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- 7592
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-28T02:27:44.719Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 7516
- text
- marks of blood. They found none, but captured a bulky bundle of—
“Of _what_?”
If the words had been lightning they could not have leaped with a more
stunning suddenness from Huck’s blanched lips. His eyes were staring
wide, now, and his breath suspended—waiting for the answer. The Welshman
started—stared in return—three seconds—five seconds—ten—then replied:
“Of burglar’s tools. Why, what’s the _matter_ with you?”
Huck sank back, panting gently, but deeply, unutterably grateful. The
Welshman eyed him gravely, curiously—and presently said:
“Yes, burglar’s tools. That appears to relieve you a good deal. But what
did give you that turn? What were _you_ expecting we’d found?”
Huck was in a close place—the inquiring eye was upon him—he would have
given anything for material for a plausible answer—nothing suggested
itself—the inquiring eye was boring deeper and deeper—a senseless
reply offered—there was no time to weigh it, so at a venture he uttered
it—feebly:
“Sunday-school books, maybe.”
Poor Huck was too distressed to smile, but the old man laughed loud and
joyously, shook up the details of his anatomy from head to foot, and
ended by saying that such a laugh was money in a man’s pocket, because
it cut down the doctor’s bill like everything. Then he added:
“Poor old chap, you’re white and jaded—you ain’t well a bit—no wonder
you’re a little flighty and off your balance. But you’ll come out of it.
Rest and sleep will fetch you out all right, I hope.”
Huck was irritated to think he had been such a goose and betrayed such
a suspicious excitement, for he had dropped the idea that the parcel
brought from the tavern was the treasure, as soon as he had heard the
talk at the widow’s stile. He had only thought it was not the treasure,
however—he had not known that it wasn’t—and so the suggestion of a
captured bundle was too much for his self-possession. But on the whole
he felt glad the little episode had happened, for now he knew beyond all
question that that bundle was not _the_ bundle, and so his mind was
at rest and exceedingly comfortable. In fact, everything seemed to be
drifting just in the right direction, now; the treasure must be still
in No. 2, the men would be captured and jailed that day, and he and
Tom could seize the gold that night without any trouble or any fear of
interruption.
Just as breakfast was completed there was a knock at the door. Huck
jumped for a hiding-place, for he had no mind to be connected even
remotely with the late event. The Welshman admitted several ladies and
gentlemen, among them the Widow Douglas, and noticed that groups of
citizens were climbing up the hill—to stare at the stile. So the news
had spread. The Welshman had to tell the story of the night to the
visitors. The widow’s gratitude for her preservation was outspoken.
“Don’t say a word about it, madam. There’s another that you’re more
beholden to than you are to me and my boys, maybe, but he don’t allow me
to tell his name. We wouldn’t have been there but for him.”
Of course this excited a curiosity so vast that it almost belittled the
main matter—but the Welshman allowed it to eat into the vitals of his
visitors, and through them be transmitted to the whole town, for he
refused to part with his secret. When all else had been learned, the
widow said:
“I went to sleep reading in bed and slept straight through all that
noise. Why didn’t you come and wake me?”
“We judged it warn’t worth while. Those fellows warn’t likely to come
again—they hadn’t any tools left to work with, and what was the use of
waking you up and scaring you to death? My three negro men stood guard
at your house all the rest of the night. They’ve just come back.”
More visitors came, and the story had to be told and retold for a couple
of hours more.
- title
- Chunk 3