The Adventures Of Huckleberry Finn. Марк Твен
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up your camp fire good.’
‘What’s de use er makin’ up de camp fire to cook strawbries en sich truck? But you got a gun, hain’t you? Den we kin git sumfn’ better den strawbries.’
‘Strawberries and such truck,’ I says. ‘Is that what you live on?’
‘I couldn’ git nuffn’ else,’ he says.
‘Why, how long you been on the island, Jim?’
‘I come heah de night arter you’s killed.’
‘What, all that time?’
‘Yes-indeedy.’
‘And ain’t you had nothing but that kind of rubbage to eat?’
‘No, sah—nuffn’ else.’
‘Well, you must be most starved, ain’t you?’
‘I reck’n I could eat a hoss. I think I could. How long you ben on de islan’?’
‘Since the night I got killed.’
‘No! W’y, what has you lived on? But you got a gun? Oh, yes, you got a gun. Dat’s good. Now you kill sumfn’ en I’ll make up de fire.’
So we went over to where the canoe was, and while he built a fire in a grassy open place amongst the trees, I fetched meal and bacon and coffee, and coffee-pot and frying-pan, and sugar and tin cups, and the nigger was set back considerable, because he reck-oned it was all done with witchcraft. I catched a good big cat-fish, too, and Jim cleaned him with his knife, and fried him.
When breakfast was ready, we lolled on the grass and eat it smoking hot; Jim laid it in with all his might, for he was most about starved. Then when we had got pretty well stuffed, we laid off and lazied.
By and by Jim says:
‘But looky here, Huck, who wuz it dat ‘uz killed in dat shanty, ef it warn’t you?’
Then I told him the whole thing, and he said it was smart. He said Tom Sawyer couldn’t get up no better plan than what I had, Then I says:
‘How do you come to be here, Jim, and how’d you get here?’
He looked pretty uneasy, and didn’t say nothing for a minute. Then he says:
‘Maybe I better not tell.’
‘Why, Jim?’
‘Well, dey’s reasons. But you wouldn’ tell on me ef I ‘uz to tell you, would you, Huck?’
‘Blamed if I would, Jim.’
‘Well, I b’lieve you, Huck. I—I run off.’
‘Jim!’
‘But mind, you said you wouldn’t tell—you know you said you wouldn’t tell, Huck.’
‘Well, I did. I said I wouldn’t, and I’ll stick to it. Honest injun I will. People would call me a low down Ablitionist and despise me for keeping mum—but that don’t make no difference. I ain’t a-going to tell, and I ain’t a-going back there anyways. So now, le’s know all about it.’
‘Well, you see, it ‘uz dis way. Ole Missus—dat’s Miss Watson—she pecks on me all de time, en treats me pooty rough, but she awluz said she wouldn’t sell me down to Orleans. But I noticed dey wuz a nigger trader roun’ de place considable, lately, en I begin to git oneasy. Well, one night I creeps to de do’, pooty late, en de do’ warn’t quite shet, en I hear ole missus tell the widder she gwyne to sell me down to Orleans, but she didn’ want to, but she could git eight hund’d dollars for me, en it ‘uz sich a big stack o’ money she couldn’ resis’. De widder she try to git her to say she wouldn’ do it, but I never waited to hear de res’. I lit out mighty quick, I tell you.
‘I tuck out en shin down de hill en ‘spec to steal a skift ‘long de sho’ som’ers ‘bove de town, but dey wuz people astirrin’ yit, so I hid in de ole tumbledown cooper shop on de bank to wait for everybody to go ‘way. Well, I wuz dah all night. Dey wuz somebody roun’ all de time. ‘Long ’bout six in the mawnin’, skifts begin to go by, en ’bout eight or nine every skift dat went ‘long wuz talkin’ ‘bout how yo’ pap come over to de town en say you’s killed. Dese las’ skifts wuz full o’ ladies en gentlemen a-goin’ over for to see de place. Sometimes dey ’d pull up at de sho’ en take a res’ b’fo’ dey started acrost, so by de talk I got to know all ‘bout de killin’. I ’uz powerful sorry you’s killed, Huck, but I ain’t no mo’, now.
‘I laid dah under de shavins all day. I’uz hungry, but I warn’t afeared; bekase I knowed ole missus en de widder wuz goin’ to start to de camp-meetn’ right arter breakfas’ en be gone all day, en dey knows I goes off wid de cattle ‘bout daylight, so dey wouldn’ ‘spec to see me roun’ de place, en so dey wouldn’ miss me tell arter dark in de evenin’. De yuther servants wouldn’ miss me, kase dey’d shin out en take holiday, soon as de ole folks ’uz out ’n de way.
‘Well, when it come dark I tuck out up de river road, en went ’bout two mile er more to whah dey warn’t no houses. I’d made up my mine ‘bout what I’s a-gwyne to do. You see ef I kep’ on tryin’ to git away afoot, de dogs ’ud track me; ef I stole a skift to cross over, dey’d miss dat skift, you see, en dey ’d know ’bout whah I’d lan’ on de yuther side en whah to pick up my track. So I says, a raff is what I’s arter; it doan’ make no track.
‘I see a light a-comin’ roun’ de p’int, bymeby, so I wade’ in en shove’ a log ahead o’ me, en swum more’n half-way acrost de river, en got in ’mongst de drift-wood, en kep’ my head down low, en kinder swum agin de current tell the raff come along. Den I swum to de stern uv it, en tuck aholt. It clouded up en ’uz pooty dark for a little while. So I clumb up en laid down on de planks. De men ’uz all ’way yonder in de middle, whah de lantern wuz. De river wuz a-risin’ en dey wuz a good current; so I reck’n’d ’at by fo’ in de mawnin’ I’d be twenty-five mile down de river, en den I’d slip in, jis’ b’fo’ daylight, en swim asho’ en take to de woods on de Illinoi side.
‘But I didn’ have no luck. When we ’uz mos’ down to de head er de islan’, a man begin to come aft wid de lantern. I see it warn’t no use fer to wait, so I slid overboard, en struck out fer de islan’. Well, I had a notion I could lan’ mos’ any-whers, but I couldn’t—bank too bluff. I ’uz mos’ to de foot er de islan’ b’fo’ I foun’ a good place. I went into de woods en jedged I wouldn’ fool wid raffs no mo, long as dey move de lantern roun’ so. I had my pipe en a plug er dog-leg, en some matches in my cap, en dey warn’t wet, so I ‘uz all right.’
‘And so you ain’t had no meat nor bread to eat all this time? Why didn’t you get mud-turkles?’
‘How you gwyne to git ’m? You can’t slip up on um en grab um; en how’s a body gwyne to hit um wid a rock? How could a body do it in de night? en I warn’t gwyne to show myself on de bank in de day-time.’
‘Well, that’s so. You’ve had to keep in the woods all the time, of course. Did you hear ’em shooting the cannon?’
‘Oh, yes. I knowed dey was arter you. I see um go by heah; watched um thoo de bushes.’
Some young birds come along, flying a yard or two at a time and lighting. Jim said it was a sign it was going to rain. He said it was a sign when young chickens flew that way, and so he reckoned it was the same way when young birds done it. I was going to catch some of them, but Jim wouldn’t let me. He said it was death. He said his father lay mighty sick once, and some of them catched a bird, and his old granny said his father would die, and he did.
And Jim said you mustn’t count the things you are going to cook for dinner, because that would bring bad luck. The same if you shook the table-cloth after sundown. And he said if a man owned a bee-hive, and that man died, the bees must be told about it before sun-up next morning, or else the bees would all weaken down and quit work