Part 6 (1/2)

By and by when it was stillest, that n.i.g.g.e.r's head was poked in at the door again, and he said his Ma.r.s.e Brace was getting powerful uneasy about Ma.r.s.e Jubiter, which hadn't come home yet, and would Ma.r.s.e Silas please--He was looking at Uncle Silas, and he stopped there, like the rest of his words was froze; for Uncle Silas he rose up shaky and steadied himself leaning his fingers on the table, and he was panting, and his eyes was set on the n.i.g.g.e.r, and he kept swallowing, and put his other hand up to his throat a couple of times, and at last he got his words started, and says:

”Does he--does he--think--WHAT does he think! Tell him--tell him--” Then he sunk down in his chair limp and weak, and says, so as you could hardly hear him: ”Go away--go away!”

The n.i.g.g.e.r looked scared and cleared out, and we all felt--well, I don't know how we felt, but it was awful, with the old man panting there, and his eyes set and looking like a person that was dying. None of us could budge; but Benny she slid around soft, with her tears running down, and stood by his side, and nestled his old gray head up against her and begun to stroke it and pet it with her hands, and nodded to us to go away, and we done it, going out very quiet, like the dead was there.

Me and Tom struck out for the woods mighty solemn, and saying how different it was now to what it was last summer when we was here and everything was so peaceful and happy and everybody thought so much of Uncle Silas, and he was so cheerful and simple-hearted and pudd'n-headed and good--and now look at him. If he hadn't lost his mind he wasn't much short of it. That was what we allowed.

It was a most lovely day now, and bright and suns.h.i.+ny; and the further and further we went over the hills towards the prairie the lovelier and lovelier the trees and flowers got to be and the more it seemed strange and somehow wrong that there had to be trouble in such a world as this.

And then all of a sudden I catched my breath and grabbed Tom's arm, and all my livers and lungs and things fell down into my legs.

”There it is!” I says. We jumped back behind a bush s.h.i.+vering, and Tom says:

”'s.h.!.+--don't make a noise.”

It was setting on a log right in the edge of a little prairie, thinking.

I tried to get Tom to come away, but he wouldn't, and I dasn't budge by myself. He said we mightn't ever get another chance to see one, and he was going to look his fill at this one if he died for it. So I looked too, though it give me the fan-tods to do it. Tom he HAD to talk, but he talked low. He says:

”Poor Jakey, it's got all its things on, just as he said he would. NOW you see what we wasn't certain about--its hair. It's not long now the way it was: it's got it cropped close to its head, the way he said he would.

Huck, I never see anything look any more naturaler than what It does.”

”Nor I neither,” I says; ”I'd recognize it anywheres.”

”So would I. It looks perfectly solid and genuwyne, just the way it done before it died.”

So we kept a-gazing. Pretty soon Tom says:

”Huck, there's something mighty curious about this one, don't you know?

IT oughtn't to be going around in the daytime.”

”That's so, Tom--I never heard the like of it before.”

”No, sir, they don't ever come out only at night--and then not till after twelve. There's something wrong about this one, now you mark my words. I don't believe it's got any right to be around in the daytime. But don't it look natural! Jake was going to play deef and dumb here, so the neighbors wouldn't know his voice. Do you reckon it would do that if we was to holler at it?”

”Lordy, Tom, don't talk so! If you was to holler at it I'd die in my tracks.”

”Don't you worry, I ain't going to holler at it. Look, Huck, it's a-scratching its head--don't you see?”

”Well, what of it?”

”Why, this. What's the sense of it scratching its head? There ain't anything there to itch; its head is made out of fog or something like that, and can't itch. A fog can't itch; any fool knows that.”

”Well, then, if it don't itch and can't itch, what in the nation is it scratching it for? Ain't it just habit, don't you reckon?”

”No, sir, I don't. I ain't a bit satisfied about the way this one acts. I've a blame good notion it's a bogus one--I have, as sure as I'm a-sitting here. Because, if it--Huck!”

”Well, what's the matter now?”

”YOU CAN'T SEE THE BUSHES THROUGH IT!”