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- 3271
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- 2026-01-28T17:35:34.192Z
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- 3158
- text
- They wish They may Drop down dead in Their Tracks if They ever Tell
and Rot.”
Huckleberry was filled with admiration of Tom’s facility in writing, and
the sublimity of his language. He at once took a pin from his lapel and
was going to prick his flesh, but Tom said:
“Hold on! Don’t do that. A pin’s brass. It might have verdigrease on
it.”
“What’s verdigrease?”
“It’s p’ison. That’s what it is. You just swaller some of it once—you’ll
see.”
So Tom unwound the thread from one of his needles, and each boy pricked
the ball of his thumb and squeezed out a drop of blood. In time, after
many squeezes, Tom managed to sign his initials, using the ball of his
little finger for a pen. Then he showed Huckleberry how to make an H and
an F, and the oath was complete. They buried the shingle close to the
wall, with some dismal ceremonies and incantations, and the fetters
that bound their tongues were considered to be locked and the key thrown
away.
A figure crept stealthily through a break in the other end of the ruined
building, now, but they did not notice it.
“Tom,” whispered Huckleberry, “does this keep us from _ever_
telling—_always_?”
“Of course it does. It don’t make any difference _what_ happens, we got
to keep mum. We’d drop down dead—don’t _you_ know that?”
“Yes, I reckon that’s so.”
They continued to whisper for some little time. Presently a dog set up
a long, lugubrious howl just outside—within ten feet of them. The boys
clasped each other suddenly, in an agony of fright.
“Which of us does he mean?” gasped Huckleberry.
“I dono—peep through the crack. Quick!”
“No, _you_, Tom!”
“I can’t—I can’t _do_ it, Huck!”
“Please, Tom. There ’tis again!”
“Oh, lordy, I’m thankful!” whispered Tom. “I know his voice. It’s Bull
Harbison.” *
[* If Mr. Harbison owned a slave named Bull, Tom would have spoken of
him as “Harbison’s Bull,” but a son or a dog of that name was “Bull
Harbison.”]
“Oh, that’s good—I tell you, Tom, I was most scared to death; I’d a bet
anything it was a _stray_ dog.”
The dog howled again. The boys’ hearts sank once more.
“Oh, my! that ain’t no Bull Harbison!” whispered Huckleberry. “_Do_,
Tom!”
Tom, quaking with fear, yielded, and put his eye to the crack. His
whisper was hardly audible when he said:
“Oh, Huck, _it’s a stray dog_!”
“Quick, Tom, quick! Who does he mean?”
“Huck, he must mean us both—we’re right together.”
“Oh, Tom, I reckon we’re goners. I reckon there ain’t no mistake ’bout
where _I’ll_ go to. I been so wicked.”
“Dad fetch it! This comes of playing hookey and doing everything a
feller’s told _not_ to do. I might a been good, like Sid, if I’d a
tried—but no, I wouldn’t, of course. But if ever I get off this time,
I lay I’ll just _waller_ in Sunday-schools!” And Tom began to snuffle a
little.
“_You_ bad!” and Huckleberry began to snuffle too. “Consound it, Tom
Sawyer, you’re just old pie, ’long-side o’ what I am. Oh, _lordy_,
lordy, lordy, I wisht I only had half your chance.”
Tom choked off and whispered:
“Look, Hucky, look! He’s got his _back_ to us!”
Hucky looked, with joy in his heart.
“Well, he has, by jingoes! Did he before?”
“Yes, he did. But I, like a fool, never thought. Oh, this is bully, you
know. _Now_ who can he mean?”
The howling stopped. Tom pricked up his ears.
“Sh! What’s that?” he whispered.
“Sounds like—like hogs grunting. No—it’s somebody snoring, Tom.”
“That _is_ it! Where ’bouts is it, Huck?”
“I bleeve it’s down at ’tother end. Sounds so, anyway. Pap used to sleep
there, sometimes, ’long with the hogs, but laws bless you, he just lifts
things when _he_ snores. Besides, I reckon he ain’t ever coming back to
this town any more.”
The spirit of adventure rose in the boys’ souls once more.
“Hucky, do you das’t to go if I lead?”
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