"Come in," she says, and I did. She says: "Take a chair."
I done it. She looked me over with her little dark eyes, and says: "What might your name be?"
"Sarah Williams."
"Where about do you live? Near here?"
"No, ma'am. In Hookerville, seven mile below. I’ve walked all the way and I’m all tired out."
"Hungry, too, I think. I’ll find you something."
"No, ma'am, I ain’t hungry. I was so hungry I had to stop two miles below here at a farm; so I ain’t hungry no more. It’s what makes me so late. My mother’s down sick, and out of money and everything, and I come to tell my Uncle Abner Moore. He lives at the top end of the town, she says. I ain’t ever been here before. Do you know him?"
"No; but I don’t know everybody yet. I haven’t lived here quite two weeks. It’s a long way to the top end of the town. You better stay here all night. Take off your hat."
"No," I says; "I’ll rest up, and go on. I ain’t afraid of the dark."
She said she wouldn’t let me go by myself, but her husband would be in by and by, maybe in an hour and a half, and she’d send him along with me. Then she got to talking about her husband, and about her family up the river, and her family down the river, and about how much better off they was before, and how they didn’t know but they’d done the wrong thing coming to our town, instead of letting good enough alone -- and so on and so on, until I was afraid I done the wrong thing coming to her to find out what was going on in the town; but by and by she dropped on to pap and the killing, and then I was pretty happy to let her go right on talking. She told about me and Tom Sawyer finding the six thousand dollars (only she got it ten) and all about pap and what a hard lot he was, and what a hard lot I was, and at last she got down to where I was killed.
I says: "Who done it? We’ve heard about this down in Hookerville, but we don’t know who it was that killed Huck Finn."
"Well, as I see it, there’s a lot of people here that’d like to know who killed him too. Some think old Finn done it himself."
"No -- is that so?"
"Most everybody thought it at first. He’ll never know how close he come to being hanged. But that night they changed around and judged it was done by a runaway slave named Jim."
"Why he -- "
I stopped. I thought I better keep quiet. She run on, and never saw I had put in at all:
"That slave run off the very night Huck Finn was killed. So there’s a reward out for him -- three hundred dollars. And there’s a reward out for old Finn, too -- two hundred dollars. You see, he come to town the morning after the killing, and told about it, and was out with ‘em on the ferry hunt, and right away after he up and left. Before night they wanted to hang him, but he was gone, you see. Well, next day they found out the slave was gone; they found out he hadn’t been seen since ten o’clock the night the killing was done. So then they put it on him, you see; and while they was full of it, next day, back comes old Finn, and went crying to Judge Thatcher to get money to hunt for the slave all over Illinois with. The judge gave him some, and that night he got drunk, and was around until after midnight with two very hard-looking strangers, and then went off with them. Well, he ain’t come back since, and they ain’t looking for him back until this thing blows over a little, for people thinks now that he killed his boy and fixed things so people would think robbers done it, and then he’d get Huck’s money without having to wait a long time for the court. People do say he weren’t any too good to do it. Oh, he’s smart, I say. If he don’t come back for a year he’ll be all right. You can’t prove anything on him, you know; everything will be quieted down then, and he’ll walk in and take Huck’s money as easy as nothing."
"Yes, I think so, ma’am. I don’t see nothing in the way of it. Has everybody quit thinking the slave done it?"
"Oh, no, not everybody. A good many thinks he done it. But they’ll get the Black pretty soon now, and maybe they can scare it out of him."
"Why? Are they after him yet?"
"Well, you’re such a sweet thing, ain’t you! Does three hundred dollars lay around every day for people to pick up? Some people think the slave ain’t far from here. I’m one of them -- but I ain’t talked it around. A few days ago I was talking with an old man and woman that lives next door in the log cabin, and they happened to say nobody don't ever go to that island over there that they call Jackson’s Island. ‘Don’t anyone live there?’ says I. ‘No, nobody,’ says they. I didn’t say any more, but I done some thinking. I was pretty near sure I’d seen smoke over there, about the head of the island, a day or two before that, so I says to myself, like as not that slave’s hiding over there; anyway, says I, it’s worth the trouble to give the place a hunt. I ain’t seen any smoke since, so I think maybe he’s gone, if it was him; but my husband’s going over to see -- him and another man. He was gone up the river; but he got back today, and I told him as soon as he got here two hours ago."
I had got so worried I couldn’t sit in one place. I had to do something with my hands; so I took up a needle off of the table and went to threading it. My hands shook, and I was making a bad job of it. When the woman stopped talking I looked up, and she was looking at me pretty strange and smiling a little. I put down the needle and thread, and let on to be interested -- and I was, too -- and says: "Three hundred dollars is a lot of money. I wish my mother could get it. Is your husband going over there tonight?"
"Oh, yes. He went up to town with the man I was telling you of, to get a boat and see if they could find another gun. They’ll go over after midnight."
"Couldn’t they see better if they was to wait until morning?"
"Yes. And couldn’t the black man see better, too? After midnight he’ll probably be asleep, and they can move around through the trees and hunt up his camp fire all the better for the dark, if he’s got one."
"I didn’t think of that."
The woman kept looking at me pretty strangely, and I didn’t feel at all comfortable. Pretty soon she says: "What did you say your name was, honey?"
"M -- Mary Williams."
It didn’t seem to me that I said it was Mary before, so I didn’t lookup—seemed to me I said it was Sarah; so I felt kind of in a corner, and was afraid maybe I was looking it, too. I wished the woman would say something more; the longer she did nothing the more worried I was.
But now she says: "Honey, I thought you said it was Sarah when you first come in?"
"Oh, yes ma’am, I did. Sarah Mary Williams. Sarah’s my first name. Some calls me Sarah, some calls me Mary."
"Oh, that’s the way of it?"
"Yes ma’am."
I was feeling better then, but I wished I was out of there, anyway. I couldn’t look up yet.
Well, the woman fell to talking about how hard times was, and how poor they had to live, and how the rats was as free as if they owned the place, and on and on, and then I got re- laxed again. She was right about the rats. You’d see one put his nose out of a hole in the corner every little while. She said she had to have things close by to throw at them when she was alone, or they wouldn’t give her no rest. She showed me a bar of soft metal turned around itself into a ball, and said she was good at throwing it most times, but she’d pulled her arm a day or two ago, and didn’t know if she could throw true now. But she watched for them, and soon banged away at a rat; but she missed him wide, and said "Ow!" it hurt her arm so. Then she told me to try for the next one. I wanted to be getting away before the old man got back, but I weren’t stupid enough to let on. I got the thing, and the first rat that showed his nose I let go, and if he’d a stayed where he was he’d a been a very sick rat. She said that was very good, and she believed I would kill the next one. She went and got the ball of metal and brought it back, and brought along knitting thread which she wanted me to help her with. I held up my two hands and she put the circles of thread over them, and went on talking about her and her husband’s business. But she cut herself off to say: "Keep your eye on the rats. You better have the ball on your lap, where you can get it."
So she dropped the ball into my lap just that same second, and I squeezed my legs together on it and she went on talking. But only about a minute. Then she took off the thread and looked me straight in the face, and very nicely she says: "Come, now, what’s your real name?"
"Wh -- what, ma’am?"
"What’s your real name? Is it Bill? Tom? Bob? What is it?"
I think I was shaking like a leaf, and I didn’t know what to do. But I says: "Please don’t make fun of a poor girl like me, ma’am. If I’m in the way here, I’ll just..."
"No, you won’t. Sit down and stay where you are. I ain’t going to hurt you, and I ain’t going to tell on you, either. You just tell me your secret, and trust me. I’ll keep it; and, what’s more, I’ll help you. So will my old man if you want him to. You see, you’ve done run away that’s all. It ain’t anything. There ain’t nothing wrong with it. You’ve been hurt, and you made up your mind to cut. Bless you, child, I wouldn’t tell on you. Tell me all about it now, that’s a good boy."
So I said it wouldn’t be no use to try to play it any longer, and I would tell her everything, but she mustn’t go back on her promise. Then I told her my father and mother was dead, and the law had given me to a cruel old farmer in the country thirty mile back from the river, and he was so cruel I couldn’t take it no more; he went away for a few days, and so I made my move and took some of his daughter’s old clothes and left, and I had been three nights coming the thirty miles. I traveled nights, and rested days, and the bag of bread and meat I carried from home was enough for all the way there. I said I believed my Uncle Abner Moore would take care of me, and so that was why I had headed for this town of Goshen.
"Goshen, child? This ain’t Goshen. This is St. Petersburg. Goshen’s ten mile farther up. Who told you this was Goshen?"
"Why, a man I met first thing this morning, just as I was going to turn into the trees for my sleep. He told me when the roads separated into two, I must take the right side, and five miles would bring me to Goshen."
"He was drunk, I’d say. He told you opposite to what's true."
"Well, he did act like he was drunk, but it ain’t no different now. I got to be moving along. I’ll be in Goshen before morning."
"Hold on. I’ll fix you some food to eat. You might need it."
So she put me up some food, and says: "Say, when a cow’s laying down, which end of her gets up first? Answer up quickly now -- don’t stop to study over it. Which end gets up first?"
"The back end, ma’am."
"Well, then, a horse?"
"The front end, ma’am."
"If fifteen cows is eating on the side of a hill, how many of
them eats with their heads pointed the same direction?"
"The whole fifteen, mum."
"Well, I do believe you've lived in the country. I thought maybe you was tricking me again. What’s your real name, now?"
"George Peters, ma’am."
"Well, try to remember it, George. Don’t forget and tell me it’s Alexander before you go, and then get out by saying it’s George Alexander when I catch you. And don’t go about women in that old dress. You do a poor job as a girl, but you might trick men, maybe. Bless you, child, when you set out to thread a needle don’t hold the thread still and bring the needle up to it; hold the needle still and push the thread at it; that’s the way a woman most always does, but a man always does t’other way. And when you throw at a rat or anything, stand up on the top of your toes and bring your hand up over your head as rough as you can, and miss your rat about six or seven foot. Throw straight-armed from the shoulder, like a girl; not from the wrist and elbow, with your arm out to one side, like a boy. And, remember, when a girl tries to catch anything in her lap she throws her knees apart; she don’t squeeze them together, the way you did when you caught that ball of metal. Why, I knew you for a boy when you was threading the needle; and I planned the other things just to be sure. Now run along to your uncle, Sarah Mary Williams George Alexander Peters, and if you get into trouble you send word to Mrs. Judith Loftus, which is me, and I’ll do what I can to get you out of it. Keep the river road all the way, and next time you go walking take shoes and socks with you. The river road’s a rough one, and your feet’ll be powerful sore when you get to Goshen, I’d say."
I walked up the river about fifty yards, and then I turned back secretly to get to where my canoe was, a good piece below the house. I jumped in, and was off in a hurry. I went up the river far enough to make the head of the island when crossing, and then started across. I took off the sun hat, for I didn’t want anything to keep me from seeing well. When I was about the middle I heard the clock start to sound, so I stops and listens; the sound come softly over the water but clear -- eleven. When I reached the head of the island I never waited to rest, even if I was pretty tired, but I headed right into the timber where my old camp used to be, and started a good fire there on a high and dry spot.
Then I jumped in the canoe and raced off to our place, a mile and a half below, as hard as I could go. I landed, and pushed on through the timber and up the hill and into the cave. There Jim was, fast asleep on the ground.
I shouted: "Get up and get moving, Jim! There ain’t a minute to lose. They’re after us!"
Jim never asked no questions, he never said a word; but the way he worked for the next half hour showed how scared he was. By the end of half an hour everything we had in the world was on our raft, and she was ready to be pushed out from the hiding place where she was kept. We put out the camp fire at the cave first thing, and didn’t show a candle outside after that.
I pushed the canoe out from the land a little, and took a look. If there was a boat around I couldn’t see it, for stars and darkness ain’t good to see by. Then we got out the raft and moved quietly along down in the darkness under the cliff at the side of the river, past the foot of the island without ever saying a word.