## ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER, By Twain, Volume 1.

    The Project Gutenberg EBook Adventures of Tom Sawyer, by Twain, V1
    #105 in our series by Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens)

    Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the
    copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing
    this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook.

    This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project
    Gutenberg file.  Please do not remove it.  Do not change or edit the
    header without written permission.

    Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the
    eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file.  Included is
    important information about your specific rights and restrictions in
    how the file may be used.  You can also find out about how to make a
    donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved.

    **Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**

    **EBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**

    *****These EBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers*****

    Title: The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Volume 1.

    Author: Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens)

    Release Date: December 2004  [EBook #7193]
    [This file was first posted on March 26, 2003]

    Edition: 10

    Language: English

    Character set encoding: ASCII

    *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TOM SAWYER, TWAIN, V1 ***

    This file was produced by David Widger, [widger@cecomet.net]

# THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER

## BY MARK TWAIN

### (Samuel Langhorne Clemens)

## CONTENTS

> > CHAPTER I. Y-o-u-u Tom-Aunt Polly Decides Upon her Duty--Tom Practices Music--The Challenge--A Private Entrance

> > CHAPTER II. Strong Temptations--Strategic Movements--The Innocents Beguiled

> > CHAPTER III. Tom as a General--Triumph and Reward--Dismal Felicity--Commission and Omission

## ILLUSTRATIONS

Tom Sawyer
Tom at Home
Aunt Polly Beguiled
A Good Opportunity
Who's Afraid
Late Home
Jim
'Tendin' to Business
Ain't that Work?
Amusement
Becky Thatcher
Paying Off
After the Battle
"Showing Off"
Not Amiss
Mary
Tom Contemplating
Dampened Ardor
Youth

## PREFACE

Most of the adventures recorded in this book really occurred; one or two were experiences of my own, the rest those of boys who were schoolmates of mine. Huck Finn is drawn from life; Tom Sawyer also, but not from an individual—he is a combination of the characteristics of three boys whom I knew, and therefore belongs to the composite order of architecture.

The odd superstitions touched upon were all prevalent among children and slaves in the West at the period of this story—that is to say, thirty or forty years ago.

Although my book is intended mainly for the entertainment of boys and girls, I hope it will not be shunned by men and women on that account, for part of my plan has been to try to pleasantly remind adults of what they once were themselves, and of how they felt and thought and talked, and what queer enterprises they sometimes engaged in.

THE AUTHOR.

HARTFORD, 1876.

## CHAPTER I

"TOM!"

No answer.

"TOM!"

No answer.

"What's gone with that boy, I wonder? You TOM!"

No answer.

The old lady pulled her spectacles down and looked over them about the room; then she put them up and looked out under them. She seldom or never looked THROUGH them for so small a thing as a boy; they were her state pair, the pride of her heart, and were built for "style," not service—she could have seen through a pair of stove-lids just as well. She looked perplexed for a moment, and then said, not fiercely, but still loud enough for the furniture to hear:

"Well, I lay if I get hold of you I'll—"

She did not finish, for by this time she was bending down and punching under the bed with the broom, and so she needed breath to punctuate the punches with. She resurrected nothing but the cat.

"I never did see the beat of that boy!"

She went to the open door and stood in it and looked out among the tomato vines and "jimpson" weeds that constituted the garden. No Tom. So she lifted up her voice at an angle calculated for distance and shouted:

"Y-o-u-u TOM!"

There was a slight noise behind her and she turned just in time to seize a small boy by the slack of his roundabout and arrest his flight.

"There! I might 'a' thought of that closet. What you been doing in there?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing! Look at your hands. And look at your mouth. What IS that truck?"

"I don't know, aunt."

"Well, I know. It's jam—that's what it is. Forty times I've said if you didn't let that jam alone I'd skin you. Hand me that switch."

The switch hovered in the air—the peril was desperate—

"My! Look behind you, aunt!"

The old lady whirled round, and snatched her skirts out of danger. The lad fled on the instant, scrambled up the high board-fence, and disappeared over it.

His aunt Polly stood surprised a moment, and then broke into a gentle laugh.

"Hang the boy, can't I never learn anything? Ain't he played me tricks enough like that for me to be looking out for him by this time? But old fools is the biggest fools there is. Can't learn an old dog new tricks, as the saying is. But my goodness, he never plays them alike, two days, and how is a body to know what's coming? He 'pears to know just how long he can torment me before I get my dander up, and he knows if he can make out to put me off for a minute or make me laugh, it's all down again and I can't hit him a lick. I ain't doing my duty by that boy, and that's the Lord's truth, goodness knows. Spare the rod and spile the child, as the Good Book says. I'm a laying up sin and suffering for us both, I know. He's full of the Old Scratch, but laws-a-me! he's my own dead sister's boy, poor thing, and I ain't got the heart to lash him, somehow. Every time I let him off, my conscience does hurt me so, and every time I hit him my old heart most breaks. Well-a-well, man that is born of woman is of few days and full of trouble, as the Scripture says, and I reckon it's so. He'll play hookey this evening, * and [* Southwestern for "afternoon"] I'll just be obleeged to make him work, tomorrow, to punish him. It's mighty hard to make him work Saturdays, when all the boys is having holiday, but he hates work more than he hates anything else, and I've GOT to do some of my duty by him, or I'll be the ruination of the child."

Tom did play hookey, and he had a very good time. He got back home barely in season to help Jim, the small colored boy, saw next-day's wood and split the kindlings before supper—at least he was there in time to tell his adventures to Jim while Jim did three-fourths of the work. Tom's younger brother (or rather half-brother) Sid was already through with his part of the work (picking up chips), for he was a quiet boy, and had no adventurous, trouble-some ways.

While Tom was eating his supper, and stealing sugar as opportunity offered, Aunt Polly asked him questions that were full of guile, and very deep—for she wanted to trap him into damaging revealments. Like many other simple-hearted souls, it was her pet vanity to believe she was endowed with a talent for dark and mysterious diplomacy, and she loved to contemplate her most transparent devices as marvels of low cunning. Said she:

"Tom, it was middling warm in school, warn't it?"

"Yes'm."

"Powerful warm, warn't it?"

"Yes'm."

"Didn't you want to go in a-swimming, Tom?"

A bit of a scare shot through Tom—a touch of uncomfortable suspicion. He searched Aunt Polly's face, but it told him nothing. So he said:

"No'm—well, not very much."

The old lady reached out her hand and felt Tom's shirt, and said:

"But you ain't too warm now, though." And it flattered her to reflect that she had discovered that the shirt was dry without anybody knowing that that was what she had in her mind. But in spite of her, Tom knew where the wind lay, now. So he forestalled what might be the next move:

"Some of us pumped on our heads—mine's damp yet. See?"

Aunt Polly was vexed to think she had overlooked that bit of circumstantial evidence, and missed a trick. Then she had a new inspiration:

"Tom, you didn't have to undo your shirt collar where I sewed it, to pump on your head, did you? Unbutton your jacket!"

The trouble vanished out of Tom's face. He opened his jacket. His shirt collar was securely sewed.

"Bother! Well, go 'long with you. I'd made sure you'd played hookey and been a-swimming. But I forgive ye, Tom. I reckon you're a kind of a singed cat, as the saying is—better'n you look. THIS time."

She was half sorry her sagacity had miscarried, and half glad that Tom had stumbled into obedient conduct for once.

But Sidney said:

"Well, now, if I didn't think you sewed his collar with white thread, but it's black."

"Why, I did sew it with white! Tom!"

But Tom did not wait for the rest. As he went out at the door he said:

"Siddy, I'll lick you for that."

In a safe place Tom examined two large needles which were thrust into the lapels of his jacket, and had thread bound about them—one needle carried white thread and the other black. He said:

"She'd never noticed if it hadn't been for Sid. Confound it! sometimes she sews it with white, and sometimes she sews it with black. I wish to gee-miny she'd stick to one or t'other—I can't keep the run of 'em. But I bet you I'll lam Sid for that. I'll learn him!"

He was not the Model Boy of the village. He knew the model boy very well though—and loathed him.

Within two minutes, or even less, he had forgotten all his troubles. Not because his troubles were one whit less heavy and bitter to him than a man's are to a man, but because a new and powerful interest bore them down and drove them out of his mind for the time—just as men's misfortunes are forgotten in the excitement of new enterprises. This new interest was a valued novelty in whistling, which he had just acquired from a negro, and he was suffering to practise it un-disturbed. It consisted in a peculiar bird-like turn, a sort of liquid warble, produced by touching the tongue to the roof of the mouth at short intervals in the midst of the music—the reader probably remembers how to do it, if he has ever been a boy. Diligence and attention soon gave him the knack of it, and he strode down the street with his mouth full of harmony and his soul full of gratitude. He felt much as an astronomer feels who has discovered a new planet—no doubt, as far as strong, deep, unalloyed pleasure is concerned, the advantage was with the boy, not the astronomer.

The summer evenings were long. It was not dark, yet. Presently Tom checked his whistle. A stranger was before him—a boy a shade larger than himself. A new-comer of any age or either sex was an im-pressive curiosity in the poor little shabby village of St. Petersburg. This boy was well dressed, too—well dressed on a week-day. This was simply as- tounding. His cap was a dainty thing, his close-buttoned blue cloth roundabout was new and natty, and so were his pantaloons. He had shoes on—and it was only Friday. He even wore a necktie, a bright bit of ribbon. He had a citified air about him that ate into Tom's vitals. The more Tom stared at the splendid marvel, the higher he turned up his nose at his finery and the shabbier and shabbier his own outfit seemed to him to grow. Neither boy spoke. If one moved, the other moved—but only sidewise, in a circle; they kept face to face and eye to eye all the time. Finally Tom said:

"I can lick you!"

"I'd like to see you try it."

"Well, I can do it."

"No you can't, either."

"Yes I can."

"No you can't."

"I can."

"You can't."

"Can!"

"Can't!"

An uncomfortable pause. Then Tom said:

"What's your name?"

"'Tisn't any of your business, maybe."

"Well I 'low I'll MAKE it my business."

"Well why don't you?"

"If you say much, I will."

"Much—much—MUCH. There now."

"Oh, you think you're mighty smart, DON'T you? I could lick you with one hand tied behind me, if I wanted to."

"Well why don't you DO it? You SAY you can do it."

"Well I WILL, if you fool with me."

"Oh yes—I've seen whole families in the same fix."

"Smarty! You think you're SOME, now, DON'T you? Oh, what a hat!"

"You can lump that hat if you don't like it. I dare you to knock it off —and anybody that'll take a dare will suck eggs."

"You're a liar!"

"You're another."

"You're a fighting liar and dasn't take it up."

"Aw—take a walk!"

"Say—if you give me much more of your sass I'll take and bounce a rock off'n your head."

"Oh, of COURSE you will."

"Well I WILL."

"Well why don't you DO it then? What do you keep SAYING you will for? Why don't you DO it? It's because you're afraid."

"I AIN'T afraid."

"You are."

"I ain't."

"You are."

Another pause, and more eying and sidling around each other. Presently they were shoulder to shoulder. Tom said:

"Get away from here!"

"Go away yourself!"

"I won't."

"I won't either."

So they stood, each with a foot placed at an angle as a brace, and both shoving with might and main, and glowering at each other with hate. But neither could get an advantage. After struggling till both were hot and flushed, each relaxed his strain with watchful caution, and Tom said:

"You're a coward and a pup. I'll tell my big brother on you, and he can thrash you with his little finger, and I'll make him do it, too."

"What do I care for your big brother? I've got a brother that's bigger than he is—and what's more, he can throw him over that fence, too." [Both brothers were imaginary.]

"That's a lie."

"YOUR saying so don't make it so."

Tom drew a line in the dust with his big toe, and said:

"I dare you to step over that, and I'll lick you till you can't stand up. Anybody that'll take a dare will steal sheep."

The new boy stepped over promptly, and said:

"Now you said you'd do it, now let's see you do it."

"Don't you crowd me now; you better look out."

"Well, you SAID you'd do it—why don't you do it?"

"By jingo! for two cents I WILL do it."

The new boy took two broad coppers out of his pocket and held them out with derision. Tom struck them to the ground. In an instant both boys were rolling and tumbling in the dirt, gripped together like cats; and for the space of a minute they tugged and tore at each other's hair and clothes, punched and scratched each other's nose, and covered themselves with dust and glory. Presently the confusion took form, and through the fog of battle Tom appeared, seated astride the new boy, and pounding him with his fists. "Holler 'nuff!" said he.

The boy only struggled to free himself. He was crying—mainly from rage.

"Holler 'nuff!"—and the pounding went on.

At last the stranger got out a smothered "'Nuff!" and Tom let him up and said:

"Now that'll learn you. Better look out who you're fooling with next time."

The new boy went off brushing the dust from his clothes, sobbing, snuffling, and occasionally looking back and shaking his head and threatening what he would do to Tom the "next time he caught him out." To which Tom responded with jeers, and started off in high feather, and as soon as his back was turned the new boy snatched up a stone, threw it and hit him between the shoulders and then turned tail and ran like an antelope. Tom chased the traitor home, and thus found out where he lived. He then held a position at the gate for some time, daring the enemy to come outside, but the enemy only made faces at him through the window and declined. At last the enemy's mother appeared, and called Tom a bad, vicious, vulgar child, and ordered him away. So he went away; but he said he "'lowed" to "lay" for that boy.

He got home pretty late that night, and when he climbed cautiously in at the window, he uncovered an ambuscade, in the person of his aunt; and when she saw the state his clothes were in her resolution to turn his Saturday holiday into captivity at hard labor became adamantine in its firmness.

## CHAPTER II

SATURDAY morning was come, and all the summer world was bright and fresh, and brimming with life. There was a song in every heart; and if the heart was young the music issued at the lips. There was cheer in every face and a spring in every step. The locust-trees were in bloom and the fragrance of the blossoms filled the air. Cardiff Hill, beyond the village and above it, was green with vegetation and it lay just far enough away to seem a Delectable Land, dreamy, reposeful, and inviting.

Tom appeared on the sidewalk with a bucket of whitewash and a long-handled brush. He surveyed the fence, and all gladness left him and a deep melancholy settled down upon his spirit. Thirty yards of board fence nine feet high. Life to him seemed hollow, and existence but a burden. Sighing, he dipped his brush and passed it along the topmost plank; repeated the operation; did it again; compared the insignificant whitewashed streak with the far-reaching continent of unwhitewashed fence, and sat down on a tree-box discouraged. Jim came skipping out at the gate with a tin pail, and singing Buffalo Gals. Bringing water from the town pump had always been hateful work in Tom's eyes, before, but now it did not strike him so. He remembered that there was company at the pump. White, mulatto, and negro boys and girls were always there waiting their turns, resting, trading playthings, quarrelling, fighting, skylarking. And he remembered that although the pump was only a hundred and fifty yards off, Jim never got back with a bucket of water under an hour—and even then somebody generally had to go after him. Tom said:

"Say, Jim, I'll fetch the water if you'll whitewash some."

Jim shook his head and said:

"Can't, Mars Tom. Ole missis, she tole me I got to go an' git dis water an' not stop foolin' roun' wid anybody. She say she spec' Mars Tom gwine to ax me to whitewash, an' so she tole me go 'long an' 'tend to my own business—she 'lowed SHE'D 'tend to de whitewashin'."

"Oh, never you mind what she said, Jim. That's the way she always talks. Gimme the bucket—I won't be gone only a a minute. SHE won't ever know."

"Oh, I dasn't, Mars Tom. Ole missis she'd take an' tar de head off'n me. 'Deed she would."

"SHE! She never licks anybody—whacks 'em over the head with her thimble—and who cares for that, I'd like to know. She talks awful, but talk don't hurt—anyways it don't if she don't cry. Jim, I'll give you a marvel. I'll give you a white alley!"

Jim began to waver.

"White alley, Jim! And it's a bully taw."

"My! Dat's a mighty gay marvel, I tell you! But Mars Tom I's powerful 'fraid ole missis—"

"And besides, if you will I'll show you my sore toe."

Jim was only human—this attraction was too much for him. He put down his pail, took the white alley, and bent over the toe with absorbing interest while the bandage was being unwound. In another moment he was flying down the street with his pail and a tingling rear, Tom was whitewashing with vigor, and Aunt Polly was retiring from the field with a slipper in her hand and triumph in her eye.

But Tom's energy did not last. He began to think of the fun he had planned for this day, and his sorrows multiplied. Soon the free boys would come tripping along on all sorts of delicious expeditions, and they would make a world of fun of him for having to work—the very thought of it burnt him like fire. He got out his worldly wealth and examined it—bits of toys, marbles, and trash; enough to buy an exchange of WORK, maybe, but not half enough to buy so much as half an hour of pure freedom. So he returned his straitened means to his pocket, and gave up the idea of trying to buy the boys. At this dark and hopeless moment an inspiration burst upon him! Nothing less than a great, magnificent inspiration.

He took up his brush and went tranquilly to work. Ben Rogers hove in sight presently—the very boy, of all boys, whose ridicule he had been dreading. Ben's gait was the hop-skip-and-jump—proof enough that his heart was light and his anticipations high. He was eating an apple, and giving a long, melodious whoop, at intervals, followed by a deep-toned ding-dong-dong, ding-dong-dong, for he was personating a steamboat. As he drew near, he slackened speed, took the middle of the street, leaned far over to starboard and rounded to ponderously and with laborious pomp and circumstance—for he was personating the Big Missouri, and considered himself to be drawing nine feet of water. He was boat and captain and engine-bells combined, so he had to imagine himself standing on his own hurricane-deck giving the orders and executing them:

"Stop her, sir! Ting-a-ling-ling!" The headway ran almost out, and he drew up slowly toward the sidewalk.

"Ship up to back! Ting-a-ling-ling!" His arms straightened and stiffened down his sides.

"Set her back on the stabboard! Ting-a-ling-ling! Chow! ch-chow-wow! Chow!" His right hand, mean-time, describing stately circles—for it was representing a forty-foot wheel.

"Let her go back on the labboard! Ting-a-ling-ling! Chow-ch-chow-chow!" The left hand began to describe circles.

"Stop the stabboard! Ting-a-ling-ling! Stop the labboard! Come ahead on the stabboard! Stop her! Let your outside turn over slow! Ting-a-ling- ling! Chow-ow-ow! Get out that head-line! LIVELY now! Come—out with your spring-line—what're you about there! Take a turn round that stump with the bight of it! Stand by that stage, now—let her go! Done with the engines, sir! Ting-a-ling-ling! SH'T! S'H'T! SH'T!" (trying the gauge-cocks).

Tom went on whitewashing—paid no attention to the steamboat. Ben stared a moment and then said: "Hi-YI! YOU'RE up a stump, ain't you!"

No answer. Tom surveyed his last touch with the eye of an artist, then he gave his brush another gentle sweep and surveyed the result, as before. Ben ranged up alongside of him. Tom's mouth watered for the apple, but he stuck to his work. Ben said:

"Hello, old chap, you got to work, hey?"

Tom wheeled suddenly and said:

"Why, it's you, Ben! I warn't noticing."

"Say—I'm going in a-swimming, I am. Don't you wish you could? But of course you'd druther WORK—wouldn't you? Course you would!"

Tom contemplated the boy a bit, and said:

"What do you call work?"

"Why, ain't THAT work?"

Tom resumed his whitewashing, and answered carelessly:

"Well, maybe it is, and maybe it ain't. All I know, is, it suits Tom Sawyer."

"Oh come, now, you don't mean to let on that you LIKE it?"

The brush continued to move.

"Like it? Well, I don't see why I oughtn't to like it. Does a boy get a chance to whitewash a fence every day?"

That put the thing in a new light. Ben stopped nibbling his apple. Tom swept his brush daintily back and forth—stepped back to note the effect—added a touch here and there—criticised the effect again— Ben watching every move and getting more and more interested, more and more absorbed. Presently he said:

"Say, Tom, let ME whitewash a little."

Tom considered, was about to consent; but he altered his mind:

"No—no—I reckon it wouldn't hardly do, Ben. You see, Aunt Polly's awful particular about this fence—right here on the street, you know —but if it was the back fence I wouldn't mind and SHE wouldn't. Yes, she's awful particular about this fence; it's got to be done very careful; I reckon there ain't one boy in a thousand, maybe two thousand, that can do it the way it's got to be done."

"No—is that so? Oh come, now—lemme just try. Only just a little— I'd let YOU, if you was me, Tom."

"Ben, I'd like to, honest injun; but Aunt Polly—well, Jim wanted to do it, but she wouldn't let him; Sid wanted to do it, and she wouldn't let Sid. Now don't you see how I'm fixed? If you was to tackle this fence and anything was to happen to it—"

"Oh, shucks, I'll be just as careful. Now lemme try. Say—I'll give you the core of my apple."

"Well, here—No, Ben, now don't. I'm afeard—"

"I'll give you ALL of it!"

Tom gave up the brush with reluctance in his face, but alacrity in his heart. And while the late steamer Big Missouri worked and sweated in the sun, the retired artist sat on a barrel in the shade close by, dangled his legs, munched his apple, and planned the slaughter of more innocents. There was no lack of material; boys happened along every little while; they came to jeer, but remained to whitewash. By the time Ben was fagged out, Tom had traded the next chance to Billy Fisher for a kite, in good repair; and when he played out, Johnny Miller bought in for a dead rat and a string to swing it with—and so on, and so on, hour after hour. And when the middle of the afternoon came, from being a poor poverty-stricken boy in the morning, Tom was literally rolling in wealth. He had besides the things before mentioned, twelve marbles, part of a jews-harp, a piece of blue bottle-glass to look through, a spool cannon, a key that wouldn't unlock anything, a fragment of chalk, a glass stopper of a decanter, a tin soldier, a couple of tadpoles, six fire-crackers, a kitten with only one eye, a brass door-knob, a dog-collar— but no dog—the handle of a knife, four pieces of orange-peel, and a dilapidated old window sash.

He had had a nice, good, idle time all the while—plenty of company— and the fence had three coats of whitewash on it! If he hadn't run out of whitewash he would have bankrupted every boy in the village.

Tom said to himself that it was not such a hollow world, after all. He had discovered a great law of human action, without knowing it— namely, that in order to make a man or a boy covet a thing, it is only necessary to make the thing difficult to attain. If he had been a great and wise philosopher, like the writer of this book, he would now have comprehended that Work consists of whatever a body is OBLIGED to do, and that Play consists of whatever a body is not obliged to do. And this would help him to understand why constructing artificial flowers or performing on a tread-mill is work, while rolling ten-pins or climbing Mont Blanc is only amusement. There are wealthy gentlemen in England who drive four-horse passenger-coaches twenty or thirty miles on a daily line, in the summer, because the privilege costs them considerable money; but if they were offered wages for the service, that would turn it into work and then they would resign.

The boy mused awhile over the substantial change which had taken place in his worldly circumstances, and then wended toward headquarters to report.

## CHAPTER III

TOM presented himself before Aunt Polly, who was sitting by an open window in a pleasant rearward apartment, which was bedroom, breakfast-room, dining-room, and library, combined. The balmy summer air, the restful quiet, the odor of the flowers, and the drowsing murmur of the bees had had their effect, and she was nodding over her knitting—for she had no company but the cat, and it was asleep in her lap. Her spectacles were propped up on her gray head for safety. She had thought that of course Tom had deserted long ago, and she wondered at seeing him place himself in her power again in this intrepid way. He said: "Mayn't I go and play now, aunt?"

"What, a'ready? How much have you done?"

"It's all done, aunt."

"Tom, don't lie to me—I can't bear it."

"I ain't, aunt; it IS all done."

Aunt Polly placed small trust in such evidence. She went out to see for herself; and she would have been content to find twenty per cent. of Tom's statement true. When she found the entire fence white-washed, and not only whitewashed but elaborately coated and recoated, and even a streak added to the ground, her astonishment was almost unspeakable. She said:

"Well, I never! There's no getting round it, you can work when you're a mind to, Tom." And then she diluted the compliment by adding, "But it's powerful seldom you're a mind to, I'm bound to say. Well, go 'long and play; but mind you get back some time in a week, or I'll tan you."

She was so overcome by the splendor of his achievement that she took him into the closet and selected a choice apple and delivered it to him, along with an improving lecture upon the added value and flavor a treat took to itself when it came without sin through virtuous effort. And while she closed with a happy Scriptural flourish, he "hooked" a doughnut.

Then he skipped out, and saw Sid just starting up the outside stairway that led to the back rooms on the second floor. Clods were handy and the air was full of them in a twinkling. They raged around Sid like a hail-storm; and before Aunt Polly could collect her surprised faculties and sally to the rescue, six or seven clods had taken personal effect, and Tom was over the fence and gone. There was a gate, but as a general thing he was too crowded for time to make use of it. His soul was at peace, now that he had settled with Sid for calling attention to his black thread and getting him into trouble.

Tom skirted the block, and came round into a muddy alley that led by the back of his aunt's cow-stable. He presently got safely beyond the reach of capture and punishment, and hastened toward the public square of the village, where two "military" companies of boys had met for conflict, according to previous appointment. Tom was General of one of these armies, Joe Harper (a bosom friend) General of the other. These two great commanders did not condescend to fight in person—that being better suited to the still smaller fry—but sat together on an eminence and conducted the field operations by orders delivered through aides-de-camp. Tom's army won a great victory, after a long and hard-fought battle. Then the dead were counted, prisoners exchanged, the terms of the next disagreement agreed upon, and the day for the necessary battle appointed; after which the armies fell into line and marched away, and Tom turned homeward alone.

As he was passing by the house where Jeff Thatcher lived, he saw a new girl in the garden—a lovely little blue-eyed creature with yellow hair plaited into two long-tails, white summer frock and embroidered pan-talettes. The fresh-crowned hero fell without firing a shot. A certain Amy Lawrence vanished out of his heart and left not even a memory of herself behind. He had thought he loved her to distraction; he had regarded his passion as adoration; and behold it was only a poor little evanescent partiality. He had been months winning her; she had confessed hardly a week ago; he had been the happiest and the proudest boy in the world only seven short days, and here in one instant of time she had gone out of his heart like a casual stranger whose visit is done.

He worshipped this new angel with furtive eye, till he saw that she had discovered him; then he pretended he did not know she was present, and began to "show off" in all sorts of absurd boyish ways, in order to win her admiration. He kept up this grotesque foolishness for some time; but by-and-by, while he was in the midst of some dangerous gymnastic performances, he glanced aside and saw that the little girl was wending her way toward the house. Tom came up to the fence and leaned on it, grieving, and hoping she would tarry yet awhile longer. She halted a moment on the steps and then moved toward the door. Tom heaved a great sigh as she put her foot on the threshold. But his face lit up, right away, for she tossed a pansy over the fence a moment before she disappeared.

The boy ran around and stopped within a foot or two of the flower, and then shaded his eyes with his hand and began to look down street as if he had discovered something of interest going on in that direction. Presently he picked up a straw and began trying to balance it on his nose, with his head tilted far back; and as he moved from side to side, in his efforts, he edged nearer and nearer toward the pansy; finally his bare foot rested upon it, his pliant toes closed upon it, and he hopped away with the treasure and disappeared round the corner. But only for a minute—only while he could button the flower inside his jacket, next his heart—or next his stomach, possibly, for he was not much posted in anatomy, and not hypercritical, anyway.

He returned, now, and hung about the fence till nightfall, "showing off," as before; but the girl never exhibited herself again, though Tom comforted himself a little with the hope that she had been near some window, meantime, and been aware of his attentions. Finally he strode home reluctantly, with his poor head full of visions.

All through supper his spirits were so high that his aunt wondered "what had got into the child." He took a good scolding about clodding Sid, and did not seem to mind it in the least. He tried to steal sugar under his aunt's very nose, and got his knuckles rapped for it. He said:

"Aunt, you don't whack Sid when he takes it."

"Well, Sid don't torment a body the way you do. You'd be always into that sugar if I warn't watching you."

Presently she stepped into the kitchen, and Sid, happy in his immunity, reached for the sugar-bowl—a sort of glorying over Tom which was wellnigh unbearable. But Sid's fingers slipped and the bowl dropped and broke. Tom was in ecstasies. In such ecstasies that he even controlled his tongue and was silent. He said to himself that he would not speak a word, even when his aunt came in, but would sit perfectly still till she asked who did the mischief; and then he would tell, and there would be nothing so good in the world as to see that pet model "catch it." He was so brimful of exultation that he could hardly hold himself when the old lady came back and stood above the wreck discharging lightnings of wrath from over her spectacles. He said to himself, "Now it's coming!" And the next instant he was sprawling on the floor! The potent palm was uplifted to strike again when Tom cried out:

"Hold on, now, what 'er you belting ME for?—Sid broke it!"

Aunt Polly paused, perplexed, and Tom looked for healing pity. But when she got her tongue again, she only said:

"Umf! Well, you didn't get a lick amiss, I reckon. You been into some other audacious mischief when I wasn't around, like enough."

Then her conscience reproached her, and she yearned to say something kind and loving; but she judged that this would be construed into a confession that she had been in the wrong, and discipline forbade that. So she kept silence, and went about her affairs with a troubled heart. Tom sulked in a corner and exalted his woes. He knew that in her heart his aunt was on her knees to him, and he was morosely gratified by the consciousness of it. He would hang out no signals, he would take notice of none. He knew that a yearning glance fell upon him, now and then, through a film of tears, but he refused recognition of it. He pictured himself lying sick unto death and his aunt bending over him beseeching one little forgiving word, but he would turn his face to the wall, and die with that word unsaid. Ah, how would she feel then? And he pictured himself brought home from the river, dead, with his curls all wet, and his sore heart at rest. How she would throw herself upon him, and how her tears would fall like rain, and her lips pray God to give her back her boy and she would never, never abuse him any more! But he would lie there cold and white and make no sign—a poor little sufferer, whose griefs were at an end. He so worked upon his feelings with the pathos of these dreams, that he had to keep swallowing, he was so like to choke; and his eyes swam in a blur of water, which overflowed when he winked, and ran down and trickled from the end of his nose. And such a luxury to him was this petting of his sorrows, that he could not bear to have any worldly cheeriness or any grating delight intrude upon it; it was too sacred for such contact; and so, presently, when his cousin Mary danced in, all alive with the joy of seeing home again after an age-long visit of one week to the country, he got up and moved in clouds and darkness out at one door as she brought song and sunshine in at the other.

He wandered far from the accustomed haunts of boys, and sought desolate places that were in harmony with his spirit. A log raft in the river invited him, and he seated himself on its outer edge and contemplated the dreary vastness of the stream, wishing, the while, that he could only be drowned, all at once and unconsciously, without undergoing the uncomfortable routine devised by nature. Then he thought of his flower. He got it out, rumpled and wilted, and it mightily increased his dismal felicity. He wondered if she would pity him if she knew? Would she cry, and wish that she had a right to put her arms around his neck and comfort him? Or would she turn coldly away like all the hollow world? This picture brought such an agony of pleasurable suffering that he worked it over and over again in his mind and set it up in new and varied lights, till he wore it threadbare. At last he rose up sighing and departed in the darkness.

About half-past nine or ten o'clock he came along the deserted street to where the Adored Unknown lived; he paused a moment; no sound fell upon his listening ear; a candle was casting a dull glow upon the curtain of a second-story window. Was the sacred presence there? He climbed the fence, threaded his stealthy way through the plants, till he stood under that window; he looked up at it long, and with emotion; then he laid him down on the ground under it, disposing himself upon his back, with his hands clasped upon his breast and holding his poor wilted flower. And thus he would die—out in the cold world, with no shelter over his homeless head, no friendly hand to wipe the death-damps from his brow, no loving face to bend pityingly over him when the great agony came. And thus SHE would see him when she looked out upon the glad morning, and oh! would she drop one little tear upon his poor, lifeless form, would she heave one little sigh to see a bright young life so rudely blighted, so untimely cut down?

The window went up, a maid-servant's discordant voice profaned the holy calm, and a deluge of water drenched the prone martyr's remains!

The strangling hero sprang up with a relieving snort. There was a whiz as of a missile in the air, mingled with the murmur of a curse, a sound as of shivering glass followed, and a small, vague form went over the fence and shot away in the gloom.

Not long after, as Tom, all undressed for bed, was surveying his drenched garments by the light of a tallow dip, Sid woke up; but if he had any dim idea of making any "references to allusions," he thought better of it and held his peace, for there was danger in Tom's eye.

Tom turned in without the added vexation of prayers, and Sid made mental note of the omission.

    *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TOM SAWYER, TWAIN, V1 ***

    ***** This file should be named saw111h.html or saw111h.zip ****

    Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, saw112h.html
    VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, saw111ha.html

    This eBook was produced by David Widger, [widger@cecomet.net]

    Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed
    editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US
    unless a copyright notice is included.  Thus, we usually do not
    keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

    We are now trying to release all our eBooks one year in advance
    of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing.
    Please be encouraged to tell us about any error or corrections,
    even years after the official publication date.

    Please note neither this listing nor its contents are final til
    midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement.
    The official release date of all Project Gutenberg eBooks is at
    Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month.  A
    preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment
    and editing by those who wish to do so.

    Most people start at our Web sites at:
    http://gutenberg.net or
    http://promo.net/pg

    These Web sites include award-winning information about Project
    Gutenberg, including how to donate, how to help produce our new
    eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter (free!).

    Those of you who want to download any eBook before announcement
    can get to them as follows, and just download by date.  This is
    also a good way to get them instantly upon announcement, as the
    indexes our cataloguers produce obviously take a while after an
    announcement goes out in the Project Gutenberg Newsletter.

    http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/etext03 or
    ftp://ftp.ibiblio.org/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/etext03

    Or /etext02, 01, 00, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 93, 92, 92, 91 or 90

    Just search by the first five letters of the filename you want,
    as it appears in our Newsletters.

    Information about Project Gutenberg (one page)

    We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work.  The
    time it takes us, a rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours
    to get any eBook selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright
    searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc.   Our
    projected audience is one hundred million readers.  If the value
    per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2
    million dollars per hour in 2002 as we release over 100 new text
    files per month:  1240 more eBooks in 2001 for a total of 4000+
    We are already on our way to trying for 2000 more eBooks in 2002
    If they reach just 1-2% of the world's population then the total
    will reach over half a trillion eBooks given away by year's end.

    The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away 1 Trillion eBooks!
    This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers,
    which is only about 4% of the present number of computer users.

    Here is the briefest record of our progress (* means estimated):

    eBooks Year Month

        1  1971 July
       10  1991 January
      100  1994 January
     1000  1997 August
     1500  1998 October
     2000  1999 December
     2500  2000 December
     3000  2001 November
     4000  2001 October/November
     6000  2002 December*
     9000  2003 November*
    10000  2004 January*

    The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been created
    to secure a future for Project Gutenberg into the next millennium.

    We need your donations more than ever!

    As of February, 2002, contributions are being solicited from people
    and organizations in: Alabama, Alaska, Arkansas, Connecticut,
    Delaware, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Illinois,
    Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Massachusetts,
    Michigan, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, New
    Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, Ohio,
    Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, South
    Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West
    Virginia, Wisconsin, and Wyoming.

    We have filed in all 50 states now, but these are the only ones
    that have responded.

    As the requirements for other states are met, additions to this list
    will be made and fund raising will begin in the additional states.
    Please feel free to ask to check the status of your state.

    In answer to various questions we have received on this:

    We are constantly working on finishing the paperwork to legally
    request donations in all 50 states.  If your state is not listed and
    you would like to know if we have added it since the list you have,
    just ask.

    While we cannot solicit donations from people in states where we are
    not yet registered, we know of no prohibition against accepting
    donations from donors in these states who approach us with an offer to
    donate.

    International donations are accepted, but we don't know ANYTHING about
    how to make them tax-deductible, or even if they CAN be made
    deductible, and don't have the staff to handle it even if there are
    ways.

    Donations by check or money order may be sent to:

    Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
    PMB 113
    1739 University Ave.
    Oxford, MS 38655-4109

    Contact us if you want to arrange for a wire transfer or payment
    method other than by check or money order.

    The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been approved by
    the US Internal Revenue Service as a 501(c)(3) organization with EIN
    [Employee Identification Number] 64-622154.  Donations are
    tax-deductible to the maximum extent permitted by law.  As fund-raising
    requirements for other states are met, additions to this list will be
    made and fund-raising will begin in the additional states.

    We need your donations more than ever!

    You can get up to date donation information online at:

    http://www.gutenberg.net/donation.html

    ***

    If you can't reach Project Gutenberg,
    you can always email directly to:

    Michael S. Hart [hart@pobox.com]

    Prof. Hart will answer or forward your message.

    We would prefer to send you information by email.

    **The Legal Small Print**

    (Three Pages)

    ***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS**START***
    Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers.
    They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with
    your copy of this eBook, even if you got it for free from
    someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our
    fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement
    disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how
    you may distribute copies of this eBook if you want to.

    *BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS EBOOK
    By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm
    eBook, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept
    this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive
    a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this eBook by
    sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person
    you got it from. If you received this eBook on a physical
    medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request.

    ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM EBOOKS
    This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBooks,
    is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor Michael S. Hart
    through the Project Gutenberg Association (the "Project").
    Among other things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright
    on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and
    distribute it in the United States without permission and
    without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth
    below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this eBook
    under the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark.

    Please do not use the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark to market
    any commercial products without permission.

    To create these eBooks, the Project expends considerable
    efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain
    works. Despite these efforts, the Project's eBooks and any
    medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other
    things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or
    corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
    intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged
    disk or other eBook medium, a computer virus, or computer
    codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

    LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES
    But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below,
    [1] Michael Hart and the Foundation (and any other party you may
    receive this eBook from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook) disclaims
    all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including
    legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR
    UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT,
    INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE
    OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE
    POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES.

    If you discover a Defect in this eBook within 90 days of
    receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any)
    you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that
    time to the person you received it from. If you received it
    on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and
    such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement
    copy. If you received it electronically, such person may
    choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to
    receive it electronically.

    THIS EBOOK IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER
    WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS
    TO THE EBOOK OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT
    LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A
    PARTICULAR PURPOSE.

    Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or
    the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the
    above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you
    may have other legal rights.

    INDEMNITY
    You will indemnify and hold Michael Hart, the Foundation,
    and its trustees and agents, and any volunteers associated
    with the production and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm
    texts harmless, from all liability, cost and expense, including
    legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the
    following that you do or cause:  [1] distribution of this eBook,
    [2] alteration, modification, or addition to the eBook,
    or [3] any Defect.

    DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm"
    You may distribute copies of this eBook electronically, or by
    disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this
    "Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg,
    or:

    [1]  Only give exact copies of it.  Among other things, this
         requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the
         eBook or this "small print!" statement.  You may however,
         if you wish, distribute this eBook in machine readable
         binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form,
         including any form resulting from conversion by word
         processing or hypertext software, but only so long as
         *EITHER*:

         [*]  The eBook, when displayed, is clearly readable, and
              does *not* contain characters other than those
              intended by the author of the work, although tilde
              (~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may
              be used to convey punctuation intended by the
              author, and additional characters may be used to
              indicate hypertext links; OR

         [*]  The eBook may be readily converted by the reader at
              no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent
              form by the program that displays the eBook (as is
              the case, for instance, with most word processors);
              OR

         [*]  You provide, or agree to also provide on request at
              no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the
              eBook in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC
              or other equivalent proprietary form).

    [2]  Honor the eBook refund and replacement provisions of this
         "Small Print!" statement.

    [3]  Pay a trademark license fee to the Foundation of 20% of the
         gross profits you derive calculated using the method you
         already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  If you
         don't derive profits, no royalty is due.  Royalties are
         payable to "Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation"
         the 60 days following each date you prepare (or were
         legally required to prepare) your annual (or equivalent
         periodic) tax return.  Please contact us beforehand to
         let us know your plans and to work out the details.

    WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO?
    Project Gutenberg is dedicated to increasing the number of
    public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed
    in machine readable form.

    The Project gratefully accepts contributions of money, time,
    public domain materials, or royalty free copyright licenses.
    Money should be paid to the:
    "Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."

    If you are interested in contributing scanning equipment or
    software or other items, please contact Michael Hart at:
    hart@pobox.com

    [Portions of this eBook's header and trailer may be reprinted only
    when distributed free of all fees.  Copyright (C) 2001, 2002 by
    Michael S. Hart.  Project Gutenberg is a TradeMark and may not be
    used in any sales of Project Gutenberg eBooks or other materials be
    they hardware or software or any other related product without
    express permission.]

    *END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS*Ver.02/11/02*END*