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flocked at his heels, as proud to be seen with him, and tolerated by him, as if `
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he had been the drummer at the head of a procession or the elephant leading a `
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menagerie into town. Boys of his own size pretended not to know he had been `
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away at all; but they were consuming with envy, nevertheless. They would have `
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given anything to have that swarthy suntanned skin of his, and his glittering `
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notoriety; and Tom would not have parted with either for a circus. At school `
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the children made so much of him and of Joe, and delivered such eloquent `
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admiration from their eyes, that the two heroes were not long in becoming `
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insufferably "stuck-up." They began to tell their adventures to hungry `
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listeners--but they only began; it was not a thing likely to have an end, with `
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imaginations like theirs to furnish material. And finally, when they got out `
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their pipes and went serenely puffing around, the very summit of glory was `
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reached. Tom decided that he could be independent of Becky Thatcher now. Glory `
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was sufficient. He would live for glory. Now that he was distinguished, maybe `
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she would be wanting to "make up." Well, let her--she should see that he could `
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be as indifferent as some other people. Presently she arrived. Tom pretended `
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not to see her. He moved away and joined a group of boys and girls and began to `
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talk. Soon he observed that she was tripping gayly back and forth with flushed `
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face and dancing eyes, pretending to be busy chasing schoolmates, and screaming `
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with laughter when she made a capture; but he noticed that she always made her `
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captures in his vicinity, and that she seemed to cast a conscious eye in his `
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direction at such times, too. It gratified all the vicious vanity that was in `
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him; and so, instead of winning him, it only "set him up" the more and made him `
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the more diligent to avoid betraying that he knew she was about. Presently she `
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gave over skylarking, and moved irresolutely about, sighing once or twice and `
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glancing furtively and wistfully toward Tom. Then she observed that now Tom was `
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talking more particularly to Amy Lawrence than to any one else. She felt a `
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sharp pang and grew disturbed and uneasy at once. She tried to go away, but her `
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feet were treacherous, and carried her to the group instead. She said to a girl `
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almost at Tom's elbow--with sham vivacity: "Why, Mary Austin! you bad girl, why `
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didn't you come to Sunday-school?" "I did come--didn't you see me?" "Why, no! `
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Did you? Where did you sit?" "I was in Miss Peters' class, where I always go. I `
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saw YOU." "Did you? Why, it's funny I didn't see you. I wanted to tell you `
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about the picnic." "Oh, that's jolly. Who's going to give it?" "My ma's going `
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to let me have one." "Oh, goody; I hope she'll let ME come." "Well, she will. `
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The picnic's for me. She'll let anybody come that I want, and I want you." `
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"That's ever so nice. When is it going to be?" "By and by. Maybe about `
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vacation." "Oh, won't it be fun! You going to have all the girls and boys?" `
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"Yes, every one that's friends to me--or wants to be"; and she glanced ever so `
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furtively at Tom, but he talked right along to Amy Lawrence about the terrible `
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storm on the island, and how the lightning tore the great sycamore tree "all to `
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flinders" while he was "standing within three feet of it." "Oh, may I come?" `
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said Grace Miller. "Yes." "And me?" said Sally Rogers. "Yes." "And me, too?" `
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said Susy Harper. "And Joe?" "Yes." And so on, with clapping of joyful hands `
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till all the group had begged for invitations but Tom and Amy. Then Tom turned `
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coolly away, still talking, and took Amy with him. Becky's lips trembled and `
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the tears came to her eyes; she hid these signs with a forced gayety and went `
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on chattering, but the life had gone out of the picnic, now, and out of `
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everything else; she got away as soon as she could and hid herself and had what `
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her sex call "a good cry." Then she sat moody, with wounded pride, till the `
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bell rang. She roused up, now, with a vindictive cast in her eye, and gave her `
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plaited tails a shake and said she knew what SHE'D do. At recess Tom continued `
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his flirtation with Amy with jubilant self-satisfaction. And he kept drifting `
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about to find Becky and lacerate her with the performance. At last he spied `
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her, but there was a sudden falling of his mercury. She was sitting cosily on a `
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little bench behind the schoolhouse looking at a picture-book with Alfred `
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Temple--and so absorbed were they, and their heads so close together over the `
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book, that they did not seem to be conscious of anything in the world besides. `
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Jealousy ran red-hot through Tom's veins. He began to hate himself for throwing `
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away the chance Becky had offered for a reconciliation. He called himself a `
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fool, and all the hard names he could think of. He wanted to cry with vexation. `
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Amy chatted happily along, as they walked, for her heart was singing, but Tom's `
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tongue had lost its function. He did not hear what Amy was saying, and whenever `
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she paused expectantly he could only stammer an awkward assent, which was as `
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often misplaced as otherwise. He kept drifting to the rear of the schoolhouse, `
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again and again, to sear his eyeballs with the hateful spectacle there. He `
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could not help it. And it maddened him to see, as he thought he saw, that Becky `
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Thatcher never once suspected that he was even in the land of the living. But `
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she did see, nevertheless; and she knew she was winning her fight, too, and was `
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glad to see him suffer as she had suffered. Amy's happy prattle became `
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intolerable. Tom hinted at things he had to attend to; things that must be `
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done; and time was fleeting. But in vain--the girl chirped on. Tom thought, `
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"Oh, hang her, ain't I ever going to get rid of her?" At last he must be `
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attending to those things--and she said artlessly that she would be "around" `
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when school let out. And he hastened away, hating her for it. "Any other boy!" `
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Tom thought, grating his teeth. "Any boy in the whole town but that Saint Louis `
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smarty that thinks he dresses so fine and is aristocracy! Oh, all right, I `
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licked you the first day you ever saw this town, mister, and I'll lick you `
`
again! You just wait till I catch you out! I'll just take and--" And he went `
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through the motions of thrashing an imaginary boy --pummelling the air, and `
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kicking and gouging. "Oh, you do, do you? You holler 'nough, do you? Now, then, `
`
let that learn you!" And so the imaginary flogging was finished to his `
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satisfaction. Tom fled home at noon. His conscience could not endure any more `
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of Amy's grateful happiness, and his jealousy could bear no more of the other `
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distress. Becky resumed her picture inspections with Alfred, but as the minutes `
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dragged along and no Tom came to suffer, her triumph began to cloud and she `
`
lost interest; gravity and absent-mindedness followed, and then melancholy; two `
`
or three times she pricked up her ear at a footstep, but it was a false hope; `
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no Tom came. At last she grew entirely miserable and wished she hadn't carried `
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it so far. When poor Alfred, seeing that he was losing her, he did not know `
`
how, kept exclaiming: "Oh, here's a jolly one! look at this!" she lost patience `
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at last, and said, "Oh, don't bother me! I don't care for them!" and burst into `
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tears, and got up and walked away. Alfred dropped alongside and was going to `
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try to comfort her, but she said: "Go away and leave me alone, can't you! I `
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hate you!" So the boy halted, wondering what he could have done--for she had `
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said she would look at pictures all through the nooning--and she walked on, `
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crying. Then Alfred went musing into the deserted schoolhouse. He was `
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humiliated and angry. He easily guessed his way to the truth--the girl had `
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simply made a convenience of him to vent her spite upon Tom Sawyer. He was far `
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from hating Tom the less when this thought occurred to him. He wished there was `
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some way to get that boy into trouble without much risk to himself. Tom's `
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spelling-book fell under his eye. Here was his opportunity. He gratefully `
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opened to the lesson for the afternoon and poured ink upon the page. Becky, `
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glancing in at a window behind him at the moment, saw the act, and moved on, `
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without discovering herself. She started homeward, now, intending to find Tom `
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and tell him; Tom would be thankful and their troubles would be healed. Before `
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she was half way home, however, she had changed her mind. The thought of Tom's `
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treatment of her when she was talking about her picnic came scorching back and `
`
filled her with shame. She resolved to let him get whipped on the damaged `
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spelling-book's account, and to hate him forever, into the bargain. CHAPTER XIX `
`
TOM arrived at home in a dreary mood, and the first thing his aunt said to him `
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showed him that he had brought his sorrows to an unpromising market: "Tom, I've `
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a notion to skin you alive!" "Auntie, what have I done?" "Well, you've done `
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enough. Here I go over to Sereny Harper, like an old softy, expecting I'm going `
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to make her believe all that rubbage about that dream, when lo and behold you `
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she'd found out from Joe that you was over here and heard all the talk we had `
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that night. Tom, I don't know what is to become of a boy that will act like `
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that. It makes me feel so bad to think you could let me go to Sereny Harper and `
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make such a fool of myself and never say a word." This was a new aspect of the `
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thing. His smartness of the morning had seemed to Tom a good joke before, and `
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very ingenious. It merely looked mean and shabby now. He hung his head and `
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could not think of anything to say for a moment. Then he said: "Auntie, I wish `
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I hadn't done it--but I didn't think." "Oh, child, you never think. You never `
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think of anything but your own selfishness. You could think to come all the way `
`
over here from Jackson's Island in the night to laugh at our troubles, and you `
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could think to fool me with a lie about a dream; but you couldn't ever think to `
`
pity us and save us from sorrow." "Auntie, I know now it was mean, but I didn't `
`
mean to be mean. I didn't, honest. And besides, I didn't come over here to `
`
laugh at you that night." "What did you come for, then?" "It was to tell you `
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not to be uneasy about us, because we hadn't got drownded." "Tom, Tom, I would `
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be the thankfullest soul in this world if I could believe you ever had as good `
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a thought as that, but you know you never did--and I know it, Tom." "Indeed and `
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'deed I did, auntie--I wish I may never stir if I didn't." "Oh, Tom, don't `
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lie--don't do it. It only makes things a hundred times worse." "It ain't a lie, `
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auntie; it's the truth. I wanted to keep you from grieving--that was all that `
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made me come." "I'd give the whole world to believe that--it would cover up a `
`
power of sins, Tom. I'd 'most be glad you'd run off and acted so bad. But it `
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ain't reasonable; because, why didn't you tell me, child?" "Why, you see, when `
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you got to talking about the funeral, I just got all full of the idea of our `
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coming and hiding in the church, and I couldn't somehow bear to spoil it. So I `
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just put the bark back in my pocket and kept mum." "What bark?" "The bark I had `
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wrote on to tell you we'd gone pirating. I wish, now, you'd waked up when I `
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kissed you--I do, honest." The hard lines in his aunt's face relaxed and a `
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sudden tenderness dawned in her eyes. "DID you kiss me, Tom?" "Why, yes, I `
`
did." "Are you sure you did, Tom?" "Why, yes, I did, auntie--certain sure." `
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"What did you kiss me for, Tom?" "Because I loved you so, and you laid there `
`
moaning and I was so sorry." The words sounded like truth. The old lady could `
`
not hide a tremor in her voice when she said: "Kiss me again, Tom!--and be off `
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with you to school, now, and don't bother me any more." The moment he was gone, `
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she ran to a closet and got out the ruin of a jacket which Tom had gone `
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pirating in. Then she stopped, with it in her hand, and said to herself: "No, I `
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don't dare. Poor boy, I reckon he's lied about it--but it's a blessed, blessed `
`
lie, there's such a comfort come from it. I hope the Lord--I KNOW the Lord will `
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forgive him, because it was such goodheartedness in him to tell it. But I don't `
`
want to find out it's a lie. I won't look." She put the jacket away, and stood `
`
by musing a minute. Twice she put out her hand to take the garment again, and `
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twice she refrained. Once more she ventured, and this time she fortified `
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herself with the thought: "It's a good lie--it's a good lie--I won't let it `
`
grieve me." So she sought the jacket pocket. A moment later she was reading `
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Tom's piece of bark through flowing tears and saying: "I could forgive the boy, `
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now, if he'd committed a million sins!" CHAPTER XX THERE was something about `
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Aunt Polly's manner, when she kissed Tom, that swept away his low spirits and `
`
made him lighthearted and happy again. He started to school and had the luck of `
`
coming upon Becky Thatcher at the head of Meadow Lane. His mood always `
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determined his manner. Without a moment's hesitation he ran to her and said: "I `
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acted mighty mean to-day, Becky, and I'm so sorry. I won't ever, ever do that `
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way again, as long as ever I live--please make up, won't you?" The girl stopped `
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and looked him scornfully in the face: "I'll thank you to keep yourself TO `
`
yourself, Mr. Thomas Sawyer. I'll never speak to you again." She tossed her `
`
head and passed on. Tom was so stunned that he had not even presence of mind `
`
enough to say "Who cares, Miss Smarty?" until the right time to say it had gone `
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by. So he said nothing. But he was in a fine rage, nevertheless. He moped into `
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the schoolyard wishing she were a boy, and imagining how he would trounce her `
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if she were. He presently encountered her and delivered a stinging remark as he `
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passed. She hurled one in return, and the angry breach was complete. It seemed `
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to Becky, in her hot resentment, that she could hardly wait for school to "take `
`
in," she was so impatient to see Tom flogged for the injured spelling-book. If `
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she had had any lingering notion of exposing Alfred Temple, Tom's offensive `
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fling had driven it entirely away. Poor girl, she did not know how fast she was `
`
nearing trouble herself. The master, Mr. Dobbins, had reached middle age with `
`
an unsatisfied ambition. The darling of his desires was, to be a doctor, but `
`
poverty had decreed that he should be nothing higher than a village `
`
schoolmaster. Every day he took a mysterious book out of his desk and absorbed `
`
himself in it at times when no classes were reciting. He kept that book under `
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lock and key. There was not an urchin in school but was perishing to have a `
`
glimpse of it, but the chance never came. Every boy and girl had a theory about `
`
the nature of that book; but no two theories were alike, and there was no way `
`
of getting at the facts in the case. Now, as Becky was passing by the desk, `
`
which stood near the door, she noticed that the key was in the lock! It was a `
`
precious moment. She glanced around; found herself alone, and the next instant `
`
she had the book in her hands. The title-page--Professor Somebody's `
`
ANATOMY--carried no information to her mind; so she began to turn the leaves. `
`
She came at once upon a handsomely engraved and colored frontispiece--a human `
`
figure, stark naked. At that moment a shadow fell on the page and Tom Sawyer `
`
stepped in at the door and caught a glimpse of the picture. Becky snatched at `
`
the book to close it, and had the hard luck to tear the pictured page half down `
`
the middle. She thrust the volume into the desk, turned the key, and burst out `
`
crying with shame and vexation. "Tom Sawyer, you are just as mean as you can `
`
be, to sneak up on a person and look at what they're looking at." "How could I `
`
know you was looking at anything?" "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Tom `
`
Sawyer; you know you're going to tell on me, and oh, what shall I do, what `
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