first name. Some
calls me Sarah, some calls me Mary."

"Oh, that's the way of it?"

"Yes'm."

I was feeling better then, but I wished I was out of there, anyway. I
couldn't look up yet.

Well, the woman fell to talking about how hard times was, and how poor
they had to live, and how the rats was as free as if they owned the
place, and so forth and so on, and then I got easy again. She was
right about the rats. You'd see one stick his nose out of a hole in
the corner every little while. She said she had to have things handy
to throw at them when she was alone, or they wouldn't give her no
peace. She showed me a bar of lead twisted up into a knot, and said
she was a good shot with it generly, but she'd wrenched her arm a day
or two ago, and didn't know whether she could throw true now. But she
watched for a chance, and directly banged away at a rat; but she
missed him wide, and said, "Ouch!" it hurt her arm so. Then she told
me to try for the next one. I wanted to be getting away before the old
man got back, but of course I didn't let on. I got the thing, and the
first rat that showed his nose I let drive, and if he'd 'a' stayed
where he was he'd 'a' been a tolerable sick rat. She said that was
first-rate, and she reckoned I would hive the next one. She went and
got the lump of lead and fetched it back, and brought along a hank of
yarn which she wanted me to help her with. I held up my two hands and
she put the hank over them, and went on talking about her and her
husband's matters. But she broke off to say:

"Keep your eye on the rats. You better have the lead in your lap,
handy."

So she dropped the lump into my lap just at that moment, and I clapped
my legs together on it and she went on talking. But only about a
minute. Then she took off the hank and looked me straight in the face,
and very pleasant, and says:

"Come, now, what's your real name?"

"Wh-hat, mum?"

"What's your real name? Is it Bill, or Tom, or Bob?--or what is it?"

I reckon I shook like a leaf, and I didn't know hardly what to do. But
I says:

"Please to don't poke fun at a poor girl like me, mum. If I'm in the
way here, I'll--"

"No, you won't. Set down and stay where you are. I ain't going to hurt
you, and I ain't going to tell on you, nuther. You just tell me your
secret, and trust me. I'll keep it; and, what's more, I'll help you.
So'll my old man if you want him to. You see, you're a runaway
'prentice, that's all. It ain't anything. There ain't no harm in it.
You've been treated bad, and you made up your mind to cut. Bless you,
child, I wouldn't tell on you. Tell me all about it now, that's a good
boy."

So I said it wouldn't be no use to try to play it any longer, and I
would just make a clean breast and tell her everything, but she
mustn't go back on her promise. Then I told her my father and mother
was dead, and the law had bound me out to a mean old farmer in the
country thirty mile back from the river, and he treated me so bad I
couldn't stand it no longer; he went away to be gone a couple of days,
and so I took my chance and stole some of his daughter's old clothes
and cleared out, and I had been three nights coming the thirty miles.
I traveled nights, and hid daytimes and slept, and the bag of bread
and meat I carried from home lasted me all the way, and I had
a-plenty. I said I believed my uncle Abner Moore would take care of
me, and so that was why I struck out for this town of Goshen.

"Goshen, child? This ain't Goshen. This is St. Petersburg. Goshen's
ten mile further up the river. Who told you this was Goshen?"

"Why, a man I met at daybreak this morning, just as I was going to
turn into the woods for my regular sleep. He told me when the roads
forked I must take the right hand, and five mile would fetch me to
Goshen."

"He was drunk, I reckon. He told you just exactly wrong."

"Well, he did act like he was drunk, but it ain't no matter now. I got
to be moving along. I'll fetch Goshen before daylight."

"Hold on a minute. I'll put you up a snack to eat. You might want it."

So she put me up a snack, and says:

"Say, when a cow's laying down, which end of her gets up first? Answer
up prompt now--don't stop to study over it. Which end gets up first?"

"The hind end, mum."

"Well, then, a horse?"

"The for'rard end, mum."

"Which side of a tree does the moss grow on?"

"North side."

"If fifteen cows is browsing on a hillside, how many of them eats with
their heads pointed the same direction?"

"The whole fifteen, mum."

"Well, I reckon you _have_ lived in the country. I thought maybe you
was trying to hocus me again. What's your real name, now?"

"George Peters, mum."

"Well, try to remember it, George. Don't forget and tell me it's
Elexander before you go, and then get out by saying it's George
Elexander when I catch you. And don't go about women in that old
calico. You do a girl tolerable poor, but you might fool men, maybe.
Bless you, child, when you set out to thread a needle don't hold the
thread still and fetch the needle up to it; hold the needle still and
poke the thread at it; that's the way a woman most always does, but a
man always does t'other way. And when you throw at a rat or anything,
hitch yourself up a-tiptoe and fetch your hand up over your head as
awkward as you can, and miss your rat about six or seven foot. Throw
stiff-armed from the shoulder, like there was a pivot there for it to
turn on, like a girl; not from the wrist and elbow, with your arm out
to one side, like a boy. And, mind you, when a girl tries to catch
anything in her lap she throws her knees apart; she don't clap them
together, the way you did when you catched the lump of lead. Why, I
spotted you for a boy when you was threading the needle; and I
contrived the other things just to make certain. Now trot along to
your uncle, Sarah Mary Williams George Elexander Peters, and if you
get into trouble you send word to Mrs. Judith Loftus, which is me, and
I'll do what I can to get you out of it. Keep the river road all the
way, and next time you tramp take shoes and socks with you. The river
road's a rocky one, and your feet 'll be in a condition when you get
to Goshen, I reckon."

I went up the bank about fifty yards, and then I doubled on my tracks
and slipped back to where my canoe was, a good piece below the house.
I jumped in, and was off in a hurry. I went up-stream far enough to
make the head of the island, and then started across. I took off the
sun-bonnet, for I didn't want no blinders on then. When I was about
the middle I heard the clock begin to strike, so I stops and listens;
the sound come faint over the water but clear--eleven. When I struck
the head of the island I never waited to blow, though I was most
winded, but I shoved right into the timber where my old camp used to
be, and started a good fire there on a high and dry spot.

Then I jumped in the canoe and dug out for our place, a mile and a
half below, as hard as I could go. I landed, and slopped through the
timber and up the ridge and into the cavern. There Jim laid, sound
asleep on the ground. I roused him out and says:

"Git up and hump yourself, Jim! There ain't a minute to lose. They're
after us!"

Jim never asked no questions, he never said a word; but the way he
worked for the next half an hour showed about how he was scared. By
that time everything we had in the world was on our raft, and she was
ready to be shoved out from the willow cove where she was hid. We put
out the camp-fire at the cavern the first thing, and didn't show a
candle outside after that.

I took the canoe out from the shore a little piece, and took a look;
but if there was a boat around I couldn't see it, for stars and
shadows ain't good to see by. Then we got out the raft and slipped
along down in the shade, past the foot of the island dead still--never
saying a word.

It must 'a' been close on to one o'clock when we got below the island
at last, and the raft did seem to go mighty slow. If a boat was to
come along we was going to take to the canoe and break for the
Illinois shore; and it was well a boat didn't come, for we hadn't ever
thought to put the gun in the canoe, or a fishing-line, or anything to
eat. We was in ruther too much of a sweat to think of so many things.
It warn't good judgment to put _everything_ on the raft.

If the men went to the island I just expect they found the camp-fire I
built, and watched it all night for Jim to come. Anyways, they stayed
away from us, and if my building the fire never fooled them it warn't
no fault of mine. I played it as low down on them as I could.

When the first streak of day began to show we tied up to a towhead in
a big bend on the Illinois side, and hacked off cottonwood branches
with the hatchet, and covered up the raft with them so she looked like
there had been a cave-in in the bank there. A towhead is a sand-bar
that has cottonwoods on it as thick as harrow-teeth.

We had mountains on the Missouri shore and heavy timber on the
Illinois side, and the channel was down the Missouri shore at that
place, so we warn't afraid of anybody running across us. We laid there
all day, and watched the rafts and steamboats spin down the Missouri
shore, and up-bound steamboats fight the big river in the middle. I
told Jim all about the time I had jabbering with that woman; and Jim
said she was a smart one, and if she was to start after us herself she
wouldn't set down and watch a camp-fire--no, sir, she'd fetch a dog.
Well, then, I said, why couldn't she tell her husband to fetch a dog?
Jim said he bet she did think of it by the time the men was ready to
start, and he believed they must 'a' gone up-town to get a dog and so
they lost all that time, or else we wouldn't be here on a towhead
sixteen or seventeen mile below the village--no, indeedy, we would be
in that same old town again. So I said I didn't care what was the
reason they didn't get us as long as they didn't.

When it was beginning to come on dark we poked our heads out of the
cottonwood thicket, and looked up and down and across; nothing in
sight; so Jim took up some of the top planks of the raft and built a
snug wigwam to get under in blazing weather and rainy, and to keep the
things dry. Jim made a floor for the wigwam, and raised it a foot or
more above the level of the raft, so now the blankets and all the
traps was out of reach of steamboat waves. Right in the middle of the
wigwam we made a layer of dirt about five or six inches deep with a
frame around it for to hold it to its place; this was to build a fire
on in sloppy weather or chilly; the wigwam would keep it from being
seen. We made an extra steering-oar, too, because one of the others
might get broke on a snag or something. We fixed up a short forked
stick to hang the old lantern on, because we must always light the
lantern whenever we see a steamboat coming down-stream, to keep from
getting run over; but we wouldn't have to light it for up-stream boats
unless we see we was in what they call a "crossing"; for the river was
pretty high yet, very low banks being still a little under water; so
up-bound boats didn't always run the channel, but hunted easy water.

This second night we run between seven and eight hours, with a current
that was making over four mile an hour. We catched fish and talked,
and we took a swim now and then to keep off sleepiness. It was kind of
solemn, drifting down the big, still river, laying on our backs
looking up at the stars, and we didn't ever feel like talking loud,
and it warn't often that we laughed--only a little kind of a low
chuckle. We had mighty good weather as a general thing, and nothing
ever happened to us at all--that night, nor the next, nor the next.

Every night we passed towns, some of them away up on black hillsides,
nothing but just a shiny bed of lights; not a house could you see. The
fifth night we passed St. Louis, and it was like the whole world lit
up. In St. Petersburg they used to say there was twenty or thirty
thousand people in St. Louis, but I never believed it till I see that
wonderful spread of lights at two o'clock that still night. There
warn't a sound there; everybody was asleep.

Every night now I used to slip ashore toward ten o'clock at some
little village, and buy ten or fifteen cents' worth of meal or bacon
or other stuff to eat; and sometimes I lifted a chicken that warn't
roosting comfortable, and took him along. Pap always said, take a
chicken when you get a chance, because if you don't want him yourself
you can easy find somebody that does, and a good deed ain't ever
forgot. I never see pap when he didn't want the chicken himself, but
that is what he used to say, anyway.

Mornings before daylight I slipped into corn-fields and borrowed a
watermelon, or a mushmelon, or a punkin, or some new corn, or things
of that kind. Pap always said it warn't no harm to borrow things if
you was meaning to pay them back some time; but the widow said it
warn't anything but a soft name for stealing, and no decent body would
do it. Jim said he reckoned the widow was partly right and pap was
partly right; so the best way would be for us to pick out two or three
things from the list and say we wouldn't borrow them any more--then he
reckoned it wouldn't be no harm to borrow the others. So we talked it
over all one night, drifting along down the river, trying to make up
our minds whether to drop the watermelons, or the cantelopes, or the
mushmelons, or what. But toward daylight we got it all settled
satisfactory, and concluded to drop crabapples and p'simmons. We
warn't feeling just right before that, but it was all comfortable now.
I was glad the way it come out, too, because crabapples ain't ever
good, and the p'simmons wouldn't be ripe for two or three months yet.

We shot a water-fowl now and then that got up too early in the morning
or didn't go to bed early enough in the evening. Take it all round, we
lived pretty high.

The fifth night below St. Louis we had a big storm after midnight,
with a power of thunder and lightning, and the rain poured down in a
solid sheet. We stayed in the wigwam and let the raft take care of
itself. When the lightning glared out we could see a big straight
river ahead, and high, rocky bluffs on both sides. By and by says I,
"Hel-_lo_, Jim, looky yonder!" It was a steamboat that had killed
herself on a rock. We was drifting straight down for her. The
lightning showed her very distinct. She was leaning over, with part of
her upper deck above water, and you could see every little chimbly-guy
clean and clear, and a chair by the big bell, with an old slouch hat
hanging on the back of it, when the flashes come.

Well, it being away in the night and stormy, and all so
mysterious-like, I felt just the way any other boy would 'a' felt when
I seen that wreck laying there so mournful and lonesome in the middle
of the river. I wanted to get aboard of her and slink around a little,
and see what there was there. So I says:

"Le's land on her, Jim."

But Jim was dead against it at first. He says:

"I doan' want to go fool'n' 'long er no wrack. We's doin' blame' well,
en we better let blame' well alone, as de good book says. Like as not
dey's a watchman on dat wrack."

"Watchman your grandmother," I says; "there ain't nothing to watch but
the texas and the pilot-house; and do you reckon anybody's going to
resk his life for a texas and a pilot-house such a night as this, when
it's likely to break up and wash off down the river any minute?" Jim
couldn't say nothing to that, so he didn't try. "And besides," I says,
"we might borrow something worth having out of the captain's
stateroom. Seegars, I bet you--and cost five cents apiece, solid cash.
Steamboat captains is always rich, and get sixty dollars a month, and
_they_ don't care a cent what a thing costs, you know, long as they
want it. Stick a candle in your pocket; I can't rest, Jim, till we
give her a rummaging. Do you reckon Tom Sawyer would ever go by this
thing? Not for pie, he wouldn't. He'd call it an adventure--that's
what he'd call it; and he'd land on that wreck if it was his last act.
And wouldn't he throw style into it?--wouldn't he spread himself, nor
nothing? Why, you'd think it was Christopher C'lumbus discovering
Kingdom Come. I wish Tom Sawyer _was_ here."

Jim he grumbled a little, but give in. He said we mustn't talk any
more than we could help, and then talk mighty low. The lightning
showed us the wreck again just in time, and we fetched the stabboard
derrick, and made fast there.

The deck was high out here. We went sneaking down the slope of it to
labboard, in the dark, towards the texas, feeling our way slow with
our feet, and spreading our hands out to fend off the guys, for it was
so dark we couldn't see no sign of them. Pretty soon we struck the
forward end of the skylight, and clumb on to it; and the next step
fetched us in front of the captain's door, which was open, and by
Jimminy, away down through the texas-hall we see a light! and all in
the same second we seem to hear low voices in yonder!

Jim whispered and said he was feeling powerful sick, and told me to
come along. I says, all right, and was going to start for the raft;
but just then I heard a voice wail out and say:

"Oh, please don't, boys; I swear I won't ever tell!"

Another voice said, pretty loud:

"It's a lie, Jim Turner. You've acted this way before. You always want
more'n your share of the truck, and you've always got it, too, because
you've swore 't if you didn't you'd tell. But this time you've said it
jest one time too many. You're the meanest, treacherousest hound in
this country."

By this time Jim was gone for the raft. I was just a-biling with
curiosity; and I says to myself, Tom Sawyer wouldn't back out now, and
so I won't either; I'm a-going to see what's going on here. So I
dropped on my hands and knees in the little passage, and crept aft in
the dark till there warn't but one stateroom betwixt me and the
cross-hall of the texas. Then in there I see a man stretched on the
floor and tied hand and foot, and two men standing over him, and one
of them had a dim lantern in his hand, and the other one had a pistol.
This one kept pointing the pistol at the man's head on the floor, and
saying:

"I'd _like_ to! And I orter, too--a mean skunk!"

The man on the floor would shrivel up and say, "Oh, please don't,
Bill; I hain't ever goin' to tell."

And every time he said that the man with the lantern would laugh and
say:

"'Deed you _ain't!_ You never said no truer thing 'n that, you bet
you." And once he said: "Hear him beg! and yit if we hadn't got the
best of him and tied him he'd 'a' killed us both. And what _for_? Jist
for noth'n'. Jist because we stood on our _rights_--that's what for.
But I lay you ain't a-goin' to threaten nobody any more, Jim Turner.
Put _up_ that pistol, Bill."

Bill says:

"I don't want to, Jake Packard. I'm for killin' him--and didn't he
kill old Hatfield jist the same way--and don't he deserve it?"

"But I don't _want_ him killed, and I've got my reasons for it."

"Bless yo' heart for them words, Jake Packard! I'll never forgit you
long's I live!" says the man on the floor, sort of blubbering.

Packard didn't take no notice of that, but hung up his lantern on a
nail and started toward where I was, there in the dark, and motioned
Bill to come. I crawfished as fast as I could about two yards, but the
boat slanted so that I couldn't make very good time; so to keep from
getting run over and catched I crawled into a stateroom on the upper
side. The man came a-pawing along in the dark, and when Packard got to
my stateroom, he says:

"Here--come in here."

And in he come, and Bill after him. But before they got in I was up in
the upper berth, cornered, and sorry I come. Then they stood there,
with their hands on the ledge of the berth, and talked. I couldn't see
them, but I could tell where they was by the whisky they'd been
having. I was glad I didn't drink whisky; but it wouldn't made much
difference anyway, because most of the time they couldn't 'a' treed me
because I didn't breathe. I was too scared. And, besides, a body
_couldn't_ breathe and hear such talk. They talked low and earnest.
Bill wanted to kill Turner. He says:

"He's said he'll tell, and he will. If we was to give both our shares
to him _now_ it wouldn't make no difference after the row and the way
we've served him. Shore's you're born, he'll turn state's evidence;
now you hear _me._ I'm for putting him out of his troubles."

"So'm I," says Packard, very quiet.

"Blame it, I'd sorter begun to think you wasn't. Well, then, that's
all right. Le's go and do it."

"Hold on a minute; I hain't had my say yit. You listen to me.
Shooting's good, but there's quieter ways if the things _got_ to be
done. But what _I_ say is this: it ain't good sense to go court'n'
around after a halter if you can git at what you're up to in some way
that's jist as good and at the same time don't bring you into no
resks. Ain't that so?"

"You bet it is. But how you goin' to manage it this time?"

"Well, my idea is this: we'll rustle around and gather up whatever
pickin's we've overlooked in the staterooms, and shove for shore and
hide the truck. Then we'll wait. Now I say it ain't a-goin' to be
more'n two hours befo' this wrack breaks up and washes off down the
river. See? He'll be drownded, and won't have nobody to blame for it
but his own self. I reckon that's a considerable sight better 'n
killin' of him. I'm unfavorable to killin' a man as long as you can
git aroun' it; it ain't good sense, it ain't good morals. Ain't I
right?"

"Yes, I reck'n you are. But s'pose she _don't_ break up and wash off?"

"Well, we can wait the two hours anyway and see, can't we?"

"All right, then; come along."

So they started, and I lit out, all in a cold sweat, and scrambled
forward. It was dark as pitch there; but I said, in a kind of a coarse
whisper, "Jim!" and he answered up, right at my elbow, with a sort of
a moan, and I says:

"Quick, Jim, it ain't no time for fooling around and moaning; there's
a gang of murderers in yonder, and if we don't hunt up their boat and
set her drifting down the river so these fellows can't get away from
the wreck there's one of 'em going to be in a bad fix. But if we find
their boat we can put _all_ of 'em in a bad fix--for the sheriff 'll
get 'em. Quick--hurry! I'll hunt the labboard side, you hunt the
stabboard. You start at the raft, and--"

"Oh, my lordy, lordy! _Raf'?_ Dey ain' no raf' no mo'; she done broke
loose en gone!--en here we is!"

Well, I catched my breath and most fainted. Shut up on a wreck with
such a gang as that! But it warn't no time to be sentimentering. We'd
_got_ to find that boat now--had to have it for ourselves. So we went
a-quaking and shaking down the stabboard side, and slow work it was,
too--seemed a week before we got to the stern. No sign of a boat. Jim
said he didn't believe he could go any farther--so scared he hadn't
hardly any strength left, he said. But I said, come on, if we get left
on this wreck we are in a fix, sure. So on we prowled again. We struck
for the stern of the texas, and found it, and then scrabbled along
forwards on the skylight, hanging on from shutter to shutter, for the
edge of the skylight was in the water. When we got pretty close to the
cross-hall door there was the skiff, sure enough! I could just barely
see her. I felt ever so thankful. In another second I would 'a' been
aboard of her, but just then the door opened. One of the men stuck his
head out only about a couple of foot from me, and I thought I was
gone; but he jerked it in again, and says:

"Heave that blame lantern out o' sight, Bill!" He flung a bag of
something into the boat, and then got in himself and set down. It was
Packard. Then Bill _he_ come out and got in. Packard says, in a low
voice:

"All ready--shove off!"

I couldn't hardly hang on to the shutters, I was so weak. But Bill
says:

"Hold on--'d you go through him?"

"No. Didn't you?"

"No. So he's got his share o' the cash yet."

"Well, then, come along; no use to take truck and leave money."

"Say, won't he suspicion what we're up to?"

"Maybe he won't. But we got to have it anyway. Come along."

So they got out and went in.

The door slammed to because it was on the careened side; and in a half
second I was in the boat, and Jim come tumbling after me. I out with
my knife and cut the rope, and away we went!

We didn't touch an oar, and we didn't speak nor whisper, nor hardly
even breathe. We went gliding swift along, dead silent, past the tip
of the paddle-box, and past the stern; then in a second or two more we
was a hundred yards below the wreck, and the darkness soaked her up,
every last sign of her, and we was safe, and knowed it.

When we was three or four hundred yards down-stream we see the lantern
show like a little spark at the texas door for a second, and we knowed
by that that the rascals had missed their boat, and was beginning to
understand that they was in just as much trouble now as Jim Turner
was.

Then Jim manned the oars, and we took out after our raft. Now was the
first time that I begun to worry about the men--I reckon I hadn't had
time to before. I begun to think how dreadful it was, even for
murderers, to be in such a fix. I says to myself, there ain't no
telling but I might come to be a murderer myself yet, and then how
would I like it?  So says I to Jim:

"The first light we see we'll land a hundred yards below it or above
it, in a place where it's a good hiding-place for you and the skiff,
and then I'll go and fix up some kind of a yarn, and get somebody to
go for that gang and get them out of their scrape, so they can be hung
when their time comes."

But that idea was a failure; for pretty soon it begun to storm again,
and this time worse than ever. The rain poured down, and never a light
showed; everybody in bed, I reckon. We boomed along down the river,
watching for lights and watching for our raft. After a long time the
rain let up, but the clouds stayed, and the lightning kept whimpering,
and by and by a flash showed us a black thing ahead, floating, and we
made for it.

It was the raft, and mighty glad was we to get aboard of it again. We
seen a light now away down to the right, on shore. So I said I would
go for it. The skiff was half full of plunder which that gang had
stole there on the wreck. We hustled it on to the raft in a pile, and
I told Jim to float along down, and show a light when he judged he had
gone about two mile, and keep it burning till I come; then I manned my
oars and shoved for the light. As I got down towards it three or  four
more showed--up on a hillside. It was a village. I closed in above the
shore light, and laid on my oars and floated. As I went by I see it
was a lantern hanging on the jackstaff of a double-hull ferryboat. I
skimmed around for the watchman, a-wondering whereabouts he slept; and
by and by I found him roosting on the bitts forward, with his head
down between his knees. I gave his shoulder two or three little
shoves, and begun to cry.

He stirred up in a kind of a startlish way; but when he see it was
only me he took a good gap and stretch, and then he says:

"Hello, what's up? Don't cry, bub. What's the trouble?"

I says:

"Pap, and mam, and sis, and--"

Then I broke down. He says:

"Oh, dang it now, _don't_ take on so; we all has to have our troubles,
and this 'n 'll come out all right. What's the matter with 'em?"

"They're--they're--are you the watchman of the boat?"

"Yes," he says, kind of pretty-well-satisfied like. "I'm the captain
and the owner and the mate and the pilot and watchman and head
deck-hand; and sometimes I'm the freight and passengers. I ain't as
rich as old Jim Hornback, and I can't be so blame' generous and good
to Tom, Dick, and Harry as what he is, and slam around money the way
he does; but I've told him a many a time 't I wouldn't trade places
with him; for, says I, a sailor's life's the life for me, and I'm
derned if _I'd_ live two mile out o' town, where there ain't nothing
ever goin' on, not for all his spondulicks and as much more on top of
it. Says I--"

I broke in and says:

"They're in an awful peck of trouble, and--"

"_Who_ is?"

"Why, pap and mam and sis and Miss Hooker; and if you'd take your
ferryboat and go up there--"

"Up where? Where are they?"

"On the wreck."

"What wreck?"

"Why, there ain't but one."

"What, you don't mean the _Walter Scott?"_

"Yes."

"Good land! what are they doin' _there_, for gracious sakes?"

"Well, they didn't go there a-purpose."

"I bet they didn't! Why, great goodness, there ain't no chance for 'em
if they don't git off mighty quick! Why, how in the nation did they
ever git into such a scrape?"

"Easy enough. Miss Hooker was a-visiting up there to the town--"

"Yes, Booth's Landing--go on."

"She was a-visiting there at Booth's Landing, and just in the edge of
the evening she started over with her nigger woman in the horse-ferry
to stay all night at her friend's house, Miss What-you-may-call-her--I
disremember her name--and they lost their steering-oar, and swung
around and went a-floating down, stern first, about two mile, and
saddle-baggsed on the wreck, and the ferryman and the nigger woman and
the horses was all lost, but Miss Hooker she made a grab and got
aboard the wreck. Well, about an hour after dark we come along down in
our trading-scow, and it was so dark we didn't notice the wreck till
we was right on it; and so _we_ saddle-baggsed; but all of us was
saved but Bill Whipple--and oh, he _was_ the best cretur!--I most wish
't it had been me, I do."

"My George! It's the beatenest thing I ever struck. And _then_ what
did you all do?"

"Well, we hollered and took on, but it's so wide there we couldn't
make nobody hear. So pap said somebody got to get ashore and get help
somehow. I was the only one that could swim, so I made a dash for it,
and Miss Hooker she said if I didn't strike help sooner, come here and
hunt up her uncle, and he'd fix the thing. I made the land about a
mile below, and been fooling along ever since, trying to get people to
do something, but they said, 'What, in such a night and such a
current? There ain't no sense in it; go for the steam-ferry.' Now if
you'll go and--"

"By Jackson, I'd _like_ to, and, blame it, I don't know but I will;
but who in the dingnation's a-going to _pay_ for it? Do you reckon
your pap--"

"Why _that's_ all right. Miss Hooker she tole me, _particular_, that
her uncle Hornback--"

"Great guns! is _he_ her uncle? Looky here, you break for that light
over yonder-way, and turn out west when you git there, and about a
quarter of a mile out you'll come to the tavern; tell 'em to dart you
out to Jim Hornback's, and he'll foot the bill. And don't you fool
around any, because he'll want to know the news. Tell him I'll have
his niece all safe before he can get to town. Hump yourself, now; I'm
a-going up around the corner here to roust out my engineer."

I struck for the light, but as soon as he turned the corner I went
back and got into my skiff and bailed her out, and then pulled up
shore in the easy water about six hundred yards, and tucked myself in
among some wood-boats; for I couldn't rest easy till I could see the
ferryboat start. But take it all around, I was feeling ruther
comfortable on accounts of taking all this trouble for that gang, for
not many would 'a' done it. I wished the widow knowed about it. I
judged she would be proud of me for helping these rapscallions,
because rapscallions and dead-beats is the kind the widow and good
people takes the most interest in.

Well, before long here comes the wreck, dim and dusky, sliding along
down! A kind of cold shiver went through me, and then I struck out for
her. She was very deep, and I see in a minute there warn't much chance
for anybody being alive in her. I pulled all around her and hollered a
little, but there wasn't any answer; all dead still. I felt a little
bit heavy-hearted about the gang, but not much, for I reckoned if they
could stand it I could.

Then here comes the ferryboat; so I shoved for the middle of the river
on a long down-stream slant; and when I judged I was out of eye-reach
I laid on my oars, and looked back and see her go and smell around the
wreck for Miss Hooker's remainders, because the captain would know her
uncle Hornback would want them; and then pretty soon the ferryboat
give it up and went for the shore, and I laid into my work and went
a-booming down the river.

It did seem a powerful long time before Jim's light showed up; and
when it did show it looked like it was a thousand mile off. By the
time I got there the sky was beginning to get a little gray in the
east; so we struck for an island, and hid the raft, and sunk the
skiff, and turned in and slept like dead people.

By and by, when we got up, we turned over the truck the gang had stole
off of the wreck, and found boots, and blankets, and clothes, and all
sorts of other things, and a lot of books, and a spy-glass, and three
boxes of seegars. We hadn't ever been this rich before in neither of
our lives. The seegars was prime. We laid off all the afternoon in the
woods talking, and me reading the books, and having a general good
time. I told Jim all about what happened inside the wreck and at the
ferryboat, and I said these kinds of things was adventures; but he
said he didn't want no more adventures. He said that when I went in
the texas and he crawled back to get on the raft and found her gone he
nearly died, because he judged it was all up with _him_ anyway it
could be fixed; for if he didn't get saved he would get drownded; and
if he did get saved, whoever saved him would send him back home so as
to get the reward, and then Miss Watson would sell him South, sure.
Well, he was right; he was most always right; he had an uncommon level
head for a nigger. I read considerable to Jim about kings and dukes
and earls and such, and how gaudy they dressed, and how much style
they put on, and called each other and so on, 'stead of mister; and
Jim's eyes bugged out, and he was interested. He says:

"I didn' know dey was so many un um. I hain't hearn 'bout none un um,
skasely, but ole King Sollermun, onless you counts dem kings dat's in
a pack er k'yards. How much do a king git?"

"Get?" I says; "why, they get a thousand dollars a month if they want
it; they can have just as much as they want; everything belongs to
them."

"_Ain'_ dat gay? En what dey got to do, Huck?"

"_They_ don't do nothing! Why, how you talk! They just set around."

"No; is dat so?"

"Of course it is. They just set around--except, maybe, when there's a
war; then they go to the war. But other times they just lazy around;
or go hawking--just hawking and sp--Sh!--d'you hear a noise?"

We skipped out and looked; but it warn't nothing but the flutter of a
steamboat's wheel away down, coming around the point; so we come back.

"Yes," says I, "and other times, when things is dull, they fuss with
the parlyment; and if everybody don't go just so he whacks their heads
off. But mostly they hang round the harem."

"Roun' de which?"

"Harem."

"What's de harem?"

"The place where he keeps his wives. Don't you know about the harem?
Solomon had one; he had about a million wives."

"Why, yes, dat's so; I--I'd done forgot it. A harem's a bo'd'n-house,
I reck'n. Mos' likely dey has rackety times in de nussery. En I reck'n
de wives quarrels considable; en dat 'crease de racket. Yit dey say
Sollermun de wises' man dat ever live'. I doan' take no stock in dat.
Bekase why: would a wise man want to live in de mids' er sich a
blim-blammin' all de time? No--'deed he wouldn't. A wise man 'ud take
en buil' a biler-factry; en den he could shet _down_ de biler-factry
when he want to res'."

"Well, but he _was_ the wisest man, anyway; because the widow she told
me so, her own self."

"I doan' k'yer what de widder say, he _warn't_ no wise man nuther. He
had some er de dad-fetchedes' ways I ever see. Does you know 'bout dat
chile dat he 'uz gwyne to chop in two?"

"Yes, the widow told me all about it."

"_Well_, den! Warn' dat de beatenes' notion in de worl'?  You jes'
take en look at it a minute. Dah's de stump, dah--dat's one er de
women; heah's you--dat's de yuther one; I's Sollermun; en dish yer
dollar bill's de chile. Bofe un you claims it. What does I do? Does I
shin aroun' mongs' de neighbors en fine out which un you de bill _do_
b'long to, en han' it over to de right one, all safe en soun', de way
dat anybody dat had any gumption would? No; I take en whack de bill in
_two_, en give half un it to you, en de yuther half to de yuther
woman. Dat's de way Sollermun was gwyne to do wid de chile. Now I want
to ast you: what's de use er dat half a bill?--can't buy noth'n wid
it. En what use is a half a chile? I wouldn' give a dern for a million
un um."

"But hang it, Jim, you've clean missed the point--blame it, you've
missed it a thousand mile."

"Who? Me? Go 'long. Doan' talk to me 'bout yo' pints. I reck'n I knows
sense when I sees it; en dey ain' no sense in sich doin's as dat. De
'spute warn't 'bout a half a chile, de 'spute was 'bout a whole chile;
en de man dat think he kin settle a 'spute 'bout a whole chile wid a
half a chile doan' know enough to come in out'n de rain. Doan' talk to
me 'bout Sollermun, Huck, I knows him by de back."

"But I tell you you don't get the point."

"Blame de point! I reck'n I knows what I knows. En mine you, de _real_
pint furder--it's down deeper. It lays in de way Sollermun was raised.
You take a man dat's got on'y one or two chillen; is dat man gwyne to
be waseful o' chillen? No, he ain't; he can't 'ford it. _He_ know how
to value 'em. But you take a man dat's got 'bout five million chillen
runnin' roun' de house, en it's diffunt. _He_ as soon chop a chile in
two as a cat. Dey's plenty mo'. A chile er two, mo' er less, warn't no
consekens to Sollermun, dad fetch him!"

I never see such a nigger. If he got a notion in his head once, there
warn't no getting it out again. He was the most down on Solomon of any
nigger I ever see. So I went to talking about other kings, and let
Solomon slide. I told about Louis Sixteenth that got his head cut off
in France long time ago; and about his little boy the dolphin, that
would 'a' been a king, but they took and shut him up in jail, and some
say he died there.

"Po' little chap."

"But some says he got out and got away, and come to America."

"Dat's good! But he'll be pooty lonesome--dey ain' no kings here, is
dey, Huck?"

"No."

"Den he cain't git no situation. What he gwyne to do?"

"Well, I don't know. Some of them gets on the police, and some of them
learns people how to talk French."

"Why, Huck, doan' de French people talk de same way we does?"

"_No_, Jim; you couldn't understand a word they said--not a single
word."

"Well, now, I be ding-busted! How do dat come?"

"_I_ don't know; but it's so. I got some of their jabber out of a
book. S'pose a man was to come to you and say Polly-voo-franzy--what
would you think?"

"I wouldn' think nuffn; I'd take en bust him over de head--dat is, if
he warn't white. I wouldn't 'low no nigger to call me dat."

"Shucks, it ain't calling you anything. It's only saying, do you know
how to talk French?"

"Well, den, why couldn't he _say_ it?"

"Why, he _is_ a-saying it. That's a Frenchman's _way_ of saying it."

"Well, it's a blame ridicklous way, en I doan' want to hear no mo'
'bout it. Dey ain' no sense in it."

"Looky here, Jim; does a cat talk like we do?"

"No, a cat don't."

"Well, does a cow?"

"No, a cow don't, nuther."

"Does a cat talk like a cow, or a cow talk like a cat?"

"No, dey don't."

"It's natural and right for 'em to talk different from each other,
ain't it?"

"Course."

"And ain't it natural and right for a cat and a cow to talk different
from _us_?"

"Why, mos' sholy it is."

"Well, then, why ain't it natural and right for a _Frenchman_ to talk
different from us? You answer me that."

"Is a cat a man, Huck?"

"No."

"Well, den, dey ain't no sense in a cat talkin' like a man. Is a cow a
man?--er is a cow a cat?"

"No, she ain't either of them."

"Well, den, she ain't got no business to talk like either one er the
yuther of 'em. Is a Frenchman a man?"

"Yes."

"_Well_, den! Dad blame it, why doan' he _talk_ like a man? You answer
me _dat!"_

I see it warn't no use wasting words--you can't learn a nigger to
argue. So I quit.

We judged that three nights more would fetch us to Cairo, at the
bottom of Illinois, where the Ohio River comes in, and that was what
we was after. We would sell the raft and get on a steamboat and go way
up the Ohio amongst the free states, and then be out of trouble.

Well, the second night a fog begun to come on, and we made for a
towhead to tie to, for it wouldn't do to try to run in a fog; but when
I paddled ahead in the canoe, with the line to make fast, there warn't
anything but little saplings to tie to. I passed the line around one
of them right on the edge of the cut bank, but there was a stiff
current, and the raft come booming down so lively she tore it out by
the roots and away she went. I see the fog closing down, and it made
me so sick and scared I couldn't budge for most a half a minute it
seemed to me--and then there warn't no raft in sight; you couldn't see
twenty yards. I jumped into the canoe and run back to the stern, and
grabbed the paddle and set her back a stroke. But she didn't come. I
was in such a hurry I hadn't untied her. I got up and tried to untie
her, but I was so excited my hands shook so I couldn't hardly do
anything with them.

As soon as I got started I took out after the raft, hot and heavy,
right down the towhead. That was all right as far as it went, but the
towhead warn't sixty yards long, and the minute I flew by the foot of
it I shot out into the solid white fog, and hadn't no more idea which
way I was going than a dead man.

Thinks I, it won't do to paddle; first I know I'll run into the bank
or a towhead or something; I got to set still and float, and yet it's
mighty fidgety business to have to hold your hands still at such a
time. I whooped and listened. Away down there somewheres I hears a
small whoop, and up comes my spirits. I went tearing after it,
listening sharp to hear it again. The next time it come I see I warn't
heading for it, but heading away to the right of it. And the next time
I was heading away to the left of it--and not gaining on it much
either, for I was flying around, this way and that and t'other, but it
was going straight ahead all the time.

I did wish the fool would think to beat a tin pan, and beat it all the
time, but he never did, and it was the still places between the whoops
that was making the trouble for me. Well, I fought along, and directly
I hears the whoop _behind_ me. I was tangled good now. That was
somebody else's whoop, or else I was turned around.

I throwed the paddle down. I heard the whoop again; it was behind me
yet, but in a different place; it kept coming, and kept changing its
place, and I kept answering, till by and by it was in front of me
again, and I knowed the current had swung the canoe's head
down-stream, and I was all right if that was Jim and not some other
raftsman hollering. I couldn't tell nothing about voices in a fog, for
nothing don't look natural nor sound natural in a fog.

The whooping went on, and in about a minute I come a-booming down on a
cut bank with smoky ghosts of big trees on it, and the current throwed
me off to the left and shot by, amongst a lot of snags that fairly
roared, the current was tearing by them so swift.

In another second or two it was solid white and still again. I set
perfectly still then, listening to my heart thump, and I reckon I
didn't draw a breath while it thumped a hundred.

I just give up then. I knowed what the matter was. That cut bank was
an island, and Jim had gone down t'other side of it. It warn't no
towhead that you could float by in ten minutes. It had the big timber
of a regular island; it might be five or six miles long and more than
half a mile wide.

I kept quiet, with my ears cocked, about fifteen minutes, I reckon. I
was floating along, of course, four or five miles an hour; but you
don't ever think of that. No, you _feel_ like you are laying dead
still on the water; and if a little glimpse of a snag slips by you
don't think to yourself how fast _you're_ going, but you catch your
breath and think, my! how that snag's tearing along. If you think it
ain't dismal and lonesome out in a fog that way by yourself in the
night, you try it once--you'll see.

Next, for about a half an hour, I whoops now and then; at last I hears
the answer a long ways off, and tries to follow it, but I couldn't do
it, and directly I judged I'd got into a nest of towheads, for I had
little dim glimpses of them on both sides of me--sometimes just a
narrow channel between, and some that I couldn't see I knowed was
there because I'd hear the wash of the current against the old dead
brush and trash that hung over the banks. Well, I warn't long loosing
the whoops down amongst the towheads; and I only tried to chase them a
little while, anyway, because it was worse than chasing a
Jack-o'-lantern. You never knowed a sound dodge around so, and swap
places so quick and so much.

I had to claw away from the bank pretty lively four or five times, to
keep from knocking the islands out of the river; and so I judged the
raft must be butting into the bank every now and then, or else it
would get further ahead and clear out of hearing--it was floating a
little faster than what I was.

Well, I seemed to be in the open river again by and by, but I couldn't
hear no sign of a whoop nowheres. I reckoned Jim had fetched up on a
snag, maybe, and it was all up with him. I was good and tired, so I
laid down in the canoe and said I wouldn't bother no more. I didn't
want to go to sleep, of course; but I was so sleepy I couldn't help
it; so I thought I would take jest one little cat-nap.

But I reckon it was more than a cat-nap, for when I waked up the stars
was shining bright, the fog was all gone, and I was spinning down a
big bend stern first. First I didn't know where I was; I thought I was
dreaming; and when things began to come back to me they seemed to come
up dim out of last week.

It was a monstrous big river here, with the tallest and the thickest
kind of timber on both banks; just a solid wall, as well as I could
see by the stars. I looked away down-stream, and seen a black speck on
the water. I took after it; but when I got to it it warn't nothing but
a couple of saw-logs made fast together. Then I see another speck, and
chased that; then another, and this time I was right. It was the raft.

When I got to it Jim was setting there with his head down between his
knees, asleep, with his right arm hanging over the steering-oar. The
other oar was smashed off, and the raft was littered up with leaves
and branches and dirt. So she'd had a rough time.

I made fast and laid down under Jim's nose on the raft, and began to
gap, and stretch my fists out against Jim, and says:

"Hello, Jim, have I been asleep? Why didn't you stir me up?"

"Goodness gracious, is dat you, Huck? En you ain' dead--you ain'
drownded--you's back ag'in? It's too good for true, honey, it's too
good for true. Lemme look at you chile, lemme feel o' you. No, you
ain' dead! you's back ag'in, 'live en soun', jis de same ole Huck--de
same ole Huck, thanks to goodness!"

"What's the matter with you, Jim? You been a-drinking?"

"Drinkin'? Has I ben a-drinkin'? Has I had a chance to be a-drinkin'?"

"Well, then, what makes you talk so wild?"

"How does I talk wild?"

"_How?_ Why, hain't you been talking about my coming back, and all
that stuff, as if I'd been gone away?"

"Huck--Huck Finn, you look me in de eye; look me in de eye. _Hain't_
you ben gone away?"

"Gone away? Why, what in the nation do you mean? _I_ hain't been gone
anywheres. Where would I go to?"

"Well, looky here, boss, dey's sumfn wrong, dey is. Is I _me_, or who
_is_ I? Is I heah, or whah _is_ I? Now dat's what I wants to know."

"Well, I think you're here, plain enough, but I think you're a
tangle-headed old fool, Jim."

"I is, is I? Well, you answer me dis: Didn't you tote out de line in
de canoe fer to make fas' to de towhead?"

"No, I didn't. What towhead? I hain't seen no towhead."

"You hain't seen no towhead? Looky here, didn't de line pull loose en
de raf' go a-hummin' down de river, en leave you en de canoe behine in
de fog?"

"What fog?"

"Why, _de_ fog!--de fog dat's been aroun' all night. En didn't you
whoop, en didn't I whoop, tell we got mix' up in de islands en one un
us got los' en t'other one was jis' as good as los', 'kase he didn'
know whah he wuz? En didn't I bust up agin a lot er dem islands en
have a turrible time en mos' git drownded?  Now ain' dat so,
boss--ain't it so? You answer me dat."

"Well, this is too many for me, Jim. I hain't seen no fog, nor no
islands, nor no troubles, nor nothing. I been setting here talking
with you all night till you went to sleep about ten minutes ago, and I
reckon I done the same. You couldn't 'a' got drunk in that time, so of
course you've been dreaming."

"Dad fetch it, how is I gwyne to dream all dat in ten minutes?"

"Well, hang it all, you did dream it, because there didn't any of it
happen."

"But, Huck, it's all jis' as plain to me as--"

"It don't make no difference how plain it is; there ain't nothing in
it. I know, because I've been here all the time."

Jim didn't say nothing for about five minutes, but set there studying
over it. Then he says:

"Well, den, I reck'n I did dream it, Huck; but dog my cats ef it ain't
de powerfulest dream I ever see. En I hain't ever had no dream b'fo'
dat's tired me like dis one."

"Oh, well, that's all right, because a dream does tire a body like
everything sometimes. But this one was a staving dream; tell me all
about it, Jim."

So Jim went to work and told me the whole thing right through, just as
it happened, only he painted it up considerable. Then he said he must
start in and "'terpret" it, because it was sent for a warning. He said
the first towhead stood for a man that would try to do us some good,
but the current was another man that would get us away from him. The
whoops was warnings that would come to us every now and then, and if
we didn't try hard to make out to understand them they'd just take us
into bad luck, 'stead of keeping us out of it. The lot of towheads was
troubles we was going to get into with quarrelsome people and all
kinds of mean folks, but if we minded our business and didn't talk
back and aggravate them, we would pull through and get out of the fog
and into the big clear river, which was the free states, and wouldn't
have no more trouble.

It had clouded up pretty dark just after I got on to the raft, but it
was clearing up again now.

"Oh, well, that's all interpreted well enough as far as it goes, Jim,"
I says; "but what does _these_ things stand for?"

It was the leaves and rubbish on the raft and the smashed oar. You
could see them first-rate now.

Jim looked at the trash, and then looked at me, and back at the trash
again. He had got the dream fixed so strong in his head that he
couldn't seem to shake it loose and get the facts back into its place
again right away. But when he did get the thing straightened around he
looked at me steady without ever smiling, and says:

"What do dey stan' for? I's gwyne to tell you. When I got all wore out
wid work, en wid de callin' for you, en went to sleep, my heart wuz
mos' broke bekase you wuz los', en I didn' k'yer no' mo' what become
er me en de raf'.  En when I wake up en fine you back ag'in, all safe
en soun', de tears come, en I could 'a' got down on my knees en kiss
yo' foot, I's so thankful. En all you wuz thinkin' 'bout wuz how you
could make a fool uv ole Jim wid a lie. Dat truck dah is _trash_; en
trash is what people is dat puts dirt on de head er dey fren's en
makes 'em ashamed."

Then he got up slow and walked to the wigwam, and went in there
without saying anything but that. But that was enough. It made me feel
so mean I could almost kissed _his_ foot to get him to take it back.

It was fifteen minutes before I could work myself up to go and humble
myself to a nigger; but I done it, and I warn't ever sorry for it
afterward, neither. I didn't do him no more mean tricks, and I
wouldn't done that one if I'd 'a' knowed it would make him feel that
way.

Dressed as a girl, Huck knocks on the door of the house. The woman lets him in, believing him to be a young girl. Huck inquires about the area, and the woman talks for over an hour about her problems. She finally gets to the news about Jim and Huck and tells him that there is a three hundred dollar bounty for capturing Jim. Apparently some of the townspeople believe that Jim killed Huck and ran away, while other people believe that Pap killed Huck. She tells Huck that she personally believes Jim is hiding out on Jackson's Island. Huck becomes nervous at this news and picks up a needle and thread. He does such a poor job of threading the needle that the woman gets suspicious of his gender. Without Huck knowing he is being tested, the woman has him throw a piece of lead at a rat in order to judge his aim. Afterwards, she reveals where Huck went wrong with his "girl" behavior and asks him what his real name is, telling him to be honest. Huck cleverly pretends to be an escaped apprentice hiding in women's clothes to avoid detection. Huck is finally able to extricate himself from the woman and immediately returns to the island. He tells Jim to grab everything and put it in the canoe. Together they shove off, after piling their belongings onto the raft, which they then tow behind them. Chapter 12 Jim and Huck spend the next few days traveling down the river. They improve the raft by building a wigwam, which will keep them dry and warm. Each night, Huck goes into a nearby town and buys more provisions for the next day. They only travel at night to avoid being seen and questioned. One night, during a strong storm, they see a wrecked steamboat ahead of them. Huck convinces Jim to tie the raft to the boat and climb on board. They are surprised to hear voices, which Huck goes to investigate. There are three robbers on board, two of whom have tied up the third man. Apparently the bound man had threatened to turn them all in to the state. One of the robbers wants to kill him immediately, but the other man restrains him. The two men finally decide to kill their partner by leaving him on the boat and waiting until it sinks. At this news, Huck scrambles back to rejoin Jim. Together they discover that their raft has come untied and floated away. Chapter 13 Having lost their raft, Huck and Jim search along the crashed ferryboat for the robbers' skiff. Just as they find it, the two robbers emerge and place the goods they have looted into the skiff. The robbers then remember that their partner still has his share of the money, so they return to steal it from him. Before they can return back to the boat, Huck and Jim jump into the skiff, cut the rope, and speed away downstream. Before morning, they manage to find their raft again and recapture it. Huck then goes ashore and finds a ferry night-watchman. To try to save the robbers, because he feels guilty leaving them for dead, he tells the man that his family ran into the wreck while traveling downriver and that they are stuck there. The man immediately gets his ferry moving to try and save them. However, before he gets very far, the wreck floats by, having come loose and sunk even further. Huck realizes that all three men aboard the wreck have surely drowned. Disappointed, but proud of his effort, Huck paddles downriver until he meets up with Jim. Together they sink the skiff and tie up to wait for daylight. Chapter 14 Huck and Jim spend some time relaxing and discussing various things. Huck tells Jim all about kings and other aristocratic personages, and Jim is very impressed and interested. However, when Huck mentions King Solomon, Jim starts telling him that Solomon was one of the most foolish men who ever lived. Jim comments that any man who had as many wives as Solomon would go crazy, and that the notion of chopping a child in half in order to figure out which woman is the rightful mother is plain stupid. Jim remarks that the issue was about a whole child, not a half a child, and Solomon would have shown more respect for children if he had not had so many. Huck tries to explain the moral lesson Solomon was trying to teach, but Jim hears none of it. Next, Huck tries to explain to Jim that Frenchmen speak a different language. Jim is surprised by this and cannot understand why all men would not speak the same language. Huck tries to make the analogy that a cat and a cow do not speak the same language, so neither should an American and a Frenchman. Jim then points out that a cat and a cow are not the same species, but Frenchmen and Americans are. He concludes that Frenchmen should therefore speak the same language he does. At this point Huck gets frustrated and gives up trying to argue with Jim. Chapter 15 Jim is hoping to reach Cairo, at the bottom of Illinois where the Ohio river merges with the Mississippi. From there, both he and Huck will be able to take a steamboat upriver and into the free states where Jim will finally be a free man. As they approaching that section of the river, a dense fog arrives and blankets everything in a murky white. They land on the shore, but before Huck is able to tie up the raft, the raft pulls loose and starts floating downstream with Jim aboard. Huck jumps into the canoe and follows it, but soon loses sight of it in the fog. He and Jim spend several hours tracking each other by calling out, but a large island finally separates them and Huck is left all alone. The next morning, Huck awakens and luckily manages to catch up with the raft. He finds Jim asleep and wakes him up. Jim is glad to see him, but Huck tries to play a trick on Jim by telling him that the events of the night before were just a dream. After some convincing, Jim starts to interpret the "dream." After some time, Huck finally points out the leaves and debris left from the night before, at which point Jim gets mad at Huck for playing such a mean trick on him. Huck feels terrible about what he did and apologizes to Jim.

These chapters provide insight into Jim's character. Jim is sincere and trustworthy, but also stubborn and mature. The chapters test Jim's loyalty to Huck, and vice-versa. For the first time the novel is dealing with the issue of loyalty, which will later have a strong impact on each character's decisions. Jim's sincerity is established in several ways. The most potent example is his joy at seeing Huck alive again after they are separated by the fog. Jim gets upset with Huck for tricking him into believing it was all a dream precisely because he had invested a great deal of emotional pain into the adventure. In this section, it becomes obvious that Jim would be willing to sacrifice a great deal to ensure Huck's safety. The problem at this juncture of the novel is that Huck does not yet reciprocate Jim's feelings. Huck is not yet willing to sacrifice part of his life to ensure Jim's safety, and thus leads Jim from one adventure to another, be it on the wrecked steamboat or during the fog. This is important because it is Huck's loyalty to Jim that will be tested later. The stubborn and mature side of Jim is evidenced by his arguments with Huck and his attitude towards adventures. Huck comments that once Jim gets and idea into his head it is impossible to change it, and proves this to the reader by discussing Jim's opinions of Solomon and Frenchmen. Jim's stubbornness can partially be traced to his maturity. He desperately wishes to avoid any adventures because adventures bring complications. Jim would be happiest if he were able to get to Cairo and take the steamboat upriver with no interruptions. Twain is famous for his sense of irony, and this section contains several examples. His best use of irony concerns the three robbers on the wrecked steamboat. When Huck and Jim lose their raft, they need to steal the robbers' skiff. However, the robbers return before they can steal it. The robbers then decide that they want all of their money, including their partner's share, and thus head back into the steamboat. Huck and Jim immediately steal the skiff. The irony is two-fold: not only are the robbers "robbed," they are also condemned to die on the steamboat as a result of their greed. Huck attempts to have them rescued, but the river acts faster than he can, by dragging the wreck further and causing it to sink too far for anyone to survive.  Thus, the robbers meet the fate they condemned their partner to, namely drowning.