“—and as the doctor fetched the board
around and Muff Potter fell, Injun Joe jumped with
the knife and—”
Crash! Quick as lightning the half-breed sprang
for a window, tore his way through all opposers, and
was gone!
Tom was a glittering hero once more—the
pet of the old, the envy of the young. His name
even went into immortal print, for the village paper
magnified him. There were some that believed he
would be President, yet, if he escaped hanging.
As usual, the fickle, unreasoning world took Muff
Potter to its bosom and fondled him as lavishly as
it had abused him before. But that sort of conduct
is to the world’s credit; therefore it is not
well to find fault with it.
Tom’s days were days of splendor and exultation
to him, but his nights were seasons of horror.
Injun Joe infested all his dreams, and always with
doom in his eye. Hardly any temptation could persuade
the boy to stir abroad after nightfall. Poor
Huck was in the same state of wretchedness and terror,
for Tom had told the whole story to the lawyer the
night before the great day of the trial, and Huck was
sore afraid that his share in the business might leak
out, yet, notwithstanding Injun Joe’s flight
had saved him the suffering of testifying in court.
The poor fellow had got the attorney to promise secrecy,
but what of that? Since Tom’s harassed
conscience had managed to drive him to the lawyer’s
house by night and wring a dread tale from lips that
had been sealed with the dismalest and most formidable
of oaths, Huck’s confidence in the human race
was well-nigh obliterated.
Daily Muff Potter’s gratitude made Tom glad
he had spoken; but nightly he wished he had sealed
up his tongue.
Half the time Tom was afraid Injun Joe would never
be captured; the other half he was afraid he would
be. He felt sure he never could draw a safe breath
again until that man was dead and he had seen the corpse.
Rewards had been offered, the country had been scoured,
but no Injun Joe was found. One of those omniscient
and awe-inspiring marvels, a detective, came up from
St. Louis, moused around, shook his head, looked wise,
and made that sort of astounding success which members
of that craft usually achieve. That is to say,
he “found a clew.” But you can’t
hang a “clew” for murder, and so after
that detective had got through and gone home, Tom
felt just as insecure as he was before.
The slow days drifted on, and each left behind it
a slightly lightened weight of apprehension.
There comes a time in every rightly-constructed
boy’s life when he has a raging desire to go
somewhere and dig for hidden treasure. This desire
suddenly came upon Tom one day. He sallied out
to find Joe Harper, but failed of success. Next
he sought Ben Rogers; he had gone fishing. Presently
he stumbled upon Huck Finn the Red-Handed. Huck
would answer. Tom took him to a private place
and opened the matter to him confidentially.
Huck was willing. Huck was always willing to take
a hand in any enterprise that offered entertainment
and required no capital, for he had a troublesome
superabundance of that sort of time which is not money.
“Where’ll we dig?” said Huck.
