A Transliteration of Jim’s Dialogue in The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn Courtesy of No Fear Literature on SparkNotes.com

Twain’s Original Text Less Phonetic Transliteration

Chapter 2

“Say, who is you? Whar is you? Dog my cats ef I didn’ hear sumf’n. Well, I know what I’s gwyne to do: I’s gwyne to set down here and listen tell I hears it agin.”

Pretty soon Jim said, “Say now, who’s there? Where are you? I’ll be damned if I didn’t hear something. Well, I know what I’m going to do—I’m going to sit down right here and listen until I hear that sound again.”

Chapter 4

“Yo’ ole father doan’ know yit what he’s a-gwyne to do. Sometimes he spec he’ll go ’way, en den agin he spec he’ll stay. De bes’ way is to res’ easy en let de ole man take his own way. Dey’s two angels hoverin’ roun’ ’bout him. One uv ’em is white en shiny, en t’other one is black. De white one gits him to go right a little while, den de black one sail in en bust it all up. A body can’t tell yit which one gwyne to fetch him at de las’. But you is all right. You gwyne to have considable trouble in yo’ life, en considable joy. Sometimes you gwyne to git hurt, en sometimes you gwyne to git sick; but every time you’s gwyne to git well agin. Dey’s two gals flyin’ ’bout you in yo’ life. One uv ’em’s light en t’other one is dark. One is rich en t’other is po’. You’s gwyne to marry de po’ one fust en de rich one by en by. You wants to keep ’way fum de water as much as you kin, en don’t run no resk, ’kase it’s down in de bills dat you’s gwyne to git hung.”

“Your old pap doesn’t know yet what he’s going to do. Sometimes he thinks he’ll go away, but then changes his mind and thinks he’ll stay. The best thing for you to do is to relax and let the old man do what he wants. There are two angels hovering around him. One of them is white and shiny and the other is black. The white one gets him to do the right thing for awhile, but then the black one pops up and ruins it. Nobody can tell which one is going to win in the end. But you’ll be alright. You’re going to have considerable trouble in your life and considerable joy. Sometimes you’re going to get hurt and sometimes you’re going go get sick, but everytime you do, you’ll get well again. There are two women in your life: One of them is light, and the other is dark. One is rich, and the other is poor. You’re going to marry the poor one first and the rich one later on. You want to keep away from the water as much as you can and not take any chances in case it’s predestined that you’re going to get hanged.”

Chapter 6

“Call this a govment! why, just look at it and see what it’s like. Here’s the law a-standing ready to take a man’s son away from him—a man’s own son, which he has had all the trouble and all the anxiety and all the expense of raising. Yes, just as that man has got that son raised at last, and ready

“They call this a government! Just look at it! The law is going to let them take a man’s son away from him—his own son, which he went to all the trouble and worry and expense to raise. Just when that son finally grows up and is ready to work and do something for HIM so that he can relax, the law tries

to go to work and begin to do suthin’ for HIM and give him a rest, the law up and goes for him. And they call THAT govment! That ain’t all, nuther. The law backs that old Judge Thatcher up and helps him to keep me out o’ my property. Here’s what the law does: The law takes a man worth six thousand dollars and up’ards, and jams him into an old trap of a cabin like this, and lets him go round in clothes that ain’t fitten for a hog. They call that govment! A man can’t get his rights in a govment like this. Sometimes I’ve a mighty notion to just leave the country for good and all. Yes, and I TOLD ’em so; I told old Thatcher so to his face. Lots of ’em heard me, and can tell what I said. Says I, for two cents I’d leave the blamed country and never come a-near it agin. Them’s the very words. I says look at my hat—if you call it a hat—but the lid raises up and the rest of it goes down till it’s below my chin, and then it ain’t rightly a hat at all, but more like my head was shoved up through a jint o’ stove-pipe. Look at it, says I—such a hat for me to wear—one of the wealthiest men in this town if I could git my rights.

to take him away. They call that government! That ain’t nothing. The law is backing that old Judge Thatcher and helping him keep me away from my own property. The law stuffs a man worth more than six thousand dollars into this old trap of a cabin and lets him wear clothes that ain’t fit for a pig. They call that government! A man doesn’t have any rights under a government like this. Sometimes I just feel like leaving the country once and for all. And I TOLD them that. I told this right to Judge Thatcher’s face. Lots of people heard me, and can vouch for what I said. I said that for two cents I’d leave the damned country and never go near it again. Those are the very words I used. I told them to look at my hat, if you can even call it that: The top raises up and the rest droops down til it’s below my chin. It’s barely a hat at all anymore, but more like a piece of stovepipe that my head has been shoved into. Just look at it, I told them. What a fine hat for one of the wealthiest men in town to wear—if I could just get what’s rightfully mine.

“Oh, yes, this is a wonderful govment, wonderful. Why, looky here. There was a free nigger there from Ohio—a mulatter, most as white as a white man. He had the whitest shirt on you ever see, too, and the shiniest hat; and there ain’t a man in that town that’s got as fine clothes as what he had; and he had a gold watch and chain, and a silver-headed cane—the awfulest old gray-headed nabob in the State. And what do you think? They said he was a p’fessor in a college, and could talk all kinds of languages, and knowed everything. And that ain’t the wust. They said he could VOTE when he was at home. Well, that let me out. Thinks I, what is the country a-coming to? It was ’lection day, and I was just about to go and vote myself if I warn’t too drunk to get there; but when they told me there was a State in this country where they’d let that nigger vote, I drawed out. I says I’ll never vote agin. Them’s the very words I said; they all heard me; and the country may rot for all me—I’ll never vote agin as long as I live. And to see the cool way of that nigger—why, he wouldn’t a give me the road if I hadn’t shoved him

“Oh yes, this government is wonderful, just wonderful. Just listen to this: There was an elderly free n----- from Ohio who was the nicest looking grey-haired man in the state. He was a mulatto who looked as white as any white man. We wore the whitest shirt you’ve ever seen and the shiniest hat too. He had a gold watch and chain and a silver-headed cane. There wasn’t a man in town with clothes as fine as his. And do you know what they said about him? They said he was a college professor, who could speak several different languages and knew everything. But that isn’t the worst thing. They said he could VOTE in his home state. Well that sure pissed me off. What’s this country coming to, I asked myself. It was election day, and I would have voted myself, if I hadn’t been too drunk to get to the polls. But when they told me there was a state in this country where a n----- could vote, I stopped dead in my tracks. I said I’d never vote again as long as I live. Those are the very words I used—everyone heard it. The country can rot for all I care. And to see the confident way that n----- acted! He wouldn’t have even stepped aside had I shoved him out of my way. I

out o’ the way. I says to the people, why ain’t this nigger put up at auction and sold?—that’s what I want to know. And what do you reckon they said? Why, they said he couldn’t be sold till he’d been in the State six months, and he hadn’t been there that long yet. There, now—that’s a specimen. They call that a govment that can’t sell a free nigger till he’s been in the State six months. Here’s a govment that calls itself a govment, and lets on to be a govment, and thinks it is a govment, and yet’s got to set stock-still for six whole months before it can take a hold of a prowling, thieving, infernal, white-shirted free nigger, and—”

asked everyone why this n----- wasn’t being put up for auction and sold into slavery? And do you know what they said? They said he could only be sold into slavery after he’d been in the state for six months, and he hadn’t been here that long yet. Can you believe it? That’s some kind of government that won’t even sell a free n----- til he’s been in the state for six months. Here you’ve got a government that calls itself a government and thinks it’s a government and lets on like it’s a government, yet it refuses to act until six months have passed before it can grab that sneaky, thieving, blasted white-shirted free n-----—”

Chapter 8 page 41-47

“Hello, Jim!” and skipped out. “Hello, Jim!” and jumped out from my hiding place in the bushes.

He bounced up and stared at me wild. Then he drops down on his knees, and puts his hands together and says:

He jumped up and stared at me wildly. Then he dropped down to his knees, put his hands together, and said:

“Doan’ hurt me—don’t! I hain’t ever done no harm to a ghos’. I alwuz liked dead people, en done all I could for ’em. You go en git in de river agin, whah you b’longs, en doan’ do nuffn to Ole Jim, ’at ’uz awluz yo’ fren’.”

“Don’t hurt me! Don’t! I’ve never harmed a ghost. I’ve always liked dead people, and done all I could for them. You go and get in the river where you belong, and don’t do nothing to Ol’ Jim, who was always your friend.”

Well, I warn’t long making him understand I warn’t dead. I was ever so glad to see Jim. I warn’t lonesome now. I told him I warn’t afraid of HIM telling the people where I was. I talked along, but he only set there and looked at me; never said nothing. Then I says:

Well, it didn’t take long to mke him see I wasn’t dead. I was so glad to see him—now I wouldn’t be lonely. I told him I wasn’t afraid of HIM telling everyone where I was. I talked quite a while, but he only sat there looking at me without saying anything. I said:

“It’s good daylight. Le’s get breakfast. Make up

your camp fire good.” “It’s full daylight now. Let’s get breakfast. Why

don’t you get the fire going again?” “What’s de use er makin’ up de camp fire to

cook strawbries en sich truck? But you got a gun, hain’t you? Den we kin git sumfn better den strawbries.”

“What’s the use making up a campfire to cook strawberries and the like? You have a gun, don't you? If you had a gun, we could get something better than strawberries.”

“Strawberries and such truck,” I says. “Is that what you live on?”

“Stawberries and stuff,” I repeated. “Is that what you live on?”

“I couldn’ git nuffn else,” he says. “I couldn’t get anything else,” he said. “Why, how long you been on the island, Jim?” “Why, how long have you been on the island,

Jim?”

“I come heah de night arter you’s killed.” “I came here the night after you were killed.” “What, all that time?” “What? You’ve been here all that time?” “Yes—indeedy.” “Yes indeed.” “And ain’t you had nothing but that kind of

rubbage to eat?” “And you haven’t had anything to eat but that kind

of junk?” “No, sah—nuffn else.” “No sir, nothing else.” “Well, you must be most starved, ain’t you?” “Well, you must be almost starved then, aren’t

you?” “I reck’n I could eat a hoss. I think I could.

How long you ben on de islan’?” “I bet I could eat a horse. I really could. How long

have you been on the island?” “Since the night I got killed.” “Since the night I got killed.” “No! W’y, what has you lived on? But you got

a gun. Oh, yes, you got a gun. Dat’s good. Now you kill sumfn en I’ll make up de fire.”

“No! What have you been eating? Oh, but you have a gun. Yep, you have a gun. That’s good. Now you go and kill something, and I’ll cook it up on the fire.”

So we went over to where the canoe was, and while he built a fire in a grassy open place amongst the trees, I fetched meal and bacon and coffee, and coffee-pot and frying-pan, and sugar and tin cups, and the nigger was set back considerable, because he reckoned it was all done with witchcraft. I catched a good big catfish, too, and Jim cleaned him with his knife, and fried him.

So we went over to where the canoe was, and while he built a fire in a grassy opening among the trees, I pulled out some cornmeal, bacon, and coffee. I also grabbed the coffee pot, the frying pan, sugar, and tin cups. Jim was amazed, since he thought I’d gotten all that stuff through magic. I caught a nice big catfish, and Jim cleaned it with his knife before frying it.

When breakfast was ready we lolled on the grass and eat it smoking hot. Jim laid it in with all his might, for he was most about starved. Then when we had got pretty well stuffed, we laid off and lazied. By and by Jim says:

When breakfast was ready, we lounged on the grass and ate it while it was still smoking hot. Since Jim was half-starved, he set to eating with all his might. Once we were stuffed, he lazed about. Eventually, Jim said:

“But looky here, Huck, who wuz it dat ’uz killed in dat shanty ef it warn’t you?”

“But look here, Huck. If you weren’t killed in the shanty, then who was?”

Then I told him the whole thing, and he said it was smart. He said Tom Sawyer couldn’t get up no better plan than what I had. Then I says:

I told him the whole story, and he said it was pretty smart. He said Tom Sawyer couldn’t have come up with a better plan than that. Then I said:

“How do you come to be here, Jim, and how’d you get here?”

“Why are you here, Jim? And how’d you get here?”

He looked pretty uneasy, and didn’t say nothing for a minute. Then he says:

He looked pretty uncomfortable, and didn’t say anything for a minute. Then he said:

“Maybe I better not tell.” “Maybe I shouldn’t tell you.” “Why, Jim?” “Why, Jim?” “Well, dey’s reasons. But you wouldn’ tell on

me ef I uz to tell you, would you, Huck?” “Well, I have my reasons. But you wouldn’t tell

on me if I were to tell you, would you, Huck? “Blamed if I would, Jim.” “I’ll be damned if I would, Jim.” “Well, I b’lieve you, Huck. I—I RUN OFF.” “Well, I believe you, Huck. I… I ran away.” “Jim!” “Jim!” “But mind, you said you wouldn’ tell—you “But remember, you said you wouldn’t tell! You

know you said you wouldn’ tell, Huck.” know you said you wouldn’t tell, Huck.” “Well, I did. I said I wouldn’t, and I’ll stick to

it. Honest INJUN, I will. People would call me a low-down Abolitionist and despise me for keeping mum—but that don’t make no difference. I ain’t a-going to tell, and I ain’t a-going back there, anyways. So, now, le’s know all about it.”

“That’s right, I did say that. I said I wouldn’t, and I’ll keep my word. Honest to God, I will. People would call me a low-down abolitionist and despise me for not telling, but I don’t care. I’m not going to tell. Besides, I’m not going back home either. So, now, tell me all about it.

“Well, you see, it ’uz dis way. Ole missus—dat’s Miss Watson—she pecks on me all de time, en treats me pooty rough, but she awluz said she wouldn’ sell me down to Orleans. But I noticed dey wuz a nigger trader roun’ de place considable lately, en I begin to git oneasy. Well, one night I creeps to de do’ pooty late, en de do’ warn’t quite shet, en I hear old missus tell de widder she gwyne to sell me down to Orleans, but she didn’ want to, but she could git eight hund’d dollars for me, en it ’uz sich a big stack o’ money she couldn’ resis’. De widder she try to git her to say she wouldn’ do it, but I never waited to hear de res’. I lit out mighty quick, I tell you.

Well, it happened like this. Old Missus—I mean, Miss Watson—picks on me all the time and treats me pretty rough, but she always said she wouldn’t sell me down to New Orleans. But then I noticed that there was a n----- trader hanging around the house a lot, and I began to worry. Well, late one night, I crept to the door, which wasn’t quite shut, and I heard old missus tell the widow that she was going to sell me down to New Orleans. She didn’t want to, but she said she could get eight hundred dollars for me, which was too much money that to resist. The widow tried to talk her out of it, but I didn’t wait around to hear the rest. I ran away pretty fast, I tell you.

“I tuck out en shin down de hill, en ’spec to steal a skift ’long de sho’ som’ers ’bove de town, but dey wuz people a-stirring yit, so I hid in de ole tumble-down cooper-shop on de bank to wait for everybody to go ’way. Well, I wuz dah all night. Dey wuz somebody roun’ all de time. ’Long ’bout six in de mawnin’ skifts begin to go by, en ’bout eight er nine every skift dat went ’long wuz talkin’ ’bout how yo’ pap come over to de town en say you’s killed. Dese las’ skifts wuz full o’ ladies en genlmen a-goin’ over for to see de place. Sometimes dey’d pull up at de sho’ en take a res’ b’fo’ dey started acrost, so by de talk I got to know all ’bout de killin’. I ’uz powerful sorry you’s killed, Huck, but I ain’t no mo’ now.

“I booked it down the hill, expecting to steal a skiff along the shore somewhere above town. But there were people around, so I hid inn the old cooper’s shop on the bank and waited for everyone to leave. Well, since there was always someone around, I stayed there all night. Skiffs began to go by starting around about six in the morning, and by about eight or nine, everyone was buzzing about how your pap had come to town saying you’d been killed. These last skiffs were full of ladies and gentlemen headed over to see the murder scene. Sometimes they’d pull ashore to rest before starting across the river. Through their conversation I learned all about the murder. I was really sorry to hear you’d been killed, Huck, but I’m not anymore.

“I laid dah under de shavin’s all day. I ’uz hungry, but I warn’t afeard; bekase I knowed ole missus en de widder wuz goin’ to start to de camp-meet’n’ right arter breakfas’ en be gone all day, en dey knows I goes off wid de cattle ’bout daylight, so dey wouldn’ ’spec to see me roun’ de place, en so dey wouldn’ miss me tell arter dark in de evenin’. De yuther servants wouldn’ miss me, kase dey’d shin out en take holiday soon as de ole folks ’uz out’n de way.

“I lay under the wood shavings all day. I was hungry, but I wasn’t afraid. I knew the old missus and the widow were heading to a camp meeting right after breakfast and would be gone all day. They know that I take the cattle out at around sunrise, so they wouldn’t expect to see me around. They wouldn’t miss me until nightfall. The other servants wouldn’t miss me because they take the day off whenever the widow and missus leave.

“Well, when it come dark I tuck out up de river road, en went ’bout two mile er more to whah dey warn’t no houses. I’d made up my mine ’bout what I’s agwyne to do. You see, ef I kep’ on tryin’ to git away afoot, de dogs ’ud track me; ef I stole a skift to cross over, dey’d miss dat skift, you see, en dey’d know ’bout whah I’d lan’ on de yuther side, en whah to pick up my track. So I says, a raff is what I’s arter; it doan’ MAKE no track.

“Well, when it got dark, I snuck up the river road and went about two miles or more to where there weren’t any houses. I’d made up my mind about what I was going to do. You see, if I kept trying to run away on foot, the dogs would track me down. But if I stole a skiff to cross the river, they’d miss the skiff and would know I’d landed on the other side. Then they would be able to pick up my tracks. So, I said to myself, I need a raft because it won’t leave ANY tracks.

“I see a light a-comin’ roun’ de p’int bymeby, so I wade’ in en shove’ a log ahead o’ me en swum more’n half way acrost de river, en got in ’mongst de drift-wood, en kep’ my head down low, en kinder swum agin de current tell de raff come along. Den I swum to de stern uv it en tuck a-holt. It clouded up en ’uz pooty dark for a little while. So I clumb up en laid down on de planks. De men ’uz all ’way yonder in de middle, whah de lantern wuz. De river wuz a-risin’, en dey wuz a good current; so I reck’n’d ’at by fo’ in de mawnin’ I’d be twenty-five mile down de river, en den I’d slip in jis b’fo’ daylight en swim asho’, en take to de woods on de Illinois side.

“Pretty soon I saw light coming around the point, so I waded out into the river and shoved a log ahead of me to help me swim. I swam more than halfway across the river, so I could mix in with the driftwood. I kept my head down low and swam against the current until a raft came along. I swam to the back of it and grabbed hold. It got really dark and cloudy for awhile, but I climbed on board and laid down on the planks. There were men on board, but they were over by the lantern in the middle of the raft. The river was rising and there was a good current, so I figured I’d be about twenty-five miles down the river by about four in the morning. Then I’d slip back into the water just before daylight and swim ashore to hide in the woods on the Illinois side of the river.”

“But I didn’ have no luck. When we ’uz mos’ down to de head er de islan’ a man begin to come aft wid de lantern, I see it warn’t no use fer to wait, so I slid overboard en struck out fer de islan’. Well, I had a notion I could lan’ mos’ anywhers, but I couldn’t—bank too bluff. I ’uz mos’ to de foot er de islan’ b’fo’ I found’ a good place. I went into de woods en jedged I wouldn’ fool wid raffs no mo’, long as dey move de lantern roun’ so. I had my pipe en a plug er dog-leg, en some matches in my cap, en dey warn’t wet, so I ’uz all right.”

“But I didn’t have any luck. When we were almost at the head of the island, a man with a lantern began to walk toward the back of the raft. I saw that it wasn’t any use to wait, so I slid overboard and started swimming toward the island. I thought I could land anywhere, but it turned out the bank was too steep. I was almost to the foot of the island before I found a good place. I went into the wood and decided not to bother with rafts any more because of the men with lanterns. I had my pipe and some tobacco and matches in my cap. They weren’t wet, so I was okay.”

“And so you ain’t had no meat nor bread to eat all this time? Why didn’t you get mud-turkles?”

“So all this time you haven’t had any meat or bread to eat? Why didn’t you get some mud turtles?”

“How you gwyne to git ’m? You can’t slip up on um en grab um; en how’s a body gwyne to hit um wid a rock? How could a body do it in de night? En I warn’t gwyne to show mysef on de bank in de daytime.”

“How was I supposed to get them? You can’t sneak up on them and grab them. And what was I going to hit them with? A rock? How could anyone do that at night? I wasn’t about to show myself on the bank in the daytime.”

“Well, that’s so. You’ve had to keep in the woods all the time, of course. Did you hear ’em

“Well, that’s true. You’ve had to stay in the woods this whole time, of course. Did you hear them

shooting the cannon?” shooting the cannon?” “Oh, yes. I knowed dey was arter you. I see um

go by heah—watched um thoo de bushes.” “Oh yes. I knew they were looking for you. I saw

them go by here—I watched them through the bushes.”

Some young birds come along, flying a yard or two at a time and lighting. Jim said it was a sign it was going to rain. He said it was a sign when young chickens flew that way, and so he reckoned it was the same way when young birds done it. I was going to catch some of them, but Jim wouldn’t let me. He said it was death. He said his father laid mighty sick once, and some of them catched a bird, and his old granny said his father would die, and he did.

Some young birds came along and flew in stints about a yard or two before landing on branches. Jim said this was a sign that it was going to rain. He said it was a sign when young chickens flew that way, and he figured it was the same was true for young birds. I was going to catch some of them, but Jim wouldn’t let me. He said it would only bring death. He said his father had been really sick once. After some people caught a few birds, Jim’s granny said his father would die and he did.

And Jim said you mustn’t count the things you are going to cook for dinner, because that would bring bad luck. The same if you shook the table-cloth after sundown. And he said if a man owned a beehive and that man died, the bees must be told about it before sun-up next morning, or else the bees would all weaken down and quit work and die. Jim said bees wouldn’t sting idiots; but I didn’t believe that, because I had tried them lots of times myself, and they wouldn’t sting me.

Jim also said if was bad luck to count the things that you are going to cook for dinner. The same thing would happen if you shook out the tablecloth after sundown. And he said that if a man who owned a beehive died, the bees had to be told about it before sun up the next morning. Otherwise the bees would be so weak that they would quit work and die. Jim said bees wouldn’t sting idiots, but I didn’t believe that because I’d played around with bees lots of times and they never stung me.

I had heard about some of these things before, but not all of them. Jim knowed all kinds of signs. He said he knowed most everything. I said it looked to me like all the signs was about bad luck, and so I asked him if there warn’t any good-luck signs. He says:

I’d heard some of these superstitions before, but not all of them. Jim knew about all kinds of signs. He said he knew almost all of them. I said it seemed to me that all the signs were about bad luck, so I asked him if there were any good luck signs. He said:

“Mighty few—an’ DEY ain’t no use to a body. What you want to know when good luck’s a-comin’ for? Want to keep it off?” And he said: “Ef you’s got hairy arms en a hairy breas’, it’s a sign dat you’s agwyne to be rich. Well, dey’s some use in a sign like dat, ’kase it’s so fur ahead. You see, maybe you’s got to be po’ a long time fust, en so you might git discourage’ en kill yo’sef ’f you didn’ know by de sign dat you gwyne to be rich bymeby.”

“Only a few—but they aren’t much use to anyone. Why would you want to know when good luck’s coming? So you can keep it away?” Then he said: “If you’ve got hairy arms and a hairy chest, it’s a sign that you’re going to be rich. Well, there is some use in a sign like that because it gives you a glimpse into the distant future. Then you’d know that you were going to be rich even if you had to be poor for a while at first. It might keep you from getting discouraged and killing yourself.”

“Have you got hairy arms and a hairy breast, Jim?”

“Do you have hairy arms and a hairy chest, Jim?”

“What’s de use to ax dat question? Don’t you see I has?”

“Why ask that question? Can’t you see that I do?”

“Well, are you rich?” “Well, are you rich?” “No, but I ben rich wunst, and gwyne to be rich “No, but I was rich once, and I’m going to be rich

agin. Wunst I had foteen dollars, but I tuck to specalat’n’, en got busted out.”

again. Once I had fourteen dollars. But I lost it all on bad investments.”

“What did you speculate in, Jim?” “What did you invest in, Jim?” “Well, fust I tackled stock.” “Well, first I bought some stock.” “What kind of stock?” “What kind of stock?” “Why, live stock—cattle, you know. I put ten

dollars in a cow. But I ain’ gwyne to resk no mo’ money in stock. De cow up ’n’ died on my han’s.”

“Livestock—cattle. I invested ten dollars in a cow. But I’m not going to risk any more money in stock. The cow up and died before it went to market.”

“So you lost the ten dollars.” “So you lost the ten dollars?” “No, I didn’t lose it all. I on’y los’ ’bout nine of

it. I sole de hide en taller for a dollar en ten cents.” “No, I didn’t lose it all. I only lost about nine of it.

I sold the hide and tail for a dollar and ten cents.” “You had five dollars and ten cents left. Did

you speculate any more?” “So you have five dollars and ten cents left. Did

you invest any more after that?” “Yes. You know that one-laigged nigger dat

b’longs to old Misto Bradish? Well, he sot up a bank, en say anybody dat put in a dollar would git fo’ dollars mo’ at de en’ er de year. Well, all de niggers went in, but dey didn’t have much. I wuz de on’y one dat had much. So I stuck out for mo’ dan fo’ dollars, en I said ’f I didn’ git it I’d start a bank mysef. Well, o’ course dat nigger want’ to keep me out er de business, bekase he says dey warn’t business ’nough for two banks, so he say I could put in my five dollars en he pay me thirty-five at de en’ er de year.

“Yes. You know that one-legged n----- that belongs to old Mister Bradish? Well, he set up his own bank and said anyone that invested a dollar would get back four dollars more at the end of the year. Well, all the n------ put their money in the bank, even though they didn’t have much. I was the only one that had a lot. So I held out for a better interest rate than four dollars and said I’d start my own bank if he didn’t give me more. Of course, that n----- wanted to keep me out of business because he said there wasn’t enough business for two banks. He said if I put in my five he’d pay me thirty-five dollars at the end of the year.

“So I done it. Den I reck’n’d I’d inves’ de thirty-five dollars right off en keep things a-movin’. Dey wuz a nigger name’ Bob, dat had ketched a wood-flat, en his marster didn’ know it; en I bought it off’n him en told him to take de thirty-five dollars when de en’ er de year come; but somebody stole de wood-flat dat night, en nex day de one-laigged nigger say de bank’s busted. So dey didn’ none uv us git no money.”

“So I did. Then I figured I’d invest the thirty-five dollars initially to keep things moving. There was a n----- named Bob that had caught a wooden flat in the river without his master’s knowledge. I bought it off him and told him I’d give him thirty-five dollars at the end of the year. But someone stole the flat that night, and the next day the one-legged n----- said the bank had gone bust. So none of us got our money back.”

“What did you do with the ten cents, Jim?” “So what did you do with the remaining ten cents, Jim?”

“Well, I ’uz gwyne to spen’ it, but I had a dream, en de dream tole me to give it to a nigger name’ Balum—Balum’s Ass dey call him for short; he’s one er dem chuckleheads, you know. But he’s lucky, dey say, en I see I warn’t lucky. De dream say let Balum inves’ de ten cents en he’d make a raise for me. Well, Balum he tuck de money, en when he wuz in church he hear de preacher say dat whoever give to de po’ len’ to de

“Well, I was going to spend it, but I had a dream that told me to give it to a n----- named Balum. His nickname was Balum’s Ass, because he’s a chucklehead, you know. But they say he’s lucky, and I knew I certainly wasn’t lucky. The dream said to let Balum invest the ten cents for me so that I could make a profit. Well, Balum had heard a preacher in church who said that whoever gave money to the poor was lending to the Lord and was bound to get

Lord, en boun’ to git his money back a hund’d times. So Balum he tuck en give de ten cents to de po’, en laid low to see what wuz gwyne to come of it.”

his money back a hundred times over. So he donated the ten cents and then waited to see what would happen.”

“Well, what did come of it, Jim?” “And what happened, Jim?” “Nuffn never come of it. I couldn’ manage to

k’leck dat money no way; en Balum he couldn’. I ain’ gwyne to len’ no mo’ money ’dout I see de security. Boun’ to git yo’ money back a hund’d times, de preacher says! Ef I could git de ten CENTS back, I’d call it squah, en be glad er de chanst.”

“Nothing. I couldn’t manage to collect that money, and neither could Balum. I’m never going to lend money unless I’m sure it’s safe. Bound to get your money back a hundred times, the preacher said! If I could get ten CENTS back, I’d call us even and would be glad of it.”

“Well, it’s all right anyway, Jim, long as you’re going to be rich again some time or other.”

“Well, it’s okay anyway, Jim, as long as you’re going to be rich again at some point.”

“Yes; en I’s rich now, come to look at it. I owns mysef, en I’s wuth eight hund’d dollars. I wisht I had de money, I wouldn’ want no mo’.”

“Yes. And I’m rich now when I think about it. I own myself, and I’m worth eight hundred dollars. I wish I had the money. Then I wouldn’t ever want anything else.”

Chapter 9 page 49

“Jim, this is nice,” I says. “I wouldn’t want to be nowhere else but here. Pass me along another hunk of fish and some hot corn-bread.”

“Jim, this is nice,” I said. “I don’t want to be anywhere else but here. Pass me another hunk of fish and some hot cornbread.”

“Well, you wouldn’t a ben here ’f it hadn’t a ben for Jim. You’d a ben down dah in de woods widout any dinner, en gittn’ mos’ drownded, too; dat you would, honey. Chickens knows when it’s gwyne to rain, en so do de birds, chile.”

“Well, you wouldn’t be here if it hadn’t been for Jim. You’d have been down in the woods without any dinner and getting soaked, too. Yep, you sure would, man. Chickens know when it’s going to rain and so do the birds, kid.”

page 50

“Hello, you!” “Hello there!” But it didn’t budge. So I hollered again, and

then Jim says: But it didn’t budge. So I yelled again, and then

Jim said: “De man ain’t asleep—he’s dead. You hold

still—I’ll go en see.” “That man isn’t asleep—he’s dead. You hold the

canoe still, and I’ll go and see.” He went, and bent down and looked, and says: He went over to the man, bend down and looked,

and said: “It’s a dead man. Yes, indeedy; naked, too.

He’s ben shot in de back. I reck’n he’s ben dead two er three days. Come in, Huck, but doan’ look at his face—it’s too gashly.”

“It’s a dead man. Yes, indeed. He’s naked too. He’s been shot in the back. I reckon he’s been dead two or three days. Come on in, Huck, but don’t look at his face—it’s too ghastly.”

Chapter 10

“Now you think it’s bad luck; but what did you say when I fetched in the snake-skin that I found on the top of the ridge day before yesterday? You said it was the worst bad luck in the world to touch a snake-skin with my hands. Well, here’s your bad luck! We’ve raked in all this truck and eight dollars besides. I wish we could have some bad luck like this every day, Jim.”

“Now you think it’s bad luck. But what did you say when I brought in the snakeskin that I found on the top of the ridge the day before yesterday? You said it was the worst luck in the world to touch a snakeskin with my hands. Well, here’s your bad luck! We’ve raked in all this loot and an extra eight dollars to go with it. I wish we could have had some bad luck like this every day, Jim.”

“Never you mind, honey, never you mind. Don’t you git too peart. It’s a-comin’. Mind I tell you, it’s a-comin’.”

“Nevermind, honey, nevermind. Don’t get all worked up. The bad luck is coming, mind you. It’s coming.”

Chapter 12

“Let’s land on her, Jim.” “Let’s land on it, Jim.” But Jim was dead against it at first. He says: Jim didn’t want to at first. He said, “I doan’ want to go fool’n ’long er no wrack.

We’s doin’ blame’ well, en we better let blame’ well alone, as de good book says. Like as not dey’s a watchman on dat wrack.”

“I don’t want to go fooling around on that wreck. We’re doing fine without it, and we’d better let it alone, like the Bible says. More likely than not there are guards protecting that wreck.”

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

“Guards, my butt,” I said. “There’s nothing for guards to watch for but the cabins and the pilothouse. Do you think anyone would risk his neck to protect a cabin and a pilothouse on a night like this, when the whole boat is about to break up and float down the river any minute?” Jim didn’t have a response, so he said nothing. “Besides,” I said. “We might find something in the captain’s quarters that’s worth borrowing. I bet we find cigars worth five dollars in cash each. All steamboat captains are rich. They get paid sixty dollars a month, and they don’t care what anything costs. They just buy whatever they want. Here, put a candle in your pocket, Jim. I’m not going to be able to sleep until we rummage around. Do you think Tom Sawyer would ever pass up an opportunity like this? Not for anything, he wouldn’t. He’d call it an adventure. He’d board that wreck if he knew it’d be the last thing he did before he died. He’d do it in style, too. Why, you’d swear he was Christopher Columbus discovering the New World. Man, I wish Tom Sawyer WERE here.”

“Oh, please don’t, boys; I swear I won’t ever tell!”

“Oh please don’t, guys. I swear I won’t ever tell!”

Another voice said, pretty loud: Another voice then said pretty loudly: “It’s a lie, Jim Turner. You’ve acted this way

before. You always want more’n your share of the truck, and you’ve always got it, too, because you’ve swore ’t if you didn’t you’d tell. But this time you’ve said it jest one time too many. You’re the meanest, treacherousest hound in this country.”

“You’re lying, Jim Turner. You’ve acted like this before. You always want more than your share of the loot, and you always get it, because you’ve sworn you’d tell if you didn’t get it. Well, you’ve joked around one too many times. You’re the most awful, most treacherous rascal around.”

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

By this time Jim had gone to the raft. My curiousity was killing me, though. I told myself that Tom Sawyer wouldn’t back out now, so I decided that I wouldn’t either. I was going to see what was going on down there. I dropped to my hands and knees inside the little passageway and crept in the dark toward the back of the ship. I got to where there was only one stateroom between me and the cabin hallway. I peeked in and saw a man stretched out on the floor with his hands and feet bound. There were two men standing over him, one of them holding a dim lantern. The other man had a pistol, and he kept pointing it at the head of the man on the floor, saying:

“I’d LIKE to! And I orter, too—a mean skunk!” “I’d LIKE to shoot you! And I ought to, you damned skunk!”

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

The man on the floor would curl up and say things like, “Oh, please don’t, Bill! I’m not ever going to tell!”

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

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

“’Deed you AIN’T! You never said no truer thing ’n that, you bet you.” And once he said: “Hear him beg! and yit if we hadn’t got the best of him and tied him he’d a killed us both. And what FOR? Jist for noth’n. Jist because we stood on our RIGHTS—that’s what for. But I lay you ain’t a-goin’ to threaten nobody any more, Jim Turner. Put UP that pistol, Bill.”

“Indeed you won’t! You’ve never said a truer word than that!” Once he said: “Listen to him beg! But if we hadn’t beaten him and tied him up, he would’ve killed us both. And what FOR? Because he could. Just because we stood up for our RIGHTS, that’s why. But I swear you aren’t going to threaten anybody ever again, Jim Turner. Put that pistol away, Bill.”

Bill says: Bill said: “I don’t want to, Jake Packard. I’m for killin’

him—and didn’t he kill old Hatfield jist the same way—and don’t he deserve it?”

“I don’t want to put it away, Jake Packard. I want to kill him. Didn’t he kill old Hatfield the same way? Doesn’t he deserve to die?”

“But I don’t WANT him killed, and I’ve got my reasons for it.”

“But I’ve got my reasons for not wanting him killed.”

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

“Bless you, Jake Packard! I’ll never forget you as long as I live,” blubbered the man on the floor.

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

Packard didn’t notice him, but hung his lantern on a nail. He started walking toward where I was hiding and motioned for Bill to follow. I crawled as fast as I could for about two yards. It took me longer than it normally would since the boat was slanted to one side. I crawled up the slant and into a stateroom to avoid getting stepped on and caught. The other man came walking up in the dark, and when Packard got to the stateroom, he said:

“Here—come in here.” “Hey—come in here.” And in he come, and Bill after him. But before

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

He and Bill came inside, but I had crawled in the upper birth before they arrived. I was cornered and regretted my decision to stay on the boat. They stood there talking, their hands on the ledge of the berth. I couldn’t see them, but I could tell where they were by the whisky on their breath. I was glad I hadn’t drunk any whiskey myself, but it wouldn’t have made much of a difference since I was holding my breath. I was so scared. But even if I wasn’t scared, I wouldn’t be able to hear them talking if I breathed. They talked in low but earnest voices. Bill wanted to kill Turner. He said:

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

“He said he’ll tell, and he will. Even if we gave both our shares to him now, it wouldn’t make any difference, now that we’ve fought him and tied him up. I’m sure he’ll turn state’s evidence and testify against us. Now you listen. I say we put him out of his misery.”

“So’m I,” says Packard, very quiet. “I agree,” said Packard quietly. “Blame it, I’d sorter begun to think you wasn’t.

Well, then, that’s all right. Le’s go and do it.” “Damn it, I was beginning to think you weren’t.

Well then, that’s that. Let’s go and do it.” “Hold on a minute; I hain’t had my say yit. You

listen to me. Shooting’s good, but there’s quieter ways if the thing’s GOT to be done. But what I say is this: it ain’t good sense to go court’n around after a halter if you can git at what you’re up to in some way that’s jist as good and at the same time don’t bring you into no resks. Ain’t that so?”

“Hold on a minute—I haven’t said everything I want to say yet. Listen to me. Shooting a man is fine, but there are quieter ways to kill him. I don’t think it makes any sense to invite trouble if you can do the same thing with less risk. Am I right?”

“You bet it is. But how you goin’ to manage it this time?”

“You bet. But how are you thinking of killing him?”

“Well, my idea is this: we’ll rustle around and gather up whatever pickins we’ve overlooked in the staterooms, and shove for shore and hide the truck. Then we’ll wait. Now I say it ain’t a-goin’ to be more’n two hours befo’ this wrack breaks up and washes off down the river. See? He’ll be

“Well, we can rummage around the boat and gather up anything else in the staterooms that we overlooked. Then we can head to shore and hide our loot. Then we’ll wait. I don’t think it’s going to be more than two hours before this wreck breaks up and washes down river. See what I mean? He’ll drown,

drownded, and won’t have nobody to blame for it but his own self. I reckon that’s a considerble sight better ’n killin’ of him. I’m unfavorable to killin’ a man as long as you can git aroun’ it; it ain’t good sense, it ain’t good morals. Ain’t I right?”

and everyone will blame him for his own death. I think that’s much better than killing him. I’m against killing anyone if you can get around it. It’s not good sense. It’s not good morals. Am I right?”

“Yes, I reck’n you are. But s’pose she DON’T break up and wash off?”

“Yes, I suppose you are. But what if the boat doesn’t break up and wash away?”

“Well, we can wait the two hours anyway and see, can’t we?”

“Well, we can wait a couple hours and see, can’t we?”

“All right, then; come along.” “All right then, let’s go.” So they started, and I lit out, all in a cold sweat,

and scrambled forward. It was dark as pitch there; but I said, in a kind of a coarse whisper, “Jim!” and he answered up, right at my elbow, with a sort of a moan, and I says:

They started off, and I hurried out. I was in a cold sweat as I scrambled forward in the pitch dark. I whispered, “Jim!” and he answered me with a soart of moan right at my elbow. I said:

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

“Quick, Jim. This isn’t a time for fooling around and moaning. There’s a gang of murderers inside. If we don’t find their boat and set it loose so these guys can’t get away, one of them is going to get murdered. But if we find their boat, then they’ll all be stuck and the sheriff can arrest them. Quick, hurry! I’ll look for their boat on the port side, and you hunt on the starboard side. Get the raft ready, and….”

“Oh, my lordy, lordy! RAF’? Dey ain’ no raf’ no mo’; she done broke loose en gone I—en here we is!”

“Oh lordy, lordy! Raft?! There’s no raft! It’s broken loose and gone. Now we’re stuck on this wreck, too!”

Chapter 13

“Heave that blame lantern out o’ sight, Bill!” “Put that damn lantern out, Bill!” He flung a bag of something into the boat, and

then got in himself and set down. It was Packard. Then Bill HE come out and got in. Packard says, in a low voice:

He flung a bag of something into the boat, and then climbed in and sat down. It was Packard. Then Bill came out and climbed aboard. Packard said in a low voice:

“All ready—shove off!” “All right—off we go!” I couldn’t hardly hang on to the shutters, I was

so weak. But Bill says: I was so weak that I could barely hang onto the

shutters. But I heard Bill say: “Hold on—’d you go through him?” “Hold on—did you do it?” “No. Didn’t you?” “No. Didn’t you?” “No. So he’s got his share o’ the cash yet.” “No. So he’s still got his share of the cash?” “Well, then, come along; no use to take truck

and leave money.” “Well, come on then. No use in taking loot and

leaving money behind.” “Say, won’t he suspicion what we’re up to?” “Hey, won’t he suspect that we’re up to

something?” “Maybe he won’t. But we got to have it

anyway. Come along.” “Maybe, maybe not. But we’ve got to get it—can’t

just leave it here. Come on.” Chapter 14

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

“I didn’t know there were so many of them. I’ve hardly heard of any royalty, except old King Solomon. That is, unless you count the kings that are in a pack of cards. How much money does a king make?”

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

“Make?” I said. “Why, they can make a thousand dollars a month if they want. They can have all the money they want since everything belongs to them.”

“AIN’ dat gay? En what dey got to do, Huck?” “Isn’t that something? And what do they have to do to get that money, Huck?”

“THEY don’t do nothing! Why, how you talk! They just set around.”

“What are you talking about?! THEY don’t do anything! They just sit around.”

“No; is dat so?” “No way! Really?” “Of course it is. They just set around—except,

maybe, when there’s a war; then they go to the war. But other times they just lazy around; or go hawking—just hawking and sp—Sh!—d’ you hear a noise?”

“Of course. They just sit around, except maybe when there’s a war. Then they go to war. But usually they just sit around being lazy. Or they go hawking and sp…. Sh! Did you hear a noise?”

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

We left our hiding spot and looked around, but the noise turned out to be the flutter of the paddles on a distant steamboat that just coming around the point. So we went back.

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

“Yes,” I said. “And other times, when things get slow and boring, they mess around with parliament. And if the people don’t do exactly what he says, he just whacks off their heads. But usually they just hang out in the harem.”

“Roun’ de which?” “Hang out where?” “Harem.” “The harem.” “What’s de harem?” “What’s the harem?” “The place where he keeps his wives. Don’t

you know about the harem? Solomon had one; he had about a million wives.”

“That’s the place where the king keeps his wives. Don’t you know about harems? Solomon had one with about a million wives.”

“Why, yes, dat’s so; I—I’d done forgot it. A harem’s a bo’d’n-house, I reck’n. Mos’ likely dey has rackety times in de nussery. En I reck’n de wives quarrels considable; en dat ’crease de racket. Yit dey say Sollermun de wises’ man dat ever

“Yeah, that’s true. I’d completely forgotten about that. A harem is a boarding house, I guess. The nursery is probably pretty noisy. And I bet the wives fight all the time, making it even noisier. And still they say Solomon was the wisest man that ever lived.

live’. I doan’ take no stock in dat. Bekase why would a wise man want to live in de mids’ er sich a blim-blammin’ all de time? No—’deed he wouldn’t. A wise man ’ud take en buil’ a biler-factry; en den he could shet DOWN de biler-factry when he want to res’.”

I don’t believe it. Why would a wise man want to live in the midst of all that craziness? No, he probably wouldn’t. A wise man would build himself a boiler factory where he could go when he wanted to rest.”

“Well, but he WAS the wisest man, anyway; because the widow she told me so, her own self.”

“Well, whatever. He WAS the wisest man, since that’s what the widow told me so herself.”

“I doan k’yer what de widder say, he WARN’T no wise man nuther. He had some er de dad-fetchedes’ ways I ever see. Does you know ’bout dat chile dat he ’uz gwyne to chop in two?”

“He wasn’t a wise man. I don’t care what the widow says. He had the strangest ways of doing things that I’ve ever heard of. You know about that child that he was going to chop in two?”

“Yes, the widow told me all about it.” “Yes, the widow told me about that.” “WELL, den! Warn’ dat de beatenes’ notion in

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

“Well there you go! Wasn’t that the craziest thing in the whole world? Just think about it a minute. Let’s say that stump over there was one of the women, and that other one was you. I’m Solomon, and this dollar bill is the child. Both you and the other woman say it’s yours. What do I do? Do I ask all the neighbors to find out which one of you the bill belongs to and then give it safe and sound to the right one? That’s what any person with common sense would do. But, no. Instead, I’d whack the bill in two and give one half to you and one half to the other woman. That’s what Solomon was going to do with the child. Now I ask you: What’s the use of half a dollar bill? You can’t buy anything with it. And what’s the use of half a child? I wouldn’t care for a million of them.”

“But hang it, Jim, you’ve clean missed the point—blame it, you’ve missed it a thousand mile.”

“But, man, Jim. You missed the whole point—missed it by a thousand miles.”

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

“Who? Me? Get outta here. Don’t talk to me about your points. I imagine I know common sense when I see it, and there isn’t any sense in that. The women’s dispute wasn’t about half a child, it was about a whole child. And any man who thinks he can settle a dispute about a whole child by giving a woman half a child wouldn’t be smart enough to know to come inside when it rains. Don’t talk to man any more about Solomon, Huck. I know enough already.”

“But I tell you you don’t get the point.” “But I’m telling you you’re not getting the point.” “Blame de point! I reck’n I knows what I

knows. En mine you, de REAL pint is down furder—it’s down deeper. It lays in de way Sollermun was raised. You take a man dat’s got

“Damn the point! I know what I know. Besides, the real point is even deeper than that. It all goes back to the way Solomon was raised. For example, take a man who’s got only one or two children. Is that man

on’y one or two chillen; is dat man gwyne to be waseful o’ chillen? No, he ain’t; he can’t ’ford it. HE know how to value ’em. But you take a man dat’s got ’bout five million chillen runnin’ roun’ de house, en it’s diffunt. HE as soon chop a chile in two as a cat. Dey’s plenty mo’. A chile er two, mo’ er less, warn’t no consekens to Sollermun, dad fatch him!”

going to be wasteful with kids? No, he isn’t—he can’t afford to be. He knows the value of a child. But it’s different with a man who’s got about five million children running around the house. HE would just as soon chop a child in two as he would a cat, since he has plenty of other kids. A child or two aren’t that important to Solomon, darn it.”

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

I never saw such a n-----. Once he got an idea in his head, there was no use trying to get it out. He disliked Solomon more than any other n----- I ever knew. So I dropped the topic of Solomon and started talking about other kings. I told him about Louis XVI, who got his head chopped off in France a long time ago. And I talked about his son, the dolphin, who would have been king if he hadn’t been shut up in jail. Some say he died there.

“Po’ little chap.” “Poor little kid.” “But some says he got out and got away, and

come to America.” “But others say he escaped and came to America.”

“Dat’s good! But he’ll be pooty lonesome—dey ain’ no kings here, is dey, Huck?”

“Well that’s good! But he’ll be pretty lonesome here. There aren’t any kings here, are there, Huck?”

“No.” “No.” “Den he cain’t git no situation. What he gwyne

to do?” “Then he can’t go back to the way of life he’s

used to. What’s he going to do?” “Well, I don’t know. Some of them gets on the

police, and some of them learns people how to talk French.”

“Well, I don’t know. Some of them become policemen and others teach people how to speak French.”

“Why, Huck, doan’ de French people talk de same way we does?”

“What do you mean, Huck? Don’t the French people talk the same way we do?”

“NO, Jim; you couldn’t understand a word they said—not a single word.”

“NO, Jim. You can’t understand a word the French say. Not a single word.”

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

“Well I’ll be damned! How did that come to be?”

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

“I don’t know, but it’s true. I learned some of their nonsense out of a book. Suppose a man came up to you and said, Polly voo franzy. What would you think about that?”

“I wouldn’ think nuff’n; I’d take en bust him over de head—dat is, if he warn’t white. I wouldn’t ’low no nigger to call me dat.”

“I wouldn’t think at all. I’d hit him over the head—if he’s not a white man, that is. I wouldn’t allow a n----- to call me a name like that.”

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

“Shucks, Jim. He wouldn’t be calling you a name. He’d only be saying, ‘Do you speak French?’”

“Well, den, why couldn’t he SAY it?” “Well then why wouldn’t he just SAY that?” “Why, he IS a-saying it. That’s a Frenchman’s “But he IS saying that. That’s the way a

WAY of saying it.” Frenchman says it.” “Well, it’s a blame ridicklous way, en I doan’

want to hear no mo’ ’bout it. Dey ain’ no sense in it.”

“Well, he’s got a pretty ridiculous way of talking then. And I don’t want to hear any more about it. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Looky here, Jim; does a cat talk like we do?” “Look, Jim. Does a cat talk like we do?” “No, a cat don’t.” “No, a cat doesn’t.” “Well, does a cow?” “Well, does a cow talk like we do?” “No, a cow don’t, nuther.” “No, a cow doesn’t either.” “Does a cat talk like a cow, or a cow talk like a

cat?” “Does a cat talk like a cow? Does a cow talk like a

cat?” “No, dey don’t.” “No, they don’t.” “It’s natural and right for ’em to talk different

from each other, ain’t it?” “Isn’t it natural and proper that they talk

differently than each other?” “Course.” “Of course.” “And ain’t it natural and right for a cat and a

cow to talk different from US?” “And isn’t it natural and proper that a cat and cow

talk differently from humans?” “Why, mos’ sholy it is.” “Why, of course it is.” “Well, then, why ain’t it natural and right for a

FRENCHMAN to talk different from us? You answer me that.”

“Well then, why isn’t it natural and proper for a Frenchman to talk differently than us? Answer me that.”

“Is a cat a man, Huck?” “Is a cat a man, Huck?” “No.” “No.” “Well, den, dey ain’t no sense in a cat talkin’

like a man. Is a cow a man?—er is a cow a cat?” “Well then, it wouldn’t make any sense for a cat to

talk like a man. Is a cow a man? I mean, is a cow a cat?”

“No, she ain’t either of them.” “No, a cow is neither a man nor a cat.” “Well, den, she ain’t got no business to talk like

either one er the yuther of ’em. Is a Frenchman a man?”

“Well then, a cow’s got no business talking like either one of them. Is a Frenchman a man?”

“Yes.” “Yes.” “WELL, den! Dad blame it, why doan’ he

TALK like a man? You answer me DAT!” “Well, there you go! Darn it, then why doesn’t a

Frenchman TALK like a man? Answer me THAT!” I see it warn’t no use wasting words—you can’t

learn a nigger to argue. So I quit. I saw it was no use wasting words—you can’t

teach a n----- how to argue. So I quit. Chapter 15

“Hello, Jim, have I been asleep? Why didn’t you stir me up?”

“Hello, Jim. Have I been asleep? Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“Goodness gracious, is dat you, Huck? En you ain’ dead—you ain’ drownded—you’s back agin? It’s too good for true, honey, it’s too good for true. Lemme look at you chile, lemme feel o’ you. No, you ain’ dead! you’s back agin, ’live en soun’, jis

“Goodness gracious! Is that you, Huck? And you aren’t dead—you didn’t drown. You’re back? It’s too good to be true, pal, too good to be true. Let me look at you, child. Let me feel you. No, you aren’t dead! You’re back, alive and well. You’re just the same old

de same ole Huck—de same ole Huck, thanks to goodness!”

Huck—the same old Huck! Thank God!”

“What’s the matter with you, Jim? You been a-drinking?”

“What’s the matter with you, Jim? Have you been drinking?”

“Drinkin’? Has I ben a-drinkin’? Has I had a chance to be a-drinkin’?”

“Drinking? Have I been drinking? Have I had the chance to drink?”

“Well, then, what makes you talk so wild?” “Well then, why are you talking so crazy?” “How does I talk wild?” “What do you mean crazy? Do I sound like I’m

crazy?” “HOW? Why, hain’t you been talking about my

coming back, and all that stuff, as if I’d been gone away?”

“DO YOU? Haven’t you been talking about me coming back and all? As if I’d been gone?”

“Huck—Huck Finn, you look me in de eye; look me in de eye. HAIN’T you ben gone away?”

“Huck. Huck Finn. You look me in the eye. Look me in the eye. HAVEN’T you been gone?”

“Gone away? Why, what in the nation do you mean? I hain’t been gone anywheres. Where would I go to?”

“Gone? Why, what do you mean? I haven’t been gone at all. Where would I go?”

“Well, looky here, boss, dey’s sumf’n wrong, dey is. Is I ME, or who IS I? Is I heah, or whah IS I? Now dat’s what I wants to know.”

“Well, look here, boss. There’s something funny going on, there sure is. Am I ME? Who AM me? Am I here or not? Now that’s what I want to know.”

“Well, I think you’re here, plain enough, but I think you’re a tangle-headed old fool, Jim.”

“Well, it’s pretty obvious you’re here, but I think you’re a mixed up old fool, Jim.”

“I is, is I? Well, you answer me dis: Didn’t you tote out de line in de canoe fer to make fas’ to de tow-head?”

“I am, am I? Well, answer me this: Didn’t you get out the rope in the canoe so that we could tie ourselves up to the towhead?”

“No, I didn’t. What tow-head? I hain’t see no tow-head.”

“No, I didn’t. What towhead? I haven’t seen any towheads.”

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

“You haven’t seen any towheads? Look here. Didn’t the rope pull loose and the raft go sliding down the river and leave you and the canoe behind in the fog?”

“What fog?” “What fog?” “Why, de fog!—de fog dat’s been aroun’ all

night. En didn’t you whoop, en didn’t I whoop, tell we got mix’ up in de islands en one un us got los’ en t’other one was jis’ as good as los’, ’kase he didn’ know whah he wuz? En didn’t I bust up agin a lot er dem islands en have a terrible time en mos’ git drownded? Now ain’ dat so, boss—ain’t it so? You answer me dat.”

“Why, the fog! The fog that’s been around all night. Didn’t you whoop, and didn’t I whoop until we got mixed up in the islands? And then one of us got lost and the other one was as good as lost since he didn’t know where he was? And didn’t I almost drown getting the raft through those islands? Now isn’t that what happened, boss? Isn’t it? Answer me.”

“Well, this is too many for me, Jim. I hain’t seen no fog, nor no islands, nor no troubles, nor nothing. I been setting here talking with you all night till you went to sleep about ten minutes ago, and I reckon I done the same. You couldn’t a got

“This is too much for me, Jim. I haven’t seen any fog, or any islands, or trouble, or anything. I was sitting here talking with you all night until you went to sleep about ten minutes ago. Then I suppose I did the same. You couldn’t have gotten drunk in that

drunk in that time, so of course you’ve been dreaming.”

time, so you must have been dreaming.”

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

“Come on, how could I dream all that in ten minutes?”

“Well, hang it all, you did dream it, because there didn’t any of it happen.”

“Well, darn it, you did dream it because none of it happened.”

“But, Huck, it’s all jis’ as plain to me as—” “But Huck, it all seemed so real to me, just as plain as….”

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

“It doesn’t matter how plain it seemed. Your story isn’t. I know because I’ve been here the whole time.”

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

Jim didn’t say anything for about five minutes. He just sat there thinking it over. Then he said:

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

“Well, then, I guess I did dream it, Huck. But I’ll be damned if that wasn’t the most intense dream I’ve ever had. And I’ve never had a dream before that’s made me as tired as this one did.”

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

“Oh, well that’s alright because dreams can really wear you out sometimes. This one seems to have been a doozy, though. Tell me all about it, Jim.”

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

So Jim started to tell me the whole story from beginning to end. He told it just the way it had happened, though he exaggerated quite a bit. Then he said he needed to interpret the dream, because it was meant to be some kind of warning. He said that the first towhead represented a man that would try to help us, but the current was another man that would take us away from the first man. The whoops were warnings that would come to us every now and then. If we didn’t try hard to figure out what they meant, we would end up having bad luck instead of good luck. The area with a lot of towheads represented trouble we were going to get into with some bad people. But if we minded our own business and didn’t talk back or do anything to aggravate them, then we would pull through the fog. We would make it into the open river, which represented the free states.

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

It had gotten pretty cloudy shortly after I’d gotten on the raft, but it was starting to clear up again.

“Oh, well, that’s all interpreted well enough as far as it goes, Jim,” I says; “but what does THESE things stand for?”

“Well, your interpretation is pretty good, Jim,” I said. “But what do THESE things stand for?”

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

I was referring to the smashed oar and the leaves and debris on the raft. You could see them pretty clearly now.

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

Jim looked at the debris, then at me, then back at the debris again. He’d gotten the dream fixed so firmly in his mind that he couldn’t let go of it and confront the facts. But when he did piece it together and he realized what had really happened, he looked at me with a serious expression and said:

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

“What do they stand for? I’ll tell you. When I’d worn myself out working so hard to call for you that I fell asleep, my heart was completely broken because you were lost. I didn’t care anymore about myself or the raft. Then I woke up and found you back again all safe and sound, and I cried. I was so thankful that I could have gotten down on my knees and kissed your feet. And all you were thinking about was how you could make a fool out of old Jim by lying to him. This stuff here is TRASH. And trash is what people are who play dirty tricks on their friends and make them feel ashamed.”

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

Then he got up slowly and walked to the wigwam. He went in without saying another word, but what he’d said had been enough. I felt so awful that I almost kissed HIS feet to get him to take back what he’d said.

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

It took me fifteen minutes to work myself up to apologize to a n-----. But I did it, and I wasn’t ashamed of it afterwards. I never played any more mean tricks on him after that, and I would have never played that one if I had known it would make him feel that way.

Chapter 16

“We’s safe, Huck, we’s safe! Jump up and crack yo’ heels! Dat’s de good ole Cairo at las’, I jis knows it!”

“We’re safe, Huck, we’re safe! Jump up and dance! There’s the good old city of Cairo at last, I just know it!”

I says: I said: “I’ll take the canoe and go and see, Jim. It

mightn’t be, you know.” “I’ll take the canoe and go and see, Jim. It might

not be Cairo, you know.” He jumped and got the canoe ready, and put his

old coat in the bottom for me to set on, and give me the paddle; and as I shoved off, he says:

He jumped up and got the canoe ready. He put his old coat in the bottom of it for me to sit on. He gave me the paddle, and as I shoved off, he said:

“Pooty soon I’ll be a-shout’n’ for joy, en I’ll say, it’s all on accounts o’ Huck; I’s a free man, en I couldn’t ever ben free ef it hadn’ ben for Huck;

“Pretty soon, I’ll be shouting for joy, and I’ll say it’s all because of Huck. I’m a free man, and I couldn’t have been free if it hadn’t been for Huck—it

Huck done it. Jim won’t ever forgit you, Huck; you’s de bes’ fren’ Jim’s ever had; en you’s de ONLY fren’ ole Jim’s got now.”

was all Huck. Jim won’t ever forget you, Huck. You’re the best friend Jim’s ever had, and you’re the ONLY friend old Jim’s got now.”

I was paddling off, all in a sweat to tell on him; but when he says this, it seemed to kind of take the tuck all out of me. I went along slow then, and I warn’t right down certain whether I was glad I started or whether I warn’t. When I was fifty yards off, Jim says:

I was paddling off, anxious to tell on him, but when he said this, it seemed to take the zip out of me. I went along slowly after that. I was no longer sure whether or not I was glad that I’d decided go ashore. When I was fifty yards away from the raft, Jim said:

“Dah you goes, de ole true Huck; de on’y white genlman dat ever kep’ his promise to ole Jim.”

“There you go, that honest old Huck—the only white gentleman that ever kept his promise to old Jim.”

Well, I just felt sick. But I says, I GOT to do it—I can’t get OUT of it. Right then along comes a skiff with two men in it with guns, and they stopped and I stopped. One of them says:

Well, I just felt sick. But I told myself that I HAD to do turn him in—there was no getting out of it. Right then a skiff came along with two men in it with guns. They stopped, and I stopped. One of them said:

“What’s that yonder?” “What’s that over there?” “A piece of a raft,” I says. “A piece of a raft,” I said. “Do you belong on it?” “Does it belong to you?” “Yes, sir.” “Yes, sir.” “Any men on it?” “Any men on it?” “Only one, sir.” “Only one, sir.” “Well, there’s five niggers run off to-night up

yonder, above the head of the bend. Is your man white or black?”

“Well, five n------ ran off tonight just up the river, above the head of the bend. Is your man white or black?”

I didn’t answer up prompt. I tried to, but the words wouldn’t come. I tried for a second or two to brace up and out with it, but I warn’t man enough—hadn’t the spunk of a rabbit. I see I was weakening; so I just give up trying, and up and says:

I didn’t answer promptly. I tried, but the words wouldn’t come. I tried for a second or two to brace myself and just say it. But I wasn’t man enough—I didn’t have the courage of a rabbit. I saw I was losing my strength, so I just gave up trying, and said:

“He’s white.” “He’s white.” “I reckon we’ll go and see for ourselves.” “I reckon we’ll go and see for ourselves.” “I wish you would,” says I, “because it’s pap

that’s there, and maybe you’d help me tow the raft ashore where the light is. He’s sick—and so is mam and Mary Ann.”

“I wish you would,” I said, “because it’s my pap. Maybe you could help me tow the raft ashore to that light over there. He’s sick—and so is my mom and Mary Ann.”

“Oh, the devil! we’re in a hurry, boy. But I s’pose we’ve got to. Come, buckle to your paddle, and let’s get along.”

“The devil with you! We’re in a hurry, boy. But I suppose we’ve got to. Come, start paddling, and let’s get moving.”

I buckled to my paddle and they laid to their oars. When we had made a stroke or two, I says:

“I started paddling, and they began rowing with their oars. When we had made a couple of strokes, I said:

“Pap’ll be mighty much obleeged to you, I can tell you. Everybody goes away when I want them

“Pap will be grateful to you, I promise. Everybody goes away when I ask them to help me get the raft

to help me tow the raft ashore, and I can’t do it by myself.”

ashore. I can’t do it by myself.”

“Well, that’s infernal mean. Odd, too. Say, boy, what’s the matter with your father?”

“Well, that’s awfully mean. Strange, too. Say, boy, what’s the matter with your father?”

“It’s the—a—the—well, it ain’t anything much.”

“It’s the… ah… the uh… well… it’s not much.”

They stopped pulling. It warn’t but a mighty little ways to the raft now. One says:

They stopped rowing. They were just a short way from the raft by now. One said:

“Boy, that’s a lie. What IS the matter with your pap? Answer up square now, and it’ll be the better for you.”

“Boy, that’s a lie. What IS the matter with your pap? Do the right thing and answer me honestly now.”

“I will, sir, I will, honest—but don’t leave us, please. It’s the—the—Gentlemen, if you’ll only pull ahead, and let me heave you the headline, you won’t have to come a-near the raft—please do.”

“I will, sir, honest I will—but don’t leave us, please. It’s the… the… Gentlemen, if you’ll just pull ahead a bit to the raft and let me toss you a rope, you won’t have to come near the raft. Please just do it.”

“Set her back, John, set her back!” says one. They backed water. “Keep away, boy—keep to looard. Confound it, I just expect the wind has blowed it to us. Your pap’s got the small-pox, and you know it precious well. Why didn’t you come out and say so? Do you want to spread it all over?”

“Back, John, row back!” one of them said. They started rowing backward. “Keep away, boy, keep to port. Darn it, the wind is blowing that raft right toward us. Your pap’s got smallpox, and you know it! Why didn’t you just say so? Do you want to spread it to everyone?

“Well,” says I, a-blubbering, “I’ve told everybody before, and they just went away and left us.”

“Well,” I said, pretending to cry, “Everyone else I’ve told just went away and left us.”

“Poor devil, there’s something in that. We are right down sorry for you, but we—well, hang it, we don’t want the small-pox, you see. Look here, I’ll tell you what to do. Don’t you try to land by yourself, or you’ll smash everything to pieces. You float along down about twenty miles, and you’ll come to a town on the left-hand side of the river. It will be long after sun-up then, and when you ask for help you tell them your folks are all down with chills and fever. Don’t be a fool again, and let people guess what is the matter. Now we’re trying to do you a kindness; so you just put twenty miles between us, that’s a good boy. It wouldn’t do any good to land yonder where the light is—it’s only a wood-yard. Say, I reckon your father’s poor, and I’m bound to say he’s in pretty hard luck. Here, I’ll put a twenty-dollar gold piece on this board, and you get it when it floats by. I feel mighty mean to leave you; but my kingdom! it won’t do to fool with small-pox, don’t you see?”

“Well, you’ve got a point. Poor soul. We feel pretty sorry for you, but we… well, darn it, we don’t want to get smallpox, you see. Look here, I tell you what we’ll do. Don’t try to land the raft on the shore by yourself; you’ll just smash it to pieces. Just float along down the river about twenty miles, and you’ll come to a town. Ask for help, and tell them your folks have got the chills and a fever. Don’t be foolish again and let people guess what’s wrong with your family. Now, we’re trying to help you, so just be a good boy and take our advice. Put twenty miles between yourselves and us. It wouldn’t do any good to land the raft over where that light is. It’s only a lumber yard. I’ll bet your father’s poor, and I’m sure your family is having a tough time. Here, I’m putting a twenty dollar gold piece on this board. Grab it when it floats by. I feel pretty bad leaving you, but my God, we just can’t mess around with smallpox, you see?

“Hold on, Parker,” says the other man, “here’s a twenty to put on the board for me. Good-bye, boy;

“Hang on, Parker,” said the other man. “Here’s a twenty dollar gold piece to add to yours on the board.

you do as Mr. Parker told you, and you’ll be all right.”

Goodbye, kid. You do as Mr. Parker instructed, and you’ll be alright.”

“That’s so, my boy—good-bye, good-bye. If you see any runaway niggers you get help and nab them, and you can make some money by it.”

“That’s true, my boy. So long, goodbye. If you see any runaway n------, you can make some money by getting help and catching them.”

“Good-bye, sir,” says I; “I won’t let no runaway niggers get by me if I can help it.”

“Goodbye, sir,” I said. “I won’t let any runaway n------ get by me if I can help it!”

“Jim!” “Jim!” “Here I is, Huck. Is dey out o’ sight yit? Don’t

talk loud.” “Here I am, Huck. Are they out of sight yet? Don’t

talk too loudly.” He was in the river under the stern oar, with just

his nose out. I told him they were out of sight, so he come aboard. He says:

He was in the river under the oar at the stern, with just his nose sticking out. I told him they were out of sight, so he came on board. He said:

“I was a-listenin’ to all de talk, en I slips into de river en was gwyne to shove for sho’ if dey come aboard. Den I was gwyne to swim to de raf’ agin when dey was gone. But lawsy, how you did fool ’em, Huck! Dat WUZ de smartes’ dodge! I tell you, chile, I’spec it save’ ole Jim—ole Jim ain’t going to forgit you for dat, honey.”

“I was listening to you three talking, so I slipped into the river. I was going to start swimming toward the shore if they came on board. Then I was going to swim to the raft again when they had gone. But, man, you sure fooled them, Huck! That WAS the smartest decision! I tell you, child, I expect your rouse saved old Jim. Old Ji

“Maybe we went by Cairo in the fog that night.”

“Maybe we went past Cairo in the fog that night.”

He says: He said: “Doan’ le’s talk about it, Huck. Po’ niggers

can’t have no luck. I awluz ’spected dat rattlesnake-skin warn’t done wid its work.”

“Let’s not talk about it, Huck. Poor n------ can catch a break. I always suspected that rattlesnake skin hadn’t finished giving me my bad luck.”

“I wish I’d never seen that snake-skin, Jim—I do wish I’d never laid eyes on it.”

“I wish I’d never seen that snakeskin, Jim. I realy wish I’d never lain my eyes on it.”

“It ain’t yo’ fault, Huck; you didn’ know. Don’t you blame yo’self ’bout it.”

“It isn’t your faul, Huck. You didn’t know. Don’t blame yourself.”