The Adventures of Tom Sawyer

скачать книгу бесплатно


‘Now,’ said Joe, getting up, ‘you got to let me kill you. That’s fair.’

‘Why, I can’t do that. It ain’t in the book.’

‘Well, it’s blamed mean. That’s all.’

‘Well, say Joe, you can be Friar Tuck, or Much the Miller’s son, and lam me with a quarter-staff; or I’ll be the Sheriff of Nottingham, and you be Robin Hood a little while, and kill me.’

This was satisfactory, and so these adventures were carried out. Then Tom became Robin Hood again, and was allowed by the treacherous nun to bleed his strength away through his neglected wound. And at last Joe, representing a whole tribe of weeping outlaws, dragged him sadly forth, gave his bow into his feeble hands, and Tom said, ‘Where this arrow falls, there bury poor Robin Hood under the greenwood tree’ Then he shot the arrow, and fell back, and would have died; but he lit on a nettle, and sprang up too gaily for a corpse.

The boys dressed themselves, hid their accoutrements, and went off grieving that there were no outlaws any more, and wondering what modern civilization could claim to have done to compensate for their loss. They said they would rather be outlaws a year in Sherwood Forest than President of the United States for ever.

CHAPTER 9 (#ulink_2ee26cdd-e756-5f26-81e8-2f6b93922bd0)

At half-past nine that night, Tom and Sid were sent to bed as usual. They said their prayers, and Sid was soon asleep. Tom lay awake and waited in restless impatience. When it seemed to him that it must be nearly daylight, he heard the clock strike ten! This was despair. He would have tossed and fidgeted, as his nerves demanded, but he was afraid he might wake Sid. So he lay still and stared up into the dark. Everything was dismally still. By and by, out of the stillness little, scarcely perceptible noises began to emphasize themselves. The ticking of the clock began to bring itself into notice. Old beams began to crack mysteriously. The stairs creaked faintly. Evidently spirits were abroad. A measured, muffled snore issued from Aunt Polly’s chamber. And now the tiresome chirping of a cricket that no human ingenuity could locate, began. Next the ghastly ticking of a death-watch in the wall at the bed’s head made Tom shudder – it meant that somebody’s days were numbered. Then the howl of a far-off dog rose on the night air and was answered by a fainter howl from a remoter distance. Tom was in an agony. At last he was satisfied that time had ceased and eternity begun; he began to doze in spite of himself; the clock chimed eleven, but he did not hear it. And then there came, mingling with his half-formed dreams, a most melancholy caterwauling. The raising of a neighbouring window disturbed him. A cry of ‘Scat! you devil!’ and the crash of an empty bottle against the back of his aunt’s wood-shed brought him wide awake, and a single minute later he was dressed and out of the window and creeping along the roof of the ‘ell’ on all fours. He ‘meow’d’ with caution once or twice as he went; then jumped to the roof of the wood-shed, and thence to the ground. Huckleberry Finn was there, with his dead cat. The boys moved off and disappeared in the gloom. At the end of half an hour they were wading through the tall grass of the graveyard.

It was a graveyard of the old-fashioned western kind. It was on a hill, about a mile and a half from the village. It had a crazy board-fence around it, which leaned inward in places, and outward the rest of the time, but stood upright nowhere. Grass and weeds grew rank over the whole cemetery. All the old graves were sunken in. There was not a tombstone on the place; round-topped, worm-eaten boards staggered over the graves, leaning for support and finding none. ‘Sacred to the memory of’ So-and-so had been painted on them once, but it could no longer have been read, on the most of them, now, even if there had been light.

A faint wind moaned through the trees, and Tom feared it might be the spirits of the dead complaining at being disturbed. The boys talked little, and only under their breath, for the time and the place and the pervading solemnity and silence oppressed their spirits. They found the sharp new heap they were seeking, and ensconced themselves within the protection of three great elms that grew in a bunch within a few feet of the grave.

Then they waited in silence for what seemed a long time. The hooting of a distant owl was all the sound that troubled the dead stillness. Tom’s reflections grew oppressive. He must force some talk. So he said in a whisper:

‘Hucky, do you believe the dead people like it for us to be here?’

Huckleberry whispered:

‘I wisht I knowed. It’s awful solemn like, ain’t it?’

‘I bet it is.’

There was a considerable pause, while the boys canvassed this matter inwardly. Then Tom whispered:

‘Say, Hucky – do you reckon Hoss Williams hears us talking?’

‘O ’course he does. Least his spirit does.’

Tom, after a pause:

‘I wish I’d said Mister Williams. But I never meant any harm. Everybody calls him Hoss.’

‘A body can’t be too particular how they talk ’bout these yer dead people, Tom.’

This was a damper, and conversation died again. Presently Tom seized his comrade’s arm and said:

‘Sh!’

‘What is it, Tom?’ And the two clung together with beating hearts.

‘Sh! There ’tis again! Didn’t you hear it?’

‘I—’

‘There! Now you hear it!’

‘Lord, Tom, they’re coming! They’re coming, sure. What’ll we do?’

‘I dono. Think they’ll see us?’

‘Oh, Tom, they can see in the dark, same as cats. I wish I hadn’t come.’

‘Oh, don’t be afeard. I don’t believe they’ll bother us. We ain’t doing any harm. If we keep perfectly still, maybe, they won’t notice us at all.’

‘I’ll try to, Tom, but, Lord! I’m all of a shiver.’

‘Listen!’

The boys bent their heads together and scarcely breathed. A muffled sound of voices floated up from the far end of the graveyard.

‘Look! see there!’ whispered Tom. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s devil-fire. Oh, Tom, this is awful.’

Some vague figures approached through the gloom, swinging an old-fashioned tin lantern that freckled the ground with innumerable little spangles of light. Presently Huckleberry whispered with a shudder:

‘It’s the devils, sure enough. Three of ’em? Lordy, Tom, we’re goners! Can you pray?’

‘I’ll try, but don’t you be afeard. They ain’t going to hurt us. “Now I lay me down to sleep, I –”’

‘Sh!’

‘What is it, Huck?’

‘They’re humans! One of ’em is, anyway. One of ’em’s old Muff Potter’s voice.’

‘No—’tain’t so, is it?’

‘I bet I know it. Don’t you stir nor budge. He ain’t sharp enough to notice us. Drunk, same as usual, likely – blamed old rip!’

‘All right, I’ll keep still. Now they’re stuck. Can’t find it. Here they come again. Now they’re hot. Cold again. Hot again. Red hot! They’re pinted right, this time. Say, Huck, I know another o’ them voices; it’s Injun Joe.’

‘That’s so – that murderin’ half-breed! I’d druther they was devils a dern sight. What kin they be up to?’

The whispers died wholly out now, for the three men had reached the grave, and stood within a few feet of the boys’ hiding-place.

‘Here it is,’ said the third voice; and the owner of it held the lantern up and revealed the face of young Dr. Robinson.

Potter and Injun Joe were carrying a handbarrow with a rope and a couple of shovels on it. They cast down their load and began to open the grave. The doctor put the lantern at the head of the grave, and came and sat down with his back against one of the elm-trees. He was so close the boys could have touched him.

‘Hurry, men!’ he said in a low voice. ‘The moon might come out at any moment.’

They growled a response and went on digging. For some time there was no noise but the grating sound of the spades discharging their freight of mould and gravel. It was very monotonous. Finally a spade struck upon the coffin with a dull, woody accent, and within another minute or two the men had hoisted it out on the ground. They prised off the lid with their shovels, got out the body and dumped it rudely on the ground. The moon drifted from behind the clouds and exposed the pallid face. The barrow was got ready and the corpse placed on it, covered with a blanket, and bound to its place with the rope. Potter took out a large spring-knife and cut off the dangling end of the rope, and then said: