The Adventures of Tom Sawyer / Приключения Тома Сойера

and then walk away quick, eleven steps, with your eyes shut, and then turn around three times and walk home without speaking to anybody. Because if you speak the charm’s busted.”

“Well, that sounds like a good way; but that ain’t the way Bob Tanner done.”

“No, sir, you can bet he didn’t, becuz he’s the wartiest boy in this town; and he wouldn’t have a wart on him if he’d knowed how to work spunk-water. I’ve took off thousands of warts off of my hands that way, Huck. I play with frogs so much that I’ve always got considerable many warts. Sometimes I take ’em off with a bean.”

“Yes, bean’s good. I’ve done that.”

“Have you? What’s your way?”

“You take and split the bean, and cut the wart so as to get some blood, and then you put the blood on one piece of the bean and take and dig a hole and bury it ’bout midnight at the crossroads in the dark of the moon, and then you burn up the rest of the bean. You see that piece that’s got the blood on it will keep drawing and drawing, trying to fetch the other piece to it, and so that helps the blood to draw the wart, and pretty soon off she comes.”

“Yes, that’s it, Huck-that’s it; though when you’re burying it if you say ‘Down bean; off wart; come no more to bother me!’ it’s better. That’s the way Joe Harper does, and he’s been nearly to Coonville and most everywheres. But say-how do you cure ’em with dead cats?”

“Why, you take your cat and go and get in the grave-yard ’long about midnight when somebody that was wicked has been buried; and when it’s midnight a devil will come, or maybe two or three, but you can’t see ’em, you can only hear something like the wind, or maybe hear ’em talk; and when they’re taking that feller away, you heave your cat after ’em and say, ‘Devil follow corpse, cat follow devil, warts follow cat, I’m done with ye!’ That’ll fetch any wart.”

“Sounds right. D’you ever try it, Huck?”

“No, but old Mother Hopkins told me.”

“Well, I reckon it’s so, then. Becuz they say she’s a witch.”

“Say! Why, Tom, I know she is. She witched pap. Pap says so his own self. He come along one day, and he see she was a-witching him, so he took up a rock, and if she hadn’t dodged, he’d a got her. Well, that very night he rolled off’n a shed wher’ he was a layin drunk, and broke his arm.”

“Why, that’s awful. How did he know she was a-witching him?”

“Lord, pap can tell, easy. Pap says when they keep looking at you right stiddy, they’re a-witching you. Specially if they mumble. Becuz when they mumble they’re saying the Lord’s Prayer backards.”

“Say, Hucky, when you going to try the cat?”

“To-night. I reckon they’ll come after old Hoss Williams to-night.”

“But they buried him Saturday. Didn’t they get him Saturday night?”

“Why, how you talk! How could their charms work till midnight? – and then it’s Sunday. Devils don’t slosh around much of a Sunday, I don’t reckon.”

“I never thought of that. That’s so. Lemme go with you?”

“Of course-if you ain’t afeard.”

“Afeard! ’Tain’t likely. Will you meow?”

“Yes-and you meow back, if you get a chance. Last time, you kep’ me a-meowing around till old Hays went to throwing rocks at me and says ‘Dern that cat!’ and so I hove a brick through his window-but don’t you tell.”

“I won’t. I couldn’t meow that night, becuz auntie was watching me, but I’ll meow this time. Say-what’s that?”

“Nothing but a tick.”

“Where’d you get him?”

“Out in the woods.”

“What’ll you take for him?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to sell him.”

“All right. It’s a mighty small tick, anyway.”

“Oh, anybody can run a tick down that don’t belong to them. I’m satisfied with it. It’s a good enough tick for me.”

“Sho, there’s ticks a plenty. I could have a thousand of ’em if I wanted to.”

“Well, why don’t you? Becuz you know mighty well you can’t. This is a pretty early tick, I reckon. It’s the first one I’ve seen this year.”

“Say, Huck-I’ll give you my tooth for him.”

“Less see it.”

Tom got out a bit of paper and carefully unrolled it. Huckleberry viewed it wistfully. The temptation was very strong. At last he said:

“Is it genuwyne?”

Tom lifted his lip and showed the vacancy.

“Well, all right,” said Huckleberry, “it’s a trade.”

Tom enclosed the tick in the percussion-cap box that had lately been the pinchbug’s prison, and the boys separated, each feeling wealthier than before.

When Tom reached the little isolated frame school-house, he strode in briskly, with the manner of one who had come with all honest speed. He hung his hat on a peg and flung himself into his seat with business-like alacrity. The master, throned on high in his great splint-bottom arm-chair, was dozing, lulled by the drowsy hum of study. The interruption roused him.

“Thomas Sawyer!”

Tom knew that when his name was pronounced in full, it meant trouble.

“Sir!”

“Come up here. Now, sir, why are you late again, as usual?”

Tom was about to take refuge in a lie, when he saw two long tails of yellow hair hanging down a back that he recognized by the electric sympathy of love; and by that form was the only vacant place on the girls’ side of the school-house. He instantly said:

“I stopped to talk with Huckleberry Finn!”

The master’s pulse stood still, and he stared helplessly. The buzz of study ceased. The pupils wondered if this foolhardy boy had lost his mind. The master said:

“You-you did what?”

“Stopped to talk with Huckleberry Finn.”

There was no mistaking the words.