In the spring of 1874 Clemens heard that out in San Francisco actor John T. Raymond was staging and starring in an unauthorized dramatization of the humorist's portion of The Gilded Age. He threatened to enjoin performances, paid playwright Gilbert B. Densmore for his script, rewrote the drama in a few weeks, and in July copyrighted the new version of the play, which was performed as Colonel Sellers. This version, with Raymond in the title role, became a great success and during the many years of its performance brought the author $20,000.1 In August 1874, before it was staged, theatrical producer John Augustin Daly asked the humorist to write “something for my company & my theatre.” “I think,” Daly continued, “I could put you on the road to a good thing.”2
Encouraged by Daly's coaxing, the success of Colonel Sellers, and letters from others interested in producing plays associated with his name, Mark Twain asked his friend William Dean Howells on 13 July 1875 to dramatize the still unpublished The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, saying, “I believe a good deal of a drama can be made of it.” [begin page 244] Howells refused on 19 July, partly because “I don't see how anybody can do that but yourself.” Even before receiving Howells's refusal, Twain must have applied for a copyright.3 For on 21 July he secured one by submitting this synopsis:
TOM SAWYER.
A Drama.
By Mark Twain—(Samuel L. Clemens)
Containing:
Tom Sawyer, Jeff Thatcher, Huck Finn, Joe Harper, Ben Rogers, Alfred Temple, “Jim,” etc., Boys; Becky Thatcher, Mary, etc., Girls; Aunt Polly, the Widow Douglas, Judge and Mrs. Thatcher, Mrs. Harper, Mr. Dobbins, (schoolmaster,) Muff Potter, Injun Joe, etc., Elderly People.
Whitewashing the Fence, and selling privileges to do the same. Bible presentation to Tom Sawyer, on purchased tickets. Fight with Alfred Temple. Tom's art-lesson and love-scene with Becky; tick-trade with Huck; tick-squabble in school with Joe Harper. Battle of Public Square Heights. The broken Sugar-bowl. Tom gets ready to die under Becky's window, and gets drenched. The midnight murder in the graveyard by Injun Joe, witnessed by Huck and Tom. Their bloody oath in the tan-house. Frightened by the stray dog. Potter accused by Injun Joe at the inquest, and confesses. “Examination Day” at school. Teacher's bald head gilded, and his wig removed by a suspended cat. Teacher's anatomical book torn by Becky; Tom accuses himself at the last moment, and takes the whipping. The pirating expedition to Jackson's Island by Huck Finn the Red-Handed, the Black Avenger of the Spanish Main, and the Terror of the Seas. Tom returns and eaves-drops. Hears conversation between Aunt Polly, Sid, Mary, and Mrs. Harper, appointing date of funeral of the three runaway boys. Goes back to Island, and in midst of their own funeral the three lads march down the aisle. Tom afterward explains to Aunt Polly why he “did not leave the bark.”
Trial of Muff Potter. At latest moment Tom Sawyer called to witness stand, and when his damaging tale is half finished, Injun Joe breaks away and escapes.
Tom, and Huck Finn the Pariah of the village of St. Petersburgh, hunt for hidden treasure under dead trees, and in haunted houses. Secreted in haunted house they see Injun Joe and a stranger come there to bury a trifle of money; in digging the hole, an ancient box of gold coin is found, which they conclude to carry off and hide in “No. 2 under the cross,” to [begin page 245] the serious disappointment of the lads. The boys search room No. 2 in the Temperance Tavern, and find only clandestine whiskey and Injun Joe drunk and asleep.
Huck dogs Injun Joe and the stranger at midnight to Widow Douglas's, then informs the Welchman Jones of the intended burglary and mayhem, and the widow is saved.
The pic-nic. Tom and Becky lost during three days in MacDougal's cave. Tom sees Injun Joe in there, who flies. Search for the children. Tom accidentally finds a way out, together with Becky. Reception in town. Injun Joe starves to death in the cave.
Tom takes Huck to cave; they dig under figure of the cross, and get the treasure. Widow Douglas takes Huck into her family, and distresses the life out of the vagabond with her cleanly, systematic, and pious ways. He, Tom, and Joe Harper turn robbers, and so make use of the cave.
Fifty Years Later.—Ovation to General Sawyer, Rear-Admiral Harper, Bishop Finn, and Inspector Sid Sawyer, the celebrated detective.
HARTFORD.
1875.
Some phrasings in this synopsis strongly suggest that it was written before the play was. The “etcs.” in the list of characters, for instance, indicate an uncertainty which one who has written a play would not be likely to have. After saying that the boys attend their own funeral, Twain says, “Tom afterward explains to Aunt Polly why he ‘did not leave the bark.’ ” The indefinite “afterward” suggests that the scene during which this explanation is offered has not been developed. Again: “Huck dogs Injun Joe and the stranger at midnight to Widow Douglas's, then informs the Welchman Jones of the intended burglary and mayhem, and the widow is saved.” Here too the paucity of details seems to indicate a scene still in the planning stage. It is noteworthy, too, that the synopsis summarizes events in the order of their occurrence in the novel, with very few omissions. These facts and the correspondence and the dating of the copyright all raise doubts that any of the play had been written before this synopsis was.
Shortly afterward Twain evidently wrote at least some of the drama outlined here. In a letter of 14 August 1876 he states that although he forgot to include in his novel “a ridiculous spelling-scene, historical and arithmetical classes, etc (country school fashion,) . . . I have it in the play.”4 A fragment of a note in the Estelle Doheny Collection, St. [begin page 246] John's Seminary, Camarillo, California, outlines the scene in similar words (see Appendix C).
Other notes in the Doheny collection outline Acts IV and V as the humorist planned to write them, and they conform to the outline used to procure the copyright. In the first of two scenes of Act IV, the villagers were to discuss and lament the supposed death of the boys and to plan their funeral, as they do at the start of chapter seventeen of the novel. In the second scene, Tom was to return to his home at night, as he had in chapter fifteen of the book, and hear his Aunt Polly and her friends talking about his death. Act V was to dramatize the latter part of chapter seventeen, which showed the boys returning to their own funeral:
Curtain discovers funeral well along. Three coffins. Make it a love-feast. Brethren asked to speak. 3 do. Preacher concludes. General burst of weeping. The boys crawl from under pews—preacher staring—everybody faces around—the ragged piratically dressed chaps come forward. General rejoicing. Everybody forgives. The 3 take back their compliments. Ain't anybody goin' to be glad Red's back? Yes, I will! Amy steals to Tom's side—Gracie to Joe's and as concourse breaks up they name the day. Curtain.
A memorandum in parentheses adds that the boys are to “discard their caps for plumed paper ones—wear tin swords, turn their coats, get flashy sashes, false horse-pistols etc.,” and appear “in this preposterous gear.”
Whether Twain got this far in the dramatization one cannot be sure, but after outlining Act V, even he must have realized that he was in bad trouble. I say “even he” because Mark Twain was quite capable of planning and writing unactable plays. On 25 February 1874 he wrote to his friend Mrs. Fairbanks: “I have written a 5-act play, with only one (visible) character in it—only one human being ever appears on the stage during the 5 acts—but the interest is not in him but in two other people who never appear at all. It may never be played . . . but it is at least novel & curious.”5 This “curious” invention has not survived, but a fragment of another (equally grotesque) has—a burlesque Hamlet with a long-winded comic character boldly inserted into Shakespeare's play. If this monstrosity had been completed and produced on the scale of Act I and the one scene of Act II, its performance would have been [begin page 247] interminable. And again, in 1890, Twain would write a dramatization of The Prince and the Pauper that producer Daniel Frohman calculated “would have taken two nights to perform.”6
Capable though he was of such fecklessness, Twain must have noticed that his outlined five acts had carried him through less than half of his synopsis. Thus, as a play foreshadowing O'Neill's Mourning Becomes Electra (but much duller), the completed drama would have taken hours, perhaps days, to perform. Twain may have noticed another difficulty: if all the scenes outlined were staged in order, more than thirty-five scene changes would have been necessary—an utterly impractical number.
At any rate, late in 1875 or early in 1876, the humorist sounded out Henry J. Byron, British actor, theater manager, and playwright, about collaborating on a dramatization of Tom Sawyer. (Byron's play Our Boys had just started a record run, and Clemens knew him as a humorist.) The letter of inquiry, however, was misplaced, and before Byron found it and answered it some months later, Clemens had Moncure Conway, his agent in England, approach another dramatist, Tom Taylor. Taylor, editor of Punch and a prolific writer of plays of many sorts, declined for reasons that one can infer from the letter Twain wrote on 14 August 1876:
I agree with Mr. Taylor, that the story as it stands is doubtless not dramatizable; but by turning and twisting some of the incidents, discarding others and adding new ones, that sort of difficulty is overcome by these ingenious dramatists. But I haven't the head to do it.
Taylor's refusal made possible another approach to Byron, the humorist's “first choice any way.” As late as 28 November, Conway told Clemens, “I have addressed to Miss Lee the great impersonator of ‘Jo’ in Bleak House an inquiry about her playing a role in Tom Sawyer but have no reply yet.”7 But I have come upon no evidence that Byron made an attempt at collaboration.
Between 1876 and 1878, Twain helped write the comedy Ah Sin in collaboration with Bret Harte, and he himself wrote the comedy “Cap'n Simon Wheeler, the Amateur Detective.” Each play was composed rapidly, and each, he thought, was wonderful. But after the former had been produced briefly, he called it “a most abject & incurable failure!” And after the latter had been put aside for a while and then reread, he characterized it as “dreadfully witless & flat.”8 Nevertheless it took the humorist only a few years to forget his failures, and in 1883 and 1884 he again busied himself frantically with dramatic writing. He persuaded Howells to come to Hartford and collaborate with him on a new play, Colonel Sellers as a Scientist, later called The American Claimant. When this was finished, he admired it inordinately and, even before prospective producers had been allowed to read it, he began negotiations for its production at what would have been highly advantageous terms for its authors. Whereas other Twain plays had been too long to produce, this evidently was too short—or so Raymond indicated when he finally was allowed to see it.9 In the end, abandoning hope for this narrative in dramatic form, Twain rewrote and published it as fiction. While still trying to get the Sellers play produced, he proposed that he and Howells write a historical tragedy, and quickly turned out a version of what was to be the climactic scene. Then he conceived of another collaboration which he and Howells might attempt—a play set in the Sandwich Islands, and he heaped up notes to be used in writing it. Work on these abortive plays did not keep him from completing dramatic versions of both The Prince and the Pauper and Tom Sawyer during this period.10
The history of the latter play followed the customary pattern: to the author's delight, he found himself writing at a prodigious speed. He read the finished product and admired his handiwork. Cockily he [begin page 249] negotiated to have it produced, while visions of millions danced through his head. But he failed to find a producer. And in time he was driven to recognize that his drama had little or no merit.
In four weeks, he boasted to Howells on 13 February 1884, “I have written one 4-act play Tom Sawyer, & 2½ acts of another The Prince and the Pauper.”11 Even though some of this version of the comedy evidently was lifted bodily from the earlier play, and although some merely had to be revised, the speed with which Twain wrote was remarkable. Some notes kept with the manuscript indicate how he achieved such speed: he jotted down the content and page numbers of promising passages in the Toronto edition. “Dead cat—good.—64–9 (all good graveyard stuff)” says one note; “152 Aunt Polly on Tom's essential goodness, chapter fourteen Must come in.” Additional notes suggest where bits can be worked into scenes other than those where they occur in the novel: “Tom's love scene—before school-blackboard. 71–78 (It can come in, all right, at school. . . .)”; “Add on 78 (Do you love rats?) after 71—before school takes in.” “232—also 241 the boys' discussion of treasure hunting This in the graveyard or on island before murder . . .” indicating that at this stage the author was unsure whether the dig for the treasure would take place in the cemetery where the doctor is killed or on Jackson's Island—although the treasure would be moved. Eventually Twain eliminated the Jackson's Island episode, and references to it disappeared.
He was eager to end each act, in the fashion of the day, with a memorable action. “Tom's flogging ends one act,” he wrote. He reminded himself to have Potter “carried off to jail” as another act ends. Again, “One act to close with Tom's testimony in court and flight or manacling of Injun Joe and Muff's gratitude.” Next he set down an exchange to occur in this scene:
Tom—Huck I can't stand it (struggling).
Huck—O, Tom don't ruin us!
At the end of the page containing this note Twain hit upon a way to eliminate a scene shift: “(Hold court in school-house with black-boards around.)” The play follows this suggestion after Teacher Dobbins [begin page 250] explains that the classroom will become a courtroom because the regular courtroom is too small.
After making such jottings and having decided which settings to use, the author (so far as one can guess on the basis of surviving notes) wrote a synopsis of each act (several synopses of Act IV, since he had trouble concluding several lines of action in it). He used only four settings: Act I, street before Tom's home; Act II, moonlit graveyard; Act III, country schoolroom; Act IV, the cave. He then proceeded to write the acts in full, frequently revising. The typescript for the play was prepared on three separate typewriters, possibly by different typists. Although the reason is obscure, I suspect the author had his manuscript typed in a hurry so that he could quickly get the play staged and start earning vast sums of money.12 A large share of Act II was rewritten after it had been typed; the typed pages have been crossed out and the new portion in Mark Twain's hand has been inserted.
Completed on 29 January 1884, the play was copyrighted at once—on 1 February. The copyright was secured on the basis of the submission to the copyright office of a scene-by-scene synopsis. This summary is completely in accord with the dramatization, and therefore it presumably was written after the play was completed (see Appendix C).
Mark Twain was so pleased with this piece of work that even before he had finished it he was pondering on the cast which might properly perform it and trying to dictate terms. “I want Louis Aldrich to play Tom Sawyer's part, & Parsloe to play Huck Finn,” he informed his business agent, Webster. “I think it would be a strong team—& have all the boys & girls played by grown people.” He told Webster that the actor who played Tom must do so “till it is down to where it pays him only an average of $300 or $400 a month clear & above expenses, for a whole season.” Alternately with instructions to peddle the still unproduced Sellers play, he sent Webster comments on the new drama and instructions about arranging its production. “Tom Sawyer is finished,” [begin page 251] he happily reported on 8 February, “& it is a good play—a good acting play.” At the same time (probably because Aldrich and Parsloe had not jumped at the chance to sign for roles), he wanted to have James Lewis approached.13 The reasons are indicated in a note in the Mark Twain Papers (Paine 159):
The principal girls in this play can as well be full grown, (and fat or lean) and merely dressed as children. The burlesque will do no harm.
Jim can be burlesqued also—a negro boy 6 feet high or 6 feet through.
It is only Huck and Tom that must not be burlesqued.
If Mr. Lewis and Miss Rehan had the parts of Tom and Huck, the rest would be undifficult.
The idea of having a woman play Tom or Huck or having actresses play both was not new. The author had spoken of having both roles played by women in a letter to Howells dated 13 July 1875, and he had mentioned the possibility to Conway on 24 July 1876. In notes written during 1884, he spoke of having Marie Burroughs in one role and Ada Rehan in the other, or of teaming up Lewis with Miss Rehan.14
Eventually the play was submitted to Daly, along with stern instructions about the casting, the premiere date, and the royalty arrangement.15 On 27 February 1884 Daly rejected the chance to stage the play and incidentally commented upon the idea of giving the leading roles to adults:
I fear that Tom Sawyer would not make a success at my theatre. After a very close reading I must disagree with you on the point that grown up people may successfully represent the boys & girls of your piece. Tom might be played by a clever comedian as a boy—but the other parts would seem ridiculous in grown peoples hands.
On the letter, Clemens wrote a note to his business agent, “Send & get the play, Charley.”16
One hears no more about the author's attempting to dramatize his novel, but exactly a year later Clemens informed Howells that he had sold dramatic rights to Tom Sawyer “on a royalty & it is to be exploited presently in New York.” Not having seen the manuscript, he added, he [begin page 252] knew nothing about the dramatization. A play dramatizing the picnic scene from Tom Sawyer was given on 11 June 1885 at the Star Theatre in New York; and either this play or another titled Tom Sawyer ran for a week in June 1890, another week in June 1891 at the Third Avenue Theatre, New York, and a third week in January 1892 at the Harlem Theatre.17
Meanwhile—perhaps after seeing one of these productions—Clemens had decided that his novel just could not be dramatized. Before he left his summer residence near Elmira, New York, in 1887, a letter from Susquehanna, Pennsylvania, dated 3 September 1887, and signed by W. R. Ward reached him. Under the letterhead of the Kittie Rhoades Theatrical Company it informed him that “we have taken the liberty to try and dramatize your ‘Tom Sawyer.’ ” Might the company advertise this as the humorist's work? On the envelope, the recipient wrote, “For Unmailed Letters,” with the idea that the request and his unsent reply would be included in an article that he was planning. Part of the unmailed reply went:
You are No. 1365. When 1364 sweeter and better people, including the author, have “tried” to dramatize Tom Sawyer and did not arrive, what sort of show do you suppose you stand? That is a book, dear sir, which cannot be dramatized. One might as well try to dramatize any other sermon. hymn. Tom Sawyer is simply a hymn, put into prose form to give it a worldly air.18
The play, the author continued, like all the dramatizations preceding it, would “go out the back door the first night. . . . I have seen Tom Sawyer's remains in all the different kinds of dramatic shrouds there are.”
A dramatization of a novel by Mark Twain which did not have to be draped in a shroud was the actor Frank Mayo's version of Pudd'nhead Wilson. Brander Matthews tells how Mayo succeeded in writing a play which had a long run:
[begin page 253]He simplified Mark's story and he amplified it; he condensed it and he heightened it; he preserved the ingenious incidents and the veracious characters; he made his profit out of the telling dialog; and he was skilful in disentangling the essentially dramatic elements of Mark's rather rambling story.19
Although in adapting Tom Sawyer for the stage Mark Twain simplified and condensed his story, and although he more or less managed to preserve most of “the veracious characters,” he did not do these things satisfactorily,20 and he failed to make other changes such as Mayo made.
Twain simplified his story by excluding many scenes—the Sunday school and church episodes, the wholesale conversions and backslidings of the boys of the village, for instance. Understandably, he did not dramatize two scenes which would have required the services of trained cats—the one in which Tom fed his aunt's pet the pain-killer and the one in which another cat removed the wig from Dobbins. He did not have Tom show off before Becky's home; he did not have Tom and Huck sign the secret pact in blood; and he did not include the thrilling scene wherein the two boys were trapped by Injun Joe and the stranger in the haunted house. He left out the whole of the Jackson's Island episode—the boyish pirates' idyllic adventures, Tom's secret visit to Aunt Polly, and the startling appearance of the boys at their own funeral. And since these and other omitted bits are memorable, it might be argued that he failed to preserve “the ingenious incidents.”
Moreover, he had trouble of a sort that pestered him in writing most of his novels and all of his plays—the relating of incidents to an overall plot. When he wrote his only successful dramatization, one recalls, Twain used a plot supplied by someone else. When, in 1877, the producer John Brougham read “Cap'n Simon Wheeler, The Amateur Detective,” he found it “altogether too diffuse in its present condition for dramatic representation. . . .”21 Collaborating with Harte and [begin page 254] Howells on plays, the humorist depended upon them to supply plots, and even then the plays turned out badly.
The novel Tom Sawyer had a unity thrust upon it because, as an attack on Sunday-school, Good-and-Bad-Boy fiction, it showed how a real boy grew up; and although there were digressions, several persistent narrative strands showed a boy maturing. Each began with a childish action and concluded with a more mature one: the relationship of Tom and Becky, for instance, began with puppy love and a boyish courtship and ended with the boy's accepting punishment in place of the girl and with his comforting and protecting her in the cave. The Jackson's Island episode began with boyish thoughtlessness and ended with a display of mature concern for others. The Muff Potter strand began with a childish shrinking from duty and ended with Tom's testifying in court, despite danger. Tom talked irresponsibly with Huck at the start; at the end he assumed a grown-up role. Because childlike actions cluster in early chapters and more mature ones in later chapters, there is an overall development.22
In the play, only the line of action involving Muff Potter suggests Tom's maturing, and it does so sketchily because Twain did not carry over into the play the boy's struggle with his conscience about helping Muff, which was developed at length in the novel. The action therefore loses much significance. The Jackson's Island happenings disappear. The love story loses its relevance, for while the novel develops the changing relationship between Tom and Becky, the play inexplicably divides Tom's affections between Becky and another girl. Tom's relationship with Becky therefore shows no development whatever.23 And as the drama ends, instead of talking in an adult fashion, Tom is mocking Aunt Polly by standing on his head. Not only does the overall structure of the novel disintegrate in the play; the character of Tom which that structure revealed loses much of its lifelike complexity.
[begin page 255]In addition to the narrative which shows Tom's maturing, the quality in the novel that led Twain to speak of it as a hymn helped it achieve a degree of unity. This quality was the book's atmosphere—a unique blend of the idyllic and the terrifying. As DeVoto says,
It is a hymn: to boyhood, to the fantasies of boyhood, to the richness and security of the child's world, to a phase of American society now vanished altogether, to the loveliness of woods and prairies that were the Great Valley, to the river . . . It is wrought out of beauty and nostalgia. Yet Mark is nowhere truer to us, to himself, or to childhood than in the dread which holds this idyl inclosed. The book so superbly brings the reader within its enchantment that some reflection is required before he can realize of what ghastly stuff it is made—murder and starvation, grave-robbery and revenge, terror and panic, some of the darkest emotions of men, some of the most terrible fears of children, and the ghosts and demons and death portents of the slaves.24
One who searches for reasons why this “enchantment” is not carried over into the play finds several. A remarkably large number of descriptive passages do much to create both idyl and terror in the book: peaceful St. Petersburg bathed in sunshine, its breezes filled with the perfume of flowers; the town at night, warm in moonlight; the drowsy church and schoolroom; “nature in a trance” in the woods on Cardiff Hill and on Jackson's Island; the dark and weatherbeaten graveyard with winds moaning through its trees; the old tanyard at night, silent except for the lugubrious howls of a dog straying nearby; the frightening thunderstorms; the deadly silent haunted house; the labyrinthian cave. Mark Twain found no satisfactory substitute for these passages in the play. In the book, too, on many occasions the author unfolds Tom's thoughts and feelings—the workings of the boy's conscience, his moments of delight, tenderness, loneliness, melancholy, and fear. Nothing in the play persuades one that Tom feels any of these deeply. Beyond the fact that the author was forced by his medium to show only exteriors, another reason is that he so determinedly concentrated upon the broadest comedy. In the play burlesque looms large—in the first-act whitewashing of the calf by the boys, in the scene in Act III where Aunt Polly mistakenly believes that Huck is praying when he is playing mumblety-peg, in the final moments of Act IV wherein Tom engages in acrobatics, and in a dozen only slightly less obvious scenes. And the broad comedy plays hob with the audience's empathy, robbing even the [begin page 256] most pathetic scenes of pathos, even the most melodramatic scenes of suspense.
A final difficulty, related to this one, resulted from Twain's failure to make individual scenes diverting or engrossing. Robert A. Wiggins has noticed that the humorist had a habit of “concentrating upon the scene or episode as the chief structural element.” “His fiction,” Wiggins continues, “abounds in memorable scenes remembered out of their context.”25 In this dramatization, Twain similarly concentrates upon episodic units. But inexplicably he gallops through scenes that might have been developed through action and loafs through scenes which consist mainly of talk. The murder scene, for example, he might well have prolonged to develop excitingly, and the trial scene he might have filled with suspense, but both are too brief in the play to build to any sort of a climax.
Contrast what he does in Act I: He starts with an attenuated, desultory discussion by two little girls of their strange notions about love, pausing only to force dollops of exposition down the audience's throats. Next he brings in the Negro boy Jim to engage in a soliloquy enlivened by a minimum of action (he eats a cake). Next Jim talks with Muff Potter—more exposition. After the pair departs, Aunt Polly enters, speaks at length, talks briefly with Mary, and they leave. Now Tom enters and perpetrates a long soliloquy. Only after all this relatively static talk, briefly interrupted by some banging firecrackers, does Twain provide a few minutes of action in Tom's fight with Alfred Temple and the whitewashing of the fence. The concentration upon talk at the expense of action is typical.
Such proportioning, natural enough for a comic lecturer who so consistently created laughter by artfully presenting chatter which meandered in a seemingly artless way, marred this dramatic composition. Twain himself evidently saw that a conversation between Tom and Huck in Act II, drawn from three chapters of Tom Sawyer and one of Huckleberry Finn, stretched too long. He chopped out the part taken from the as yet unpublished Huck. But his reluctance to do so is shown by his marginal comment: “Might a trifle of this be preserved and thrust in back yonder . . . ?” A wonderful talker who appreciated his own artistry had a hard time shutting up even one of his invented characters.
[begin page 257]There were other reasons why even in an era when inferior dramas often did very well, this dramatization never found a producer; but those which have been detailed here are enough to account for its failure. Mark Twain's letter of 1890 to Daniel Frohman which condemned Mrs. Abby S. Richardson's dramatization of The Prince and the Pauper, ironically enough, applies equally well to his own dramatization of Tom Sawyer:
I should have perceived that Mrs. Richardson's contract to dramatize the book had not been fulfilled; that she had . . . got as far away from the book as she could; that she had merely transferred names from the book, and often left the characters that belonged to them behind; that whenever she meddled with a high character she lowered its tone; that whenever she took an incident from the book, she distorted and damaged it. . . .26
He scolded others; himself he could not scold.
scene—a missouri village on
mississippi river.
Pull up garters—no, re-tie them. Two girls of ten near a village house; smart summer dresses of fashion of 40 years ago—hair in two long plaited tails down back, ends tied with ribbon. They are nibbling long striped sticks of candy. Broad Leghorn hats, with long broad ribbons.
Gracie Miller—I'll tell you something Bessie Thompson told me if you'll never tell anybody I told you.
Amy Lawrence—O will you. Good. I won't ever tell.
G—'Pon your word and sacred honor?
A—'Pon my word and sacred honor.
G—'Deed and deed and double deed?
A—'Deed and deed and double deed—O do tell me, won't you, Gracie?
G—Well, I don't know. Wait till I tie my (turns her back to audience and ties her garter). I'm afraid you'll tell.—ⒶemendationAnd besides—
[begin page 259]A—O I'll never tell. What is it, now, Gracie?
G—I don't think I ought to tell you,Ⓐemendation Amy, because sometimes you know things and you won't ever tell me.
A—Gracie Miller! You ought to be ashamed of yourself. I never never never knew anything and didn't tell you. I always run and tell you the first thing. Who did I run and tell, the time that my brother Jim was sliding on cellar door and stuck a splinter in his heart?Ⓐtextual note
G—Well, what of that? That wasn't anything.
A—It wasn't, wasn't it? Didn't you say I was a dear good thing for telling you before I told anybody else, and you said you'd never forget me as long as ever you lived, and any time you had anything to tell you'd go as straight as ever you could walk and tell me?—there now. And every single solitary time we have a new crop of kittens at home, who do I run and tell first? Why you—you!—soⒶemendation there now!
G—'Mf. I don't care anything about your old kittens. I reckon we've got cats enough; yes, and thousands of kittens—bran new ones—every week.
A—O yes, of course you do.
G—Well we do, Miss. Nine hundred anyway—and I know it.
A—Gracie Miller, what you've said is not half of it true, and you know it; and so it'sⒶemendation a sin; and the dreadfulest kind of a sin. It's arson, that's what it is.
G—I don't care what it is. And I don't care what you think about it—so there. I don't like you anyhow.
A—(Crying.)—Gracie Miller, you're just as spiteful and ugly and disagreeableⒶemendation as you can be,Ⓐemendation and I don't like you one bit, and I never did—Ⓐemendationand I hope you won't ever ask to swing on our gate any more in this world; for I shouldn'tⒶemendation ever wish such characters to swing on it.
G—Nobody wants to. I'd rather go without happiness all my days than swing on a gate with people that it's a dishonor to swing on a gate with.
A—Gracie Miller, I'll never speak to you again as long as I live—never.
[begin page 260]G—(Crying.)—I don't want you to speak to me. I wouldn't answer you if you did.Ⓐemendation—There, you can take back your old doll—I wouldn't have it. (Throwing it down spitefully.) Give me mine.
A—(Throwing down a similar rag doll.) Take it and welcome.—Ⓐemendation I wouldn't soil my hands with it.
(They pick up the respective dolls and turn away crying. They pause apart and sob awhile, eyeing each other askance. Then Amy addressing vacancy.)
A—I'm sure I don't care. I reckon I know something too. And what's more, I'll never tell.
(G—pricks up her ears, but does not respond. A—continues presently.)
A—Somebody's come to town. I know who it is.
G—(To vacancy.)—I know of somebody that's come to town—this very day, too. And I reckon I know his name, too. (A. is interested.)Ⓐtextual note And I know something that somebody said about Tom Sawyer.
A—(To vacancy.) Tom Sawyer!
G—Nobody knows it but me. I'd a told somebody if they'd a behavedⒶemendation.
(Both girls edge toward each other sheepishly—both afraid to make the first advance toward reconciliation. Wiping their eyes on their aprons they edge together back to back—presently A. furtively looks over G.'s shoulder and then timidly passes her doll around. G. looks at it a moment, takes it, passes her doll, which A. takes. Then)
A—I didn't mean anything by what I said, Gracie.
G—(facing around) Didn't you, Amy? Well, I didn't mean anything by what I said. If you'll make up, I will.
A—I'm agreed! O you dear! (They kiss.) I'll give you a bite of my candy if you'll give me a bite of yours. (They measure and take the biggest bites they can, and then examine to see who got the best of it.)
G—(munching) I love you better than [begin page 261] anybody in the world, Amy.
A—(munching and talking thickly) And I love you better than anybody in the world, Gracie. You don't despise our cats now, do you,Ⓐemendation Gracie?
G—No I love them; and I can swing on your gate, now, can't I,Ⓐemendation Amy?
A—Yes,Ⓐemendation just as much as ever you want to. I want you to come to my house just whenever you can; and I'll come to your house, too.
G—O, how nice! Amy, I'll tell you that,Ⓐemendation now, if you want me to.
A—O, do, Gracie, that's a love.
G—(whispering mysteriously but loudly) Ben Rogers says you and Tom Sawyer's engaged!
A—O, what a story!
G—O, you needn't try to look so! I've caught you!—ⒶemendationWhy your face is as red as fire! Now own up, Amy—do, I won't tell a breathing soul—and then I'll tell you something.
A—Will you, Gracie? Will you, now?
G—I will, indeed.
A—(diffidently and mysteriously)—Well, he's pestered me so long that at last I did tell him I—I—(Heaving her apron over her head) lovedⒶemendation him just a tiny tiny little bit!—
G—O, that's so nice! It's so nice! And when is it going to be?
A—What?
G—Why, the wedding?
A—O, I—I—well I never thought of that.
G—Never thought of it! Why there must be a wedding, of course.
A—Yes I reckon that is so. When would you have it?
G—O, I'd have it right away. It's ever so much fun.
A—Why? Have you ever been married?
G—Only once.
A—Is it a real wedding?
G—O, no, just pretend, you know.
A—Who did you marry?
G—The. Lawson.
A—Why I never knew that. What broke it off?
G—Nothing broke it off; I'm a widow now.
A—Why how can that be? The. Lawson isn't dead.
[begin page 262]G—I know; but we only pretend.
A—Oh,—I see.
G—Yes, I wanted to go into mourning, and so I thought I'd be a widow.
A—What did you want to do that for?
G—Well, I think mourning's nice, and besides I wanted to do like young Mrs. Beesom. (Impressively) Every day, she goes to her husband's grave and cries around and carries flowers there.
A—Yes, but you didn't have any grave, and then it's so far to the graveyard, too.
G—I know, but there's a ridge in our back yard, where they put turnips under in the winter, and I make believe it's a grave, you know. I pretend to be in mourning, and go there and cry, and have such a good time. And I've got a long piece of stovepipe standing up on the ridge, and it looks just like a monument.
A—O, how nice! I wish I was a widow.
G—Well you can be one. All you do, you marry Tom Sawyer, and then pretty soon you let on that he has got the measles or the whooping cough and died, and then if you can get a piece of stovepipe I'll let you have part of my grave, and—
A—O, it would be too lovely for anything; but I couldn't bear to think of Tom being dead. I—I—I'll tell you, GraceⒶemendation, but nobody else. I don't love Tom just a tiny tiny little bit. Let me whisper to you—I love—him—more—than—sour-grass! (Hides face in apron.) Gracie, don't you ever tell.
G—O, it's splendid—it's just too charming. I won't ever tell. Deed and deed and double deed I won't. Mayn't I come to the wedding?
A—O, of course! But widows don't go, do they?
G—No, they don't go to circuses, nor weddings, nor funerals, nor hardly any kindsⒶemendation of frolics at all—because it isn't proper, you know—Ⓐemendation but then I'll go into second mourning for a while, and then I can.
A—How do you go into second mourning?
G—O, that's easy. Do you see this little bow of black ribbon pinned on the top of my hat? Well that means I'm in full mourning.—But if I take that off and put on a lavender-colored bow, I'll [begin page 263] be in second mourning,—and then you can carry on as much as ever you want to.
A—That's good. Gracie,Ⓐemendation who is it that's comeⒶemendation to town?
G—Why it's a boy from St.Ⓐemendation Louis.
A—From St.Ⓐemendation Louis! My! he must be grand!
G—'Deed they say he is. His name's Alfred Temple—ain't it a sweet name? And they say he dresses in Sunday clothes all the week.
A—No! Why his folks must be ever so rich.
G—Yes, they say they are. They say his father's worth more'n a thousand dollars.
A—O dear, that must be heaps of money! How much is a thousand dollars?
G—I don't know. But I reckon it's sixteen or seventeen barrels full—they say it is. They say that boy wears gloves,Ⓐemendation Sundays; and standing collars;Ⓐemendation and they say he wears a necktie every single day of his life—just the same as a man would. Goodness, won't the boys hate him!Ⓐemendation
A—Hate him! Why they'll heave mud at him till he'll look like Adam.—I mean before he was whitewashed. I hope Tom Sawyer won't get into trouble with him, but I know he will. Well, of course they'll all try to whip him, just because he's a new boy. And then, you know, they won't stand a boy that's so plagueyⒶemendation respectable—and a city boy, at that. But I wish I could see him—I never saw a city boy, and I've so wanted to!
G—So have I.—Amy, are you going to the war this afternoon?
A—I want to go, but—
G—But what?
A—Well, you know Tom's captain of the Bengal Tigers, and it might make talk. Are you going?
G—Yes, I'd like to go, but I reckon I won't.
A—I know why!
G—Why, now?
A—You know very well! Who's captain of the Bloody Avengers? Ah!Ⓐemendation—
G—'Mf! Who cares for Joe Harper? I'm sure I don't.
[begin page 264]A—O, Gracie Miller, what a fib!
G—Well, I don't care for that cripple. At least I don't care much.
A—O, how you talk. Why everybody knows. Now own up, Gracie. You're not going to keep anything from me, are you? You wouldn't do that?
G—Well, Amy, I won't—but you mustn't ever tell, will you? (In confidential tone.) As soon as I'm out of mourning, we're going to get engaged. Now please don't tell. Amy, guess what he gave me to remember him by forever and ever and ever?
A—O what was it? Please tell me.
G—A beautiful brass door-knob—and it's hardly battered a bit. There it is. (Producing it.)
A—O, what a love of a thing! (Impressively:) Gracie, I should think every time you looked at this, it would make you better and nobler.
G—It does, Amy. I put it under my head, every night.—ⒶemendationI mean to keep it and love it as long as ever I live. And when I die I want flowers in my coffin, and I want my hands crossed on my breast—so, like Johnny Patterson's was, that died—and I want to hold this door-knobⒶemendation just so—(in her clasped hands).
A—O, that will be lovely. So lovely! Everybody will talk about it. I mean to ask Tom to give me a door-knob just like it, when he finds one; and he's likely to, because he's always away offⒶemendation in the woods and all sorts of strange places, digging for treasures—treasures buried by pirates and robbers and such people, you know. And if he finds a treasure, and there's a door-knob amongst it, and I ask him for it, I know he'll give it to me—and I will ask him—I'll ask him the first thing,Ⓐemendation when I see him. Gracie, when is the war going to come off?
G—About 3 o'clock this afternoon. Haven't you been invited?
A—O, yes, Tom always invites me, but I forgot the time. What is it about, this time?Ⓐemendation
G—Well—let's see. Last Saturday the battle was because the Bloody Avengers said the Bengal Tigers were aristocrats. Saturday before it was because the Bengal Tigers said the Bloody Avengers were chicken-thievesⒶemendation. I think it was so late, last Saturday, before the [begin page 265] war was over, that they didn't fix up what to fight about this time—so I heard one of the boys say they were going to fight first and then settle what it was about afterwards. Now you come to my house and stay till the war, and I'll show you all my things, and my grave and my monument, and let you see me cry.
A—O, that will be nice. Gracie, don't you ever, everⒶemendation tell! (Exhibits a cake, skips to the cottage door and deposits it on the step.)
G—O, my! Is that for Tom?
A—Yes. Don't you ever tell.
G—I won't. Will he know who put it there?
A—Yes. I promised I'd do it—it's a love gift. And it's got a beautiful, beautiful little love-letter inside of it. Come along—come along! Run!
(Exit both.)
(Enter from the cottage door, a darkey boy—Jim—playing a jewsharp.)
Jim—Gitt'n' pooty warm in dah. Ole missis she don't like de way Mars Tom's been a doin'. She ‘clar she mos’ half a mindⒶemendation to make him work to-day. Dat won't suit Mars Tom, I tell you! Yah-yah-yah!Ⓐemendation Mars Tom he want to go to de war. I reckon Mars Sid gittin' Mars Tom into dis trouble. Mars Sid he de good boy. He like to go to de Sunday School; but ef you give Mars Tom he choice,Ⓐemendation wether he'll go to de Sunday school erⒶemendation to de prar-meetingⒶemendation, w'y mos'ly he gen'ally druther go to de circus. But Mars Tom he mighty good to me; gives me lots o'Ⓐemendation things; but Mars Sid he don't never do nothin' like dat. He too awful good, I reckon. Yah-yah-yah. (Picks up Tom's cake, crams it all into his mouth and goes to munching it and looking around for more, and talking and munching with full mouth all the time.) No indeedy, Mars Sid he de nice boy. He never git a lick—don't never ketchⒶemendation him in no mischief. Dat cake mighty good; somebody drap dat, I reckon. (Making ghastly effortsⒶtextual note to swallow it.) But ‘pears to me like dey'd sumf'n in dat cake. I reck'nⒶemendation it's a noospaper. Feel like a noospaper—tas’ like a noospaper—an' I bet she is a noospaper, too. Wonder what dey want to put her in de cake fer—fer to fill up, I reck'n. It's k'yerlessness to [begin page 266] take ‘n' wase a noospaper dat-awayⒶemendation. (Gets it down with a final frightful struggle, and caresses his stomach, not altogether gratefully.) By jing, she's down, at las’. But I ain't gwyne to subscribe no mo' for dat paper. (Sits down and works patiently at a coarse comb and piece of paper trying to construct a musical instrument.) Ole Missis she do love Mars Tom, for all he up to so much devilment, and jes' pester de life outen her.—ⒶemendationShe don't like to lick Mars Tom, but den my goodness she got to lick him sometimes. All boys isⒶemendation got to be licked—case if you don't lick 'em dey don't ‘mountⒶemendation to nuffin. Ole Injun Joe he say dey ain't wuff a dam—(or substitute a spasm of the stomach in place of the dam). I wisht I das't to swah like dat Injun Joe—I don't see why dey hab a debble, for to keep a body in a sweat all de time. I wisht I's de debble—‘I’Ⓐemendation jings I'd warm Mars Sid sometimes, I don't reckon. Yah-yah-yah. O, no, I reckon not! Yah-yah-yah. Well, I don't see dat axe nowhah.—ⒶemendationI can't split de kindlin' wood if I can't find de axe. I reckon maybe it's in de back yard—or down suller,—or in de kitchen som'ers. I'll go see. I can't never remember what I done wid de axe.—ⒶemendationIf ole missis ketch me loafin roun' heah, she take an' bust me wide open—dat she will. Dah's ole Muff Potter—he kin fix dis comb, I bet you. He know how to do mos' anything. (Enter ragged good-natured loafer.) Mars Potter, I wisht you'd fix dish yer comb fer me—somehow she won't go. (Getting up.)
Muff. Lemme see it, Jim. (Tries it.) Your paper's too rumply, Jim, that's what's the trouble. (Gets a lot of boy's rubbish out of his pocket, selects a piece of paper, fits it, plays a tune.)
Jim. (Trying it successfully.) I's much obleeged to you, Mars Muff, 'deed I is. I knowed you could fix it. Waz you lookin for Mars Tom?
Muff. No, I was looking for Injun Joe. Have you seen him?
Jim. Yes, sir, I has, en what's more en dat, I's felt him, too. He come by heah 'bout a half an hour ago—en 'course he fetch me a wipe side de head—heⒶemendation always do—I wish somebody'd take en kill dat ornery half-breed, dat's 'ut I wisht.
Muff. What does he do that for, Jim?
[begin page 267]Jim. I dono. But I reckon maybe he's 'fraid I'll fogit dat I laugh at him wunst when he 'uz drunk en a ole sow run ‘twix’ his laigs en upsot him. Dat 'uz mo' en a year ago; but he allays fetch me one side de head, every time sence—when I don't see him a-comin' fust. What does you want to see dat rubbage fer, Mars Muff?—what does you want 'long o'Ⓐemendation him?
Muff. O nothing, (going) nothing particular. Which way'd he go?
Jim. Down todes Dr. Robberson's. (Going; and tuning up on the comb.) I's mighty much obleeged to you fer fixin dish yer ole pianner fer me, Mars Muff—she go fust-rate, now, 'deed she do.
Muff. O, that's all right, Jimmy.
(Exit both.)Ⓐtextual note
Aunt Polly and Mary.Ⓐtextual note
Aunt Polly—(flying out at the door, fire crackers tied to a long string behind her or the popping of them heard before she appears.)—Tom Sawyer! (Pause.) You Tom—! well, I lay if I get hold of you I'll—T-o-mⒶemendation Sawyer! (Pause—listening.)
Mary. (Looking about.) Aunty, he isn't here anywhere.
A. P. Well, look around, look around, child. (Mary moves off, shading her eyes with her hand, peeringⒶemendation rearward.) I never did see the beat of that boy. Y-o-u-u Tom!
Mary. How did it happen, auntyⒶemendation?
A. P. Happen? Why,Ⓐemendation whilst I was threatening to make him work to-day for playing hookey yesterday, and just turned around a minute to reach for my switch and give him a trouncing, he hitched that dreadful string of crackers to my dress behind, and set them off; and of course before I could come to my right senses, he was out and gone. Y-o-u-u Tom! Keep a sharp lookout, Mary. Don't you see anything of him yet?
Mary. No. But I'll go further. (Moving off) Which way did he go?
A. P. Bless your heart, how should I know? I thought the world was coming to an end; how could I think to look which wayⒶemendation the [begin page 268] scamp went. (Smiles, and says aside, gently)—Hang the boy, can't I ever larnⒶemendation anything? Hasn't he played tricks enough on me for me to be looking out for him by this time? But old fools are the biggest fools, they say. Can't learn an old dog new tricks, as the saying is. But deary me, he never plays them alike two days, and so how's a body to know what's coming? He appears to know just how long he can torment me before he gets my temper up; and he knows if he can manage to put me off for a minute, or get out of my sight, it's all gone again, and I can't hit him a lick. (With a sigh.) I'm not doing my duty by that boy, and that's the truth, goodness knows. Spare the rod and spoil the child, as the good book says. I'm laying up sin and suffering for us both, I know. He's full of the old scratch, but laws-a-me, he's my own dead sister's boy, poor thing, and I haven't got the heart to lash him, somehow. Every time I let him off, my conscience does hurt me so; and every time I hit him my old heart most breaks. Well-a-well, man that is born of woman is of few days and full of trouble, as Scripture says, and I reckon it's so. I'll just be obliged to make him work, to-day, to punish him and make him see the enormity of touching off fire-crackers right under a person's nose when her back is turned and she unprepared for it and not expecting anything. It's mighty hard to make him work Saturdays, when all the boys are having holiday; but he hates work more than he hates anything else, and I've got to do some of my duty by him or I'll be the ruination of the child.
Mary. (Reappearing.) I can't see a sign of him anywhere, aunty.
A. P. Well, come along then, and never mind. (Pause—reflecting.) Mary, would you make him work to-day?
Mary. There, aunty dear, you are weakening already. you won't make him work to-day, if that's what you want to know.
A. P. (Bridling.) Go in the house! —and stop your impudence. I'm not weakening, at all. I've provided a great quantity of whitewash, and a new brush; and I've told him a dozen times that if he ever misbehaved again I'd make him whitewash this fence; and I tell you right now—and here—that as sure as the sun is in the sky, if he ever misbehaves another single time, I will make him whitewash it.
[begin page 269]Mary. (Aside—laughing clandestinely) I knew she couldn't do it—she's too soft-hearted.
A. P. (Observing her a moment, severely)—Go in the house, I tell you!
(Exit both into the house.)
Tom Sawyer (in gaudy General's uniform.) (Glides in, stealthily, on white pine stilts, dragging a dead rat on a string.Ⓐemendation Dismounts. Examines rat—swings it.)
Tom. (Solus.) It's a noble good rat. (Goes looking around for the cake, talking.) Nobody but a goose would have sold it for a fish-hook—but Tom Hooker doesn't know anything. (Stands in an awkward, uncomfortable attitude a moment.) No——yes——no——yes, they are b'George! There's a hole in my pocket,Ⓐemendation sure, and those fishing worms are getting out. (Pulls out a handful of apparently squirming worms and counts them.) There's five gone—I had nineteen. (Kicks—apparently shakes out one or two; kicks again, no result.) Well, I've got three back anyway; never mind the other two. (Sits on floor.) I wonderⒶemendation what I'll do with them, now. I can't trust that pocket any more. (Reflects a while—then puts the lot in his cap without comment, and puts his cap on. Gets up and glances around again.) Now what has ever become of that cake? I can't find it anywhere. (Pause—reflects—manner changes.) She said she'd leave a cake—with a love-letter in it—and this is the way she keeps her word. (Pause.) Well—it just means this: Tom Sawyer's not good enough for her; and she's gone and taken up with somebody else—that's what it means. Very well, Miss Amy, (sitting down and propping his jaws inⒶemendation his hands) if a person's heart is nothing to you, and you can break it and never care, and just gloat over his sufferings (snuffling) and be happy, and him so miserable, and rejoice in seeing him go down, and get to be dissipated and despised, and fill a drunkard's grave, (over-come by his feelings)—well, let it be so, since it must be so—and since you are determined to have it so, and may you always be happy, and never come to see and feel what you've done, and how you've blighted a person that loved you so—(taking off his cap and fondling the worms tearfully) [begin page 270] —and who was always thinking of you, and trying to make your life sweet and bright and heavenly, and got all these worms for you, and was going to give you this very rat—(gets up and sadly throws the worms and the rat aside, snuffling.) They're nothing to me, now. They have lost all that made them noble and beautiful. They were a joy to me, as long as I could think of her having them, and they reminding her of me whenever she looked at them—but that is all gone by, now. No—let them go—rats and worms are for the gay and happy—they cannot cheer, they cannot heal, a broken heart. (Pause—then gloomily.) Well, since it must be so—since it is forced upon me, be it so:Ⓐemendation I will lead a life of crime. (Suspiciously —jealously)—But who is this other she has cast me off for? Some proud rich person? Of course—I might have known it. They are all alike. Is it that new boy? Is it that St. Louis boy? I just know it is. Well if I don't make him climb a— I reckon that's him coming, now. (Pause—weakening.) He's bigger'n I expected. (Pause.) I wonder if it isn't nobler just to scorn him,—and not take the least notice of him—no more than if he was a dog. (Pause.) He's considerable bigger than I reckoned he'd be. (Pause.) Aunt Polly says if you despise a mean low scoundrel that's injured you, and don't take the least notice in the world of him, it cuts him to the heart—and hurts him a hundred times worse than it would to whip him till he couldn't stand up. It shows him that you are too proud to dirty your hands with such characters.
(Enter Temple, neatly dressed, and simpering along daintily and complacently. The boys eye each other contemptuously—sidle warily round each other, still eyeing.)
Tom. I can whip you.
Alfred Temple. I'd like to see you try it.
T. Well, I can do it.
A. No you can't, either.
T. Yes,Ⓐemendation I can.
A. No you can't.
T. I can.
A. You can't.
T. Can.
[begin page 271]A. Can't.
(Uncomfortable pause.)
T. What's your name?
A. 'Tisn't any of your business.
T. Well I'll make it my business.
A. Well, why don't you?
T. If you say much, I will.
A. Much—much—much. There, now.
T. O, you think you're mighty smart, don't you. I could whip you with one hand tied behind me.
A. Well, why don't you do it?—you say you can.
T. Well I will, ifⒶemendation you fool with me.
A. O yes—I've seen whole families in the same fix.
T. Smarty! You think you're some, now, don't you. O what a hat!
A. You can lump that hat if you don't like it. I dare you to knock it off; and anybody that'll take a dare—
T. You're a scrub!
A. You're another.
T. You're another—and a fighting one, and dasn't take it up.
A. Aw—take a walk!
T. Say—if you give me much more of your lip I'll thrash you till you can't stand up.
A. O, of course you will.
T. Well, I will.
A. Well why don't you do it, then? What do you keep saying you will, for? Why don't you do it? It's because you're afraid.
T. I ain't afraid.
A. You are.
T. I ain't.
A. You are.
(Another pause, and more eyeing and sidling around. Presently they are shoulder to shoulder, and pushing each other.)
T. Get away from here!
A. Get away yourself!
T. I won't.
A. I won't either.
[begin page 272](So they stand, each shoving against the other, and panting, but neither getting an advantage. Then each relaxes his strain with watchful caution.)
T. You're a sheep! I'll tell my big brother on you, and he is seven feet high and can whip you with his little finger.
A. What do I care for your big brother? I've got a brother that's bigger than he is, and can throw him over that fence, too, just as easy as nothingⒶemendation.
T. (Contemptuous snortⒶemendation) 'Mf.
A. (snortⒶemendation) 'Mf yourself.
(Tom draws a line on the ground.)
T. I dare you to step over that, and I'll whip you till you can't crawl.
(A. promptly steps over, and the two stand stomach to stomach.)
A. Now you said you'd do it, now let's see you do it.
T. Don't you crowd me, now; you better look out.
A. Well, you said you'd do it, why don't you do it?
T. For two cents I will do it.
(A. takes two coppers from his pocket and holds them out with derision.)
T. (Contemplates them a moment, then turns away and starts slowly off, with his nose in the air.) I scorn to have anything to do with such low characters. I wouldn't dirty my hands with you. I want to fight—and I can hardly keep from it—and I could whip you in two seconds if I wanted to, but I don't want to, because my aunt Polly she doesn't like fighting, and she says—
A. (Mockingly and with great derision) O, it's his aunt PollyⒶemendation,—the dear old—
T. (facing about—in passionless tone, but very significantly)—Hold on—you want to go mighty careful, now, when you talk about her.
A. Why do I?
T. (Slowly, but in a tone which means business.)—Because if you were to say just one, single, little, disrespectful word—
A. (Interrupting)—I'll say a hundred. She's an old—
[begin page 273](Tom is into him in a second—rattling fight—A. down at last, Tom astride him pounding his face.)
T. (A blow) O, she is, is she? (Blow) She is, is she?
(and so on) (The family burst out from the house, meantime. Jim dances around with delight, Mary and Sid horror-stricken, Aunt Polly indignant.)
Mary. O, Tom!Ⓐemendation
Sid. What a dreadful spectacle!
Jim. Gib it to him, Mars Tom—gib it to him. (Is slapped sprawling by aunt Polly.)
(Aunt Polly dives in, snatches Tom off by the slack of his jacket collar. Alfred hobbles off half crying, rubbing his bruises, mumbling threats, and exit.)
Aunt Polly. (Contemplating Tom.) You incorrigible boy. Now what do you think of yourself?Ⓐemendation
T. (Head down, fumbling with his buttons sheepishly—pause—then meekly.) I—I didn't go to do it.
A. P. (Outraged) Good land, he didn't go to do it! It did itself, I suppose. TomⒶemendation, I've as good a mind as ever I had in my life to—(suddenly seizesⒶemendation him and runs her hand through his hair.) Well if you haven't been in swimming again. Your hair's damp.
T. (Aside) O, hang it, I thought I'd gotⒶemendation it dry. (Aloud—glancing up furtively.) Presspiration.
A. Oh—well, it's lucky for you it is.
Mary. (With glad solicitude.) Dear, I'm glad he's innocent for once!
Sid. Yes, you could know he hasn't been in swimming, because you sewed up his collar, and it's still sewed.
T. (Aside—suspiciously) Now you better look out, Mr. Siddy.
A. P. (Examining.) Yes, that's so. Well,Ⓐemendation it's lucky for you, Tom, that it is so. For dear me, it won'tⒶemendation do for me to be overlooking all your—
Sid. (ReflectivelyⒶemendation) I was thinking—no, I was mistaken—I remember, now, you did sew it with black thread.
T. (aside) All right, Mr. Siddy, I'll lick you for that!
[begin page 274]A. P. I never did anything of the kind. I sewed it with white thread. Let me see it. (Examines again. Contemplates Tom, sorrowfully, shaking her head. Pause—gravely takes him by the ear, and leads him into the house, the othersⒶemendation following.) Come along—no more holiday for you, this day.
Tom. Please, aunt Polly, oh, pleaseⒶemendation let me off this once, and I'll never never do a thing again that you don't want me to. Please, aunty, please—please—just this once.
(Exit all.)
Enter Tom with long handled brush and bucket of whitewash.
Tom. (Solus.) It's such a lovely day—and IⒶemendation got to work. All the boys in town having holiday, and I got to be at this kind of thing. (Surveying the job.) A hundred thousand yards of board fence, forty-seven thousand feet high—(sighing) dear, I wish I'd died when I was a baby and wouldn't minded it. (Passes his brush lazily along the top board once or twice—and compares it with what has yet got to be done; is discouraged and stops.) It isn't any use—I never could do it all.
(Enter Jim jewsharping, with tin pailⒶemendation.) Say, Jim, I'll fetch the water, if you'll whitewash some.
Jim. Dasn't, Mars Tom. Ole Missis, she'd take en tar de head off'n me.
T. Sho. Perfect nonsense. She wouldn't hurt a fly. Jim, I'll give you six marbles if you will.
Jim. Mars Tom, I wisht I could, but—en besides I got sumfin de matter in my stomach, kaze I reck'nⒶemendation I done et sumfin 'at don't 'gree wid me, an'— (rubbing stomach)—
T. I'll give you all the marbles I've got—and my stilts—and a piece of chalk—and my tin horn—and a rat—and 17 fishing worms—and—(Jim is about to yield—sets his pail down, while Tom is taking out his marbles.) (Aunt Polly appears at the door and gives them a look—Jim flies, and Tom gets immediately to work—Aunt Polly re-enters, closes door, and pulls down the blinds—or leaves them down as they were.)
[begin page 275]T. (Makes a dash or two and quits.) O dear, the boys will be coming along, directly, and I can't look them in the face I'll be so ashamed. And they'll make fun of me. Oh, I just can't bear it. (Gets about 20 worthless odds and ends from his bulging pockets and contemplates them.) No, it isn't any use—I can't hire them to help me—I'm not rich enough. They'll only just stand around and make fun of me. There comes Ben Rogers, now, the very worst one of the lot, to make fun of a person. (With a sudden glad inspiration) O, I've got it—I know what I'll do. (Goes to whitewashing, carefully and deliberately)
Enter Ben Rogers. (Eating an apple and rolling a hoop. Stops and stares.)
Rogers. Hel-lo. You're up a stump, ain't you!
(Tom absorbed in his work—apparently doesn't hear. Surveys his work with the eye of an artist—adds another touch. Keeps stepping back, surveying, with head on one side, and carefully retouching.)
Rogers. Hi-yi! Got to work, hey?
T. (Suddenly glancing over his shoulder.) Why,Ⓐemendation it's you, Ben. I wasn't noticing. (Resumes work.)
R. I'm going in swimming. Don't you wish you could? But of course you'd rather work, wouldn't you? Course you would.
T. (Indifferently—and still retouching.) What do you call work?
R. (astonished.) Why, Caesar's ghost, ain't that work?
T. Well, maybe it is, maybe it isn't. All I know is, it suits Tom Sawyer.
R. O, come, now, you don't mean to let on you like it?
T. (Still artistically retouching.) Like it? Well, I don't see why I shouldn't like it. Does a boy get a chance to whitewash a fence every day?
(This puts the thing in a new light. Rogers grows deeply interested. Watches Tom a while, then says.)
R. Say, Tom, let me whitewash a little.
(Tom considers—reflects—half passes the brush to Rogers—changes his mind, and resumes work.)
T. No—no, I reckon it wouldn't do, Ben. You see, aunt Polly's very particular about this fence—right here on the street, you know—but if it was the back fence I wouldn't mind, and she wouldn't mind. Yes, she's very particular about this fence; it's got to be done just so; I reckon there isn't one boy in a thousand, maybe two thousand, that can do it the way it's got to be done.
R. No—is that so? O, come, now; lemme just try—only just a little. I'd let you, if you was me, Tom.
T. Ben, I would like to—I would indeed; but aunt Polly—well, Jim wanted to do it, but she wouldn't let him; Sid wanted to do it, but she wouldn't let Sid. Now don't you see how I'm fixed? If you were to tackle this fence, and anything was to happen to it—
R. O shucks, I'll be just as careful. Now lemme try—I'll give you the core of my apple.
T. (Reflecting—then reluctantly.Ⓐemendation) Well, here. No, Ben; now don't—I'm afraid—
R. (Anxiously, eagerly) I'll give you all of it. And my hoop.
T. Well, then, all right—a body can't resist you. But be mightyⒶemendation careful, Ben. (Gives up the brush, takes the hoop, goes off and sits on barrel, swinging his legs and munching.) (Aside.) Now that isn't any slouch of a trade. (Reflectively) Now that's curious. Long as it was work, he couldn't been hired to do it, and don't want to do it; but the minute it's something he can't get to do, he's just freezing to buy in. Now the other boys—(with sudden inspiration)—why I reckon they're all alike! Jim! Come here, Jim.
(Enter Jim with pail of water.)
Jim. Jings! Gim me de core, Mars Tom, gim me de core!
Tom. Like to, Jim, but there ain't going to be any. Got something better for you than that, anyway—(privately, inⒶemendation a low voice.) Jim, there's a chance for you to make 15Ⓐemendation marbles.
Jim. No!—Ⓐemendationis dat so?
T. Yes. Now keep quiet, don't say anything to anybody, but you go and get the other whitewash bucket and the old brush, and slip them in amongst the gooseberry bushes over yonder inside the back gate, where I can find them.
Jim. I'll have 'em dah in less'n a half a minute.
[begin page 277]T. And then, Jim, you fly around and hook all the other brushes and whitewash you can find amongst the neighbors'Ⓐemendation back sheds.
Jim. Shan't hatter go fur, Mars Tom. Jist to nigger Bill de whitewasher's. He ain't home, and I'll jist gobble every las' one he's got.
T. All right, now—rush.
(Exit Jim.)
Business. From now on for a while, Jim hurries across the stage (the middle or background of it) every minute or so, each time with a couple of buckets and a couple of brushes—makes no utterance except an occasional “whoosh” indicative of sultriness and heavy exertion.Ⓐtextual note
(Enter Huck Finn in rags, and wearing battered plug hat.)
Huck. (Glancing at Rogers.) What's he up to?
T. O, nothing—he's just having some fun.
H. Funny kind of fun! Is he going with us?
T. No. Nobody's going but you and me.
H. Well, I've come to see what time we better start.
T. Why, about midnight.
H. All right. I've got a pick and a shovel.
T. So've I. That's all we want.
H. Sure you can get out?
T. O, yes, aunty and everybody'll be asleep, then, and I can get out at the window.
H. Well, where'll I meet you?
T. O, in the graveyard.
H. You just bet you IⒶemendation won't!
T. Why?
H. Because I'm not going into no graveyard by myself, at no sich time o'night.
T. Shucks, what you 'fraid of? But it isn't any matter; I'll meet you up at the end of our lane. Will that do?
H. Yes, that'll answer.
[begin page 278]T. All right. (Looking off, r.) Hello! (Rolling of drums and music of fifes in distance on both sides.)
H. It's the armies, going to the war.
T. So 'tis. Well, my brigade will have to fight it out without a general this time.
(Enter with music and banners, in good military order, the two armies of boys—one boy smoking corn-cobⒶemendation pipe—(an officer) (from l. and r.) in cheap but showy uniforms (Tom's opposers in red, his own men in blue or yellowⒶemendation sashes, wooden guns,—officers with tin swords, riding prancing and cavorting broomsticks.—The red general, Joe Harper, in the lead of his army on crutches.) (A minor officer is on tall red stilts.) He approaches and stumps around Ben Rogers, greatly interested. Both armies break ranks without orders,Ⓐemendation and crowd around.)Ⓐtextual note
Tom. Don't goⒶemendation too near there, Joe Harper.
Joe. Why?
Tom. Because it's a mighty particular job. I'm only letting Ben do some of it for a favor.
Joe. For a favor?
Tom. Yes—and because he can do it better than any other boy in town.
Joe. O, git out! He do it better than any boy in town! I like that!
Tom. Well, he can.
Joe. (DismountingⒶtextual note from crutches.) Shucks, you just gim meⒶemendation a hold of that brush a minute.
Tom. No, Joe, I can't let you. It's a very particular job.
1 Boy. I'll bet I can beat Ben Rogers. Tom,Ⓐemendation just let me.
2 Boy. (interrupting) No, let me, Tom, I got here first.
3 Boy. You didn't. I was here 'foreⒶemendation you. Tom, mayn't I try, just ever so little?
(They all crowd around struggling and saying)—
All—Let me, Tom—please let me.
Tom. (retreating l.)—No, boys,Ⓐemendation I can't—now don't ask me—you know I would if I could, but it's such a particular job, and aunt Polly she—(springing free of them) Sol—jers—attention! You call [begin page 279] yourself soldiers—Ⓐemendationand act this way, just like a low-down mob! It's enough to make a General ashamed of the human race to see it! General Harper, if it suits you to see the Bloody Avengers act so, all right;Ⓐemendation but it don't suit me to see the Bengal Tigers behave so. If the Bengal Tigers ever do such a thing again, I resign—I won't command such troops. And if the Bloody Avengers ever do so any more, I'll never stoop to fight them again. I'm agoingⒶemendation out now, to get some more whitewash. If the armies want to go along and talk business, all right; but they've got to go like armies, they can't go like an insurrection. Now then! General Harper, set your troops in order, and I'll do the same with mine. Brigade—attention!
Joe Harper.Ⓐemendation Brigade, attention!
(Alternately they give the several necessary orders and put the two armies through the manual of arms—then march and countermarch allⒶtextual note about the stage, making of the whole thing as correct and handsome a military display as they can, and in no sense a burlesque—and finally march off, with drums and music, under their two leaders.)
Huck. Ben, what makes Tom so dreadful particular about that old fence?
Rogers. (Swabbing off the sweat.) I don't know, but he wouldn't let me touch it at first; said Jim wanted to, and Sid wanted to, but he couldn't let them, it was so particular; and so I had to buy a chance. I gave him an apple and my hoop. (Resuming his work.)
Huck. Well, that beats anything I ever struck! I should think anybody could whitewash.
R. Well, I suppose anybody can do it rough—but Tom he thinks—
Huck. Gim meⒶemendation that brush a minute!
R. I can't, Huck.Ⓐemendation Tom don't allow it.
H. Why I only want to try just a minute, Ben, that's all.
R. Well, I can't do it,Ⓐemendation Huck, 'thout you ask Tom.
H. Will you, then?
R. I will if he says so. But I know you can't persuade him—I tried that enough. You'll have to give him something.
H. What'll he charge, Ben?
[begin page 280]R. O, I don't know. You'll have to go and find out for yourself.
H. All right, I'll do it.
(Exit, eagerly.)
(Enter Young Dr. Robinson, Muff Potter, and Injun Joe (the half-breed), and talk apart.)
Muff. It's five dollars, anyway?
Dr. R. Yes.
Muff. And you furnish wagon and everything?
Dr. R. Yes, I furnish everything.
Muff. What time of night?
Dr. R. Well, we want to be there an hour or two after midnight.
Muff. And if we get caught?
Dr. R. I'll stand by you in the courts—I'll see you through. Is it all settled, now?
Muff. Yes—I reckon we're satisfied; ain't we Joe?
Joe. Yes.Ⓐemendation——Wait. You going with us?
Dr. R. I'm not going with you—that wouldn't be best—eachⒶemendation of us must arrive by himself, and from a different direction—but I'll be there when you come, or very soon after.
Joe. (Aside) All right. Insults an Injun, years ago—Ⓐemendationand thinks it's forgotten! It might happen to be a bad night for him.
Dr. R. Now if everything's arranged, come along, and I'll tell you where to get a sack to carry it in, and where to borrow a wagon and horse when nobody's looking.
Muff and Joe. All right.
(Exit the Three.)
(Enter the crowd of boys, each with a pail and brush, and fall eagerly to work, whitewashing the fence, the trees, the door-steps, the barrel and the house. Man crosses with a practicable black calf, and they whitewash it when he isn't looking, but is staring at the workers and saying “Well upon my word, I do believe oldⒶemendation Polly Sawyer's gone crazy.”
Presently enter Tom, on Joe Harper's crutches, and wearing one of the boys' red jackets, Huck'sⒶemendation plug hat, and smoking that cob pipe.)
Tom. Come, pay in advance! We don't trust, here. Pay up, pay up before you begin.
(They crowd forward and empty at Tom's feet their bulging pockets of all conceivable odds and ends—marbles, chalk, twine, balls, apples, bits of glass, door-knobs—anything and everything that will make a show—then hurry eagerly to work ——also those tall red stilts.)
Tom. (Discards the crutches, mounts the red stilts, and leans up against the house or a stage-box, contemplatingⒶemendation the laboring armiesⒶtextual note and his plunder)—It's a noble day—I've broke the crowd!
(Mary appears in the door and stands there.)
Mary. (aside, transfixed)—Well, upon my word! There's aunt Polly in yonder crying her eyes out because she's been so hard-hearted as to make that poor boy work! (Shouting within) Aunt Polly! Aunt Polly—just come here!
(Aunt Polly appears in the door, with her face hid in her apron, crying. Removes it and takes a look. Puts up her hands piously and says)
A. P. Well, for the land's sake!
(tableau. curtain.)
scene 1.
A GraveyardⒶtextual noteⒶtextual note by Moonlight.
(Tom and Huck enter with spades and picks. Huck also has a dead cat. They sit.)
Huck. (Evidently scary and uncomfortable.) Blamed if I like this kind of a place, Tom.
Tom. Shucks, what will you care what kind of a place it is, if we find about a ton or a ton and a half of buried treasure—gold, and silver, and diamonds, and such things?
H. Well, I wouldn't care, then. But will we, Tom?
[begin page 282]T. I don't know; but we can pitch in and try, soon as we are rested. Everybody says that Murrell's gang used to bury treasures around on this very hill-top, years ago. Look here, Huck, you never told me before about saving the widow Douglas from being murdered and robbed. How is that?
H. Well, I never told anybody. I had to tell somebody,Ⓐemendation so as to save her; and so I told the old Welshman, Jones, what I'd overheard that villain say; and when the right night come, he was on hand with his gun, and saved the widow's life, and come mighty near getting the robber, too—did hit him with a bullet.
T. When was it?
H. Three weeks ago.
T. Well, upon my word! And don't the widow know yet, that it was you that kept her from being killed?
H. Deed she don't! Nobody knows but Jones, and he swore to me he'd never tell.
T. Why, what a goose you are. You'd beⒶemendation a hero—that's what you'd be—you'd be a hero. Everybody would talk about you and call you a hero. Huck you're just a fool. I wish it was me—I wouldn't fool away any such chance to be glorious and celebrated —I'd tell, precious quick.
H. Well, I'llⒶemendation bet you wouldn't—if you knowed who the man was that was going to do the murdering.
T. Why—who was it, Huck?
H. (hesitatingly and cautiously) Tom, will you swear on your sacred word and honor wish you may drop stone cold in your tracks if you ever ever ever tell?
T. I swear it all, Huck; I never never never will tell. Now tell me, Huck.Ⓐemendation Who was it?
H. (rises, and tip-toes around, listening and watching—detects no sound—tip-toes to Tom, shades his mouth with his hand and says in Tom's ear)—It was Injun Joe!
T. (Immensely startled) Good gracious Caesar's ghost land of Goshen heavens and earth! Well, you'd better keep still. Why if he ever found out it was you that prevented him, he'd drown you just as he would a pup.
[begin page 283]H. 'Course he would. I don't want to be no hero on any such terms.
T. Neither would I, I tell you. They say he never forgives and he never forgets, and he'll always get even on a person that crosses him.
H. Well, let's not talk about it any more—I can't bear it.
T. They say he's been seen around town again, lately.
H. (Scared) No—when?
T. Two or three days ago.
H. O, Tom, don't talk about it any more!
T. All right, then, I won't. (Swabbing his face.) My, Huck, it's a long way to lug the spades and shovels such a hot night.
H. Deed it is, Tom—and I've had this old tom-cat, besides.
T. LemmeⒶtextual noteⒶemendation see him, Huck. My, he's pretty stiff! Where'd you get him?
H. Bought him off'n a boy.
T. What did you give?Ⓐemendation
H. I give a Sunday-school ticket and a bladder that I got at the slaughter-houseⒶemendation.
T. Where'd you get the ticket?
H. Bought it off'n Ben Rogers two weeks ago for a hoop-stick.
T. Say—what are dead cats good for, Huck?
H. Good for? Cure warts with.
T. No? Is that so? I know something that's better.
H. I bet you don't. What is it?
T. Why, spunk water.
H. Spunk water! I wouldn't give a dern for spunk water.
T. You wouldn't, wouldn't you? D'you every try it?
H. No, I hain'tⒶemendation. But Bob Tanner did.
T. Who told you so?
H. Why, he told Jeff Thatcher, and Jeff told Johnny Baker, and Johnny told Jim Hollis, and Jim told Ben Rogers, and Ben told a nigger, and the nigger told me. There, now.
T. Well, what of it? They'll all lie. Anyway all but the nigger, I don't know him. But I never saw a nigger that wouldn't lie. But say —how do you cure 'em with dead cats?
[begin page 284]H. Why, you take your cat and go and get in the graveyard, long about midnight, where somebody that was wicked has been buried; and when it's midnight a devil will come, or may be two or three, but you can't see 'em, you can only hear something like the wind, or may be 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.
T. Sounds right. D'you ever try it, Huck?
H. No, but old Mother Hopkins told me.
T. Well, I reckon it's so, then, becuz they say she's a witch.
H. 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Ⓐemendation her. Well, that very night he rolled off'n a shed wher' he was layin'Ⓐemendation drunk, and broke his arm.
T. Why that's awful. Say, Hucky, when you going to try the cat?
H. To-night. I reckon the devils'll come after old Hoss Williams to-night. We'll try it,Ⓐemendation when we'reⒶemendation done digging.
(Huck gets outⒶtextual note a percussion-cap box and opens it.)
Tom. Say, Huck, what's that?
H. Nothing but a tick.
T. Where'd you get him?
H. Out in the woods, last week.
T. What'll you take for him? (Examining the tick.)
H. I don't know. I don't want to sell him.
T. All right. It's a mighty small tick, anyway.
H. Oh, anybody can run a tick downⒶemendation that don't belong to them. I'm satisfied with it. It's a good enough tick for me.
T. Sho, there's ticks a plenty. I could have a thousand of 'em if I wanted to.
H. 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.
T. Say, Huck, I'll give you my tooth for him.
H. Less see it.
[begin page 285](Tom got out a bitⒶemendation of paper and carefully unrolledⒶemendation it. Huckleberry viewed it wistfully. The temptation was very strong. At last he said.)
H. Is it genuwyne?
T. Look for yourself.
(Tom lifted his lip and showed the vacancy.)
H. Well, all right, it's a trade.
(Tom enclosedⒶemendation the tick in the percussion-cap box.)
T. Well, if we're going to find any treasure to-night, per'apsⒶemendation we'd better begin to get to work, Huck.
H. All right, Tom. Where'll we dig?Ⓐtextual note
T. Oh,Ⓐtextual note 'most anywhere.
H. Why, is it hid all around?
T. No, indeed it isn't. It's hid in mighty particular places, Huck —sometimes on Islands, sometimes in rotten chests in a graveyard under the end of a limbⒶemendation of an old dead tree, just where the shadow falls at midnight; sometimes under the floor in ha'nted houses.
H. Who hides it?
T. Why, robbers, of course—who'd you reckon? Sunday-school sup'rintendentsⒶemendation?
H. I don't know. If it was mine I wouldn't hide it; I'd spend it and have a good time.
T. So would I; but robbers don't do that way, they always hide it and leave it there.
H. Don't they come after it any more?
T. No, they think they will, but they generally forget the marks, or else they die. Anyway it lies there a long time and gets rusty; and by-and-byⒶemendation somebody finds an old yellow paper that tells how to find the marks—a paper that's got to be ciphered over about a week, because it's mostly signs and hy'rogliphics.
H. Hyro—whichlicks?
T. Hy'rogliphics—pictures and things, you know, that don't mean anything.
H. Have you got one of them papers, Tom?
T. No.
H. Well, then, how you going to find out the marks?
[begin page 286]T. I don't want any marks. They always bury it under a ha'nted house, or on an islandⒶemendation, or under a dead tree that's got one limb sticking out. Well, there's lots of dead-limb treesⒶemendation around here—dead loads of 'em.
H. Is it under all of them?
T. How you talk. No.
H. Then how you going to know which one to go for?
T. Go for all of 'em.
H. Why, Tom, it'll take all summer.
T. Well, what of that? Suppose you find a brass pot with a hundred dollars in it, all rusty and gay, or a rotten chest full of di'monds. How's that?
(Huck's eyes glowed.)
H. That's bully, plenty bully enough for me. Just you gimme the hundred dollars, and I don't want no di'monds.
T. All right. But I bet you I'm not going to throw off on di'monds. Some of 'em's worth twenty dollars apiece. There ain't any, hardly, but's worth six bits or a dollar.
H. No. Is that so?
T.Cert'nly—anybody'll;l tell you so. Haven't you ever seen one, Huck?
H. Not as I remember.
T. Oh, kings have slathers of them.
H. Well,II don't know no kings, Tom.
T. I reckon you don't. But if you were to go to Europe you'd see a raft of 'em hopping around.
H. Do they hop?
T. Hop yourⒶemendation granny! no.
H. Well, what did you say they did, for?
T. Shucks, I only meant you'd see 'em—not hopping, ofcourse —whatodo they want to hop for? But I mean you'd just see 'em—scattered around, you know, in a kind of a general way. Like that old hump-backed Richard.
H. Richard? What's his other name?
T. He didn't have any other name. Kings don't have any but a given name.
H. No?
[begin page 287]T. But they don't.
H. Well, if they like it, Tom, all right; but I don't want to be a king and have only just a given name, like a nigger. But say—where you going to dig first?
T. Well, I don't know. S'poseⒶemendation we tackle this old dead limb treeⒶemendation here.
H. I'm agreed.
(So they mark where the shadow falls and get to work. They work and converse alternately.)
T. Say, Huck, if we find a treasure here, what you going to do with your share?
H. Well, I'll have a pie and a glass of soda every day, and I'll go to every circus that comes along. I'll just waller in 'em. I'll bet I'll have a gay time.
T. Well, ain't you going to save any of it?
H. Save it? What for?
T. Why, so as to have something to live on by-and-by.
H. Oh, that ain't anyⒶemendation use. Pap would come back to thish yer town some day and get his claws on it if I didn't hurry up, and I tell you he'd clean it out pretty quick. What you going to do with yourn, Tom?
T. I'm going to buy a new drum, and a sure-'nough sword, and a red necktie,Ⓐemendation and a bull pup, and get married.
H. Married!
T. That's it.
H. Tom, you—why you ain't in your right mind.
T. Wait—you'll see.
H. Well, that's the foolishest thing you could do, Tom. Look at pap and my mother. Fight! why they used to fight all the time. I remember, mighty well.
T. That's nothing. The girl I'mⒶemendation going to pick out won't fight.
H. Tom, I reckon they're all alike. They'll all comb a body. Now you betterⒶemendation think about this a while. I tell you you better. What's the name of the gal?
T. It ain'tⒶemendation a gal at all—it's a girl.
H. It's all the same, I reckon; some says gal, some says girl—both's right, like enough. Anyway, what's her name, Tom?
[begin page 288]T. I'll tell you some timeⒶemendation—not now.
H. All right—that'll do. Only if you get married I'll be more lonesomer than ever.
T. No you won't, you'll come and live with me.
H. ConsoundⒶemendation it, do they always bury it as deep as this?
T. Sometimes—not always. Not generally.
H. Where youⒶemendation going to dig next, after we get this one?
T. I reckon maybe we'll tackle the old tree that's over on Cardiff Hill, back of the widow's.
H. I reckon that'll be a good one. Blame it, we must be in the wrong place. What do you think?
T. It is mighty curious, Huck. I don't understand it.
H. Same time, we can't be wrong. We spotted the shadder to a dot.
T. I know it, but then there's another thing.
H. What's that?
T. WhyⒶemendation we only guessed at the time. Like enough it was too late or too early.
(Huck dropped his shovel.)
H. That's it. That's the very trouble. We got to give this one up. We can't ever tell the right time, and besides, this kind of thing's too awful, here this time of night, with witches and ghosts a fluttering around so. IⒶemendation feel as if something's behind me all the time; and I'm afearedⒶemendation to turn around, becuz maybe there's others in front a waiting for a chance. I been creeping all over ever since I got here.
T. Well, I've been pretty much so too, Huck. (After a pause.) They nearly always put in a dead man when they bury a treasure under a tree, to look out for it.
H. Lordy!
T. Yes, they do, I'veⒶemendation always heard that.
H. Tom, I don't like to fool around much where there's dead people. A body's bound to get into trouble with 'em, sure.
T. I don't like to stir 'em up, either, Huck. (Impressively.) s'pose this one here was to stick out his skull and say something!
H. Don't, Tom!Ⓐemendation It's awful!
[begin page 289]T. Well it just is, Huck, IⒶemendation don't feel comfortable a bit. —sh! what's that? (They listen.)
H. It's the devils, sure—coming to carry off Hoss Williams's body to the bad place. Look here, I ain't going to stay here another m—
T. Keep still! It wasn't anything but the wind amongstⒶemendation the trees. (Digging.)
H. O come, Tom, let's—
T. 'George! I've struck something! Huck, I do believe we've got it!——No———old coffin, maybe———no it ain't, it's a box. Here—you shove your spade down there—no, there—that's right ——now heave on it———not so fast———now, that'll do.——— Oho, you see it is a box, yourself!——It's rather a little one—ain't bigger than a cigar box, but———(hoisting it out)—my but she's heavy enough! (Excitedly) Huck, if it's money, we're rich! (Preparing to crush in the top.)
H. Hurry, Tom, and let's see!—hurry!
(Tom smashes in the top, grabs a handful of coin, lets it run through his fingers.)
T. Every cent of it's old gold coins! Huck, we're rich!—that's what we are, we're rich!
H. Rich?—just with that little?
T. That little, you ignorammus! Why you unutterable fool, there ain't less than four hundred million dollars, there.
H. (Gravely—after a pause.) And the box's worth something—it's a real good box, Tom.
T. Hang the box! Why, don't I tell you you're rich? Why, Huck, you've got all the money you want, now. You can't spend it in a hundred thousand years. Huck, looky here—you can spend two dollars a day every day as long as you live, and you can't spend all of your share—maybe two and a half.
H. Tom are you in earnest?
T. Huck, just as sure as I'm standing here, I'm in right down dead earnest. And it's so, too.
H. (Fervently.) Well, Tom, if it is so, you can just bet on one thing. This county's 40 mile wide; and day after to-morrow when [begin page 290] they want to find out who's bought up all the pie, you take and send 'em to Huck Finn.
T. You're going for the pie, then?
H. (Fervently.) Early. Early. If I don't eat up'ards of a mile and a half of pie every day for seven year, I wish I may bust.
T. Well, you will bust—as you call it. (Looking around, poking around.) I'm going to drive an omnibus—that's what I'm going to do. I'll drive an omnibus or die. (Finds a long sack.) Here's the thing we want. Shan't have to hide the money, now—carry it home, turn about. Hello, it's got three water-melons in it. (Huck arrives with the box of money.) Somebody's been stealing them, and heard us, and dropped it and ran, I reckon. (Puts the box in.) Now we'll lug the whole thing down to the old sawmill, and eat the melons, and count the money, and—sh!
H. Jump, Tom, it's the devils this time, I heard 'em, sure! (Both boys jump and hide. Enter Injun Joe. Huck, gasping.) Goodness gracious, it's Injun Joe!
Injun Joe. (aside.) Not here yet—and I've been gone an hour on the lookout. (Ruminates—strikes an idea.) Ah, I know what I'll do! I'll take my sack—
Both boys. (aside—and sick.) His sack!
Joe. Yes, I'll take my sack (shouldering it) and slip down the old road, and cut across by the—
(Exit, talking to himself.)
T. Consound him, he's got our money!
H. (Scared.) O, keep still, keep still—he might turn around, any minute, and come back here—and besides—shⒶemendation!
T. There's more coming!
(Enter Dr. Robinson and Muff Potter. Potter is slightly tight. He is whittling a heavy stick.)
Doctor. (angrily.) And besides, with your sneaking and shirking, you've caused a good hour's delay. Ten to one Injun Joe's been here, and given us up, and gone home again.
Muff. (ugly) I sneaked and shirked because I was sorry I'd ever promised to help you rob a grave, and I wanted to get out of it, and [begin page 291] not come at all. And what's more, you've called me just enough hard names, this last ten minutes, and I want you to stop it.
Dr. What! Why, you scum of the earth—
Muff. (Getting close)—Stop it, I tell you!
Dr. You filthy, impudent loafer—
(Muff attempts to take him by the collar.)
Dr. (Striking him with his open hand)—What're you trying to do!Ⓐtextual note
Muff. (Drunkenly striking back) Don't you hit me. I don't 'low no man to hit me.
Dr. (shoves him violently) Keep off.
(Muff, aroused—recovers, surges drunkenly forward, drops his knife and club, he and the doctor collar each other and struggle.)
(Enter Injun Joe—skulks eagerly forward, snatches up the knife and jumps behind a tree.)
H. It's Injun Joe again! Come! (wants to drag Tom away.)
T. Stay where you are! You want him to see you?
Injun Joe. (aside—watching, nervously fingering the knife) I've got him, sure! (bright moon again.)
(Dr. snatches himself loose and springs for Tom's shovel; Muff grabs up his club, and the two rush upon each other, Injun Joe gliding around behind the doctor; as the doctor fells Muff, Joe stabs the said doctor. Both men fall and lie still.)
(curtain)
[scene 1]
Village SchoolhouseⒶtextual note.
(Large blackboard, etc. Alfred Temple discovered alone.)
Alfred. (solus) Well, I've got here aheadⒶemendation of Mr. Tom Sawyer for once. If I can't fix him one way, I can another. (Meddles around, and opens Tom's desk. Enter Amy Lawrence and comes roguishly smiling and tip-toeing toward him.) Here—his spelling-bookⒶemendation will do.—(Opens it and pours ink on the page—closes it, lifts up lid of desk—is just softly laying the book within, when Amy says)
Amy. (over his shoulder)—Boo!
Alfred. (Scared) O laws! (Lid slams down with a bang.) Why, Amy, how you startled me!
Amy. (lifting the lid and getting the book in spiteⒶemendation of his efforts to prevent—opens it, looks him over, solemnly, puts back the book) I—wouldⒶemendation—be—ashamed of myself!
Alf. (Trying to get hold of her hand)—Amy—
Amy. (repulsing him) Don't touch me! (Scanning him) What a low creature you are!
Alf. If you'llⒶemendation only let me explain—
Amy. Don't speak to me! I'll never love you again. And if Tom Sawyer had treated me right, I would go just as straight as I could walk, and tell him! (Moving away.)
(Alfred accompanies her, pleading, in dumb show.)
Amy. O, I'll never tell him. You needn't be so scared. I wouldn't speak to Tom Sawyer for (listens in dumb show) what?
(Alf.—more dumb show)
Amy. (Scornfully) You did it for fun! It's great fun, to get a boy a whipping that you darsn't try to whip yourself! Go 'way from me —I despise you!
(Exit both L.)
[begin page 293](Enter Becky Thatcher (R.) and sits at a desk,—cons her book. Presently, enter Tom, munching an apple.)
Tom. (aside) Why that's the new girl that's come to town. My, but she's pretty!
(Edges sheepishly toward her—she looks up, whirls her back on him, buries herself in her studies. Tom edges closer—finally sits gingerly down on her other side. She whirls her back on him again. Tom lays his apple cautiously by her elbow. She steals a glance around—shoves the apple away. Tom puts it back. She glances around again—sees the apple, but turns away her head without molesting it. Tom softly pushes it around in front of her.)
Tom. Please take a bite—I don't want it all.
(She glances around, but arrives at no conclusion. Tom begins to draw painfully on a slate, tongue in cheek, and following his motions with his head—hiding his drawing with his other hand. The girl's curiosity is aroused—timidly tries to see the picture—Tom still shades it with his hand. Presently she pleads—)
Becky. Let me see it—won't you?
T. If you'llⒶemendation take a bite, I will.
(She takes a veryⒶemendation little one.)
T. Shucks, that ain't a bite. Take a big one.
B. I can't. That's as big a one as I can take.
T. Sho, let me show you.
B. Well, you do it for me.
(Tom crams the apple into his mouth, bites out a prodigious chunk, which he hands to her; bites out one for himself, and they both go to contentedly munching.)
B. (mouth full) Now let me see it. (Tom reveals the picture.) (With happy astonishment) Why as I live, if it isn't a real shure-nuff house! Dear me, I wish I could draw like that. Do you reckon you could make it big—on the black-boardⒶemendation?
T. O, easy!
B. O, do, do! (Tom draws it large on black-boardⒶemendation.) O, how lovely!—now make a man. (Tom makes a man—see Chapter 6Ⓐemendation of [begin page 294] “Adventures of Tom Sawyer” for these drawings.) O, it's a perfectly beautiful man! Now make me coming along. (Tom does it) O dear, it's too lovely for anything—why it's just as if I was looking in a looking-glass!
T. I can draw anybody—just every bit as good as that, too—anybody I ever saw.
B. Can you, really? I do wish I could draw.
T. It's easy, I'll learn you.
B. Oh,Ⓐemendation will you? When?
T. At noon every day. Do you go home to dinner?
B. I'll stay if you will.
T. Good—that's a go. What's your name? (They sit down again.)Ⓐemendation
B. Becky Thatcher. What's yours?Ⓐemendation Oh, I know. It's Thomas Sawyer.
T. That's the name they lick me by—hereⒶemendation in school. I'm Tom when I'm good. You call me Tom, will you?
B. Yes.
[begin page 295](Now Tom began to scrawl something on the slate, hiding the words from the girl. But she was not backward this time. She begged to see. Tom said:)
T. Oh, it ain't anything.
B. Yes it is.
T. No it ain't; you don't want to see.
B. Yes I do, indeed I do. Please let me.
T. You'll tell.
B. No I won't—deed and deed and doubleⒶemendation deed I won't.
T. You won't tell anybody at all? Ever as long as you live?
B. No, IⒶemendation won't ever tell anybody. Now let me.
T. Oh, you don't want to see!
B. Now that you treat me so, I will see, Tom—(and she put her small handⒶemendation on his, and a little scuffle ensued. Tom pretendingⒶemendation to resist in earnest, but letting his handⒶemendation slip by degrees till these words were revealed: “I love you.”)
B. (Reading) I love you. Oh, youⒶemendation bad thing! (And she hit his hand a smart rap, but reddened and looked pleased nevertheless.Ⓐemendation Tom was swimming in bliss. He said)
T. Do you love rats?
B. No, I hate them.
T. Well, I do too—live ones. But I mean dead ones, to swing round your head with a string.
B. No, I don't care for rats much, anyway. What I like is chewing gum.
T. Oh, I should say so! I wish I had some now.
B. Do you? I've got someⒶemendation. I'll let you chew it a while, but you must give it back to me.
(That was agreeable, so they chewed it turn about, and dangled their legs against the bench in excess of contentment.)
T. Were you ever at a circus?
B. Yes, and my Pa's going to take me again sometime, if I'm good.
T. I've been to the circus three or four times—lots of times. Church ain't a circumstance to a circus. There's things going on at a circus all the time. I'm going to be a clown in a circus when I growⒶemendation up.
[begin page 296]B. Oh, are you! That will be nice. They're so lovely—all spotted up.
T. Yes, that's so. And they get slathers of money—most a dollar a day, Ben Rogers says. Say, Becky, were you ever engaged?
B. What's that?
T. Why engaged to be married.
B. No.
T. Would you like to?
B. I reckon so. I don't know. What is it like?
T. Like? Why it ain't like anything. You only just tell a boy you won't ever have anybody but him, ever ever ever, and then you kiss, and that's all. Anybody can do it.
B. Kiss? What do you kiss for?
T. Why that, you know, is to—well, they always do that.
B. Everybody?
T. Why yes, everybody that's in love with each other. Do you remember what I wrote on the slate?
B. Ye—yes.
T. What was it?
B. I shan't tell you. (Bashfully—throwing apron over her head and then off again.)
T. Shall I tell you?
B. Ye—yes—but some other time.
T. No, now.
B. No, not now—to-morrow.
T. Oh, no, now, please, Becky. I'll whisper it; I'll whisper it ever so easy. (Becky hesitatingⒶemendation, Tom took silence for consent, and passed his arm about her waist and whispered the tale ever so softly, with his mouth close to her ear. And then he added) Now you whisper it to me—just the same.
(She resisted for a while, and then said)
B. You turn your face away, so you can't see, and then I will. But you mustn't ever tell anybody—will you, Tom? Now you won't —will you?
T. No, indeed, indeed I won't. Now, BeckyⒶemendation.
(He turned his face away. She bent timidly around till her breath stirred his curls, and whispered.)
B. I—love—you.
(Then she sprang away and ran around and around the desks and benchesⒶemendation, with Tom after her, and took refuge in a corner at last, with her little white apron to her face. Tom clasped her about her neck and pleaded.)
T. Now Becky, it's all over—all over but the kiss. Don't you beⒶemendation afraid of that—it ain't anything at all. Please,Ⓐemendation Becky.
(And he tugged at the apron and the hands. By-and-byⒶemendation she gave up and let her hands drop; her face, all glowing with the struggle, came up and submitted. Amy puts her head in at door, sees this, and goes off boo-hooing—but T. and B. don't hear her.Ⓐemendation Tom kissed the red lips, and said)
T. Now it's all done, Becky. And always after this, you know, you ain't ever to love anybody but me, and you ain't ever to marry anybody but me, never never and for ever. Will you?
B. No, I'll never love anybody but you, Tom, and I'll never marry anybody but you, and you ain't to everⒶemendation marry anybody but me, either.
T. Certainly. Of course. That's part of it. And always, coming to school, or when we're going home, you're to walk with me, when there ain't anybody looking—and you choose me and I choose you at parties, because that's the way you do when you're engaged.
B. It's so nice. I never heard of it before.
T. Oh it'sⒶemendation ever so nice and jolly. Why me and Amy Lawrence—
(The big eyes told Tom his blunder, and he stopped confused.)Ⓐemendation
B. Oh, Tom! Then I ain't the first you've ever been engaged to!
(The child began to cry. Tom said:)Ⓐemendation
T. Oh, don't cry, Becky. I don't care for her any more.
B. Yes you do, Tom—you know you do.
(Tom tried to put his arm about her neck, but she pushed him away and turned her face to the wall, and went on crying. Tom tried again, with soothing words in his mouth, and was repulsed again.)
T. Becky, it's just as true as anything I ever said—it is all off between Amy Lawrence and me—it is indeed. We haven't spoken for weeks. It came of her not leaving me a note that she promised [begin page 298] she would—and of her running with that St.Ⓐemendation Louis boy that's come to town—andⒶemendation she goes with him all the time, yet—and this very morning I met her and wanted to explain and make it all up with her, and she wouldn't; and said she'd never speak to me again. (Pause.) Becky, I—I don't care for anybody but you.
(No reply—but sobs.)
T. Becky, (pleadingly) Becky, won't you say something?
(More sobs. Tom got out another apple, bit a hunk out of it and passed it around her so that she could see it, and said)
T. Please Becky, won't you take it?
(She struck it to the floor and marched out crying. Exit. Tom sat down at a desk, put his head on his arms and apparently cries.Ⓐtextual note)
(Enter Amy Lawrence—passes by Tom with her scornful nose in the air, not deigning to look at him. She stands, arms akimbo before blackboard.)
Amy. (Half crying, but admiring.) O, they are too lovely for this world—(sudden access of anger) but I just know he made them for her—hateful thing! (Frantically rubs out the pictures; then goes mooning around.) Why if the key isn't in the teacher's desk! I'd just give the world to know what it is he puts in there every day, done up in a rag. I believe it's a crucifix—heaps of people think he's a Catholic, and some talk right out and say so. And many and many's the time he puts his head in this desk and appears to be praying to something—and I believe he is. (Keeps an eye on Tom—gets out the rag, exposes a whisky bottle—puts it to her nose) Pah! (Bottle falls and breaks. She stands horrified and speechless. Tom rises and gazes. She begins to cry.) Tom Sawyer, you're just as mean as you can be, to sneak up on a person and—and—
Tom. I haven't sneaked up on anybody.
Amy. (Crying violently) 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 shall I do! I'll be whipped—and I never was whipped in school. (Stamping her foot) Be so mean, ifⒶemendation you want to! I know something that's going to happen!—you just wait—you'll [begin page 299] see! Hateful, hateful,Ⓐemendation hateful! (Goes off crying to hang up her bonnet and shawl.)
(Cracked school-bell overhead begins to ring. Tom gazingⒶemendation after Amy musingly, meantime.)
Tom. (aside) What a curious kind of a fool a girl is. Never been whipped in school! Shucks, what's a whipping? That's just like a girl—they're so thin-skinned and chicken-hearted. Well, of course I ain't going to tell old Dobbins, butⒶemendation what of it? Old Dobbins will ask who it was? Nobody'll answer. Then he'll do just theⒶemendation way he always does—askⒶemendation first one and then t'other, and when he comes to the right girl he'll know it, without any telling. Girls' faces always tell on them. They haven't got any backbone. She'll get thrashed. Well, it's a kind of a tight place for Amy, because there ain't any way out of it. (Tom conned the thing a moment longer, and then added:) All right, though; she'd like to see me in just such a fix—let her sweat it out. (Pause) Now suppose this was in a book; (sudden happy inspiration) and you didn't mind a whipping, and she did. What would happen? Why, you'd generously save her! All right—I know what I'll do!Ⓐtextual note
(Tom goes with a heroic swagger, hangs up his hat, and goes to his seat. Enter a scrambling swarm of hot and panting boys and girls in dresses of 40Ⓐemendation years ago, and hang up their things and hustle to their places, and go to whispering, cuffing, punching each other, catching flies, giggling, etc.
Enter Old Dobbins, the schoolmaster—approaches his desk—stands portentously over his broken bottle—a hush falls upon the school, pupils all stareⒶemendation, and wait. Dobbins mounts his throne, without a word. Raps with his rule. Silence.)
Dob. Children, the court room being very small, a larger place is required for this afternoon's important session. The use of this room having been requested, I shall be obliged to dismiss you much earlier than usual.
All. (with noisy enthusiasm) O, goody!
Dob. (Raps) Silence! The trial has gone against your poor humble old helper and friend, Muff Potter (sorrow in the school) and the court will meet in this room, presently, to pronounce upon him [begin page 300] the dreadful sentence of death. (Tom starts, and leans his head on his handⒶemendation and toys idly with his pen.) Ah, let this miserable business sink deep into your memory; take the lesson of it to your hearts, and never allow your bitter passions to master you—so that you may be spared poor Muff's fate. (Presently.) Get to your lessons.
(After Dobbins says “Get to your lessons,” he goes into a brown study, and the boys and girls get to scuffling, pinching, sticking pins in each other—a boy sits down on a pin, says “ouch” cuffs his neighbor. Spit-balls are thrown, pea-guns are used, etc., fly-catching goes on. Buzz of study from some of the better children.Ⓐtextual note Dob. abstracted—mutters occasionally, “Poor Muff”)
Dobbins. FirstⒶtextual note class in history come forward and recite.
(A boy and a girl step forward.)
D. William, who discovered America?
W. Clumbus.
D. Correct. Where was he born?
W. Clumbus, Ohio.
D. Sarah, where was he born?
S. Genoa, Italy. (Pronounce it Ge-no-ah.)
D. Correct. Go up head. (They change places.) What was the date of the discovery?
S. Eighteen sixty-four.
D. William, what was the date of the discovery?
W. Fourteen ninety-two.
D. Correct. Go up head. (They change again.Ⓐemendation) What countryman was he?
W. Irishman.
D. Sarah, what countryman was he?
S. Italian, sir.
D. Right. Go up head. What was his religion?
S. Pressbyterian.
D. Nonsense. William?
W. Catholic, sir.
D. Correct. Go up head. (They change) What did he say when the new world burst upon him in the early dawn?
W. (hesitating) He—he said Gee—whillikins!Ⓐemendation
[begin page 301]D. Idiot! Sarah, what did he say?
S. (hesitating) He—he said, Almost thou persuadest me to be a Chris—
D. (interrupting with rising anger) This is brutal ignorance! William—mind you go carefully, now—what did he say?
W. (Confused and scared) He—he said, Consider the lilies of the valley, how they—
D. (Furious—interrupting—fetching a whack or two with his switch.) Go to the dunce-block, sir! Sarah, answer me—what did Columbus say, when the new world burst upon his vision?
(William goes and dons the tall paper dunce-cap and mounts the block.)
S. (Confused and scared) He—he said, What shall it profit a man though he gain a wholeⒶemendation world and—
D. Go to your seat!—Ⓐemendationyou are a disgrace to the school! Benjamin Rogers, I will hear your grammar lesson. (Rogers comes forward.) How many persons constitute a multitude?—Ⓐemendationparse the sentence: How many persons constitute a multitude.
R. How is a noun, common noun, third person, neuter gender—
D. Wait, sir! What did you say how was?
R. Noun, sir.
D. Noun, you stupid! It's a preposition. Go on.
R. How is a preposition, common preposition, third person, feminine gender, indicative mood, present tense, and refersⒶemendation to many. Many is an auxiliary verb—
D. (interrupting) It isn't a verb at all, it's an adjective.
R. Many is an adjective, possessive case, comparative degree, second person, singular number, and agrees with its object in number and person.
D. What is its object?
R. Multitude. PersonsⒶemendation is a reflexive pronoun—
D. Stop! Benjamin Rogers, have you studied this lesson at all?
R. Yes, sir.
D. I do not like to be severe with you; but I must say, that for the best grammar scholar in the school, you are making but a poor show outⒶemendation of it. What is multitude?
R. Multitude is an auxiliary interjection, and—
[begin page 302]D. (Sadly) There!—Ah, mineⒶemendation is a disheartening trade. (to Rogers) You have talent, you have even genius,Ⓐemendation for grammar, yet you are wasting your gift through criminal heedlessness. Go to your seat, I have no heart to punish you. To think that you can stand up here, without apparent shame, and call multitude an auxiliary interjection, when I have told you over and over and over again,Ⓐemendation that it is a copulative conjunction. (Rogers retires) Come forward, Joseph Harper, and say your multiplication table. (Harper comes, on crutches, and recites glibly; Dobbins sits abstracted and does not hear him. Presently mutters: “That poor poor fellowⒶemendation!—I can't get him out of my mind—or my heart!”)
Harper. Twice one is two, twice two're four, three tums four're twelve,Ⓐemendation four tums four're nineteen, five tums six'reⒶemendation twenty-seven, five tums seven're thirty-four, six tums eight'reⒶemendation forty-nine, seven tums nine're fifty-fourⒶemendation, eight tums ten're seventy-two, 'leven tums nine're fifty-six, 'leven tums 'leven're ninety-eight, twelve tumsⒶemendation ten're a hundred and ten, twelve tums eleven're a hundred and 'leven, twelve tumsⒶemendation twelve're a hundred and sixty-four. (Pause—and swabs off the sweat.)
D.Ⓐemendation (Rousing himself slightly) What are you waiting for? Why don't you say your multiplication table?
H. I did say it, sir.
D. Oh—I didn't hear. Did you say it all?
H. Yes, sir.
D. Did you make any mistakes?
H. No, sir.
D. That is very well. I will mark you perfect. You may do your sums now.
(D. relapses into abstraction, H. does a lot of absurd sums, in vast figures, on the blackboard, somewhat after this pattern:
167
42
213
111
18
1384.
[begin page 303]Then rubs them out. D. mutters “Ah, poor Potter!”)
D. (Rousing.) What are you rubbing them out, for?
Small boy. Please, mayn'tⒶemendation I go out?
D. What do you want to go out for?
S. B. Noth'n.
D. Well, go 'long, then.
Another boy. Please mayn't I too, sir?
D. One at a time. Go to your seat. (To Harper.) Why did you rub the sums out?
H. I didn't know you wanted to see 'em, sir.
D. You didn't? (Wearily) Well, it's no matter. I hope you did them right.
H. Yes, sir, I did.
D. Pay attention, nowⒶemendation. If A has a barrel of apples, and sells an eighth of them to B, and a quarter of them to C, and half of them to D, and gives an eighth of them to the poor, what remains?
H. (Pause) The barrel, sir.
D. (Reflective pause.) Correct. I didn't think of that. You may go. (H. retires to his seat.) Class in declamation.
(Several come forward and recite “You'd scarce expect one of my age,” “The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck,” “The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold,” with stilted elocution and cast-iron gesturesⒶemendation, the teacher saying absently, from time to time, “Very good” “Very good indeed” “Admirably done,” etc. (To himself) “Who could ever have dreamed of his killing any one!”)
D. General class in orthography.
(The school forms in line. D. gives out Baker, Lady, Rabbit, Cooper, and these are speltⒶemendation correctly.)
D. Cataplasm.
1st. pupil. C, a, t, cat, t, y, catty,—
D. Next.
[begin page 304]2d. pupil. C, a, t, cat, e—
D. Next.
3d. C, a, w, t, cat—
D. Next.
4th. C, a, double t, cat—Ⓐemendation
D. Next.
5th. K, a,—
D. Next.
6th. C, a, g, h, t, cat—
D. Next! (irritated)
7th. C, a, u, g, h, t, cat—
D. Next!
Tom Sawyer. C, h, e, i, g, h,—
D. What are you trying to do?
Tom. (Meekly) That's the way it's speltⒶemendation in my book, sir.
D. Nonsense! It's not speltⒶemendation so in any book.
Tom. Yes, sir, it's speltⒶemendation that way in mine. I thought it wasn't speltⒶemendation right, but I asked my aunt Polly and she reckoned it was speltⒶemendation in that large way because most likely it was a book that was made for people that are hard of hearing, and—
D. There, that's enough of absurd excuses. Edward Tompkins, bring me Thomas Sawyer's book. (It is brought.) Now we shall see.
Dob. (Displaying ink.) Thomas Sawyer, how did that come?
Amy. (aside) O, it's too bad! I've a notion to—but I won't:Ⓐemendation he'll tell on me.
Tom. (aside) Now that's what she meant when she said she knew of something going to happen! She did that! Very good—by and by when I save her, it'll just spread sackcloth and ashes of remorse on her head!
Dob. Thomas Sawyer, do you hear me? How did this come?
Tom. (meekly) I don't know, sir.
Dob. You don't know! Didn't you do it?
Tom. (Meekly) No, sir.
Dob. Who did do it?
Tom. I don't kn—know, sir.
Dob. Why do you hesitate? Look me in the eye. You suspect somebody. Who is it?
Tom. N—nobody, sir.
Dob. This is enough of this. Take off your jacket.
[begin page 305]Amy. (half rises.) (aside) O, dear, dear! (Sits down again, distressed.)
(Tom is whaled. Alf Temple, whom Tom cannot see, enjoys it in dumb show.)
Dob. (Solemnly) Before dismissing the school, I have another account—and of greater importance—to settle. (Picks up piece of the bottle—holds it up.) Who among you dares to invade his teacher's desk, like a thief, and meddle with his property? Who broke this? (Pause—silence.)
Amy. (aside, in fright) O, now I shall be whipped! (Pause—glancing toward Tom) Why don't he tell?
Dob. (Solemnly and slowly, impressively)Ⓐemendation Somebody here knows who did this thing—and that somebody shall speak—for I will know! I charge that person who carries upon his conscience that guilty knowledge, to hold up his hand.
(A waiting breathless pause of some seconds, then Tom Sawyer's right hand goes slowly upⒶemendation.)
Amy. (staring through her tears—aside) O, dear, it's just as mean of him—
Dob. Thomas Sawyer, who broke thisⒶemendation bottle?
(Tom rises slowly, turns and looks slowly about the room—then his eye meets the master's.)
Tom. (solemnly) I cannot tell a lie—it was Alfred Temple!
Amy. (aside—gratefully) O how lovely in him!
Alf. (astounded) It's a lie, sir—I—
Dob. Silence! Not a word out of you! You bear the very marks of a sneak! Off with your jacket!
(Gives him a fearful whaling, and he howls all the way through, while Tom stands gravely with his hand in his breast, in the attitude of a self-admiring hero. With the last cut—)
Dob. School is dismissed.
(Amy flies to Tom, puts her hands on his shouldersⒶemendation and her mouth to his earⒶemendation—)
Amy. O, what a noble darling!—I never shall forget you for this!
Slide the scene.
[begin page 306][scene 2]
(A front sceneⒶtextual note while schoolhouse is being turned into a temporary court-house. Enter Huck and sits down on the ground. Drives a peg an inch long, deep into the ground, and goes to playing “mumbly-peg.” Goes through the various operations, and at last when he is on his knees trying to pull the peg out with his teeth, enter aunt Polly. She stands contemplating Huck with pleased surprise. Uplifts her hands.)
A. P. (fervently) I could hug him for it! That ever I should have lived to see this! I'll join him. (joins her hands in front of her bosom, drops her head reverently, closes her eyes, and moves her lips as if in prayer.)
(Huck continues to work and tug at the peg with his teeth a reasonable time, then—)
Huck. Rot the thing, I can't git it out!
A. P. (opens her eyes with a start, and sets them severely upon the unconscious boy. Huck gets down to his work again. A. P. goes and bends over him, adjusts her spectacles and gazes down. Stands so, some seconds, then lifts H. slowly by the ear.) What're you trying to do?
H. (humbly) Please mam, trying to pull the peg out.
A. P. (gently) You poor motherless ridiculous thing!—and I thought you were praying. Pity but you would, Huck. You'dⒶemendation be the better for it, child, you'd be the better for it. You look hungry—had your dinner?
H. (hesitatingly) Y-yes'mⒶemendation.
A. P. When?
H. Y-yistiddy.
A. P. (gives him a hunk of cake from reticule) There; I was taking it to the trial to give to that poor unfortunate Muff Potter; because I don't want him to feel friendless, you know—he's got enough trouble without that. But I'll get him another cake.
H. (with solicitude.) What do you reckon they'll do with him?
[begin page 307]A. P. Haven't you heard? Huck they're going to hang him.
Huck. (aside) O, dear, that ain't no news to me, the way me and Tom have ha'nted that trial.
A. P. O, it seems too bad. Poor soul, it's only his very first murder. ——You seen my Tom?
H. No'm.
A. P. (going) He didn't come home to dinner, the scamp. (resignedly) But I didn't expect him—I never do.
(exit.)
(Crowd of Sunday-dressed citizens drift past, going to the trial—they can speak of it, if necessary.)
(Enter Tom in a hurry.)
Huck. Tom, I been waiting around ever so long for you. I've got bad news.
Tom. No?—what is it?
H. Injun Joe don't live in the ha'ntedⒶemendation house up the Stillhouse Hollow.
T. Well, then, good-bye to that money—we shan't ever find it! We've tracked out every out-of-the-way place he could live in; and so now we've just got to give it up. Huck, it'sⒶemendation mighty hard luck!
H. Well, it just is, Tom. But we can't help it—ther' ain't no way. (pause) Tom?
T. Yes?
H. (hesitating—fumbling his buttons)—I—I
T. (depressed) I know what you're going to say.—You can't keep away from the trial.—Well—I'm weakening, too. I reckon it wasn't any use to say to each other that we'd keep away. Huck, it's horrible to sit there and see that poor Muff's life given away by that half-breed, but I can't any more keep away than if it was a candle and I was a moth. Come along—it ain't any use. We can't keep away. (going)
H. Tom we must keep the other promise, though. We musn't say one word. Injun Joe would break loose and kill us, right there! We mustn't let out a single syllable, Tom.
T. I know it. We got to keep perfectly mum. Poor old Muff!
(Exit both.)
[begin page 308][scene 3]
THE COURT-ROOM. Aunt Polly prominent. “O-yes, O-yes, O-yes! the honorable court will now come to order,” etc. (Poll the jury?) The usual formalities and solemnities of opening court. Injun Joe in gaudy new finery (he being now rich) in a prominent place—for he was chief witness. Tom and Huck steal in together, in the background, distressed, scared.
The Judge. Mr. Sheriff, bring in the prisoner.
(The Sheriff and a deputy go out and return supporting Muff on either side, he being weak, bowed, broken and humbled by what he has gone through. They sit.)
(Citizens, aside) (remarks?)
The Judge. Prisoner, (Muff shrinks, and looks up, with the appealing expression of a dumb animal in distress) a most painful duty devolves upon me. To have to speak the words which doom to death a fellow-creature is necessarily a painful office—always—and surely it is the more painful when the person against whom the doom is pronounced is one whose previouslyⒶemendation gentle and harmless life, and kindly ways, have won and kept the friendly interest of all men; whose tireless loving offices, and sympathies, and eager helpfulness in their small affairs have made him the idol of all children—
T. (Held back by Huck) O, Huck, I can't stand it, I must—
H. O, please Tom,—please—he'd kill us right here.
l. Cit. Ah, poor fellow!
Judge.—and whose goings and comings have been so blameless that all will say this for him, that he has never had but one single enemy—himself. To have to pronounce the awful sentence of death against such a man, then, is indeed a hard duty. I would, for your sake, for mine, for poor beset and tempted human nature, that there were a doubt. But—there is no doubt—no softening circumstance—no palliation. In a moment of passion heightened and exag- [begin page 309] gerated by drink, you committed that most hideous of all crimes, murder. This is proved by the testimony of the witness known as Injun Joe, who saw the act, and was unable to prevent it.
T. (aside) O, Huck!
Judge. You have not been able to deny it. This is confession of the crime. At midnight, in a lonely place, you drove your cruel knife into the body of a defenseless fellow-being—at the very moment, as the testimony shows, that he was imploring you to spare him for the sake of these (indicating with a gesture) his unoffending wife, and these his innocent little ones, whom you have so often danced upon your knee.
(Muff bursts into sobbings.)
Citizens.—Ah.
T. (struggling with Huck)—Huck, how can I—
Judge. (solemnly) Prisoner, have you anything to say why sentence of deathⒶemendation should not be pronounced against you?
(Muff struggles to his feet, looks wildly about—gulps, swallows, puts his handⒶemendation to his throat—gradually grows quieter—turns his eyes slowly till they rest sorrowfully upon the widow and children—pauses—mournfully shakes his head, sinks down, puts his face in his hands and rocks to and fro.)
(Tom covers his face with his hands and seems to cry—Huck whispering in his ear.)
Judge. (solemnly) The prisoner will rise. (Muff is assisted to his feet, and stands with bowed head. The black cap is put on him, Tom and Huck staring and choking—a pleased interest or a damnedⒶemendation smile in Injun Joe's face.) It is the sentence of the court that you be taken hence to the jail, and thence on Friday the 14th. of August,Ⓐemendation to the place of execution, at 12 o'clock, noon; and that there you be hanged by the neck till you are dead—and may God have mercy on your—
Huck. (immensely excited—to the struggling Tom and giving him a shove)—Go on, Tom!
Tom. (stepping swiftly forward and raising his hands) O, wait —I was there, and I saw the killing done! (Sensation—aunt Polly half rises—seats herself again, and uses her fan a moment, then [begin page 310] fixes her gaze on Tom. Tom goes rapidly on.) I was behind a tree—with another person—and he will give his name if you want it—and I saw the two men quarreling, and Muff Potter threw down his knife and the stick he had; and then they collared each other and struggled, and another man came creeping up out of the bushes,Ⓐemendation (Injun Joe interested) and watching—creeping up towardsⒶemendation that knife—and grabbed it and turned up his sleeve,Ⓐemendation and went creeping and tip-toeing around, waiting for a chance—and then the doctor tore loose and jumped for a spade, and Muff jumped for his stick, and rushed at the doctor, and the doctor knocked the senses clear out of him with the spade—and in that very second that other man jumped for the doctor and drove the knife into him! (Great sensation—people rise toⒶemendation their feet—Muff Potter too—Injun Joe very uneasy) It was bright moonlight, (Injun Joe rises, scared) and I saw that man as plain as I see him now—and there he stands! (pointing.)
(Injun Joe makes a break.)
Judge and Sheriff. SeizeⒶemendation him!
(Injun Joe tears his way through the crowd, crashes through window at back of stage, and escapes, a dozen men chasing after him.)
(Muff gropes his way to Tom, falls on his knees, and takes hold of his hand with both of his, and mutely fondles it with his face and kisses it. Pause—then aunt Polly comes slowly and sternly forward, adjusting her spectacles—stands contemplating Tom severely a moment, then says:—)
A. P. Well. I'll be bound you'd be mixed up in it, whatever it was.
(Tableau. Curtain.)
SCENE:Ⓐtextual note In the cave. Many avenues open into it. In mid-stage, a big rock. At back of stage, (concealed) a hole covered with a bridge of brittle boards. Dim light. (In the closing scene, when crowd [begin page 311] comesⒶemendation winding in from the various avenues with torches, then a strong light, and the cave is seen to be gorgeous.)
Enter Huck and Tom, with an inch of candle, dragging themselves along, exhausted with fatigue. Throw themselves down.
Huck. (Despairingly.) Tom, we're goners, and ther' ain'tⒶemendation no help for it. We'll never find our way out of this awful tangle in the world!
Tom. (Disgusted.) Now what a fool notion that is!
Huck. It ain't a fool notion, either. How long we been in this cave?
Tom. I don't know. How's a body going to tell, where it's pitch dark all the time, and night and day just alike?—just the same color.
Huck. Well I know. We been in here a week—I know it by just how awful long it seems, and because I'm so hungry and tired.
Tom. A week your granny!—we'd be dead, you idiot!
Huck. Well how long do you think?
Tom. Lemme see. We've had two long sleeps. And the rest of the time we've been tramping.—It seems a week, or a month, or a year, or along there somewhere, because it's so dismal and lonesome and still; but I'll bet it isn't over two days and nights.
Huck. Shucks, you think I could get as hungry as I am in two days and nights? (Makes frantic grabs and darts at a bat, Tom helping. They fail to catch him and sit down again.) Tom, I'd give thirty-fiveⒶemendation dollars for that bat, if I had the money, and that was the price of a bat, and you couldn't get 'em no cheaper. If I wouldn't, I'm a nigger. (Pause—Droopingly.) Tom, it's awful to be lost this way.
Tom. (Impatiently.) Shucks, how you talk! We ain'tⒶemendation lost!
Huck. Ain'tⒶemendation lost! Well I'd like to know what you call it, then?
Tom. (Irritated.) Look a here, Huck Finn, how in the mischief can we be lost, when we know where we are? You answer me that.
Huck. We don't know where we are.
Tom. What's the reason we don't? We're in the cave, ain'tⒶemendation we? And we know we're in the cave, don't we? I never saw such an ass!
Huck. Now Tom Sawyer, that's just all bosh. I don't see no [begin page 312] difference, wurth a cuss, between being lost where you don't know where you are, and being lost where you do know where you are. And in my opinion, there ain'tⒶemendation none.
Tom. Well if you ain'tⒶemendation the mullet-headedest ignorammus that ever—why look a here: Suppose youⒶemendation were lost out doors—right out in the open world, in a general way—everywhere; you may well call THAT lost, because you couldn't have any idea where you were;—but in a cave that isn't more than seven miles long and a half a mile deep at the very out-side, and has got a thousand miles of crevices and passages in it, and you can go wherever you please, and always put your hand on yourself whenever you want to—the idea of calling that lost! Huck Finn, I never saw such a flat-head as you!
Huck. Well I reckon maybe you are right. I hadn't thought of it that way. (Pause.) But I can tell you one thing, Tom, I don't feel so rotten much better off, now that I ain'tⒶemendation lost, than I did before, when I thought I was. If we ever git out—
T. If we ever get out! Why of course we'll get out, look here, (Telling it off on his fingers) howⒶemendation does this thing stand? Why, this way. All the girls and boys come down the river three miles, and they come into this cave, to have a picnic and a lark. They get to playing hide and whoop amongst the passages.Ⓐemendation They keep it up a long time. You and I give them the slip and go wandering off to plan another trip to the haunted house to hunt for Injun Joe's money—
H. (Interrupting with enthusiasm) My souls, Tom, I was that glad, three weeks ago, when we heard about 'em finding that drownded Injun down the river at Saverton, and everybody said it was Injun Joe, sure, that for as much as fifteen minutes I didn't care if we never found the money, I was so dog-gone grateful!
T. And well you might be; because when your name got into the papers along with mine, that let you in for some of his affections, you see, and he wouldn't forget you, you know.
H. (Scared.) O, don't, Tom. Don't talk about it!
T. Why what are you afraid of now?
H. I know—but don't talk about it, Tom,Ⓐemendation in this dark place.
[begin page 313]T. Well! then, I won't—whereⒶemendation was I? Very good: we wandered off and got 1— (Shudder from Huck) and the rest of the children got lost. We hunted and hunted, but had to give them up to—to—their fate, poor things. Well that wasn't our fault—we did the best we could for them.
H. Well, I only wish somebody had a took as much trouble for us, Tom—rot 'em!
T. Well they will, you muggins.
H. (Eagerly) How, Tom?
T. Those children missed us, didn't they?
H. Yes—yes—go—on!
T. Couldn't find hide nor hair of us?
H. Yes, yes, go on!
T. When they got home they told Aunt Polly—
H. Go on Tom!
T. And she raised the town—just as sure as you are born she did —and consequently there ain't a doubt in the world but this old cave's been brim full of people and torches ever since!
H. (Throwing a hand-spring) We're saved Tom, sure as guns! (Throws another handspring or so, and subsides, happy.)
(Tom's attention attracted to something—glides to the spot—dumb show of delight, returns.)
T. Perfectly plain case.
H. (Apprehensively) But Tom, why don't they find us?
T. Hang it, how can they find us when we're not lost? It's a perfectly plain case that they're lost themselves.
H. (In despair) Then what can we do, Tom?
T. Do? Why turn out and find them. They'll be grateful all their days.—And they ought to be.
H. Well, come right along Tom. (In new distress) But how can we hunt for anybody? Candle's all used up but just this little piece.
T. You go and look yonder. (Pointing)
(Huck can't find it. Tom comes and shows him a couple of candles.)
H. Good! Ain't that luck.
(They light them and throw away the small piece.)
T. We're all right now—come along.
(They wander off and find that hole, boarded over.)
T. (Motioning Huck back) Hold on! Here's something boarded over. An old saltpetre pit I reckon. (Huck comes and looks) Huck I tell you we've got into a mighty far-away part of this cave!
H. How do you know?
T. Because these boards are so rotten. Nobody has crossed them for twenty years I guess—may be a thousand. He would break through.
H. That's no sign. A person could jump over.
T. O, he could, could he? Suppose you do it?
H. (Shrinking) I—I don't want to.
T. Huck, you're afraid to.
H. Well, what of it? I'd dare anybody to do it.
T. Do you dare me?
H. Yes, I do.
T. All right. I dare you to follow—and anybody that'll take a dare—
H. Will steal a sheep, I know. Go ahead.
(Tom steps back, and after a few false starts, makes a running leap and barely lands on the other side, his hat falling off on Huck's side.)
H. (Goes through the same program, his hat falls off—he just barely clears the hole.) Tom, I ain't going to try that any more—not if I know myself.
T. Well I don't want to, either. But how are we going to get our hats?
(They study over this problem.)
T. (Brightening.) Why Huck, if this is nothing, but a saltpetre pit, it may not be 4 feet deep. Let's drop a rock through between the boards, and listen for it to strike bottom.
H. All right.
T. (Bending over and dropping the rock.) Now—listen! (They listen intently 3 or 4 seconds.) There!—Whe—ew! Huck, this hole's 4,000 feet deep!
[begin page 315]H. (Impressively.) And we've been idiots enough to jump over it! Do you want your hat?
T. Hat?—no. What does a body want with his hat in the house? Come along—we ain't going to get sun-struck.
(Exit.)
(Enter (front, L.) Amy Lawrence and Becky Thatcher, with an inch of candle. Exhausted, leg-weary. They sit down.)
Becky. (Begins to cry.) O, Amy, I can't bear it any longer! It seems years and years that we've been lost; and I'm so tired and frightened and hungry!
Amy. There—lay your head in my lap, Becky—and don't give up, dear, don't cry. We'll be found.
Becky. (Brightening a little.) Do you believe it, Amy? Do you, really and truly believe it?
Amy. I do, really and truly, deed and deedⒶemendation and double deed. I know it!
Becky. O, say it again, Amy—keep on saying it, it does sound so good!
(Sitting and embracing.)
Amy. Becky, it's just as sure! Why, Tom Sawyer—
Becky. (With a sigh.) He's your Tom—ain't he, Amy?
Amy. Yes, he is, and—
Becky. (Regretfully.) I wish he was my Tom.
Amy. (Generously.) Why you can have half of him, Becky,Ⓐemendation if you want to.
Becky. (Joyously.) May I, Amy?
Amy. Yes, you may—I don't want all of him.
Becky. (Worshipingly.) Amy Lawrence, you areⒶemendation just too good and noble! For this world. (Rapturously embracing and kissing her.) There—you lovely love, what did you start to say about him?
A. Why this. Do you think Tom Sawyer is a kind of person to go out of this cave and leave us in here lost? I thank you, no! I just know as well as well can be, that he stayed behind when the rest went home, and he's in this cave yet, hunting for us.—That's the [begin page 316] kind of a boy Tom Sawyer is, I'd have you to know. (Aside.) Why that's done her good—she's nodding. Well, let her go to sleep. (Nodding herself.) I'll take care of her. When I can't (Drowsily.) —can't—can't keep awake any longer, I'll wake her up, (Gapes.) and she can keep watch a while, and I'll—I'll—I'll take—a—little—nap. (Gapes, mutters incoherently, very drowsily.) then—if—if—I should die before I—wake,—I—I—
(Both girls asleep. One of them moves her foot, in sleep, and puts the candle out.)
(Injun Joe enters L. candle in hand to slow music. He peers and pokes around, in a bad fright.)
Joe. (Solus.) I can't stand this! I've got to leave! It can't be all imagination—for days and days I've heard the sound of distant voices, and seemed to catch the glimmer of distant lights. I'm all worn out with dodging and running; I'd give the world for an hour's sleep! Sh! (Pauses to listen.) And it's all on account of—ah, if I could get my hands on those cursed boys! (Listens again.) No, it's imagination. I'm all wrought up for want of sleep.—(Wearily, despondently.) O, I don't dare to leave the cave—it's death to do it. (Pause, holds up candle, looks up at the walls, pleased surprise.) Why, here!—these walls are clear and clean, instead of all clouded up with names and dates done with candle-smoke. It means that this part of the cave is never visited—and I never was in it before. No,—wait; here are some (Reading.) “J. B. W., 1811; H. M., 1803; William Bacon, 1806; R. L. G., 1815.” That's all. The latest is 1815—25 years ago. Ah, this is safe—they'll never come here. I'll fetch the money, and hide it.
(Exit L.)
(Enter Tom and Huck bareheaded R. Tom discovering the girls.)
Tom. Looky here, Huck! (Bending over the girls.) Amy!
(The girls start up, rubbing their eyes, then staring.)
Amy. (Springing at him and throwing her arms around his neck and crying for joy.)—O, Tom I'm so glad! (She lets go, and [begin page 317] embraces Becky.) There what did I tell you? I knew he'd comeⒶemendation! You hug him! half of him's yours!
Becky. (Diffident and whimpering and twisting her apron.) I—I would if it was dark.
Tom. (Blows out his candle, hugs her.)
Becky. Is it all made up, Tom? You haven't got anything against me?
Tom. No! What are you talking about child? Do you think I would hold anything against a girl? Come—sit down and rest a minute—I'm dog-tired. (They all sit.) Just explain, now. What in the world are you girls doing here—and all by yourselves?
Amy. (Surprised.) Why, don't you know?
Tom. Don't I know what? What should I know?
Amy. (Alarmed.) Tom, haven't you been hunting for us?
Tom. Why, no! What do you mean? Are you lost?
Becky. (Breaking down.) O! oh, oh, ever, ever, ever since the picnic!
Tom. My goodness!
Becky. Yes. How long have you been in here?
Tom. Same length of time. Huck and I haven't been out yet.
Both girls. (In despair.)—O, dear, dear!
Amy. And didn't you know we were lost?
Tom. No! I never heard of it 'till this minute.
Amy. O, Tom,Tom, it'sdreadful! Then we're all lost! And we'll never, never never get out, I just know it! O dear dear, dear!
Tom. Nonsense, Amy—how you talk; we're not lost. It's our parents, and aunts and uncles and things.
Becky. Why Tom, are they in here?
Tom. Of course they are—somewhere. Don't you suppose they'd come to hunt for us? Certainly they would—and they've got lost themselves.
Both Girls.—O,goody!
Tom. No, it isn't goody, either. Because we've got to hunt them. It isn't going to do for us to leave them in here to starve, is it?
Amy. (With loving effusion.) O,Tom, howgood you are! You always think of everybody else before you do of yourself.Ⓐemendation
[begin page 318]Tom. (With simple sincerity.) I'm made so. There isn't any merit in it.
Becky. O, I'm so hungry!
Tom. (Gets out a crust and divides it between them.) I've saved and saved this along for a close place. I'm glad I did it, now.
(The girls eat ravenously.)
Amy. But Tom, you're hungry yourself. (Pressing the crust on him.) Take some of it, Tom. (He won't.)
Becky. Tom do take some of mine—do. (Pressing it on him.)
Tom. No, I don't want it. I don't honest, I'm not hungry. Had a bat.
(A moment of munching silence, the girls tugging ravenously at the bread, Tom and Huck observing them with hungry interest.)
(Enter Injun Joe stealthily, his water-melon sack over his shoulder. Discovers the children, starts violently, with a gasp of fright, then gets out his knife and goes creeping and stealing towards them. The girls discover him and scream. He drops his bag with a crash. Tom and Huck jump for the rock in mid-stage, and Joe jumps for them, the girls either paralyzed or continue to scream. The boys move round and round the rock, as around a table, keeping it always between themselves and Joe. Quick work, quick dodging required. Finally, all stand at bay and watching each other. Tom whispers a word in Huck's ear, Huck nods intelligently. Tom makes a feintⒶemendation toward the front, shouting.)
Tom. Now Huck!
(Joe skips in that direction to intercept, Huck flies rearward, Tom flies after him, Joe flies after both. Race for life. Huck makes a mighty spring, clears the hole, Tom does likewise and exit, but Injun Joe crashes through the rotten boards with a death-howl, and disappears.)
(Tom and Huck stealthily re-appear, and bend over the hole. The girls come running.)
Tom. It's awful Huck!
[begin page 319]Huck. (Shuddering and turning away.) Makes a body sick to think of it!
Amy. O, dear, dear, let's get away from this dreadful place. (Both girls sob with fright.) O, Tom, we're all going to be killed, or die, or something, in this horrible cave, I just know it, Tom!
Tom. (Leading them away.) Now don't you girls worry a bit. It's all right, and it's all going to come out right. The minute I find these poor old people, I'll take you right out of the cave. But we mustn't leave them in here lost—it won't do—it ain't right. Why you'd never hear the last of it in those mushy Sunday-school books—
(Exit all, R.C.)
(Enter R.C. and from several other avenues, with torches, the whole town, and file in and out and round and about, and so reach at last the front of the stage. They assemble—weary and also despondent.)
Judge Thatcher. Friends, once more I will urge what I began to urge early in this long-drawn, heart breaking search. It is not the work for women, and now that our hopes have wasted away, until it can not be really said that we have any hope left— (Sobs, or groans or something from people.) and we are expecting the worst and must expect the worst— (More emotion from the people—mothers and aunts and sisters of Becky and Amy.) and may come at any moment upon mournful evidences of the futility of all our efforts—(More groans and sharp ones.) it can not be well for the women to stay, and they MUST not. I beg them, I implore them to go home.
Aunt Polly. (Straightening up out of her despondent attitude) Go HOME, Judge Thatcher? And leave my TOM behind? Have—you—lost—your—mind? If it's a hundred years, I'll never stir a step out of this place till I get my boy! (Puts her face in her apron, and sobs by convulsion, not sound—soon controls herself and uncovers her face again.) If he is to be found crushed and disfigured at the bottom of some abyss, let it be so; it is God's will—but I shall be there! and none but these old hands, that have nurtured him and [begin page 320] caressed him, and been laid a thousand times in blessing upon his head—when he was asleep—(Do not emphasize this unconscious irony) shall compose his limbs, and close the eyes that were the sunshine of my life. I shall be there; oh, God knows I shall be there, to touch him, fondle him, hold his head in my lap, love him, lament him; oh, my darling—my darling, the unceasing joy and torment of my happy old age! (Breaks wholly down and sobs.)
(Meantime, Mary and Ben Rogers, bearing candles, have wandered, rearward. They discover the hats and the hole. Mary screams. All the crowd rush thither. The men take off their hats and stand reverently—the women all crying. Presently—)
Judge Thatcher. I feared it—I feared it would turn out so. Poor lads they have found a grave down there, and the little girls with them—wandering about in this horrible place in the dark; for doubtless their candles gave out long ago.
(Aunt Polly takes up Tom's hat, kisses it, presses it to her bosom.)
Widow Douglas. Poor Huck Finn, nobody takes up his hat—nobody wants it. It seems pitiful; and yet he earned his friendlessness, poor outcast. I don't believe there was a bit of harm in him, but then there was no good, either. I wish in my heart that that poor thing had done one good action—something, anything, to make somebody want to say to that forsaken relic, “Come you shan'tⒶemendation lie here—I will take you up.” (Pause.) I will do it myself. (Takes up the battered old plug gingerly) It seems like forsaking a human being to leave it there. Poor Huck, he was always good-hearted—nobody can deny that.
Judge Thatcher. Come, friends, we have a mournful task before us—let us not tarry here.Ⓐemendation (Supports Aunt Polly and leads the way. All follow down and gather in front.)
Aunt Polly. (Getting a switch from out the folds of her dress and contemplating it.) O, my poor dead boy! To think that while he was wandering to his grave in this black place, and perhaps thinking lovingly of me, I was thinking of him such thoughts as this!—(Crying.) It is too cruel, it is too cruel! (Throwing it down.) O, to the [begin page 321] last day of my ruined life, I will never lay my hand in punishment upon a living creature again.—(Pause.) O, he is gone, he is gone, he is GONE!—I cannot cannot bear it! (Kneels down sobbing, with her face in her hands—they all kneel with backs to the front, and hide their faces.) Lord be merciful to me a sinner! (Goes on, apparently praying to herself.)
(The children appear at the rear centre.)
Tom. ShⒶemendation-h! There they are!—lost, sick, and discouraged—pleading, for help. What did I tell you?—what did I tell you? It's the most extraordinary triumph I've ever achieved in my life—and yet I believed from the start I could do it. I've found this whole gang! (Pause—impressively.) Huck, we'll be heroes for this. It'll be in the papers—maybe in books. ShⒶemendation-h! Now do as I tell you—we'll work off a surprise on them.
(Tom whispers something in the ear of each—then the others disappear, and Tom blows out his candle and creeps down and stretches himself on the floor behind Aunt Polly, and begins to snore—snores two or three times and stops. Aunt Polly starts—looks up with a happy surprise in her face—listens—hears nothing more—shakes her head.)
Aunt Polly. (Resignedly.) It was only imagination. But for a moment I really thought it was him—oh, dear—dear! (Pause—musingly.)—And what music it was! (Tom begins to snore again.) That—why—that's not imagi—(Turns slowly, rises, her eye falls on Tom. Snatches him in her arms.) O, my darling, my darling! (Holds him at arm's length and devours him with her eyes.)—O, he is alive, O, my own precious Tom! (Hugs him again.)—(Holds him at arm's length again.)—O, you darling, you pr—ecious!—(Snatches up the switch and applies it vigorously.)—I'll tan you, I'll tan you, you good for nothing scamp!—(Laying it on.)—here I've been trapsing around this hole 2 or 3 days and nights, hunting for you, you trash! and (Hugging him.) O, my darling I am so grateful, so grateful, so unspeakably—(Giving him a parting half-dozen whacks, throws down the switch, clasps and uplifts her hands and face.)—O, receive the spirit of a gratitude which an eternity of speech could not express in words!
[begin page 322]Mrs. Lawrence. O, you are rich, but my child is still lost and I shall never again—
(Tom snatches Amy from concealment and she jumps into her arms.)
Mrs. T. Then I only am bereaved—Oh, my lost, lost darling, is there no hope, is there no—
(Tom snatches Becky from her concealment and she jumps into her mother's arms.)
(Huck wanders diffidently out from his concealment.)
T. (Going to him) Here! You want to all welcome Huck, too you know.
Several. (Crowding about him) Huck is welcome.
T. It's been kept a secret a good while, but there are reasons why it isn't any use to keep it a secret any more—Huck risked his life to save the widow Douglas's and was the cause that it was saved—the time Injun Joe planned to kill her.
(The widow goes for Huck.)
A.P. We've had enough of this place, and now we'll leave it I reckon.
T. (To his aunt) (Coming forward) Wait a moment, before you go. This is not regular. There is no climax. It would not happen so in a book.
A.P. Hang your books. Nothing suits you unless it happens as it would in a book. I want to get out of this place.Ⓐemendation I don't care anything about the books.
T. Aunt Polly it would not be regular. Now just a word that's all. It is a happy day—a great day—full of splendid episodes. My own humble efforts—
A.P. (Interrupting) What have you done. I want to know.
T. Huck was lost. I found him and restored him to—to society. Two young maidens were lost, I found them, and restored them to their parents. You people were all lost. I found you and restored you to—to your country and your flag.
A.P. O, go on!
T. This money—some four hundred millions of dollars, I reckon [begin page 323] —was lost. I found it—Huck and I found it—and will restore it to—to circulation. (Empties the money on the floor.)
Everybody. What! (They swoop towards it.)
T. There—contain your curiosity—we'll tell you all about it at home. Mr. Alf Temple, yonder, has been a grand hero for two or three weeks, because he found a drowned Injun down by Saverton, and was likely to get the town's two hundred dollars reward offered for Injun Joe dead or alive. Was likely—but ain't likely any longer.Ⓐemendation It wasn't Injun Joe!
Alf. T. It was Injun Joe!
T. It wasn't.
A.P. Hush up! How do you know?
T. Because Injun Joe was standing here an hour ago!
A.P. (Frightened.) Goodness!
(General disposition to stampede.)
T. Hold on—stay where you are—you're not in any danger.
A.P. Because you're here I suppose.
T. Yes, that's partly the reason. Injun Joe came blustering in here an hour ago, with his knife and tried to scare me. He succeeded. For I was unprepared. Huck and I fled for our lives. He followed. We cleared that hole yonder, but—
Several. (Anxiously) But what?Ⓐemendation
T. He didn't. He's reposing at the bottom of it now.
Several. (Sensation) Dead?Ⓐemendation
T. Likely—the hole's four thousand feet deep. We sounded it.
First. This is prodigious!
Second. What a lucky riddance!
A.P. Poor, poor fellow!
Tom. He's down there—on account of Huck and me. And if Mr. Alf Temple don't object, we'll produce him and take the reward.
A.P. It's dreadful! But Tom, you are a kind of a some sort of a hero by accident, after all.
Tom. Then if I by these humble achievements have earned your favor, grant me your blessing upon my nuptials.
A.P. (Backing off and inspecting him.) Your what?
[begin page 324]Tom. Nuptials.
A.P. Nuptials!
Tom. Nuptials.
A.P. What do you mean, child?
Tom. I am going to get married.
A.P. Is the world coming to an end.
Tom. (Leading forward Amy and Becky.) Please give us your blessing.
A.P. Goodness sake, are you going to marry both of them?
Tom. That's the—that's the idea.
A.P. Well, this is like a book—too much like a book altogether. (Lifts him gradually by the ear.) Tom, do you really want to get married?
Tom. Ow!—y—yes'mⒶemendation.
A.P. (Still lifting.) Reflect upon it—it is a serious step. Do you want to marry?
Tom. I—I don't know'm.
A.P. (Still lifting.) But do you?
Tom. Ow!—no'm!
A.P. (Still lifting.) Make perfectly sure, Tom.
Tom. No, no—I don't want to get married. I am sure.
A.P. (Letting go.) Very well then. Get right down on your knees and say you're sorry for ever thinking of such ridiculous outrageous nonsense—and don't you get up till I tell you. (She faces the audience—he kneels behind her. As soon as her back is turned, he stands on his head.) Well, he is a good, obedient boy—there's no denying that. A body can't stay put out with him. When he knows he's in the wrong, he's so humble. (Curtain beginning to descend.) He's not so obedient when he's away from you, because he's so forgetful, poor Tom; but as long as you're by, it keeps him reminded of what you told him to do, and then he'd sooner die than—(Turns and catches him standing on his head—he flirts down on his knees again—she stands contemplating him severely.)
(curtain.)
Insert:
1. Lesson in multiplication table.2. Please, may I go out?
3. Declamations.
4. Whose turn to go for water?
5. Lesson in spelling—the whole school—spelling down. Tom mis-spells a word—declares it's spelt so in his book—is required to get and bring his book. The ink discovered.
Here insert a brief front scene between Tom & Huck, who speak of impossibility of finding where the money is hid—so they give it up. And they can't resist the horrid fascination of the court—they've attended the trial all along, and wish they could keep away now it is such a strain to hold in, and they don't/can't sleep, these nights.
(Meantime the schoolroom is turned into a court-house.)
All of Scene 2 survives only in a typescript insert headed A–C. Typewriter A began its fifth and final stint at the beginning of Scene 2, starting in the middle of TS p. 67.
Two authoritative texts exist for the first three acts of “Tom Sawyer: A Play”—a holograph manuscript and a typescript of the manuscript with extensive holograph revisions and corrections. The fourth act survives only in a professionally typed fair copy, probably prepared from a now-missing revised typescript.
Each of the three acts which survive in manuscript is separately paginated, with a number of short insertions and renumbered pages supplied at later stages of composition. Act I incorporates 33 manuscript pages from the 1876 version of the play (see Appendix B). Mark Twain wrote these pages in black ink on paper embossed “P & P” in the upper left corner. When he inserted them in the 1884 manuscript of the play, he retained their pagination (1 through 33), but revised them extensively in pencil. He made several brief cancellations and one three-manuscript-page deletion; he also added several passages of dialogue on the versos and made various changes in wording. A brief hiatus in the manuscript occurs between pp. 266.20 and 267.13; the typescript is the only text for this passage, although it seems likely that the 1876 pages were its original source.
The first entrance of Aunt Polly (p. 267.14) marks the beginning of the 1884 version. This portion of the manuscript is written (with minor exceptions mentioned below) on cream-colored, laid paper from a Keystone Linen pad. Mark Twain wrote so rapidly, in fact, that most of the pages are still held in their original order by the adhesive of the writing tablet. There are, however, several minor insertions throughout the manuscript.
Act II begins with a brief 7-page manuscript sequence, followed by a series of revised pages from the Toronto edition of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. Mark Twain canceled long passages from these pages, supplied stage directions and speech designations, and added or deleted words, condensing the original narrative. The past tense used in the original narration was inadvertently preserved by this process, but this text has not been emended to eliminate the incongruity. After inserting these revised pages, Mark Twain wrote a 9-page sequence (MS pages 35–43) which was copied directly from the as yet unpublished Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (1885, pp. 31–33). At some later point, he returned and withdrew these pages, substituting new MS pages 35 and 36 and noting at the bottom of 36: “Run to page 45” and “9 pages knocked out.” The remainder of Act II is continuously paginated from 45 through 59.
Mark Twain began Act III with an 11-page manuscript sequence, after which he again inserted revised pages from The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. He apparently finished the first scene of Act III, running to 35 manuscript pages, before going back and inserting a long passage dealing with the school exercises. The last scene of Act III (the courthouse scene) has a separate pagination and was written before the present “front scene” (Scene 2), which survives only in the typescript.
Two typewriters were employed in transcribing the first three acts of the play. Neither was equipped to underline words, and one had no means for making an exclamation point. Mark Twain did not use the manuscript when he revised the typescript. Thus, in addition to several long cuts, one insertion of three typescript pages, and the numerous substantive revisions and corrections which he made on the typescript, Mark Twain had to supply his marks of emphasis anew. He had to rehear the speeches, and in doing so he often changed the underlining and pointing of the manuscript. A further consequence of revising the typescript without reference to the manuscript was that a great many of the typist's misreadings, corruptions, and sophistications of the manuscript survived the author's scrutiny.
Thus, the present text rests on divided authority. In order to preserve Mark Twain's typescript revisions and the new texture of emphasis, the typescript has been chosen as copy-text. It has been collated with the manuscript; and where variants in substantives or accidentals (other than italics and exclamation points) have been introduced by the typist, the manuscript reading has been preferred. The typist's obvious typographical errors, such as “muching” for manuscript “munching” (p. 260.34) and “somebode” for manuscript “somebody” (p. 269.26), have been silently corrected where Mark Twain's usage in the manuscript is correct. Editorial corrections are noted only when both the manuscript and the typescript are in error. All other rejected typescript readings are included in the table of emendations. When Mark Twain underlined only a portion of a word and it is unclear how much of the word he wished to appear in italics, the manuscript has also been consulted. One typewriter (type B) printed only upper-case letters; and in this case capitalization has been determined by the manuscript. In one instance Mark Twain canceled nine typescript pages and substituted ten freshly written manuscript pages which are the sole authority for the passage. Various other brief passages, including one three-page insertion, rest entirely on the typescript.
In some cases, Mark Twain's revisions were occasioned by a typing error. Working without the manuscript, he was unable to restore the manuscript reading; instead he revised on the basis of the corrupted reading and produced a passage that differed from the manuscript and from the faulty transcription. For instance, at p. 275.28, the manuscript reads, “let on that you like it?”; but the typist typed “let on like that?” The revision, incorporated in the present edition, is “let on you like it?” Similarly, where Mark Twain wrote “a new St. Louis boy that's come to town” the typist transcribed the phrase as “a St. Louis boy that's come to town,” and the author revised to “that St. Louis boy that's come to town” (p. 298.1). At p. 297.24 the typist supplied the word “nice” to the manuscript reading “ever so jolly”; Mark Twain inserted “and” so that the present text incorporates the typist's language as “ever so nice and jolly.” At times, the repunctuation of the typescript is also based on the altered rhythms or language introduced into a speech by the typist's departure from the manuscript; the addition of italics can have the effect of incorporating a typing error into the text. For example, at p. 264.3 the manuscript reads “now own right up”; the typist dropped “right”; Mark Twain in effect replaced the omitted word by underlining “up,” producing the present reading “now own up.” The decision to emend or to leave standing such readings of the typescript has called for an individual judgment in each case.
Mark Twain's stage directions present a different sort of editorial problem. His italicizing, paragraphing, and use of parentheses are erratic and inconsistent. So many portions of the stage directions were interlined in the manuscript with new parentheses and punctuation that the typist was frequently unable to render them as written. While the original form has been carefully considered, the stage directions have been silently standardized. All of them appear in italics, and all but those which head scenes are surrounded by parentheses. Confusing internal parentheses have been eliminated, and punctuation has been altered where the original hindered comprehension.
Mark Twain's underlining has required one further typographic convention. He underlined to indicate variations of oral emphasis to the actor. Words underlined once have been rendered in italics; words underlined twice have been rendered in small capital letters, except for the pronoun “I” which appears in a bold italic; words underlined three times have been reproduced in full capitals.
The sole authority for Act IV is a typescript which appears to have been professionally prepared as an acting copy. Here, the typist normalized stage directions and centered them and the speaker's names on the page. They have been rearranged to conform to the practice of the first three acts.
The alterations in the Tom Sawyer play manuscript and typescript are too extensive to print in full. Only those changes which show a shift in plot direction or language or are of great length or importance are summarized here.
Act I. Mark Twain made extensive pencil revisions on the thirty-three pages of manuscript which he preserved from the 1876 version of the play. He changed Gracie's last name from Harper to Miller and expanded the description of the girls' period costumes. (Later he cut much of this description in the typescript.) After “pull up garters” he added “no, re-tie them,” producing the contradictory stage direction which appears in the present text (258.5).
He canceled a shorter version of the girls' quarrel and wrote a longer version of the scene (259.22–31) on the verso of a manuscript page. Their language was also revised: “Much I care about your old cat” became “I don't care anything about your old kittens” (259.17); “I'd druther die” was replaced by “I'd rather go without happiness all my days” (259.32); “dirty my hands” became “soil my hands” (260.5), “awful rich,” “ever so rich” (263.9), and so on. A concession to the taste of Northern theater audiences is probably reflected in the change from “the Bloody Avengers had jay-bird heels like niggers” to “the Bloody Avengers were chicken-thieves” (264.35–36).
Four manuscript pages introducing Becky Thatcher as a new girl in town were excised in pencil. Amy's love note and Jim's attempts to digest it were added at the same time. Mark Twain must have been satisfied with the extent of his revisions in manuscript, for he made very few further changes on the typescript.
The remainder of Act I, written in 1886, shows very little manuscript revision until the entrance of the two armies (278.6). What revision there is, shows Mark Twain moving from simple narration toward more detailed dramatization. Aunt Polly's first entrance “flying out at the door, fire crackers tied to a long string behind her” (267.15–16) originally read simply “appearing in the door.” Tom's search for the cake was set forth in a single stage direction, “hunts for the cake doesn't find it” before Mark Twain incorporated it into Tom's long entrance speech. In several interlineations and an addition to the verso of a manuscript page, Tom accumulates loot from the boys. An arresting revision is the change which eliminated the name of Huck Finn's Hannibal prototype: “Tom Blankenship doesn't know anything” to “Tom Hooker doesn't know anything” (269.11).
Mark Twain canceled the entrance of Joe Harper (originally called Jake Thompson) and added the entrance of the armies on an inserted manuscript page. He worked over the nature and description of their paraphernalia considerably, canceling references to kites and wagons; giving one boy a corncob pipe in an interlineation, then adding as another afterthought that the pipe-smoker was an officer; and changing Joe Harper's stilts to crutches. Tom's harangue to the troops is added on three inserted manuscript pages. Mark Twain also took great pains with the whitewashing scene which concludes the act, rewriting his stage directions and adding Tom's speech beginning “Come! Pay in advance” (281.1) on an inserted page.
In the typescript, Mark Twain added still more detail to Aunt Polly's entrance “(or the popping of them heard before she appears)” and cut a part of Tom's self-pitying soliloquy. He added “each . . . direction” and “or very soon after” (280.17–19) to the doctor's instructions to Muff Potter and Injun Joe.
Act II. Revisions in the first set of manuscript pages and the first group of pages from The Adventures of Tom Sawyer are slight. The reference to Murrell's gang (282.2) was added on the verso of a manuscript page. Huck's intervention originally saved the widow from being robbed; “murdered” was interlined later (282.4). Mark Twain originally intended to include from the novel more dialogue about the spunk water cure and Pap Finn's witching and revised the book's pages accordingly before canceling the passages.
With the second insertion of Tom Sawyer pages, Mark Twain began a process—continued in subsequent insertions—of altering dialect forms to standard English. He eliminated “ain't” at 285.14, 286.16, 286.20 and 287.31; changed “but mostly” to “sometimes” (285.15); “lays” to “lies” (285.27); and “was” to “were” (286.25). He followed this practice with still more vigor on the pages which he revised and later canceled.
Revisions on the typescript to this point (289.2) are minimal. Mark Twain deleted references to Jackson's Island and the haunted house as likely places for treasure-hunting and eliminated a passage where Huck suggests that the Widow will claim treasure found on her land and Tom boasts that she can't take it away from them.
With the exception of two brief passages which he preserved from the typescript, Mark Twain completely rewrote the remainder of Act II, substituting 12 manuscript pages for 10 canceled typescript pages. On the discarded typescript pages, Tom describes the robber band he plans to create when the boys strike it rich. The discussion is copied from chapter 2 of the not-yet-published Adventures of Huckleberry Finn with only slight verbal changes. It is introduced by a passage in which the boys decide to rest and talk a bit. The conversation ends when the boys hear what they think are devils coming to carry off Hoss Williams's body. Muff Potter enters, followed by the doctor, who begins quarreling with Muff.
Mark Twain preserved from the typescript the fight between Muff and the doctor and the stage direction for the murder with which the act now ends. He deleted the remaining typescript pages in which Injun Joe finds the gold in the hole the boys had dug, the boys try to abscond with the money, Injun Joe discovers that Muff is alive and claims that Muff killed the doctor, and the boys vow to keep secret what they have seen.
The manuscript for these discarded pages also shows signs of struggle. Originally Mark Twain concluded the discussion of the robber band with a retrospective account of the attack on the Sunday-school picnic, taken from Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Subsequently he replaced these nine manuscript pages with two pages in which Tom berates Huck for suggesting that the band go marauding on Sundays so that the boys can continue to fight wars on Saturdays.
The manuscript pages on which the final version of the graveyard scene is written, however, contain only three or four minor revisions.
Act III. The manuscript for this act also shows few alterations. Mark Twain continued to expand his stage directions with minor additions: “roguishly” (292.6); “and opens” (292.5); “goes with a heroic swagger” (299.20); and “in dresses of 40 years ago” (299.22). He also continued to move away from dialect, changing “was” to “were” (295.31 and 296.4), “shucks” to “a circumstance” (295.34), “licked” to “whipped” (299.6) or “thrashed” (299.12), and so on.
He revised the pages from Tom Sawyer by reversing the original plot: Becky leaves in a huff when she discovers that Tom has been engaged before, while Tom stays and “apparently cries” (298.11–13). The stage directions which show Dobbins preoccupied by Muff Potter's fate were systematically added. “That poor poor fellow” (302.10); “Ah, poor Potter” (303.1); “absently, from time to time” (303.23–24); and finally, “(To himself) ‘Who could ever have dreamed of his killing any one!’ ” (303.25–26) all were interlined in the manuscript.
Mark Twain also carefully adjusted the climactic point when Huck and Tom interrupt the courtroom proceedings with their story. He lengthened the judge's already pompous sentencing speech (p. 308). Huck's “Go on Tom!” originally interrupted the judge before he pronounced sentence, but Mark Twain added the words “are dead—and may God have mercy on your—” and moved Huck's exclamation.
Mark Twain also tinkered with the long, separately paginated insertion which forms the schoolhouse exercises (see textual notes), by adding on the typescript: “(Pronounce it Ge-no-ah.)” The chief revision of the act, however, took place in the typescript, when Mark Twain introduced the three-page insertion, the “front scene” (306.1–307.36). No manuscript survives for this section, but Mark Twain added Tom's last speech and revised Huck's by adding, “Injun Joe would break loose and kill us, right there! We mustn't let out a single syllable, Tom” (307.33–36).
Since only a fair copy of Act IV survives, there is no specific evidence of revision. But the working notes (see Appendix C) indicate that there must indeed have been considerable reworking.