<p><br/> <br/> CHAPTER XLI.</p>
<p>The doctor was an old man; a very nice, kind-looking old man when I got
him up. I told him me and my brother was over on Spanish Island
hunting yesterday afternoon, and camped on a piece of a raft we found, and
about midnight he must a kicked his gun in his dreams, for it went off and
shot him in the leg, and we wanted him to go over there and fix it and not
say nothing about it, nor let anybody know, because we wanted to come home
this evening and surprise the folks.</p>
<p>“Who is your folks?” he says.</p>
<p>“The Phelpses, down yonder.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” he says. And after a minute, he says:</p>
<p>“How’d you say he got shot?”</p>
<p>“He had a dream,” I says, “and it shot him.”</p>
<p>“Singular dream,” he says.</p>
<p>So he lit up his lantern, and got his saddle-bags, and we started. But
when he sees the canoe he didn’t like the look of her—said she
was big enough for one, but didn’t look pretty safe for two. I
says:</p>
<p>“Oh, you needn’t be afeard, sir, she carried the three of us
easy enough.”</p>
<p>“What three?”</p>
<p>“Why, me and Sid, and—and—and <i>the guns</i>; that’s
what I mean.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” he says.</p>
<p>But he put his foot on the gunnel and rocked her, and shook his head, and
said he reckoned he’d look around for a bigger one. But they
was all locked and chained; so he took my canoe, and said for me to wait
till he come back, or I could hunt around further, or maybe I better go
down home and get them ready for the surprise if I wanted to. But I
said I didn’t; so I told him just how to find the raft, and then he
started.</p>
<p>I struck an idea pretty soon. I says to myself, spos’n he can’t
fix that leg just in three shakes of a sheep’s tail, as the saying
is? spos’n it takes him three or four days? What are we going
to do?—lay around there till he lets the cat out of the bag? No,
sir; I know what <i>I’ll</i> do. I’ll wait, and when he
comes back if he says he’s got to go any more I’ll get down
there, too, if I swim; and we’ll take and tie him, and keep him, and
shove out down the river; and when Tom’s done with him we’ll
give him what it’s worth, or all we got, and then let him get
ashore.</p>
<p>So then I crept into a lumber-pile to get some sleep; and next time I
waked up the sun was away up over my head! I shot out and went for
the doctor’s house, but they told me he’d gone away in the
night some time or other, and warn’t back yet. Well, thinks I,
that looks powerful bad for Tom, and I’ll dig out for the island
right off. So away I shoved, and turned the corner, and nearly
rammed my head into Uncle Silas’s stomach! He says:</p>
<p>“Why, <i>Tom!</i> Where you been all this time, you rascal?”</p>
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<p>“I hain’t been nowheres,” I says, “only just
hunting for the runaway nigger—me and Sid.”</p>
<p>“Why, where ever did you go?” he says. “Your aunt’s
been mighty uneasy.”</p>
<p>“She needn’t,” I says, “because we was all right.
We followed the men and the dogs, but they outrun us, and we lost
them; but we thought we heard them on the water, so we got a canoe and
took out after them and crossed over, but couldn’t find nothing of
them; so we cruised along up-shore till we got kind of tired and beat out;
and tied up the canoe and went to sleep, and never waked up till about an
hour ago; then we paddled over here to hear the news, and Sid’s at
the post-office to see what he can hear, and I’m a-branching out to
get something to eat for us, and then we’re going home.”</p>
<p>So then we went to the post-office to get “Sid”; but just as I
suspicioned, he warn’t there; so the old man he got a letter out of
the office, and we waited awhile longer, but Sid didn’t come; so the
old man said, come along, let Sid foot it home, or canoe it, when he got
done fooling around—but we would ride. I couldn’t get
him to let me stay and wait for Sid; and he said there warn’t no use
in it, and I must come along, and let Aunt Sally see we was all right.</p>
<p>When we got home Aunt Sally was that glad to see me she laughed and cried
both, and hugged me, and give me one of them lickings of hern that don’t
amount to shucks, and said she’d serve Sid the same when he come.</p>
<p>And the place was plum full of farmers and farmers’ wives, to
dinner; and such another clack a body never heard. Old Mrs.
Hotchkiss was the worst; her tongue was a-going all the time. She
says:</p>
<p>“Well, Sister Phelps, I’ve ransacked that-air cabin over, an’
I b’lieve the nigger was crazy. I says to Sister Damrell—didn’t
I, Sister Damrell?—s’I, he’s crazy, s’I—them’s
the very words I said. You all hearn me: he’s crazy, s’I;
everything shows it, s’I. Look at that-air grindstone, s’I;
want to tell <i>me</i>’t any cretur ’t’s in his right
mind ’s a goin’ to scrabble all them crazy things onto a
grindstone, s’I? Here sich ’n’ sich a person
busted his heart; ’n’ here so ’n’ so pegged along
for thirty-seven year, ’n’ all that—natcherl son o’
Louis somebody, ’n’ sich everlast’n rubbage. He’s
plumb crazy, s’I; it’s what I says in the fust place, it’s
what I says in the middle, ’n’ it’s what I says last
’n’ all the time—the nigger’s crazy—crazy
‘s Nebokoodneezer, s’I.”</p>
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<p>“An’ look at that-air ladder made out’n rags, Sister
Hotchkiss,” says old Mrs. Damrell; “what in the name o’
goodness <i>could</i> he ever want of—”</p>
<p>“The very words I was a-sayin’ no longer ago th’n this
minute to Sister Utterback, ’n’ she’ll tell you so
herself. Sh-she, look at that-air rag ladder, sh-she; ’n’
s’I, yes, <i>look</i> at it, s’I—what <i>could</i> he
a-wanted of it, s’I. Sh-she, Sister Hotchkiss, sh-she—”</p>
<p>“But how in the nation’d they ever <i>git</i> that grindstone
<i>in</i> there, <i>anyway</i>? ’n’ who dug that-air <i>hole</i>?
’n’ who—”</p>
<p>“My very <i>words</i>, Brer Penrod! I was a-sayin’—pass
that-air sasser o’ m’lasses, won’t ye?—I was
a-sayin’ to Sister Dunlap, jist this minute, how <i>did</i> they git
that grindstone in there, s’I. Without <i>help</i>, mind you—’thout
<i>help</i>! <i>that’s</i> wher ’tis. Don’t
tell <i>me</i>, s’I; there <i>wuz</i> help, s’I; ’n’
ther’ wuz a <i>plenty</i> help, too, s’I; ther’s ben a
<i>dozen</i> a-helpin’ that nigger, ’n’ I lay I’d
skin every last nigger on this place but <i>I’d</i> find out who
done it, s’I; ’n’ moreover, s’I—”</p>
<p>“A <i>dozen</i> says you!—<i>forty</i> couldn’t a done
every thing that’s been done. Look at them case-knife saws and
things, how tedious they’ve been made; look at that bed-leg sawed
off with ’m, a week’s work for six men; look at that nigger
made out’n straw on the bed; and look at—”</p>
<p>“You may <i>well</i> say it, Brer Hightower! It’s jist
as I was a-sayin’ to Brer Phelps, his own self. S’e,
what do <i>you</i> think of it, Sister Hotchkiss, s’e? Think o’
what, Brer Phelps, s’I? Think o’ that bed-leg sawed off
that a way, s’e? <i>think</i> of it, s’I? I lay it
never sawed <i>itself</i> off, s’I—somebody <i>sawed</i> it, s’I;
that’s my opinion, take it or leave it, it mayn’t be no
’count, s’I, but sich as ’t is, it’s my opinion, s’I,
’n’ if any body k’n start a better one, s’I, let
him <i>do</i> it, s’I, that’s all. I says to Sister
Dunlap, s’I—”</p>
<p>“Why, dog my cats, they must a ben a house-full o’ niggers in
there every night for four weeks to a done all that work, Sister Phelps.
Look at that shirt—every last inch of it kivered over with
secret African writ’n done with blood! Must a ben a raft uv
’m at it right along, all the time, amost. Why, I’d give
two dollars to have it read to me; ’n’ as for the niggers that
wrote it, I ’low I’d take ’n’ lash ’m t’ll—”</p>
<p>“People to <i>help</i> him, Brother Marples! Well, I reckon
you’d <i>think</i> so if you’d a been in this house for a
while back. Why, they’ve stole everything they could lay their
hands on—and we a-watching all the time, mind you. They stole that
shirt right off o’ the line! and as for that sheet they made the rag
ladder out of, ther’ ain’t no telling how many times they <i>didn’t</i>
steal that; and flour, and candles, and candlesticks, and spoons, and the
old warming-pan, and most a thousand things that I disremember now, and my
new calico dress; and me and Silas and my Sid and Tom on the constant
watch day <i>and</i> night, as I was a-telling you, and not a one of us
could catch hide nor hair nor sight nor sound of them; and here at the
last minute, lo and behold you, they slides right in under our noses and
fools us, and not only fools <i>us</i> but the Injun Territory robbers
too, and actuly gets <i>away</i> with that nigger safe and sound, and that
with sixteen men and twenty-two dogs right on their very heels at that
very time! I tell you, it just bangs anything I ever <i>heard</i>
of. Why, <i>sperits</i> couldn’t a done better and been no smarter.
And I reckon they must a <i>been</i> sperits—because, <i>you</i>
know our dogs, and ther’ ain’t no better; well, them dogs
never even got on the <i>track</i> of ’m once! You explain <i>that</i>
to me if you can!—<i>any</i> of you!”</p>
<p>“Well, it does beat—”</p>
<p>“Laws alive, I never—”</p>
<p>“So help me, I wouldn’t a be—”</p>
<p>“<i>House</i>-thieves as well as—”</p>
<p>“Goodnessgracioussakes, I’d a ben afeard to live in sich a—”</p>
<p>“’Fraid to <i>live</i>!—why, I was that scared I dasn’t
hardly go to bed, or get up, or lay down, or <i>set</i> down, Sister
Ridgeway. Why, they’d steal the very—why, goodness
sakes, you can guess what kind of a fluster I was in by the time midnight
come last night. I hope to gracious if I warn’t afraid they’d
steal some o’ the family! I was just to that pass I didn’t
have no reasoning faculties no more. It looks foolish enough <i>now</i>,
in the daytime; but I says to myself, there’s my two poor boys
asleep, ’way up stairs in that lonesome room, and I declare to
goodness I was that uneasy ’t I crep’ up there and locked
’em in! I <i>did</i>. And anybody would. Because, you
know, when you get scared that way, and it keeps running on, and getting
worse and worse all the time, and your wits gets to addling, and you get
to doing all sorts o’ wild things, and by and by you think to
yourself, spos’n I was a boy, and was away up there, and the door
ain’t locked, and you—” She stopped, looking kind of
wondering, and then she turned her head around slow, and when her eye lit
on me—I got up and took a walk.</p>
<p>Says I to myself, I can explain better how we come to not be in that room
this morning if I go out to one side and study over it a little. So
I done it. But I dasn’t go fur, or she’d a sent for me.
And when it was late in the day the people all went, and then I come
in and told her the noise and shooting waked up me and “Sid,”
and the door was locked, and we wanted to see the fun, so we went down the
lightning-rod, and both of us got hurt a little, and we didn’t never
want to try <i>that</i> no more. And then I went on and told her all
what I told Uncle Silas before; and then she said she’d forgive us,
and maybe it was all right enough anyway, and about what a body might
expect of boys, for all boys was a pretty harum-scarum lot as fur as she
could see; and so, as long as no harm hadn’t come of it, she judged
she better put in her time being grateful we was alive and well and she
had us still, stead of fretting over what was past and done. So then
she kissed me, and patted me on the head, and dropped into a kind of a
brown study; and pretty soon jumps up, and says:</p>
<p>“Why, lawsamercy, it’s most night, and Sid not come yet!
What <i>has</i> become of that boy?”</p>
<p>I see my chance; so I skips up and says:</p>
<p>“I’ll run right up to town and get him,” I says.</p>
<p>“No you won’t,” she says. “You’ll stay right
wher’ you are; <i>one’s</i> enough to be lost at a time.
If he ain’t here to supper, your uncle ’ll go.”</p>
<p>Well, he warn’t there to supper; so right after supper uncle went.</p>
<p>He come back about ten a little bit uneasy; hadn’t run across Tom’s
track. Aunt Sally was a good <i>deal</i> uneasy; but Uncle Silas he said
there warn’t no occasion to be—boys will be boys, he said, and
you’ll see this one turn up in the morning all sound and right.
So she had to be satisfied. But she said she’d set up
for him a while anyway, and keep a light burning so he could see it.</p>
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<p>And then when I went up to bed she come up with me and fetched her candle,
and tucked me in, and mothered me so good I felt mean, and like I couldn’t
look her in the face; and she set down on the bed and talked with me a
long time, and said what a splendid boy Sid was, and didn’t seem to
want to ever stop talking about him; and kept asking me every now and then
if I reckoned he could a got lost, or hurt, or maybe drownded, and might
be laying at this minute somewheres suffering or dead, and she not by him
to help him, and so the tears would drip down silent, and I would tell her
that Sid was all right, and would be home in the morning, sure; and she
would squeeze my hand, or maybe kiss me, and tell me to say it again, and
keep on saying it, because it done her good, and she was in so much
trouble. And when she was going away she looked down in my eyes so
steady and gentle, and says:</p>
<p>“The door ain’t going to be locked, Tom, and there’s the
window and the rod; but you’ll be good, <i>won’t</i> you?
And you won’t go? For <i>my</i> sake.”</p>
<p>Laws knows I <i>wanted</i> to go bad enough to see about Tom, and was all
intending to go; but after that I wouldn’t a went, not for kingdoms.</p>
<p>But she was on my mind and Tom was on my mind, so I slept very restless.
And twice I went down the rod away in the night, and slipped around front,
and see her setting there by her candle in the window with her eyes
towards the road and the tears in them; and I wished I could do something
for her, but I couldn’t, only to swear that I wouldn’t never
do nothing to grieve her any more. And the third time I waked up at
dawn, and slid down, and she was there yet, and her candle was most out,
and her old gray head was resting on her hand, and she was asleep.</p>
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