“They’re mostly dim and smoky, or like
they’re made out of fog, but this one wasn’t.”
“No,” I says; “I seen the goggles
and the whiskers perfectly plain.”
“Yes, and the very colors in them loud countrified
Sunday clothes—plaid breeches, green and
black—”
“Cotton velvet westcot, fire-red and yaller
squares—”
“Leather straps to the bottoms of the breeches
legs and one of them hanging unbottoned—”
“Yes, and that hat—”
“What a hat for a ghost to wear!”
You see it was the first season anybody wore that
kind—a black stiff-brim stove-pipe, very
high, and not smooth, with a round top—just
like a sugar-loaf.
“Did you notice if its hair was the same, Huck?”
“No—seems to me I did, then again
it seems to me I didn’t.”
“I didn’t either; but it had its bag along,
I noticed that.”
“So did I. How can there be a ghost-bag, Tom?”
“Sho! I wouldn’t be as ignorant as
that if I was you, Huck Finn. Whatever a ghost
has, turns to ghost-stuff. They’ve got to
have their things, like anybody else. You see,
yourself, that its clothes was turned to ghost-stuff.
Well, then, what’s to hender its bag from turning,
too? Of course it done it.”
That was reasonable. I couldn’t find no
fault with it. Bill Withers and his brother Jack
come along by, talking, and Jack says:
“What do you reckon he was toting?”
“I dunno; but it was pretty heavy.”
“Yes, all he could lug. Nigger stealing
corn from old Parson Silas, I judged.”
“So did I. And so I allowed I wouldn’t
let on to see him.”
“That’s me, too.”
Then they both laughed, and went on out of hearing.
It showed how unpopular old Uncle Silas had got to
be now. They wouldn’t ‘a’ let
a nigger steal anybody else’s corn and never
done anything to him.
We heard some more voices mumbling along towards us
and getting louder, and sometimes a cackle of a laugh.
It was Lem Beebe and Jim Lane. Jim Lane says:
“Who?—Jubiter Dunlap?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I reckon so.
I seen him spading up some ground along about an
hour ago, just before sundown—him and the
parson. Said he guessed he wouldn’t go
to-night, but we could have his dog if we wanted him.”
“Too tired, I reckon.”
“Yes—works so hard!”
“Oh, you bet!”
They cackled at that, and went on by. Tom said
we better jump out and tag along after them, because
they was going our way and it wouldn’t be comfortable
to run across the ghost all by ourselves. So
we done it, and got home all right.
That night was the second of September—a
Saturday. I sha’n’t ever forget it.
You’ll see why, pretty soon.
We tramped along behind Jim and Lem till we come
to the back stile where old Jim’s cabin was
that he was captivated in, the time we set him free,
and here come the dogs piling around us to say howdy,
and there was the lights of the house, too; so we
warn’t afeard any more, and was going to climb
over, but Tom says:
