The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Mark Twain [best novels for teenagers .txt] 📗

to go to the haunted house; Huck was measurably so, also⁠—but suddenly said:

“Lookyhere, Tom, do you know what day it is?”

Tom mentally ran over the days of the week, and then quickly lifted his eyes with a startled look in them⁠—

“My! I never once thought of it, Huck!”

“Well, I didn’t neither, but all at once it popped onto me that it was Friday.”

“Blame it, a body can’t be too careful, Huck. We might ’a’ got into an awful scrape, tackling such a thing on a Friday.”

“Might! Better say we would! There’s some lucky days, maybe, but Friday ain’t.”

“Any fool knows that. I don’t reckon you was the first that found it out, Huck.”

“Well, I never said I was, did I? And Friday ain’t all, neither. I had a rotten bad dream last night⁠—dreampt about rats.”

“No! Sure sign of trouble. Did they fight?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s good, Huck. When they don’t fight it’s only a sign that there’s trouble around, you know. All we got to do is to look mighty sharp and keep out of it. We’ll drop this thing for today, and play. Do you know Robin Hood, Huck?”

“No. Who’s Robin Hood?”

“Why, he was one of the greatest men that was ever in England⁠—and the best. He was a robber.”

“Cracky, I wisht I was. Who did he rob?”

“Only sheriffs and bishops and rich people and kings, and suchlike. But he never bothered the poor. He loved ’em. He always divided up with ’em perfectly square.”

“Well, he must ’a’ been a brick.”

“I bet you he was, Huck. Oh, he was the noblest man that ever was. They ain’t any such men now, I can tell you. He could lick any man in England, with one hand tied behind him; and he could take his yew bow and plug a ten-cent piece every time, a mile and a half.”

“What’s a yew bow?”

“I don’t know. It’s some kind of a bow, of course. And if he hit that dime only on the edge he would set down and cry⁠—and curse. But we’ll play Robin Hood⁠—it’s nobby fun. I’ll learn you.”

“I’m agreed.”

So they played Robin Hood all the afternoon, now and then casting a yearning eye down upon the haunted house and passing a remark about the morrow’s prospects and possibilities there. As the sun began to sink into the west they took their way homeward athwart the long shadows of the trees and soon were buried from sight in the forests of Cardiff Hill.

On Saturday, shortly after noon, the boys were at the dead tree again. They had a smoke and a chat in the shade, and then dug a little in their last hole, not with great hope, but merely because Tom said there were so many cases where people had given up a treasure after getting down within six inches of it, and then somebody else had come along and turned it up with a single thrust of a shovel. The thing failed this time, however, so the boys shouldered their tools and went away feeling that they had not trifled with fortune, but had fulfilled all the requirements that belong to the business of treasure-hunting.

When they reached the haunted house there was something so weird and grisly about the dead silence that reigned there under the baking sun, and something so depressing about the loneliness and desolation of the place, that they were afraid, for a moment, to venture in. Then they crept to the door and took a trembling peep. They saw a weedgrown, floorless room, unplastered, an ancient fireplace, vacant windows, a ruinous staircase; and here, there, and everywhere hung ragged and abandoned cobwebs. They presently entered, softly, with quickened pulses, talking in whispers, ears alert to catch the slightest sound, and muscles tense and ready for instant retreat.

In a little while familiarity modified their fears and they gave the place a critical and interested examination, rather admiring their own boldness, and wondering at it, too. Next they wanted to look upstairs. This was something like cutting off retreat, but they got to daring each other, and of course there could be but one result⁠—they threw their tools into a corner and made the ascent. Up there were the same signs of decay. In one corner they found a closet that promised mystery, but the promise was a fraud⁠—there was nothing in it. Their courage was up now and well in hand. They were about to go down and begin work when⁠—

“Sh!” said Tom.

“What is it?” whispered Huck, blanching with fright.

“Sh!⁠ ⁠… There!⁠ ⁠… Hear it?”

“Yes!⁠ ⁠… Oh, my! Let’s run!”

“Keep still! Don’t you budge! They’re coming right toward the door.”

The boys stretched themselves upon the floor with their eyes to knotholes in the planking, and lay waiting, in a misery of fear.

“They’ve stopped.⁠ ⁠… No⁠—coming.⁠ ⁠… Here they are. Don’t whisper another word, Huck. My goodness, I wish I was out of this!”

Two men entered. Each boy said to himself: “There’s the old deaf and dumb Spaniard that’s been about town once or twice lately⁠—never saw t’other man before.”

“T’other” was a ragged, unkempt creature, with nothing very pleasant in his face. The Spaniard was wrapped in a serape; he had bushy white whiskers; long white hair flowed from under his sombrero, and he wore green goggles. When they came in, “t’other” was talking in a low voice; they sat down on the ground, facing the door, with their backs to the wall, and the speaker continued his remarks. His manner became less guarded and his words more distinct as he proceeded:

“No,” said he, “I’ve thought it all over, and I don’t like it. It’s dangerous.”

“Dangerous!” grunted the “deaf and dumb” Spaniard⁠—to the vast surprise of the boys. “Milksop!”

This voice made the boys gasp and quake. It was Injun Joe’s! There was silence for some time. Then Joe said:

“What’s any more dangerous than that job up yonder⁠—but nothing’s come of it.”

“That’s different. Away up the river so, and not another house about. ’Twon’t ever be known that we tried, anyway, long as we didn’t