WELL, all day him and the king
was hard at it, rigging up a
stage and a curtain and a row
of candles for footlights; and
that night the house was jam
full of men in no time. When
the place couldn't hold no more,
the duke he quit tending door
and went around the back way
and come on to the stage and
stood up before the curtain and
made a little speech, and praised
up this tragedy, and said it
was the most thrillingest one
that ever was; and so he went
on abragging about the tragedy,
and about Edmund Kean the Elder,
which was to play the main principal
part in it; and at last when
he'd got everybody's expectations
up high enough, he rolled up
the curtain, and the next minute
the king come a-prancing out
on all fours, naked; and he was
painted all over, ringstreaked-and-striped,
all sorts of colors, as splendid
as a rainbow. And -- but never
mind the rest of his outfit;
it was just wild, but it was
awful funny. The people most
killed themselves laughing; and
when the king got done capering
and capered off behind the scenes,
they roared and clapped and stormed
and hawhawed till he come back
and done it over again, and after
that they made him do it another
time. Well, it would make a cow
laugh to see the shines that
old
idiot cut.
Then the duke he lets the curtain
down, and bows to the people,
and says the great tragedy will
be performed only two nights
more, on accounts of pressing
London engagements, where the
seats is all sold already for
it in Drury Lane; and then he
makes them another bow, and says
if he has succeeded in pleasing
them and instructing them, he
will be deeply obleeged if they
will mention it to their friends
and get them to come and see
it.
Twenty people sings out:
"What, is it
over? Is that ALL?"
The duke says
yes. Then there was a fine
time. Everybody sings
out, "Sold!" and rose up mad,
and was a-going for that stage
and them tragedians. But a big,
fine looking man jumps up on
a bench and shouts:
"Hold on! Just a word, gentlemen." They
stopped to listen. "We are sold
-- mighty badly sold. But we
don't want to be the laughing
stock of this whole town, I reckon,
and never hear the last of this
thing as long as we live. NO.
What we want is to go out of
here quiet, and talk this show
up, and sell the REST of the
town! Then we'll all be in the
same boat. Ain't that sensible?" ("You
bet it is! -- the jedge is right!" everybody
sings out.) "All right, then
-- not a word about any sell.
Go along home, and advise everybody
to come and see the tragedy."
Next day you couldn't hear
nothing around that town but
how splendid that show was. House
was jammed again that night,
and we sold this crowd the same
way. When me and the king and
the duke got home to the raft
we all had a supper; and by and
by, about midnight, they made
Jim and me back her out and float
her down the middle of the river,
and fetch her in and hide her
about two mile below town.
The third night the house was
crammed again -- and they warn't
new-comers this time, but people
that was at the show the other
two nights. I stood by the duke
at the door, and I see that every
man that went in had his pockets
bulging, or something muffled
up under his coat -- and I see
it warn't no perfumery, neither,
not by a long sight. I smelt
sickly eggs by the barrel, and
rotten cabbages, and such things;
and if I know the signs of a
dead cat being around, and I
bet I do, there was sixty-four
of them went in. I shoved in
there for a minute, but it was
too various for me; I couldn't
stand it. Well, when the place
couldn't hold no more people
the duke he give a fellow a quarter
and told him to tend door for
him a minute, and then he started
around for the stage door, I
after him; but the minute we
turned the corner and was in
the dark he says:
"Walk fast
now till you get away from
the houses, and then
shin for the raft like the dickens
was after you!"
I done it, and he done the
same. We struck the raft at the
same time, and in less than two
seconds we was gliding down stream,
all dark and still, and edging
towards the middle of the river,
nobody saying a word. I reckoned
the poor king was in for a gaudy
time of it with the audience,
but nothing of the sort; pretty
soon he crawls out from under
the wigwam, and says:
"Well, how'd the old thing
pan out this time, duke?" He
hadn't been up-town at all.
We never showed a light till
we was about ten mile below the
village. Then we lit up and had
a supper, and the king and the
duke fairly laughed their bones
loose over the way they'd served
them people. The duke says:
"Greenhorns,
flatheads! I knew the first
house would keep mum
and let the rest of the town
get roped in; and I knew they'd
lay for us the third night, and
consider it was THEIR turn now.
Well, it IS their turn, and I'd
give something to know how much
they'd take for it. I WOULD just
like to know how they're putting
in their opportunity. They can
turn it into a picnic if they
want to -- they brought plenty
provisions."
Them rapscallions took in four
hundred and sixtyfive dollars
in that three nights. I never
see money hauled in by the wagon-load
like that before. By and by,
when they was asleep and snoring,
Jim says:
"Don't it s'prise
you de way dem kings carries
on, Huck?"
"No," I says, "it
don't."
"Why don't
it, Huck?"
"Well, it don't,
because it's in the breed.
I reckon they're
all alike,"
"But, Huck,
dese kings o' ourn is reglar
rapscallions; dat's
jist what dey is; dey's reglar
rapscallions."
"Well, that's
what I'm a-saying; all kings
is mostly rapscallions,
as fur as I can make out."
"Is dat so?"
"You read about
them once -- you'll see. Look
at Henry the
Eight; this 'n 's a Sunday-school
Superintendent to HIM. And look
at Charles Second, and Louis
Fourteen, and Louis Fifteen,
and James Second, and Edward
Second, and Richard Third, and
forty more; besides all them
Saxon heptarchies that used to
rip around so in old times and
raise Cain. My, you ought to
seen old Henry the Eight when
he was in bloom. He WAS a blossom.
He used to marry a new wife every
day, and chop off her head next
morning. And he would do it just
as indifferent as if he was ordering
up eggs. 'Fetch up Nell Gwynn,'
he says. They fetch her up. Next
morning, 'Chop off her head!'
And they chop it off. 'Fetch
up Jane Shore,' he says; and
up she comes, Next morning, 'Chop
off her head' -- and they chop
it off. 'Ring up Fair Rosamun.'
Fair Rosamun answers the bell.
Next morning, 'Chop off her head.'
And he made every one of them
tell him a tale every night;
and he kept that up till he had
hogged a thousand and one tales
that way, and then he put them
all in a book, and called it
Domesday Book -- which was a
good name and stated the case.
You don't know kings, Jim, but
I know them; and this old rip
of ourn is one of the cleanest
I've struck in history. Well,
Henry he takes a notion he wants
to get up some trouble with this
country. How does he go at it
-- give notice? -- give the country
a show? No. All of a sudden he
heaves all the tea in Boston
Harbor overboard, and whacks
out a declaration of independence,
and dares them to come on. That
was HIS style -- he never give
anybody a chance. He had suspicions
of his father, the Duke of Wellington.
Well, what did he do? Ask him
to show up? No -- drownded him
in a butt of mamsey, like a cat.
S'pose people left money laying
around where he was -- what did
he do? He collared it. S'pose
he contracted to do a thing,
and you paid him, and didn't
set down there and see that he
done it -- what did he do? He
always done the other thing.
S'pose he opened his mouth --
what then? If he didn't shut
it up powerful quick he'd lose
a lie every time. That's the
kind of a bug Henry was; and
if we'd a had him along 'stead
of our kings he'd a fooled that
town a heap worse than ourn done.
I don't say that ourn is lambs,
because they ain't, when you
come right down to the cold facts;
but they ain't nothing to THAT
old ram, anyway. All I say is,
kings is kings, and you got to
make allowances. Take them all
around, they're a mighty ornery
lot. It's the way they're raised."
"But dis one
do SMELL so like de nation,
Huck."
"Well, they
all do, Jim. We can't help
the way a king smells;
history don't tell no way."
"Now de duke,
he's a tolerble likely man
in some ways."
"Yes, a duke's
different. But not very different.
This one's
a middling hard lot for a duke.
When he's drunk there ain't no
near-sighted man could tell him
from a king."
"Well, anyways,
I doan' hanker for no mo' un
um, Huck. Dese
is all I kin stan'."
"It's the way
I feel, too, Jim. But we've
got them on our
hands, and we got to remember
what they are, and make allowances.
Sometimes I wish we could hear
of a country that's out of kings."
What was the use to tell Jim
these warn't real kings and dukes?
It wouldn't a done no good; and,
besides, it was just as I said:
you couldn't tell them from the
real kind.
I went to sleep,
and Jim didn't call me when
it was my turn.
He often done that. When I waked
up just at daybreak he was sitting
there with his head down betwixt
his knees, moaning and mourning
to himself. I didn't take notice
nor let on. I knowed what it
was about. He was thinking about
his wife and his children, away
up yonder, and he was low and
homesick; because he hadn't ever
been away from home before in
his life; and I do believe he
cared just as much for his people
as white folks does for their'n.
It don't seem natural, but I
reckon it's so. He was often
moaning and mourning that way
nights, when he judged I was
asleep, and saying, "Po' little
'Lizabeth! po' little Johnny!
it's mighty hard; I spec' I ain't
ever gwyne to see you no mo',
no mo'!" He was a mighty good
nigger, Jim was.
But this time I somehow got
to talking to him about his wife
and young ones; and by and by
he says:
"What makes
me feel so bad dis time 'uz
bekase I hear sumpn
over yonder on de bank like a
whack, er a slam, while ago,
en it mine me er de time I treat
my little 'Lizabeth so ornery.
She warn't on'y 'bout fo' year
ole, en she tuck de sk'yarlet
fever, en had a powful rough
spell; but she got well, en one
day she was a-stannin' aroun',
en I says to her, I says:
"'Shet de do'.'
"She never
done it; jis' stood dah, kiner
smilin' up at me.
It make me mad; en I says agin,
mighty loud, I says:
"'Doan' you
hear me? Shet de do'!'
"She jis stood
de same way, kiner smilin'
up. I was a-bilin'!
I says:
"'I lay I MAKE
you mine!'
"En wid dat
I fetch' her a slap side de
head dat sont her
a-sprawlin'. Den I went into
de yuther room, en 'uz gone 'bout
ten minutes; en when I come back
dah was dat do' a-stannin' open
YIT, en dat chile stannin' mos'
right in it, a-lookin' down and
mournin', en de tears runnin'
down. My, but I WUZ mad! I was
a-gwyne for de chile, but jis'
den -- it was a do' dat open
innerds -- jis' den, 'long come
de wind en slam it to, behine
de chile, ker-BLAM! -- en my
lan', de chile never move'! My
breff mos' hop outer me; en I
feel so -- so -- I doan' know
HOW I feel. I crope out, all
a-tremblin', en crope aroun'
en open de do' easy en slow,
en poke my head in behine de
chile, sof' en still, en all
uv a sudden I says POW! jis'
as loud as I could yell. SHE
NEVER BUDGE! Oh, Huck, I bust
out a-cryin' en grab her up in
my arms, en say, 'Oh, de po'
little thing! De Lord God Amighty
fogive po' ole Jim, kaze he never
gwyne to fogive hisself as long's
he live!' Oh, she was plumb deef
en dumb, Huck, plumb deef en
dumb -- en I'd ben atreat'n her
so!" |