Chapter XXXV
 
 The  reader  may  rest  satisfied that Tom's and Huck's windfall made a
mighty stir in the poor little village of St. Petersburg. So vast a sum,
all in actual cash, seemed next to incredible. It was talked about,
gloated over, glorified, until the reason of many of the citizens tottered
under the strain of the unhealthy excitement. Every "haunted" house in St.
Petersburg and the neighboring villages was dissected, plank by plank, and
its foundations dug up and ransacked for hidden treasure-and not by boys,
but men-pretty grave, unromantic men, too, some of them. Wherever Tom and
Huck appeared they were courted, admired, stared at. The boys were not
able to remember that their remarks had possessed weight before; but now
their sayings were treasured and repeated; everything they did seemed
somehow to be regarded as remarkable; they had evidently lost the power of
doing and saying commonplace things; moreover, their past history was
raked up and discovered to bear marks of conspicuous originality. The
village paper published biographical sketches of the boys.
The Widow Douglas put Huck's money out at six per cent., and Judge
Thatcher did the same with Tom's at Aunt Polly's request. Each lad had an
income, now, that was simply prodigious-a dollar for every week-day in the
year and half of the Sundays. It was just what the minister got-no, it was
what he was promised-he generally couldn't collect it. A dollar and a
quarter a week would board, lodge, and school a boy in those old simple
days-and clothe him and wash him, too, for that matter.
Judge Thatcher had conceived a great opinion of Tom. He said that no
commonplace boy would ever have got his daughter out of the cave. When
Becky told her father, in strict confidence, how Tom had taken her
whipping at school, the Judge was visibly moved; and when she pleaded
grace for the mighty lie which Tom had told in order to shift that
whipping from her shoulders to his own, the Judge said with a fine
outburst that it was a noble, a generous, a magnanimous lie-a lie that was
worthy to hold up its head and march down through history breast to breast
with George Washington's lauded Truth about the hatchet! Becky thought her
father had never looked so tall and so superb as when he walked the floor
and stamped his foot and said that. She went straight off and told Tom
about it.
Judge Thatcher hoped to see Tom a great lawyer or a great soldier some
day. He said he meant to look to it that Tom should be admitted to the
National Military Academy and afterward trained in the best law school in
the country, in order that he might be ready for either career or both.
Huck Finn's wealth and the fact that he was now under the Widow
Douglas' protection introduced him into society-no, dragged him into it,
hurled him into it-and his sufferings were almost more than he could bear.
The widow's servants kept him clean and neat, combed and brushed, and they
bedded him nightly in unsympathetic sheets that had not one little spot or
stain which he could press to his heart and know for a friend. He had to
eat with a knife and fork; he had to use napkin, cup, and plate; he had to
learn his book, he had to go to church; he had to talk so properly that
speech was become insipid in his mouth; whithersoever he turned, the bars
and shackles of civilization shut him in and bound him hand and foot.
He bravely bore his miseries three weeks, and then one day turned up
missing. For forty-eight hours the widow hunted for him everywhere in
great distress. The public were profoundly concerned; they searched high
and low, they dragged the river for his body. Early the third morning Tom
Sawyer wisely went poking among some old empty hogsheads down behind the
abandoned slaughter-house, and in one of them he found the refugee. Huck
had slept there; he had just breakfasted upon some stolen odds and ends of
food, and was lying off, now, in comfort, with his pipe. He was unkempt,
uncombed, and clad in the same old ruin of rags that had made him
picturesque in the days when he was free and happy. Tom routed him out,
told him the trouble he had been causing, and urged him to go home. Huck's
face lost its tranquil content, and took a melancholy cast. He said:
"Don't talk about it, Tom. I've tried it, and it don't work; it don't
work, Tom. It ain't for me; I ain't used to it. The widder's good to me,
and friendly; but I can't stand them ways. She makes me get up just at the
same time every morning; she makes me wash, they comb me all to thunder;
she won't let me sleep in the woodshed; I got to wear them blamed clothes
that just smothers me, Tom; they don't seem to any air git through 'em,
somehow; and they're so rotten nice that I can't set down, nor lay down,
nor roll around anywher's; I hain't slid on a cellar-door for-well, it
'pears to be years; I got to go to church and sweat and sweat-I hate them
ornery sermons! I can't ketch a fly in there, I can't chaw. I got to wear
shoes all Sunday. The widder eats by a bell; she goes to bed by a bell;
she gits up by a bell-everything's so awful reg'lar a body can't stand
it."
"Well, everybody does that way, Huck."
"Tom, it don't make no difference. I ain't everybody, and I can't STAND
it. It's awful to be tied up so. And grub comes too easy-I don't take no
interest in vittles, that way. I got to ask to go a-fishing; I got to ask
to go in a-swimming-dern'd if I hain't got to ask to do everything. Well,
I'd got to talk so nice it wasn't no comfort-I'd got to go up in the attic
and rip out awhile, every day, to git a taste in my mouth, or I'd a died,
Tom. The widder wouldn't let me smoke; she wouldn't let me yell, she
wouldn't let me gape, nor stretch, nor scratch, before folks-" [Then with
a spasm of special irritation and injury]-"And dad fetch it, she prayed
all the time! I never see such a woman! I HAD to shove, Tom-I just had to.
And besides, that school's going to open, and I'd a had to go to it-well,
I wouldn't stand THAT, Tom. Lookyhere, Tom, being rich ain't what it's
cracked up to be. It's just worry and worry, and sweat and sweat, and
a-wishing you was dead all the time. Now these clothes suits me, and this
bar'l suits me, and I ain't ever going to shake 'em any more. Tom, I
wouldn't ever got into all this trouble if it hadn't 'a' ben for that
money; now you just take my sheer of it along with your'n, and gimme a
ten-center sometimes-not many times, becuz I don't give a dern for a thing
'thout it's tollable hard to git-and you go and beg off for me with the
widder."
"Oh, Huck, you know I can't do that. 'Tain't fair; and besides if
you'll try this thing just a while longer you'll come to like it."
"Like it! Yes-the way I'd like a hot stove if I was to set on it long
enough. No, Tom, I won't be rich, and I won't live in them cussed smothery
houses. I like the woods, and the river, and hogsheads, and I'll stick to
'em, too. Blame it all! just as we'd got guns, and a cave, and all just
fixed to rob, here this dern foolishness has got to come up and spile it
all!"
Tom saw his opportunity-
"Lookyhere, Huck, being rich ain't going to keep me back from turning
robber."
"No! Oh, good-licks; are you in real dead-wood earnest, Tom?"
"Just as dead earnest as I'm sitting here. But Huck, we can't let you
into the gang if you ain't respectable, you know."
Huck's joy was quenched.
"Can't let me in, Tom? Didn't you let me go for a pirate?"
"Yes, but that's different. A robber is more hightoned than what a
pirate is-as a general thing. In most countries they're awful high up in
the nobility-dukes and such."
"Now, Tom, hain't you always ben friendly to me? You wouldn't shet me
out, would you, Tom? You wouldn't do that, now, WOULD you, Tom?"
"Huck, I wouldn't want to, and I DON'T want to-but what would people
say? Why, they'd say, 'Mph! Tom Sawyer's Gang! pretty low characters in
it!' They'd mean you, Huck. You wouldn't like that, and I wouldn't."
Huck was silent for some time, engaged in a mental struggle. Finally he
said:
"Well, I'll go back to the widder for a month and tackle it and see if
I can come to stand it, if you'll let me b'long to the gang, Tom."
"All right, Huck, it's a whiz! Come along, old chap, and I'll ask the
widow to let up on you a little, Huck."
"Will you, Tom-now will you? That's good. If she'll let up on some of
the roughest things, I'll smoke private and cuss private, and crowd
through or bust. When you going to start the gang and turn robbers?"
"Oh, right off. We'll get the boys together and have the initiation
to-night, maybe."
"Have the which?"
"Have the initiation."
"What's that?"
"It's to swear to stand by one another, and never tell the gang's
secrets, even if you're chopped all to flinders, and kill anybody and all
his family that hurts one of the gang."
"That's gay-that's mighty gay, Tom, I tell you."
"Well, I bet it is. And all that swearing's got to be done at midnight,
in the lonesomest, awfulest place you can find-a ha'nted house is the
best, but they're all ripped up now."
"Well, midnight's good, anyway, Tom."
"Yes, so it is. And you've got to swear on a coffin, and sign it with
blood."
"Now, that's something LIKE! Why, it's a million times bullier than
pirating. I'll stick to the widder till I rot, Tom; and if I git to be a
reg'lar ripper of a robber, and everybody talking 'bout it, I reckon
she'll be proud she snaked me in out of the wet."