{"102":"\n\n\nThe Tragedy of Pudd'nhead Wilson\n\nBy Mark Twain\n\nSamuel L. Clemens\n\n\n1894\nHARTFORD, CONN.\nAMERICAN PUBLISHING COMPANY\n\n\n\nCopyright, 1894, \nby OLIVIA L. CLEMENS\nAll Rights Reserved\nThe right of dramatization and translation reserved.\n\n\n\nCopyright, 1893-1894, by the Century Company, in the Century Magazine.\nCopyright, 1894, by Olivia L. Clemens\n(All Rights Reserved)\n\n\nContents\n\n           Pudd'nhead Wilson \nChapter         Chapter Title                  Page\n        A Whisper to the Reader                  15\n     I. Pudd'nhead Wins His Name                 17\n    II. Driscoll Spares His Slaves               27\n   III. Roxy Plays a Shrewd Trick                41\n    IV. The Ways of the Changelings              52\n     V. The Twins Thrill Dawson's Landing        67\n    VI. Swimming in Glory                        77\n   VII. The Unknown Nymph                        86\n  VIII. Marse Tom Tramples His Chance            93\n    IX. Tom Practises Sycophancy                111\n     X. The Nymph Revealed                      121\n    XI. Pudd'nhead's Startling Discovery        130\n   XII. The Shame of Judge Driscoll             155\n  XIII. Tom Stares at Ruin                      166\n   XIV. Roxana Insists Upon Reform              179\n    XV. The Robber Robbed                       197\n   XVI. Sold Down the River                     214\n  XVII. The Judge Utters Dire Prophecy          221\n XVIII. Roxana Commands                         225\n   XIX. The Prophecy Realized                   246\n    XX. The Murderer Chuckles                   263\n   XXI. Doom                                    278\n        Conclusion                              300\n\n\n\n\n\n\nA Whisper\n\nto the Reader.\n\nThere is no character, howsoever good and fine, but it can be destroyed\nby ridicule, howsoever poor and witless. Observe the ass, for instance:\nhis character is about perfect, he is the choicest spirit among all the\nhumbler animals, yet see what ridicule has brought him to. Instead of\nfeeling complimented when we are called an ass, we are left in \ndoubt.--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.\n\nA person who is ignorant of legal matters is always liable to make\nmistakes when he tries to photograph a court scene with his pen; and so\nI was not willing to let the law chapters in this book go to press\nwithout first subjecting them to rigid and exhausting revision and\ncorrection by a trained barrister--if that is what they are called.\nThese chapters are right, now, in every detail, for they were rewritten\nunder the immediate eye of William Hicks, who studied law part of a\nwhile in southwest Missouri thirty-five years ago and then came over\nhere to Florence for his health and is still helping for exercise and\nboard in Macaroni Vermicelli's horse-feed shed which is up the back\nalley as you turn around the corner out of the Piazza del Duomo just\nbeyond the house where that stone that Dante used to sit on six hundred\nyears ago is let into the wall when he let on to be watching them build\nGiotto's campanile and yet always got tired looking as soon as Beatrice\npassed along on her way to get a chunk of chestnut cake to defend\nherself with in case of a Ghibelline outbreak before she got to school,\nat the same old stand where they sell the same old cake to this day and\nit is just as light and good as it was then, too, and this is not\nflattery, far from it. He was a little rusty on his law, but he rubbed\nup for this book, and those two or three legal chapters are right and\nstraight, now. He told me so himself.\n\nGiven under my hand this second day of January, 1893, at the Villa\nViviani, village of Settignano, three miles back of Florence, on the\nhills--the same certainly affording the most charming view to be found\non this planet, and with it the most dreamlike and enchanting sunsets to\nbe found in any planet or even in any solar system--and given, too, in\nthe swell room of the house, with the busts of Cerretani senators and\nother grandees of this line looking approvingly down upon me as they\nused to look down upon Dante, and mutely asking me to adopt them into my\nfamily, which I do with pleasure, for my remotest ancestors are but\nspring chickens compared with these robed and stately antiques, and it\nwill be a great and satisfying lift for me, that six hundred years will.\n\nMark Twain.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nPudd'nhead Wins His Name.\n\nTell the truth or trump--but get the trick.--Pudd'nhead Wilson's\nCalendar.\n\nThe scene of this chronicle is the town of Dawson's Landing, on the\nMissouri side of the Mississippi, half a day's journey, per steamboat,\nbelow St. Louis.\n\nIn 1830 it was a snug little collection of modest one- and two-story\nframe dwellings whose whitewashed exteriors were almost concealed from\nsight by climbing tangles of rose-vines, honeysuckles, and\nmorning-glories. Each of these pretty homes had a garden in front fenced\nwith white palings and opulently stocked with hollyhocks, marigolds,\ntouch-me-nots, prince's-feathers and other old-fashioned flowers; while\non the window-sills of the houses stood wooden boxes containing\nmoss-rose plants and terra-cotta pots in which grew a breed of geranium\nwhose spread of intensely red blossoms accented the prevailing pink tint\nof the rose-clad house-front like an explosion of flame. When there was\nroom on the ledge outside of the pots and boxes for a cat, the cat was\nthere--in sunny weather--stretched at full length, asleep and blissful,\nwith her furry belly to the sun and a paw curved over her nose. Then\nthat house was complete, and its contentment and peace were made\nmanifest to the world by this symbol, whose testimony is infallible. A\nhome without a cat--and a well-fed, well-petted and properly revered\ncat--may be a perfect home, perhaps, but how can it prove title?\n\nAll along the streets, on both sides, at the outer edge of the brick\nsidewalks, stood locust-trees with trunks protected by wooden boxing,\nand these furnished shade for summer and a sweet fragrance in spring\nwhen the clusters of buds came forth. The main street, one block back\nfrom the river, and running parallel with it, was the sole business\nstreet. It was six blocks long, and in each block two or three brick\nstores three stories high towered above interjected bunches of little\nframe shops. Swinging signs creaked in the wind, the street's whole\nlength. The candy-striped pole which indicates nobility proud and\nancient along the palace-bordered canals of Venice, indicated merely the\nhumble barber shop along the main street of Dawson's Landing. On a chief\ncorner stood a lofty unpainted pole wreathed from top to bottom with tin\npots and pans and cups, the chief tinmonger's noisy notice to the world\n(when the wind blew) that his shop was on hand for business at that\ncorner.\n\nThe hamlet's front was washed by the clear waters of the great river;\nits body stretched itself rearward up a gentle incline; its most\nrearward border fringed itself out and scattered its houses about the\nbase-line of the hills; the hills rose high, inclosing the town in a\nhalf-moon curve, clothed with forests from foot to summit.\n\nSteamboats passed up and down every hour or so. Those belonging to the\nlittle Cairo line and the little Memphis line always stopped; the big\nOrleans liners stopped for hails only, or to land passengers or freight;\nand this was the case also with the great flotilla of \"transients.\"\nThese latter came out of a dozen rivers--the Illinois, the Missouri, the\nUpper Mississippi, the Ohio, the Monongahela, the Tennessee, the Red\nRiver, the White River, and so on; and were bound every whither and\nstocked with every imaginable comfort or necessity which the\nMississippi's communities could want, from the frosty Falls of St.\nAnthony down through nine climates to torrid New Orleans.\n\nDawson's Landing was a slaveholding town, with a rich slave-worked grain\nand pork country back of it. The town was sleepy and comfortable and\ncontented. It was fifty years old, and was growing slowly--very slowly,\nin fact, but still it was growing.\n\nThe chief citizen was York Leicester Driscoll, about forty years old,\njudge of the county court. He was very proud of his old Virginian\nancestry, and in his hospitalities and his rather formal and stately\nmanners he kept up its traditions. He was fine and just and generous. To\nbe a gentleman--a gentleman without stain or blemish--was his only\nreligion, and to it he was always faithful. He was respected, esteemed\nand beloved by all the community. He was well off, and was gradually\nadding to his store. He and his wife were very nearly happy, but not\nquite, for they had no children. The longing for the treasure of a child\nhad grown stronger and stronger as the years slipped away, but the\nblessing never came--and was never to come.\n\nWith this pair lived the Judge's widowed sister, Mrs. Rachel Pratt, and\nshe also was childless--childless, and sorrowful for that reason, and\nnot to be comforted. The women were good and commonplace people, and did\ntheir duty and had their reward in clear consciences and the community's\napprobation. They were Presbyterians, the Judge was a free-thinker.\n\nPembroke Howard, lawyer and bachelor, aged about forty, was another old\nVirginian grandee with proved descent from the First Families. He was a\nfine, brave, majestic creature, a gentleman according to the nicest\nrequirements of the Virginia rule, a devoted Presbyterian, an authority\non the \"code,\" and a man always courteously ready to stand up before you\nin the field if any act or word of his had seemed doubtful or suspicious\nto you, and explain it with any weapon you might prefer from brad-awls\nto artillery. He was very popular with the people, and was the Judge's\ndearest friend.\n\nThen there was Colonel Cecil Burleigh Essex, another F. F. V. of\nformidable caliber--however, with him we have no concern.\n\nPercy Northumberland Driscoll, brother to the Judge, and younger than he\nby five years, was a married man, and had had children around his\nhearthstone; but they were attacked in detail by measles, croup and\nscarlet fever, and this had given the doctor a chance with his effective\nantediluvian methods; so the cradles were empty. He was a prosperous\nman, with a good head for speculations, and his fortune was growing. On\nthe 1st of February, 1830, two boy babes were born in his house: one to\nhim, the other to one of his slave girls, Roxana by name. Roxana was\ntwenty years old. She was up and around the same day, with her hands\nfull, for she was tending both babies.\n\nMrs. Percy Driscoll died within the week. Roxy remained in charge of the\nchildren. She had her own way, for Mr. Driscoll soon absorbed himself in\nhis speculations and left her to her own devices.\n\nIn that same month of February, Dawson's Landing gained a new citizen.\nThis was Mr. David Wilson, a young fellow of Scotch parentage. He had\nwandered to this remote region from his birthplace in the interior of\nthe State of New York, to seek his fortune. He was twenty-five years\nold, college-bred, and had finished a post-college course in an Eastern\nlaw school a couple of years before.\n\nHe was a homely, freckled, sandy-haired young fellow, with an\nintelligent blue eye that had frankness and comradeship in it and a\ncovert twinkle of a pleasant sort. But for an unfortunate remark of his,\nhe would no doubt have entered at once upon a successful career at\nDawson's Landing. But he made his fatal remark the first day he spent in\nthe village, and it \"gaged\" him. He had just made the acquaintance of a\ngroup of citizens when an invisible dog began to yelp and snarl and howl\nand make himself very comprehensively disagreeable, whereupon young\nWilson said, much as one who is thinking aloud--\n\n\"I wish I owned half of that dog.\"\n\n\"Why?\" somebody asked.\n\n\"Because I would kill my half.\"\n\nThe group searched his face with curiosity, with anxiety even, but found\nno light there, no expression that they could read. They fell away from\nhim as from something uncanny, and went into privacy to discuss him. One\nsaid:\n\n\"'Pears to be a fool.\"\n\n\"'Pears?\" said another. \"Is, I reckon you better say.\"\n\n\"Said he wished he owned half of the dog, the idiot,\" said a third.\n\"What did he reckon would become of the other half if he killed his\nhalf? Do you reckon he thought it would live?\"\n\n\"Why, he must have thought it, unless he is the downrightest fool in the\nworld; because if he hadn't thought it, he would have wanted to own the\nwhole dog, knowing that if he killed his half and the other half died,\nhe would be responsible for that half just the same as if he had killed\nthat half instead of his own. Don't it look that way to you, gents?\"\n\n\"Yes, it does. If he owned one half of the general dog, it would be so;\nif he owned one end of the dog and another person owned the other end,\nit would be so, just the same; particularly in the first case, because\nif you kill one half of a general dog, there ain't any man that can tell\nwhose half it was, but if he owned one end of the dog, maybe he could\nkill his end of it and--\"\n\n\"No, he couldn't either; he couldn't and not be responsible if the other\nend died, which it would. In my opinion that man ain't in his right\nmind.\"\n\n\"In my opinion he hain't got any mind.\"\n\nNo. 3 said: \"Well, he's a lummox, anyway.\"\n\n\"That's what he is,\" said No. 4, \"he's a labrick--just a Simon-pure\nlabrick, if ever there was one.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, he's a dam fool, that's the way I put him up,\" said No. 5.\n\"Anybody can think different that wants to, but those are my\nsentiments.\"\n\n\"I'm with you, gentlemen,\" said No. 6. \"Perfect jackass--yes, and it\nain't going too far to say he is a pudd'nhead. If he ain't a pudd'nhead,\nI ain't no judge, that's all.\"\n\nMr. Wilson stood elected. The incident was told all over the town, and\ngravely discussed by everybody. Within a week he had lost his first\nname; Pudd'nhead took its place. In time he came to be liked, and well\nliked too; but by that time the nickname had got well stuck on, and it\nstayed. That first day's verdict made him a fool, and he was not able to\nget it set aside, or even modified. The nickname soon ceased to carry\nany harsh or unfriendly feeling with it, but it held its place, and was\nto continue to hold its place for twenty long years.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nDriscoll Spares His Slaves.\n\nAdam was but human--this explains it all. He did not want the apple for\nthe apple's sake, he wanted it only because it was forbidden. The\nmistake was in not forbidding the serpent; then he would have eaten the\nserpent.--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.\n\nPudd'nhead Wilson had a trifle of money when he arrived, and he bought a\nsmall house on the extreme western verge of the town. Between it and\nJudge Driscoll's house there was only a grassy yard, with a paling fence\ndividing the properties in the middle. He hired a small office down in\nthe town and hung out a tin sign with these words on it:\n\nDAVID WILSON.\n\nATTORNEY AND COUNSELOR-AT-LAW.\nSURVEYING, CONVEYANCING, ETC.\n\nBut his deadly remark had ruined his chance--at least in the law. No\nclients came. He took down his sign, after a while, and put it up on his\nown house with the law features knocked out of it. It offered his\nservices now in the humble capacities of land-surveyor and expert\naccountant. Now and then he got a job of surveying to do, and now and\nthen a merchant got him to straighten out his books. With Scotch\npatience and pluck he resolved to live down his reputation and work his\nway into the legal field yet. Poor fellow, he could not foresee that it\nwas going to take him such a weary long time to do it.\n\nHe had a rich abundance of idle time, but it never hung heavy on his\nhands, for he interested himself in every new thing that was born into\nthe universe of ideas, and studied it and experimented upon it at his\nhouse. One of his pet fads was palmistry. To another one he gave no\nname, neither would he explain to anybody what its purpose was, but\nmerely said it was an amusement. In fact he had found that his fads\nadded to his reputation as a pudd'nhead; therefore he was growing chary\nof being too communicative about them. The fad without a name was one\nwhich dealt with people's finger-marks. He carried in his coat pocket a\nshallow box with grooves in it, and in the grooves strips of glass five\ninches long and three inches wide. Along the lower edge of each strip\nwas pasted a slip of white paper. He asked people to pass their hands\nthrough their hair (thus collecting upon them a thin coating of the\nnatural oil) and then make a thumb-mark on a glass strip, following it\nwith the mark of the ball of each finger in succession. Under this row\nof faint grease-prints he would write a record on the strip of white\npaper--thus:\n\nJohn Smith, right hand--\n\nand add the day of the month and the year, then take Smith's left hand\non another glass strip, and add name and date and the words \"left hand.\"\nThe strips were now returned to the grooved box, and took their place\namong what Wilson called his \"records.\"\n\nHe often studied his records, examining and poring over them with\nabsorbing interest until far into the night; but what he found there--if\nhe found anything--he revealed to no one. Sometimes he copied on paper\nthe involved and delicate pattern left by the ball of a finger, and then\nvastly enlarged it with a pantograph so that he could examine its web of\ncurving lines with ease and convenience.\n\nOne sweltering afternoon--it was the first day of July, 1830--he was at\nwork over a set of tangled account-books in his work-room, which looked\nwestward over a stretch of vacant lots, when a conversation outside\ndisturbed him. It was carried on in yells, which showed that the people\nengaged in it were not close together:\n\n\"Say, Roxy, how does yo' baby come on?\" This from the distant voice.\n\n\"Fust-rate; how does you come on, Jasper?\" This yell was from close by.\n\n\"Oh, I's middlin'; hain't got noth'n' to complain of. I's gwine to come\na-court'n' you bimeby, Roxy.\"\n\n\"You is, you black mud-cat! Yah--yah--yah! I got somep'n' better to do\nden 'sociat'n' wid niggers as black as you is. Is ole Miss Cooper's\nNancy done give you de mitten?\" Roxy followed this sally with another\ndischarge of care-free laughter.\n\n\"You's jealous, Roxy, dat's what's de matter wid you, you\nhussy--yah--yah--yah! Dat's de time I got you!\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, you got me, hain't you. 'Clah to goodness if dat conceit o'\nyo'n strikes in, Jasper, it gwine to kill you sho'. If you b'longed to\nme I'd sell you down de river 'fo' you git too fur gone. Fust time I\nruns acrost yo' marster, I's gwine to tell him so.\"\n\nThis idle and aimless jabber went on and on, both parties enjoying the\nfriendly duel and each well satisfied with his own share of the wit\nexchanged--for wit they considered it.\n\nWilson stepped to the window to observe the combatants; he could not\nwork while their chatter continued. Over in the vacant lots was Jasper,\nyoung, coal-black and of magnificent build, sitting on a wheelbarrow in\nthe pelting sun--at work, supposably, whereas he was in fact only\npreparing for it by taking an hour's rest before beginning. In front of\nWilson's porch stood Roxy, with a local hand-made baby-wagon, in which\nsat her two charges--one at each end and facing each other. From Roxy's\nmanner of speech, a stranger would have expected her to be black, but\nshe was not. Only one sixteenth of her was black, and that sixteenth did\nnot show. She was of majestic form and stature, her attitudes were\nimposing and statuesque, and her gestures and movements distinguished by\na noble and stately grace. Her complexion was very fair, with the rosy\nglow of vigorous health in the cheeks, her face was full of character\nand expression, her eyes were brown and liquid, and she had a heavy suit\nof fine soft hair which was also brown, but the fact was not apparent\nbecause her head was bound about with a checkered handkerchief and the\nhair was concealed under it. Her face was shapely, intelligent and\ncomely--even beautiful. She had an easy, independent carriage--when she\nwas among her own caste--and a high and \"sassy\" way, withal; but of\ncourse she was meek and humble enough where white people were.\n\nTo all intents and purposes Roxy was as white as anybody, but the one\nsixteenth of her which was black outvoted the other fifteen parts and\nmade her a negro. She was a slave, and salable as such. Her child was\nthirty-one parts white, and he, too, was a slave, and by a fiction of\nlaw and custom a negro. He had blue eyes and flaxen curls like his white\ncomrade, but even the father of the white child was able to tell the\nchildren apart--little as he had commerce with them--by their clothes:\nfor the white babe wore ruffled soft muslin and a coral necklace, while\nthe other wore merely a coarse tow-linen shirt which barely reached to\nits knees, and no jewelry.\n\nThe white child's name was Thomas \u00e0 Becket Driscoll, the other's name\nwas Valet de Chambre: no surname--slaves hadn't the privilege. Roxana\nhad heard that phrase somewhere, the fine sound of it had pleased her\near, and as she had supposed it was a name, she loaded it on to her\ndarling. It soon got shorted to \"Chambers,\" of course.\n\nWilson knew Roxy by sight, and when the duel of wit began to play out,\nhe stepped outside to gather in a record or two. Jasper went to work\nenergetically, at once, perceiving that his leisure was observed. Wilson\ninspected the children and asked--\n\n\"How old are they, Roxy?\"\n\n\"Bofe de same age, sir--five months. Bawn de fust o' Feb'uary.\"\n\n\"They're handsome little chaps. One's just as handsome as the other,\ntoo.\"\n\nA delighted smile exposed the girl's white teeth, and she said:\n\n\"Bless yo' soul, Misto Wilson, it's pow'ful nice o' you to say dat,\n'ca'se one of 'em ain't on'y a nigger. Mighty prime little nigger, I\nal'ays says, but dat's 'ca'se it's mine, o' course.\"\n\n\"How do you tell them apart, Roxy, when they haven't any clothes on?\"\n\nRoxy laughed a laugh proportioned to her size, and said:\n\n\"Oh, I kin tell 'em 'part, Misto Wilson, but I bet Marse Percy couldn't,\nnot to save his life.\"\n\nWilson chatted along for awhile, and presently got Roxy's finger-prints\nfor his collection--right hand and left--on a couple of his glass\nstrips; then labeled and dated them, and took the \"records\" of both\nchildren, and labeled and dated them also.\n\nTwo months later, on the 3d of September, he took this trio of\nfinger-marks again. He liked to have a \"series,\" two or three \"takings\"\nat intervals during the period of childhood, these to be followed by\nothers at intervals of several years.\n\nThe next day--that is to say, on the 4th of September--something\noccurred which profoundly impressed Roxana. Mr. Driscoll missed another\nsmall sum of money--which is a way of saying that this was not a new\nthing, but had happened before. In truth it had happened three times\nbefore. Driscoll's patience was exhausted. He was a fairly humane man\ntoward slaves and other animals; he was an exceedingly humane man toward\nthe erring of his own race. Theft he could not abide, and plainly there\nwas a thief in his house. Necessarily the thief must be one of his\nnegroes. Sharp measures must be taken. He called his servants before\nhim. There were three of these, besides Roxy: a man, a woman, and a boy\ntwelve years old. They were not related. Mr. Driscoll said:\n\n\"You have all been warned before. It has done no good. This time I will\nteach you a lesson. I will sell the thief. Which of you is the guilty\none?\"\n\nThey all shuddered at the threat, for here they had a good home, and a\nnew one was likely to be a change for the worse. The denial was general.\nNone had stolen anything--not money, anyway--a little sugar, or cake, or\nhoney, or something like that, that \"Marse Percy wouldn't mind or miss,\"\nbut not money--never a cent of money. They were eloquent in their\nprotestations, but Mr. Driscoll was not moved by them. He answered each\nin turn with a stern \"Name the thief!\"\n\nThe truth was, all were guilty but Roxana; she suspected that the others\nwere guilty, but she did not know them to be so. She was horrified to\nthink how near she had come to being guilty herself; she had been saved\nin the nick of time by a revival in the colored Methodist Church, a\nfortnight before, at which time and place she \"got religion.\" The very\nnext day after that gracious experience, while her change of style was\nfresh upon her and she was vain of her purified condition, her master\nleft a couple dollars lying unprotected on his desk, and she happened\nupon that temptation when she was polishing around with a dust-rag. She\nlooked at the money awhile with a steady rising resentment, then she\nburst out with--\n\n\"Dad blame dat revival, I wisht it had 'a' be'n put off till to-morrow!\"\n\nThen she covered the tempter with a book, and another member of the\nkitchen cabinet got it. She made this sacrifice as a matter of religious\netiquette; as a thing necessary just now, but by no means to be wrested\ninto a precedent; no, a week or two would limber up her piety, then she\nwould be rational again, and the next two dollars that got left out in\nthe cold would find a comforter--and she could name the comforter.\n\nWas she bad? Was she worse than the general run of her race? No. They\nhad an unfair show in the battle of life, and they held it no sin to\ntake military advantage of the enemy--in a small way; in a small way,\nbut not in a large one. They would smouch provisions from the pantry\nwhenever they got a chance; or a brass thimble, or a cake of wax, or an\nemery-bag, or a paper of needles, or a silver spoon, or a dollar bill,\nor small articles of clothing, or any other property of light value; and\nso far were they from considering such reprisals sinful, that they would\ngo to church and shout and pray the loudest and sincerest with their\nplunder in their pockets. A farm smoke-house had to be kept heavily\npadlocked, for even the colored deacon himself could not resist a ham\nwhen Providence showed him in a dream, or otherwise, where such a thing\nhung lonesome and longed for some one to love. But with a hundred\nhanging before him the deacon would not take two--that is, on the same\nnight. On frosty nights the humane negro prowler would warm the end of a\nplank and put it up under the cold claws of chickens roosting in a tree;\na drowsy hen would step on to the comfortable board, softly clucking her\ngratitude, and the prowler would dump her into his bag, and later into\nhis stomach, perfectly sure that in taking this trifle from the man who\ndaily robbed him of an inestimable treasure--his liberty--he was not\ncommitting any sin that God would remember against him in the Last Great\nDay.\n\n\"Name the thief!\"\n\nFor the fourth time Mr. Driscoll had said it, and always in the same\nhard tone. And now he added these words of awful import:\n\n\"I give you one minute\"--he took out his watch. \"If at the end of that\ntime you have not confessed, I will not only sell all four of you,\nbut--I will sell you down the river!\"\n\nIt was equivalent to condemning them to hell! No Missouri negro doubted\nthis. Roxy reeled in her tracks and the color vanished out of her face;\nthe others dropped to their knees as if they had been shot; tears gushed\nfrom their eyes, their supplicating hands went up, and three answers\ncame in the one instant:\n\n\"I done it!\"\n\n\"I done it!\"\n\n\"I done it!--have mercy, marster--Lord have mercy on us po' niggers!\"\n\n\"Very good,\" said the master, putting up his watch, \"I will sell you\nhere though you don't deserve it. You ought to be sold down the river.\"\n\nThe culprits flung themselves prone, in an ecstasy of gratitude, and\nkissed his feet, declaring that they would never forget his goodness and\nnever cease to pray for him as long as they lived. They were sincere,\nfor like a god he had stretched forth his mighty hand and closed the\ngates of hell against them. He knew, himself, that he had done a noble\nand gracious thing, and was privately well pleased with his magnanimity;\nand that night he set the incident down in his diary, so that his son\nmight read it in after years, and be thereby moved to deeds of\ngentleness and humanity himself.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nRoxy Plays a Shrewd Trick.\n\nWhoever has lived long enough to find out what life is, knows how deep a\ndebt of gratitude we owe to Adam, the first great benefactor of our\nrace. He brought death into the world.--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.\n\nPercy Driscoll slept well the night he saved his house-minions from\ngoing down the river, but no wink of sleep visited Roxy's eyes. A\nprofound terror had taken possession of her. Her child could grow up and\nbe sold down the river! The thought crazed her with horror. If she dozed\nand lost herself for a moment, the next moment she was on her feet\nflying to her child's cradle to see if it was still there. Then she\nwould gather it to her heart and pour out her love upon it in a frenzy\nof kisses, moaning, crying, and saying, \"Dey sha'n't, oh, dey\nsha'n't!--yo' po' mammy will kill you fust!\"\n\nOnce, when she was tucking it back in its cradle again, the other child\nnestled in its sleep and attracted her attention. She went and stood\nover it a long time communing with herself:\n\n\"What has my po' baby done, dat he couldn't have yo' luck? He hain't\ndone noth'n'. God was good to you; why warn't he good to him? Dey can't\nsell you down de river. I hates yo' pappy; he hain't got no heart--for\nniggers he hain't, anyways. I hates him, en I could kill him!\" She\npaused awhile, thinking; then she burst into wild sobbings again, and\nturned away, saying, \"Oh, I got to kill my chile, dey ain't no yuther\nway,--killin' him wouldn't save de chile fum goin' down de river. Oh, I\ngot to do it, yo' po' mammy's got to kill you to save you, honey\"--she\ngathered her baby to her bosom, now, and began to smother it with\ncaresses--\"Mammy's got to kill you--how kin I do it! But yo' mammy ain't\ngwine to desert you--no, no; dah, don't cry--she gwine wid you, she\ngwine to kill herself too. Come along, honey, come along wid mammy; we\ngwine to jump in de river, den de troubles o' dis worl' is all over--dey\ndon't sell po' niggers down the river over yonder.\"\n\nShe started toward the door, crooning to the child and hushing it;\nmidway she stopped, suddenly. She had caught sight of her new Sunday\ngown--a cheap curtain-calico thing, a conflagration of gaudy colors and\nfantastic figures. She surveyed it wistfully, longingly.\n\n\"Hain't ever wore it yet,\" she said, \"en it's jist lovely.\" Then she\nnodded her head in response to a pleasant idea, and added, \"No, I ain't\ngwine to be fished out, wid everybody lookin' at me, in dis mis'able ole\nlinsey-woolsey.\"\n\nShe put down the child and made the change. She looked in the glass and\nwas astonished at her beauty. She resolved to make her death-toilet\nperfect. She took off her handkerchief-turban and dressed her glossy\nwealth of hair \"like white folks\"; she added some odds and ends of\nrather lurid ribbon and a spray of atrocious artificial flowers; finally\nshe threw over her shoulders a fluffy thing called a \"cloud\" in that\nday, which was of a blazing red complexion. Then she was ready for the\ntomb.\n\nShe gathered up her baby once more; but when her eye fell upon its\nmiserably short little gray tow-linen shirt and noted the contrast\nbetween its pauper shabbiness and her own volcanic irruption of infernal\nsplendors, her mother-heart was touched, and she was ashamed.\n\n\"No, dolling, mammy ain't gwine to treat you so. De angels is gwine to\n'mire you jist as much as dey does yo' mammy. Ain't gwine to have 'em\nputt'n' dey han's up 'fo' dey eyes en sayin' to David en Goliah en dem\nyuther prophets, 'Dat chile is dress' too indelicate fo' dis place.'\"\n\nBy this time she had stripped off the shirt. Now she clothed the naked\nlittle creature in one of Thomas \u00e0 Becket's snowy long baby-gowns, with\nits bright blue bows and dainty flummery of ruffles.\n\n\"Dah--now you's fixed.\" She propped the child in a chair and stood off\nto inspect it. Straightway her eyes began to widen with astonishment and\nadmiration, and she clapped her hands and cried out, \"Why, it do beat\nall!--I never knowed you was so lovely. Marse Tommy ain't a bit\nputtier--not a single bit.\"\n\nShe stepped over and glanced at the other infant; she flung a glance\nback at her own; then one more at the heir of the house. Now a strange\nlight dawned in her eyes, and in a moment she was lost in thought. She\nseemed in a trance; when she came out of it she muttered, \"When I 'uz\na-washin' 'em in de tub, yistiddy, his own pappy asked me which of 'em\nwas his'n.\"\n\nShe began to move about like one in a dream. She undressed Thomas \u00e0\nBecket, stripping him of everything, and put the tow-linen shirt on him.\nShe put his coral necklace on her own child's neck. Then she placed the\nchildren side by side, and after earnest inspection she muttered--\n\n\"Now who would b'lieve clo'es could do de like o' dat? Dog my cats if it\nain't all I kin do to tell t'other fum which, let alone his pappy.\"\n\nShe put her cub in Tommy's elegant cradle and said--\n\n\"You's young Marse Tom fum dis out, en I got to practise and git used to\n'memberin' to call you dat, honey, or I's gwine to make a mistake some\ntime en git us bofe into trouble. Dah--now you lay still en don't fret\nno mo', Marse Tom--oh, thank de good Lord in heaven, you's saved, you's\nsaved!--dey ain't no man kin ever sell mammy's po' little honey down de\nriver now!\"\n\nShe put the heir of the house in her own child's unpainted pine cradle,\nand said, contemplating its slumbering form uneasily--\n\n\"I's sorry for you, honey; I's sorry, God knows I is,--but what kin I\ndo, what could I do? Yo' pappy would sell him to somebody, some time, en\nden he'd go down de river, sho', en I couldn't, couldn't, couldn't stan'\nit.\"\n\nShe flung herself on her bed and began to think and toss, toss and\nthink. By and by she sat suddenly upright, for a comforting thought had\nflown through her worried mind--\n\n\"'Tain't no sin--white folks has done it! It ain't no sin, glory to\ngoodness it ain't no sin! Dey's done it--yes, en dey was de biggest\nquality in de whole bilin', too--kings!\"\n\nShe began to muse; she was trying to gather out of her memory the dim\nparticulars of some tale she had heard some time or other. At last she\nsaid--\n\n\"Now I's got it; now I 'member. It was dat ole nigger preacher dat tole\nit, de time he come over here fum Illinois en preached in de nigger\nchurch. He said dey ain't nobody kin save his own self--can't do it by\nfaith, can't do it by works, can't do it no way at all. Free grace is de\non'y way, en dat don't come fum nobody but jis' de Lord; en he kin give\nit to anybody he please, saint or sinner--he don't kyer. He do jis' as\nhe's a mineter. He s'lect out anybody dat suit him, en put another one\nin his place, and make de fust one happy forever en leave t'other one to\nburn wid Satan. De preacher said it was jist like dey done in Englan'\none time, long time ago. De queen she lef' her baby layin' aroun' one\nday, en went out callin'; en one o' de niggers roun'-'bout de place dat\nwas 'mos' white, she come in en see de chile layin' aroun', en tuck en\nput her own chile's clo'es on de queen's chile, en put de queen's\nchile's clo'es on her own chile, en den lef' her own chile layin' aroun'\nen tuck en toted de queen's chile home to de nigger-quarter, en nobody\never foun' it out, en her chile was de king bimeby, en sole de queen's\nchile down de river one time when dey had to settle up de estate. Dah,\nnow--de preacher said it his own self, en it ain't no sin, 'ca'se white\nfolks done it. Dey done it--yes, dey done it; en not on'y jis' common\nwhite folks nuther, but de biggest quality dey is in de whole bilin'.\nOh, I's so glad I 'member 'bout dat!\"\n\nShe got up light-hearted and happy, and went to the cradles and spent\nwhat was left of the night \"practising.\" She would give her own child a\nlight pat and say humbly, \"Lay still, Marse Tom,\" then give the real Tom\na pat and say with severity, \"Lay still, Chambers!--does you want me to\ntake somep'n' to you?\"\n\nAs she progressed with her practice, she was surprised to see how\nsteadily and surely the awe which had kept her tongue reverent and her\nmanner humble toward her young master was transferring itself to her\nspeech and manner toward the usurper, and how similarly handy she was\nbecoming in transferring her motherly curtness of speech and\nperemptoriness of manner to the unlucky heir of the ancient house of\nDriscoll.\n\nShe took occasional rests from practising, and absorbed herself in\ncalculating her chances.\n\n\"Dey'll sell dese niggers to-day fo' stealin' de money, den dey'll buy\nsome mo' dat don't know de chillen--so dat's all right. When I takes de\nchillen out to git de air, de minute I's roun' de corner I's gwine to\ngaum dey mouths all roun' wid jam, den dey can't nobody notice dey's\nchanged. Yes, I gwineter do dat till I's safe, if it's a year.\n\n\"Dey ain't but one man dat I's afeard of, en dat's dat Pudd'nhead\nWilson. Dey calls him a pudd'nhead, en says he's a fool. My lan', dat\nman ain't no mo' fool den I is! He's de smartes' man in dis town, less'n\nit's Jedge Driscoll or maybe Pem Howard. Blame dat man, he worries me\nwid dem ornery glasses o' hisn; I b'lieve he's a witch. But nemmine, I's\ngwine to happen aroun' dah one o' dese days en let on dat I reckon he\nwants to print de chillen's fingers ag'in; en if he don't notice dey's\nchanged, I bound dey ain't nobody gwine to notice it, en den I's safe,\nsho'. But I reckon I'll tote along a hoss-shoe to keep off de\nwitch-work.\"\n\nThe new negroes gave Roxy no trouble, of course. The master gave her\nnone, for one of his speculations was in jeopardy, and his mind was so\noccupied that he hardly saw the children when he looked at them, and all\nRoxy had to do was to get them both into a gale of laughter when he came\nabout; then their faces were mainly cavities exposing gums, and he was\ngone again before the spasm passed and the little creatures resumed a\nhuman aspect.\n\nWithin a few days the fate of the speculation became so dubious that Mr.\nPercy went away with his brother the Judge, to see what could be done\nwith it. It was a land speculation as usual, and it had gotten\ncomplicated with a lawsuit. The men were gone seven weeks. Before they\ngot back Roxy had paid her visit to Wilson, and was satisfied. Wilson\ntook the finger-prints, labeled them with the names and with the\ndate--October the first--put them carefully away and continued his chat\nwith Roxy, who seemed very anxious that he should admire the great\nadvance in flesh and beauty which the babies had made since he took\ntheir finger-prints a month before. He complimented their improvement to\nher contentment; and as they were without any disguise of jam or other\nstain, she trembled all the while and was miserably frightened lest at\nany moment he--\n\nBut he didn't. He discovered nothing; and she went home jubilant, and\ndropped all concern about the matter permanently out of her mind.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nThe Ways of the Changelings.\n\nAdam and Eve had many advantages, but the principal one was, that they\nescaped teething.--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.\n\nThere is this trouble about special providences--namely, there is so\noften a doubt as to which party was intended to be the beneficiary. In\nthe case of the children, the bears and the prophet, the bears got more\nreal satisfaction out of the episode than the prophet did, because they\ngot the children.--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.\n\nThis history must henceforth accommodate itself to the change which\nRoxana has consummated, and call the real heir \"Chambers\" and the\nusurping little slave \"Thomas \u00e0 Becket\"--shortening this latter name to\n\"Tom,\" for daily use, as the people about him did.\n\n\"Tom\" was a bad baby, from the very beginning of his usurpation. He\nwould cry for nothing; he would burst into storms of devilish temper\nwithout notice, and let go scream after scream and squall after squall,\nthen climax the thing with \"holding his breath\"--that frightful\nspecialty of the teething nursling, in the throes of which the creature\nexhausts its lungs, then is convulsed with noiseless squirmings and\ntwistings and kickings in the effort to get its breath, while the lips\nturn blue and the mouth stands wide and rigid, offering for inspection\none wee tooth set in the lower rim of a hoop of red gums; and when the\nappalling stillness has endured until one is sure the lost breath will\nnever return, a nurse comes flying, and dashes water in the child's\nface, and--presto! the lungs fill, and instantly discharge a shriek, or\na yell, or a howl which bursts the listening ear and surprises the owner\nof it into saying words which would not go well with a halo if he had\none. The baby Tom would claw anybody who came within reach of his nails,\nand pound anybody he could reach with his rattle. He would scream for\nwater until he got it, and then throw cup and all on the floor and\nscream for more. He was indulged in all his caprices, howsoever\ntroublesome and exasperating they might be; he was allowed to eat\nanything he wanted, particularly things that would give him the\nstomach-ache.\n\nWhen he got to be old enough to begin to toddle about and say broken\nwords and get an idea of what his hands were for, he was a more\nconsummate pest than ever. Roxy got no rest while he was awake. He would\ncall for anything and everything he saw, simply saying \"Awnt it!\" (want\nit), which was a command. When it was brought, he said in a frenzy, and\nmotioning it away with his hands, \"Don't awnt it! don't awnt it!\" and\nthe moment it was gone he set up frantic yells of \"Awnt it! awnt it!\nawnt it!\" and Roxy had to give wings to her heels to get that thing back\nto him again before he could get time to carry out his intention of\ngoing into convulsions about it.\n\nWhat he preferred above all other things was the tongs. This was because\nhis \"father\" had forbidden him to have them lest he break windows and\nfurniture with them. The moment Roxy's back was turned he would toddle\nto the presence of the tongs and say \"Like it!\" and cock his eye to one\nside to see if Roxy was observing; then, \"Awnt it!\" and cock his eye\nagain; then, \"Hab it!\" with another furtive glance; and finally, \"Take\nit!\"--and the prize was his. The next moment the heavy implement was\nraised aloft; the next, there was a crash and a squall, and the cat was\noff on three legs to meet an engagement; Roxy would arrive just as the\nlamp or a window went to irremediable smash.\n\nTom got all the petting, Chambers got none. Tom got all the delicacies,\nChambers got mush and milk, and clabber without sugar. In consequence\nTom was a sickly child and Chambers wasn't. Tom was \"fractious,\" as Roxy\ncalled it, and overbearing; Chambers was meek and docile.\n\nWith all her splendid common sense and practical every-day ability, Roxy\nwas a doting fool of a mother. She was this toward her child--and she\nwas also more than this: by the fiction created by herself, he was\nbecome her master; the necessity of recognizing this relation outwardly\nand of perfecting herself in the forms required to express the\nrecognition, had moved her to such diligence and faithfulness in\npracticing these forms that this exercise soon concreted itself into\nhabit; it became automatic and unconscious; then a natural result\nfollowed: deceptions intended solely for others gradually grew\npractically into self-deceptions as well; the mock reverence became real\nreverence, the mock obsequiousness real obsequiousness, the mock homage\nreal homage; the little counterfeit rift of separation between\nimitation-slave and imitation-master widened and widened, and became an\nabyss, and a very real one--and on one side of it stood Roxy, the dupe\nof her own deceptions, and on the other stood her child, no longer a\nusurper to her, but her accepted and recognized master. He was her\ndarling, her master, and her deity all in one, and in her worship of him\nshe forgot who she was and what he had been.\n\nIn babyhood Tom cuffed and banged and scratched Chambers unrebuked, and\nChambers early learned that between meekly bearing it and resenting it,\nthe advantage all lay with the former policy. The few times that his\npersecutions had moved him beyond control and made him fight back had\ncost him very dear at headquarters; not at the hands of Roxy, for if she\never went beyond scolding him sharply for \"forgitt'n' who his young\nmarster was,\" she at least never extended her punishment beyond a box on\nthe ear. No, Percy Driscoll was the person. He told Chambers that under\nno provocation whatever was he privileged to lift his hand against his\nlittle master. Chambers overstepped the line three times, and got three\nsuch convincing canings from the man who was his father and didn't know\nit, that he took Tom's cruelties in all humility after that, and made no\nmore experiments.\n\nOutside of the house the two boys were together all through their\nboyhood. Chambers was strong beyond his years, and a good fighter;\nstrong because he was coarsely fed and hard worked about the house, and\na good fighter because Tom furnished him plenty of practice--on white\nboys whom he hated and was afraid of. Chambers was his constant\nbody-guard, to and from school; he was present on the playground at\nrecess to protect his charge. He fought himself into such a formidable\nreputation, by and by, that Tom could have changed clothes with him, and\n\"ridden in peace,\" like Sir Kay in Launcelot's armor.\n\nHe was good at games of skill, too. Tom staked him with marbles to play\n\"keeps\" with, and then took all the winnings away from him. In the\nwinter season Chambers was on hand, in Tom's worn-out clothes, with\n\"holy\" red mittens, and \"holy\" shoes, and pants \"holy\" at the knees and\nseat, to drag a sled up the hill for Tom, warmly clad, to ride down on;\nbut he never got a ride himself. He built snow men and snow\nfortifications under Tom's directions. He was Tom's patient target when\nTom wanted to do some snowballing, but the target couldn't fire back.\nChambers carried Tom's skates to the river and strapped them on him,\nthen trotted around after him on the ice, so as to be on hand when\nwanted; but he wasn't ever asked to try the skates himself.\n\nIn summer the pet pastime of the boys of Dawson's Landing was to steal\napples, peaches, and melons from the farmers' fruit-wagons,--mainly on\naccount of the risk they ran of getting their heads laid open with the\nbutt of the farmer's whip. Tom was a distinguished adept at these\nthefts--by proxy. Chambers did his stealing, and got the peach-stones,\napple-cores, and melon-rinds for his share.\n\nTom always made Chambers go in swimming with him, and stay by him as a\nprotection. When Tom had had enough, he would slip out and tie knots in\nChambers's shirt, dip the knots in the water and make them hard to undo,\nthen dress himself and sit by and laugh while the naked shiverer tugged\nat the stubborn knots with his teeth.\n\nTom did his humble comrade these various ill turns partly out of native\nviciousness, and partly because he hated him for his superiorities of\nphysique and pluck, and for his manifold cleverness. Tom couldn't dive,\nfor it gave him splitting headaches. Chambers could dive without\ninconvenience, and was fond of doing it. He excited so much admiration,\none day, among a crowd of white boys, by throwing back somersaults from\nthe stern of a canoe, that it wearied Tom's spirit, and at last he\nshoved the canoe underneath Chambers while he was in the air--so he came\ndown on his head in the canoe-bottom; and while he lay unconscious,\nseveral of Tom's ancient adversaries saw that their long-desired\nopportunity was come, and they gave the false heir such a drubbing that\nwith Chambers's best help he was hardly able to drag himself home\nafterward.\n\nWhen the boys were fifteen and upward, Tom was \"showing off\" in the\nriver one day, when he was taken with a cramp, and shouted for help. It\nwas a common trick with the boys--particularly if a stranger was\npresent--to pretend a cramp and howl for help; then when the stranger\ncame tearing hand over hand to the rescue, the howler would go on\nstruggling and howling till he was close at hand, then replace the howl\nwith a sarcastic smile and swim blandly away, while the town boys\nassailed the dupe with a volley of jeers and laughter. Tom had never\ntried this joke as yet, but was supposed to be trying it now, so the\nboys held warily back; but Chambers believed his master was in earnest,\ntherefore he swam out, and arrived in time, unfortunately, and saved his\nlife.\n\nThis was the last feather. Tom had managed to endure everything else,\nbut to have to remain publicly and permanently under such an obligation\nas this to a nigger, and to this nigger of all niggers--this was too\nmuch. He heaped insults upon Chambers for \"pretending\" to think he was\nin earnest in calling for help, and said that anybody but a block-headed\nnigger would have known he was funning and left him alone.\n\nTom's enemies were in strong force here, so they came out with their\nopinions quite freely. They laughed at him, and called him coward, liar,\nsneak, and other sorts of pet names, and told him they meant to call\nChambers by a new name after this, and make it common in the town--\"Tom\nDriscoll's niggerpappy,\"--to signify that he had had a second birth into\nthis life, and that Chambers was the author of his new being. Tom grew\nfrantic under these taunts, and shouted--\n\n\"Knock their heads off, Chambers! knock their heads off! What do you\nstand there with your hands in your pockets for?\"\n\nChambers expostulated, and said, \"But, Marse Tom, dey's too many of\n'em--dey's--\"\n\n\"Do you hear me?\"\n\n\"Please, Marse Tom, don't make me! Dey's so many of 'em dat--\"\n\nTom sprang at him and drove his pocket-knife into him two or three times\nbefore the boys could snatch him away and give the wounded lad a chance\nto escape. He was considerably hurt, but not seriously. If the blade had\nbeen a little longer his career would have ended there.\n\nTom had long ago taught Roxy \"her place.\" It had been many a day now\nsince she had ventured a caress or a fondling epithet in his quarter.\nSuch things, from a \"nigger,\" were repulsive to him, and she had been\nwarned to keep her distance and remember who she was. She saw her\ndarling gradually cease from being her son, she saw that detail perish\nutterly; all that was left was master--master, pure and simple, and it\nwas not a gentle mastership, either. She saw herself sink from the\nsublime height of motherhood to the somber depths of unmodified slavery.\nThe abyss of separation between her and her boy was complete. She was\nmerely his chattel, now, his convenience, his dog, his cringing and\nhelpless slave, the humble and unresisting victim of his capricious\ntemper and vicious nature.\n\nSometimes she could not go to sleep, even when worn out with fatigue,\nbecause her rage boiled so high over the day's experiences with her boy.\nShe would mumble and mutter to herself--\n\n\"He struck me, en I warn't no way to blame--struck me in de face, right\nbefore folks. En he's al'ays callin' me nigger-wench, en hussy, en all\ndem mean names, when I's doin' de very bes' I kin. Oh, Lord, I done so\nmuch for him--I lift' him away up to what he is--en dis is what I git\nfor it.\"\n\nSometimes when some outrage of peculiar offensiveness stung her to the\nheart, she would plan schemes of vengeance and revel in the fancied\nspectacle of his exposure to the world as an imposter and a slave; but\nin the midst of these joys fear would strike her: she had made him too\nstrong; she could prove nothing, and--heavens, she might get sold down\nthe river for her pains! So her schemes always went for nothing, and she\nlaid them aside in impotent rage against the fates, and against herself\nfor playing the fool on that fatal September day in not providing\nherself with a witness for use in the day when such a thing might be\nneeded for the appeasing of her vengeance-hungry heart.\n\nAnd yet the moment Tom happened to be good to her, and kind,--and this\noccurred every now and then,--all her sore places were healed, and she\nwas happy; happy and proud, for this was her son, her nigger son,\nlording it among the whites and securely avenging their crimes against\nher race.\n\nThere were two grand funerals in Dawson's Landing that fall--the fall of\n1845. One was that of Colonel Cecil Burleigh Essex, the other that of\nPercy Driscoll.\n\nOn his death-bed Driscoll set Roxy free and delivered his idolized\nostensible son solemnly into the keeping of his brother, the Judge and\nhis wife. Those childless people were glad to get him. Childless people\nare not difficult to please.\n\nJudge Driscoll had gone privately to his brother, a month before, and\nbought Chambers. He had heard that Tom had been trying to get his father\nto sell the boy down the river, and he wanted to prevent the\nscandal--for public sentiment did not approve of that way of treating\nfamily servants for light cause or for no cause.\n\nPercy Driscoll had worn himself out in trying to save his great\nspeculative landed estate, and had died without succeeding. He was\nhardly in his grave before the boom collapsed and left his hitherto\nenvied young devil of an heir a pauper. But that was nothing; his uncle\ntold him he should be his heir and have all his fortune when he died; so\nTom was comforted.\n\nRoxy had no home, now; so she resolved to go around and say good-by to\nher friends and then clear out and see the world--that is to say, she\nwould go chambermaiding on a steamboat, the darling ambition of her race\nand sex.\n\nHer last call was on the black giant, Jasper. She found him chopping\nPudd'nhead Wilson's winter provision of wood.\n\nWilson was chatting with him when Roxy arrived. He asked her how she\ncould bear to go off chambermaiding and leave her boys; and chaffingly\noffered to copy off a series of their finger-prints, reaching up to\ntheir twelfth year, for her to remember them by; but she sobered in a\nmoment, wondering if he suspected anything; then she said she believed\nshe didn't want them. Wilson said to himself, \"The drop of black blood\nin her is superstitious; she thinks there's some devilry, some\nwitch-business about my glass mystery somewhere; she used to come here\nwith an old horseshoe in her hand; it could have been an accident, but I\ndoubt it.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nThe Twins Thrill Dawson's Landing.\n\nTraining is everything. The peach was once a bitter almond; cauliflower\nis nothing but cabbage with a college education.--Pudd'nhead Wilson's\nCalendar.\n\nRemark of Dr. Baldwin's, concerning upstarts: We don't care to eat\ntoadstools that think they are truffles.--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.\n\nMrs. York Driscoll enjoyed two years of bliss with that prize,\nTom--bliss that was troubled a little at times, it is true, but bliss\nnevertheless; then she died, and her husband and his childless sister,\nMrs. Pratt, continued the bliss-business at the old stand. Tom was\npetted and indulged and spoiled to his entire content--or nearly that.\nThis went on till he was nineteen, then he was sent to Yale. He went\nhandsomely equipped with \"conditions,\" but otherwise he was not an\nobject of distinction there. He remained at Yale two years, and then\nthrew up the struggle. He came home with his manners a good deal\nimproved; he had lost his surliness and brusqueness, and was rather\npleasantly soft and smooth, now; he was furtively, and sometimes openly,\nironical of speech, and given to gently touching people on the raw, but\nhe did it with a good-natured semiconscious air that carried it off\nsafely, and kept him from getting into trouble. He was as indolent as\never and showed no very strenuous desire to hunt up an occupation.\nPeople argued from this that he preferred to be supported by his uncle\nuntil his uncle's shoes should become vacant. He brought back one or two\nnew habits with him, one of which he rather openly\npractised--tippling--but concealed another which was gambling. It would\nnot do to gamble where his uncle could hear of it; he knew that quite\nwell.\n\nTom's Eastern polish was not popular among the young people. They could\nhave endured it, perhaps, if Tom had stopped there; but he wore gloves,\nand that they couldn't stand, and wouldn't; so he was mainly without\nsociety. He brought home with him a suit of clothes of such exquisite\nstyle and cut and fashion,--Eastern fashion, city fashion,--that it\nfilled everybody with anguish and was regarded as a peculiarly wanton\naffront. He enjoyed the feeling which he was exciting, and paraded the\ntown serene and happy all day; but the young fellows set a tailor to\nwork that night, and when Tom started out on his parade next morning he\nfound the old deformed negro bell-ringer straddling along in his wake\ntricked out in a flamboyant curtain-calico exaggeration of his finery,\nand imitating his fancy Eastern graces as well as he could.\n\nTom surrendered, and after that clothed himself in the local fashion.\nBut the dull country town was tiresome to him, since his\nacquaintanceship with livelier regions, and it grew daily more and more\nso. He began to make little trips to St. Louis for refreshment. There he\nfound companionship to suit him, and pleasures to his taste, along with\nmore freedom, in some particulars, than he could have at home. So,\nduring the next two years his visits to the city grew in frequency and\nhis tarryings there grew steadily longer in duration.\n\nHe was getting into deep waters. He was taking chances, privately, which\nmight get him into trouble some day--in fact, did.\n\nJudge Driscoll had retired from the bench and from all business\nactivities in 1850, and had now been comfortably idle three years. He\nwas president of the Free-thinkers' Society, and Pudd'nhead Wilson was\nthe other member. The society's weekly discussions were now the old\nlawyer's main interest in life. Pudd'nhead was still toiling in\nobscurity at the bottom of the ladder, under the blight of that unlucky\nremark which he had let fall twenty-three years before about the dog.\n\nJudge Driscoll was his friend, and claimed that he had a mind above the\naverage, but that was regarded as one of the Judge's whims, and it\nfailed to modify the public opinion. Or rather, that was one of the\nreasons why it failed, but there was another and better one. If the\nJudge had stopped with bare assertion, it would have had a good deal of\neffect; but he made the mistake of trying to prove his position. For\nsome years Wilson had been privately at work on a whimsical almanac, for\nhis amusement--a calendar, with a little dab of ostensible philosophy,\nusually in ironical form, appended to each date; and the Judge thought\nthat these quips and fancies of Wilson's were neatly turned and cute; so\nhe carried a handful of them around, one day, and read them to some of\nthe chief citizens. But irony was not for those people; their mental\nvision was not focussed for it. They read those playful trifles in the\nsolidest earnest, and decided without hesitancy that if there had ever\nbeen any doubt that Dave Wilson was a pudd'nhead--which there\nhadn't--this revelation removed that doubt for good and all. That is\njust the way in this world; an enemy can partly ruin a man, but it takes\na good-natured injudicious friend to complete the thing and make it\nperfect. After this the Judge felt tenderer than ever toward Wilson, and\nsurer than ever that his calendar had merit.\n\nJudge Driscoll could be a free-thinker and still hold his place in\nsociety because he was the person of most consequence in the community,\nand therefore could venture to go his own way and follow out his own\nnotions. The other member of his pet organization was allowed the like\nliberty because he was a cipher in the estimation of the public, and\nnobody attached any importance to what he thought or did. He was liked,\nhe was welcome enough all around, but he simply didn't count for\nanything.\n\nThe widow Cooper--affectionately called \"aunt Patsy\" by everybody--lived\nin a snug and comely cottage with her daughter Rowena, who was nineteen,\nromantic, amiable, and very pretty, but otherwise of no consequence.\nRowena had a couple of young brothers--also of no consequence.\n\nThe widow had a large spare room which she let to a lodger, with board,\nwhen she could find one, but this room had been empty for a year now, to\nher sorrow. Her income was only sufficient for the family support, and\nshe needed the lodging-money for trifling luxuries. But now, at last, on\na flaming June day, she found herself happy; her tedious wait was ended;\nher year-worn advertisement had been answered; and not by a village\napplicant, oh, no!--this letter was from away off yonder in the dim\ngreat world to the North: it was from St. Louis. She sat on her porch\ngazing out with unseeing eyes upon the shining reaches of the mighty\nMississippi, her thoughts steeped in her good fortune. Indeed, it was\nspecially good fortune, for she was to have two lodgers instead of one.\n\nShe had read the letter to the family, and Rowena had danced away to see\nto the cleaning and airing of the room by the slave woman Nancy, and the\nboys had rushed abroad in the town to spread the great news, for it was\nmatter of public interest, and the public would wonder and not be\npleased if not informed. Presently Rowena returned, all ablush with\njoyous excitement, and begged for a re-reading of the letter. It was\nframed thus:\n\nHonored Madam: My brother and I have seen your advertisement, by chance,\nand beg leave to take the room you offer. We are twenty-four years of\nage and twins. We are Italians by birth, but have lived long in the\nvarious countries of Europe, and several years in the United States. Our\nnames are Luigi and Angelo Capello. You desire but one guest; but dear\nMadam, if you will allow us to pay for two, we will not incommode you.\nWe shall be down Thursday.\n\n\"Italians! How romantic! Just think, ma--there's never been one in this\ntown, and everybody will be dying to see them, and they're all ours!\nThink of that!\"\n\n\"Yes, I reckon they'll make a grand stir.\"\n\n\"Oh, indeed they will. The whole town will be on its head!\nThink--they've been in Europe and everywhere! There's never been a\ntraveler in this town before. Ma, I shouldn't wonder if they've seen\nkings!\"\n\n\"Well, a body can't tell, but they'll make stir enough, without that.\"\n\n\"Yes, that's of course. Luigi--Angelo. They're lovely names; and so\ngrand and foreign--not like Jones and Robinson and such. Thursday they\nare coming, and this is only Tuesday; it's a cruel long time to wait.\nHere comes Judge Driscoll in at the gate. He's heard about it. I'll go\nand open the door.\"\n\nThe Judge was full of congratulations and curiosity. The letter was read\nand discussed. Soon Justice Robinson arrived with more congratulations,\nand there was a new reading and a new discussion. This was the\nbeginning. Neighbor after neighbor, of both sexes, followed, and the\nprocession drifted in and out all day and evening and all Wednesday and\nThursday. The letter was read and re-read until it was nearly worn out;\neverybody admired its courtly and gracious tone, and smooth and\npractised style, everybody was sympathetic and excited, and the Coopers\nwere steeped in happiness all the while.\n\nThe boats were very uncertain in low water, in these primitive times.\nThis time the Thursday boat had not arrived at ten at night--so the\npeople had waited at the landing all day for nothing; they were driven\nto their homes by a heavy storm without having had a view of the\nillustrious foreigners.\n\nEleven o'clock came; and the Cooper house was the only one in the town\nthat still had lights burning. The rain and thunder were booming yet,\nand the anxious family were still waiting, still hoping. At last there\nwas a knock at the door and the family jumped to open it. Two negro men\nentered, each carrying a trunk, and proceeded up-stairs toward the\nguest-room. Then entered the twins--the handsomest, the best dressed,\nthe most distinguished-looking pair of young fellows the West had ever\nseen. One was a little fairer than the other, but otherwise they were\nexact duplicates.\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nSwimming in Glory.\n\nLet us endeavor so to live that when we come to die even the undertaker\nwill be sorry.--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.\n\nHabit is habit, and not to be flung out of the window by any man, but\ncoaxed down-stairs a step at a time.--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.\n\nAt breakfast in the morning the twins' charm of manner and easy and\npolished bearing made speedy conquest of the family's good graces. All\nconstraint and formality quickly disappeared, and the friendliest\nfeeling succeeded. Aunt Patsy called them by their Christian names\nalmost from the beginning. She was full of the keenest curiosity about\nthem, and showed it; they responded by talking about themselves, which\npleased her greatly. It presently appeared that in their early youth\nthey had known poverty and hardship. As the talk wandered along the old\nlady watched for the right place to drop in a question or two concerning\nthat matter, and when she found it she said to the blond twin who was\nnow doing the biographies in his turn while the brunette one rested--\n\n\"If it ain't asking what I ought not to ask, Mr. Angelo, how did you\ncome to be so friendless and in such trouble when you were little? Do\nyou mind telling? But don't if you do.\"\n\n\"Oh, we don't mind it at all, madam; in our case it was merely\nmisfortune, and nobody's fault. Our parents were well to do, there in\nItaly, and we were their only child. We were of the old Florentine\nnobility\"--Rowena's heart gave a great bound, her nostrils expanded, and\na fine light played in her eyes--\"and when the war broke out my father\nwas on the losing side and had to fly for his life. His estates were\nconfiscated, his personal property seized, and there we were, in\nGermany, strangers, friendless, and in fact paupers. My brother and I\nwere ten years old, and well educated for that age, very studious, very\nfond of our books, and well grounded in the German, French, Spanish, and\nEnglish languages. Also, we were marvelous musical prodigies--if you\nwill allow me to say it, it being only the truth.\n\n\"Our father survived his misfortunes only a month, our mother soon\nfollowed him, and we were alone in the world. Our parents could have\nmade themselves comfortable by exhibiting us as a show, and they had\nmany and large offers; but the thought revolted their pride, and they\nsaid they would starve and die first. But what they wouldn't consent to\ndo we had to do without the formality of consent. We were seized for the\ndebts occasioned by their illness and their funerals, and placed among\nthe attractions of a cheap museum in Berlin to earn the liquidation\nmoney. It took us two years to get out of that slavery. We traveled all\nabout Germany receiving no wages, and not even our keep. We had to be\nexhibited for nothing, and beg our bread.\n\n\"Well, madam, the rest is not of much consequence. When we escaped from\nthat slavery at twelve years of age, we were in some respects men.\nExperience had taught us some valuable things; among others, how to take\ncare of ourselves, how to avoid and defeat sharks and sharpers, and how\nto conduct our own business for our own profit and without other\npeople's help. We traveled everywhere--years and years--picking up\nsmatterings of strange tongues, familiarizing ourselves with strange\nsights and strange customs, accumulating an education of a wide and\nvaried and curious sort. It was a pleasant life. We went to Venice--to\nLondon, Paris, Russia, India, China, Japan--\"\n\nAt this point Nancy the slave woman thrust her head in at the door and\nexclaimed:\n\n\"Ole Missus, de house is plum' jam full o' people, en dey's jes\na-spi'lin' to see de gen'lmen!\" She indicated the twins with a nod of\nher head, and tucked it back out of sight again.\n\nIt was a proud occasion for the widow, and she promised herself high\nsatisfaction in showing off her fine foreign birds before her neighbors\nand friends--simple folk who had hardly ever seen a foreigner of any\nkind, and never one of any distinction or style. Yet her feeling was\nmoderate indeed when contrasted with Rowena's. Rowena was in the clouds,\nshe walked on air; this was to be the greatest day, the most romantic\nepisode, in the colorless history of that dull country town. She was to\nbe familiarly near the source of its glory and feel the full flood of it\npour over her and about her; the other girls could only gaze and envy,\nnot partake.\n\nThe widow was ready, Rowena was ready, so also were the foreigners.\n\nThe party moved along the hall, the twins in advance, and entered the\nopen parlor door, whence issued a low hum of conversation. The twins\ntook a position near the door, the widow stood at Luigi's side, Rowena\nstood beside Angelo, and the march-past and the introductions began. The\nwidow was all smiles and contentment. She received the procession and\npassed it on to Rowena.\n\n\"Good mornin', Sister Cooper\"--hand-shake.\n\n\"Good morning, Brother Higgins--Count Luigi Capello, Mr. \nHiggins\"--hand-shake, followed by a devouring stare and \"I'm glad to see\nye,\" on the part of Higgins, and a courteous inclination of the head and\na pleasant \"Most happy!\" on the part of Count Luigi.\n\n\"Good mornin', Roweny\"--hand-shake.\n\n\"Good morning, Mr. Higgins--present you to Count Angelo Capello.\"\nHand-shake, admiring stare, \"Glad to see ye,\"--courteous nod, smily\n\"Most happy!\" and Higgins passes on.\n\nNone of these visitors was at ease, but, being honest people, they\ndidn't pretend to be. None of them had ever seen a person bearing a\ntitle of nobility before, and none had been expecting to see one now,\nconsequently the title came upon them as a kind of pile-driving surprise\nand caught them unprepared. A few tried to rise to the emergency, and\ngot out an awkward \"My lord,\" or \"Your lordship,\" or something of that\nsort, but the great majority were overwhelmed by the unaccustomed word\nand its dim and awful associations with gilded courts and stately\nceremony and anointed kingship, so they only fumbled through the\nhand-shake and passed on, speechless. Now and then, as happens at all\nreceptions everywhere, a more than ordinary friendly soul blocked the\nprocession and kept it waiting while he inquired how the brothers liked\nthe village, and how long they were going to stay, and if their families\nwere well, and dragged in the weather, and hoped it would get cooler\nsoon, and all that sort of thing, so as to be able to say, when they got\nhome, \"I had quite a long talk with them\"; but nobody did or said\nanything of a regrettable kind, and so the great affair went through to\nthe end in a creditable and satisfactory fashion.\n\nGeneral conversation followed, and the twins drifted about from group to\ngroup, talking easily and fluently and winning approval, compelling\nadmiration and achieving favor from all. The widow followed their\nconquering march with a proud eye, and every now and then Rowena said to\nherself with deep satisfaction, \"And to think they are ours--all ours!\"\n\nThere were no idle moments for mother or daughter. Eager inquiries\nconcerning the twins were pouring into their enchanted ears all the\ntime; each was the constant center of a group of breathless listeners;\neach recognized that she knew now for the first time the real meaning of\nthat great word Glory, and perceived the stupendous value of it, and\nunderstood why men in all ages had been willing to throw away meaner\nhappinesses, treasure, life itself, to get a taste of its sublime and\nsupreme joy. Napoleon and all his kind stood accounted for--and\njustified.\n\nWhen Rowena had at last done all her duty by the people in the parlor,\nshe went up-stairs to satisfy the longings of an overflow-meeting there,\nfor the parlor was not big enough to hold all the comers. Again she was\nbesieged by eager questioners and again she swam in sunset seas of\nglory. When the forenoon was nearly gone, she recognized with a pang\nthat this most splendid episode of her life was almost over, that\nnothing could prolong it, that nothing quite its equal could ever fall\nto her fortune again. But never mind, it was sufficient unto itself, the\ngrand occasion had moved on an ascending scale from the start, and was a\nnoble and memorable success. If the twins could but do some crowning\nact, now, to climax it, something unusual, something startling,\nsomething to concentrate upon themselves the company's loftiest\nadmiration, something in the nature of an electric surprise--\n\nHere a prodigious slam-banging broke out below, and everybody rushed\ndown to see. It was the twins knocking out a classic four-handed piece\non the piano, in great style. Rowena was satisfied--satisfied down to\nthe bottom of her heart.\n\nThe young strangers were kept long at the piano. The villagers were\nastonished and enchanted with the magnificence of their performance, and\ncould not bear to have them stop. All the music that they had ever heard\nbefore seemed spiritless prentice-work and barren of grace or charm when\ncompared with these intoxicating floods of melodious sound. They\nrealized that for once in their lives they were hearing masters.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\nThe Unknown Nymph\n\nOne of the most striking differences between a cat and a lie is that a\ncat has only nine lives.--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.\n\nThe company broke up reluctantly, and drifted toward their several\nhomes, chatting with vivacity, and all agreeing that it would be many a\nlong day before Dawson's Landing would see the equal of this one again.\nThe twins had accepted several invitations while the reception was in\nprogress, and had also volunteered to play some duets at an amateur\nentertainment for the benefit of a local charity. Society was eager to\nreceive them to its bosom. Judge Driscoll had the good fortune to secure\nthem for an immediate drive, and to be the first to display them in\npublic. They entered his buggy with him, and were paraded down the main\nstreet, everybody flocking to the windows and sidewalks to see.\n\nThe Judge showed the strangers the new graveyard, and the jail, and\nwhere the richest man lived, and the Freemasons' hall, and the Methodist\nchurch, and the Presbyterian church, and where the Baptist church was\ngoing to be when they got some money to build it with, and showed them\nthe town hall and the slaughter-house, and got out the independent fire\ncompany in uniform and had them put out an imaginary fire; then he let\nthem inspect the muskets of the militia company, and poured out an\nexhaustless stream of enthusiasm over all these splendors, and seemed\nvery well satisfied with the responses he got, for the twins admired his\nadmiration, and paid him back the best they could, though they could\nhave done better if some fifteen or sixteen hundred thousand previous\nexperiences of this sort in various countries had not already rubbed off\na considerable part of the novelty of it.\n\nThe Judge laid himself out hospitably to make them have a good time, and\nif there was a defect anywhere it was not his fault. He told them a good\nmany humorous anecdotes, and always forgot the nub, but they were always\nable to furnish it, for these yarns were of a pretty early vintage, and\nthey had had many a rejuvenating pull at them before. And he told them\nall about his several dignities, and how he had held this and that and\nthe other place of honor or profit, and had once been to the\nlegislature, and was now president of the Society of Free-thinkers. He\nsaid the society had been in existence four years, and already had two\nmembers, and was firmly established. He would call for the brothers in\nthe evening if they would like to attend a meeting of it.\n\nAccordingly he called for them, and on the way he told them all about\nPudd'nhead Wilson, in order that they might get a favorable impression\nof him in advance and be prepared to like him. This scheme\nsucceeded--the favorable impression was achieved. Later it was confirmed\nand solidified when Wilson proposed that out of courtesy to the\nstrangers the usual topics be put aside and the hour be devoted to\nconversation upon ordinary subjects and the cultivation of friendly\nrelations and good-fellowship,--a proposition which was put to vote and\ncarried.\n\nThe hour passed quickly away in lively talk, and when it was ended the\nlonesome and neglected Wilson was richer by two friends than he had been\nwhen it began. He invited the twins to look in at his lodgings,\npresently, after disposing of an intervening engagement, and they\naccepted with pleasure.\n\nToward the middle of the evening they found themselves on the road to\nhis house. Pudd'nhead was at home waiting for them and putting in his\ntime puzzling over a thing which had come under his notice that morning.\nThe matter was this: He happened to be up very early--at dawn, in fact;\nand he crossed the hall which divided his cottage through the center,\nand entered a room to get something there. The window of the room had no\ncurtains, for that side of the house had long been unoccupied, and\nthrough this window he caught sight of something which surprised and\ninterested him. It was a young woman--a young woman where properly no\nyoung woman belonged; for she was in Judge Driscoll's house, and in the\nbedroom over the Judge's private study or sitting-room. This was young\nTom Driscoll's bedroom. He and the Judge, the Judge's widowed sister\nMrs. Pratt and three negro servants were the only people who belonged in\nthe house. Who, then, might this young lady be? The two houses were\nseparated by an ordinary yard, with a low fence running back through its\nmiddle from the street in front to the lane in the rear. The distance\nwas not great, and Wilson was able to see the girl very well, the\nwindow-shades of the room she was in being up, and the window also. The\ngirl had on a neat and trim summer dress, patterned in broad stripes of\npink and white, and her bonnet was equipped with a pink veil. She was\npractising steps, gaits and attitudes, apparently; she was doing the\nthing gracefully, and was very much absorbed in her work. Who could she\nbe, and how came she to be in young Tom Driscoll's room?\n\nWilson had quickly chosen a position from which he could watch the girl\nwithout running much risk of being seen by her, and he remained there\nhoping she would raise her veil and betray her face. But she\ndisappointed him. After a matter of twenty minutes she disappeared, and\nalthough he stayed at his post half an hour longer, she came no more.\n\nToward noon he dropped in at the Judge's and talked with Mrs. Pratt\nabout the great event of the day, the levee of the distinguished\nforeigners at Aunt Patsy Cooper's. He asked after her nephew Tom, and\nshe said he was on his way home, and that she was expecting him to\narrive a little before night; and added that she and the Judge were\ngratified to gather from his letters that he was conducting himself very\nnicely and creditably--at which Wilson winked to himself privately.\nWilson did not ask if there was a newcomer in the house, but he asked\nquestions that would have brought light-throwing answers as to that\nmatter if Mrs. Pratt had had any light to throw; so he went away\nsatisfied that he knew of things that were going on in her house of\nwhich she herself was not aware.\n\nHe was now waiting for the twins, and still puzzling over the problem of\nwho that girl might be, and how she happened to be in that young\nfellow's room at daybreak in the morning.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\nMarse Tom Tramples His Chance.\n\nThe holy passion of Friendship is of so sweet and steady and loyal and\nenduring a nature that it will last through a whole lifetime, if not\nasked to lend money.--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.\n\nConsider well the proportions of things. It is better to be a young\nJune-bug than an old bird of paradise.--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.\n\nIt is necessary now, to hunt up Roxy.\n\nAt the time she was set free and went away chambermaiding, she was\nthirty-five. She got a berth as second chambermaid on a Cincinnati boat\nin the New Orleans trade, the Grand Mogul. A couple of trips made her\nwonted and easy-going at the work, and infatuated her with the stir and\nadventure and independence of steamboat life. Then she was promoted and\nbecame head chambermaid. She was a favorite with the officers, and\nexceedingly proud of their joking and friendly way with her.\n\nDuring eight years she served three parts of the year on that boat, and\nthe winters on a Vicksburg packet. But now for two months she had had\nrheumatism in her arms, and was obliged to let the wash-tub alone. So\nshe resigned. But she was well fixed--rich, as she would have described\nit; for she had lived a steady life, and had banked four dollars every\nmonth in New Orleans as a provision for her old age. She said in the\nstart that she had \"put shoes on one bar'footed nigger to tromple on her\nwith,\" and that one mistake like that was enough; she would be\nindependent of the human race thenceforth forevermore if hard work and\neconomy could accomplish it. When the boat touched the levee at New\nOrleans she bade good-by to her comrades on the Grand Mogul and moved\nher kit ashore.\n\nBut she was back in a hour. The bank had gone to smash and carried her\nfour hundred dollars with it. She was a pauper, and homeless. Also\ndisabled bodily, at least for the present. The officers were full of\nsympathy for her in her trouble, and made up a little purse for her. She\nresolved to go to her birthplace; she had friends there among the\nnegroes, and the unfortunate always help the unfortunate, she was well\naware of that; those lowly comrades of her youth would not let her\nstarve.\n\nShe took the little local packet at Cairo, and now she was on the\nhome-stretch. Time had worn away her bitterness against her son, and she\nwas able to think of him with serenity. She put the vile side of him out\nof her mind, and dwelt only on recollections of his occasional acts of\nkindness to her. She gilded and otherwise decorated these, and made them\nvery pleasant to contemplate. She began to long to see him. She would go\nand fawn upon him, slave-like--for this would have to be her attitude,\nof course--and maybe she would find that time had modified him, and that\nhe would be glad to see his long-forgotten old nurse and treat her\ngently. That would be lovely; that would make her forget her woes and\nher poverty.\n\nHer poverty! That thought inspired her to add another castle to her\ndream: maybe he would give her a trifle now and then--maybe a dollar,\nonce a month, say; any little thing like that would help, oh, ever so\nmuch.\n\nBy the time she reached Dawson's Landing she was her old self again; her\nblues were gone, she was in high feather. She would get along, surely;\nthere were many kitchens where the servants would share their meals with\nher, and also steal sugar and apples and other dainties for her to carry\nhome--or give her a chance to pilfer them herself, which would answer\njust as well. And there was the church. She was a more rabid and devoted\nMethodist than ever, and her piety was no sham, but was strong and\nsincere. Yes, with plenty of creature comforts and her old place in the\namen-corner in her possession again, she would be perfectly happy and at\npeace thenceforward to the end.\n\nShe went to Judge Driscoll's kitchen first of all. She was received\nthere in great form and with vast enthusiasm. Her wonderful travels, and\nthe strange countries she had seen and the adventures she had had, made\nher a marvel, and a heroine of romance. The negroes hung enchanted upon\nthe great story of her experiences, interrupting her all along with\neager questions, with laughter, exclamations of delight and expressions\nof applause; and she was obliged to confess to herself that if there was\nanything better in this world than steamboating, it was the glory to be\ngot by telling about it. The audience loaded her stomach with their\ndinners, and then stole the pantry bare to load up her basket.\n\nTom was in St. Louis. The servants said he had spent the best part of\nhis time there during the previous two years. Roxy came every day, and\nhad many talks about the family and its affairs. Once she asked why Tom\nwas away so much. The ostensible \"Chambers\" said:\n\n\"De fac' is, ole marster kin git along better when young marster's away\nden he kin when he's in de town; yes, en he love him better, too; so he\ngives him fifty dollahs a month--\"\n\n\"No, is dat so? Chambers, you's a-jokin', ain't you?\"\n\n\"'Clah to goodness I ain't, mammy; Marse Tom tole me so his own self.\nBut nemmine, 'tain't enough.\"\n\n\"My lan', what de reason 'tain't enough?\"\n\n\"Well, I's gwine to tell you, if you gimme a chanst, mammy. De reason it\nain't enough is 'ca'se Marse Tom gambles.\"\n\nRoxy threw up her hands in astonishment and Chambers went on--\n\n\"Ole marster found it out, 'ca'se he had to pay two hundred dollahs for\nMarse Tom's gamblin' debts, en dat's true, mammy, jes as dead certain as\nyou's bawn.\"\n\n\"Two--hund'd--dollahs! Why, what is you talkin' 'bout? \nTwo--hund'd--dollahs. Sakes alive, it's 'mos' enough to buy a tol'able\ngood second-hand nigger wid. En you ain't lyin', honey?--you wouldn't\nlie to yo' ole mammy?\"\n\n\"It's God's own truth, jes as I tell you--two hund'd dollahs--I wisht I\nmay never stir outen my tracks if it ain't so. En, oh, my lan', ole\nMarse was jes a-hoppin'! he was b'ilin' mad, I tell you! He tuck 'n'\ndissenhurrit him.\"\n\nHe licked his chops with relish after that stately word. Roxy struggled\nwith it a moment, then gave it up and said--\n\n\"Dissenwhiched him?\"\n\n\"Dissenhurrit him.\"\n\n\"What's dat? What do it mean?\"\n\n\"Means he bu'sted de will.\"\n\n\"Bu's--ted de will! He wouldn't ever treat him so! Take it back, you\nmis'able imitation nigger dat I bore in sorrow en tribbilation.\"\n\nRoxy's pet castle--an occasional dollar from Tom's pocket--was tumbling\nto ruin before her eyes. She could not abide such a disaster as that;\nshe couldn't endure the thought of it. Her remark amused Chambers:\n\n\"Yah-yah-yah! jes listen to dat! If I's imitation, what is you? Bofe of\nus is imitation white--dat's what we is--en pow'ful good imitation,\ntoo--yah-yah-yah!--we don't 'mount to noth'n as imitation niggers; en as\nfor--\"\n\n\"Shet up yo' foolin', 'fo' I knock you side de head, en tell me 'bout de\nwill. Tell me 'tain't bu'sted--do, honey, en I'll never forgit you.\"\n\n\"Well, 'tain't--'ca'se dey's a new one made, en Marse Tom's all right\nag'in. But what is you in sich a sweat 'bout it for, mammy? 'Tain't none\no' your business I don't reckon.\"\n\n\"'Tain't none o' my business? Whose business is it den, I'd like to\nknow? Wuz I his mother tell he was fifteen years old, or wusn't I?--you\nanswer me dat. En you speck I could see him turned out po' en ornery on\nde worl' en never care noth'n' 'bout it? I reckon if you'd ever be'n a\nmother yo'self, Valet de Chambers, you wouldn't talk sich foolishness as\ndat.\"\n\n\"Well, den, ole Marse forgive him en fixed up de will ag'in--do dat\nsatisfy you?\"\n\nYes, she was satisfied now, and quite happy and sentimental over it. She\nkept coming daily, and at last she was told that Tom had come home. She\nbegan to tremble with emotion, and straightway sent to beg him to let\nhis \"po' ole nigger mammy have jes one sight of him en die for joy.\"\n\nTom was stretched at his lazy ease on a sofa when Chambers brought the\npetition. Time had not modified his ancient detestation of the humble\ndrudge and protector of his boyhood; it was still bitter and\nuncompromising. He sat up and bent a severe gaze upon the fair face of\nthe young fellow whose name he was unconsciously using and whose family\nrights he was enjoying. He maintained the gaze until the victim of it\nhad become satisfactorily pallid with terror, then he said--\n\n\"What does the old rip want with me?\"\n\nThe petition was meekly repeated.\n\n\"Who gave you permission to come and disturb me with the social\nattentions of niggers?\"\n\nTom had risen. The other young man was trembling now, visibly. He saw\nwhat was coming, and bent his head sideways, and put up his left arm to\nshield it. Tom rained cuffs upon the head and its shield, saying no\nword: the victim received each blow with a beseeching, \"Please, Marse\nTom!--oh, please, Marse Tom!\" Seven blows--then Tom said, \"Face the\ndoor--march!\" He followed behind with one, two, three solid kicks. The\nlast one helped the pure-white slave over the door-sill, and he limped\naway mopping his eyes with his old ragged sleeve. Tom shouted after him,\n\"Send her in!\"\n\nThen he flung himself panting on the sofa again, and rasped out the\nremark, \"He arrived just at the right moment; I was full to the brim\nwith bitter thinkings, and nobody to take it out of. How refreshing it\nwas! I feel better.\"\n\nTom's mother entered now, closing the door behind her, and approached\nher son with all the wheedling and supplicating servilities that fear\nand interest can impart to the words and attitudes of the born slave.\nShe stopped a yard from her boy and made two or three admiring\nexclamations over his manly stature and general handsomeness, and Tom\nput an arm under his head and hoisted a leg over the sofa-back in order\nto look properly indifferent.\n\n\"My lan', how you is growed, honey! 'Clah to goodness, I wouldn't\na-knowed you, Marse Tom! 'deed I wouldn't! Look at me good; does you\n'member old Roxy?--does you know yo' old nigger mammy, honey? Well, now,\nI kin lay down en die in peace, 'ca'se I'se seed--\"\n\n\"Cut it short, ------ it, cut it short! What is it you want?\"\n\n\"You heah dat? Jes the same old Marse Tom, al'ays so gay and funnin' wid\nde ole mammy. I 'uz jes as shore--\"\n\n\"Cut it short, I tell you, and get along! What do you want?\"\n\nThis was a bitter disappointment. Roxy had for so many days nourished\nand fondled and petted her notion that Tom would be glad to see his old\nnurse, and would make her proud and happy to the marrow with a cordial\nword or two, that it took two rebuffs to convince her that he was not\nfunning, and that her beautiful dream was a fond and foolish vanity, a\nshabby and pitiful mistake. She was hurt to the heart, and so ashamed\nthat for a moment she did not quite know what to do or how to act. Then\nher breast began to heave, the tears came, and in her forlornness she\nwas moved to try that other dream of hers--an appeal to her boy's\ncharity; and so, upon the impulse, and without reflection, she offered\nher supplication:\n\n\"Oh, Marse Tom, de po' ole mammy is in sich hard luck dese days; en\nshe's kinder crippled in de arms and can't work, en if you could gimme a\ndollah--on'y jes one little dol--\"\n\nTom was on his feet so suddenly that the supplicant was startled into a\njump herself.\n\n\"A dollar!--give you a dollar! I've a notion to strangle you! Is that\nyour errand here? Clear out! and be quick about it!\"\n\nRoxy backed slowly toward the door. When she was half-way she stopped,\nand said mournfully:\n\n\"Marse Tom, I nussed you when you was a little baby, en I raised you all\nby myself tell you was 'most a young man; en now you is young en rich,\nen I is po' en gitt'n ole, en I come heah b'lievin' dat you would he'p\nde ole mammy 'long down de little road dat's lef' 'twix' her en de\ngrave, en--\"\n\nTom relished this tune less than any that had preceded it, for it began\nto wake up a sort of echo in his conscience; so he interrupted and said\nwith decision, though without asperity, that he was not in a situation\nto help her, and wasn't going to do it.\n\n\"Ain't you ever gwine to he'p me, Marse Tom?\"\n\n\"No! Now go away and don't bother me any more.\"\n\nRoxy's head was down, in an attitude of humility. But now the fires of\nher old wrongs flamed up in her breast and began to burn fiercely. She\nraised her head slowly, till it was well up, and at the same time her\ngreat frame unconsciously assumed an erect and masterful attitude, with\nall the majesty and grace of her vanished youth in it. She raised her\nfinger and punctuated with it:\n\n\"You has said de word. You has had yo' chance, en you has trompled it\nunder yo' foot. When you git another one, you'll git down on yo' knees\nen beg for it!\"\n\nA cold chill went to Tom's heart, he didn't know why; for he did not\nreflect that such words, from such an incongruous source, and so\nsolemnly delivered, could not easily fail of that effect. However, he\ndid the natural thing: he replied with bluster and mockery:\n\n\"You'll give me a chance--you! Perhaps I'd better get down on my knees\nnow! But in case I don't--just for argument's sake--what's going to\nhappen, pray?\"\n\n\"Dis is what is gwine to happen. I's gwine as straight to yo' uncle as I\nkin walk, en tell him every las' thing I knows 'bout you.\"\n\nTom's cheek blenched, and she saw it. Disturbing thoughts began to chase\neach other through his head. \"How can she know? And yet she must have\nfound out--she looks it. I've had the will back only three months, and\nam already deep in debt again, and moving heaven and earth to save\nmyself from exposure and destruction, with a reasonably fair show of\ngetting the thing covered up if I'm let alone, and now this fiend has\ngone and found me out somehow or other. I wonder how much she knows? Oh,\noh, oh, it's enough to break a body's heart! But I've got to humor\nher--there's no other way.\"\n\nThen he worked up a rather sickly sample of a gay laugh and a hollow\nchipperness of manner, and said:\n\n\"Well, well, Roxy dear, old friends like you and me mustn't quarrel.\nHere's your dollar--now tell me what you know.\"\n\nHe held out the wild-cat bill; she stood as she was, and made no\nmovement. It was her turn to scorn persuasive foolery, now, and she did\nnot waste it. She said, with a grim implacability in voice and manner\nwhich made Tom almost realize that even a former slave can remember for\nten minutes insults and injuries returned for compliments and flatteries\nreceived, and can also enjoy taking revenge for them when the\nopportunity offers:\n\n\"What does I know? I'll tell you what I knows. I knows enough to bu'st\ndat will to flinders--en more, mind you, more!\"\n\nTom was aghast.\n\n\"More?\" he said. \"What do you call more? Where's there any room for\nmore?\"\n\nRoxy laughed a mocking laugh, and said scoffingly, with a toss of her\nhead, and her hands on her hips--\n\n\"Yes!--oh, I reckon! Co'se you'd like to know--wid yo' po' little ole\nrag dollah. What you reckon I's gwine to tell you for?--you ain't got no\nmoney. I's gwine to tell yo' uncle--en I'll do it dis minute, too--he'll\ngimme five dollahs for de news, en mighty glad, too.\"\n\nShe swung herself around disdainfully, and started away. Tom was in a\npanic. He seized her skirts, and implored her to wait. She turned and\nsaid, loftily--\n\n\"Look-a-heah, what 'uz it I tole you?\"\n\n\"You--you--I don't remember anything. What was it you told me?\"\n\n\"I tole you dat de next time I give you a chance you'd git down on yo'\nknees en beg for it.\"\n\nTom was stupefied for a moment. He was panting with excitement. Then he\nsaid:\n\n\"Oh, Roxy, you wouldn't require your young master to do such a horrible\nthing. You can't mean it.\"\n\n\"I'll let you know mighty quick whether I means it or not! You call me\nnames, en as good as spit on me when I comes here po' en ornery en\n'umble, to praise you for bein' growed up so fine en handsome, en tell\nyou how I used to nuss you en tend you en watch you when you 'uz sick en\nhadn't no mother but me in de whole worl', en beg you to give de po' ole\nnigger a dollah for to git her som'n' to eat, en you call me\nnames--names, dad blame you! Yassir, I gives you jes one chance mo', and\ndat's now, en it las' on'y a half a second--you hear?\"\n\nTom slumped to his knees and began to beg, saying--\n\n\"You see, I'm begging, and it's honest begging, too! Now tell me, Roxy,\ntell me.\"\n\nThe heir of two centuries of unatoned insult and outrage looked down on\nhim and seemed to drink in deep draughts of satisfaction. Then she\nsaid--\n\n\"Fine nice young white gen'l'man kneelin' down to a nigger-wench! I's\nwanted to see dat jes once befo' I's called. Now, Gabr'el, blow de hawn,\nI's ready ... Git up!\"\n\nTom did it. He said, humbly--\n\n\"Now, Roxy, don't punish me any more. I deserved what I've got, but be\ngood and let me off with that. Don't go to uncle. Tell me--I'll give you\nthe five dollars.\"\n\n\"Yes, I bet you will; en you won't stop dah, nuther. But I ain't gwine\nto tell you heah--\"\n\n\"Good gracious, no!\"\n\n\"Is you 'feared o' de ha'nted house?\"\n\n\"N-no.\"\n\n\"Well, den, you come to de ha'nted house 'bout ten or 'leven to-night,\nen climb up de ladder, 'ca'se de sta'r-steps is broke down, en you'll\nfind me. I's a-roostin' in de ha'nted house 'ca'se I can't 'ford to\nroos' nowhers' else.\" She started toward the door, but stopped and said,\n\"Gimme de dollah bill!\" He gave it to her. She examined it and said,\n\"H'm--like enough de bank's bu'sted.\" She started again, but halted\nagain. \"Has you got any whisky?\"\n\n\"Yes, a little.\"\n\n\"Fetch it!\"\n\nHe ran to his room overhead and brought down a bottle which was\ntwo-thirds full. She tilted it up and took a drink. Her eyes sparkled\nwith satisfaction, and she tucked the bottle under her shawl, saying,\n\"It's prime. I'll take it along.\"\n\nTom humbly held the door for her, and she marched out as grim and erect\nas a grenadier.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\nTom Practises Sycophancy.\n\nWhy is it that we rejoice at a birth and grieve at a funeral? It is\nbecause we are not the person involved.--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.\n\nIt is easy to find fault, if one has that disposition. There was once a\nman who, not being able to find any other fault with his coal,\ncomplained that there were too many prehistoric toads in it.--Pudd'nhead\nWilson's Calendar.\n\nTom flung himself on the sofa, and put his throbbing head in his hands,\nand rested his elbows on his knees. He rocked himself back and forth and\nmoaned.\n\n\"I've knelt to a nigger wench!\" he muttered. \"I thought I had struck the\ndeepest depths of degradation before, but oh, dear, it was nothing to\nthis.... Well, there is one consolation, such as it is--I've struck\nbottom this time; there's nothing lower.\"\n\nBut that was a hasty conclusion.\n\nAt ten that night he climbed the ladder in the haunted house, pale, weak\nand wretched. Roxy was standing in the door of one of the rooms,\nwaiting, for she had heard him.\n\nThis was a two-story log house which had acquired the reputation a few\nyears before of being haunted, and that was the end of its usefulness.\nNobody would live in it afterward, or go near it by night, and most\npeople even gave it a wide berth in the daytime. As it had no\ncompetition, it was called the haunted house. It was getting crazy and\nruinous, now, from long neglect. It stood three hundred yards beyond\nPudd'nhead Wilson's house, with nothing between but vacancy. It was the\nlast house in the town at that end.\n\nTom followed Roxy into the room. She had a pile of clean straw in the\ncorner for a bed, some cheap but well-kept clothing was hanging on the\nwall, there was a tin lantern freckling the floor with little spots of\nlight, and there were various soap-and-candle boxes scattered about,\nwhich served for chairs. The two sat down. Roxy said--\n\n\"Now den, I'll tell you straight off, en I'll begin to k'leck de money\nlater on; I ain't in no hurry. What does you reckon I's gwine to tell\nyou?\"\n\n\"Well, you--you--oh, Roxy, don't make it too hard for me! Come right out\nand tell me you've found out somehow what a shape I'm in on account of\ndissipation and foolishness.\"\n\n\"Disposition en foolishness! No sir, dat ain't it. Dat jist ain't\nnothin' at all, 'longside o' what I knows.\"\n\nTom stared at her, and said--\n\n\"Why, Roxy, what do you mean?\"\n\nShe rose, and gloomed above him like a Fate.\n\n\"I means dis--en it's de Lord's truth. You ain't no more kin to ole\nMarse Driscoll den I is!--dat's what I means!\" and her eyes flamed with\ntriumph.\n\n\"What!\"\n\n\"Yassir, en dat ain't all! You's a nigger!--bawn a nigger en a\nslave!--en you's a nigger en a slave dis minute; en if I opens my mouf\nole Marse Driscoll'll sell you down de river befo' you is two days older\nden what you is now!\"\n\n\"It's a thundering lie, you miserable old blatherskite!\"\n\n\"It ain't no lie, nuther. It's jes de truth, en nothin' but de truth, so\nhe'p me. Yassir--you's my son--\"\n\n\"You devil!\"\n\n\"En dat po' boy dat you's be'n a-kickin' en a-cuffin' to-day is Percy\nDriscoll's son en yo' marster--\"\n\n\"You beast!\"\n\n\"En his name's Tom Driscoll, en yo' name's Valet de Chambers, en you\nain't got no fambly name, beca'se niggers don't have em!\"\n\nTom sprang up and seized a billet of wood and raised raised it; but his\nmother only laughed at him, and said--\n\n\"Set down, you pup! Does you think you kin skyer me? It ain't in you,\nnor de likes of you. I reckon you'd shoot me in de back, maybe, if you\ngot a chance, for dat's jist yo' style--I knows you, throo en throo--but\nI don't mind gitt'n killed, beca'se all dis is down in writin' en it's\nin safe hands, too, en de man dat's got it knows whah to look for de\nright man when I gits killed. Oh, bless yo' soul, if you puts yo' mother\nup for as big a fool as you is, you's pow'ful mistaken, I kin tell you!\nNow den, you set still en behave yo'self; en don't you git up ag'in till\nI tell you!\"\n\nTom fretted and chafed awhile in a whirlwind of disorganizing sensations\nand emotions, and finally said, with something like settled conviction--\n\n\"The whole thing is moonshine; now then, go ahead and do your worst; I'm\ndone with you.\"\n\nRoxy made no answer. She took the lantern and started toward the door.\nTom was in a cold panic in a moment.\n\n\"Come back, come back!\" he wailed. \"I didn't mean it, Roxy; I take it\nall back, and I'll never say it again! Please come back, Roxy!\"\n\nThe woman stood a moment, then she said gravely:\n\n\"Dat's one thing you's got to stop, Valet de Chambers. You can't call me\nRoxy, same as if you was my equal. Chillen don't speak to dey mammies\nlike dat. You'll call me ma or mammy, dat's what you'll call\nme--leastways when dey ain't nobody aroun'. Say it!\"\n\nIt cost Tom a struggle, but he got it out.\n\n\"Dat's all right. Don't you ever forgit it ag'in, if you knows what's\ngood for you. Now den, you has said you wouldn't ever call it lies en\nmoonshine ag'in. I'll tell you dis, for a warnin': if you ever does say\nit ag'in, it's de las' time you'll ever say it to me; I'll tramp as\nstraight to de Judge as I kin walk, en tell him who you is, en prove it.\nDoes you b'lieve me when I says dat?\"\n\n\"Oh,\" groaned Tom, \"I more than believe it; I know it.\"\n\nRoxy knew her conquest was complete. She could have proved nothing to\nanybody, and her threat about the writings was a lie; but she knew the\nperson she was dealing with, and had made both statements without any\ndoubt as to the effect they would produce.\n\nShe went and sat down on her candle-box, and the pride and pomp of her\nvictorious attitude made it a throne. She said--\n\n\"Now den, Chambers, we's gwine to talk business, en dey ain't gwine to\nbe no mo' foolishness. In de fust place, you gits fifty dollahs a month;\nyou's gwine to han' over half of it to yo' ma. Plank it out!\"\n\nBut Tom had only six dollars in the world. He gave her that, and\npromised to start fair on next month's pension.\n\n\"Chambers, how much is you in debt?\"\n\nTom shuddered, and said--\n\n\"Nearly three hundred dollars.\"\n\n\"How is you gwine to pay it?\"\n\nTom groaned out--\"Oh, I don't know; don't ask me such awful questions.\"\n\nBut she stuck to her point until she wearied a confession out of him: he\nhad been prowling about in disguise, stealing small valuables from\nprivate houses; in fact, he made a good deal of a raid on his\nfellow-villagers a fortnight before, when he was supposed to be in St.\nLouis; but he doubted if he had sent away enough stuff to realize the\nrequired amount, and was afraid to make a further venture in the present\nexcited state of the town. His mother approved of his conduct, and\noffered to help, but this frightened him. He tremblingly ventured to say\nthat if she would retire from the town he should feel better and safer,\nand could hold his head higher--and was going on to make an argument,\nbut she interrupted and surprised him pleasantly by saying she was\nready; it didn't make any difference to her where she stayed, so that\nshe got her share of the pension regularly. She said she would not go\nfar, and would call at the haunted house once a month for her money.\nThen she said--\n\n\"I don't hate you so much now, but I've hated you a many a year--and\nanybody would. Didn't I change you off, en give you a good fambly en a\ngood name, en made you a white gen'l'man en rich, wid store clothes\non--en what did I git for it? You despised me all de time, en was al'ays\nsayin' mean hard things to me befo' folks, en wouldn't ever let me\nforgit I's a nigger--en--en------\"\n\nShe fell to sobbing, and broke down. Tom said--\"But you know I didn't\nknow you were my mother; and besides--\"\n\n\"Well, nemmine 'bout dat, now; let it go. I's gwine to fo'git it.\" Then\nshe added fiercely, \"En don't ever make me remember it ag'in, or you'll\nbe sorry, I tell you.\"\n\nWhen they were parting, Tom said, in the most persuasive way he could\ncommand--\n\n\"Ma, would you mind telling me who was my father?\"\n\nHe had supposed he was asking an embarrassing question. He was mistaken.\nRoxy drew herself up with a proud toss of her head, and said--\n\n\"Does I mine tellin' you? No, dat I don't! You ain't got no 'casion to\nbe shame' o' yo' father, I kin tell you. He wuz de highest quality in\ndis whole town--ole Virginny stock. Fust famblies, he wuz. Jes as good\nstock as de Driscolls en de Howards, de bes' day dey ever seed.\" She put\non a little prouder air, if possible, and added impressively: \"Does you\n'member Cunnel Cecil Burleigh Essex, dat died de same year yo' young\nMarse Tom Driscoll's pappy died, en all de Masons en Odd Fellers en\nChurches turned out en give him de bigges' funeral dis town ever seed?\nDat's de man.\"\n\nUnder the inspiration of her soaring complacency the departed graces of\nher earlier days returned to her, and her bearing took to itself a\ndignity and state that might have passed for queenly if her surroundings\nhad been a little more in keeping with it.\n\n\"Dey ain't another nigger in dis town dat's as high-bawn as you is. Now\nden, go 'long! En jes you hold yo' head up as high as you want to--you\nhas de right, en dat I kin swah.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\nThe Nymph Revealed.\n\nAll say, \"How hard it is that we have to die\"--a strange complaint to\ncome from the mouths of people who have had to live.--Pudd'nhead\nWilson's Calendar.\n\nWhen angry, count four; when very angry, swear.--Pudd'nhead Wilson's\nCalendar.\n\nEvery now and then, after Tom went to bed, he had sudden wakings out of\nhis sleep, and his first thought was, \"Oh, joy, it was all a dream!\"\nThen he laid himself heavily down again, with a groan and the muttered\nwords, \"A nigger! I am a nigger! Oh, I wish I was dead!\"\n\nHe woke at dawn with one more repetition of this horror, and then he\nresolved to meddle no more with that treacherous sleep. He began to\nthink. Sufficiently bitter thinkings they were. They wandered along\nsomething after this fashion:\n\n\"Why were niggers and whites made? What crime did the uncreated first\nnigger commit that the curse of birth was decreed for him? And why is\nthis awful difference made between white and black? ... How hard the\nnigger's fate seems, this morning!--yet until last night such a thought\nnever entered my head.\"\n\nHe sighed and groaned an hour or more away. Then \"Chambers\" came humbly\nin to say that breakfast was nearly ready. \"Tom\" blushed scarlet to see\nthis aristocratic white youth cringe to him, a nigger, and call him\n\"Young Marster.\" He said roughly--\n\n\"Get out of my sight!\" and when the youth was gone, he muttered, \"He has\ndone me no harm, poor wretch, but he is an eyesore to me now, for he is\nDriscoll the young gentleman, and I am a--oh, I wish I was dead!\"\n\nA gigantic irruption, like that of Krakatoa a few years ago, with the\naccompanying earthquakes, tidal waves, and clouds of volcanic dust,\nchanges the face of the surrounding landscape beyond recognition,\nbringing down the high lands, elevating the low, making fair lakes where\ndeserts had been, and deserts where green prairies had smiled before.\nThe tremendous catastrophe which had befallen Tom had changed his moral\nlandscape in much the same way. Some of his low places he found lifted\nto ideals, some of his ideals had sunk to the valleys, and lay there\nwith the sackcloth and ashes of pumice-stone and sulphur on their ruined\nheads.\n\nFor days he wandered in lonely places, thinking, thinking,\nthinking--trying to get his bearings. It was new work. If he met a\nfriend, he found that the habit of a lifetime had in some mysterious way\nvanished--his arm hung limp, instead of involuntarily extending the hand\nfor a shake. It was the \"nigger\" in him asserting its humility, and he\nblushed and was abashed. And the \"nigger\" in him was surprised when the\nwhite friend put out his hand for a shake with him. He found the\n\"nigger\" in him involuntarily giving the road, on the sidewalk, to a\nwhite rowdy and loafer. When Rowena, the dearest thing his heart knew,\nthe idol of his secret worship, invited him in, the \"nigger\" in him made\nan embarrassed excuse and was afraid to enter and sit with the dread\nwhite folks on equal terms. The \"nigger\" in him went shrinking and\nskulking here and there and yonder, and fancying it saw suspicion and\nmaybe detection in all faces, tones, and gestures. So strange and\nuncharacteristic was Tom's conduct that people noticed it, and turned to\nlook after him when he passed on; and when he glanced back--as he could\nnot help doing, in spite of his best resistance--and caught that puzzled\nexpression in a person's face, it gave him a sick feeling, and he took\nhimself out of view as quickly as he could. He presently came to have a\nhunted sense and a hunted look, and then he fled away to the hill-tops\nand the solitudes. He said to himself that the curse of Ham was upon\nhim.\n\nHe dreaded his meals; the \"nigger\" in him was ashamed to sit at the\nwhite folks' table, and feared discovery all the time; and once when\nJudge Driscoll said, \"What's the matter with you? You look as meek as a\nnigger,\" he felt as secret murderers are said to feel when the accuser\nsays, \"Thou art the man!\" Tom said he was not well, and left the table.\n\nHis ostensible \"aunt's\" solicitudes and endearments were become a terror\nto him, and he avoided them.\n\nAnd all the time, hatred of his ostensible \"uncle\" was steadily growing\nin his heart; for he said to himself, \"He is white; and I am his\nchattel, his property, his goods, and he can sell me, just as he could\nhis dog.\"\n\nFor as much as a week after this, Tom imagined that his character had\nundergone a pretty radical change. But that was because he did not know\nhimself.\n\nIn several ways his opinions were totally changed, and would never go\nback to what they were before, but the main structure of his character\nwas not changed, and could not be changed. One or two very important\nfeatures of it were altered, and in time effects would result from this,\nif opportunity offered--effects of a quite serious nature, too. Under\nthe influence of a great mental and moral upheaval his character and\nhabits had taken on the appearance of complete change, but after a while\nwith the subsidence of the storm both began to settle toward their\nformer places. He dropped gradually back into his old frivolous and\neasy-going ways and conditions of feeling and manner of speech, and no\nfamiliar of his could have detected anything in him that differentiated\nhim from the weak and careless Tom of other days.\n\nThe theft-raid which he had made upon the village turned out better than\nhe had ventured to hope. It produced the sum necessary to pay his\ngaming-debts, and saved him from exposure to his uncle and another\nsmashing of the will. He and his mother learned to like each other\nfairly well. She couldn't love him, as yet, because there \"warn't\nnothing to him,\" as she expressed it, but her nature needed something or\nsomebody to rule over, and he was better than nothing. Her strong\ncharacter and aggressive and commanding ways compelled Tom's admiration\nin spite of the fact that he got more illustrations of them than he\nneeded for his comfort. However, as a rule her conversation was made up\nof racy tattle about the privacies of the chief families of the town\n(for she went harvesting among their kitchens every time she came to the\nvillage), and Tom enjoyed this. It was just in his line. She always\ncollected her half of his pension punctually, and he was always at the\nhaunted house to have a chat with her on these occasions. Every now and\nthen she paid him a visit there on between-days also.\n\nOccasionally he would run up to St. Louis for a few weeks, and at last\ntemptation caught him again. He won a lot of money, but lost it, and\nwith it a deal more besides, which he promised to raise as soon as\npossible.\n\nFor this purpose he projected a new raid on his town. He never meddled\nwith any other town, for he was afraid to venture into houses whose ins\nand outs he did not know and the habits of whose households he was not\nacquainted with. He arrived at the haunted house in disguise on the\nWednesday before the advent of the twins--after writing his aunt Pratt\nthat he would not arrive until two days after--and lay in hiding there\nwith his mother until toward daylight Friday morning, when he went to\nhis uncle's house and entered by the back way with his own key, and\nslipped up to his room, where he could have the use of the mirror and\ntoilet articles. He had a suit of girl's clothes with him in a bundle as\na disguise for his raid, and was wearing a suit of his mother's\nclothing, with black gloves and veil. By dawn he was tricked out for his\nraid, but he caught a glimpse of Pudd'nhead Wilson through the window\nover the way, and knew that Pudd'nhead had caught a glimpse of him. So\nhe entertained Wilson with some airs and graces and attitudes for a\nwhile, then stepped out of sight and resumed the other disguise, and by\nand by went down and out the back way and started down town to\nreconnoiter the scene of his intended labors.\n\nBut he was ill at ease. He had changed back to Roxy's dress, with the\nstoop of age added to the disguise, so that Wilson would not bother\nhimself about a humble old woman leaving a neighbor's house by the back\nway in the early morning, in case he was still spying. But supposing\nWilson had seen him leave, and had thought it suspicious, and had also\nfollowed him? The thought made Tom cold. He gave up the raid for the\nday, and hurried back to the haunted house by the obscurest route he\nknew. His mother was gone; but she came back, by and by, with the news\nof the grand reception at Patsy Cooper's, and soon persuaded him that\nthe opportunity was like a special providence, it was so inviting and\nperfect. So he went raiding, after all, and made a nice success of it\nwhile everybody was gone to Patsy Cooper's. Success gave him nerve and\neven actual intrepidity; insomuch, indeed, that after he had conveyed\nhis harvest to his mother in a back alley, he went to the reception\nhimself, and added several of the valuables of that house to his\ntakings.\n\nAfter this long digression we have now arrived once more at the point\nwhere Pudd'nhead Wilson, while waiting for the arrival of the twins on\nthat same Friday evening, sat puzzling over the strange apparition of\nthat morning--a girl in young Tom Driscoll's bedroom; fretting, and\nguessing, and puzzling over it, and wondering who the shameless creature\nmight be.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\nPudd'nhead's Startling Discovery.\n\nThere are three infallible ways of pleasing an author, and the three\nform a rising scale of compliment: 1, to tell him you have read one of\nhis books; 2, to tell him you have read all of his books; 3, to ask him\nto let you read the manuscript of his forthcoming book. No. 1 admits you\nto his respect; No. 2 admits you to his admiration; No. 3 carries you\nclear into his heart.--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.\n\nAs to the Adjective: when in doubt, strike it out.--Pudd'nhead Wilson's\nCalendar.\n\nThe twins arrived presently, and talk began. It flowed along chattily\nand sociably, and under its influence the new friendship gathered ease\nand strength. Wilson got out his Calendar, by request, and read a\npassage or two from it, which the twins praised quite cordially. This\npleased the author so much that he complied gladly when they asked him\nto lend them a batch of the work to read at home. In the course of their\nwide travels they had found out that there are three sure ways of\npleasing an author; they were now working the best of the three.\n\nThere was an interruption, now. Young Tom Driscoll appeared, and joined\nthe party. He pretended to be seeing the distinguished strangers for the\nfirst time when they rose to shake hands; but this was only a blind, as\nhe had already had a glimpse of them, at the reception, while robbing\nthe house. The twins made mental note that he was smooth-faced and\nrather handsome, and smooth and undulatory in his movements--graceful,\nin fact. Angelo thought he had a good eye; Luigi thought there was\nsomething veiled and sly about it. Angelo thought he had a pleasant\nfree-and-easy way of talking; Luigi thought it was more so than was\nagreeable. Angelo thought he was a sufficiently nice young man; Luigi\nreserved his decision. Tom's first contribution to the conversation was\na question which he had put to Wilson a hundred times before. It was\nalways cheerily and good-naturedly put, and always inflicted a little\npang, for it touched a secret sore; but this time the pang was sharp,\nsince strangers were present.\n\n\"Well, how does the law come on? Had a case yet?\"\n\nWilson bit his lip, but answered, \"No--not yet,\" with as much\nindifference as he could assume. Judge Driscoll had generously left the\nlaw feature out of the Wilson biography which he had furnished to the\ntwins. Young Tom laughed pleasantly, and said:\n\n\"Wilson's a lawyer, gentlemen, but he doesn't practise now.\"\n\nThe sarcasm bit, but Wilson kept himself under control, and said without\npassion:\n\n\"I don't practise, it is true. It is true that I have never had a case,\nand have had to earn a poor living for twenty years as an expert\naccountant in a town where I can't get hold of a set of books to\nuntangle as often as I should like. But it is also true that I did fit\nmyself well for the practice of the law. By the time I was your age,\nTom, I had chosen a profession, and was soon competent to enter upon\nit.\" Tom winced. \"I never got a chance to try my hand at it, and I may\nnever get a chance; and yet if I ever do get it I shall be found ready,\nfor I have kept up my law-studies all these years.\"\n\n\"That's it; that's good grit! I like to see it. I've a notion to throw\nall my business your way. My business and your law-practice ought to\nmake a pretty gay team, Dave,\" and the young fellow laughed again.\n\n\"If you will throw--\" Wilson had thought of the girl in Tom's bedroom,\nand was going to say, \"If you will throw the surreptitious and\ndisreputable part of your business my way, it may amount to something;\"\nbut thought better of it and said, \"However, this matter doesn't fit\nwell in a general conversation.\"\n\n\"All right, we'll change the subject; I guess you were about to give me\nanother dig, anyway, so I'm willing to change. How's the Awful Mystery\nflourishing these days? Wilson's got a scheme for driving plain\nwindow-glass out of the market by decorating it with greasy\nfinger-marks, and getting rich by selling it at famine prices to the\ncrowned heads over in Europe to outfit their palaces with. Fetch it out,\nDave.\"\n\nWilson brought three of his glass strips, and said--\n\n\"I get the subject to pass the fingers of his right hand through his\nhair, so as to get a little coating of the natural oil on them, and then\npress the balls of them on the glass. A fine and delicate print of the\nlines in the skin results, and is permanent, if it doesn't come in\ncontact with something able to rub it off. You begin, Tom.\"\n\n\"Why, I think you took my finger-marks once or twice before.\"\n\n\"Yes; but you were a little boy the last time, only about twelve years\nold.\"\n\n\"That's so. Of course I've changed entirely since then, and variety is\nwhat the crowned heads want, I guess.\"\n\nHe passed his fingers through his crop of short hair, and pressed them\none at a time on the glass. Angelo made a print of his fingers on\nanother glass, and Luigi followed with the third. Wilson marked the\nglasses with names and date, and put them away. Tom gave one of his\nlittle laughs, and said--\n\n\"I thought I wouldn't say anything, but if variety is what you are\nafter, you have wasted a piece of glass. The hand-print of one twin is\nthe same as the hand-print of the fellow-twin.\"\n\n\"Well, it's done now, and I like to have them both, anyway,\" said\nWilson, returning to his place.\n\n\"But look here, Dave,\" said Tom, \"you used to tell people's fortunes,\ntoo, when you took their finger-marks. Dave's just an all-round\ngenius--a genius of the first water, gentlemen; a great scientist\nrunning to seed here in this village, a prophet with the kind of honor\nthat prophets generally get at home--for here they don't give shucks for\nhis scientifics, and they call his skull a notion-factory--hey, Dave,\nain't it so? But never mind; he'll make his mark some day--finger-mark,\nyou know, he-he! But really, you want to let him take a shy at your\npalms once; it's worth twice the price of admission or your money's\nreturned at the door. Why, he'll read your wrinkles as easy as a book,\nand not only tell you fifty or sixty things that's going to happen to\nyou, but fifty or sixty thousand that ain't. Come, Dave, show the\ngentlemen what an inspired Jack-at-all-science we've got in this town,\nand don't know it.\"\n\nWilson winced under this nagging and not very courteous chaff, and the\ntwins suffered with him and for him. They rightly judged, now, that the\nbest way to relieve him would be to take the thing in earnest and treat\nit with respect, ignoring Tom's rather overdone raillery; so Luigi\nsaid--\n\n\"We have seen something of palmistry in our wanderings, and know very\nwell what astonishing things it can do. If it isn't a science, and one\nof the greatest of them, too, I don't know what its other name ought to\nbe. In the Orient--\"\n\nTom looked surprised and incredulous. He said--\n\n\"That juggling a science? But really, you ain't serious, are you?\"\n\n\"Yes, entirely so. Four years ago we had our hands read out to us as if\nour palms had been covered with print.\"\n\n\"Well, do you mean to say there was actually anything in it?\" asked Tom,\nhis incredulity beginning to weaken a little.\n\n\"There was this much in it,\" said Angelo: \"what was told us of our\ncharacters was minutely exact--we could not have bettered it ourselves.\nNext, two or three memorable things that had happened to us were laid\nbare--things which no one present but ourselves could have known about.\"\n\n\"Why, it's rank sorcery!\" exclaimed Tom, who was now becoming very much\ninterested. \"And how did they make out with what was going to happen to\nyou in the future?\"\n\n\"On the whole, quite fairly,\" said Luigi. \"Two or three of the most\nstriking things foretold have happened since; much the most striking one\nof all happened within that same year. Some of the minor prophecies have\ncome true; some of the minor and some of the major ones have not been\nfulfilled yet, and of course may never be: still, I should be more\nsurprised if they failed to arrive than if they didn't.\"\n\nTom was entirely sobered, and profoundly impressed. He said,\napologetically--\n\n\"Dave, I wasn't meaning to belittle that science; I was only\nchaffing--chattering, I reckon I'd better say. I wish you would look at\ntheir palms. Come, won't you?\"\n\n\"Why certainly, if you want me to; but you know I've had no chance to\nbecome an expert, and don't claim to be one. When a past event is\nsomewhat prominently recorded in the palm I can generally detect that,\nbut minor ones often escape me,--not always, of course, but often,--but\nI haven't much confidence in myself when it comes to reading the future.\nI am talking as if palmistry was a daily study with me, but that is not\nso. I haven't examined half a dozen hands in the last half dozen years;\nyou see, the people got to joking about it, and I stopped to let the\ntalk die down. I'll tell you what we'll do, Count Luigi: I'll make a try\nat your past, and if I have any success there--no, on the whole, I'll\nlet the future alone; that's really the affair of an expert.\"\n\nHe took Luigi's hand. Tom said--\n\n\"Wait--don't look yet, Dave! Count Luigi, here's paper and pencil. Set\ndown that thing that you said was the most striking one that was\nforetold to you, and happened less than a year afterward, and give it to\nme so I can see if Dave finds it in your hand.\"\n\nLuigi wrote a line privately, and folded up the piece of paper, and\nhanded it to Tom, saying--\n\n\"I'll tell you when to look at it, if he finds it.\"\n\nWilson began to study Luigi's palm, tracing life lines, heart lines,\nhead lines, and so on, and noting carefully their relations with the\ncobweb of finer and more delicate marks and lines that enmeshed them on\nall sides; he felt of the fleshy cushion at the base of the thumb, and\nnoted its shape; he felt of the fleshy side of the hand between the\nwrist and the base of the little finger, and noted its shape also; he\npainstakingly examined the fingers, observing their form, proportions,\nand natural manner of disposing themselves when in repose. All this\nprocess was watched by the three spectators with absorbing interest,\ntheir heads bent together over Luigi's palm, and nobody disturbing the\nstillness with a word. Wilson now entered upon a close survey of the\npalm again, and his revelations began.\n\nHe mapped out Luigi's character and disposition, his tastes, aversions,\nproclivities, ambitions, and eccentricities in a way which sometimes\nmade Luigi wince and the others laugh, but both twins declared that the\nchart was artistically drawn and was correct.\n\nNext, Wilson took up Luigi's history. He proceeded cautiously and with\nhesitation, now, moving his finger slowly along the great lines of the\npalm, and now and then halting it at a \"star\" or some such landmark, and\nexamining that neighborhood minutely. He proclaimed one or two past\nevents, Luigi confirmed his correctness, and the search went on.\nPresently Wilson glanced up suddenly with a surprised expression--\n\n\"Here is a record of an incident which you would perhaps not wish me\nto--\"\n\n\"Bring it out,\" said Luigi, good-naturedly; \"I promise you it sha'n't\nembarrass me.\"\n\nBut Wilson still hesitated, and did not seem quite to know what to do.\nThen he said--\n\n\"I think it is too delicate a matter to--to--I believe I would rather\nwrite it or whisper it to you, and let you decide for yourself whether\nyou want it talked out or not.\"\n\n\"That will answer,\" said Luigi; \"write it.\"\n\nWilson wrote something on a slip of paper and handed it to Luigi, who\nread it to himself and said to Tom--\n\n\"Unfold your slip and read it, Mr. Driscoll.\"\n\nTom read:\n\n\"It was prophesied that I would kill a man. It came true before the year\nwas out.\"\n\nTom added, \"Great Scott!\"\n\nLuigi handed Wilson's paper to Tom, and said--\n\n\"Now read this one.\"\n\nTom read:\n\n\"You have killed some one, but whether man, woman or child, I do not\nmake out.\"\n\n\"C\u00e6sar's ghost!\" commented Tom, with astonishment. \"It beats anything\nthat was ever heard of! Why, a man's own hand is his deadliest enemy!\nJust think of that--a man's own hand keeps a record of the deepest and\nfatalest secrets of his life, and is treacherously ready to expose him\nto any black-magic stranger that comes along. But what do you let a\nperson look at your hand for, with that awful thing printed on it?\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Luigi, reposefully, \"I don't mind it. I killed the man for\ngood reasons, and I don't regret it.\"\n\n\"What were the reasons?\"\n\n\"Well, he needed killing.\"\n\n\"I'll tell you why he did it, since he won't say himself,\" said Angelo,\nwarmly. \"He did it to save my life, that's what he did it for. So it was\na noble act, and not a thing to be hid in the dark.\"\n\n\"So it was, so it was,\" said Wilson; \"to do such a thing to save a\nbrother's life is a great and fine action.\"\n\n\"Now come,\" said Luigi, \"it is very pleasant to hear you say these\nthings, but for unselfishness, or heroism, or magnanimity, the\ncircumstances won't stand scrutiny. You overlook one detail; suppose I\nhadn't saved Angelo's life, what would have become of mine? If I had let\nthe man kill him, wouldn't he have killed me, too? I saved my own life,\nyou see.\"\n\n\"Yes, that is your way of talking,\" said Angelo, \"but I know you--I\ndon't believe you thought of yourself at all. I keep that weapon yet\nthat Luigi killed the man with, and I'll show it to you sometime. That\nincident makes it interesting, and it had a history before it came into\nLuigi's hands which adds to its interest. It was given to Luigi by a\ngreat Indian prince, the Gaikowar of Baroda, and it had been in his\nfamily two or three centuries. It killed a good many disagreeable people\nwho troubled that hearthstone at one time and another. It isn't much too\nlook at, except that it isn't shaped like other knives, or dirks, or\nwhatever it may be called--here, I'll draw it for you.\" He took a sheet\nof paper and made a rapid sketch. \"There it is--a broad and murderous\nblade, with edges like a razor for sharpness. The devices engraved on it\nare the ciphers or names of its long line of possessors--I had Luigi's\nname added in Roman letters myself with our coat of arms, as you see.\nYou notice what a curious handle the thing has. It is solid ivory,\npolished like a mirror, and is four or five inches long--round, and as\nthick as a large man's wrist, with the end squared off flat, for your\nthumb to rest on; for you grasp it, with your thumb resting on the blunt\nend--so--and lift it aloft and strike downward. The Gaikowar showed us\nhow the thing was done when he gave it to Luigi, and before that night\nwas ended Luigi had used the knife, and the Gaikowar was a man short by\nreason of it. The sheath is magnificently ornamented with gems of great\nvalue. You will find the sheath more worth looking at than the knife\nitself, of course.\"\n\nTom said to himself--\n\n\"It's lucky I came here. I would have sold that knife for a song; I\nsupposed the jewels were glass.\"\n\n\"But go on; don't stop,\" said Wilson. \"Our curiosity is up now, to hear\nabout the homicide. Tell us about that.\"\n\n\"Well, briefly, the knife was to blame for that, all around. A native\nservant slipped into our room in the palace in the night, to kill us and\nsteal the knife on account of the fortune incrusted on its sheath,\nwithout a doubt. Luigi had it under his pillow; we were in bed together.\nThere was a dim night-light burning. I was asleep, but Luigi was awake,\nand he thought he detected a vague form nearing the bed. He slipped the\nknife out of the sheath and was ready, and unembarrassed by hampering\nbed-clothes, for the weather was hot and we hadn't any. Suddenly that\nnative rose at the bedside, and bent over me with his right hand lifted\nand a dirk in it aimed at my throat; but Luigi grabbed his wrist, pulled\nhim downward, and drove his own knife into the man's neck. That is the\nwhole story.\"\n\nWilson and Tom drew deep breaths, and after some general chat about the\ntragedy, Pudd'nhead said, taking Tom's hand--\n\n\"Now, Tom, I've never had a look at your palms, as it happens; perhaps\nyou've got some little questionable privacies that need--hel-lo!\"\n\nTom had snatched away his hand, and was looking a good deal confused.\n\n\"Why, he's blushing!\" said Luigi.\n\nTom darted an ugly look at him, and said sharply--\n\n\"Well, if I am, it ain't because I'm a murderer!\" Luigi's dark face\nflushed, but before he could speak or move, Tom added with anxious\nhaste: \"Oh, I beg a thousand pardons. I didn't mean that; it was out\nbefore I thought, and I'm very, very sorry--you must forgive me!\"\n\nWilson came to the rescue, and smoothed things down as well as he could;\nand in fact was entirely successful as far as the twins were concerned,\nfor they felt sorrier for the affront put upon him by his guest's\noutburst of ill manners than for the insult offered to Luigi. But the\nsuccess was not so pronounced with the offender. Tom tried to seem at\nhis ease, and he went through the motions fairly well, but at bottom he\nfelt resentful toward all the three witnesses of his exhibition; in\nfact, he felt so annoyed at them for having witnessed it and noticed it\nthat he almost forgot to feel annoyed at himself for placing it before\nthem. However, something presently happened which made him almost\ncomfortable, and brought him nearly back to a state of charity and\nfriendliness. This was a little spat between the twins; not much of a\nspat, but still a spat; and before they got far with it they were in a\ndecided condition of irritation with each other. Tom was charmed; so\npleased, indeed, that he cautiously did what he could to increase the\nirritation while pretending to be actuated by more respectable motives.\nBy his help the fire got warmed up to the blazing-point, and he might\nhave had the happiness of seeing the flames show up, in another moment,\nbut for the interruption of a knock on the door--an interruption which\nfretted him as much as it gratified Wilson. Wilson opened the door.\n\nThe visitor was a good-natured, ignorant, energetic, middle-aged\nIrishman named John Buckstone, who was a great politician in a small\nway, and always took a large share in public matters of every sort. One\nof the town's chief excitements, just now, was over the matter of rum.\nThere was a strong rum party and a strong anti-rum party. Buckstone was\ntraining with the rum party, and he had been sent to hunt up the twins\nand invite them to attend a mass-meeting of that faction. He delivered\nhis errand, and said the clans were already gathering in the big hall\nover the market-house. Luigi accepted the invitation cordially, Angelo\nless cordially, since he disliked crowds, and did not drink the powerful\nintoxicants of America. In fact, he was even a teetotaler\nsometimes--when it was judicious to be one.\n\nThe twins left with Buckstone, and Tom Driscoll joined company with them\nuninvited.\n\nIn the distance one could see a long wavering line of torches drifting\ndown the main street, and could hear the throbbing of the bass drum, the\nclash of cymbals, the squeaking of a fife or two, and the faint roar of\nremote hurrahs. The tail-end of this procession was climbing the\nmarket-house stairs when the twins arrived in its neighborhood; when\nthey reached the hall it was full of people, torches, smoke, noise and\nenthusiasm. They were conducted to the platform by Buckstone--Tom\nDriscoll still following--and were delivered to the chairman in the\nmidst of a prodigious explosion of welcome. When the noise had moderated\na little, the chair proposed that \"our illustrious guests be at once\nelected, by complimentary acclamation, to membership in our\never-glorious organization, the paradise of the free and the perdition\nof the slave.\"\n\nThis eloquent discharge opened the flood-gates of enthusiasm again, and\nthe election was carried with thundering unanimity. Then arose a storm\nof cries:\n\n\"Wet them down! Wet them down! Give them a drink!\"\n\nGlasses of whisky were handed to the twins. Luigi waved his aloft, then\nbrought it to his lips; but Angelo set his down. There was another storm\nof cries:\n\n\"What's the matter with the other one?\" \"What is the blond one going\nback on us for?\" \"Explain! Explain!\"\n\nThe chairman inquired, and then reported--\n\n\"We have made an unfortunate mistake, gentlemen. I find that the Count\nAngelo Capello is opposed to our creed--is a teetotaler, in fact, and\nwas not intending to apply for membership with us. He desires that we\nreconsider the vote by which he was elected. What is the pleasure of the\nhouse?\"\n\nThere was a general burst of laughter, plentifully accented with\nwhistlings and cat-calls, but the energetic use of the gavel presently\nrestored something like order. Then a man spoke from the crowd, and said\nthat while he was very sorry that the mistake had been made, it would\nnot be possible to rectify it at the present meeting. According to the\nby-laws it must go over to the next regular meeting for action. He would\nnot offer a motion, as none was required. He desired to apologize to the\ngentleman in the name of the house, and begged to assure him that as far\nas it might lie in the power of the Sons of Liberty, his temporary\nmembership in the order would be made pleasant to him.\n\nThis speech was received with great applause, mixed with cries of--\n\n\"That's the talk!\" \"He's a good fellow, anyway, if he is a teetotaler!\"\n\"Drink his health!\" \"Give him a rouser, and no heeltaps!\"\n\nGlasses were handed around, and everybody on the platform drank Angelo's\nhealth, while the house bellowed forth in song:\n\n   For he's a jolly good fel-low,\n   For he's a jolly good fel-low,\n   For he's a jolly good fe-el-low,--\n      Which nobody can deny.\n\nTom Driscoll drank. It was his second glass, for he had drunk Angelo's\nthe moment that Angelo had set it down. The two drinks made him very\nmerry--almost idiotically so--and he began to take a most lively and\nprominent part in the proceedings, particularly in the music and\ncat-calls and side-remarks.\n\nThe chairman was still standing at the front, the twins at his side. The\nextraordinarily close resemblance of the brothers to each other\nsuggested a witticism to Tom Driscoll, and just as the chairman began a\nspeech he skipped forward and said with an air of tipsy confidence to\nthe audience--\n\n\"Boys, I move that he keeps still and lets this human philopena snip you\nout a speech.\"\n\nThe descriptive aptness of the phrase caught the house, and a mighty\nburst of laughter followed.\n\nLuigi's southern blood leaped to the boiling-point in a moment under the\nsharp humiliation of this insult delivered in the presence of four\nhundred strangers. It was not in the young man's nature to let the\nmatter pass, or to delay the squaring of the account. He took a couple\nof strides and halted behind the unsuspecting joker. Then he drew back\nand delivered a kick of such titanic vigor that it lifted Tom clear over\nthe footlights and landed him on the heads of the front row of the Sons\nof Liberty.\n\nEven a sober person does not like to have a human being emptied on him\nwhen he is not doing any harm; a person who is not sober cannot endure\nsuch an attention at all. The nest of Sons of Liberty that Driscoll\nlanded in had not a sober bird in it; in fact there was probably not an\nentirely sober one in the auditorium. Driscoll was promptly and\nindignantly flung on to the heads of Sons in the next row, and these\nSons passed him on toward the rear, and then immediately began to pummel\nthe front-row Sons who had passed him to them. This course was strictly\nfollowed by bench after bench as Driscoll traveled in his tumultuous and\nairy flight toward the door; so he left behind him an ever lengthening\nwake of raging and plunging and fighting and swearing humanity. Down\nwent group after group of torches, and presently above the deafening\nclatter of the gavel, roar of angry voices, and crash of succumbing\nbenches, rose the paralyzing cry of \"Fire!\"\n\nThe fighting ceased instantly; the cursing ceased; for one distinctly\ndefined moment there was a dead hush, a motionless calm, where the\ntempest had been; then with one impulse the multitude awoke to life and\nenergy again, and went surging and struggling and swaying, this way and\nthat, its outer edges melting away through windows and doors and\ngradually lessening the pressure and relieving the mass.\n\nThe fire-boys were never on hand so suddenly before; for there was no\ndistance to go, this time, their quarters being in the rear end of the\nmarket-house. There was an engine company and a hook-and-ladder company.\nHalf of each was composed of rummies and the other half of anti-rummies,\nafter the moral and political share-and-share-alike fashion of the\nfrontier town of the period. Enough anti-rummies were loafing in\nquarters to man the engine and the ladders. In two minutes they had\ntheir red shirts and helmets on--they never stirred officially in\nunofficial costume--and as the mass meeting overhead smashed through the\nlong row of windows and poured out upon the roof of the arcade, the\ndeliverers were ready for them with a powerful stream of water which\nwashed some of them off the roof and nearly drowned the rest. But water\nwas preferable to fire, and still the stampede from the windows\ncontinued, and still the pitiless drenching assailed it until the\nbuilding was empty; then the fire-boys mounted to the hall and flooded\nit with water enough to annihilate forty times as much fire as there was\nthere; for a village fire-company does not often get a chance to show\noff, and so when it does get a chance it makes the most of it. Such\ncitizens of that village as were of a thoughtful and judicious\ntemperament did not insure against fire; they insured against the\nfire-company.\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\nThe Shame of Judge Driscoll.\n\nCourage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear--not absence of fear.\nExcept a creature be part coward it is not a compliment to say it is\nbrave; it is merely a loose misapplication of the word. Consider the\nflea!--incomparably the bravest of all the creatures of God, if\nignorance of fear were courage. Whether you are asleep or awake he will\nattack you, caring nothing for the fact that in bulk and strength you\nare to him as are the massed armies of the earth to a sucking child; he\nlives both day and night and all days and nights in the very lap of\nperil and the immediate presence of death, and yet is no more afraid\nthan is the man who walks the streets of a city that was threatened by\nan earthquake ten centuries before. When we speak of Clive, Nelson, and\nPutnam as men who \"didn't know what fear was,\" we ought always to add\nthe flea--and put him at the head of the procession.--Pudd'nhead\nWilson's Calendar.\n\nJudge Driscoll was in bed and asleep by ten o'clock on Friday night, and\nhe was up and gone a-fishing before daylight in the morning with his\nfriend Pembroke Howard. These two had been boys together in Virginia\nwhen that State still ranked as the chief and most imposing member of\nthe Union, and they still coupled the proud and affectionate adjective\n\"old\" with her name when they spoke of her. In Missouri a recognized\nsuperiority attached to any person who hailed from Old Virginia; and\nthis superiority was exalted to supremacy when a person of such nativity\ncould also prove descent from the First Families of that great\ncommonwealth. The Howards and Driscolls were of this aristocracy. In\ntheir eyes it was a nobility. It had its unwritten laws, and they were\nas clearly defined and as strict as any that could be found among the\nprinted statutes of the land. The F. F. V. was born a gentleman; his\nhighest duty in life was to watch over that great inheritance and keep\nit unsmirched. He must keep his honor spotless. Those laws were his\nchart; his course was marked out on it; if he swerved from it by so much\nas half a point of the compass it meant shipwreck to his honor; that is\nto say, degradation from his rank as a gentleman. These laws required\ncertain things of him which his religion might forbid: then his religion\nmust yield--the laws could not be relaxed to accommodate religions or\nanything else. Honor stood first; and the laws defined what it was and\nwherein it differed in certain details from honor as defined by church\ncreeds and by the social laws and customs of some of the minor divisions\nof the globe that had got crowded out when the sacred boundaries of\nVirginia were staked out.\n\nIf Judge Driscoll was the recognized first citizen of Dawson's Landing,\nPembroke Howard was easily its recognized second citizen. He was called\n\"the great lawyer\"--an earned title. He and Driscoll were of the same\nage--a year or two past sixty.\n\nAlthough Driscoll was a free-thinker and Howard a strong and determined\nPresbyterian, their warm intimacy suffered no impairment in consequence.\nThey were men whose opinions were their own property and not subject to\nrevision and amendment, suggestion or criticism, by anybody, even their\nfriends.\n\nThe day's fishing finished, they came floating down stream in their\nskiff, talking national politics and other high matters, and presently\nmet a skiff coming up from town, with a man in it who said:\n\n\"I reckon you know one of the new twins gave your nephew a kicking last\nnight, Judge?\"\n\n\"Did what?\"\n\n\"Gave him a kicking.\"\n\nThe old Judge's lips paled, and his eyes began to flame. He choked with\nanger for a moment, then he got out what he was trying to say--\n\n\"Well--well--go on! give me the details!\"\n\nThe man did it. At the finish the Judge was silent a minute, turning\nover in his mind the shameful picture of Tom's flight over the\nfootlights; then he said, as if musing aloud--\"H'm--I don't understand\nit. I was asleep at home. He didn't wake me. Thought he was competent to\nmanage his affair without my help, I reckon.\" His face lit up with pride\nand pleasure at that thought, and he said with a cheery complacency, \"I\nlike that--it's the true old blood--hey, Pembroke?\"\n\nHoward smiled an iron smile, and nodded his head approvingly. Then the\nnews-bringer spoke again--\n\n\"But Tom beat the twin on the trial.\"\n\nThe Judge looked at the man wonderingly, and said--\n\n\"The trial? What trial?\"\n\n\"Why, Tom had him up before Judge Robinson for assault and battery.\"\n\nThe old man shrank suddenly together like one who has received a\ndeath-stroke. Howard sprang for him as he sank forward in a swoon, and\ntook him in his arms, and bedded him on his back in the boat. He\nsprinkled water in his face, and said to the startled visitor--\n\n\"Go, now--don't let him come to and find you here. You see what an\neffect your heedless speech has had; you ought to have been more\nconsiderate than to blurt out such a cruel piece of slander as that.\"\n\n\"I'm right down sorry I did it now, Mr. Howard, and I wouldn't have done\nit if I had thought: but it ain't slander; it's perfectly true, just as\nI told him.\"\n\nHe rowed away. Presently the old Judge came out of his faint and looked\nup piteously into the sympathetic face that was bent over him.\n\n\"Say it ain't true, Pembroke; tell me it ain't true!\" he said in a weak\nvoice.\n\nThere was nothing weak in the deep organ-tones that responded--\n\n\"You know it's a lie as well as I do, old friend. He is of the best\nblood of the Old Dominion.\"\n\n\"God bless you for saying it!\" said the old gentleman, fervently. \"Ah,\nPembroke, it was such a blow!\"\n\nHoward stayed by his friend, and saw him home, and entered the house\nwith him. It was dark, and past supper-time, but the Judge was not\nthinking of supper; he was eager to hear the slander refuted from\nheadquarters, and as eager to have Howard hear it, too. Tom was sent\nfor, and he came immediately. He was bruised and lame, and was not a\nhappy-looking object. His uncle made him sit down, and said--\n\n\"We have been hearing about your adventure, Tom, with a handsome lie\nadded to it for embellishment. Now pulverize that lie to dust! What\nmeasures have you taken? How does the thing stand?\"\n\nTom answered guilelessly: \"It don't stand at all; it's all over. I had\nhim up in court and beat him. Pudd'nhead Wilson defended him--first case\nhe ever had, and lost it. The judge fined the miserable hound five\ndollars for the assault.\"\n\nHoward and the Judge sprang to their feet with the opening\nsentence--why, neither knew; then they stood gazing vacantly at each\nother. Howard stood a moment, then sat mournfully down without saying\nanything. The Judge's wrath began to kindle, and he burst out--\n\n\"You cur! You scum! You vermin! Do you mean to tell me that blood of my\nrace has suffered a blow and crawled to a court of law about it? Answer\nme!\"\n\nTom's head drooped, and he answered with an eloquent silence. His uncle\nstared at him with a mixed expression of amazement and shame and\nincredulity that was sorrowful to see. At last he said--\n\n\"Which of the twins was it?\"\n\n\"Count Luigi.\"\n\n\"You have challenged him?\"\n\n\"N--no,\" hesitated Tom, turning pale.\n\n\"You will challenge him to-night. Howard will carry it.\"\n\nTom began to turn sick, and to show it. He turned his hat round and\nround in his hand, his uncle glowering blacker and blacker upon him as\nthe heavy seconds drifted by; then at last he began to stammer, and said\npiteously--\n\n\"Oh, please don't ask me to do it, uncle! He is a murderous devil--I\nnever could--I--I'm afraid of him!\"\n\nOld Driscoll's mouth opened and closed three times before he could get\nit to perform its office; then he stormed out--\n\n\"A coward in my family! A Driscoll a coward! Oh, what have I done to\ndeserve this infamy!\" He tottered to his secretary in the corner\nrepeating that lament again and again in heartbreaking tones, and got\nout of a drawer a paper, which he slowly tore to bits scattering the\nbits absently in his track as he walked up and down the room, still\ngrieving and lamenting. At last he said--\n\n\"There it is, shreds and fragments once more--my will. Once more you\nhave forced me to disinherit you, you base son of a most noble father!\nLeave my sight! Go--before I spit on you!\"\n\nThe young man did not tarry. Then the Judge turned to Howard:\n\n\"You will be my second, old friend?\"\n\n\"Of course.\"\n\n\"There is pen and paper. Draft the cartel, and lose no time.\"\n\n\"The Count shall have it in his hands in fifteen minutes,\" said Howard.\n\nTom was very heavy-hearted. His appetite was gone with his property and\nhis self-respect. He went out the back way and wandered down the obscure\nlane grieving, and wondering if any course of future conduct, however\ndiscreet and carefully perfected and watched over, could win back his\nuncle's favor and persuade him to reconstruct once more that generous\nwill which had just gone to ruin before his eyes. He finally concluded\nthat it could. He said to himself that he had accomplished this sort of\ntriumph once already, and that what had been done once could be done\nagain. He would set about it. He would bend every energy to the task,\nand he would score that triumph once more, cost what it might to his\nconvenience, limit as it might his frivolous and liberty-loving life.\n\n\"To begin,\" he said to himself, \"I'll square up with the proceeds of my\nraid, and then gambling has got to be stopped--and stopped short off.\nIt's the worst vice I've got--from my standpoint, anyway, because it's\nthe one he can most easily find out, through the impatience of my\ncreditors. He thought it expensive to have to pay two hundred dollars to\nthem for me once. Expensive--that! Why, it cost me the whole of his\nfortune--but of course he never thought of that; some people can't think\nof any but their own side of a case. If he had known how deep I am in,\nnow, the will would have gone to pot without waiting for a duel to help.\nThree hundred dollars! It's a pile! But he'll never hear of it, I'm\nthankful to say. The minute I've cleared it off, I'm safe; and I'll\nnever touch a card again. Anyway, I won't while he lives, I make oath to\nthat. I'm entering on my last reform--I know it--yes, and I'll win; but\nafter that, if I ever slip again I'm gone.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\nTom Stares at Ruin.\n\nWhen I reflect upon the number of disagreeable people who I know have\ngone to a better world, I am moved to lead a different life.--Pudd'nhead\nWilson's Calendar.\n\nOctober. This is one of the peculiarly dangerous months to speculate in\nstocks in. The others are July, January, September, April, November,\nMay, March, June, December, August, and February.--Pudd'nhead Wilson's\nCalendar.\n\nThus mournfully communing with himself Tom moped along the lane past\nPudd'nhead Wilson's house, and still on and on between fences inclosing\nvacant country on each hand till he neared the haunted house, then he\ncame moping back again, with many sighs and heavy with trouble. He\nsorely wanted cheerful company. Rowena! His heart gave a bound at the\nthought, but the next thought quieted it--the detested twins would be\nthere.\n\nHe was on the inhabited side of Wilson's house, and now as he approached\nit he noticed that the sitting-room was lighted. This would do; others\nmade him feel unwelcome sometimes, but Wilson never failed in courtesy\ntoward him, and a kindly courtesy does at least save one's feelings,\neven if it is not professing to stand for a welcome. Wilson heard\nfootsteps at his threshold, then the clearing of a throat.\n\n\"It's that fickle-tempered, dissipated young goose--poor devil, he find\nfriends pretty scarce to-day, likely, after the disgrace of carrying a\npersonal-assault case into a law-court.\"\n\nA dejected knock. \"Come in!\"\n\nTom entered, and drooped into a chair, without saying anything. Wilson\nsaid kindly--\n\n\"Why, my boy, you look desolate. Don't take it so hard. Try and forget\nyou have been kicked.\"\n\n\"Oh, dear,\" said Tom, wretchedly, \"it's not that, Pudd'nhead--it's not\nthat. It's a thousand times worse than that--oh, yes, a million times\nworse.\"\n\n\"Why, Tom, what do you mean? Has Rowena--\"\n\n\"Flung me? No, but the old man has.\"\n\nWilson said to himself, \"Aha!\" and thought of the mysterious girl in the\nbedroom. \"The Driscolls have been making discoveries!\" Then he said\naloud, gravely:\n\n\"Tom, there are some kinds of dissipation which--\"\n\n\"Oh, shucks, this hasn't got anything to do with dissipation. He wanted\nme to challenge that derned Italian savage, and I wouldn't do it.\"\n\n\"Yes, of course he would do that,\" said Wilson in a meditative\nmatter-of-course way, \"but the thing that puzzled me was, why he didn't\nlook to that last night, for one thing, and why he let you carry such a\nmatter into a court of law at all, either before the duel or after it.\nIt's no place for it. It was not like him. I couldn't understand it. How\ndid it happen?\"\n\n\"It happened because he didn't know anything about it. He was asleep\nwhen I got home last night.\"\n\n\"And you didn't wake him? Tom, is that possible?\"\n\nTom was not getting much comfort here. He fidgeted a moment, then said:\n\n\"I didn't choose to tell him--that's all. He was going a-fishing before\ndawn, with Pembroke Howard, and if I got the twins into the common\ncalaboose--and I thought sure I could--I never dreamed of their slipping\nout on a paltry fine for such an outrageous offense--well, once in the\ncalaboose they would be disgraced, and uncle wouldn't want any duels\nwith that sort of characters, and wouldn't allow any.\"\n\n\"Tom, I am ashamed of you! I don't see how you could treat your good old\nuncle so. I am a better friend of his than you are; for if I had known\nthe circumstances I would have kept that case out of court until I got\nword to him and let him have a gentleman's chance.\"\n\n\"You would?\" exclaimed Tom, with lively surprise. \"And it your first\ncase! And you know perfectly well there never would have been any case\nif he had got that chance, don't you? And you'd have finished your days\na pauper nobody, instead of being an actually launched and recognized\nlawyer to-day. And you would really have done that, would you?\"\n\n\"Certainly.\"\n\nTom looked at him a moment or two, then shook his head sorrowfully and\nsaid--\n\n\"I believe you--upon my word I do. I don't know why I do, but I do.\nPudd'nhead Wilson, I think you're the biggest fool I ever saw.\"\n\n\"Thank you.\"\n\n\"Don't mention it.\"\n\n\"Well, he has been requiring you to fight the Italian and you have\nrefused. You degenerate remnant of an honorable line! I'm thoroughly\nashamed of you, Tom!\"\n\n\"Oh, that's nothing! I don't care for anything, now that the will's torn\nup again.\"\n\n\"Tom, tell me squarely--didn't he find any fault with you for anything\nbut those two things--carrying the case into court and refusing to\nfight?\"\n\nHe watched the young fellow's face narrowly, but it was entirely\nreposeful, and so also was the voice that answered:\n\n\"No, he didn't find any other fault with me. If he had had any to find,\nhe would have begun yesterday, for he was just in the humor for it. He\ndrove that jack-pair around town and showed them the sights, and when he\ncame home he couldn't find his father's old silver watch that don't keep\ntime and he thinks so much of, and couldn't remember what he did with it\nthree or four days ago when he saw it last, and so when I arrived he was\nall in a sweat about it, and when I suggested that it probably wasn't\nlost but stolen, it put him in a regular passion and he said I was a\nfool--which convinced me, without any trouble, that that was just what\nhe was afraid had happened, himself, but did not want to believe it,\nbecause lost things stand a better chance of being found again than\nstolen ones.\"\n\n\"Whe-ew!\" whistled Wilson; \"score another on the list.\"\n\n\"Another what?\"\n\n\"Another theft!\"\n\n\"Theft?\"\n\n\"Yes, theft. That watch isn't lost, it's stolen. There's been another\nraid on the town--and just the same old mysterious sort of thing that\nhas happened once before, as you remember.\"\n\n\"You don't mean it!\"\n\n\"It's as sure as you are born! Have you missed anything yourself?\"\n\n\"No. That is, I did miss a silver pencil-case that Aunt Mary Pratt gave\nme last birthday--\"\n\n\"You'll find it stolen--that's what you'll find.\"\n\n\"No, I sha'n't; for when I suggested theft about the watch and got such\na rap, I went and examined my room, and the pencil-case was missing, but\nit was only mislaid, and I found it again.\"\n\n\"You are sure you missed nothing else?\"\n\n\"Well, nothing of consequence. I missed a small plain gold ring worth\ntwo or three dollars, but that will turn up. I'll look again.\"\n\n\"In my opinion you'll not find it. There's been a raid, I tell you. Come\nin!\"\n\nMr. Justice Robinson entered, followed by Buckstone and the\ntown-constable, Jim Blake. They sat down, and after some wandering and\naimless weather-conversation Wilson said--\n\n\"By the way, we've just added another to the list of thefts, maybe two.\nJudge Driscoll's old silver watch is gone, and Tom here has missed a\ngold ring.\"\n\n\"Well, it is a bad business,\" said the Justice, \"and gets worse the\nfurther it goes. The Hankses, the Dobsons, the Pilligrews, the Ortons,\nthe Grangers, the Hales, the Fullers, the Holcombs, in fact everybody\nthat lives around about Patsy Cooper's has been robbed of little things\nlike trinkets and teaspoons and such-like small valuables that are\neasily carried off. It's perfectly plain that the thief took advantage\nof the reception at Patsy Cooper's when all the neighbors were in her\nhouse and all their niggers hanging around her fence for a look at the\nshow, to raid the vacant houses undisturbed. Patsy is miserable about\nit; miserable on account of the neighbors, and particularly miserable on\naccount of her foreigners, of course; so miserable on their account that\nshe hasn't any room to worry about her own little losses.\"\n\n\"It's the same old raider,\" said Wilson. \"I suppose there isn't any\ndoubt about that.\"\n\n\"Constable Blake doesn't think so.\"\n\n\"No, you're wrong there,\" said Blake; \"the other times it was a man;\nthere was plenty of signs of that, as we know, in the profession, though\nwe never got hands on him; but this time it's a woman.\"\n\nWilson thought of the mysterious girl straight off. She was always in\nhis mind now. But she failed him again. Blake continued:\n\n\"She's a stoop-shouldered old woman with a covered basket on her arm, in\na black veil, dressed in mourning. I saw her going aboard the ferry-boat\nyesterday. Lives in Illinois, I reckon; but I don't care where she\nlives, I'm going to get her--she can make herself sure of that.\"\n\n\"What makes you think she's the thief?\"\n\n\"Well, there ain't any other, for one thing; and for another, some\nnigger draymen that happened to be driving along saw her coming out of\nor going into houses, and told me so--and it just happens that they was\nrobbed houses, every time.\"\n\nIt was granted that this was plenty good enough circumstantial evidence.\nA pensive silence followed, which lasted some moments, then Wilson\nsaid--\n\n\"There's one good thing, anyway. She can't either pawn or sell Count\nLuigi's costly Indian dagger.\"\n\n\"My!\" said Tom, \"is that gone?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Well, that was a haul! But why can't she pawn it or sell it?\"\n\n\"Because when the twins went home from the Sons of Liberty meeting last\nnight, news of the raid was sifting in from everywhere, and Aunt Patsy\nwas in distress to know if they had lost anything. They found that the\ndagger was gone, and they notified the police and pawnbrokers\neverywhere. It was a great haul, yes, but the old woman won't get\nanything out of it, because she'll get caught.\"\n\n\"Did they offer a reward?\" asked Buckstone.\n\n\"Yes; five hundred dollars for the knife, and five hundred more for the\nthief.\"\n\n\"What a leather-headed idea!\" exclaimed the constable. \"The thief\nda'sn't go near them, nor send anybody. Whoever goes is going to get\nhimself nabbed, for their ain't any pawnbroker that's going to lose the\nchance to--\"\n\nIf anybody had noticed Tom's face at that time, the gray-green color of\nit might have provoked curiosity; but nobody did. He said to himself:\n\"I'm gone! I never can square up; the rest of the plunder won't pawn or\nsell for half of the bill. Oh, I know it--I'm gone, I'm gone--and this\ntime it's for good. Oh, this is awful--I don't know what to do, nor\nwhich way to turn!\"\n\n\"Softly, softly,\" said Wilson to Blake. \"I planned their scheme for them\nat midnight last night, and it was all finished up shipshape by two this\nmorning. They'll get their dagger back, and then I'll explain to you how\nthe thing was done.\"\n\nThere were strong signs of a general curiosity, and Buckstone said--\n\n\"Well, you have whetted us up pretty sharp, Wilson, and I'm free to say\nthat if you don't mind telling us in confidence--\"\n\n\"Oh, I'd as soon tell as not, Buckstone, but as long as the twins and I\nagreed to say nothing about it, we must let it stand so. But you can\ntake my word for it you won't be kept waiting three days. Somebody will\napply for that reward pretty promptly, and I'll show you the thief and\nthe dagger both very soon afterward.\"\n\nThe constable was disappointed, and also perplexed. He said--\n\n\"It may all be--yes, and I hope it will, but I'm blamed if I can see my\nway through it. It's too many for yours truly.\"\n\nThe subject seemed about talked out. Nobody seemed to have anything\nfurther to offer. After a silence the justice of the peace informed\nWilson that he and Buckstone and the constable had come as a committee,\non the part of the Democratic party, to ask him to run for mayor--for\nthe little town was about to become a city and the first charter\nelection was approaching. It was the first attention which Wilson had\never received at the hands of any party; it was a sufficiently humble\none, but it was a recognition of his d\u00e9but into the town's life and\nactivities at last; it was a step upward, and he was deeply gratified.\nHe accepted, and the committee departed, followed by young Tom.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\nRoxana Insists Upon Reform.\n\nThe true Southern watermelon is a boon apart, and not to be mentioned\nwith commoner things. It is chief of this world's luxuries, king by the\ngrace of God over all the fruits of the earth. When one has tasted it,\nhe knows what the angels eat. It was not a Southern watermelon that Eve\ntook: we know it because she repented.--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.\n\nAbout the time that Wilson was bowing the committee out, Pembroke Howard\nwas entering the next house to report. He found the old Judge sitting\ngrim and straight in his chair, waiting.\n\n\"Well, Howard--the news?\"\n\n\"The best in the world.\"\n\n\"Accepts, does he?\" and the light of battle gleamed joyously in the\nJudge's eye.\n\n\"Accepts? Why, he jumped at it.\"\n\n\"Did, did he? Now that's fine--that's very fine. I like that. When is it\nto be?\"\n\n\"Now! Straight off! To-night! An admirable fellow--admirable!\"\n\n\"Admirable? He's a darling! Why, it's an honor as well as a pleasure to\nstand up before such a man. Come--off with you! Go and arrange\neverything--and give him my heartiest compliments. A rare fellow,\nindeed; an admirable fellow, as you have said!\"\n\nHoward hurried away, saying--\n\n\"I'll have him in the vacant stretch between Wilson's and the haunted\nhouse within the hour, and I'll bring my own pistols.\"\n\nJudge Driscoll began to walk the floor in a state of pleased excitement;\nbut presently he stopped, and began to think--began to think of Tom.\nTwice he moved toward the secretary, and twice he turned away again; but\nfinally he said--\n\n\"This may be my last night in the world--I must not take the chance. He\nis worthless and unworthy, but it is largely my fault. He was intrusted\nto me by my brother on his dying bed, and I have indulged him to his\nhurt, instead of training him up severely, and making a man of him. I\nhave violated my trust, and I must not add the sin of desertion to that.\nI have forgiven him once already, and would subject him to a long and\nhard trial before forgiving him again, if I could live; but I must not\nrun that risk. No, I must restore the will. But if I survive the duel, I\nwill hide it away, and he will not know, and I will not tell him until\nhe reforms, and I see that his reformation is going to be permanent.\"\n\nHe re-drew the will, and his ostensible nephew was heir to a fortune\nagain. As he was finishing his task, Tom, wearied with another brooding\ntramp, entered the house and went tiptoeing past the sitting-room door.\nHe glanced in, and hurried on, for the sight of his uncle had nothing\nbut terrors for him to-night. But his uncle was writing! That was\nunusual at this late hour. What could he be writing? A chill of anxiety\nsettled down upon Tom's heart. Did that writing concern him? He was\nafraid so. He reflected that when ill luck begins, it does not come in\nsprinkles, but in showers. He said he would get a glimpse of that\ndocument or know the reason why. He heard some one coming, and stepped\nout of sight and hearing. It was Pembroke Howard. What could be\nhatching?\n\nHoward said, with great satisfaction:\n\n\"Everything's right and ready. He's gone to the battle-ground with his\nsecond and the surgeon--also with his brother. I've arranged it all with\nWilson--Wilson's his second. We are to have three shots apiece.\"\n\n\"Good! How is the moon?\"\n\n\"Bright as day, nearly. Perfect, for the distance--fifteen yards. No\nwind--not a breath; hot and still.\"\n\n\"All good; all first-rate. Here, Pembroke, read this, and witness it.\"\n\nPembroke read and witnessed the will, then gave the old man's hand a\nhearty shake and said:\n\n\"Now that's right, York--but I knew you would do it. You couldn't leave\nthat poor chap to fight along without means or profession, with certain\ndefeat before him, and I knew you wouldn't, for his father's sake if not\nfor his own.\"\n\n\"For his dead father's sake I couldn't, I know; for poor Percy--but you\nknow what Percy was to me. But mind--Tom is not to know of this unless I\nfall to-night.\"\n\n\"I understand. I'll keep the secret.\"\n\nThe Judge put the will away, and the two started for the battle-ground.\nIn another minute the will was in Tom's hands. His misery vanished, his\nfeelings underwent a tremendous revulsion. He put the will carefully\nback in its place, and spread his mouth and swung his hat once, twice,\nthree times around his head, in imitation of three rousing huzzas, no\nsound issuing from his lips. He fell to communing with himself excitedly\nand joyously, but every now and then he let off another volley of dumb\nhurrahs.\n\nHe said to himself: \"I've got the fortune again, but I'll not let on\nthat I know about it. And this time I'm going to hang on to it. I take\nno more risks. I'll gamble no more, I'll drink no more, because--well,\nbecause I'll not go where there is any of that sort of thing going on,\nagain. It's the sure way, and the only sure way; I might have thought of\nthat sooner--well, yes, if I had wanted to. But now--dear me, I've had a\nscare this time, and I'll take no more chances. Not a single chance\nmore. Land! I persuaded myself this evening that I could fetch him\naround without any great amount of effort, but I've been getting more\nand more heavy-hearted and doubtful straight along, ever since. If he\ntells me about this thing, all right; but if he doesn't, I sha'n't let\non. I--well, I'd like to tell Pudd'nhead Wilson, but--no, I'll think\nabout that; perhaps I won't.\" He whirled off another dead huzza, and\nsaid, \"I'm reformed, and this time I'll stay so, sure!\"\n\nHe was about to close with a final grand silent demonstration, when he\nsuddenly recollected that Wilson had put it out of his power to pawn or\nsell the Indian knife, and that he was once more in awful peril of\nexposure by his creditors for that reason. His joy collapsed utterly,\nand he turned away and moped toward the door moaning and lamenting over\nthe bitterness of his luck. He dragged himself up-stairs, and brooded in\nhis room a long time disconsolate and forlorn, with Luigi's Indian knife\nfor a text. At last he sighed and said:\n\n\"When I supposed these stones were glass and this ivory bone, the thing\nhadn't any interest for me because it hadn't any value, and couldn't\nhelp me out of my trouble. But now--why, now it is full of interest;\nyes, and of a sort to break a body's heart. It's a bag of gold that has\nturned to dirt and ashes in my hands. It could save me, and save me so\neasily, and yet I've got to go to ruin. It's like drowning with a\nlife-preserver in my reach. All the hard luck comes to me, and all the\ngood luck goes to other people--Pudd'nhead Wilson, for instance; even\nhis career has got a sort of a little start at last, and what has he\ndone to deserve it, I should like to know? Yes, he has opened his own\nroad, but he isn't content with that, but must block mine. It's a\nsordid, selfish world, and I wish I was out of it.\" He allowed the light\nof the candle to play upon the jewels of the sheath, but the flashings\nand sparklings had no charm for his eye; they were only just so many\npangs to his heart. \"I must not say anything to Roxy about this thing,\"\nhe said, \"she is too daring. She would be for digging these stones out\nand selling them, and then--why, she would be arrested and the stones\ntraced, and then--\" The thought made him quake, and he hid the knife\naway, trembling all over and glancing furtively about, like a criminal\nwho fancies that the accuser is already at hand.\n\nShould he try to sleep? Oh, no, sleep was not for him; his trouble was\ntoo haunting, too afflicting for that. He must have somebody to mourn\nwith. He would carry his despair to Roxy.\n\nHe had heard several distant gunshots, but that sort of thing was not\nuncommon, and they had made no impression upon him. He went out at the\nback door, and turned westward. He passed Wilson's house and proceeded\nalong the lane, and presently saw several figures approaching Wilson's\nplace through the vacant lots. These were the duelists returning from\nthe fight; he thought he recognized them, but as he had no desire for\nwhite people's company, he stooped down behind the fence until they were\nout of his way.\n\nRoxy was feeling fine. She said:\n\n\"Whah was you, child? Warn't you in it?\"\n\n\"In what?\"\n\n\"In de duel.\"\n\n\"Duel? Has there been a duel?\"\n\n\"'Co'se dey has. De ole Jedge has be'n havin' a duel wid one o' dem\ntwins.\"\n\n\"Great Scott!\" Then he added to himself: \"That's what made him re-make\nthe will; he thought he might get killed, and it softened him toward me.\nAnd that's what he and Howard were so busy about.... Oh dear, if the\ntwin had only killed him, I should be out of my--\"\n\n\"What is you mumblin' bout, Chambers? Whah was you? Didn't you know dey\nwas gwyne to be a duel?\"\n\n\"No, I didn't. The old man tried to get me to fight one with Count\nLuigi, but he didn't succeed, so I reckon he concluded to patch up the\nfamily honor himself.\"\n\nHe laughed at the idea, and went rambling on with a detailed account of\nhis talk with the Judge, and how shocked and ashamed the Judge was to\nfind that he had a coward in his family. He glanced up at last, and got\na shock himself. Roxana's bosom was heaving with suppressed passion, and\nshe was glowering down upon him with measureless contempt written in her\nface.\n\n\"En you refuse' to fight a man dat kicked you, 'stid o' jumpin' at de\nchance! En you ain't got no mo' feelin' den to come en tell me, dat\nfetched sich a po' low-down ornery rabbit into de worl'! Pah! it make me\nsick! It's de nigger in you, dat's what it is. Thirty-one parts o' you\nis white, en on'y one part nigger, en dat po' little one part is yo'\nsoul. Tain't wuth savin'; tain't wuth totin' out on a shovel en throwin'\nin de gutter. You has disgraced yo' birth. What would yo' pa think o'\nyou? It's enough to make him turn in his grave.\"\n\nThe last three sentences stung Tom into a fury, and he said to himself\nthat if his father were only alive and in reach of assassination his\nmother would soon find that he had a very clear notion of the size of\nhis indebtedness to that man, and was willing to pay it up in full, and\nwould do it too, even at risk of his life; but he kept this thought to\nhimself; that was safest in his mother's present state.\n\n\"Whatever has come o' yo' Essex blood? Dat's what I can't understan'. En\nit ain't on'y jist Essex blood dat's in you, not by a long sight--'deed\nit ain't! My great-great-great-gran'father en yo'\ngreat-great-great-great-gran'father was Ole Cap'n John Smith, de highest\nblood dat Ole Virginny ever turned out, en his great-great-gran'mother\nor somers along back dah, was Pocahontas de Injun queen, en her husbun'\nwas a nigger king outen Africa--en yit here you is, a slinkin' outen a\nduel en disgracin' our whole line like a ornery low-down hound! Yes,\nit's de nigger in you!\"\n\nShe sat down on her candle-box and fell into a reverie. Tom did not\ndisturb her; he sometimes lacked prudence, but it was not in\ncircumstances of this kind, Roxana's storm went gradually down, but it\ndied hard, and even when it seemed to be quite gone, it would now and\nthen break out in a distant rumble, so to speak, in the form of muttered\nejaculations. One of these was, \"Ain't nigger enough in him to show in\nhis finger-nails, en dat takes mighty little--yit dey's enough to paint\nhis soul.\"\n\nPresently she muttered. \"Yassir, enough to paint a whole thimbleful of\n'em.\" At last her ramblings ceased altogether, and her countenance began\nto clear--a welcome sign to Tom, who had learned her moods, and knew she\nwas on the threshold of good-humor, now. He noticed that from time to\ntime she unconsciously carried her finger to the end of her nose. He\nlooked closer and said:\n\n\"Why, mammy, the end of your nose is skinned. How did that come?\"\n\nShe sent out the sort of whole-hearted peal of laughter which God had\nvouchsafed in its perfection to none but the happy angels in heaven and\nthe bruised and broken black slave on the earth, and said:\n\n\"Dad fetch dat duel, I be'n in it myself.\"\n\n\"Gracious! did a bullet do that?\"\n\n\"Yassir, you bet it did!\"\n\n\"Well, I declare! Why, how did that happen?\"\n\n\"Happened dis-away. I 'uz a-sett'n' here kinder dozin' in de dark, en\nche-bang! goes a gun, right out dah. I skips along out towards t'other\nend o' de house to see what's gwyne on, en stops by de ole winder on de\nside towards Pudd'nhead Wilson's house dat ain't got no sash in it,--but\ndey ain't none of 'em got any sashes, fur as dat's concerned,--en I\nstood dah in de dark en look out, en dar in de moonlight, right down\nunder me 'uz one o' de twins a-cussin'--not much, but jist a-cussin'\nsoft--it 'uz de brown one dat 'uz cussin', 'ca'se he 'uz hit in de\nshoulder. En Doctor Claypool he 'uz a-workin' at him, en Pudd'nhead\nWilson he 'uz a-he'pin', en ole Jedge Driscoll en Pem Howard 'uz\na-standin' out yonder a little piece waitin' for 'em to git ready agin.\nEn treckly dey squared off en give de word, en bang-bang went de\npistols, en de twin he say, 'Ouch!'--hit him on de han' dis time,--en I\nhear dat same bullet go spat! ag'in, de logs under de winder; en de nex'\ntime dey shoot, de twin say, 'Ouch!' ag'in, en I done it too, 'ca'se de\nbullet glance' on his cheek-bone en skip up here en glance on de side o'\nde winder en whiz right acrost my face en tuck de hide off'n my\nnose--why, if I'd 'a' be'n jist a inch or a inch en a half furder 't\nwould 'a' tuck de whole nose en disfiggered me. Here's de bullet; I\nhunted her up.\"\n\n\"Did you stand there all the time?\"\n\n\"Dat's a question to ask, ain't it? What else would I do? Does I git a\nchance to see a duel every day?\"\n\n\"Why, you were right in range! Weren't you afraid?\"\n\nThe woman gave a sniff of scorn.\n\n\"'Fraid! De Smith-Pocahontases ain't 'fraid o' nothin', let alone\nbullets.\"\n\n\"They've got pluck enough, I suppose; what they lack is judgment. I\nwouldn't have stood there.\"\n\n\"Nobody's accusin' you!\"\n\n\"Did anybody else get hurt?\"\n\n\"Yes, we all got hit 'cep' de blon' twin en de doctor en de seconds. De\nJedge didn't git hurt, but I hear Pudd'nhead say de bullet snip some o'\nhis ha'r off.\"\n\n\"'George!\" said Tom to himself, \"to come so near being out of my\ntrouble, and miss it by an inch. Oh dear, dear, he will live to find me\nout and sell me to some nigger-trader yet--yes, and he would do it in a\nminute.\" Then he said aloud, in a grave tone--\n\n\"Mother, we are in an awful fix.\"\n\nRoxana caught her breath with a spasm, and said--\n\n\"Chile! What you hit a body so sudden for, like dat? What's be'n en gone\nen happen'?\"\n\n\"Well, there's one thing I didn't tell you. When I wouldn't fight, he\ntore up the will again, and--\"\n\nRoxana's face turned a dead white, and she said--\n\n\"Now you's done!--done forever! Dat's de end. Bofe un us is gwyne to\nstarve to--\"\n\n\"Wait and hear me through, can't you! I reckon that when he resolved to\nfight, himself, he thought he might get killed and not have a chance to\nforgive me any more in this life, so he made the will again, and I've\nseen it, and it's all right. But--\"\n\n\"Oh, thank goodness, den we's safe ag'in!--safe! en so what did you want\nto come here en talk sich dreadful--\"\n\n\"Hold on, I tell you, and let me finish. The swag I gathered won't half\nsquare me up, and the first thing we know, my creditors--well, you know\nwhat'll happen.\"\n\nRoxana dropped her chin, and told her son to leave her alone--she must\nthink this matter out. Presently she said impressively:\n\n\"You got to go mighty keerful now, I tell you! En here's what you got to\ndo. He didn't git killed, en if you gives him de least reason, he'll\nbust de will ag'in, en dat's de las' time, now you hear me! So--you's\ngot to show him what you kin do in de nex' few days. You's got to be\npison good, en let him see it; you got to do everything dat'll make him\nb'lieve in you, en you got to sweeten aroun' ole Aunt Pratt, too,--she's\npow'ful strong wid de Jedge, en de bes' frien' you got. Nex', you'll go\n'long away to Sent Louis, en dat'll keep him in yo' favor. Den you go en\nmake a bargain wid dem people. You tell 'em he ain't gwyne to live\nlong--en dat's de fac', too,--en tell 'em you'll pay 'em intrust, en big\nintrust, too,--ten per--what you call it?\"\n\n\"Ten per cent. a month?\"\n\n\"Dat's it. Den you take and sell yo' truck aroun', a little at a time,\nen pay de intrust. How long will it las'?\"\n\n\"I think there's enough to pay the interest five or six months.\"\n\n\"Den you's all right. If he don't die in six months, dat don't make no\ndiff'rence--Providence'll provide. You's gwyne to be safe--if you\nbehaves.\" She bent an austere eye on him and added, \"En you is gwyne to\nbehave--does you know dat?\"\n\nHe laughed and said he was going to try, anyway. She did not unbend. She\nsaid gravely:\n\n\"Tryin' ain't de thing. You's gwyne to do it. You ain't gwyne to steal a\npin--'ca'se it ain't safe no mo'; en you ain't gwyne into no bad\ncomp'ny--not even once, you understand; en you ain't gwyne to drink a\ndrop--nary single drop; en you ain't gwyne to gamble one single\ngamble--not one! Dis ain't what you's gwyne to try to do, it's what\nyou's gwyne to do. En I'll tell you how I knows it. Dis is how. I's\ngwyne to foller along to Sent Louis my own self; en you's gwyne to come\nto me every day o' yo' life, en I'll look you over; en if you fails in\none single one o' dem things--jist one--I take my oath I'll come\nstraight down to dis town en tell de Jedge you's a nigger en a slave--en\nprove it!\" She paused to let her words sink home. Then she added,\n\"Chambers, does you b'lieve me when I says dat?\"\n\nTom was sober enough now. There was no levity in his voice when he\nanswered:\n\n\"Yes, mother, I know, now, that I am reformed--and permanently.\nPermanently--and beyond the reach of any human temptation.\"\n\n\"Den g' long home en begin!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\nThe Robber Robbed.\n\nNothing so needs reforming as other people's habits.--Pudd'nhead\nWilson's Calendar.\n\nBehold, the fool saith, \"Put not all thine eggs in the one\nbasket\"--which is but a manner of saying, \"Scatter your money and your\nattention;\" but the wise man saith, \"Put all your eggs in the one basket\nand--watch that basket\"--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.\n\nWhat a time of it Dawson's Landing was having! All its life it had been\nasleep, but now it hardly got a chance for a nod, so swiftly did big\nevents and crashing surprises come along in one another's wake: Friday\nmorning, first glimpse of Real Nobility, also grand reception at Aunt\nPatsy Cooper's, also great robber-raid; Friday evening, dramatic kicking\nof the heir of the chief citizen in presence of four hundred people;\nSaturday morning, emergence as practising lawyer of the long-submerged\nPudd'nhead Wilson; Saturday night, duel between chief citizen and titled\nstranger.\n\nThe people took more pride in the duel than in all the other events put\ntogether, perhaps. It was a glory to their town to have such a thing\nhappen there. In their eyes the principals had reached the summit of\nhuman honor. Everybody paid homage to their names; their praises were in\nall mouths. Even the duelists' subordinates came in for a handsome share\nof the public approbation: wherefore Pudd'nhead Wilson was suddenly\nbecome a man of consequence. When asked to run for the mayoralty\nSaturday night he was risking defeat, but Sunday morning found him a\nmade man and his success assured.\n\nThe twins were prodigiously great, now; the town took them to its bosom\nwith enthusiasm. Day after day, and night after night, they went dining\nand visiting from house to house, making friends, enlarging and\nsolidifying their popularity, and charming and surprising all with their\nmusical prodigies, and now and then heightening the effects with samples\nof what they could do in other directions, out of their stock of rare\nand curious accomplishments. They were so pleased that they gave the\nregulation thirty days' notice, the required preparation for\ncitizenship, and resolved to finish their days in this pleasant place.\nThat was the climax. The delighted community rose as one man and\napplauded; and when the twins were asked to stand for seats in the\nforthcoming aldermanic board, and consented, the public contentment was\nrounded and complete.\n\nTom Driscoll was not happy over these things; they sunk deep, and hurt\nall the way down. He hated the one twin for kicking him, and the other\none for being the kicker's brother.\n\nNow and then the people wondered why nothing was heard of the raider, or\nof the stolen knife or the other plunder, but nobody was able to throw\nany light on that matter. Nearly a week had drifted by, and still the\nthing remained a vexed mystery.\n\nOn Saturday Constable Blake and Pudd'nhead Wilson met on the street, and\nTom Driscoll joined them in time to open their conversation for them. He\nsaid to Blake--\"You are not looking well, Blake; you seem to be annoyed\nabout something. Has anything gone wrong in the detective business? I\nbelieve you fairly and justifiably claim to have a pretty good\nreputation in that line, isn't it so?\"--which made Blake feel good, and\nlook it; but Tom added, \"for a country detective\"--which made Blake feel\nthe other way, and not only look it, but betray it in his voice--\n\n\"Yes, sir, I have got a reputation; and it's as good as anybody's in the\nprofession, too, country or no country.\"\n\n\"Oh, I beg pardon; I didn't mean any offense. What I started out to ask\nwas only about the old woman that raided the town--the stoop-shouldered\nold woman, you know, that you said you were going to catch; and I knew\nyou would, too, because you have the reputation of never boasting,\nand--well, you--you've caught the old woman?\"\n\n\"D------ the old woman!\"\n\n\"Why, sho! you don't mean to say you haven't caught her?\"\n\n\"No; I haven't caught her. If anybody could have caught her, I could;\nbut nobody couldn't, I don't care who he is.\"\n\n\"I am sorry, real sorry--for your sake; because, when it gets around\nthat a detective has expressed himself so confidently, and then--\"\n\n\"Don't you worry, that's all--don't you worry; and as for the town, the\ntown needn't worry, either. She's my meat--make yourself easy about\nthat. I'm on her track; I've got clues that--\"\n\n\"That's good! Now if you could get an old veteran detective down from\nSt. Louis to help you find out what the clues mean, and where they lead\nto, and then--\"\n\n\"I'm plenty veteran enough myself, and I don't need anybody's help. I'll\nhave her inside of a we--inside of a month. That I'll swear to!\"\n\nTom said carelessly--\n\n\"I suppose that will answer--yes, that will answer. But I reckon she is\npretty old, and old people don't often outlive the cautious pace of the\nprofessional detective when he has got his clues together and is out on\nhis still-hunt.\"\n\nBlake's dull face flushed under this gibe, but before he could set his\nretort in order Tom had turned to Wilson, and was saying, with placid\nindifference of manner and voice--\n\n\"Who got the reward, Pudd'nhead?\"\n\nWilson winced slightly, and saw that his own turn was come.\n\n\"What reward?\"\n\n\"Why, the reward for the thief, and the other one for the knife.\"\n\nWilson answered--and rather uncomfortably, to judge by his hesitating\nfashion of delivering himself--\n\n\"Well, the--well, in fact, nobody has claimed it yet.\"\n\nTom seemed surprised.\n\n\"Why, is that so?\"\n\nWilson showed a trifle of irritation when he replied--\n\n\"Yes, it's so. And what of it?\"\n\n\"Oh, nothing. Only I thought you had struck out a new idea, and invented\na scheme that was going to revolutionize the time-worn and ineffectual\nmethods of the--\" He stopped, and turned to Blake, who was happy now\nthat another had taken his place on the gridiron: \"Blake, didn't you\nunderstand him to intimate that it wouldn't be necessary for you to hunt\nthe old woman down?\"\n\n\"B'George, he said he'd have thief and swag both inside of three\ndays--he did, by hokey! and that's just about a week ago. Why, I said at\nthe time that no thief and no thief's pal was going to try to pawn or\nsell a thing where he knowed the pawnbroker could get both rewards by\ntaking him into camp with the swag. It was the blessedest idea that ever\nI struck!\"\n\n\"You'd change your mind,\" said Wilson, with irritated bluntness, \"if you\nknew the entire scheme instead of only part of it.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said the constable, pensively, \"I had the idea that it wouldn't\nwork, and up to now I'm right anyway.\"\n\n\"Very well, then, let it stand at that, and give it a further show. It\nhas worked at least as well as your own methods, you perceive.\"\n\nThe constable hadn't anything handy to hit back with, so he discharged a\ndiscontented sniff, and said nothing.\n\nAfter the night that Wilson had partly revealed his scheme at his house,\nTom had tried for several days to guess out the secret of the rest of\nit, but had failed. Then it occurred to him to give Roxana's smarter\nhead a chance at it. He made up a supposititious case, and laid it\nbefore her. She thought it over, and delivered her verdict upon it. Tom\nsaid to himself, \"She's hit it, sure!\" He thought he would test that\nverdict, now, and watch Wilson's face; so he said reflectively--\n\n\"Wilson, you're not a fool--a fact of recent discovery. Whatever your\nscheme was, it had sense in it, Blake's opinion to the contrary\nnotwithstanding. I don't ask you to reveal it, but I will suppose a\ncase--a case which will answer as a starting-point for the real thing I\nam going to come at, and that's all I want. You offered five hundred\ndollars for the knife, and five hundred for the thief. We will suppose,\nfor argument's sake, that the first reward is advertised and the second\noffered by private letter to pawnbrokers and--\"\n\nBlake slapped his thigh, and cried out--\n\n\"By Jackson, he's got you, Pudd'nhead! Now why couldn't I or any fool\nhave thought of that?\"\n\nWilson said to himself, \"Anybody with a reasonably good head would have\nthought of it. I am not surprised that Blake didn't detect it; I am only\nsurprised that Tom did. There is more to him than I supposed.\" He said\nnothing aloud, and Tom went on:\n\n\"Very well. The thief would not suspect that there was a trap, and he\nwould bring or send the knife, and say he bought it for a song, or found\nit in the road, or something like that, and try to collect the reward,\nand be arrested--wouldn't he?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Wilson.\n\n\"I think so,\" said Tom. \"There can't be any doubt of it. Have you ever\nseen that knife?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Has any friend of yours?\"\n\n\"Not that I know of.\"\n\n\"Well, I begin to think I understand why your scheme failed.\"\n\n\"What do you mean, Tom? What are you driving at?\" asked Wilson, with a\ndawning sense of discomfort.\n\n\"Why, that there isn't any such knife.\"\n\n\"Look here, Wilson,\" said Blake, \"Tom Driscoll's right, for a thousand\ndollars--if I had it.\"\n\nWilson's blood warmed a little, and he wondered if he had been played\nupon by those strangers; it certainly had something of that look. But\nwhat could they gain by it? He threw out that suggestion. Tom replied:\n\n\"Gain? Oh, nothing that you would value, maybe. But they are strangers\nmaking their way in a new community. Is it nothing to them to appear as\npets of an Oriental prince--at no expense? Is it nothing to them to be\nable to dazzle this poor little town with thousand-dollar rewards--at no\nexpense? Wilson, there isn't any such knife, or your scheme would have\nfetched it to light. Or if there is any such knife, they've got it yet.\nI believe, myself, that they've seen such a knife, for Angelo pictured\nit out with his pencil too swiftly and handily for him to have been\ninventing it, and of course I can't swear that they've never had it; but\nthis I'll go bail for--if they had it when they came to this town,\nthey've got it yet.\"\n\nBlake said--\n\n\"It looks mighty reasonable, the way Tom puts it; it most certainly\ndoes.\"\n\nTom responded, turning to leave--\n\n\"You find the old woman, Blake, and if she can't furnish the knife, go\nand search the twins!\"\n\nTom sauntered away. Wilson felt a good deal depressed. He hardly knew\nwhat to think. He was loath to withdraw his faith from the twins, and\nwas resolved not to do it on the present indecisive evidence; but--well,\nhe would think, and then decide how to act.\n\n\"Blake, what do you think of this matter?\"\n\n\"Well, Pudd'nhead, I'm bound to say I put it up the way Tom does. They\nhadn't the knife; or if they had it, they've got it yet.\"\n\nThe men parted. Wilson said to himself:\n\n\"I believe they had it; if it had been stolen, the scheme would have\nrestored it, that is certain. And so I believe they've got it yet.\"\n\nTom had no purpose in his mind when he encountered those two men. When\nhe began his talk he hoped to be able to gall them a little and get a\ntrifle of malicious entertainment out of it. But when he left, he left\nin great spirits, for he perceived that just by pure luck and no\ntroublesome labor he had accomplished several delightful things: he had\ntouched both men on a raw spot and seen them squirm; he had modified\nWilson's sweetness for the twins with one small bitter taste that he\nwouldn't be able to get out of his mouth right away; and, best of all,\nhe had taken the hated twins down a peg with the community; for Blake\nwould gossip around freely, after the manner of detectives, and within a\nweek the town would be laughing at them in its sleeve for offering a\ngaudy reward for a bauble which they either never possessed or hadn't\nlost. Tom was very well satisfied with himself.\n\nTom's behavior at home had been perfect during the entire week. His\nuncle and aunt had seen nothing like it before. They could find no fault\nwith him anywhere.\n\nSaturday evening he said to the Judge--\n\n\"I've had something preying on my mind, uncle, and as I am going away,\nand might never see you again, I can't bear it any longer. I made you\nbelieve I was afraid to fight that Italian adventurer. I had to get out\nof it on some pretext or other, and maybe I chose badly, being taken\nunawares, but no honorable person could consent to meet him in the\nfield, knowing what I knew about him.\"\n\n\"Indeed? What was that?\"\n\n\"Count Luigi is a confessed assassin.\"\n\n\"Incredible!\"\n\n\"It's perfectly true. Wilson detected it in his hand, by palmistry, and\ncharged him with it, and cornered him up so close that he had to\nconfess; but both twins begged us on their knees to keep the secret, and\nswore they would lead straight lives here; and it was all so pitiful\nthat we gave our word of honor never to expose them while they kept that\npromise. You would have done it yourself, uncle.\"\n\n\"You are right, my boy; I would. A man's secret is still his own\nproperty, and sacred, when it has been surprised out of him like that.\nYou did well, and I am proud of you.\" Then he added mournfully, \"But I\nwish I could have been saved the shame of meeting an assassin on the\nfield of honor.\"\n\n\"It couldn't be helped, uncle. If I had known you were going to\nchallenge him I should have felt obliged to sacrifice my pledged word in\norder to stop it, but Wilson couldn't be expected to do otherwise than\nkeep silent.\"\n\n\"Oh, no; Wilson did right, and is in no way to blame. Tom, Tom, you have\nlifted a heavy load from my heart; I was stung to the very soul when I\nseemed to have discovered that I had a coward in my family.\"\n\n\"You may imagine what it cost me to assume such a part, uncle.\"\n\n\"Oh, I know it, poor boy, I know it. And I can understand how much it\nhas cost you to remain under that unjust stigma to this time. But it is\nall right now, and no harm is done. You have restored my comfort of\nmind, and with it your own; and both of us had suffered enough.\"\n\nThe old man sat awhile plunged in thought; then he looked up with a\nsatisfied light in his eye, and said: \"That this assassin should have\nput the affront upon me of letting me meet him on the field of honor as\nif he were a gentleman is a matter which I will presently settle--but\nnot now. I will not shoot him until after election. I see a way to ruin\nthem both before; I will attend to that first. Neither of them shall be\nelected, that I promise. You are sure that the fact that he is an\nassassin has not got abroad?\"\n\n\"Perfectly certain of it, sir.\"\n\n\"It will be a good card. I will fling a hint at it from the stump on the\npolling-day. It will sweep the ground from under both of them.\"\n\n\"There's not a doubt of it. It will finish them.\"\n\n\"That and outside work among the voters will, to a certainty. I want you\nto come down here by and by and work privately among the rag-tag and\nbobtail. You shall spend money among them; I will furnish it.\"\n\nAnother point scored against the detested twins! Really it was a great\nday for Tom. He was encouraged to chance a parting shot, now, at the\nsame target, and did it.\n\n\"You know that wonderful Indian knife that the twins have been making\nsuch a to-do about? Well, there's no track or trace of it yet; so the\ntown is beginning to sneer and gossip and laugh. Half the people believe\nthey never had any such knife, the other half believe they had it and\nhave got it still. I've heard twenty people talking like that to-day.\"\n\nYes, Tom's blemishless week had restored him to the favor of his aunt\nand uncle.\n\nHis mother was satisfied with him, too. Privately, she believed she was\ncoming to love him, but she did not say so. She told him to go along to\nSt. Louis, now, and she would get ready and follow. Then she smashed her\nwhisky bottle and said--\n\n\"Dah now! I's a-gwyne to make you walk as straight as a string,\nChambers, en so I's bown' you ain't gwyne to git no bad example out o'\nyo' mammy. I tole you you couldn't go into no bad comp'ny. Well, you's\ngwyne into my comp'ny, en I's gwyne to fill de bill. Now, den, trot\nalong, trot along!\"\n\nTom went aboard one of the big transient boats that night with his heavy\nsatchel of miscellaneous plunder, and slept the sleep of the unjust,\nwhich is serener and sounder than the other kind, as we know by the\nhanging-eve history of a million rascals. But when he got up in the\nmorning, luck was against him again: A brother-thief had robbed him\nwhile he slept, and gone ashore at some intermediate landing.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\n\nSold Down the River.\n\nIf you pick up a starving dog and make him prosperous, he will not bite\nyou. This is the principal difference between a dog and a\nman.--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.\n\nWe know all about the habits of the ant, we know all about the habits of\nthe bee, but we know nothing at all about the habits of the oyster. It\nseems almost certain that we have been choosing the wrong time for\nstudying the oyster.--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.\n\nWhen Roxana arrived, she found her son in such despair and misery that\nher heart was touched and her motherhood rose up strong in her. He was\nruined past hope, now; his destruction would be immediate and sure, and\nhe would be an outcast and friendless. That was reason enough for a\nmother to love a child; so she loved him, and told him so. It made him\nwince, secretly--for she was a \"nigger.\" That he was one himself was far\nfrom reconciling him to that despised race.\n\nRoxana poured out endearments upon him, to which he responded\nuncomfortably, but as well as he could. And she tried to comfort him,\nbut that was not possible. These intimacies quickly became horrible to\nhim, and within the hour he began to try to get up courage enough to\ntell her so, and require that they be discontinued or very considerably\nmodified. But he was afraid of her; and besides, there came a lull, now,\nfor she had begun to think. She was trying to invent a saving plan.\nFinally she started up, and said she had found a way out. Tom was almost\nsuffocated by the joy of this sudden good news. Roxana said:\n\n\"Here is de plan, en she'll win, sure. I's a nigger, en nobody ain't\ngwyne to doubt it dat hears me talk. I's wuth six hund'd dollahs. Take\nen sell me, en pay off dese gamblers.\"\n\nTom was dazed. He was not sure he had heard aright. He was dumb for a\nmoment; then he said:\n\n\"Do you mean that you would be sold into slavery to save me?\"\n\n\"Ain't you my chile? En does you know anything dat a mother won't do for\nher chile? Day ain't nothin' a white mother won't do for her chile. Who\nmade 'em so? De Lord done it. En who made de niggers? De Lord made 'em.\nIn de inside, mothers is all de same. De good Lord he made 'em so. I's\ngwyne to be sole into slavery, en in a year you's gwyne to buy yo' ole\nmammy free ag'in. I'll show you how. Dat's de plan.\"\n\nTom's hopes began to rise, and his spirits along with them. He said--\n\n\"It's lovely of you, mammy--it's just--\"\n\n\"Say it ag'in! En keep on sayin' it! It's all de pay a body kin want in\ndis worl', en it's mo' den enough. Laws bless you, honey, when I's\nslavin' aroun', en dey 'buses me, if I knows you's a-sayin' dat, 'way\noff yonder somers, it'll heal up all de sore places, en I kin stan'\n'em.\"\n\n\"I do say it again, mammy, and I'll keep on saying it, too. But how am I\ngoing to sell you? You're free, you know.\"\n\n\"Much diff'rence dat make! White folks ain't partic'lar. De law kin sell\nme now if dey tell me to leave de State in six months en I don't go. You\ndraw up a paper--bill o' sale--en put it 'way off yonder, down in de\nmiddle o' Kaintuck somers, en sign some names to it, en say you'll sell\nme cheap 'ca'se you's hard up; you'll find you ain't gwyne to have no\ntrouble. You take me up de country a piece, en sell me on a farm; dem\npeople ain't gwyne to ask no questions if I's a bargain.\"\n\nTom forged a bill of sale and sold his mother to an Arkansas\ncotton-planter for a trifle over six hundred dollars. He did not want to\ncommit this treachery, but luck threw the man in his way, and this saved\nhim the necessity of going up country to hunt up a purchaser, with the\nadded risk of having to answer a lot of questions, whereas this planter\nwas so pleased with Roxy that he asked next to none at all. Besides, the\nplanter insisted that Roxy wouldn't know where she was, at first, and\nthat by the time she found out she would already have become contented.\nAnd Tom argued with himself that it was an immense advantage for Roxy to\nhave a master who was so pleased with her, as this planter manifestly\nwas. In almost no time his flowing reasonings carried him to the point\nof even half believing he was doing Roxy a splendid surreptitious\nservice in selling her \"down the river.\" And then he kept diligently\nsaying to himself all the time: \"It's for only a year. In a year I buy\nher free again; she'll keep that in mind, and it'll reconcile her.\" Yes;\nthe little deception could do no harm, and everything would come out\nright and pleasant in the end, any way. By agreement, the conversation\nin Roxy's presence was all about the man's \"upcountry\" farm, and how\npleasant a place it was, and how happy the slaves were there; so poor\nRoxy was entirely deceived; and easily, for she was not dreaming that\nher own son could be guilty of treason to a mother who, in voluntarily\ngoing into slavery--slavery of any kind, mild or severe, or of any\nduration, brief or long--was making a sacrifice for him compared with\nwhich death would have been a poor and commonplace one. She lavished\ntears and loving caresses upon him privately, and then went away with\nher owner--went away broken-hearted, and yet proud of what she was\ndoing, and glad it was in her power to do it.\n\nTom squared his accounts, and resolved to keep to the very letter of his\nreform, and never to put that will in jeopardy again. He had three\nhundred dollars left. According to his mother's plan, he was to put that\nsafely away, and add her half of his pension to it monthly. In one year\nthis fund would buy her free again.\n\nFor a whole week he was not able to sleep well, so much the villainy\nwhich he had played upon his trusting mother preyed upon his rag of a\nconscience; but after that he began to get comfortable again, and was\npresently able to sleep like any other miscreant.\n\nThe boat bore Roxy away from St. Louis at four in the afternoon, and she\nstood on the lower guard abaft the paddle-box and watched Tom through a\nblur of tears until he melted into the throng of people and disappeared;\nthen she looked no more, but sat there on a coil of cable crying till\nfar into the night. When she went to her foul steerage-bunk at last,\nbetween the clashing engines, it was not to sleep, but only to wait for\nthe morning, and, waiting, grieve.\n\nIt had been imagined that she \"would not know,\" and would think she was\ntraveling up stream. She! Why, she had been steamboating for years. At\ndawn she got up and went listlessly and sat down on the cable-coil\nagain. She passed many a snag whose \"break\" could have told her a thing\nto break her heart, for it showed a current moving in the same direction\nthat the boat was going; but her thoughts were elsewhere, and she did\nnot notice. But at last the roar of a bigger and nearer break than usual\nbrought her out of her torpor, and she looked up, and her practised eye\nfell upon that telltale rush of water. For one moment her petrified gaze\nfixed itself there. Then her head dropped upon her breast, and she\nsaid--\n\n\"Oh, de good Lord God have mercy on po' sinful me--I's sole down de\nriver!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\n\nThe Judge Utters Dire Prophecy.\n\nEven popularity can be overdone. In Rome, along at first, you are full\nof regrets that Michelangelo died; but by and by you only regret that\nyou didn't see him do it.--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.\n\nJuly 4. Statistics show that we lose more fools on this day than in all\nthe other days of the year put together. This proves, by the number left\nin stock, that one Fourth of July per year is now inadequate, the\ncountry has grown so.--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.\n\nThe summer weeks dragged by, and then the political campaign\nopened--opened in pretty warm fashion, and waxed hotter and hotter\ndaily. The twins threw themselves into it with their whole heart, for\ntheir self-love was engaged. Their popularity, so general at first, had\nsuffered afterward; mainly because they had been too popular, and so a\nnatural reaction had followed. Besides, it had been diligently whispered\naround that it was curious--indeed, very curious--that that wonderful\nknife of theirs did not turn up--if it was so valuable, or if it had\never existed. And with the whisperings went chucklings and nudgings and\nwinks, and such things have an effect. The twins considered that success\nin the election would reinstate them, and that defeat would work them\nirreparable damage. Therefore they worked hard, but not harder than\nJudge Driscoll and Tom worked against them in the closing days of the\ncanvas. Tom's conduct had remained so letter-perfect during two whole\nmonths, now, that his uncle not only trusted him with money with which\nto persuade voters, but trusted him to go and get it himself out of the\nsafe in the private sitting-room.\n\nThe closing speech of the campaign was made by Judge Driscoll, and he\nmade it against both of the foreigners. It was disastrously effective.\nHe poured out rivers of ridicule upon them, and forced the big\nmass-meeting to laugh and applaud. He scoffed at them as adventurers,\nmountebanks, side-show riff-raff, dime museum freaks; he assailed their\nshowy titles with measureless derision; he said they were back-alley\nbarbers disguised as nobilities, peanut peddlers masquerading as\ngentlemen, organ-grinders bereft of their brother monkey. At last he\nstopped and stood still. He waited until the place had become absolutely\nsilent and expectant, then he delivered his deadliest shot; delivered it\nwith ice-cold seriousness and deliberation, with a significant emphasis\nupon the closing words: he said that he believed that the reward offered\nfor the lost knife was humbug and buncombe, and that its owner would\nknow where to find it whenever he should have occasion to assassinate\nsomebody.\n\nThen he stepped from the stand, leaving a startled and impressive hush\nbehind him instead of the customary explosion of cheers and party cries.\n\nThe strange remark flew far and wide over the town and made an\nextraordinary sensation. Everybody was asking, \"What could he mean by\nthat?\" And everybody went on asking that question, but in vain; for the\nJudge only said he knew what he was talking about, and stopped there;\nTom said he hadn't any idea what his uncle meant, and Wilson, whenever\nhe was asked what he thought it meant, parried the question by asking\nthe questioner what he thought it meant.\n\nWilson was elected, the twins were defeated--crushed, in fact, and left\nforlorn and substantially friendless. Tom went back to St. Louis happy.\n\nDawson's Landing had a week of repose, now, and it needed it. But it was\nin an expectant state, for the air was full of rumors of a new duel.\nJudge Driscoll's election labors had prostrated him, but it was said\nthat as soon as he was well enough to entertain a challenge he would get\none from Count Luigi.\n\nThe brothers withdrew entirely from society, and nursed their\nhumiliation in privacy. They avoided the people, and went out for\nexercise only late at night, when the streets were deserted.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII.\n\nRoxana Commands.\n\nGratitude and treachery are merely the two extremities of the same\nprocession. You have seen all of it that is worth staying for when the\nband and the gaudy officials have gone by.--Pudd'nhead Wilson's\nCalendar.\n\nThanksgiving Day. Let all give humble, hearty, and sincere thanks, now,\nbut the turkeys. In the island of Fiji they do not use turkeys; they use\nplumbers. It does not become you and me to sneer at Fiji.--Pudd'nhead\nWilson's Calendar.\n\nThe Friday after the election was a rainy one in St. Louis. It rained\nall day long, and rained hard, apparently trying its best to wash that\nsoot-blackened town white, but of course not succeeding. Toward midnight\nTom Driscoll arrived at his lodgings from the theatre in the heavy\ndownpour, and closed his umbrella and let himself in; but when he would\nhave shut the door, he found that there was another person\nentering--doubtless another lodger; this person closed the door and\ntramped up-stairs behind Tom. Tom found his door in the dark, and\nentered it and turned up the gas. When he faced about, lightly\nwhistling, he saw the back of a man. The man was closing and locking his\ndoor for him. His whistle faded out and he felt uneasy. The man turned\naround, a wreck of shabby old clothes, sodden with rain and all a-drip,\nand showed a black face under an old slouch hat. Tom was frightened. He\ntried to order the man out, but the words refused to come, and the other\nman got the start. He said, in a low voice--\n\n\"Keep still--I's yo' mother!\"\n\nTom sunk in a heap on a chair, and gasped out--\n\n\"It was mean of me, and base--I know it; but I meant it for the best, I\ndid indeed--I can swear it.\"\n\nRoxana stood awhile looking mutely down on him while he writhed in shame\nand went on incoherently babbling self-accusations mixed with pitiful\nattempts at explanation and palliation of his crime; then she seated\nherself and took off her hat, and her unkept masses of long brown hair\ntumbled down about her shoulders.\n\n\"It ain't no fault o' yo'n dat dat ain't gray,\" she said sadly, noticing\nthe hair.\n\n\"I know it, I know it! I'm a scoundrel. But I swear I meant it for the\nbest. It was a mistake, of course, but I thought it was for the best, I\ntruly did.\"\n\nRoxana began to cry softly, and presently words began to find their way\nout between her sobs. They were uttered lamentingly, rather than\nangrily--\n\n\"Sell a pusson down de river--down the river!--for de bes'! I wouldn't\ntreat a dog so! I is all broke down en wore out, now, en so I reckon it\nain't in me to storm aroun' no mo', like I used to when I 'uz trompled\non en 'bused. I don't know--but maybe it's so. Leastways, I's suffered\nso much dat mournin' seem to come mo' handy to me now den stormin'.\"\n\nThese words should have touched Tom Driscoll, but if they did, that\neffect was obliterated by a stronger one--one which removed the heavy\nweight of fear which lay upon him, and gave his crushed spirit a most\ngrateful rebound, and filled all his small soul with a deep sense of\nrelief. But he kept prudently still, and ventured no comment. There was\na voiceless interval of some duration, now, in which no sounds were\nheard but the beating of the rain upon the panes, the sighing and\ncomplaining of the winds, and now and then a muffled sob from Roxana.\nThe sobs became more and more infrequent, and at last ceased. Then the\nrefugee began to talk again:\n\n\"Shet down dat light a little. More. More yit. A pusson dat is hunted\ndon't like de light. Dah--dat'll do. I kin see whah you is, en dat's\nenough. I's gwine to tell you de tale, en cut it jes as short as I kin,\nen den I'll tell you what you's got to do. Dat man dat bought me ain't a\nbad man; he's good enough, as planters goes; en if he could 'a' had his\nway I'd 'a' be'n a house servant in his fambly en be'n comfortable: but\nhis wife she was a Yank, en not right down good lookin', en she riz up\nagin me straight off; so den dey sent me out to de quarter 'mongst de\ncommon fiel' han's. Dat woman warn't satisfied even wid dat, but she\nworked up de overseer ag'in' me, she 'uz dat jealous en hateful; so de\noverseer he had me out befo' day in de mawnin's en worked me de whole\nlong day as long as dey 'uz any light to see by; en many's de lashin's I\ngot 'ca'se I couldn't come up to de work o' de stronges'. Dat overseer\nwuz a Yank, too, outen New Englan', en anybody down South kin tell you\nwhat dat mean. Dey knows how to work a nigger to death, en dey knows how\nto whale 'em, too--whale 'em till dey backs is welted like a washboard.\n'Long at fust my marster say de good word for me to de overseer, but dat\n'uz bad for me; for de mistis she fine it out, en arter dat I jist\nketched it at every turn--dey warn't no mercy for me no mo'.\"\n\nTom's heart was fired--with fury against the planter's wife; and he said\nto himself, \"But for that meddlesome fool, everything would have gone\nall right.\" He added a deep and bitter curse against her.\n\nThe expression of this sentiment was fiercely written in his face, and\nstood thus revealed to Roxana by a white glare of lightning which turned\nthe somber dusk of the room into dazzling day at that moment. She was\npleased--pleased and grateful; for did not that expression show that her\nchild was capable of grieving for his mother's wrongs and of feeling\nresentment toward her persecutors?--a thing which she had been doubting.\nBut her flash of happiness was only a flash, and went out again and left\nher spirit dark; for she said to herself, \"He sole me down de river--he\ncan't feel for a body long: dis'll pass en go.\" Then she took up her\ntale again.\n\n\"'Bout ten days ago I 'uz sayin' to myself dat I couldn't las' many mo'\nweeks I 'uz so wore out wid de awful work en de lashin's, en so\ndownhearted en misable. En I didn't care no mo', nuther--life warn't\nwuth noth'n' to me, if I got to go on like dat. Well, when a body is in\na frame o' mine like dat, what do a body care what a body do? Dey was a\nlittle sickly nigger wench 'bout ten year ole dat 'uz good to me, en\nhadn't no mammy, po' thing, en I loved her en she loved me; en she come\nout whah I 'uz workin 'en she had a roasted tater, en tried to slip it\nto me,--robbin' herself, you see, 'ca'se she knowed de overseer didn't\ngimme enough to eat,--en he ketched her at it, en give her a lick acrost\nde back wid his stick, which 'uz as thick as a broom-handle, en she\ndrop' screamin' on de groun', en squirmin' en wallerin' aroun' in de\ndust like a spider dat's got crippled. I couldn't stan' it. All de\nhell-fire dat 'uz ever in my heart flame' up, en I snatch de stick outen\nhis han' en laid him flat. He laid dah moanin' en cussin', en all out of\nhis head, you know, en de niggers 'uz plumb sk'yred to death. Dey\ngathered roun' him to he'p him, en I jumped on his hoss en took out for\nde river as tight as I could go. I knowed what dey would do wid me. Soon\nas he got well he would start in en work me to death if marster let him;\nen if dey didn't do dat, they'd sell me furder down de river, en dat's\nde same thing. So I 'lowed to drown myself en git out o' my troubles. It\n'uz gitt'n' towards dark. I 'uz at de river in two minutes. Den I see a\ncanoe, en I says dey ain't no use to drown myself tell I got to; so I\nties de hoss in de edge o' de timber en shove out down de river, keepin'\nin under de shelter o' de bluff bank en prayin' for de dark to shet down\nquick. I had a pow'ful good start, 'ca'se de big house 'uz three mile\nback f'om de river en on'y de work-mules to ride dah on, en on'y niggers\nto ride 'em, en dey warn't gwine to hurry--dey'd gimme all de chance dey\ncould. Befo' a body could go to de house en back it would be long pas'\ndark, en dey couldn't track de hoss en fine out which way I went tell\nmawnin', en de niggers would tell 'em all de lies dey could 'bout it.\n\n\"Well, de dark come, en I went on a-spinnin' down de river. I paddled\nmo'n two hours, den I warn't worried no mo', so I quit paddlin, en\nfloated down de current, considerin' what I 'uz gwine to do if I didn't\nhave to drown myself. I made up some plans, en floated along, turnin'\n'em over in my mine. Well, when it 'uz a little pas' midnight, as I\nreckoned, en I had come fifteen or twenty mile, I see de lights o' a\nsteamboat layin' at de bank, whah dey warn't no town en no woodyard, en\nputty soon I ketched de shape o' de chimbly-tops ag'in' de stars, en den\ngood gracious me, I 'most jumped out o' my skin for joy! It 'uz de Gran'\nMogul--I 'uz chambermaid on her for eight seasons in de Cincinnati en\nOrleans trade. I slid 'long pas'--don't see nobody stirrin' nowhah--hear\n'em a-hammerin' away in de engine-room, den I knowed what de matter\nwas--some o' de machinery's broke. I got asho' below de boat and turn'\nde canoe loose, den I goes 'long up, en dey 'uz jes one plank out, en I\nstep' 'board de boat. It 'uz pow'ful hot, deckhan's en roustabouts 'uz\nsprawled aroun' asleep on de fo'cas'l', de second mate, Jim Bangs, he\nsot dah on de bitts wid his head down, asleep--'ca'se dat's de way de\nsecond mate stan' de cap'n's watch!--en de ole watchman, Billy Hatch, he\n'uz a-noddin' on de companionway;--en I knowed 'em all; 'en, lan', but\ndey did look good! I says to myself, I wished old marster'd come along\nnow en try to take me--bless yo' heart, I's 'mong frien's, I is. So I\ntromped right along 'mongst 'em, en went up on de b'iler deck en 'way\nback aft to de ladies' cabin guard, en sot down dah in de same cheer dat\nI'd sot in 'mos' a hund'd million times, I reckon; en it 'uz jist home\nag'in, I tell you!\n\n\"In 'bout an hour I heard de ready-bell jingle, en den de racket begin.\nPutty soon I hear de gong strike. 'Set her back on de outside,' I says\nto myself--'I reckon I knows dat music!' I hear de gong ag'in. 'Come\nahead on de inside,' I says. Gong ag'in. 'Stop de outside.' Gong ag'in.\n'Come ahead on de outside--now we's pinted for Sent Louis, en I's outer\nde woods en ain't got to drown myself at all.' I knowed de Mogul 'uz in\nde Sent Louis trade now, you see. It 'uz jes fair daylight when we\npassed our plantation, en I seed a gang o' niggers en white folks\nhuntin' up en down de sho', en troublin' deyselves a good deal 'bout me;\nbut I warn't troublin' myself none 'bout dem.\n\n\"'Bout dat time Sally Jackson, dat used to be my second chambermaid en\n'uz head chambermaid now, she come out on de guard, en 'uz pow'ful glad\nto see me, en so 'uz all de officers; en I tole 'em I'd got kidnapped en\nsole down de river, en dey made me up twenty dollahs en give it to me,\nen Sally she rigged me out wid good clo'es, en when I got here I went\nstraight to whah you used to wuz, en den I come to dis house, en dey say\nyou's away but 'spected back every day; so I didn't dast to go down de\nriver to Dawson's, 'ca'se I might miss you.\n\n\"Well, las' Monday I 'uz pass'n' by one o' dem places in Fourth street\nwhah deh sticks up runaway-nigger bills, en he'ps to ketch 'em, en I\nseed my marster! I 'mos' flopped down on de groun', I felt so gone. He\nhad his back to me, en 'uz talkin' to de man en givin' him some\nbills--nigger-bills, I reckon, en I'se de nigger. He's offerin' a\nreward--dat's it. Ain't I right, don't you reckon?\"\n\nTom had been gradually sinking into a state of ghastly terror, and he\nsaid to himself, now: \"I'm lost, no matter what turn things take! This\nman has said to me that he thinks there was something suspicious about\nthat sale. He said he had a letter from a passenger on the Grand Mogul\nsaying that Roxy came here on that boat and that everybody on board knew\nall about the case; so he says that her coming here instead of flying to\na free State looks bad for me, and that if I don't find her for him, and\nthat pretty soon, he will make trouble for me. I never believed that\nstory; I couldn't believe she would be so dead to all motherly instincts\nas to come here, knowing the risk she would run of getting me into\nirremediable trouble. And after all, here she is! And I stupidly swore I\nwould help him find her, thinking it was a perfectly safe thing to\npromise. If I venture to deliver her up, she--she--but how can I help\nmyself? I've got to do that or pay the money, and where's the money to\ncome from? I--I--well, I should think that if he would swear to treat\nher kindly hereafter--and she says, herself, that he is a good man--and\nif he would swear to never allow her to be overworked, or ill fed, or--\"\n\nA flash of lightning exposed Tom's pallid face, drawn and rigid with\nthese worrying thoughts. Roxana spoke up sharply now, and there was\napprehension in her voice--\n\n\"Turn up dat light! I want to see yo' face better. Dah now--lemme look\nat you. Chambers, you's as white as yo' shirt! Has you see dat man? Has\nhe be'n to see you?\"\n\n\"Ye-s.\"\n\n\"When?\"\n\n\"Monday noon.\"\n\n\"Monday noon! Was he on my track?\"\n\n\"He--well, he thought he was. That is, he hoped he was. This is the bill\nyou saw.\" He took it out of his pocket.\n\n\"Read it to me!\"\n\nShe was panting with excitement, and there was a dusky glow in her eyes\nthat Tom could not translate with certainty, but there seemed to be\nsomething threatening about it. The handbill had the usual rude woodcut\nof a turbaned negro woman running, with the customary bundle on a stick\nover her shoulder, and the heading in bold type, \"$100 Reward.\" Tom read\nthe bill aloud--at least the part that described Roxana and named the\nmaster and his St. Louis address and the address of the Fourth-street\nagency; but he left out the item that applicants for the reward might\nalso apply to Mr. Thomas Driscoll.\n\n\"Gimme de bill!\"\n\nTom had folded it and was putting it in his pocket. He felt a chilly\nstreak creeping down his back, but said as carelessly as he could--\n\n\"The bill? Why, it isn't any use to you, you can't read it. What do you\nwant with it?\"\n\n\"Gimme de bill!\" Tom gave it to her, but with a reluctance which he\ncould not entirely disguise. \"Did you read it all to me?\"\n\n\"Certainly I did.\"\n\n\"Hole up yo' han' en swah to it.\"\n\nTom did it. Roxana put the bill carefully away in her pocket, with her\neyes fixed upon Tom's face all the while; then she said--\n\n\"Yo's lyin'!\"\n\n\"What would I want to lie about it for?\"\n\n\"I don't know--but you is. Dat's my opinion, anyways. But nemmine 'bout\ndat. When I seed dat man I 'uz dat sk'yerd dat I could sca'cely wobble\nhome. Den I give a nigger man a dollar for dese clo'es, en I ain't be'n\nin a house sence, night ner day, till now. I blacked my face en laid hid\nin de cellar of a ole house dat's burnt down, daytimes, en robbed de\nsugar hogsheads en grain sacks on de wharf, nights, to git somethin' to\neat, en never dast to try to buy noth'n', en I's 'mos' starved. En I\nnever dast to come near dis place till dis rainy night, when dey ain't\nno people roun' sca'cely. But to-night I be'n a-stannin' in de dark\nalley ever sence night come, waitin' for you to go by. En here I is.\"\n\nShe fell to thinking. Presently she said--\n\n\"You seed dat man at noon, las' Monday?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"I seed him de middle o' dat arternoon. He hunted you up, didn't he?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Did he give you de bill dat time?\"\n\n\"No, he hadn't got it printed yet.\"\n\nRoxana darted a suspicious glance at him.\n\n\"Did you he'p him fix up de bill?\"\n\nTom cursed himself for making that stupid blunder, and tried to rectify\nit by saying he remembered, now, that it was at noon Monday that the man\ngave him the bill. Roxana said--\n\n\"You's lyin' ag'in, sho.\" Then she straightened up and raised her\nfinger:\n\n\"Now den! I's gwine to ask you a question, en I wants to know how you's\ngwine to git aroun' it. You knowed he 'uz arter me; en if you run off,\n'stid o' stayin' here to he'p him, he'd know dey 'uz somethin' wrong\n'bout dis business, en den he would inquire 'bout you, en dat would take\nhim to yo' uncle, en yo' uncle would read de bill en see dat you be'n\nsellin' a free nigger down de river, en you know him, I reckon! He'd\nt'ar up de will en kick you outen de house. Now, den, you answer me dis\nquestion: hain't you tole dat man dat I would be sho' to come here, en\nden you would fix it so he could set a trap en ketch me?\"\n\nTom recognized that neither lies nor arguments could help him any\nlonger--he was in a vise, with the screw turned on, and out of it there\nwas no budging. His face began to take on an ugly look, and presently he\nsaid, with a snarl--\n\n\"Well, what could I do? You see, yourself, that I was in his grip and\ncouldn't get out.\"\n\nRoxy scorched him with a scornful gaze awhile, then she said--\n\n\"What could you do? You could be Judas to yo' own mother to save yo'\nwuthless hide! Would anybody b'lieve it? No--a dog couldn't! You is de\nlow-downest orneriest hound dat was ever pup'd into dis worl'--en I's\n'sponsible for it!\"--and she spat on him.\n\nHe made no effort to resent this. Roxy reflected a moment, then she\nsaid--\n\n\"Now I'll tell you what you's gwine to do. You's gwine to give dat man\nde money dat you's got laid up, en make him wait till you kin go to de\nJudge en git de res' en buy me free agin.\"\n\n\"Thunder! what are you thinking of? Go and ask him for three hundred\ndollars and odd? What would I tell him I want with it, pray?\"\n\nRoxy's answer was delivered in a serene and level voice--\n\n\"You'll tell him you's sole me to pay yo' gamblin' debts en dat you lied\nto me en was a villain, en dat I 'quires you to git dat money en buy me\nback ag'in.\"\n\n\"Why, you've gone stark mad! He would tear the will to shreds in a\nminute--don't you know that?\"\n\n\"Yes, I does.\"\n\n\"Then you don't believe I'm idiot enough to go to him, do you?\"\n\n\"I don't b'lieve nothin' 'bout it--I knows you's a-goin'. I knows it\n'ca'se you knows dat if you don't raise dat money I'll go to him myself,\nen den he'll sell you down de river, en you kin see how you like it!\"\n\nTom rose, trembling and excited, and there was an evil light in his eye.\nHe strode to the door and said he must get out of this suffocating place\nfor a moment and clear his brain in the fresh air so that he could\ndetermine what to do. The door wouldn't open. Roxy smiled grimly, and\nsaid--\n\n\"I's got de key, honey--set down. You needn't cle'r up yo' brain none to\nfine out what you gwine to do--I knows what you's gwine to do.\" Tom sat\ndown and began to pass his hands through his hair with a helpless and\ndesperate air. Roxy said, \"Is dat man in dis house?\"\n\nTom glanced up with a surprised expression, and asked--\n\n\"What gave you such an idea?\"\n\n\"You done it. Gwine out to cle'r yo' brain! In de fust place you ain't\ngot none to cle'r, en in de second place yo' ornery eye tole on you.\nYou's de low-downest hound dat ever--but I done tole you dat befo'. Now\nden, dis is Friday. You kin fix it up wid dat man, en tell him you's\ngwine away to git de res' o' de money, en dat you'll be back wid it nex'\nTuesday, or maybe Wednesday. You understan'?\"\n\nTom answered sullenly--\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"En when you gits de new bill o' sale dat sells me to my own self, take\nen send it in de mail to Mr. Pudd'nhead Wilson, en write on de back dat\nhe's to keep it tell I come. You understan'?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Dat's all den. Take yo' umbreller, en put on yo' hat.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Beca'se you's gwine to see me home to de wharf. You see dis knife? I's\ntoted it aroun' sence de day I seed dat man en bought dese clo'es en it.\nIf he ketch me, I's gwine to kill myself wid it. Now start along, en go\nsof', en lead de way; en if you gives a sign in dis house, or if anybody\ncomes up to you in de street, I's gwine to jam it right into you.\nChambers, does you b'lieve me when I says dat?\"\n\n\"It's no use to bother me with that question. I know your word's good.\"\n\n\"Yes, it's diff'rent from yo'n! Shet de light out en move along--here's\nde key.\"\n\nThey were not followed. Tom trembled every time a late straggler brushed\nby them on the street, and half expected to feel the cold steel in his\nback. Roxy was right at his heels and always in reach. After tramping a\nmile they reached a wide vacancy on the deserted wharves, and in this\ndark and rainy desert they parted.\n\nAs Tom trudged home his mind was full of dreary thoughts and wild plans;\nbut at last he said to himself, wearily--\n\n\"There is but the one way out. I must follow her plan. But with a\nvariation--I will not ask for the money and ruin myself; I will rob the\nold skinflint.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX.\n\nThe Prophecy Realized.\n\nFew things are harder to put up with than the annoyance of a good\nexample.--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.\n\nIt were not best that we should all think alike; it is difference of\nopinion that makes horse-races.--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.\n\nDawson's Landing was comfortably finishing its season of dull repose and\nwaiting patiently for the duel. Count Luigi was waiting, too; but not\npatiently, rumor said. Sunday came, and Luigi insisted on having his\nchallenge conveyed. Wilson carried it. Judge Driscoll declined to fight\nwith an assassin--\"that is,\" he added significantly, \"in the field of\nhonor.\"\n\nElsewhere, of course, he would be ready. Wilson tried to convince him\nthat if he had been present himself when Angelo told about the homicide\ncommitted by Luigi, he would not have considered the act discreditable\nto Luigi; but the obstinate old man was not to be moved.\n\nWilson went back to his principal and reported the failure of his\nmission. Luigi was incensed, and asked how it could be that the old\ngentleman, who was by no means dull-witted, held his trifling nephew's\nevidence and inferences to be of more value than Wilson's. But Wilson\nlaughed, and said--\n\n\"That is quite simple; that is easily explicable. I am not his doll--his\nbaby--his infatuation: his nephew is. The Judge and his late wife never\nhad any children. The Judge and his wife were past middle age when this\ntreasure fell into their lap. One must make allowances for a parental\ninstinct that has been starving for twenty-five or thirty years. It is\nfamished, it is crazed with hunger by that time, and will be entirely\nsatisfied with anything that comes handy; its taste is atrophied, it\ncan't tell mud-cat from shad. A devil born to a young couple is\nmeasurably recognizable by them as a devil before long, but a devil\nadopted by an old couple is an angel to them, and remains so, through\nthick and thin. Tom is this old man's angel; he is infatuated with him.\nTom can persuade him into things which other people can't--not all\nthings; I don't mean that, but a good many--particularly one class of\nthings: the things that create or abolish personal partialities or\nprejudices in the old man's mind. The old man liked both of you. Tom\nconceived a hatred for you. That was enough; it turned the old man\naround at once. The oldest and strongest friendship must go to the\nground when one of these late-adopted darlings throws a brick at it.\"\n\n\"It's a curious philosophy,\" said Luigi.\n\n\"It ain't a philosophy at all--it's a fact. And there is something\npathetic and beautiful about it, too. I think there is nothing more\npathetic than to see one of these poor old childless couples taking a\nmenagerie of yelping little worthless dogs to their hearts; and then\nadding some cursing and squawking parrots and a jackass-voiced macaw;\nand next a couple of hundred screeching song-birds, and presently some\nfetid guinea-pigs and rabbits, and a howling colony of cats. It is all a\ngroping and ignorant effort to construct out of base metal and brass\nfilings, so to speak, something to take the place of that golden\ntreasure denied them by Nature, a child. But this is a digression. The\nunwritten law of this region requires you to kill Judge Driscoll on\nsight, and he and the community will expect that attention at your\nhands--though of course your own death by his bullet will answer every\npurpose. Look out for him! Are you heeled--that is, fixed?\"\n\n\"Yes, he shall have his opportunity. If he attacks me I will respond.\"\n\nAs Wilson was leaving, he said--\n\n\"The Judge is still a little used up by his campaign work, and will not\nget out for a day or so; but when he does get out, you want to be on the\nalert.\"\n\nAbout eleven at night the twins went out for exercise, and started on a\nlong stroll in the veiled moonlight.\n\nTom Driscoll had landed at Hackett's Store, two miles below Dawson's,\njust about half an hour earlier, the only passenger for that lonely\nspot, and had walked up the shore road and entered Judge Driscoll's\nhouse without having encountered any one either on the road or under the\nroof.\n\nHe pulled down his window-blinds and lighted his candle. He laid off his\ncoat and hat and began his preparations. He unlocked his trunk and got\nhis suit of girl's clothes out from under the male attire in it, and\nlaid it by. Then he blacked his face with burnt cork and put the cork in\nhis pocket. His plan was, to slip down to his uncle's private\nsitting-room below, pass into the bedroom, steal the safe-key from the\nold gentleman's clothes, and then go back and rob the safe. He took up\nhis candle to start. His courage and confidence were high, up to this\npoint, but both began to waver a little, now. Suppose he should make a\nnoise, by some accident, and get caught--say, in the act of opening the\nsafe? Perhaps it would be well to go armed. He took the Indian knife\nfrom its hiding-place, and felt a pleasant return of his wandering\ncourage. He slipped stealthily down the narrow stair, his hair rising\nand his pulses halting at the slightest creak. When he was half-way\ndown, he was disturbed to perceive that the landing below was touched by\na faint glow of light. What could that mean? Was his uncle still up? No,\nthat was not likely; he must have left his night-taper there when he\nwent to bed. Tom crept on down, pausing at every step to listen. He\nfound the door standing open, and glanced in. What he saw pleased him\nbeyond measure. His uncle was asleep on the sofa; on a small table at\nthe head of the sofa a lamp was burning low, and by it stood the old\nman's small tin cash-box, closed. Near the box was a pile of bank-notes\nand a piece of paper covered with figures in pencil. The safe-door was\nnot open. Evidently the sleeper had wearied himself with work upon his\nfinances, and was taking a rest.\n\nTom set his candle on the stairs, and began to make his way toward the\npile of notes, stooping low as he went. When he was passing his uncle,\nthe old man stirred in his sleep, and Tom stopped instantly--stopped,\nand softly drew the knife from its sheath, with his heart thumping, and\nhis eyes fastened upon his benefactor's face. After a moment or two he\nventured forward again--one step--reached for his prize and seized it,\ndropping the knife-sheath. Then he felt the old man's strong grip upon\nhim, and a wild cry of \"Help! help!\" rang in his ear. Without hesitation\nhe drove the knife home--and was free. Some of the notes escaped from\nhis left hand and fell in the blood on the floor. He dropped the knife\nand snatched them up and started to fly; transferred them to his left\nhand, and seized the knife again, in his fright and confusion, but\nremembered himself and flung it from him, as being a dangerous witness\nto carry away with him.\n\nHe jumped for the stair-foot, and closed the door behind him; and as he\nsnatched his candle and fled upward, the stillness of the night was\nbroken by the sound of urgent footsteps approaching the house. In\nanother moment he was in his room and the twins were standing aghast\nover the body of the murdered man!\n\nTom put on his coat, buttoned his hat under it, threw on his suit of\ngirl's clothes, dropped the veil, blew out his light, locked the room\ndoor by which he had just entered, taking the key, passed through his\nother door into the back hall, locked that door and kept the key, then\nworked his way along in the dark and descended the back stairs. He was\nnot expecting to meet anybody, for all interest was centered in the\nother part of the house, now; his calculation proved correct. By the\ntime he was passing through the back-yard, Mrs. Pratt, her servants, and\na dozen half-dressed neighbors had joined the twins and the dead, and\naccessions were still arriving at the front door.\n\nAs Tom, quaking as with a palsy, passed out at the gate, three women\ncame flying from the house on the opposite side of the lane. They rushed\nby him and in at the gate, asking him what the trouble was there, but\nnot waiting for an answer. Tom said to himself, \"Those old maids waited\nto dress--they did the same thing the night Stevens's house burned down\nnext door.\" In a few minutes he was in the haunted house. He lighted a\ncandle and took off his girl-clothes. There was blood on him all down\nhis left side, and his right hand was red with the stains of the\nblood-soaked notes which he had crushed in it; but otherwise he was free\nfrom this sort of evidence. He cleansed his hand on the straw, and\ncleaned most of the smut from his face. Then he burned his male and\nfemale attire to ashes, scattered the ashes, and put on a disguise\nproper for a tramp. He blew out his light, went below, and was soon\nloafing down the river road with the intent to borrow and use one of\nRoxy's devices. He found a canoe and paddled off down-stream, setting\nthe canoe adrift as dawn approached, and making his way by land to the\nnext village, where he kept out of sight till a transient steamer came\nalong, and then took deck passage for St. Louis. He was ill at ease\nuntil Dawson's Landing was behind him; then he said to himself, \"All the\ndetectives on earth couldn't trace me now; there's not a vestige of a\nclue left in the world; that homicide will take its place with the\npermanent mysteries, and people won't get done trying to guess out the\nsecret of it for fifty years.\"\n\nIn St. Louis, next morning, he read this brief telegram in the\npapers--dated at Dawson's Landing:\n\nJudge Driscoll, an old and respected citizen, was assassinated here\nabout midnight by a profligate Italian nobleman or barber on account of\na quarrel growing out of the recent election. The assassin will probably\nbe lynched.\n\n\"One of the twins!\" soliloquized Tom; \"how lucky! It is the knife that\nhas done him this grace. We never know when fortune is trying to favor\nus. I actually cursed Pudd'nhead Wilson in my heart for putting it out\nof my power to sell that knife. I take it back, now.\"\n\nTom was now rich and independent. He arranged with the planter, and\nmailed to Wilson the new bill of sale which sold Roxana to herself; then\nhe telegraphed his Aunt Pratt:\n\nHave seen the awful news in the papers and am almost prostrated with\ngrief. Shall start by packet to-day. Try to bear up till I come.\n\nWhen Wilson reached the house of mourning and had gathered such details\nas Mrs. Pratt and the rest of the crowd could tell him, he took command\nas mayor, and gave orders that nothing should be touched, but everything\nleft as it was until Justice Robinson should arrive and take the proper\nmeasures as coroner. He cleared everybody out of the room but the twins\nand himself. The sheriff soon arrived and took the twins away to jail.\nWilson told them to keep heart, and promised to do his best in their\ndefense when the case should come to trial. Justice Robinson came\npresently, and with him Constable Blake. They examined the room\nthoroughly. They found the knife and the sheath. Wilson noticed that\nthere were finger-prints on the knife-handle. That pleased him, for the\ntwins had required the earliest comers to make a scrutiny of their hands\nand clothes, and neither these people nor Wilson himself had found any\nblood-stains upon them. Could there be a possibility that the twins had\nspoken the truth when they said they found the man dead when they ran\ninto the house in answer to the cry for help? He thought of that\nmysterious girl at once. But this was not the sort of work for a girl to\nbe engaged in. No matter; Tom Driscoll's room must be examined.\n\nAfter the coroner's jury had viewed the body and its surroundings,\nWilson suggested a search up-stairs, and he went along. The jury forced\nan entrance to Tom's room, but found nothing, of course.\n\nThe coroner's jury found that the homicide was committed by Luigi, and\nthat Angelo was accessory to it.\n\nThe town was bitter against the unfortunates, and for the first few days\nafter the murder they were in constant danger of being lynched. The\ngrand jury presently indicted Luigi for murder in the first degree, and\nAngelo as accessory before the fact. The twins were transferred from the\ncity jail to the county prison to await trial.\n\nWilson examined the finger-marks on the knife-handle and said to\nhimself, \"Neither of the twins made those marks.\" Then manifestly there\nwas another person concerned, either in his own interest or as hired\nassassin.\n\nBut who could it be? That, he must try to find out. The safe was not\nopen, the cash-box was closed, and had three thousand dollars in it.\nThen robbery was not the motive, and revenge was. Where had the murdered\nman an enemy except Luigi? There was but that one person in the world\nwith a deep grudge against him.\n\nThe mysterious girl! The girl was a great trial to Wilson. If the motive\nhad been robbery, the girl might answer; but there wasn't any girl that\nwould want to take this old man's life for revenge. He had no quarrels\nwith girls; he was a gentleman.\n\nWilson had perfect tracings of the finger-marks of the knife-handle; and\namong his glass-records he had a great array of finger-prints of women\nand girls, collected during the last fifteen or eighteen years, but he\nscanned them in vain, they successfully withstood every test; among them\nwere no duplicates of the prints on the knife.\n\nThe presence of the knife on the stage of the murder was a worrying\ncircumstance for Wilson. A week previously he had as good as admitted to\nhimself that he believed Luigi had possessed such a knife, and that he\nstill possessed it notwithstanding his pretense that it had been stolen.\nAnd now here was the knife, and with it the twins. Half the town had\nsaid the twins were humbugging when they claimed that they had lost\ntheir knife, and now these people were joyful, and said, \"I told you\nso!\"\n\nIf their finger-prints had been on the handle--but it was useless to\nbother any further about that; the finger-prints on the handle were not\ntheirs--that he knew perfectly.\n\nWilson refused to suspect Tom; for first, Tom couldn't murder\nanybody--he hadn't character enough; secondly, if he could murder a\nperson he wouldn't select his doting benefactor and nearest relative;\nthirdly, self-interest was in the way; for while the uncle lived, Tom\nwas sure of a free support and a chance to get the destroyed will\nrevived again, but with the uncle gone, that chance was gone, too. It\nwas true the will had really been revived, as was now discovered, but\nTom could not have been aware of it, or he would have spoken of it, in\nhis native talky, unsecretive way. Finally, Tom was in St. Louis when\nthe murder was done, and got the news out of the morning journals, as\nwas shown by his telegram to his aunt. These speculations were\nunemphasized sensations rather than articulated thoughts, for Wilson\nwould have laughed at the idea of seriously connecting Tom with the\nmurder.\n\nWilson regarded the case of the twins as desperate--in fact, about\nhopeless. For he argued that if a confederate was not found, an\nenlightened Missouri jury would hang them, sure; if a confederate was\nfound, that would not improve the matter, but simply furnish one more\nperson for the sheriff to hang. Nothing could save the twins but the\ndiscovery of a person who did the murder on his sole personal\naccount--an undertaking which had all the aspect of the impossible.\nStill, the person who made the finger-prints must be sought. The twins\nmight have no case with him, but they certainly would have none without\nhim.\n\nSo Wilson mooned around, thinking, thinking, guessing, guessing, day and\nnight, and arriving nowhere. Whenever he ran across a girl or a woman he\nwas not acquainted with, he got her finger-prints, on one pretext or\nanother; and they always cost him a sigh when he got home, for they\nnever tallied with the finger-marks on the knife-handle.\n\nAs to the mysterious girl, Tom swore he knew no such girl, and did not\nremember ever seeing a girl wearing a dress like the one described by\nWilson. He admitted that he did not always lock his room, and that\nsometimes the servants forgot to lock the house doors; still, in his\nopinion the girl must have made but few visits or she would have been\ndiscovered. When Wilson tried to connect her with the stealing-raid, and\nthought she might have been the old woman's confederate, if not the very\nthief herself disguised as an old woman, Tom seemed stuck, and also much\ninterested, and said he would keep a sharp eye out for this person or\npersons, although he was afraid that she or they would be too smart to\nventure again into a town where everybody would now be on the watch for\na good while to come.\n\nEverybody was pitying Tom, he looked so quiet and sorrowful, and seemed\nto feel his great loss so deeply. He was playing a part, but it was not\nall a part. The picture of his alleged uncle, as he had last seen him,\nwas before him in the dark pretty frequently, when he was awake, and\ncalled again in his dreams, when he was asleep. He wouldn't go into the\nroom where the tragedy had happened. This charmed the doting Mrs. Pratt,\nwho realized now, \"as she had never done before,\" she said, what a\nsensitive and delicate nature her darling had, and how he adored his\npoor uncle.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX.\n\nThe Murderer Chuckles.\n\nEven the clearest and most perfect circumstantial evidence is likely to\nbe at fault, after all, and therefore ought to be received with great\ncaution. Take the case of any pencil, sharpened by any woman: if you\nhave witnesses, you will find she did it with a knife; but if you take\nsimply the aspect of the pencil, you will say she did it with her\nteeth.--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.\n\nThe weeks dragged along, no friend visiting the jailed twins but their\ncounsel and Aunt Patsy Cooper, and the day of trial came at last--the\nheaviest day in Wilson's life; for with all his tireless diligence he\nhad discovered no sign or trace of the missing confederate.\n\"Confederate\" was the term he had long ago privately accepted for that\nperson--not as being unquestionably the right term, but as being at\nleast possibly the right one, though he was never able to understand why\nthe twins did not vanish and escape, as the confederate had done,\ninstead of remaining by the murdered man and getting caught there.\n\nThe court-house was crowded, of course, and would remain so to the\nfinish, for not only in the town itself, but in the country for miles\naround, the trial was the one topic of conversation among the people.\nMrs. Pratt, in deep mourning, and Tom with a weed on his hat, had seats\nnear Pembroke Howard, the public prosecutor, and back of them sat a\ngreat array of friends of the family. The twins had but one friend\npresent to keep their counsel in countenance, their poor old sorrowing\nlandlady. She sat near Wilson, and looked her friendliest. In the\n\"nigger corner\" sat Chambers; also Roxy, with good clothes on, and her\nbill of sale in her pocket. It was her most precious possession, and she\nnever parted with it, day or night. Tom had allowed her thirty-five\ndollars a month ever since he came into his property, and had said that\nhe and she ought to be grateful to the twins for making them rich; but\nhad roused such a temper in her by this speech that he did not repeat\nthe argument afterward. She said the old Judge had treated her child a\nthousand times better than he deserved, and had never done her an\nunkindness in his life; so she hated these outlandish devils for killing\nhim, and shouldn't ever sleep satisfied till she saw them hanged for it.\nShe was here to watch the trial, now, and was going to lift up just one\n\"hooraw\" over it if the County Judge put her in jail a year for it. She\ngave her turbaned head a toss and said, \"When dat verdic' comes, I's\ngwine to lif' dat roof, now, I tell you.\"\n\nPembroke Howard briefly sketched the State's case. He said he would show\nby a chain of circumstantial evidence without break or fault in it\nanywhere, that the principal prisoner at the bar committed the murder;\nthat the motive was partly revenge, and partly a desire to take his own\nlife out of jeopardy, and that his brother, by his presence, was a\nconsenting accessory to the crime; a crime which was the basest known to\nthe calendar of human misdeeds--assassination; that it was conceived by\nthe blackest of hearts and consummated by the cowardliest of hands; a\ncrime which had broken a loving sister's heart, blighted the happiness\nof a young nephew who was as dear as a son, brought inconsolable grief\nto many friends, and sorrow and loss to the whole community. The utmost\npenalty of the outraged law would be exacted, and upon the accused, now\npresent at the bar, that penalty would unquestionably be executed. He\nwould reserve further remark until his closing speech.\n\nHe was strongly moved, and so also was the whole house; Mrs. Pratt and\nseveral other women were weeping when he sat down, and many an eye that\nwas full of hate was riveted upon the unhappy prisoners.\n\nWitness after witness was called by the State, and questioned at length;\nbut the cross-questioning was brief. Wilson knew they could furnish\nnothing valuable for his side. People were sorry for Pudd'nhead; his\nbudding career would get hurt by this trial.\n\nSeveral witnesses swore they heard Judge Driscoll say in his public\nspeech that the twins would be able to find their lost knife again when\nthey needed it to assassinate somebody with. This was not news, but now\nit was seen to have been sorrowfully prophetic, and a profound sensation\nquivered through the hushed court-room when those dismal words were\nrepeated.\n\nThe public prosecutor rose and said that it was within his knowledge,\nthrough a conversation held with Judge Driscoll on the last day of his\nlife, that counsel for the defense had brought him a challenge from the\nperson charged at this bar with murder; that he had refused to fight\nwith a confessed assassin--\"that is, on the field of honor,\" but had\nadded significantly, that he would be ready for him elsewhere.\nPresumably the person here charged with murder was warned that he must\nkill or be killed the first time he should meet Judge Driscoll. If\ncounsel for the defense chose to let the statement stand so, he would\nnot call him to the witness stand. Mr. Wilson said he would offer no\ndenial. [Murmurs in the house--\"It is getting worse and worse for\nWilson's case.\"]\n\nMrs. Pratt testified that she heard no outcry, and did not know what\nwoke her up, unless it was the sound of rapid footsteps approaching the\nfront door. She jumped up and ran out in the hall just as she was, and\nheard the footsteps flying up the front steps and then following behind\nher as she ran to the sitting-room. There she found the accused standing\nover her murdered brother. [Here she broke down and sobbed. Sensation in\nthe court.] Resuming, she said the persons entering behind her were Mr.\nRogers and Mr. Buckstone.\n\nCross-examined by Wilson, she said the twins proclaimed their innocence;\ndeclared that they had been taking a walk, and had hurried to the house\nin response to a cry for help which was so loud and strong that they had\nheard it at a considerable distance; that they begged her and the\ngentlemen just mentioned to examine their hands and clothes--which was\ndone, and no blood stains found.\n\nConfirmatory evidence followed from Rogers and Buckstone.\n\nThe finding of the knife was verified, the advertisement minutely\ndescribing it and offering a reward for it was put in evidence, and its\nexact correspondence with that description proved. Then followed a few\nminor details, and the case for the State was closed.\n\nWilson said that he had three witnesses, the Misses Clarkson, who would\ntestify that they met a veiled young woman leaving Judge Driscoll's\npremises by the back gate a few minutes after the cries for help were\nheard, and that their evidence, taken with certain circumstantial\nevidence which he would call the court's attention to, would in his\nopinion convince the court that there was still one person concerned in\nthis crime who had not yet been found, and also that a stay of\nproceedings ought to be granted, in justice to his clients, until that\nperson should be discovered. As it was late, he would ask leave to defer\nthe examination of his three witnesses until the next morning.\n\nThe crowd poured out of the place and went flocking away in excited\ngroups and couples, talking the events of the session over with vivacity\nand consuming interest, and everybody seemed to have had a satisfactory\nand enjoyable day except the accused, their counsel, and their old-lady\nfriend. There was no cheer among these, and no substantial hope.\n\nIn parting with the twins Aunt Patsy did attempt a good-night with a gay\npretense of hope and cheer in it, but broke down without finishing.\n\nAbsolutely secure as Tom considered himself to be, the opening\nsolemnities of the trial had nevertheless oppressed him with a vague\nuneasiness, his being a nature sensitive to even the smallest alarms;\nbut from the moment that the poverty and weakness of Wilson's case lay\nexposed to the court, he was comfortable once more, even jubilant. He\nleft the court-room sarcastically sorry for Wilson. \"The Clarksons met\nan unknown woman in the back lane,\" he said to himself--\"that is his\ncase! I'll give him a century to find her in--a couple of them if he\nlikes. A woman who doesn't exist any longer, and the clothes that gave\nher her sex burnt up and the ashes thrown away--oh, certainly, he'll\nfind her easy enough!\" This reflection set him to admiring, for the\nhundredth time, the shrewd ingenuities by which he had insured himself\nagainst detection--more, against even suspicion.\n\n\"Nearly always in cases like this there is some little detail or other\noverlooked, some wee little track or trace left behind, and detection\nfollows; but here there's not even the faintest suggestion of a trace\nleft. No more than a bird leaves when it flies through the air--yes,\nthrough the night, you may say. The man that can track a bird through\nthe air in the dark and find that bird is the man to track me out and\nfind the Judge's assassin--no other need apply. And that is the job that\nhas been laid out for poor Pudd'nhead Wilson, of all people in the\nworld! Lord, it will be pathetically funny to see him grubbing and\ngroping after that woman that don't exist, and the right person sitting\nunder his very nose all the time!\" The more he thought the situation\nover, the more the humor of it struck him. Finally he said, \"I'll never\nlet him hear the last of that woman. Every time I catch him in company,\nto his dying day, I'll ask him in the guileless affectionate way that\nused to gravel him so when I inquired how his unborn law-business was\ncoming along, 'Got on her track yet--hey, Pudd'nhead?'\" He wanted to\nlaugh, but that would not have answered; there were people about, and he\nwas mourning for his uncle. He made up his mind that it would be good\nentertainment to look in on Wilson that night and watch him worry over\nhis barren law-case and goad him with an exasperating word or two of\nsympathy and commiseration now and then.\n\nWilson wanted no supper, he had no appetite. He got out all the\nfinger-prints of girls and women in his collection of records and pored\ngloomily over them an hour or more, trying to convince himself that that\ntroublesome girl's marks were there somewhere and had been overlooked.\nBut it was not so. He drew back his chair, clasped his hands over his\nhead, and gave himself up to dull and arid musings.\n\nTom Driscoll dropped in, an hour after dark, and said with a pleasant\nlaugh as he took a seat--\n\n\"Hello, we've gone back to the amusements of our days of neglect and\nobscurity for consolation, have we?\" and he took up one of the glass\nstrips and held it against the light to inspect it. \"Come, cheer up, old\nman; there's no use in losing your grip and going back to this\nchild's-play merely because this big sunspot is drifting across your\nshiny new disk. It'll pass, and you'll be all right again,\"--and he laid\nthe glass down. \"Did you think you could win always?\"\n\n\"Oh, no,\" said Wilson, with a sigh, \"I didn't expect that, but I can't\nbelieve Luigi killed your uncle, and I feel very sorry for him. It makes\nme blue. And you would feel as I do, Tom, if you were not prejudiced\nagainst those young fellows.\"\n\n\"I don't know about that,\" and Tom's countenance darkened, for his\nmemory reverted to his kicking; \"I owe them no good will, considering\nthe brunette one's treatment of me that night. Prejudice or no\nprejudice, Pudd'nhead, I don't like them, and when they get their\ndeserts you're not going to find me sitting on the mourner's bench.\"\n\nHe took up another strip of glass, and exclaimed--\n\n\"Why, here's old Roxy's label! Are you going to ornament the royal\npalaces with nigger paw-marks, too? By the date here, I was seven months\nold when this was done, and she was nursing me and her little nigger\ncub. There's a line straight across her thumb-print. How comes that?\"\nand Tom held out the piece of glass to Wilson.\n\n\"That is common,\" said the bored man, wearily. \"Scar of a cut or a\nscratch, usually\"--and he took the strip of glass indifferently, and\nraised it toward the lamp.\n\nAll the blood sunk suddenly out of his face; his hand quaked, and he\ngazed at the polished surface before him with the glassy stare of a\ncorpse.\n\n\"Great Heavens, what's the matter with you, Wilson? Are you going to\nfaint?\"\n\nTom sprang for a glass of water and offered it, but Wilson shrank\nshuddering from him and said--\n\n\"No, no!--take it away!\" His breast was rising and falling, and he moved\nhis head about in a dull and wandering way, like a person who had been\nstunned. Presently he said, \"I shall feel better when I get to bed; I\nhave been overwrought to-day; yes, and over worked for many days.\"\n\n\"Then I'll leave you and let you to get to your rest. Good-night, old\nman.\" But as Tom went out he couldn't deny himself a small parting gibe:\n\"Don't take it so hard; a body can't win every time; you'll hang\nsomebody yet.\"\n\nWilson muttered to himself, \"It is no lie to say I am sorry I have to\nbegin with you, miserable dog though you are!\"\n\nHe braced himself up with a glass of cold whisky, and went to work\nagain. He did not compare the new finger-marks unintentionally left by\nTom a few minutes before on Roxy's glass with the tracings of the marks\nleft on the knife-handle, there being no need for that (for his trained\neye), but busied himself with another matter, muttering from time to\ntime, \"Idiot that I was!--Nothing but a girl would do me--a man in\ngirl's clothes never occurred to me.\" First, he hunted out the plate\ncontaining the finger-prints made by Tom when he was twelve years old,\nand laid it by itself; then he brought forth the marks made by Tom's\nbaby fingers when he was a suckling of seven months, and placed these\ntwo plates with the one containing this subject's newly (and\nunconsciously) made record.\n\n\"Now the series is complete,\" he said with satisfaction, and sat down to\ninspect these things and enjoy them.\n\nBut his enjoyment was brief. He stared a considerable time at the three\nstrips, and seemed stupefied with astonishment. At last he put them down\nand said, \"I can't make it out at all--hang it, the baby's don't tally\nwith the others!\"\n\nHe walked the floor for half an hour puzzling over his enigma, then he\nhunted out two other glass plates.\n\nHe sat down and puzzled over these things a good while, but kept\nmuttering, \"It's no use; I can't understand it. They don't tally right,\nand yet I'll swear the names and dates are right, and so of course they\nought to tally. I never labeled one of these thing carelessly in my\nlife. There is a most extraordinary mystery here.\"\n\nHe was tired out, now, and his brains were beginning to clog. He said he\nwould sleep himself fresh, and then see what he could do with this\nriddle. He slept through a troubled and unrestful hour, then\nunconsciousness began to shred away, and presently he rose drowsily to a\nsitting posture. \"Now what was that dream?\" he said, trying to recall\nit; \"what was that dream?--it seemed to unravel that puz--\"\n\nHe landed in the middle of the floor at a bound, without finishing the\nsentence, and ran and turned up his light and seized his \"records.\" He\ntook a single swift glance at them and cried out--\n\n\"It's so! Heavens, what a revelation! And for twenty-three years no man\nhas ever suspected it!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI.\n\nDoom.\n\nHe is useless on top of the ground; he ought to be under it, inspiring\nthe cabbages.--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.\n\nApril 1. This is the day upon which we are reminded of what we are on\nthe other three hundred and sixty-four.--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.\n\nWilson put on enough clothes for business purposes and went to work\nunder a high pressure of steam. He was awake all over. All sense of\nweariness had been swept away by the invigorating refreshment of the\ngreat and hopeful discovery which he had made. He made fine and accurate\nreproductions of a number of his \"records,\" and then enlarged them on a\nscale of ten to one with his pantograph. He did these pantograph\nenlargements on sheets of white cardboard, and made each individual line\nof the bewildering maze of whorls or curves or loops which constituted\nthe \"pattern,\" of a \"record\" stand out bold and black by reinforcing it\nwith ink. To the untrained eye the collection of delicate originals made\nby the human finger on the glass plates looked about alike; but when\nenlarged ten times they resembled the markings of a block of wood that\nhas been sawed across the grain, and the dullest eye could detect at a\nglance, and at a distance of many feet, that no two of the patterns were\nalike. When Wilson had at last finished his tedious and difficult work,\nhe arranged its results according to a plan in which a progressive order\nand sequence was a principal feature; then he added to the batch several\npantograph enlargements which he had made from time to time in bygone\nyears.\n\nThe night was spent and the day well advanced, now. By the time he had\nsnatched a trifle of breakfast it was nine o'clock, and the court was\nready to begin its sitting. He was in his place twelve minutes later\nwith his \"records.\"\n\nTom Driscoll caught a slight glimpse of the records, and nudged his\nnearest friend and said, with a wink, \"Pudd'nhead's got a rare eye to\nbusiness--thinks that as long as he can't win his case it's at least a\nnoble good chance to advertise his palace-window decorations without any\nexpense.\" Wilson was informed that his witnesses had been delayed, but\nwould arrive presently; but he rose and said he should probably not have\noccasion to make use of their testimony. [An amused murmur ran through\nthe room--\"It's a clean backdown! he gives up without hitting a lick!\"]\nWilson continued--\"I have other testimony--and better. [This compelled\ninterest, and evoked murmurs of surprise that had a detectable\ningredient of disappointment in them.] If I seem to be springing this\nevidence upon the court, I offer as my justification for this, that I\ndid not discover its existence until late last night, and have been\nengaged in examining and classifying it ever since, until half an hour\nago. I shall offer it presently; but first I wish to say a few\npreliminary words.\n\n\"May it please the Court, the claim given the front place, the claim\nmost persistently urged, the claim most strenuously and I may even say\naggressively and defiantly insisted upon by the prosecution, is\nthis--that the person whose hand left the blood-stained finger-prints\nupon the handle of the Indian knife is the person who committed the\nmurder.\" Wilson paused, during several moments, to give impressiveness\nto what he was about to say, and then added tranquilly, \"We grant that\nclaim.\"\n\nIt was an electrical surprise. No one was prepared for such an\nadmission. A buzz of astonishment rose on all sides, and people were\nheard to intimate that the overworked lawyer had lost his mind. Even the\nveteran judge, accustomed as he was to legal ambushes and masked\nbatteries in criminal procedure, was not sure that his ears were not\ndeceiving him, and asked counsel what it was he had said. Howard's\nimpassive face betrayed no sign, but his attitude and bearing lost\nsomething of their careless confidence for a moment. Wilson resumed:\n\n\"We not only grant that claim, but we welcome it and strongly endorse\nit. Leaving that matter for the present, we will now proceed to consider\nother points in the case which we propose to establish by evidence, and\nshall include that one in the chain in its proper place.\"\n\nHe had made up his mind to try a few hardy guesses, in mapping out his\ntheory of the origin and motive of the murder--guesses designed to fill\nup gaps in it--guesses which could help if they hit, and would probably\ndo no harm if they didn't.\n\n\"To my mind, certain circumstances of the case before the court seem to\nsuggest a motive for the homicide quite different from the one insisted\non by the State. It is my conviction that the motive was not revenge,\nbut robbery. It has been urged that the presence of the accused brothers\nin that fatal room, just after notification that one of them must take\nthe life of Judge Driscoll or lose his own the moment the parties should\nmeet, clearly signifies that the natural instinct of self-preservation\nmoved my clients to go there secretly and save Count Luigi by destroying\nhis adversary.\n\n\"Then why did they stay there, after the deed was done? Mrs. Pratt had\ntime, although she did not hear the cry for help, but woke up some\nmoments later, to run to that room--and there she found these men\nstanding and making no effort to escape. If they were guilty, they ought\nto have been running out of the house at the same time that she was\nrunning to that room. If they had had such a strong instinct toward\nself-preservation as to move them to kill that unarmed man, what had\nbecome of it now, when it should have been more alert than ever? Would\nany of us have remained there? Let us not slander our intelligence to\nthat degree.\n\n\"Much stress has been laid upon the fact that the accused offered a very\nlarge reward for the knife with which this murder was done; that no\nthief came forward to claim that extraordinary reward; that the latter\nfact was good circumstantial evidence that the claim that the knife had\nbeen stolen was a vanity and a fraud; that these details taken in\nconnection with the memorable and apparently prophetic speech of the\ndeceased concerning that knife, and the final discovery of that very\nknife in the fatal room where no living person was found present with\nthe slaughtered man but the owner of the knife and his brother, form an\nindestructible chain of evidence which fixes the crime upon those\nunfortunate strangers.\n\n\"But I shall presently ask to be sworn, and shall testify that there was\na large reward offered for the thief, also; and it was offered secretly\nand not advertised; that this fact was indiscreetly mentioned--or at\nleast tacitly admitted--in what was supposed to be safe circumstances,\nbut may not have been. The thief may have been present himself. [Tom\nDriscoll had been looking at the speaker, but dropped his eyes at this\npoint.] In that case he would retain the knife in his possession, not\ndaring to offer it for sale, or for pledge in a pawn-shop. [There was a\nnodding of heads among the audience by way of admission that this was\nnot a bad stroke.] I shall prove to the satisfaction of the jury that\nthere was a person in Judge Driscoll's room several minutes before the\naccused entered it. [This produced a strong sensation; the last\ndrowsy-head in the court-room roused up, now, and made preparation to\nlisten.] If it shall seem necessary, I will prove by the Misses Clarkson\nthat they met a veiled person--ostensibly a woman--coming out of the\nback gate a few minutes after the cry for help was heard. This person\nwas not a woman, but a man dressed in woman's clothes.\" Another\nsensation. Wilson had his eye on Tom when he hazarded this guess, to see\nwhat effect it would produce. He was satisfied with the result, and said\nto himself, \"It was a success--he's hit!\"\n\n\"The object of that person in that house was robbery, not murder. It is\ntrue that the safe was not open, but there was an ordinary tin cash-box\non the table, with three thousand dollars in it. It is easily supposable\nthat the thief was concealed in the house; that he knew of this box, and\nof its owner's habit of counting its contents and arranging his accounts\nat night--if he had that habit, which I do not assert, of course;--that\nhe tried to take the box while its owner slept, but made a noise and was\nseized, and had to use the knife to save himself from capture; and that\nhe fled without his booty because he heard help coming.\n\n\"I have now done with my theory, and will proceed to the evidences by\nwhich I propose to try to prove its soundness.\" Wilson took up several\nof his strips of glass. When the audience recognized these familiar\nmementoes of Pudd'nhead's old-time childish \"puttering\" and folly, the\ntense and funereal interest vanished out of their faces, and the house\nburst into volleys of relieving and refreshing laughter, and Tom chirked\nup and joined in the fun himself; but Wilson was apparently not\ndisturbed. He arranged his records on the table before him, and said--\n\n\"I beg the indulgence of the court while I make a few remarks in\nexplanation of some evidence which I am about to introduce, and which I\nshall presently ask to be allowed to verify under oath on the witness\nstand. Every human being carries with him from his cradle to his grave\ncertain physical marks which do not change their character, and by which\nhe can always be identified--and that without shade of doubt or\nquestion. These marks are his signature, his physiological autograph, so\nto speak, and this autograph can not be counterfeited, nor can he\ndisguise it or hide it away, nor can it become illegible by the wear and\nmutations of time. This signature is not his face--age can change that\nbeyond recognition; it is not his hair, for that can fall out; it is not\nhis height, for duplicates of that exist; it is not his form, for\nduplicates of that exist also, whereas this signature is each man's very\nown--there is no duplicate of it among the swarming populations of the\nglobe! [The audience were interested once more.]\n\n\"This autograph consists of the delicate lines or corrugations with\nwhich Nature marks the insides of the hands and the soles of the feet.\nIf you will look at the balls of your fingers,--you that have very sharp\neyesight,--you will observe that these dainty curving lines lie close\ntogether, like those that indicate the borders of oceans in maps, and\nthat they form various clearly defined patterns, such as arches,\ncircles, long curves, whorls, etc., and that these patterns differ on\nthe different fingers. [Every man in the room had his hand up to the\nlight, now, and his head canted to one side, and was minutely\nscrutinizing the balls of his fingers; there were whispered ejaculations\nof 'Why, it's so--I never noticed that before!'] The patterns on the\nright hand are not the same as those on the left. [Ejaculations of 'Why,\nthat's so, too!'] Taken finger for finger, your patterns differ from\nyour neighbor's. [Comparisons were made all over the house--even the\njudge and jury were absorbed in this curious work.] The patterns of a\ntwin's right hand are not the same as those on his left. One twin's\npatterns are never the same as his fellow-twin's patterns--the jury will\nfind that the patterns upon the finger-balls of the accused follow this\nrule. [An examination of the twins' hands was begun at once.] You have\noften heard of twins who were so exactly alike that when dressed alike\ntheir own parents could not tell them apart. Yet there was never a twin\nborn into this world that did not carry from birth to death a sure\nidentifier in this mysterious and marvelous natal autograph. That once\nknown to you, his fellow-twin could never personate him and deceive\nyou.\"\n\nWilson stopped and stood silent. Inattention dies a quick and sure death\nwhen a speaker does that. The stillness gives warning that something is\ncoming. All palms and finger-balls went down, now, all slouching forms\nstraightened, all heads came up, all eyes were fastened upon Wilson's\nface. He waited yet one, two, three moments, to let his pause complete\nand perfect its spell upon the house; then, when through the profound\nhush he could hear the ticking of the clock on the wall, he put out his\nhand and took the Indian knife by the blade and held it aloft where all\ncould see the sinister spots upon its ivory handle; then he said, in a\nlevel and passionless voice--\n\n\"Upon this haft stands the assassin's natal autograph, written in the\nblood of that helpless and unoffending old man who loved you and whom\nyou all loved. There is but one man in the whole earth whose hand can\nduplicate that crimson sign,\"--he paused and raised his eyes to the\npendulum swinging back and forth,--\"and please God we will produce that\nman in this room before the clock strikes noon!\"\n\nStunned, distraught, unconscious of its own movement, the house half\nrose, as if expecting to see the murderer appear at the door, and a\nbreeze of muttered ejaculations swept the place. \"Order in the\ncourt!--sit down!\" This from the sheriff. He was obeyed, and quiet\nreigned again. Wilson stole a glance at Tom, and said to himself, \"He is\nflying signals of distress, now; even people who despise him are pitying\nhim; they think this is a hard ordeal for a young fellow who has lost\nhis benefactor by so cruel a stroke--and they are right.\" He resumed his\nspeech:\n\n\"For more than twenty years I have amused my compulsory leisure with\ncollecting these curious physical signatures in this town. At my house I\nhave hundreds upon hundreds of them. Each and every one is labelled with\nname and date; not labelled the next day or even the next hour, but in\nthe very minute that the impression was taken. When I go upon the\nwitness stand I will repeat under oath the things which I am now saying.\nI have the finger-prints of the court, the sheriff, and every member of\nthe jury. There is hardly a person in this room, white or black, whose\nnatal signature I cannot produce, and not one of them can so disguise\nhimself that I cannot pick him out from a multitude of his\nfellow-creatures and unerringly identify him by his hands. And if he and\nI should live to be a hundred I could still do it. [The interest of the\naudience was steadily deepening, now.]\n\n\"I have studied some of these signatures so much that I know them as\nwell as the bank cashier knows the autograph of his oldest customer.\nWhile I turn my back now, I beg that several persons will be so good as\nto pass their fingers through their hair, and then press them upon one\nof the panes of the window near the jury, and that among them the\naccused may set their finger-marks. Also, I beg that these\nexperimenters, or others, will set their finger-marks upon another pane,\nand add again the marks of the accused, but not placing them in the same\norder or relation to the other signatures as before--for, by one chance\nin a million, a person might happen upon the right marks by pure\nguess-work once, therefore I wish to be tested twice.\"\n\nHe turned his back, and the two panes were quickly covered with\ndelicately-lined oval spots, but visible only to such persons as could\nget a dark background for them--the foliage of a tree, outside, for\ninstance. Then, upon call, Wilson went to the window, made his\nexamination, and said--\n\n\"This is Count Luigi's right hand; this one, three signatures below, is\nhis left. Here is Count Angelo's right; down here is his left. Now for\nthe other pane: here and here are Count Luigi's, here and here are his\nbrother's.\" He faced about. \"Am I right?\"\n\nA deafening explosion of applause was the answer. The Bench said--\n\n\"This certainly approaches the miraculous!\"\n\nWilson turned to the window again and remarked, pointing with his\nfinger--\n\n\"This is the signature of Mr. Justice Robinson. [Applause.] This, of\nConstable Blake. [Applause.] This, of John Mason, juryman. [Applause.]\nThis, of the sheriff. [Applause.] I cannot name the others, but I have\nthem all at home, named and dated, and could identify them all by my\nfinger-print records.\"\n\nHe moved to his place through a storm of applause--which the sheriff\nstopped, and also made the people sit down, for they were all standing\nand struggling to see, of course. Court, jury, sheriff, and everybody\nhad been too absorbed in observing Wilson's performance to attend to the\naudience earlier.\n\n\"Now, then,\" said Wilson, \"I have here the natal autographs of two\nchildren--thrown up to ten times the natural size by the pantograph, so\nthat any one who can see at all can tell the markings apart at a glance.\nWe will call the children A and B. Here are A's finger-marks, taken at\nthe age of five months. Here they are again, taken at seven months. [Tom\nstarted.] They are alike, you see. Here are B's at five months, and also\nat seven months. They, too, exactly copy each other, but the patterns\nare quite different from A's, you observe. I shall refer to these again\npresently, but we will turn them face down, now.\n\n\"Here, thrown up ten sizes, are the natal autographs of the two persons\nwho are here before you accused of murdering Judge Driscoll. I made\nthese pantograph copies last night, and will so swear when I go upon the\nwitness stand. I ask the jury to compare them with the finger-marks of\nthe accused upon the window panes, and tell the court if they are the\nsame.\"\n\nHe passed a powerful magnifying-glass to the foreman.\n\nOne juryman after another took the cardboard and the glass and made the\ncomparison. Then the foreman said to the judge--\n\n\"Your honor, we are all agreed that they are identical.\"\n\nWilson said to the foreman--\n\n\"Please turn that cardboard face down, and take this one, and compare it\nsearchingly, by the magnifier, with the fatal signature upon the\nknife-handle, and report your finding to the court.\"\n\nAgain the jury made minute examinations, and again reported--\n\n\"We find them to be exactly identical, your honor.\"\n\nWilson turned toward the counsel for the prosecution, and there was a\nclearly recognizable note of warning in his voice when he said--\n\n\"May it please the court, the State has claimed, strenuously and\npersistently, that the blood-stained finger-prints upon that\nknife-handle were left there by the assassin of Judge Driscoll. You have\nheard us grant that claim, and welcome it.\" He turned to the jury:\n\"Compare the finger-prints of the accused with the finger-prints left by\nthe assassin--and report.\"\n\nThe comparison began. As it proceeded, all movement and all sound\nceased, and the deep silence of an absorbed and waiting suspense settled\nupon the house; and when at last the words came--\n\n\"They do not even resemble,\" a thunder-crash of applause followed and\nthe house sprang to its feet, but was quickly repressed by official\nforce and brought to order again. Tom was altering his position every\nfew minutes, now, but none of his changes brought repose nor any small\ntrifle of comfort. When the house's attention was become fixed once\nmore, Wilson said gravely, indicating the twins with a gesture--\n\n\"These men are innocent--I have no further concern with them. [Another\noutbreak of applause began, but was promptly checked.] We will now\nproceed to find the guilty. [Tom's eyes were starting from their\nsockets--yes, it was a cruel day for the bereaved youth, everybody\nthought.] We will return to the infant autographs of A and B. I will ask\nthe jury to take these large pantograph facsimilies of A's marked five\nmonths and seven months. Do they tally?\"\n\nThe foreman responded--\n\n\"Perfectly.\"\n\n\"Now examine this pantograph, taken at eight months, and also marked A.\nDoes it tally with the other two?\"\n\nThe surprised response was--\n\n\"No--they differ widely!\"\n\n\"You are quite right. Now take these two pantographs of B's autograph,\nmarked five months and seven months. Do they tally with each other?\"\n\n\"Yes--perfectly.\"\n\n\"Take this third pantograph marked B, eight months. Does it tally with\nB's other two?\"\n\n\"By no means!\"\n\n\"Do you know how to account for those strange discrepancies? I will tell\nyou. For a purpose unknown to us, but probably a selfish one, somebody\nchanged those children in the cradle.\"\n\nThis produced a vast sensation, naturally; Roxana was astonished at this\nadmirable guess, but not disturbed by it. To guess the exchange was one\nthing, to guess who did it quite another. Pudd'nhead Wilson could do\nwonderful things, no doubt, but he couldn't do impossible ones. Safe?\nShe was perfectly safe. She smiled privately.\n\n\"Between the ages of seven months and eight months those children were\nchanged in the cradle\"--he made one of his effect-collecting pauses, and\nadded--\"and the person who did it is in this house!\"\n\nRoxy's pulses stood still! The house was thrilled as with an electric\nshock, and the people half rose as if to seek a glimpse of the person\nwho had made that exchange. Tom was growing limp; the life seemed oozing\nout of him. Wilson resumed:\n\n\"A was put into B's cradle in the nursery; B was transferred to the\nkitchen and became a negro and a slave, [Sensation--confusion of angry\nejaculations]--but within a quarter of an hour he will stand before you\nwhite and free! [Burst of applause, checked by the officers.] From seven\nmonths onward until now, A has still been a usurper, and in my\nfinger-record he bears B's name. Here is his pantograph at the age of\ntwelve. Compare it with the assassin's signature upon the knife-handle.\nDo they tally?\"\n\nThe foreman answered--\n\n\"To the minutest detail!\"\n\nWilson said, solemnly--\n\n\"The murderer of your friend and mine--York Driscoll of the generous\nhand and the kindly spirit--sits in among you. Valet de Chambre, negro\nand slave,--falsely called Thomas \u00e0 Becket Driscoll,--make upon the\nwindow the finger-prints that will hang you!\"\n\nTom turned his ashen face imploring toward the speaker, made some\nimpotent movements with his white lips, then slid limp and lifeless to\nthe floor.\n\nWilson broke the awed silence with the words--\n\n\"There is no need. He has confessed.\"\n\nRoxy flung herself upon her knees, covered her face with her hands, and\nout through her sobs the words struggled--\n\n\"De Lord have mercy on me, po' misable sinner dat I is!\"\n\nThe clock struck twelve.\n\nThe court rose; the new prisoner, handcuffed, was removed.\n\n\n\n\nConclusion\n\nIt is often the case that the man who can't tell a lie thinks he is the\nbest judge of one.--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.\n\nOctober 12, the Discovery. It was wonderful to find America, but it\nwould have been more wonderful to miss it.--Pudd'nhead Wilson's\nCalendar.\n\nThe town sat up all night to discuss the amazing events of the day and\nswap guesses as to when Tom's trial would begin. Troop after troop of\ncitizens came to serenade Wilson, and require a speech, and shout\nthemselves hoarse over every sentence that fell from his lips--for all\nhis sentences were golden, now, all were marvelous. His long fight\nagainst hard luck and prejudice was ended; he was a made man for good.\n\nAnd as each of these roaring gangs of enthusiasts marched away, some\nremorseful member of it was quite sure to raise his voice and say--\n\n\"And this is the man the likes of us have called a pudd'nhead for more\nthan twenty years. He has resigned from that position, friends.\"\n\n\"Yes, but it isn't vacant--we're elected.\"\n\nThe twins were heroes of romance, now, and with rehabilitated\nreputations. But they were weary of Western adventure, and straightway\nretired to Europe.\n\nRoxy's heart was broken. The young fellow upon whom she had inflicted\ntwenty-three years of slavery continued the false heir's pension of\nthirty-five dollars a month to her, but her hurts were too deep for\nmoney to heal; the spirit in her eye was quenched, her martial bearing\ndeparted with it, and the voice of her laughter ceased in the land. In\nher church and its affairs she found her only solace.\n\nThe real heir suddenly found himself rich and free, but in a most\nembarrassing situation. He could neither read nor write, and his speech\nwas the basest dialect of the negro quarter. His gait, his attitudes,\nhis gestures, his bearing, his laugh--all were vulgar and uncouth; his\nmanners were the manners of a slave. Money and fine clothes could not\nmend these defects or cover them up; they only made them the more\nglaring and the more pathetic. The poor fellow could not endure the\nterrors of the white man's parlor, and felt at home and at peace nowhere\nbut in the kitchen. The family pew was a misery to him, yet he could\nnevermore enter into the solacing refuge of the \"nigger gallery\"--that\nwas closed to him for good and all. But we cannot follow his curious\nfate further--that would be a long story.\n\nThe false heir made a full confession and was sentenced to imprisonment\nfor life. But now a complication came up. The Percy Driscoll estate was\nin such a crippled shape when its owner died that it could pay only\nsixty per cent. of its great indebtedness, and was settled at that rate.\nBut the creditors came forward, now, and complained that inasmuch as\nthrough an error for which they were in no way to blame the false heir\nwas not inventoried at the time with the rest of the property, great\nwrong and loss had thereby been inflicted upon them. They rightly\nclaimed that \"Tom\" was lawfully their property and had been so for eight\nyears; that they had already lost sufficiently in being deprived of his\nservices during that long period, and ought not to be required to add\nanything to that loss; that if he had been delivered up to them in the\nfirst place, they would have sold him and he could not have murdered\nJudge Driscoll; therefore it was not he that had really committed the\nmurder, the guilt lay with the erroneous inventory. Everybody saw that\nthere was reason in this. Everybody granted that if \"Tom\" were white and\nfree it would be unquestionably right to punish him--it would be no loss\nto anybody; but to shut up a valuable slave for life--that was quite\nanother matter.\n\nAs soon as the Governor understood the case, he pardoned Tom at once,\nand the creditors sold him down the river.\n\nTranscriber's Notes\n\nIntroduction:\n\n1. Background.\n\nWelcome to Project Gutenberg's presentation of Pudd'nhead Wilson. The\nItalian twins in this novel, Luigi and Angelo, were inspired by a real\npair of Italian conjoined twins who toured America in the 1890s. These\nwere Giacomo and Giovanni Battista Tocci.\n\nHomer Plessy was arrested for sitting in a whites-only passenger car on\nJune 7, 1892, and one month later he stood before Judge John Howard\nFerguson to plead his case. Plessy was an octaroon who could easily\n\"pass white.\" Four years later, the Supreme Court condoned \"Separate but\nEqual\" laws in the famous Plessy vs. Ferguson case, which affirmed the\ndecision of Justice Ferguson in local court. These events in 1892\nunfolded as Twain wrote this story, and changed the tale that he ended\nup telling.\n\nArthur Conan Doyle released his best-selling collection of short\nstories, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, on October 14, 1892. The\nstories had already appeared in The Strand Magazine, one each month,\nfrom July 1891 to June 1892. Holmes inspired Twain to add a component of\nforensics to this story.\n\n2. Dialect.\n\nThe soliloquies and conversations in the novel follow some general\nrules. Twain introduced some variations in the spelling of dialect, and\nsometimes the sound of dialect, but the end meaning seems to be the\nsame thing. Below is a table of some of these words, and alternatives\nfound in the text:\n\nDialect used in Pudd'nhead Wilson\n\nEnglish Dialect,        Alternative,    Another\nand     en\nagainst agin,           ag'in,          ag'in'\nbecause 'ca'se\ngoing   gwine,          gwyne\nmore    mo'\nthat    dat\nthe     de\nthen    den\nthere   dere,           dah\nthese   dese\nthey    dey,            deh\nthis    dis\nwas     'uz\nwith    wid\nwhere   whah\n\nThe above table was presented as a foundation which played into the\ndecision to make some emendations, below, that were not authorized by\nTwain in 1899. One curious notation is that there was sometimes\npronounced dere, but also dah. Along the same lines, they most often\nbecame dey, but in one case, deh.\n\n3. This version.\n\nOur version is based on the 1894 publication of this novel in Hartford.\nThis was Twain's original American release of the novel in book form. A\nscanned copy of this book is available through Hathitrust. The book\ncontained some spaces in contractions: I 'll, dat 'll, had n't, could\nn't, dis 'll, 't ain't / t ain't, and dey 'll are some examples. These\nspaces were not retained in our transcription, and are not identified.\nWe did make a few other emendations. These emendations were checked with\nthe 1899 version of Pudd'nhead Wilson published by Harper & Brothers.\n\n4. Notes on emendations.\n\nThe errors on Page 233 and Page 288, were not changed in the 1899 book,\nso the case for making those changes may be found in the Detailed Notes\nsection. The remaining errors were corrected in the 1899 publication,\npresumably authorized by Twain, who essentially made the case for those\nemendations.\n\nIn the HTML version of this e-book, you can place your cursor over the\nfaint silver dotted lines below the changed text to discover the\noriginal text. The Detailed Notes section of these notes describe these\nemendations.\n\n5. Other versions.\n\nPlease note that many print versions of Pudd'nhead Wilson include the\nphrase 'spelling and usage have been brought into conformity with modern\nusage,' and editors have been liberal with their renditions of Twain's\nstory.\n\n6. Detailed notes.\n\nThe Detailed Notes Section also includes issues that have come up during\ntranscription. One common issue is that words are sometimes split into\ntwo lines for spacing purposes in the original text. These words are\nhyphenated in the physical book, but there is a question sometimes as to\nwhether the hyphen should be retained in transcription. The reasons\nbehind some of these decisions are itemized.\n\nProduction Notes Section:\n\n1. Chapter Titles.\n\nThe Chapter Titles, such as Doom in Chapter XXI., were not part of\nTwain's book. They remain from another version of this book. The chapter\ntitles are used in PG's Mark Twain index, so we have retained them.\n\n2. The Author's Note.\n\nThe Author's Note to Those Extraordinary Twins is actually the author's\nintroduction to the novella, Those Extraordinary Twins. Twain originally\nproduced this book with two parts: Pudd'nhead Wilson and Those\nExtraordinary Twins.\n\nProject Gutenberg offers both stories, so we present the Author's Note\nas the Introduction to Those Extraordinary Twins, as Twain intended. If\nyou want to read the Author's Note, please visit the Introduction of our\nproduction of the novella, Those Extraordinary Twins.\n\nDetailed Notes Section:\n\nChapter 1.\n\nOn Page 19, barber-shop was hyphenated between two lines for spacing.\nThe 1899 Harper & Brothers version used \"barber shop\" in this spot. Even\nthough barber-shop cannot be transcribed as such, the assumption is that\nthe 1894 version put in the hyphen by mistake. We transcribed the word\nbarber shop.\n\nChapter 2.\n\nOn Page 34, changed ca'se to 'ca'se, used as dialect for because, in the\nclause: \"but dat's ca'se it's mine.\" The author used 'ca'se eighteen\nother times as dialect for because, and did not use ca'se again.\n\nChapter 3.\n\nOn Page 43, insert missing period after tomb.\n\nChapter 6.\n\nOn Page 81, add a comma after door: \"The twins took a position near the\ndoor the widow stood at Luigi's side, Rowena stood beside Angelo,...\"\n\nChapter 7.\n\nOn Page 88, add a period after fault in the sentence: The Judge laid\nhimself out hospitably to make them have a good time, and if there was a\ndefect anywhere it was not his fault.\n\nChapter 9.\n\nOn Page 114, there is a word missing before the semicolon in the clause:\nTom sprang up and seized a billet of wood and raised   ; the 1899 Harper\n& Brothers version provided the missing word, \"it.\"\n\nChapter 11.\n\nOn Page 131, change dicision to decision in the clause: Luigi reserved\nhis dicision.\n\nOn Page 133, change comma to a period after years in the sentence: \"I\nnever got a chance to try my hand at it, and I may never get a chance;\nand yet if I ever do get it I shall be found ready, for I have kept up\nmy law-studies all these years,\"\n\nOn Page 149, Correct spelling of Cappello to Capello. The surname of the\ntwins was Capello in the letter on page 73, and two other times in\nChapter 6.\n\nChapter 13.\n\nOn Page 167, Change ' to \" in the sentence: \"Why, my boy, you look\ndesolate. Don't take it so hard. Try and forget you have been kicked.'\n\nOn Page 176, ship-shape was hyphenated and split between two lines for\nspacing. The 1899 Harper & Brothers version of the novel used shipshape,\nand so will we.\n\nChapter 14.\n\nOn Page 182, changed period after hatching to question mark in the\nsentence: What could be hatching.\nOn Page 184, remove comma after sha'n't, in the clause: but if he\ndoesn't, I sha'n't, let on.\n\nOn Page 189, low-down is hyphenated and split between two lines for\nspacing. On Page 188, low-down is spelled with a hyphen, and on pages\n241 and 243 low-downest is also hyphenated. There is no occurrence of\nlowdown. We transcribed low-down with a hyphen: like a ornery low-down\nhound!\n\nChapter 16.\nOn Page 216, Changed ? to ! in the sentence: En keep on sayin' it?\n\nChapter 18.\n\nOn Page 229, Changed 'against to against in the clause: with fury\n'against the planter's wife.\n\nOn Page 233, Changed de to den in the clause \"en de good gracious me.\"\nThe author always used den for then, except in this case. De is dialect\nfor the. Twain did not correct this in the 1899 Harper & Brothers\nversion of the novel, but den makes more sense then de. Roxy was\nfloating on the river, and then she cried good gracious me, because she\nspotted the Grand Mogul.\n\nChanged day to dey in two places. The novel used dey as dialect for they\nregularly, and almost consistently, except in two cases. Both cases were\npresumed errata:\n\n\u2022   On Page 232, en day warn't gwine to hurry\n\u2022   On Page 229, en day knows how to whale 'em, too.\n\nChapter 19.\n\nOn Page 253, back-yard is hyphenated and split between two lines for\nspacing. The 1899 Harper & Brothers version of the novel used back-yard,\nand so will we.\n\nChapter 20.\n\nOn Page 273, changed countenence to countenance in the clause: \"I don't\nknow about that,\" and Tom's countenence darkened,...\n\nChapter 21.\n\nOn Page 288, there are two quotes made by the crowd in double quotes.\nTwain did not correct this in the 1899 version of the novel by Harper &\nBrothers. But these lines are surrounded by Wilson's narrative, which is\nalready in double quotes. Therefore, we have used single quotes for the\ntwo remarks from the gallery.\n\n\u2022   'Why, it's so--I never noticed that before!'\n\u2022   'Why, that's so, too!'\n\nConclusion.\n\nOn Page 302, removed in from the sentence: \"But we cannot follow his\ncurious fate further--that in would be a long story.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n        \n            *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TRAGEDY OF PUDD'NHEAD WILSON ***\n        \n\n    \n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one\u2014the old editions will\nbe renamed.\n\nCreating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright\nlaw means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,\nso the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United\nStates without permission and without paying copyright\nroyalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part\nof this license, apply to copying and distributing Project\nGutenberg\u2122 electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG\u2122\nconcept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,\nand may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following\nthe terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use\nof the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for\ncopies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very\neasy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation\nof derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project\nGutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away\u2014you may\ndo practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected\nby U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark\nlicense, especially commercial redistribution.\n\n\nSTART: FULL LICENSE\n\nTHE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE\n\nPLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK\n\nTo protect the Project Gutenberg\u2122 mission of promoting the free\ndistribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work\n(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase \u201cProject\nGutenberg\u201d), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full\nProject Gutenberg\u2122 License available with this file or online at\nwww.gutenberg.org/license.\n\nSection 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg\u2122\nelectronic works\n\n1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg\u2122\nelectronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to\nand accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property\n(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all\nthe terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or\ndestroy all copies of Project Gutenberg\u2122 electronic works in your\npossession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a\nProject Gutenberg\u2122 electronic work and you do not agree to be bound\nby the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person\nor entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.\n\n1.B. \u201cProject Gutenberg\u201d is a registered trademark. It may only be\nused on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who\nagree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few\nthings that you can do with most Project Gutenberg\u2122 electronic works\neven without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See\nparagraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project\nGutenberg\u2122 electronic works if you follow the terms of this\nagreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg\u2122\nelectronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.\n\n1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (\u201cthe\nFoundation\u201d or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection\nof Project Gutenberg\u2122 electronic works. Nearly all the individual\nworks in the collection are in the public domain in the United\nStates. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the\nUnited States and you are located in the United States, we do not\nclaim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,\ndisplaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as\nall references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope\nthat you will support the Project Gutenberg\u2122 mission of promoting\nfree access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg\u2122\nworks in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the\nProject Gutenberg\u2122 name associated with the work. You can easily\ncomply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the\nsame format with its attached full Project Gutenberg\u2122 License when\nyou share it without charge with others.\n\n1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern\nwhat you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are\nin a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,\ncheck the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this\nagreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,\ndistributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any\nother Project Gutenberg\u2122 work. The Foundation makes no\nrepresentations concerning the copyright status of any work in any\ncountry other than the United States.\n\n1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:\n\n1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other\nimmediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg\u2122 License must appear\nprominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg\u2122 work (any work\non which the phrase \u201cProject Gutenberg\u201d appears, or with which the\nphrase \u201cProject Gutenberg\u201d is associated) is accessed, displayed,\nperformed, viewed, copied or distributed:\n\n    This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most\n    other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions\n    whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms\n    of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online\n    at www.gutenberg.org. If you\n    are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws\n    of the country where you are located before using this eBook.\n  \n1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg\u2122 electronic work is\nderived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not\ncontain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the\ncopyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in\nthe United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are\nredistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase \u201cProject\nGutenberg\u201d associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply\neither with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or\nobtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg\u2122\ntrademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.\n\n1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg\u2122 electronic work is posted\nwith the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution\nmust comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any\nadditional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms\nwill be linked to the Project Gutenberg\u2122 License for all works\nposted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the\nbeginning of this work.\n\n1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg\u2122\nLicense terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this\nwork or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg\u2122.\n\n1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this\nelectronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without\nprominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with\nactive links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project\nGutenberg\u2122 License.\n\n1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,\ncompressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including\nany word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access\nto or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg\u2122 work in a format\nother than \u201cPlain Vanilla ASCII\u201d or other format used in the official\nversion posted on the official Project Gutenberg\u2122 website\n(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense\nto the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means\nof obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original \u201cPlain\nVanilla ASCII\u201d or other form. Any alternate format must include the\nfull Project Gutenberg\u2122 License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.\n\n1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,\nperforming, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg\u2122 works\nunless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.\n\n1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing\naccess to or distributing Project Gutenberg\u2122 electronic works\nprovided that:\n\n    \u2022 You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from\n        the use of Project Gutenberg\u2122 works calculated using the method\n        you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed\n        to the owner of the Project Gutenberg\u2122 trademark, but he has\n        agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project\n        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid\n        within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are\n        legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty\n        payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project\n        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in\n        Section 4, \u201cInformation about donations to the Project Gutenberg\n        Literary Archive Foundation.\u201d\n    \n    \u2022 You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies\n        you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he\n        does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg\u2122\n        License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all\n        copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue\n        all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg\u2122\n        works.\n    \n    \u2022 You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of\n        any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the\n        electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of\n        receipt of the work.\n    \n    \u2022 You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free\n        distribution of Project Gutenberg\u2122 works.\n    \n\n1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project\nGutenberg\u2122 electronic work or group of works on different terms than\nare set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing\nfrom the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of\nthe Project Gutenberg\u2122 trademark. Contact the Foundation as set\nforth in Section 3 below.\n\n1.F.\n\n1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable\neffort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread\nworks not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project\nGutenberg\u2122 collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg\u2122\nelectronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may\ncontain \u201cDefects,\u201d such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate\nor corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other\nintellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or\nother medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or\ncannot be read by your equipment.\n\n1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the \u201cRight\nof Replacement or Refund\u201d described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project\nGutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project\nGutenberg\u2122 trademark, and any other party distributing a Project\nGutenberg\u2122 electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all\nliability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal\nfees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT\nLIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE\nPROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE\nTRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE\nLIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR\nINCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH\nDAMAGE.\n\n1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a\ndefect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can\nreceive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a\nwritten explanation to the person you received the work from. If you\nreceived the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium\nwith your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you\nwith the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in\nlieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person\nor entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second\nopportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If\nthe second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing\nwithout further opportunities to fix the problem.\n\n1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth\nin paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you \u2018AS-IS\u2019, WITH NO\nOTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT\nLIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.\n\n1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied\nwarranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of\ndamages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement\nviolates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the\nagreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or\nlimitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or\nunenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the\nremaining provisions.\n\n1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the\ntrademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone\nproviding copies of Project Gutenberg\u2122 electronic works in\naccordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the\nproduction, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg\u2122\nelectronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,\nincluding legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of\nthe following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this\nor any Project Gutenberg\u2122 work, (b) alteration, modification, or\nadditions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg\u2122 work, and (c) any\nDefect you cause.\n\nSection 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg\u2122\n\nProject Gutenberg\u2122 is synonymous with the free distribution of\nelectronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of\ncomputers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It\nexists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations\nfrom people in all walks of life.\n\nVolunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the\nassistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg\u2122\u2019s\ngoals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg\u2122 collection will\nremain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project\nGutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure\nand permanent future for Project Gutenberg\u2122 and future\ngenerations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary\nArchive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see\nSections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.\n\nSection 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation\n\nThe Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit\n501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the\nstate of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal\nRevenue Service. The Foundation\u2019s EIN or federal tax identification\nnumber is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary\nArchive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by\nU.S. federal laws and your state\u2019s laws.\n\nThe Foundation\u2019s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West,\nSalt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up\nto date contact information can be found at the Foundation\u2019s website\nand official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact\n\nSection 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg\nLiterary Archive Foundation\n\nProject Gutenberg\u2122 depends upon and cannot survive without widespread\npublic support and donations to carry out its mission of\nincreasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be\nfreely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest\narray of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations\n($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt\nstatus with the IRS.\n\nThe Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating\ncharities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United\nStates. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a\nconsiderable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up\nwith these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations\nwhere we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND\nDONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state\nvisit www.gutenberg.org/donate.\n\nWhile we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we\nhave not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition\nagainst accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who\napproach us with offers to donate.\n\nInternational donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make\nany statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from\noutside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.\n\nPlease check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation\nmethods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other\nways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To\ndonate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.\n\nSection 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg\u2122 electronic works\n\nProfessor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project\nGutenberg\u2122 concept of a library of electronic works that could be\nfreely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and\ndistributed Project Gutenberg\u2122 eBooks with only a loose network of\nvolunteer support.\n\nProject Gutenberg\u2122 eBooks are often created from several printed\neditions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in\nthe U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not\nnecessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper\nedition.\n\nMost people start at our website which has the main PG search\nfacility: www.gutenberg.org.\n\nThis website includes information about Project Gutenberg\u2122,\nincluding how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary\nArchive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to\nsubscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.\n\n"}