---

A WHISPER TO THE READER.

is no character, howsoever good and fine, but it can
be destroyed by ridicule, howsoever poor and witless. Observe
the ass, for instance: his character is about perfect, he is the
choicest spirit among all the humbler animals, yet see what
ridicule has brought him to. Instead of feeling complimented
when we are called an ass, we are left in doubt.—Pudd'nhead
Wilson's Calendar.

A who is ignorant of legal matters is always
liable to make mistakes when he tries to photograph
a court scene with his pen; and so I was
not willing to let the law chapters in this book go to
press without first subjecting them to rigid and exhausting
revision and correction by a trained barrister—if
that is what they are called. These chapters
are right, now, in every detail, for they were rewritten
under the immediate eye of William Hicks,
who studied law part of a while in southwest Missouri
thirty-five years ago and then came over here
to Florence for his health and is still helping for
exercise and board in Macaroni Vermicelli's horse-feed
shed which is up the back alley as you turn
around the corner out of the Piazza del Duomo just
beyond the house where that stone that Dante used
to sit on six hundred years ago is let into the wall

---

when he let on to be watching them build Giotto's
campanile and yet always got tired looking as soon
as Beatrice passed along on her way to get a chunk
of chestnut cake to defend herself with in case of a
Ghibelline outbreak before she got to school, at the
same old stand where they sell the same old cake to
this day and it is just as light and good as it was
then, too, and this is not flattery, far from it. He
was a little rusty on his law, but he rubbed up for
this book, and those two or three legal chapters are
right and straight, now. He told me so himself.

Given under my hand this second day of January,
1893, at the Villa Viviani, village of Settignano,
three miles back of Florence, on the hills—the same
certainly affording the most charming view to be
found on this planet, and with it the most dreamlike
and enchanting sunsets to be found in any
planet or even in any solar system—and given, too,
in the swell room of the house, with the busts of
Cerretani senators and other grandees of this line
looking approvingly down upon me as they used to
look down upon Dante, and mutely asking me to
adopt them into my family, which I do with pleasure,
for my remotest ancestors are but spring chickens
compared with these robed and stately antiques,
and it will be a great and satisfying lift for me, that
six hundred years will.

---

PUDD'NHEAD WILSON.
CHAPTER I.

the truth or trump—but get the trick.—Pudd'n-
head Wilson's Calendar.

scene of this chronicle is the town of
Dawson's Landing, on the Missouri side of
the Mississippi, half a day's journey, per
steamboat, below St. Louis.

In 1830 it was a snug little collection of
modest one- and two-story frame dwellings
whose whitewashed exteriors were almost
concealed from sight by climbing tangles of
rose-vines, honeysuckles and morning-glories.
Each of these pretty homes had a garden in
front fenced with white palings and opulently
stocked with hollyhocks, marigolds, touch-menots,
prince's-feathers and other old-fashioned
flowers; while on the window-sills of the
houses stood wooden boxes containing moss-rose

---

plants and terra-cotta pots in which grew
a breed of geranium whose spread of intensely
red blossoms accented the prevailing pink tink
of the rose-clad house-front like an explosion
of flame. When there was room on the
ledge outside of the pots and boxes for a cat,
the cat was there—in sunny weather—
stretched at full length, asleep and blissful,
with her furry belly to the sun and a paw
curved over her nose. Then that house was
complete, and its contentment and peace were
made manifest to the world by this symbol,
whose testimony is infallible. A home without
a cat—and a well-fed, well-petted and
properly revered cat—may be a perfect home,
perhaps, but how can it prove title?

All along the streets, on both sides, at the
outer edge of the brick sidewalks, stood
locust-trees with trunks protected by wooden
boxing, and these furnished shade for summer
and a sweet fragrance in spring when the
clusters of buds came forth. The main street,
one block back from the river, and running
parallel with it, was the sole business street.
It was six blocks long, and in each block two

---

or three brick stores three stories high towered
above interjected bunches of little frame shops.
Swinging signs creaked in the wind, the
street's whole length. The candy-striped
pole which indicates nobility proud and
ancient along the palace-bordered canals of
Venice, indicated merely the humble barbershop
along the main street of Dawson's
Landing. On a chief corner stood a lofty
unpainted pole wreathed from top to bottom
with tin pots and pans and cups, the chief
tinmonger's noisy notice to the world (when
the wind blew) that his shop was on hand for
business at that corner.

The hamlet's front was washed by the clear
waters of the great river; its body stretched
itself rearward up a gentle incline; its most
rearward border fringed itself out and scattered
its houses about the base-line of the
hills; the hills rose high, inclosing the town
in a half-moon curve, clothed with forests
from foot to summit.

Steamboats passed up and down every hour
or so. Those belonging to the little Cairo
line and the little Memphis line always

---

stopped; the big Orleans liners stopped for
hails only, or to land passengers or freight;
and this was the case also with the great
flotilla of "transients." These latter came
out of a dozen rivers—the Illinois, the Missouri,
the Upper Mississippi, the Ohio, the
Monongahela, the Tennessee, the Red River,
the White River, and so on; and were bound
every whither and stocked with every imaginable
comfort or necessity which the Mississippi's
communities could want, from the
frosty Falls of St. Anthony down through
nine climates to torrid New Orleans.

Dawson's Landing was a slavcholding
town, with a rich slave-worked grain and pork
country back of it. The town was sleepy and
comfortable and contented. It was fifty years
old, and was growing slowly—very slowly, in
fact, but still it was growing.

The chief citizen was York Leicester Driscoll,
about forty years old, judge of the
country court. He was very proud of his old
Virginian ancestry, and in his hospitalities
and his rather formal and stately manners he
kept up its traditions. He was fine and just

---

and generous. To be a gentleman—a gentleman
without stain or blemish—was his only
religion, and to it he was always faithful.
He was respected, esteemed and beloved by
all the community. He was well off, and was
gradually adding to his store. He and his
wife were very nearly happy, but not quite,
for they had no children. The longing for
the treasure of a child had grown stronger
and stronger as the years slipped away, but
the blessing never came—and was never to
come.

With this pair lived the Judge's widowed
sister, Mrs. Rachel Pratt, and she also was
childless—childless, and sorrowful for that
reason, and not to be comforted. The women
were good and commonplace people, and did
their duty and had their reward in clear consciences
and the community's approbation.
They were Presbyterians, the Judge was a
free-thinker.

Pembroke Howard, lawyer and bachelor,
aged about forty, was another old Virginian
grandee with proved descent from the First
Families. He was a fine, brave, majestic

---

creature, a gentleman according to the nicest
requirements of the Virginia rule, a devoted
Presbyterian, an authority on the "code," and
a man always courteously ready to stand up
before you in the field if any act or word of
his had seemed doubtful or suspicious to you,
and explain it with any weapon you might
prefer from brad-awls to artillery. He was
very popular with the people, and was the
Judge's dearest friend.

Then there was Colonel Cecil Burleigh
Essex, another F. F. V. of formidable caliber
—however, with him we have no concern.

Percy Northumberland Driscoll, brother to
the Judge, and younger than he by five years,
was a married man, and had had children
around his hearthstone; but they were attacked
in detail by measles, croup and scarlet
fever, and this had given the doctor a
chance with his effective antediluvian methods;
so the cradles were empty. He was a prosperous
man, with a good head for speculations,
and his fortune was growing. On the
1st of February, 1830, two boy babes were
born in his house: one to him, the other to

---

one of his slave girls, Roxana by name.
Roxana was twenty years old. She was up
and around the same day, with her hands full,
for she was tending both babies.

Mrs. Percy Driscoll died within the week.
Roxy remained in charge of the children.
She had her own way, for Mr. Driscoll soon
absorbed himself in his speculations and left
her to her own devices.

In that same month of February, Dawson's
Landing gained a new citizen. This was Mr.
David Wilson, a young fellow of Scotch
parentage. He had wandered to this remote
region from his birthplace in the interior of
the State of New York, to seek his fortune.
He was twenty-five years old, college-bred,
and had finished a post-college course in an
Eastern law school a couple of years before.

He was a homely, freckled, sandy-haired
young fellow, with an intelligent blue eye that
had frankness and comradeship in it and a
covert twinkle of a pleasant sort. But for an
unfortunate remark of his, he would no doubt
have entered at once upon a successful career at
Dawson's Landing. But he made his fatal remark

---

the first day he spent in the village, and it
"gaged" him. He had just made the acquaintance
of a group of citizens when an invisible
dog began to yelp and snarl and howl and
make himself very comprehensively disagreeable,
whereupon young Wilson said, much as
one who is thinking aloud—

"I wish I owned half of that dog."

"Why?" somebody asked.

"Because I would kill my half."

The group searched his face with curiosity,
with anxiety even, but found no light there, no
expression that they could read. They fell
away from him as from something uncanny, and
went into privacy to discuss him. One said:

"'Pears to be a fool."

"'Pears?" said another. "Is, I reckon you
better say."

"Said he wished he owned half of the dog,
the idiot," said a third. "What did he reckon
would become of the other half if he killed his
half? Do you reckon he thought it would
live?"

"Why, he must have thought it, unless he is
the downrightest fool in the world; because if

---

he had n't thought it, he would have wanted
to own the whole dog, knowing that if he killed
his half and the other half died, he would be
responsible for that half just the same as if he
had killed that half instead of his own. Don't
it look that way to you, gents?"

"Yes, it does. If he owned one half of the
general dog, it would be so; if he owned one
end of the dog and another person owned the
other end, it would be so, just the same; particularly
in the first case, because if you kill one
half of a general dog, there ain't any man that
can tell whose half it was, but if he owned one
end of the dog, maybe he could kill his end of
it and——"

"No, he could n't either; he could n't and
not be responsible if the other end died, which
it would. In my opinion the man ain't in his
right mind."

"In my opinion he hain't got any mind."

No. 3 said: "Well, he's a lummox, anyway."

"That's what he is," said No. 4, "he's a
labrick—just a Simon-pure labrick, if ever
there was one."

---

"Yes, sir, he's a dam fool, that's the way I
put him up," said No. 5. "Anybody can think
different that wants to, but those are my sentiments."

"I'm with you, gentlemen," said No. 6.
"Perfect jackass—yes, and it ain't going too
far to say he is a pudd'nhead. If he ain't a
pudd'nhead, I ain't no judge, that's all."

Mr. Wilson stood elected. The incident was
told all over the town, and gravely discussed
by everybody. Within a week he had lost his
first name; Pudd'nhead took its place. In
time he came to be liked, and well liked too;
but by that time the nickname had got well
stuck on, and it stayed. That first day's verdict
made him a fool, and he was not able to
get it set aside, or even modified. The nickname
soon ceased to carry any harsh or unfriendly
feeling with it, but it held its place, and
was to continue to hold its place for twenty long
years.

---

CHAPTER II.

was but human—this explains it all. He did
not want the apple for the apple's sake, he wanted it only
because it was forbidden. The mistake was in not forbidding
the serpent; then he would have eaten the serpent.—Pudd'nhead
Wilson's Calendar.

had a trifle of money
when he arrived, and he bought a small house
on the extreme western verge of the town. Between
it and Judge Driscoll's house there was
only a grassy yard, with a paling fence dividing
the properties in the middle. He hired a
small office down in the town and hung out
a tin sign with these words on it:

DAVID WILSON.

ATTORNEY AND COUNSELOR-AT-LAW.

SURVEYING, CONVEYANCING, ETC.

But his deadly remark had ruined his chance
—at least in the law. No clients came. He

---

took down his sign, after a while, and put it up
on his own house with the law features knocked
out of it. It offered his services now in the
humble capacities of land-surveyor and expert
accountant. Now and then he got a job of surveying
to do, and now and then a merchant got
him to straighten out his books. With Scotch
patience and pluck he resolved to live down his
reputation and work his way into the legal
field yet. Poor fellow, he could not foresee
that it was going to take him such a weary
long time to do it.

He had a rich abundance of idle time, but
it never hung heavy on his hands, for he interested
himself in every new thing that was
born into the universe of ideas, and studied it
and experimented upon it at his house. One
of his pet fads was palmistry. To another one
he gave no name, neither would he explain to
anybody what its purpose was, but merely said
it was an amusement. In fact he had found
that his fads added to his reputation as a pudd'nhead;
therefore he was growing chary of
being too communicative about them. The
fad without a name was one which dealt with

---

people's finger-marks. He carried in his coat
pocket a shallow box with grooves in it, and
in the grooves strips of glass five inches long
and three inches wide. Along the lower edge
of each strip was pasted a slip of white paper.
He asked people to pass their hands through
their hair (thus collecting upon them a thin
coating of the natural oil) and then make a
thumb-mark on a glass strip, following it with
the mark of the ball of each finger in succession.
Under this row of faint grease-prints he
would write a record on the strip of white paper—thus:

right hand—

and add the day of the month and the year,
then take Smith's left hand on another glass
strip, and add name and date and the words
"left hand." The strips were now returned
to the grooved box, and took their place
among what Wilson called his "records."

He often studied his records, examining and
poring over them with absorbing interest until
far into the night; but what he found there—

---

if he found anything—he revealed to no one.
Sometimes he copied on paper the involved
and delicate pattern left by the ball of a finger,
and then vastly enlarged it with a pantograph
so that he could examine its web of curving
lines with ease and convenience.

One sweltering afternoon—it was the first
day of July, 1830—he was at work over a set
of tangled account-books in his work-room,
which looked westward over a stretch of vacant
lots, when a conversation outside disturbed
him. It was carried on in yells, which
showed that the people engaged in it were not
close together:

"Say, Roxy, how does yo' baby come on?"
This from the distant voice.

"Fust-rate; how does you come on, Jasper?"
This yell was from close by.

"Oh, I 's middlin'; hain't got noth'n' to
complain of. I 's gwine to come a-court'n'
you bimeby, Roxy."

"You is, you black mud-cat! Yah—yah—
yah! I got somep'n' better to do den 'sociat'n'
wid niggers as black as you is. Is ole Miss
Cooper's Nancy done give you de mitten?"

---

Roxy followed this sally with another discharge
of care-free laughter.

"You 's jealous, Roxy, dat 's what 's de
matter wid you, you hussy—yah—yah—yah!
Dat 's de time I got you!"

"Oh, yes, you got me, hain't you. 'Clah to
goodness if dat conceit o' yo'n strikes in, Jasper,
it gwine to kill you sho'. If you b'longed
to me I 'd sell you down de river 'fo' you git
too fur gone. Fust time I runs acrost yo'
marster, I 's gwine to tell him so."

This idle and aimless jabber went on and
on, both parties enjoying the friendly duel and
each well satisfied with his own share of the
wit exchanged—for wit they considered it.

Wilson stepped to the window to observe
the combatants; he could not work while their
chatter continued. Over in the vacant lots was
Jasper, young, coal-black and of magnificent
build, sitting on a wheelbarrow in the pelting
sun—at work, supposably, whereas he was in
fact only preparing for it by taking an hour's
rest before beginning. In front of Wilson's
porch stood Roxy, with a local hand-made
baby-wagon, in which sat her two charges—

---

one at each end and facing each other. From
Roxy's manner of speech, a stranger would
have expected her to be black, but she was
not. Only one sixteenth of her was black, and
that sixteenth did not show. She was of majestic
form and stature, her attitudes were
imposing and statuesque, and her gestures
and movements distinguished by a noble and
stately grace. Her complexion was very fair,
with the rosy glow of vigorous health in the
cheeks, her face was full of character and expression,
her eyes were brown and liquid, and
she had a heavy suit of fine soft hair which was
also brown, but the fact was not apparent because
her head was bound about with a checkered
handkerchief and the hair was concealed
under it. Her face was shapely, intelligent
and comely—even beautiful. She had an easy,
independent carriage—when she was among
her own caste—and a high and "sassy" way,
withal; but of course she was meek and humble
enough where white people were.

To all intents and purposes Roxy was as
white as anybody, but the one sixteenth of
her which was black outvoted the other fifteen

---

parts and made her a negro. She was a
slave, and salable as such. Her child was
thirty-one parts white, and he, too, was a
slave, and by a fiction of law and custom a
negro. He had blue eyes and flaxen curls
like his white comrade, but even the father
of the white child was able to tell the children
apart—little as he had commerce with them—
by their clothes: for the white babe wore
ruffled soft muslin and a coral necklace, while
the other wore merely a coarse tow-linen
shirt which barely reached to its knees, and
no jewelry.

The white child's name was Thomas à
Becket Driscoll, the other's name was Valet
de Chambre: no surname—slaves had n't the
privilege. Roxana had heard that phrase
somewhere, the fine sound of it had pleased
her ear, and as she had supposed it was a
name, she loaded it on to her darling. It
soon got shortened to "Chambers," of course.

Wilson knew Roxy by sight, and when the
duel of wit began to play out, he stepped outside
to gather in a record or two. Jasper
went to work energetically, at once, perceiving

---

that his leisure was observed. Wilson
inspected the children and asked—

"How old are they, Roxy?"

"Bofe de same age, sir—five months.
Bawn de fust o' Feb'uary."

"They're handsome little chaps. One's
just as handsome as the other, too."

A delighted smile exposed the girl's white
teeth, and she said:

"Bless yo' soul, Misto Wilson, it 's pow'ful
nice o' you to say dat, 'ca'se one of 'em ain't
on'y a nigger. Mighty prime little nigger, I
al'ays says, but dat's ca'se it's mine, o' course."

"How do you tell them apart, Roxy, when
they have n't any clothes on?"

Roxy laughed a laugh proportioned to her
size, and said:

"Oh, I kin tell 'em 'part, Misto Wilson, but
I bet Marse Percy could n't, not to save his
life."

Wilson chatted along for awhile, and presently
got Roxy's finger-prints for his collection—right
hand and left—on a couple of his
glass strips; then labeled and dated them, and
took the "records" of both children, and
labeled and dated them also.

---

Two months later, on the 3d of September,
he took this trio of finger-marks again. He
liked to have a "series," two or three "takings"
at intervals during the period of childhood,
these to be followed by others at intervals
of several years.

The next day—that is to say, on the 4th of
September—something occurred which profoundly
impressed Roxana. Mr. Driscoll
missed another small sum of money—which is
a way of saying that this was not a new thing,
but had happened before. In truth it had
happened three times before. Driscoll's
patience was exhausted. He was a fairly
humane man toward slaves and other animals;
he was an exceedingly humane man toward
the erring of his own race. Theft he could
not abide, and plainly there was a thief in his
house. Necessarily the thief must be one of
his negroes. Sharp measures must be taken.
He called his servants before him. There
were three of these, besides Roxy: a man, a
woman, and a boy twelve years old. They
were not related. Mr. Driscoll said:

"You have all been warned before. It has

---

done no good. This time I will teach you a
lesson. I will sell the thief. Which of you
is the guilty one?"

They all shuddered at the threat, for here
they had a good home, and a new one was
likely to be a change for the worse. The denial
was general. None had stolen anything
—not money, anyway—a little sugar, or cake,
or honey, or something like that, that "Marse
Percy wouldn't mind or miss," but not money
—never a cent of money. They were eloquent
in their protestations, but Mr. Driscoll
was not moved by them. He answered each
in turn with a stern "Name the thief!"

The truth was, all were guilty but Roxana;
she suspected that the others were guilty, but
she did not know them to be so. She was
horrified to think how near she had come to
being guilty herself; she had been saved in
the nick of time by a revival in the colored
Methodist Church, a fortnight before, at
which time and place she "got religion."
The very next day after that gracious experience,
while her change of style was fresh
upon her and she was vain of her purified

---

condition, her master left a couple of dollars
lying unprotected on his desk, and she happened
upon that temptation when she was
polishing around with a dust-rag. She looked
at the money awhile with a steadily rising resentment,
then she burst out with—

"Dad blame dat revival, I wisht it had 'a'
be'n put off till to-morrow!"

Then she covered the tempter with a book,
and another member of the kitchen cabinet
got it. She made this sacrifice as a matter of
religious etiquette; as a thing necessary just
now, but by no means to be wrested into a
precedent; no, a week or two would limber
up her piety, then she would be rational
again, and the next two dollars that got left
out in the cold would find a comforter—and
she could name the comforter.

Was she bad? Was she worse than the
general run of her race? No. They had an
unfair show in the battle of life, and they held
it no sin to take military advantage of the enemy—in
a small way; in a small way, but not
in a large one. They would smouch provisions
from the pantry whenever they got a

---

chance; or a brass thimble, or a cake of wax,
or an emery-bag, or a paper of needles, or a
silver spoon, or a dollar bill, or small articles
of clothing, or any other property of light
value; and so far were they from considering
such reprisals sinful, that they would go to
church and shout and pray the loudest and
sincerest with their plunder in their pockets.
A farm smoke-house had to be kept heavily
padlocked, for even the colored deacon himself
could not resist a ham when Providence
showed him in a dream, or otherwise, where
such a thing hung lonesome and longed for
some one to love. But with a hundred hanging
before him the deacon would not take
two—that is, on the same night. On frosty
nights the humane negro prowler would warm
the end of a plank and put it up under the
cold claws of chickens roosting in a tree; a
drowsy hen would step on to the comfortable
board, softly clucking her gratitude, and the
prowler would dump her into his bag, and
later into his stomach, perfectly sure that in
taking this trifle from the man who daily
robbed him of an inestimable treasure—his

---

liberty—he was not committing any sin that
God would remember against him in the Last
Great Day.

"Name the thief!"

For the fourth time Mr. Driscoll had said
it, and always in the same hard tone. And
now he added these words of awful import:

"I give you one minute"—he took out his
watch. "If at the end of that time you have
not confessed, I will not only sell all four of
you, but— I will sell you !"

It was equivalent to condemning them to
hell! No Missouri negro doubted this.
Roxy reeled in her tracks and the color vanished
out of her face; the others dropped to
their knees as if they had been shot; tears
gushed from their eyes, their supplicating
hands went up, and three answers came in the
one instant:

"I done it!"

"I done it!"

"I done it!—have mercy, marster—Lord
have mercy on us po' niggers!"

"Very good," said the master, putting up his
watch, "I will sell you here though you don't

---

deserve it. You ought to be sold down the
river."

The culprits flung themselves prone, in an
ecstasy of gratitude, and kissed his feet, declaring
that they would never forget his goodness
and never cease to pray for him as long
as they lived. They were sincere, for like a
god he had stretched forth his mighty hand
and closed the gates of hell against them.
He knew, himself, that he had done a noble
and gracious thing, and was privately well
pleased with his magnanimity; and that night
he set the incident down in his diary, so that
his son might read it in after years, and be
thereby moved to deeds of gentleness and
humanity himself.

---

CHAPTER III.

has lived long enough to find out what life is,
knows how deep a debt of gratitude we owe to Adam, the
first great benefactor of our race. He brought death into
the world.—Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.

slept well the night he
saved his house-minions from going down the
river, but no wink of sleep visited Roxy's
eyes. A profound terror had taken possession
of her. Her child could grow up and be
sold down the river! The thought crazed her
with horror. If she dozed and lost herself
for a moment, the next moment she was on
her feet flying to her child's cradle to see if it
was still there. Then she would gather it
to her heart and pour out her love upon it in
a frenzy of kisses, moaning, crying, and saying
"Dey sha'n't, oh, dey sha'n't!—yo' po'
mammy will kill you fust!"

Once, when she was tucking it back in its

---

cradle again, the other child nestled in its
sleep and attracted her attention. She went
and stood over it a long time communing with
herself:

"What has my po' baby done, dat he
couldn't have yo' luck? He hain't done
noth'n'. God was good to you; why warn't
he good to him? Dey can't sell you down de
river. I hates yo' pappy; he hain't got no
heart—for niggers he hain't, anyways. I
hates him, en I could kill him!" She paused
awhile, thinking; then she burst into wild
sobbings again, and turned away, saying,
"Oh, I got to kill my chile, dey ain't no
yuther way,—killin' him wouldn't save de chile
fum goin' down de river. Oh, I got to do it,
yo' po' mammy's got to kill you to save you,
honey"—she gathered her baby to her bosom,
now, and began to smother it with caresses—
"Mammy's got to kill you—how kin I do it!
But yo' mammy ain't gwine to desert you—
no, no; dah, don't cry—she gwine wid you,
she gwine to kill herself too. Come along,
honey, come along wid mammy; we gwine to
jump in de river, den de troubles o' dis worl'

---

is all over—dey don't sell po' niggers down the
river over yonder."

She started toward the door, crooning to the
child and hushing it; midway she stopped,
suddenly. She had caught sight of her new
Sunday gown—a cheap curtain-calico thing,
a conflagration of gaudy colors and fantastic
figures. She surveyed it wistfully, longingly.

"Hain't ever wore it yet," she said, "en it's
jist lovely." Then she nodded her head in response
to a pleasant idea, and added, "No, I
ain't gwine to be fished out, wid everybody
lookin' at me, in dis mis'able ole linsey-woolsey."

She put down the child and made the change.
She looked in the glass and was astonished at
her beauty. She resolved to make her death-toilet
perfect. She took off her handkerchief-turban
and dressed her glossy wealth of hair
"like white folks"; she added some odds and
ends of rather lurid ribbon and a spray of atrocious
artificial flowers; finally she threw over
her shoulders a fluffy thing called a "cloud'
in that day, which was of a blazing red complexion.
Then she was ready for the tomb

---

She gathered up her baby once more; but
when her eye fell upon its miserably short
little gray tow-linen shirt and noted the contrast
between its pauper shabbiness and her
own volcanic irruption of infernal splendors,
her mother-heart was touched, and she was
ashamed.

"No, dolling, mammy ain't gwine to treat
you so. De angels is gwine to 'mire you jist
as much as dey does yo' mammy. Ain't
gwine to have 'em putt'n' dey han's up 'fo'
dey eyes en sayin' to David en Goliah en
dem yuther prophets, 'Dat chile is dress' too
indelicate fo' dis place.'"

By this time she had stripped off the shirt.
Now she clothed the naked little creature in
one of Thomas à Becket's snowy long baby-gowns,
with its bright blue bows and dainty
flummery of ruffles.

"Dah—now you's fixed." She propped the
child in a chair and stood off to inspect it.
Straightway her eyes began to widen with
astonishment and admiration, and she clapped
her hands and cried out, "Why, it do beat
all!—I never knowed you was so lovely.

---

Marse Tommy ain't a bit puttier—not a single
bit."

She stepped over and glanced at the other
infant; she flung a glance back at her own;
then one more at the heir of the house. Now
a strange light dawned in her eyes, and in a
moment she was lost in thought. She seemed
in a trance; when she came out of it she muttered,
"When I 'uz a-washin' 'em in de tub,
yistiddy, his own pappy asked me which of
'em was his'n."

She began to move about like one in a
dream. She undressed Thomas à Becket,
stripping him of everything, and put the tow-linen
shirt on him. She put his coral necklace
on her own child's neck. Then she
placed the children side by side, and after
earnest inspection she muttered—

"Now who would b'lieve clo'es could do de
like o' dat? Dog my cats if it ain't all I kin
do to tell t' other fum which, let alone his
pappy."

She put her cub in Tommy's elegant cradle
and said—

"You's young Marse Tom fum dis out, en

---

I got to practise and git used to 'memberin'
to call you dat, honey, or I's gwine to make
a mistake some time en git us bofe into trouble.
Dah—now you lay still en don't fret no
mo', Marse Tom—oh, thank de good Lord in
heaven, you's saved, you's saved!—dey ain't
no man kin ever sell mammy's po' little
honey down de river now!"

She put the heir of the house in her own
child's unpainted pine cradle, and said, con
templating its slumbering form uncasily—

"I's sorry for you, honey; I's sorry, God
knows I is,—but what kin I do, what could I
do? Yo' pappy would sell him to somebody,
some time, en den he'd go down de river,
sho', en I could n't, could n't, could n't stan' it."

She flung herself on her bed and began to
think and toss, toss and think. By and by
she sat suddenly upright, for a comforting
thought had flown through her worried mind—

"' T ain't no sin—white folks has done it!
It ain't no sin, glory to goodness it ain't no
sin! Dey's done it—yes, en dey was de
biggest quality in de whole bilin', too—
kings!"

---

She began to muse; she was trying to
gather out of her memory the dim particulars
of some tale she had heard some time or
other. At last she said—

"Now I's got it; now I' member. It was
dat ole nigger preacher dat tole it, de time he
come over here fum Illinois en preached in
de nigger church. He said dey ain't nobody
kin save his own self—can't do it by faith,
can't do it by works, can't do it no way at all.
Free grace is de on'y way, en dat don't come
fum nobody but jis' de Lord; en he kin give
it to anybody he please, saint or sinner—he
don't kyer. He do jis' as he's a mineter.
He s'lect out anybody dat suit him, en put
another one in his place, en make de fust one
happy forever en leave t' other one to burn wid
Satan. De preacher said it was jist like dey
done in Englan' one time, long time ago. De
queen she lef' her baby layin' aroun' one day,
en went out callin'; en one o' de niggers roun''bout
de place dat was 'mos' white, she come
in en see de chile's layin' aroun', en tuck en
put her own chile's clo'es on de queen's chile,
en put de queen's chile's clo'es on her own

---

chile, en den lef' her own chile layin' aroun'
en tuck en toted de queen's chile home to de
nigger-quarter, en nobody ever foun' it out,
en her chile was de king bimeby, en sole de
queen's chile down de river one time when
dey had to settle up de estate. Dah, now—
de preacher said it his own self, en it ain't no
sin, 'ca'se white folks done it. Dey done it
—yes, dey done it; en not on'y jis' common
white folks nuther, but de biggest quality dey
is in de whole bilin'. Oh, I 's so glad I
'member'bout dat!"

She got up light-hearted and happy, and
went to the cradles and spent what was left
of the night "practising." She would give
her own child a light pat and say humbly,
"Lay still, Marse Tom," then give the real
Tom a pat and say with severity, " Lay still,
Chambers!—does you want me to take
somep'n' to you?"

As she progressed with her practice, she
was surprised to see how steadily and surely
the awe which had kept her tongue reverent
and her manner humble toward her young
master was transferring itself to her speech

---

and manner toward the usurper, and how
similarly handy she was becoming in transferring
her motherly curtness of speech and
peremptoriness of manner to the unlucky heir
of the ancient house of Driscoll.

She took occasional rests from practising,
and absorbed herself in calculating her chances.

"Dey'll sell dese niggers to-day fo' stealin'
de money, den dey'll buy some mo' dat don't
know de chillen—so dat's all right. When I
takes de chillen out to git de air, de minute
I's roun' de corner I's gwine to gaum dey
mouths all roun' wid jam, den dey can't
nobody notice dey's changed. Yes, I gwine
ter do dat till I's safe, if it's a year.

"Dey ain't but one man dat I's afeard of,
en dat's dat Pudd'nhead Wilson. Dey calls
him a pudd'nhead, en says he's a fool. My
lan', dat man ain't no mo' fool den I is! He's
de smartes' man in dis town, less'n it's Jedge
Driscoll or maybe Pem Howard. Blame dat
man, he worries me wid dem ornery glasses o'
hisn; I b'lieve he's witch. But nemmine,
I's gwine to happen aroun' dah one o' dese
days en let on dat I reckon he wants to print

---

de chillen's fingers ag'in; en if he don't notice
dey's changed, I bound dey ain't nobody
gwine to notice it, en den I 's safe, sho'.
But I reckon I'll tote along a hoss-shoe to
keep off de witch-work."

The new negroes gave Roxy no trouble, of
course. The master gave her none, for one
of his speculations was in jeopardy, and his
mind was so occupied that he hardly saw the
children when he looked at them, and all Roxy
had to do was to get them both into a gale of
laughter when he came about; then their
faces were mainly cavities exposing gums, and
he was gone again before the spasm passed
and the little creatures resumed a human
aspect.

Within a few days the fate of the speculation
became so dubious that Mr. Percy
went away with his brother the Judge, to
see what could be done with it. It was a
land speculation as usual, and it had gotten
complicated with a lawsuit. The men were
gone seven weeks. Before they got back
Roxy had paid her visit to Wilson, and was
satisfied. Wilson took the finger-prints,

---

labeled them with the names and with the
date—October the first—put them carefully
away and continued his chat with Roxy,
who seemed very anxious that he should admire
the great advance in flesh and beauty
which the babies had made since he took their
finger-prints a month before. He complimented
their improvement to her contentment;
and as they were without any disguise
of jam or other stain, she trembled all
the while and was miserably frightened lest
at any moment he—

But he did n't. He discovered nothing;
and she went home jubilant, and dropped all
concern about the matter permanently out of
her mind.

---

CHAPTER IV.

and Eve had many advantages, but the principal
one was, that they escaped teething.—Pudd'nhead Wilson's
Calendar.

is this trouble about special providences—
namely, there is so often a doubt as to which party was
intended to be the beneficiary. In the case of the children,
the bears and the prophet, the bears got more real
satisfaction out of the episode than the prophet did, because
they got the children.—Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.

history must henceforth accommodate
itself to the change which Roxana has consummated,
and call the real heir "Chambers"
and the usurping little slave "Thomas à
Becket" —shortening this latter name to
"Tom," for daily use, as the people about
him did.

"Tom" was a bad baby, from the very
beginning of his usurpation. He would cry
for nothing; he would burst into storms of
devilish temper without notice, and let go

---

scream after scream and squall after squall,
then climax the thing with "holding his
breath"—that frightful specialty of the teething
nursling, in the throes of which the creature
exhausts its lungs, then is convulsed with
noiseless squirmings and twistings and kickings
in the effort to get its breath, while the
lips turn blue and the mouth stands wide and
rigid, offering for inspection one wee tooth
set in the lower rim of a hoop of red gums;
and when the appalling stillness has endured
until one is sure the lost breath will never
return, a nurse comes flying, and dashes water
in the child's face, and—presto! the lungs fill,
and instantly discharge a shriek, or a yell, or
a howl which bursts the listening car and surprises
the owner of it into saying words which
would not go well with a halo if he had one.
The baby Tom would claw anybody who came
within reach of his nails, and pound anybody
he could reach with his rattle. He would
scream for water until he got it, and then
throw cup and all on the floor and scream for
more. He was indulged in all his caprices,
howsoever troublesome and exasperating they

---

might be; he was allowed to eat anything he
wanted, particularly things that would give
him the stomach-ache.

When he got to be old enough to begin to
toddle about and say broken words and get
an idea of what his hands were for, he was a
more consummate pest than ever. Roxy got
no rest while he was awake. He would call
for anything and everything he saw, simply
saying "Awant it!" (want it), which was a
command. When it was brought, he said in
a frenzy, and motioning it away with his
hands, " Don't awnt it! don't awnt it!" and
the moment it was gone he set up frantic yells
of "Awnt it! awnt it! awnt it!" and Roxy
had to give wings to her heels to get that
thing back to him again before he could get
time to carry out his intention of going into
convulsions about it.

What he preferred above all other things
was the tongs. This was because his "father"
had forbidden him to have them lest he break
windows and furniture with them. The
moment Roxy's back was turned he would
toddle to the presence of the tongs and say

---

"Like it!" and cock his eye to one side to
see if Roxy was observing; then, "Awnt it!"
and cock his eye again; then, "Hab it!"
with another furtive glance; and finally,
"Take it!"—and the prize was his. The
next moment the heavy implement was raised
aloft; the next, there was a crash and a
squall, and the cat was off on three legs to
meet an engagement; Roxy would arrive just
as the lamp or a window went to irremediable
smash.

Tom got all the petting, Chambers got
none. Tom got all the delicacies, Chambers
got mush and milk, and clabber without
sugar. In consequence Tom was a sickly
child and Chambers was n't. Tom was "fractious,"
as Roxy called it, and overbearing;
Chambers was meek and docile.

With all her splendid common sense and
practical every-day ability, Roxy was a doting
fool of a mother. She was this toward
her child—and she was also more than this:
by the fiction created by herself, he was become
her master; the necessity of recognizing
this relation outwardly and of perfecting

---

herself in the forms required to express the
recognition, had moved her to such diligence
and faithfulness in practicing these forms that
this exercise soon concreted itself into habit;
it became automatic and unconscious; then a
natural result followed: deceptions intended
solely for others gradually grew practically
into self-deceptions as well; the mock reverence
became real reverence, the mock obsequiousness
real obsequiousness, the mock
homage real homage; the little counterfeit rift
of separation between imitation-slave and
imitation-master widened and widened, and
became an abyss, and a very real one—and
on one side of it stood Roxy, the dupe of her
own deceptions, and on the other stood her
child, no longer a usurper to her, but her
accepted and recognized master. He was her
darling, her master, and her deity all in one,
and in her worship of him she forgot who she
was and what he had been.

In babyhood Tom cuffed and banged and
scratched Chambers unrebuked, and Chambers
early learned that between meekly bearing
it and resenting it, the advantage all lay

---

with the former policy. The few times that
his persecutions had moved him beyond control
and made him fight back had cost him
very dear at headquarters; not at the hands
of Roxy, for if she ever went beyond scolding
him sharply for "forgitt'n' who his young
marster was," she at least never extended her
punishment beyond a box on the ear. No,
Percy Driscoll was the person. He told
Chambers that under no provocation whatever
was he privileged to lift his hand against
his little master. Chambers overstepped the
line three times, and got three such convincing
canings from the man who was his father
and did n't know it, that he took Tom's cruelties
in all humility after that, and made no
more experiments.

Outside of the house the two boys were together
all through their boyhood. Chambers
was strong beyond his years, and a good
fighter; strong because he was coarsely fed
and hard worked about the house, and a good
fighter because Tom furnished him plenty of
practice—on white boys whom he hated and
was afraid of. Chambers was his constant

---

body-guard, to and from school; he was present
on the playground at recess to protect his
charge. He fought himself into such a formidable
reputation, by and by, that Tom could
have changed clothes with him, and "ridden
in peace," like Sir Kay in Launcelot's armor.

He was good at games of skill, too. Tom
staked him with marbles to play "keeps"
with, and then took all the winnings away
from him. In the winter season Chambers
was on hand, in Tom's worn-out clothes, with
"holy" red mittens, and "holy" shoes, and
pants "holy" at the knees and seat, to drag
a sled up the hill for Tom, warmly clad, to
ride down on; but he never got a ride himself.
He built snow men and snow fortifications
under Tom's directions. He was Tom's
patient target when Tom wanted to do some
snowballing, but the target could n't fire back.
Chambers carried Tom's skates to the river
and strapped them on him, then trotted around
after him on the ice, so as to be on hand
when wanted; but he was n't ever asked to try
the skates himself.

In summer the pet pastime of the boys of

---

Dawson's Landing was to steal apples,
peaches, and melons from the farmers' fruitwagons,—mainly
on account of the risk they
ran of getting their heads laid open with the
butt of the farmer's whip. Tom was a distinguished
adept at these thefts—by proxy.
Chambers did his stealing, and got the peach-stones,
apple-cores, and melon-rinds for his
share.

Tom always made Chambers go in swimming
with him, and stay by him as a protection.
When Tom had had enough, he would
slip out and tie knots in Chambers's shirt, dip
the knots in the water to make them hard to
undo, then dress himself and sit by and laugh
while the naked shiverer tugged at the stubborn
knots with his teeth.

Tom did his humble comrade these various
ill turns partly out of native viciousness, and
partly because he hated him for his superiorities
of physique and pluck, and for his manifold
clevernesses. Tom could n't dive, for it
gave him splitting headaches. Chambers
could dive without inconvenience, and was
fond of doing it. He excited so much admiration,

---

one day, among a crowd of white boys,
by throwing back somersaults from the stern
of a canoe, that it wearied Tom's spirit, and at
last he shoved the canoe underneath Chambers
while he was in the air—so he came
down on his head in the canoe-bottom; and
while he lay unconscious, several of Tom's
ancient adversaries saw that their long-desired
opportunity was come, and they gave the
false heir such a drubbing that with Chambers's
best help he was hardly able to drag
himself home afterward.

When the boys were fifteen and upward,
Tom was "showing off" in the river one day,
when he was taken with a cramp, and shouted
for help. It was a common trick with the
boys—particularly if a stranger was present—
to pretend a cramp and howl for help; then
when the stranger came tearing hand over hand
to the rescue, the howler would go on struggling
and howling till he was close at hand,
then replace the howl with a sarcastic smile
and swim blandly away, while the town boys
assailed the dupe with a volley of jeers and
laughter. Tom had never tried this joke as

---

yet, but was supposed to be trying it now, so
the boys held warily back; but Chambers believed
his master was in earnest, therefore he
swam out, and arrived in time, unfortunately,
and saved his life.

This was the last feather. Tom had managed
to endure everything else, but to have
to remain publicly and permanently under
such an obligation as this to a nigger, and to
this nigger of all niggers—this was too much.
He heared insults upon Chambers for "pretending
to think he was in earnest in calling
for help, and said that anybody but a block-headed
nigger would have known he was
funning and left him alone.

Tom's enemies were in strong force here, so
they came out with their opinions quite freely.
They laughed at him, and called him coward,
liar, sneak, and other sorts of pet names, and
told him they meant to call Chambers by a
new name after this, and make it common in
the town—"Tom Driscoll's niggerpappy,"—
to signify that he had had a second birth into
this life, and that Chambers was the author of
his new being. Tom grew frantic under these
taunts, and shouted—

---

"Knock their heads off, Chambers! knock
their heads off! What do you stand there
with your hands in your pockets for?"

Chambers expostulated, and said, "But,
Marse Tom, dey's too many of 'em—dey's—"

"Do you hear me?"

"Please, Marse Tom, don't make me!
Dey's so many of 'em dat——"

Tom sprang at him and drove his pocketknife
into him two or three times before the
boys could snatch him away and give the
wounded lad a chance to escape. He was
considerably hurt, but not seriously. If the
blade had been a little longer his career would
have ended there.

Tom had long ago taught Roxy "her
place." It had been many a day now since
she had ventured a caress or a fondling
epithet in his quarter. Such things, from a
"nigger," were repulsive to him, and she had
been warned to keep her distance and remember
who she was. She saw her darling gradually
cease from being her son, she saw that detail
perish utterly; all that was left was master—master,
pure and simple, and it was not a

---

gentle mastership, either. She saw herself
sink from the sublime height of motherhood
to the somber depths of unmodified slavery.
The abyss of separation between her and her
boy was complete. She was merely his chattel,
now, his convenience, his dog, his cringing
and helpless slave, the humble and unresisting
victim of his capricious temper and vicious
nature.

Sometimes she could not go to sleep, even
when worn out with fatigue, because her rage
boiled so high over the day's experiences with
her boy. She would mumble and mutter to
herself—

"He struck me, en I war n't no way to
blame—struck me in de face, right before
folks. En he's al'ays callin' me nigger-wench,
en hussy, en all dem mean names, when I 's
doin' de very bes' I kin. Oh, Lord, I done so
much for him—I lift' him away up to what he
is—en dis is what I git for it."

Sometimes when some outrage of peculiar
offensiveness stung her to the heart, she
would plan schemes of vengeance and revel
in the fancied spectacle of his exposure to the

---

world as an impostor and a slave; but in the
midst of these joys fear would strike her: she
had made him too strong; she could prove nothing,
and—heavens, she might get sold down
the river for her pains! So her schemes always
went for nothing, and she laid them aside
in impotent rage against the fates, and against
herself for playing the fool on that fatal September
day in not providing herself with a
witness for use in the day when such a thing
might be needed for the appeasing of her vengeance-hungry
heart.

And yet the moment Tom happened to be
good to her, and kind,—and this occurred
every now and then,—all her sore places were
healed, and she was happy; happy and proud,
for this was her son, her nigger son, lording it
among the whites and securely avenging their
crimes against her race.

There were two grand funerals in Dawson's
Landing that fall—the fall of 1845. One was
that of Colonel Cecil Burleigh Essex, the
other that of Percy Driscoll.

On his death-bed Driscoll set Roxy free
and delivered his idolized ostensible son solemnly

---

into the keeping of his brother, the
Judge and his wife. Those childless people
were glad to get him. Childless people are
not difficult to please.

Judge Driscoll had gone privately to his
brother, a month before, and bought Chambers.
He had heard that Tom had been trying
to get his father to sell the boy down the
river, and he wanted to prevent the scandal—
for public sentiment did not approve of that
way of treating family servants for light cause
or for no cause.

Percy Driscoll had worn himself out in trying
to save his great speculative landed estate,
and had died without succeeding. He was
hardly in his grave before the boom collapsed
and left his hitherto envied young devil of an
heir a pauper. But that was nothing; his
uncle told him he should be his heir and have
all his fortune when he died; so Tom was
comforted.

Roxy had no home, now; so she resolved
to go around and say good-by to her friends
and then clear out and see the world—that is
to say, she would go chambermaiding on a

---

steamboat, the darling ambition of her race
and sex.

Her last call was on the black gaint, Jasper.
She found him chopping Pudd'nhead Wilson's
winter Provision of wood.

Wilson was chatting with him when Roxy arrived.
He asked her how she could bear to go
off chambermaiding and leave her boys; and
chaffingly offered to copy off a series of their
finger-Prints, reaching up to their twelfth year,
for her to remember them by; but she sobered
in a moment, , wondering if he suspected anything;
then she said she believed she did n't
want them. Wilson said to himself, "The
drop of black blood in her is superstious;
she thinks there's some devilry, some witch-business
about my glass mystery somewhere;
she used to come here with an old horseshoe
in her hand; it could have been an accident,
but I doubt it."

---

CHAPTER V.

is everything. The peach was once a bitter
almond; cauliflower is nothing but cabbage with a
college education.—Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.

of Dr. Baldwin's, concerning upstarts; We
do n't care to eat toadstools that think they are truffles.—
Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.

enjoyed two years
of bliss with that prize, Tom—bliss that was
troubled a little at times, it is true, but bliss
nevertheless; then she died, and her husband
and his childless sister, Mrs. Pratt, continued
the bliss-business at the old stand. Tom was
petted and indulged and spoiled to his entire
content—or nearly that. This went on till he
was nineteen, then he was sent to Yale. He
went handsomely equipped with "conditions,"
but otherwise he was not an object of distinction
there. He remained at Yale two years,
and then threw up the struggle. He came

---

home with his manners a good deal improved;
he had lost his surlines and brusqueness, and
was rather pleasantly soft and smooth, now;
he was furtively, and sometimes openly, ironical
of speech, and given to gently touching
people on the raw, but he did it with a good-natured
semiconscious air that carried it off
safely, and kept him from getting into trouble.
He was as indolent as ever and showed no
very strenuous desire to hunt up an occupation.
People argued from this that he preferred
to be supported by his uncle until his
uncle's shoes should become vacant. He
brought back one or two new habits with him,
one of which he rather openly practised—tippling—but
concealed another, which was gambling.
It would not do to gamble where his
uncle could hear of it; he knew that quite well.

Tom's Eastern polish was not popular
among the young people. They could have
endured it, perhaps, if Tom had stopped there;
but he wore gloves, and that they could n't
stand, and would n't; so he was mainly without
society. He brought home with him a
suit of clothes of such exquisite style and cut

---

and fashion,—Eastern fashion, city fashion,—
that it filled everybody with anguish and was
regarded as a peculiarly wanton affront. He
enjoyed the feeling which he was exciting, and
paraded the town serence and happy all day;
but the young fellows set a tailor to work
that night, and when Tom started out on his
parade next morning he found the old deformed
negro bell-ringer straddling along in
his wake tricked out in a flamboyant curtain-calico
exaggeration of his finery, and imitating
his fancy Eastern graces as well as he could.

Tom surrendered, and after that clothed himself
in the local fashion. But the dull country,
town was tiresome to him, since his acquaintanceship
with livelier regions, and it grew
daily more and more so. He began to make
little trips to St. Louis for refreshment.
There he found companionship to suit him,
and pleasures to his taste, along with more
freedom, in some particulars, than he could
have at home. So, during the next two years
his visits to the city grew in frequency and
his tarryings there grew steadily longer in
duration.

---

He was getting into deep waters. He was
taking chances, privately, which might get him
into trouble some day—in fact, did.

Judge Driscoll had retired from the bench
and from all business activities in 1850, and
had now been comfortably idle three years.
He was president of the Free-thinkers' Society,
and Pudd'nhead Wilson was the other member.
The society's weekly discussions were
now the old lawyer's main interest in life.
Pudd'nhead was still toiling in obscurity at
the bottom of the ladder, under the blight of
that unlucky remark which he had let fall
twenty-three years before about the dog.

Judge Driscoll was his friend, and claimed
that he had a mind above the average, but
that was regarded as one of the Judge's whims,
and it failed to modify the public opinion.
Or rather, that was one of the reasons why
it failed, but there was another and better one.
If the Judge had stopped with bare assertion,
it would have had a good deal of effect; but
he made the mistake of trying to prove his position.
For some years Wilson had been privately
at work on a whimsical almanac, for

---

his amusement—a calendar, with a little dab
of ostensible philosophy, usually in ironical
form, appended to each date; and the Judge
thought that these quips and fancies of Wilson's
were neatly turned and cute; so he carried
a handful of them around, one day, and
read them to some of the chief citizens. But
irony was not for those people; their mental
vision was not focussed for it. They read
those playful trifles in the solidest earnest,
and decided without hesitancy that if there
had ever been any doubt that Dave Wilson
was a pudd'nhead—which there had n't—this
revelation removed that doubt for good and
all. That is just the way in this world; an
enemy can partly ruin a man, but it takes a
good-natured injudicious friend to complete
the thing and make it perfect. After this
the Judge felt tenderer than ever toward
Wilson, and surer than ever that his calendar
had merit.

Judge Driscoll could be a free-thinker and
still hold his place in society because he was
the person of most consequence in the community,
and therefore could venture to go

---

his own way and follow out his own notions.
The other member of his pet organization
was allowed the like liberty because he was a
cipher in the estimation of the public, and
nobody attached any importance to what he
thought or did. He was liked, he was welcome
enough all around, but he simply did n't
count for anything.

The widow Cooper—affectionately called
"aunt Patsy" by everybody—lived in a
snug and comely cottage with her daughter
Rowena, who was nineteen, romantic, amiable,
and very pretty, but otherwise of no consequence.
Rowena had a couple of young
brothers—also of no consequence.

The widow had a large spare room which
she let to a lodger, with board, when she
could find one, but this room had been empty
for a year now, to her sorrow. Her income
was only sufficient for the family support,
and she needed the lodging-money for trifling
luxuries. But now, at last, on a flaming
June day, she found herself happy; her tedious
wait was ended; her year-worn advertisement
had been answered; and not by a

---

village applicant, oh, no!—this letter was
from away off yonder in the dim great world
to the North: it was from St. Louis. She sat
on her porch gazing out with unseeing eyes
upon the shining reaches of the mighty Mississippi,
her thoughts steeped in her good
fortune. Indeed it was specially good fortune,
for she was to have two lodgers instead
of one.

She had read the letter to the family, and
Rowena had danced away to see to the cleaning
and airing of the room by the slave woman
Nancy, and the boys had rushed abroad in
the town to spread the great news, for it was
matter of public interest, and the public would
wonder and not be pleased if not informed.
Presently Rowena returned, all ablush with
joyous excitement, and begged for a re-reading
of the letter. It was framed thus: : My brother and I have seen your
advertisement, by chance, and beg leave to take the room
you offer. We are twenty-four years of age and twins.
We are Italians by birth, but have lived long in the
various countries of Europe, and several years in the
United States. Our names are Luigi and Angelo Capello.
You desire but one guest; but dear Madam, if you will

---

allow us to pay for two, we will not incommode you. We
shall be down Thursday.

"Italians! How romantic! Just think, ma
—there's never been one in this town, and
everybody will be dying to see them, and
they're all ours! Think of that!"

"Yes, I reckon they'll make a grand stir."

"Oh, indeed they will. The whole town
will be on its head! Think—they've been in
Europe and everywhere! There's never
been a traveler in this town before. Ma, I
should n't wonder if they've seen kings!"

"Well, a body can't tell; but they'll make
stir enough, without that."

"Yes, that's of course. Luigi—Angelo.
They're lovely names; and so grand and
foreign—not like Jones and Robinson and
such. Thursday they are coming, and this is
only Tuesday; it's a cruel long time to wait.
Here comes Judge Driscoll in at the gate.
He's heard about it. I'll go and open the
door."

The Judge was full of congratulations and
curiosity. The letter was read and discussed.
Soon Justice Robinson arrived with more

---

congratulations, and there was a new reading
and a new discussion. This was the beginning.
Neighbor after neighbor, of both sexes, followed,
and the procession drifted in and out
all day and evening and all Wednesday and
Thursday. The letter was read and re-read
until it was nearly worn out; everybody admired
its courtly and gracious tone, and
smooth and practised style, everybody was
sympathetic and excited, and the Coopers
were steeped in happiness all the while.

The boats were very uncertain in low water,
in these primitive times. This time the
Thursday boat had not arrived at ten at
night—so the people had waited at the landing
all day for nothing; they were driven to
their homes by a heavy storm without having
had a view of the illustrious foreigners.

Eleven o'clock came; and the Cooper
house was the only one in the town that still
had lights burning. The rain and thunder
were booming yet, and the anxious family
were still waiting, still hoping. At last there
was a knock at the door and the family
jumped to open it. Two negro men entered,

---

each carrying a trunk, and proceeded up-stairs
toward the guest-room. The entered the
twins—the handsomest, the best dressed, the
most distinguished-looking pair of young
fellows the West had ever seen. One was a
little fairer than the other, but otherwise
they were exact duplicates.

---

CHAPTER VI.

us endeavor so to live that when we come to die
even the undertaker will be sorry.—Pudd'nhead Wilson's
Calendar.

is habit, and not to be flung out of the window
by any man, but coaxed down-stairs a step at a time.-
Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.

breakfast in the morning the twins'
charm of manner and easy and polished bearing
made speedy conquest of the family's
good graces. All constraint and formality
quickly disappeared, and the friendliest feeling
succeeded. Aunty Patsy called them by
their Christian names almost from the beginning.
She was full of the keenest curiosity
about them, and showed it; they responded
by talking about themselves, which pleased
her greatly. It presently appeared that in
their early youth they had known poverty
and hardship. As the talk wandered along

---

the old lady watched for the right place to
drop in a question or two concerning that matter,
and when she found it she said to the
blond twin who was now doing the biographies
in his turn while the brunette one
rested—

"If it ain't asking what I ought not to ask,
Mr. Angelo, how did you come to be so
friendless and in such trouble when you were
little? Do you mind telling? But don't if
you do."

"Oh, we don't mind it at all, madam; in
our case it was merely misfortune, and nobody's
fault. Our parents were well to do,
there in Italy, and we were their only child.
We were of the old Florentine nobility"—
Rowena's heart gave a great bound, her
nostrils expanded, and a fine light played in
her eyes—"and when the war broke out my
father was on the losing side and had to fly
for his life. His estates were confiscated,
his personal property seized, and there we
were, in Germany, strangers, friendless, and in
fact paupers. My brother and I were ten years
old, and well educated for that age, very studious,

---

very fond of our books, and well
grounded in the German, French, Spanish,
and English languages. Also, we were marvelous
musical prodigies—if you will allow
me to say it, it being only the truth.

"Our father survived his misfortunes only
a month, our mother soon followed him, and
we were alone in the world. Our parents
could have made themselves comfortable by
exhibiting us as a show, and they had many
and large offers; but the thought revolted
their pride, and they said they would starve
and die first. But what they would n't consent
to do we had to do without the formality
of consent. We were seized for the debts
occasioned by their illness and their funerals,
and placed among the attractions of a cheap
museum in Berlin to earn the liquidation
money. It took us two years to get out of
that slavery. We traveled all about Germany
receiving no wages, and not even our keep.
We had to be exhibited for nothing, and beg
our bread.

"Well, madam, the rest is not of much
consequence. When we escaped from that

---

slavery at twelve years of age, we were in
some respects men. Experience had taught
us some valuable things; among others, how
to take care of ourselves, how to avoid and
defeat sharks and sharpers, and how to conduct
our own business for our own profit and without
other people's help. We traveled everywhere—years
and years—picking up smatterings
of strange tongues, familiarizing ourselves
with strange sights and strange customs,
accumulating an education of a wide and
varied and curious sort. It was a pleasant
life. We went to Venice—to London, Paris,
Russia, India, China, Japan—"

At this point Nancy the slave woman
thrust her head in at the door and exclaimed:

"Ole Missus, de house is plum' jam full o'
people, en dey's jes a-spi'lin' to see de gen'lmen!"
She indicated the twins with a nod of
her head, and tucked it back out of sight
again.

It was a proud occasion for the widow, and
she promised herself high satisfaction in showing
off her fine foreign birds before her neightbors
and friends—simple folk who had hardly

---

ever seen a foreigner of any kind, and never
one of any distinction or style. Yet her
feeling was moderate indeed when contrasted
with Rowena's. Rowena was in the clouds,
she walked on air; this was to be the greatest
day, the most romantic episode, in the colorless
history of that dull country town. She
was to be familiarly near the source of its
glory and feel the full flood of it pour over
her and about her; the other girls could only
gaze and envy, not partake.

The widow was ready, Rowena was ready,
so also were the foreigners.

The party moved along the hall, the twins
in advance, and entered the open parlor door,
whence issued a low hum of conversation.
The twins took a position near the door the
widow stood at Luigi's side, Rowena stood
beside Angelo, and the march-past and the
introductions began. The widow was all
smiles and contentment. She received the
procession and passed it on to Rowena.

"Good mornin', Sister Cooper"—handshake.

"Good morning, Brother Higgins—Count

---

Luigi Capello, Mr. Higgins"—hand-shake,
followed by a devouring stare and "I'm glad
to see ye," on the part of Higgins, and a courteous
inclination of the head and a pleasant
"Most happy!" on the part of Count Luigi.

"Good mornin', Roweny"—hand-shake.

"Good morning, Mr. Higgins—present
you to Count Angelo Capello." Hand-shake,
admiring stare, "Glad to see ye,"—courteous
nod, smily "Most happy!" and Higgins
passes on.

None of these visitors was at ease, but,
being honest people, they did n't pretend to
be. None of them had ever seen a person
bearing a title of nobility before, and none
had been expecting to see one now, consequently
the title came upon them as a kind of
pile-driving surprise and caught them unprepared.
A few tried to rise to the emergency,
and got out an awkward "My lord," or
"Your lordship," or something of that sort,
but the great majority were overwhelmed by
the unaccustomed word and its dim and awful
associations with gilded courts and stately
ceremony and anointed kingship, so they only

---

fumbled through the hand-shake and passed
on, speechless. Now and then, as happens
at all receptions everywhere, a more than
ordinarily friendly soul blocked the procession
and kept it waiting while he inquired how
the brothers liked the village, and how long
they were going to stay, and if their families
were well, and dragged in the weather, and
hoped it would get cooler soon, and all that
sort of thing, so as to be able to say, when
they got home, "I had quite a long talk with
them"; but nobody did or said anything of a
regrettable kind, and so the great affair went
through to the end in a creditable and statisfactory
fashion.

General conversation followed, and the
twins drifted about from group to group, talking
easily and fluently and winning approval,
compelling admiration and achieving favor
from all. The widow followed their conquering
march with a proud eye, and every now
and then Rowena said to herself with deep
satisfaction, "And to think they are ours—all
ours!"

There were no idle moments for mother or

---

daughter. Eager inquiries concerning the
twins were pouring into their enchanted ears
all the time; each was the constant center of
a group of breathless listeners; each recognized
that she knew now for the first time the
real meaning of that great word Glory, and
perceived the stupendous value of it, and
understood why men in all ages had been
willing to throw away meaner happinesses,
treasure, life itself, to get a taste of its sublime
and supreme joy. Napoleon and all his kind
stood accounted for—and justified.

When Rowena had at last done all her
duty by the people in the parlor, she went
up-stairs to satisfy the longings of an overflow-meeting
there, for the parlor was not big
enough to hold all the comers. Again she
was besieged by cager questioners and again
she swam in sunset seas of glory. When the
forenoon was nearly gone, she recognized
with a pang that this most splendid episode
of her life was almost over, that nothing could
prolong it, that nothing quite its equal could
ever fall to her fortune again. But never
mind, it was sufficient unto itself, the grand

---

occation had moved on an ascending scale
from the start, and was a noble and memorable
success. If the twins could but do some
crowning act, now, to climax it, something unusual,
something startling, something to concentrate
upon themselves the company's
loftiest admiration, something in the nature of
an electric surprise—

Here a prodigious slam-banging broke out
below, and everybody rushed down to sec.
It was the twins knocking out a classic four-handed
piece on the piano, in great style.
Rowena was satisfied—satisfied down to the
bottom of her heart.

The young strangers were kept long at the
piono. The villagers were astonished and
enchanted with the magnificence of their performance,
and could not bear to have them
stop. All the music that they had ever heard
before seemed spiritless prentice-work and
barren of grace or charm when compared
with these intoxicating floods of melodious
sound. They realized that for once in their
lives they were hearing masters.

---

CHAPTER VII.

of the most striking differences between a cat
and a lie is that a cat has only nine lives.—Pudd'nhead
Wilson's Calendar.

company broke up reluctantly, and
drifted toward their several homes, chatting
with vivacity, and all agreeing that it would
be many a long day before Dawson's Landing
would see the equal of this one again.
The twins had accepted several invitations
while the reception was in progress, and had
also volunteered to play some duets at an
amateur entertainment for the benefit of a
local charity. Society was cager to receive
them to its bosom. Judge Driscoll had the
good fortune to secure them for an immediate
drive, and to be the first to display them in
public. They entered his buggy with him,
and were paraded down the main street,

---

everybody flocking to the windows and sidewalks
to see.

The Judge showed the strangers the new
graveyard, and the jail, and where the richest
man lived, and the Freemasons' hall, and the
Methodist church, and the Presbyterian
church, and where the Baptist church was going
to be when they got some money to build
it with, and showed them the town hall and
the slaughter-house, and got out the independent
fire company in uniform and had them
put out an imaginary fire; then he let them
inspect the muskets of the militia company,
and poured out an exhaustless stream of enthusiasm
over all these splendors, and seemed
very well satisfied with the responses he got,
for the twins admired his admiration, and paid
him back the best they could, though they
could have done better if some fifteen or sixteen
hundred thousand previous experiences
of this sort in various countries had not already
rubbed off a considerable part of the
novelty of it.

The Judge laid himself out hospitably to
make them have a good time, and if there

---

was a defect anywhere it was not his fault
He told them a good many humorous anecdotes,
and always forgot the nub, but they
were always able to furnish it, for these yarns
were of a pretty early vintage, and they had
had many a rejuvenating pull at them before.
And he told them all about his several dignities,
and how he had held this and that and
the other place of honor or profit, and had
once been to the legislature, and was now
president of the Society of Free-thinkers.
He said the society had been in existence
four years, and already had two members,
and was firmly established. He would call
for the brothers in the evening if they would
like to attend a meeting of it.

Accordingly he called for them, and on the
way he told them all about Pudd'nhead Wilson,
in order that they might get a favorable
impression of him in advance and be prepared
to like him. This scheme succeeded—
the favorable impression was achieved. Later
it was confirmed and solidified when Wilson
proposed that out of courtesy to the strangers
the usual topics be put aside and the hour be

---

devoted to conversation upon ordinary subjects
and the cultivation of friendly relations
and good-fellowship,—a proposition which
was put to vote and carried.

The hour passed quickly away in lively
talk, and when it was ended the lonesome and
neglected Wilson was richer by two friends
than he had been when it began. He invited
the twins to look in at his lodgings, presently,
after disposing of an intervening engagement,
and they accepted with pleasure.

Toward the middle of the evening they
found themselves on the road to his house.
Pudd'nhead was at home waiting for them
and putting in his time puzzling over a thing
which had come under his notice that morning.
The matter was this: He happened to
be up very early—at dawn, in fact; and he
crossed the hall which divided his cottage
through the center, and entered a room to get
something there. The window of the room
had no curtains, for that side of the house
had long been unoccupied, and through this
window he caught sight of something which
surprised and interested him. It was a

---

young woman—a young woman where properly
no young woman belonged; for she was
in Judge Driscoll's house, and in the bedroom
over the Judge's private study or sitting-room.
This was young Tom Driscoll's bedroom.
He and the Judge, the Judge's
widowed sister Mrs. Pratt and three negro
servants were the only people who belonged
in the house. Who, then, might this young
lady be? The two houses were separated by
an ordinary yard, with a low fence running
back through its middle from the street in
front to the lane in the rear. The distance
was not great, and Wilson was able to see the
girl very well, the window-shades of the room
she was in being up, and the window also.
The girl had on a neat and trim summer
dress, patterned in broad stripes of pink and
white, and her bonnet was equipped with a
pink veil. She was practising steps, gaits
and attitudes, apparently; she was doing the
thing gracefully, and was very much absorbed
in her work. Who could she be, and how
came she to be in young Tom Driscoll's
room?

---

Wilson had quickly chosen a position from
which he could watch the girl without running
much risk of being seen by her, and he
remained there hoping she would raise her
veil and betray her face. But she disappointed
him. After a matter of twenty
minutes she disappeared, and although he
stayed at his post half an hour longer, she
came no more.

Toward noon he dropped in at the Judge's
and talked with Mrs. Pratt about the great
event of the day, the levee of the distinguished
foreigners at Aunt Patsy Cooper's.
He asked after her nephew Tom, and she
said he was on his way home, and that she
was expecting him to arrive a little before
night; and added that she and the Judge
were gratified to gather from his letters that
he was conducting himself very nicely and
creditably—at which Wilson winked to himself
privately. Wilson did not ask if there
was a newcomer in the house, but he asked
questions that would have brought light-throwing
answers as to that matter if Mrs.
Pratt had had any light to throw; so he went

---

away satisfied that he knew of things that
were going on in her house of which she herself
was not aware.

He was now waiting for the twins, and still
puzzling over the problem of who that girl
might be, and how she happened to be in
that young fellow's room at daybreak in the
morning.

---

CHAPTER VIII.

holy passion of Friendship is of so sweet and
steady and loyal and enduring a nature that it will last
through a whole lifetime, if not asked to lend money.—
Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.

well the proportions of things. It is better to
be a young June-bug than an old bird of paradise.—
Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.

is necessary now, to hunt up Roxy.

At the time she was set free and went away
chambermaiding, she was thirty-five. She got
a berth as second chambermaid on a Cincinnati
boat in the New Orleans trade, the Grand
Mogul. A couple of trips made her wonted
and easy-going at the work, and infatuated
her with the stir and adventure and independence
of steamboat life. Then she was promoted
and became head chambermaid. She
was a favorite with the officers, and exceedingly
proud of their joking and friendly ways
with her.

---

During eight years she served three parts
of the year on that boat, and the winters on a
Vicksburg packet. But now for two months
she had had rheumatism in her arms, and was
obliged to let the wash-tub alone. So she resigned.
But she was well fixed—rich, as she
would have described it; for she had lived a
steady life, and had banked four dollars every
month in New Orleans as a provision for her
old age. She said in the start that she had "put
shoes on one bar' footed nigger to tromple on
her with," and that one mistake like that was
enough; she would be independent of the
human race thenceforth forevermore if hard
work and economy could accomplish it.
When the boat touched the levee at New
Orleans she bade good-by to her comrades on
the Grand Mogul and moved her kit ashore.

But she was back in an hour. The bank had
gone to smash and carried her four hundred
dollars with it. She was a pauper, and homeless.
Also disabled bodily, at least for the
present. The officers were full of sympathy
for her in her trouble, and made up a little
purse for her. She resolved to go to her birthplace;

---

she had friends there among the negroes,
and the unfortunate always help the
unfortunate, she was well aware of that;
those lowly comrades of her youth would not
let her starve.

She took the little local packet at Cairo,
and now she was on the home-stretch. Time
had worn away her bitterness against her son,
and she was able to think of him with serenity.
She put the vile side of him out of her mind,
and dwelt only on recollections of his occasional
acts of kindness to her. She gilded and
otherwise decorated these, and made them
very pleasant to contemplate. She began to
long to see him. She would go and fawn
upon him, slave-like—for this would have to be
her attitude, of course—and maybe she would
find that time had modified him, and that he
would be glad to see his long-forgotten old
nurse and treat her gently. That would be
lovely; that would make her forget her woes
and her poverty.

Her poverty! That thought inspired her
to add another castle to her dream: maybe
he would give her a trifle now and then—

---

maybe a dollar, once a month, say; any little
thing like that would help, oh, ever so much.

By the time she reached Dawson's Landing
she was her old self again; her blues were
gone, she was in high feather. She would
get along, surely; there were many kitchens
where the servants would share their meals
with her, and also steal sugar and apples and
other dainties for her to carry home—or give
her a chance to pilfer them herself, which
would answer just as well. And there was
the church. She was a more rabid and devoted
Methodist than ever, and her piety was
no sham, but was strong and sincere. Yes,
with plenty of creature comforts and her old
place in the amen-corner in her possession
again, she would be perfectly happy and at
peace thenceforward to the end.

She went to Judge Driscoll's kitchen first of
all. She was received there in great form and
with vast enthusiasm. Her wonderful travels,
and the strange countries she had seen and the
adventures she had had, made her a marvel, and
a heroine of romance. The negroes hung enchanted
upon the great story of her experiences,
interrupting her all along with eager

---

questions, with laughter, exclamations of delight
and expressions of applause; and she was
obliged to confess to herself that if there was
anything better in this world than steamboating,
it was the glory to be got by telling about
it. The audience loaded her stomach with
their dinners, and then stole the pantry bare
to load up her basket.

Tom was in St. Louis. The servants said
he had spent the best part of his time there
during the previous two years. Roxy came
every day, and had many talks about the family
and its affairs. Once she asked why Tom was
away so much. The ostensible "Chambers"
said:

"De fac' is, ole marster kin git along better
when young marster's away den he kin
when he's in de town; yes, enne love him better,
too; so he gives him fifty dollahs a
month——"

"No, is dat so? Chambers, you's a-jokin',
ain't you?"

"'Clah to goodness I ain't, mammy; Marse
Tom tole me so his own self. But nemmine,
't ain't enough."

---

"My lan', what de reason 't ain't enough?"

"Well, I's gwine to tell you, if you gimme
a chanst, mammy. De reason it ain't enough
is 'ca'se Marse Tom gambles."

Roxy threw up her hands in astonishment
and Chambers went on—

"Ole marster found it out, 'ca'se he had to
pay two hundred dollahs for Marse Tom's gamblin'
debts, en dat's true, mammy, jes as dead
certain as you 's bawn."

"Two—hund'd—dollahs! Why, what is you
talkin' 'bout? Two—hund'd—dollahs. Sakes
alive, it 's 'mos' enough to buy a tol'able good
second-hand nigger wid. En you ain't
lyin', honey?—you would n't lie to yo'ole
mammy?"

"It 's God's own truth, jes as I tell you—
two hund'd dollahs—I wisht I may never stir
outen my tracks if it ain't so. En, oh, my
lan', ole Marse was jes a-hoppin'! he was
b'ilin' mad, I tell you! He tuck 'n' dissenhurrit
him."

He licked his chops with relish after that
stately word. Roxy struggled with it a moment,
then gave it up and said—

---

"Dissenwhiched him?"

"Dissenhurrit him."

"What's dat? What do it mean?"

"Means he bu'sted de will."

"Bu's—ted de will! He would n't ever
treat him so! Take it back, you mis'able
imitation nigger dat I bore in sorrow en tribbilation."

Roxy's pet castle—an occasional dollar from
Tom's pocket—was tumbling to ruin before
her eyes. She could not abide such a disaster
as that; she could n't endure the thought of
it. Her remark amused Chambers:

"Yah-yah-yah! jes listen to dat! If I's
imitation, what is you? Bofe of us is imitation
white—dat's what we is—en pow'ful
good imitation, too—yah-yah-yah!—we don't
'mount to noth'n as imitation niggers; en as
for——"

"Shet up yo' foolin', 'fo' I knock you side
de head, en tell me 'bout de will. Tell me
't ain't bu'sted—do, honey, en I 'll never forgit
you."

"Well, 'tain't—'ca'se dey's a new one made,
en Marse Tom's all right ag'in. But what is

---

you in sich a sweat 'bout it for, mammy?
'Tain't none o' your business I don't reckon."

"'Tain't none o' my business? Whose
business is it den, I 'd like to know? Wuz I
his mother tell he was fifteen years old, or
wus n't I?—you answer me dat. En you
speck I could see him turned out po' en ornery
on de worl' en never care noth 'n' 'bout it?
I reckon if you 'd ever be'n a mother yo'self,
Valet de Chambers, you would n't talk sich
foolishness as dat."

"Well, den, ole Marse forgive him en fixed
up de will ag'in—do dat satisfy you?"

Yes, she was satisfied now, and quite happy
and sentimental over it. She kept coming
daily, and at last she was told that Tom had
come home. She began to tremble with
emotion, and straightway sent to beg him to
let his "po' ole nigger mammy have jes one
sight of him en die for joy."

Tom was stretched at his lazy ease on a
sofa when Chambers brought the petition.
Time had not modified his ancient detestation
of the humble drudge and protector of his
boyhood; it was still bitter and uncompromising.

---

He sat up and bent a severe
gaze upon the fair face of the young fellow
whose name he was unconsciously using and
whose family rights he was enjoying. He
maintained the gaze until the victim of it had
become satisfactorily pallid with terror, then
he said—

"What does the old rip want with
me?"

The petition was meckly repeated.

"Who gave you permission to come and
disturb me with the social attentions of niggers?"

Tom had risen. The other young man
was trembling now, visibly. He saw what
was coming, and bent his head sideways, and
put up his left arm to shield it. Tom rained
cuffs upon the head and its shield, saying no
word: the victim received each blow with a
beseeching "Please, Marse Tom!—oh, please,
Marse Tom!" Seven blows—then Tom said,
"Face the door—march!' He followed behind
with one, two, three solid kicks. The
last one helped the pure-white slave over the
door-still, and he limped away mopping his

---

eyes with his old ragged sleeve. Tom
shouted after him, "Send her in!"

Then he flung himself panting on the sofa
again, and rasped out the remark, "He arrived
just at the right moment; I was full to
the brim with bitter thinkings, and nobody to
take it out of. How refreshing it was! I
feel better."

Tom's mother entered now, closing the
door behind her, and approached her son with
all the wheelding and supplicating servilities
that fear and interest can impart to the words
and attitudes of the born slave. She stopped
a yard from her boy and made two or three
admiring exclamations over his manly stature
and general handsomeness, and Tom put an
arm under his head and hoisted a leg over
the sofa-back in order to look properly indifferent.

"My lan', how you is growed, honey!
'Clah to goodness, I would n't a-knowed you,
Marse Tom! 'deed I would n't! Look at me
good; does you 'member old Roxy?—does
you know yo' old nigger mammy, honey?
Well now, I kin lay down en die in peace,
'ca'se I 'se seed—"

---

"Cut it short, —it, cut it short! What
is it you want?"

"You heah dat? Jes de same old Marse
Tom, al'ays so gay and funnin' wid de ole
mammy. I 'uz jes as shore—"

"Cut it short, I tell you, and get along!
What do you want."

This was a bitter disappointment. Roxy had
for so many days nourished and fondled and
petted her notion that Tom would be glad to
see his old nurse, and would make her proud
and happy to the marrow with a cordial word
or two, that it took two rebuffs to convince
her that he was not funning, and that her
beautiful dream was a fond and foolish
vanity, a shabby and pitiful mistake. She
was hurt to the heart, and so ashamed that
for a moment she did not quite know what to
do or how to act. Then her breast began to
heave, the tears came, and in her forlornness
she was moved to try that other dream of
hers—an appeal to her boy's charity; and so,
upon the impulse, and without reflection, she
offered her supplication:

"Oh, Marse Tom, de po' ole mammy is in

---

sich hard luck dese days; en she 's kinder
crippled in de arms en can't work, en if you
could gimme a dollah—on'y jes one little
dol——"

Tom was on his feet so suddenly that the
supplicant was startled into a jump herself.

"A dollar!—give you a dollar! I 've a
notion to strangle you! Is that your errand
here? Clear out! and be quick about it!"

Roxy backed slowly toward the door.
When she was half-way she stopped, and said
mournfully:

"Marse Tom I nussed you when you was
a little baby, en I raised you all by myself tell
you was 'most a young man; en now you is
young en rich, en I is po' en gitt'n ole, en I
come heah b'lievin' dat you would he'p de ole
mammy 'long down de little road dat 's lef'
'twix' her en de grave, en——"

Tom relished this tune less than any that
had preceded it, for it began to wake up a
sort of echo in his conscience; so he interrupted
and said with decision, though without
asperity, that he was not in a situation to
help her, and was n't going to do it.

---

"Ain't you ever gwine to he'p me, Marse
Tom?"

"No! Now go away and don't bother me
any more."

Roxy's head was down, in an attitude of
humility. But now the fires of her old wrongs
flamed up in her breast and began to burn
fiercely. She raised her head slowly, till it
was well up, and at the same time her great
frame unconsciously assumed an erect and
masterful attitude, with all the majesty and
grace of her vanished youth in it. She raised
her finger and punctuated with it:

"You has said de word. You has had yo'
chance, en you has trompled it under yo'
foot. When you git another one, you 'll git
down on yo' knees en beg for it!"

A cold chill went to Tom's heart, he did n't
know why; for he did not reflect that such
words, from such an incongruous source, and
so solemnly delivered, could not easily fail of
that effect. However, he did the natural
thing: he replied with bluster and mockery:

"You 'll give me a chance—you! Perhaps
I'd better get down on my knees now! But

---

in case I don't—just for argument's sake—
what 's going to happen, pray?"

"Dis is what is gwine to happen. I 's
gwine as straight to yo' uncle as I kin walk,
en tell him every las' thing I knows 'bout
you."

Tom's cheek blenched, and she saw it.
Disturbing thoughts began to chase each
other through his head. "How can she
know? And yet she must have found out—
she looks it. I 've had the will back only
three months, and am already deep in dept
again, and moving heaven and earth to save
myself from exposure and destruction, with a
reasonably fair show of getting the thing
covered up if I 'm let alone, and now this
fiend has gone and found me out somehow or
other. I wonder how much she knows?
Oh, oh, oh, it 's enough to break a body's
heart! But I 've got to humor her—there's
no other way."

Then he worked up a rather sickly sample
of a gay laugh and a hollow chipperness of
manner, and said:

"Well, well, Roxy dear, old friends like

---

you and me must n't quarrel. Here 's your
dollar—now tell me what you know."

He held out the wild-cat bill; she stood as
she was, and made no movement. It was her
turn to scorn persuasive foolery, now, and she
did not waste it. She said, with a grim implacability
in voice and manner which made
Tom almost realize that even a former slave
can remember for ten minutes insults and injuries
returned for compliments and flatteries
received, and can also enjoy taking revenge
for them when the opportunity offers:

"What does I know? I 'll tell you what I
knows. I knows enough to bu'st dat will to
flinders—en more, mind you, more!"

Tom was aghast.

"More?" he said. "What do you call
more? Where 's there any room for more?"

Roxy laughed a mocking laugh, and said
scoffingly, with a toss of her head, and her
hands on her hips—

"Yes!—oh, I reckon! Co'se you 'd like to
know—wid yo' po' little ole rag dollah. What
you reckon I 's gwine to tell you for?—you
ain't got no money. I 's gwine to tell yo'

---

uncle—en I'll do it dis minute, too—he'll
gimme five dollahs for de news, en mighty
glad, too."

She swung herself around disdainfully, and
started away. Tom was in a panic. He
seized her skirts, and implored her to wait.
She turned and said, loftily—

"Look-a-heah, what'uz it I tole you?"

"You—you—I don't remember anything.
What was it you told me?"

"I tole you dat de next time I give you a
chance you 'd git down on yo' knees en beg
for it."

Tom was stupefied for a moment. He was
panting with excitement. Then he said:

"Oh, Roxy, you would n't require your
young master to do such a horrible thing.
You can't mean it."

"I 'll let you know mighty quick whether I
means it or not! You call me names, en as
good as spit on me when I comes here po' en
ornery en 'umble, to praise you for bein'
growed up so fine en handsome, en tell you
how I used to nuss you en tend you en watch
you when you 'uz sick en had n't no mother

---

but me in de whole worl', en beg you to give de
po' ole nigger a dollah for to git her som'n' to
eat, en you call me names—names, dad blame
you! Yassir, I gives you jes one chance mo',
and dat 's now, en it las' on'y a half a second
—you hear?"

Tom slumped to his knees and began to
beg, saying—

"You see I 'm begging, and it 's honest
begging, too! Now tell me, Roxy, tell me."

The heir of two centuries of unatoned insult
and outrage looked down on him and
seemed to drink in deep draughts of satisfaction.
Then she said—

"Fine nice young white gen'l'man kneelin'
down to a nigger-wench! I 's wanted to see
dat jes once befo' I 's called. Now, Gabr'el,
blow de hawn, I 's ready . . . Git up!"

Tom did it. He said, humbly—

"Now, Roxy, don't punish me any more.
I deserved what I 've got, but be good and
let me off with that. Don't go to uncle.
Tell me—I 'll give you the five dollars."

"Yes, I bet you will; en you won't stop
dah, nuther. But I ain't gwine to tell you
heah——"

---

"Good gracious, no!"

"Is you 'feared o' de ha'nted house?"

"N-no."

"Well, den, you come to de ha'nted house
'bout ten or 'leven to-night, en climb up de
ladder, 'ca'se de sta'r-steps is broke down, en
you 'll find me. I 's a-roostin' in de ha'nted
house 'ca'se I can't 'ford to roos' nowhers'
else." She started toward the door, but
stopped and said, "Gimme de dollah bill!"
He gave it to her. She examined it and
said, "H'm—like enough de bank 's bu'sted."
She started again, but halted again. "Has
you got any whisky?"

"Yes, a little."

"Fetch it!"

He ran to his room overhead and brought
down a bottle which was two-thirds full. She
tilted it up and took a drink. Her eyes sparkled
with satisfaction, and she tucked the bottle
under her shawl, saying, "It 's prime.
I 'll take it along."

Tom humbly held the door for her, and she
marched out as grim and erect as a grenadier.

---

CHAPTER IX.

Why is it that we rejoice at a birth and grieve at a
funeral? It is because we are not the person involved.—
Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.

It is easy to find fault, if one has that disposition. There
was once a man who, not being able to find any other
fault with his coal, complained that there were too many
prehistoric toads in it.—Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.

flung himself on the sofa, and put his
throbbing head in his hands, and rested his
elbows on his knees. He rocked himself
back and forth and moaned.

"I 've knelt to a nigger wench!" he muttered.
"I thought I had struck the deepest
depths of degradaion before, but oh, dear, it
was nothing to this. . .. Well, there is one
consolation, such as it is—I 've struck bottom
this time; there's nothing lower."

But that was a hasty conclusion.

At ten that night he climbed the ladder in

---

the haunted house, pale, weak and wretched.
Roxy was standing in the door of one of the
rooms, waiting, for she had heard him.

This was a two-story log house which had
acquired the reputation a few years before of
being haunted, and that was the end of its usefulness.
Nobody would live in it afterward,
or go near it by night, and most people even
gave it a wide berth in the daytime. As it
had no competition, it was called the haunted
house. It was getting crazy and ruinous,
now, from long neglect. It stood three hundred
yards beyond Pudd'nhead Wilson's
house, with nothing between but vacancy. It
was the last house in the town at that end.

Tom followed Roxy into the room. She
had a pile of clean straw in the corner for a
bed, some cheap but well-kept clothing was
hanging on the wall, there was a tin lantern
freckling the floor with little spots of light,
and there were various soap-and-candle boxes
scattered about, which served for chairs. The
two sat down. Roxy said—

"Now den, I 'll tell you straight off, en I 'll
begin to k'leck de money later on; I ain't in

---

no hurry. What does you reckon I 's gwine
to tell you?"

"Well, you—you—oh, Roxy, don't make
it too hard for me! Come right out and tell
me you 've found out somehow what a shape
I 'm in on account of dissipation and foolishness."

"Disposition en foolishness! No sir, dat
ain't it. Dat jist ain't nothin' at all, 'long-side
o' what I knows."

Tom stared at her, and said—

"Why, Roxy, what do you mean?"

She rose, and gloomed above him like a
Fate.

"I means dis—en it's de Lord's truth.
You ain't no more kin to ole Marse Driscoll
den I is!—dat's what I means!" and her
eyes flamed with triumph.

"What!"

"Yassir, en dat ain't all! You 's a nigger!
—bawn a nigger en a slave!—en you's a
nigger en a slave dis minute; en if I opens
my mouf ole Marse Driscoll 'll sell you down
de river befo' you is two days older den what
you is now!"

---

"It 's a thundering lie, you miserable old
blatherskite!"

"It ain't no lie, nuther. It 's jes de truth,
en nothin' but de truth, so he'p me. Yassir—
you 's my son—"

"You devil!"

"En dat po' boy dat you 's be'n a-kickin'
en a-cuffin' to-day is Percy Driscoll's son en
yo' marster——"

"You beast!"

"En his name 's Tom Driscoll, en yo' name's
Valet de Chambers, en you ain't got no fambly
name, beca'se niggers don't have em!"

Tom sprang up and seized a billet of wood
and raised but his mother only laughed at
him and said—

'Set down, you pup! Does you think you
kin skyer me? It ain't in you, nor de likes of
you. I reckon you 'd shoot me in de back,
maybe, if you got a chance, for dat 's jist yo'
style—I knows you, throo en throo—but I
don't mind gitt'n killed beca'se all dis is
down in writin' en it 's in safe hands, too, en
de man dat 's got it knows whah to look for
de right man when I gits killed. Oh, bless

---

yo' soul, if you puts yo' mother up for as big
a fool as you is, you 's pow'ful mistaken, I kin
tell you! Now den, you set still en behave
yo 'self; en don't you git up ag'in till I tell
you!"

Tom fretted and chafed awhile in a whirlwind
of disorganizing sensations and emotions,
and finally said, with something like settled
conviction—

"The whole thing is moonshine; now then,
go ahead and do your worst; I 'm done with
you."

Roxy made no answer. She took the lantern
and started toward the door. Tom was
in a cold panic in a moment.

"Come back, come back!" he wailed. "I
did n't mean it, Roxy; I take it all back, and
I 'll never say it again! Please come back,
Roxy!"

The woman stood a moment, then she said
gravely:

"Dat 's one thing you 's got to stop, Valet
de Chambers. You can't call me Roxy, same
as if you was my equal. Chillen don't speak
to dey mammies like dat. You 'll call me ma

---

or mammy, dat's what you 'll call me—leastways
when dey ain't nobody aroun'. Say
it!"

It cost Tom a struggle, but he got it out.

"Dat 's all right. Don't you ever forgit it
ag'in, if you knows what 's good for you.
Now den, you has said you would n't ever
call it lies en moonshine ag'in. I 'll tell you
dis, for a warnin': if you ever does say it
ag'in, it 's de las' time you 'll ever say it to
me; I 'll tramp as straight to de Judge as I
kin walk, en tell him who you is, en prove it.
Does you b'lieve me when I says dat?"

"Oh," groaned Tom, "I more than believe
it; I know it."

Roxy knew her conquest was complete.
She could have proved nothing to anybody,
and her threat about the writings was a lie;
but she knew the person she was dealing
with, and had made both statements without
any doubt as to the effect they would produce.

She went and sat down on her candle-box,
and the pride and pomp of her victorious attitude
made it a throne. She said—

"Now den, Chambers, we's gwine to talk

---

business, en dey ain't gwine to be no mo' foolishness.
In de fust place, you gits fifty dollahs
a month; you 's gwine to han' over half
of it to yo' ma. Plank it out!"

But Tom had only six dollars in the world.
He gave her that, and promised to start fair
on next month's pension.

"Chambers, how much is you in debt?"

Tom shuddered, and said—

"Nearly three hundred dollars."

"How is you gwine to pay it?"

Tom groaned out— "Oh, I don't know;
don't ask me such awful questions."

But she stuck to her point until she wearied
a confession out of him: he had been prowling
about in disguise, stealing small valuables
from private houses; in fact, had made a good
deal of a raid on his fellow-villagers a fortnight
before, when he was supposed to be in St.
Louis; but he doubted if he had sent away
enough stuff to realize the required amount,
and was afraid to make a further venture in
the present excited state of the town. His
mother approved of his conduct, and offered

---

to help, but this frightened him. He tremblingly
ventured to say that if she would retire
from the town he should feel better and safer,
and could hold his head higher—and was going
on to make an argument, but she interrupted
and surprised him pleasantly by saying
she was ready; it did n't make any difference
to her where she stayed, so that she got her
share of the pension regularly. She said she
would not go far, and would call at the
haunted house once a month for her money.
Then she said—

"I don't hate you so much now, but I 've
hated you a many a year—and anybody
would. Did n't I change you off, en give
you a good fambly en a good name, en made
you a white gen'l'man en rich, wid store
clothes on—en what did I git for it? You despised
me all de time, en was al'ays sayin'
mean hard things to me befo' folks, en
would n't ever let me forgit I's a nigger—en
—en——"

She fell to sobbing, and broke down. Tom
said— "But you know I did n't know you
were my mother; and besides——"

---

"Well, nemmine 'bout dat, now; let it go.
I 's gwine to fo'git it." Then she added
fiercely, "En don't ever make me remember
it ag'in, or you 'll be sorry, I tell you."

When they were parting, Tom said, in the
most persuasive way he could command—

"Ma, would you mind telling me who was
my father?"

He had supposed he was asking an embarrassing
question. He was mistaken. Roxy
drew herself up with a proud toss of her head,
and said—

"Does I mine tellin' you? No, dat I
don't! You ain't got no 'casion to be
shame' o' yo' father, I kin tell you. He wuz
de highest quality in dis whole town—ole Virginny
stock. Fust famblies, he wuz. Jes as
good stock as de Driscolls en de Howards, de
bes' day dey ever seed." She put on a little
prouder air, if possible, and added impressively:
"Does you 'member Cunnel Cecil
Burleigh Essex, dat died de same year yo'
young Marse Tom Driscoll's pappy died, en
all de Masons en Odd Fellers en Churches

---

turned out en give him de bigges' funeral dis
town ever seed? Dat 's de man."

Under the inspiration of her soaring complacency
the departed graces of her earlier
days returned to her, and her bearing took to
itself a dignity and state that might have
passed for queenly if her surroundings had
been a little more in keeping with it.

"Dey ain't another nigger in dis town dat 's
as high-bawn as you is. Now den, go 'long!
En jes you hold yo' head up as high as you
want to—you has de right, en dat I kin swah."

---

CHAPTER X.

say, "How hard it is that we have to die"—a
strange complaint to come from the mouths of people who
have had to live.—Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.

angry, count four; when very angry, swear.—
Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.

now and then, after Tom went to
bed, he had sudden wakings out of his sleep,
and his first thought was, "Oh, joy, it was all
a dream!" Then he laid himself heavily
down again, with a groan and the muttered
words, "A nigger! I am a nigger! Oh, I
wish I was dead!"

He woke at dawn with one more repetition
of this horror, and then he resolved to meddle
no more with that treacherous sleep. He began
to think. Sufficiently bitter thinkings
they were. They wandered along something
after this fashion:

---

"Why were niggers and whites made?
What crime did the uncreated first nigger
commit that the curse of birth was decreed
for him? And why is this awful difference
made between white and black? . . . How
hard the nigger's fate seems, this morning!—
yet until last night such a thought never
entered my head."

He sighed and groaned an hour or more
away. Then "Chambers" came humbly in to
say that breakfast was nearly ready. "Tom"
blushed scarlet to see this aristocratic white
youth cringe to him, a nigger, and call him
"Young Marster." He said roughly—

"Get out of my sight!" and when the
youth was gone, he muttered, "He has done
me no harm, poor wretch, but he is an eyesore
to me now, for he is Driscoll the young gentleman,
and I am a—oh, I wish I was dead!"

A gigantic irruption, like that of Krakatoa
a few years ago, with the accompanying earthquakes,
tidal waves, and clouds of volcanic
dust, changes the face of the surrounding
landscape beyond recognition, bringing down
the high lands, elevating the low, making fair

---

lakes where deserts had been, and deserts where
green prairies had smiled before. The tremendous
catastrophe which had befallen Tom
had changed his moral landscape in much the
same way. Some of his low places he found
lifted to ideals, some of his ideals had sunk
to the valleys, and lay there with the sackcloth
and ashes of pumice-stone and sulphur
on their ruined heads.

For days he wandered in lonely places,
thinking, thinking, thinking—trying to get
his bearings. It was new work. If he met a
friend, he found that the habit of a lifetime
had in some mysterious way vanished—his
arm hung limp, instead of involuntarily extending
the hand for a shake. It was the
"nigger" in him asserting its humility, and
he blushed and was abashed. And the "nigger"
in him was surprised when the white
friend put out his hand for a shake with him.
He found the "nigger" in him involuntarily
giving the road, on the sidewalk, to the
white rowdy and loafer. When Rowena,
the dearest thing his heart knew, the idol
of his secret worship, invited him in, the "nigger"

---

in him made an embarrassed excuse and
was afraid to enter and sit with the dread
white folks on equal terms. The "nigger"
in him went shrinking and skulking here and
there and yonder, and fancying it saw suspicion
and maybe detection in all faces, tones,
and gestures. So strange and uncharacteristic
was Tom's conduct that people noticed it,
and turned to look after him when he passed
on; and when he glanced back—as he could
not help doing, in spite of his best resistance
—and caught that puzzled expression in a
person's face, it gave him a sick feeling, and
he took himself out of view as quickly as he
could. He presently came to have a hunted
sense and a hunted look, and then he fled
away to the hill-tops and the solitudes. He
said to himself that the curse of Ham was
upon him.

He dreaded his meals; the "nigger" in him
was ashamed to sit at the white folks' table,
and feared discovery all the time; and once
when Judge Driscoll said, "What's the matter
with you? You look as meek as a nigger,"
he felt as secret murderers are said to feel

---

when the accuser says, "Thou art the man!"
Tom said he was not well, and left the table.

His ostensible "aunt's" solicitudes and endearments
were become a terror to him, and
he avoided them.

And all the time, hatred of his ostensible
"uncle" was steadily growing in his heart;
for he said to himself, "He is white; and I
am his chattel, his property, his goods, and
he can sell me, just as he could his dog."

For as much as a week after this, Tom
imagined that his character had undergone a
pretty radical change. But that was because
he did not know himself.

In several ways his opinions were totally
changed, and would never go back to what
they were before, but the main structure of
his character was not changed, and could not
be changed. One or two very important
features of it were altered, and in time effects
would result from this, if opportunity offered
—effects of a quite serious nature, too.
Under the influence of a great mental and
moral upheaval his character and habits had
taken on the appearance of complete change,

---

but after a while with the subsidence of the
storm both began to settle toward their former
places. He dropped gradually back into
his old frivolous and easy-going ways and
conditions of feeling and manner of speech,
and no familiar of his could have detected
anything in him that differentiated him from
the weak and careless Tom of other days.

The theft-raid which he had made upon the
village turned out better than he had ventured
to hope. It produced the sum necessary to
pay his gaming-debts, and saved him from exposure
to his uncle and another smashing of
the will. He and his mother learned to like
each other fairly well. She couldn't love
him, as yet, because there "warn't nothing
to him," as she expressed it, but her nature
needed something or somebody to rule over,
and he was better than nothing. Her strong
character and aggressive and commanding
ways compelled Tom's admiration in spite of
the fact that he got more illustrations of them
than he needed for his comfort. However,
as a rule her conversation was made up of
racy tattle about the privacies of the chief

---

families of the town (for she went harvesting
among their kitchens every time she came to
the village), and Tom enjoyed this. It was
just in his ling. She always collected her half
of his pension punctually, and he was always
at the haunted house to have a chat with her
on these occasions. Every now and then she
paid him a visit there on between-days also.

Occasionally he would run up to St. Louis
for a few weeks, and at last temptation caught
him again. He won a lot of money, but lost
it, and with it a deal more besides, which he
promised to raise as soon as possible.

For this purpose he projected a new raid
on his town. He never meddled with any
other town, for he was afraid to venture into
houses whose ins and outs he did not know
and the habits of whose households he was
not acquainted with. He arrived at the
haunted house in disguise on the Wednesday
before the advent of the twins—after writing
his aunt Pratt that he would not arrive until
two days after—and lay in hiding there with
his mother until toward daylight Friday morning,
when he went to his uncle's house and

---

entered by the back way with his own key,
and slipped up to his room, where he could
have the use of mirror and toilet articles. He
had a suit of girl's clothes with him in a bundle
as a disguise for his raid, and was wearing
a suit of his mother's clothing, with black
gloves and veil. By dawn he was tricked out
for his raid, but he caught a glimpse of Pudd'nhead
Wilson through the window over the
way, and knew that Pudd'nhead had caught a
glimpse of him. So he entertained Wilson
with some airs and graces and attitudes for a
while, then stepped out of sight and resumed
the other disguise, and by and by went down
and out the back way and started down town
to reconnoiter the scene of his intended labors.

But he was ill at ease. He had changed
back to Roxy's dress, with the stoop of age
added to the disguise, so that Wilson would
not brother himself about a humble old woman
leaving a neighbor's house by the back
way in the early morning, in case he was still
spying. But supposing Wilson had seen him
leave, and had thought it suspicious, and had
also followed him? The thought made Tom

---

cold. He gave up the raid for the day, and
hurried back to the haunted house by the obscurest
route he knew. His mother was
gone; but she came back, by and by, with the
news of the grand reception at Patsy Cooper's,
and soon persuaded him that the opportunity
was like a special providence, it was so inviting
and perfect. So he went raiding, after
all, and made a nice success of it while everybody
was gone to Patsy Cooper's. Success
gave him nerve and even actual intrepidity;
insomuch, indeed, that after he had conveyed
his harvest to his mother in a back alley, he
went to the reception himself, and added several
of the valuables of that house to his takings.

After this long digression we have how arrived
once more at the point where Pudd'nhead
Wilson, while waiting for the arrival of
the twins on that same Friday evening, sat
puzzling over the strange apparition of that
morning—a girl in young Tom Driscoll's bedroom;
fretting, and guessing, and puzzling
over it, and wondering who the shameless
creature might be.

---

CHAPTER XI

are three infallible ways of pleasing an author,
and the three form a rising scale of compliment: 1, to
tell him you have read one of his books; 2, to tell him you
have read all of his books; 3, to ask him to let you read
the manuscript of his forthcoming book. No. 1 admits
you to his respect; No.2 admits you to his admiration;
No.3 carries you clear into his heart.—Pudd'nhead Wilson's
Calendar.

As to the Adjective: when in doubt, strike it out.—
Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.

twins arrived presently, and talk began.
It flowed along chattily and sociably,
and under its influence the new friendship
gathered ease and strength. Wilson got out
his Calendar, by request, and read a passage
or two from it, which the twins praised quite
cordially. This pleased the author so much
that he complied gladly when they asked him
to lend them a batch of the work to read at

---

home. In the course of their wide travels they
had found out that there are three sure ways
of pleasing an author; they were now working
the best of the three.

There was an interruption, now. Young
Tom Driscoll appeared, and joined the party.
He pretended to be seeing the distinguished
strangers for the first time when they rose to
shake hands; but this was only a blind, as he
had already had a glimpse of them, at the reception,
while robbing the house. The twins
made mental note that he was smooth-faced
and rather handsome, and smooth and undulatory
in his movements—graceful, in fact.
Angelo thought he had a good eye; Luigi
thought there was something veiled and sly
about it. Angelo thought he had a pleasant
free-and-easy way of talking; Luigi thought
it was more so than was agreeable. Angelo
thought he was a sufficiently nice young man;
Luigi reserved his dicision. Tom's first contribution
to the conversation was a question
which he had put to Wilson a hundred times
before. It was always cheerily and good-naturedly
put, and always inflicted a little pang,

---

for it touched a secret sore; but this time the
pang was sharp, since strangers were present.

"Well, how does the law come on? Had a
case yet?"

Wilson bit his lip, but answered, "No—not
yet," with as much indifference as he could assume.
Judge Driscoll had generously left the
law feature out of the Wilson biography which
he had furnished to the twins. Young Tom
laughed pleasantly, and said:

"Wilson's a lawyer, gentlemen, but he
does n't practise now."

The sarcasm bit, but Wilson kept himself
under control, and said without passion:

"I don't practise, it is true. It is true that
I have never had a case, and have had to earn
a poor living for twenty years as an expert accountant
in a town where I can't get hold of
a set of books to untangle as often as I should
like. But it is also true that I did fit myself
well for the practice of the law. By the time
I was your age, Tom, I had chosen a profession,
and was soon competent to enter upon
it." Tom winced. "I never got a chance to
try my hand at it, and I may never get a

---

chance; and yet if I ever do get it I shall be
found ready, for I have kept up my law-studies
all these years,"

"That's it; that's good grit! I like to see
it. I've a notion to throw all my business
your way. My business and your law-practice
ought to make a pretty gay team, Dave," and
the young fellow laughed again.

"If you will throw—" Wilson had thought of
the girl in Tom's bedroom, and was going to
say, "If you will throw the surreptitious and
disreputable part of your business my way, it
may amount to something;" but thought
better of it and said, "However, this matter
does n't fit well in a general conversation."

"All right, we 'll change the subject; I
guess you were about to give me another dig,
anyway, so I 'm willing to change. How 's
the Awful Mystery flourishing these days?
Wilson's got a scheme for driving plain window-glass
out of the market by decorating it
with greasy finger-marks, and getting rich
by selling it at famine prices to the crowned
heads over in Europe to outfit their palaces
with. Fetch it out, Dave."

---

Wilson brought three of his glass strips,
and said—

"I get the subject to pass the fingers of his
right hand through his hair, so as to get a little
coating of the natural oil on them, and
then press the balls of them on the glass. A
fine and delicate print of the lines in the skin
results, and is permanent, if it does n't come
in contact with somethíng able to rub it off.
You begin, Tom."

"Why, I think you took my finger-marks
once or twice before."

"Yes; but you were a little boy the last
time, only about twelve years old."

"That's so. Of course I 've changed entirely
since then, and variety is what the
crowned heads want, I guess."

He passed his fingers through his crop of
short hair, and pressed them one at a time on
the glass. Angelo made a print of his fingers
on another glass, and Luigi followed with the
third. Wilson marked the glasses with
names and date, and put them away. Tom
gave one of his little laughs, and said—

"I thought I would n't say anything, but if

---

variety is what you are after, you have wasted
a piece of glass. The hand-print of one twin is
the same as the hand-print of the fellow-twin."

"Well, it's done now, and I like to have
them both, anyway," said Wilson, returning
to his place.

"But look here, Dave," said Tom, "you
used to tell people's fortunes, too, when you
took their finger-marks. Dave's just an all-round
genius—a genius of the first water,
gentlemen; a great scientist running to seed
here in this village, a prophet with the kind
of honor that prophets generally get at home
—for here they don't give shucks for his scientifics,
and they call his skull a notion-factory
—hey, Dave, ain't it so? But never mind;
he'll make his mark some day—finger-marks,
you know, he-he! But really, you want to
let him take a shy at your palms once; it's
worth twice the price of admission or your
money's returned at the door. Why, he'll
read your wrinkles as easy as a book, and not
only tell you fifty or sixty things that's going
to happen to you, but fifty or sixty thousand
that ain't. Come, Dave, show the gentlemen

---

what an inspired Jack-at-all-science we 've got
in this town, and don't know it."

Wilson winced under this nagging and not
very courteous chaff, and the twins suffered
with him and for him. They rightly judged,
now, that the best way to relieve him would
be to take the thing in earnest and treat it
with respect, ignoring Tom's rather overdone
raillery; so Luigi said—

"We have seen something of palmistry in
our wanderings, and know very well what
astonishing things it can do. If it is n't a
science, and one of the greatest of them, too,
I don't know what its other name ought to
be. In the Orient——"

Tom looked surprised and incredulous.
He said—

"That juggling a science? But really, you
ain't serious, are you?"

"Yes, entirely so. Four years ago we had
our hands read out to us as if our palms had
been covered with print."

"Well, do you mean to say there was actually
anything in it?" asked Tom, his incredulity
beginning to weaken a little.

---

"There was this much in it," said Angelo:
"What was told us of our characters was minutely
exact—we could not have bettered it
ourselves. Next, two or three memorable
things that had happened to us were laid bare
—things which no one present but ourselves
could have known about."

"Why, it 's rank sorcery!" exclaimed Tom,
who was now becoming very much interested.
"And how did they make out with what was
going to happen to you in the future?"

"On the whole, quite fairly," said Luigi.
"Two or three of the most striking things
foretold have happened since; much the
most striking one of all happened within that
same year. Some of the minor prophecies
have come true; some of the minor and some
of the major ones have not been fulfilled yet,
and of course may never be: still, I should be
more surprised if they failed to arrive than if
they did n't."

Tom was entirely sobered, and profoundly
impressed. He said, apologetically—

"Dave, I was n't meaning to belittle that
science; I was only chaffing—chattering, I

---

reckon I 'd better say. I wish you would
look at their palms. Come, won't you?"

"Why, certainly, if you want me to; but
you know I 've had no chance to become an
expert, and don't claim to be one. When a
past event is somewhat prominently recorded
in the palm I can generally detect that, but
minor ones often escape me,—not always, of
course,but often,—but I have n't much confidence
in myself when it comes to reading
the future. I am talking as if palmistry was
a daily study with me, but that is not so. I
have n't examined half a dozen hands in the
last half dozen years; you see, the people got
to joking about it, and I stopped to let the talk
die down. I 'll tell you what we 'll do, Count
Luigi: I 'll make a try at your past, and if I
have any sucess there—no, on the whole,
I 'll let the future alone; that's really the
affair of an expert."

He took Luigi's hand. Tom said—
"Wait—don't look yet, Dave! Count Luigi,
here's paper and pencil.Set down that
thing that you said was the most striking one
that was foretold to you, and happened less

---

than a year afterward, and give it to me so I
can see if Dave finds it in your hand."

Luigi wrote a line privately, and folded up
the piece of paper, and handed it to Tom,
saying—

"I'll tell you when to look at it, if he
finds it."

Wilson begen to study Luigi's palm, tracing
life lines, heart lines, head lines, and so on,
and nothing carefully their relations with the
cobweb of finer and more delicate marks and
lines that enmeshed them on all sides; he
felt of the fleshy cushion at the base of the
thumb, and noted its shape; he felt of the
fleshy side of the hand between the wrist and
the base of the little finger, and noted its
shape also; he painstakingly examined the
fingers, observing their form, proportions,
and natural manner of disposing themselves
when in repose. All this process was watched
by the three spectators with absorbing interest,
their heads bent together over Luigi's
palm, and nobody disturbing the stillness
with a word. Wilson now entered upon a
close survey of the palm again, and his revelations
began.

---

He mapped out Luigi's character and disposition,
his tastes, aversions, proclivities, ambitions,
and eccentricities in a way which sometimes
made Luigi wince and the others laugh,
but both twins declared that the chart was
artistically drawn and was correct.

Next, Wilson took up Luigi's history. He
proceeded cautiously and with hesitation, now,
moving his finger slowly along the great lines
of the palm, and now and then halting it at a
"star" or some such landmark, and examining
that neighborhood minutely. He proclaimed
one or two past events, Luigi confirmed
his correctness, and the search went on.
Presently Wilson glanced up suddenly with a
surprised expression—

"Here is record of an incident which you
would perhaps not wish me to—"

"Bring it out," said Luigi, good-naturedly;
" I promise you it sha' n't embarrass me."

But Wilson still hesitated, and did not seem
quite to know what to do. Then he said—

" I think it is too delicate a matter to—to
—I believe I would rather write it or whisper
it to you, and let you decide for yourself
whether you want it talked out or not."

---

"That will answer," said Luigi; "write
it."

Wilson wrote something on a slip of paper
and handed it to Luigi, who read it to himself
and said to Tom—

"Unfold your slip and read it, Mr. Driscoll."

Tom read:

"It was prophesied that I would kill a man.
It came true before the year was out."

"Tom added, "Great Scott!"

Luigi handed Wilson's paper to Tom, and
said—

"Now read this one."

Tom read:

"You have killed some one, but whether
man, woman or child, I do not make out."

"Cæsar's ghost!" commented Tom, with
astonishment. "It beats anything that was
ever heard of! Why, a man's own hand is
his deadliest enemy! Just think of that—a
man's own hand keeps a record of the deepest
and fatalest secrets of his life, and is treacherously
ready to expose him to any black-magic
stranger that comes along. But what do you

---

let a person look at your hand for, with that
awful thing printed in it?"

"Oh," said Luigi, reposefully, " I don't
mind it. I killed the man for good reasons,
and I don't regret it."

"What were the reasons?"

"Well, he needed killing."

"I 'll tell you why he did it, since he won't
say himself," said Angelo, warmly. "He did
it to save my life, that 's what he did it for.
So it was a noble act, and not a thing to be
hid in the dark."

"So it was, so it was," said Wilson; "to do
such a thing to save a brother's life is a great
and fine action."

"Now come," said Luigi, "it is very pleasant
to hear you say these things, but for unselfishness,
or herosim, or magnanimity, the
circumstances won't stand scrutiny. You
overlook one detail; suppose I had n't saved
Angelo's life, what would have become of
mine? If I had let the man kill him,
would n't he have killed me, too? I saved
my own life, you see."

"Yes; that is your way of talking," said

---

Angelo, "but I know you—I don't believe
you thought of yourself at all. I keep that
weapon yet that Luigi killed the man with,
and I'll show it to you sometime. That incident
makes it interesting, and it had a history
before it came into Luigi's hands which
adds to its interest. It was given to Luigi
by a great Indian prince, the Gaikowar of
Baroda, and it had been in his family two or
three centuries. It killed a good many disagreeable
people who troubled that hearthstone
at one time and another. It is n't much
to look at, except that it is n't shaped like
other knives, or dirks, or whatever it may be
called—here, I'll draw it for you." He took
a sheet of paper and made a rapid sketch.
"There it is—a broad and murderous blade,
with edges like a razor for sharpness. The
devices engraved on it are the ciphers or
names of its long line of possessors—I had
Luigi's name added in Roman letters myself
with our coat of arms, as you see. You notice
what a curious handle the thing has. It is
solid ivory, polished like a mirror, and is four
or five inches long—round, and as thick as

---

a large man's wrist, with the end squared off
flat, for your thumb to rest on; for you grasp
it, with your thumb resting on the blunt end
—so—and lift it aloft and strike downward.
The Gaikowar showed us how the thing was
done when he gave it to Luigi, and before that
night was ended Luigi had used the knife,
and the Gaikowar was a man short by reason
of it. The sheath is magnificently ornamented
with gems of great value. You will
find the sheath more worth looking at than
the knife itself, of course."

Tom said to himself—

"It 's lucky I came here. I would have sold
that knife for a song; I supposed the jewels
were glass."

"But go on; don't stop," said Wilson.
"Our curiosity is up now, to hear about the
homicide. Tell us about that."

"Well, briefly, the knife was to blame for
that, all around. A native servant slipped
into our room in the palace in the night, to
kill us and steal the knife on account of the
fortune incrusted on its sheath, without a
doubt. Luigi had it under his pillow; we

---

were in bed together. There was a dim
night-light burning. I was asleep, but Luigi
was awake, and he thought he detected a
vague form nearing the bed. He slipped the
knife out of the sheath and was ready, and unembarassed
by hampering bed-clothes, for
the weather was hot and we had n't any.
Suddenly that native rose at the bedside, and
bent over me with his right hand lifted and a
dirk in it aimed at my throat; but Luigi
grabbed his wrist, pulled him downward, and
drove his own knife into the man's neck.
That is the whole story."

Wilson and Tom drew deep breaths, and
after some general chat about the tragedy,
Pudd'nhead said, taking Tom's hand—

"Now, Tom, I 've never had a look at your
palms, as it happens; perhaps you 've got
some little questionable privacies that need—
hel-lo!"

Tom had snatched away his hand, and was
looking a good deal confused.

"Why, he's blushing!" said Luigi.

Tom darted an ugly look at him, and said
sharply—

---

"Well, if I am, it ain't because I'm a murderer!"
Luigi's dark face flushed, but before
he could speak or move, Tom added with
anxious haste: "Oh, I beg a thousand pardons.
I did n't mean that; it was out before I
thought, and I'm very, very, sorry—you must
forgive me!"

Wilson came to the rescue, and smoothed
things down as well as he could; and in fact
was entirely successful as far as the twins
were concerned, for they felt sorrier for the
affront put upon him by his guest's outburst
of ill manners than for the insult offered to
Luigi. But the success was not so pronounced
with the offender. Tom tried to
seem at his ease, and he went through the
motions fairly well, but at bottom he felt resentful
toward all the three witnesses of his
exhibition; in fact, he felt so annoyed at them
for having witnessed it and noticed it that
he almost forgot to feel annoyed at himself
for placing it before them. However,
something presently happened which made
him almost comfortable, and brought him
nearly back to a state of charity and friendliness.

---

This was a little spat between the
twins; not much of a spat, but still a spat;
and before they got far with it they were
in a decided condition of irritation with each
other. Tom was charmed; so pleased, indeed,
that he cautiously did what he could to
increase the irritation while pretending to be
actuated by more respectable motives. By
his help the fire got warmed up to the blazing-point,
and he might have had the happiness
of seeing the flames show up, in another moment,
but for the interruption of a knock on
the door—an interruption which fretted him
as much as it gratified Wilson. Wilson
opened the door.

The visitor was a good-natured, ignorant,
energetic, middle-aged Irishman named John
Buckstone, who was a great politician in a
small way, and always took a large share in
public matters of every sort. One of the
town's chief excitements, just now, was over
the matter of rum. There was a strong rum
party and a strong anti-rum party. Buckstone
was training with the rum party, and he had
been sent to hunt up the twins and invite

---

them to attend a mass-meeting of that faction.
He delivered his errand, and said the clans
were already gathering in the big hall over
the market-house. Luigi accepted the invitation
cordially, Angelo less cordially, since he
disliked crowds, and did not drink the powerful
intoxicants of America. In fact, he was
even a teetotaler sometimes—when it was
judicious to be one.

The twins left with Buckstone, and Tom
Driscoll joined company with them uninvited.

In the distance one could see a long wavering
line of torches drifting down the main
street, and could hear the throbbing of the
bass drum, the clash of cymbals, the squeaking
of a fife or two, and the faint roar of remote
hurrahs. The tail-end of this procession
was climbing the market-house stairs when
the twins arrived in its neighborhood; when
they reached the hall it was full of people,
torches, smoke, noise and enthusiasm. They
were conducted to the platform by Buckstone
—Tom Driscoll still following—and were
delivered to the chairman in the midst of
a prodigious explosion of welcome. When

---

the noise had moderated a little, the chair
proposed that "our illustrious guests be at
once elected, by complimentary acclamation,
to membership in our ever-glorious organization,
the paradise of the free and the perdition
of the slave."

This eloquent discharge opened the floodgates
of enthusiasm again, and the election
was carried with thundering unanimity. Then
arose a storm of cries:

"Wet them down! Wet them down!
Give them a drink!"

Glasses of whisky were handed to the
twins. Luigi waved his aloft, then brought
it to his lips; but Angelo set his down.
There was another storm of cries:

"What's the matter with the other one?"

"What is the blond one going back on us
for?" "Explain! Explain!"

The chairman inquired, and then reported—

"We have made an unfortunate mistake,
gentlemen. I find that the Count Angelo
Cappello is opposed to our creed—is a teetotaler,
in fact, and was not intending to apply
for membership with us. He desires that we

---

reconsider the vote by which he was elected.
What is the pleasure of the house?"

There was a general burst of laughter, plentifully
accented with whistlings and cat-calls,
but the energetic use of the gavel presently
restored something like order. Then a man
spoke from the crowd, and said that while he
was very sorry that the mistake had been
made, it would not be possible to rectify it at
the present meeting. According to the bylaws
it must go over to the next regular
meeting for action. He would not offer a
motion, as none was required. He desired to
apologize to the gentleman in the name of
the house, and begged to assure him that as
far as it might lie in the power of the Sons of
Liberty, his temporary membership in the
order would be made pleasant to him.

This speech was received with great applause,
mixed with cries of—

"That's the talk!" "He's a good fellow,
anyway, if he is a teetotaler!" "Drink his
health!" "Give him a rouser, and no heel-taps!"

Glasses were handed around, and everybody

---

on the platform drank Angelo's health,
while the house bollowed forth in song:

For he's a jolly good fel-low,For he's a jolly good fel-low,For he's a jolly good fe-el-low,—Which nobody can deny.

Tom Driscoll drank. It was his second
glass, for he had drunk Angelo's the moment
that Angelo had set it down. The two drinks
made him very merry—almost idiotically so—
and he began to take a most lively and prominent
part in the proceedings, particularly in
the music and cat-calls and side-remarks.

The chairman was still standing at the
front, the twins at his side. The extraordinarily
close resemblance of the brothers to
each other suggested a witticism to Tom
Driscoll, and just as the chairman began a
speech he skipped forward and said with an
air of tipsy confidence to the audience—

"Boys, I move that he keeps still and lets
this human philopena snip you out a speech."

The descriptive aptness of the phrase caught
the house, and a mighty burst of laughter followed.

---

Luigi's southern blood leaped to the boiling-point
in a moment under the sharp humiliation
of this insult delivered in the presence of
four hundred strangers. It was not in the
young man's nature to let the matter pass, or
to delay the squaring of the account. He
took a couple of strides and halted behind the
unsuspecting joker. Then he drew back and
delivered a kick of such titantic vigor that it
lifted Tom clear over the footlights and landed
him on the heads of the front row of the Sons
of Liberty.

Even a sober person does not like to have
a human being emptied on him when he is
not doing any harm; a person who is not
sober cannot endure such an attention at all.
The nest of Sons of Liberty that Driscoll
landed in had not a sober bird in it; in fact
there was probably not an entirely sober one
in the auditorium. Driscoll was promptly
and indignantly flung on to the heads of Sons
in the next row, and these Sons passed him
on toward the rear, and then immediately
began to pummel the front-row Sons who had
passed him to them. This course was strictly

---

followed by bench after bench as Driscoll
traveled in his tumultuous and airy flight
toward the door; so he left behind him an
ever lengthening wake of raging and plunging
and fighting and swearing humanity. Down
went group after group of torches, and presently
above the deafening clatter of the gavel,
roar of angry voices, and crash of succumbing
benches, rose the paralyzing cry of "!"

The fighting ceased instantly; the cursing
ceased; for one distinctly defined moment
there was a dead hush, a motionless calm,
where the tempest had been; then with one
impulse the multitude awoke to life and
energy again, and went surging and struggling
and swaying, this way and that, its
outer edges melting away through windows
and doors and gradually lessening the pressure
and relieving the mass.

The fire-boys were never on hand so suddenly
before; for there was no distance to go,
this time, their quarters being in the rear end
of the market-house. There was an engine
company and a hook-and-ladder company.
Half of each was composed of rummies and

---

the other half of anti-rummies, after the moral
and political share-and-share-alike fashion of
the frontier town of the period. Enough
anti-rummies were loafing in quarters to man
the engine and the ladders. In two minutes
they had their red shirts and helmets on—they
never stirred officially in unofficial costume—
and as the mass meeting overhead smashed
through the long row of windows and poured
out upon the roof of the arcade, the deliverers
were ready for them with a powerful stream of
water which washed some of them off the
roof and nearly drowned the rest. But water
was preferable to fire, and still the stampede
from the windows continued, and still the pitiless
drenchings assailed it until the building
was empty; then the fire-boys mounted to the
hall and flooded it with water enough to annihilate
forty times as much fire as there was
there; for a village fire-company does not often
get a chance to show off, and so when it
does get a chance it makes the most of it.
Such citizens of that village as were of a
thoughtful and judicious temperament did not
insure against fire; they insured against the
fire-company.

---

CHAPTER XII.

is resistance to fear, mastery of fear—not
absence of fear. Except a creature be part coward it is
not a compliment to say it is brave; it is merely a loose
misapplication of the word. Consider the flea?—incomparably
the bravest of all the creatures of God, if ignorance
of fear were courage. Whether you are asleep or
awake he will attack you, caring nothing for the fact that
in bulk and strength you are to him as are the massed
armies of the earth to a sucking child; he lives both day
and night and all days and nights in the very lap of peril
and the immediate presence of death, and yet is no more
afraid than is the man who walks the streets of a city that
was threatened by an earthquake ten centuries before.
When we speak of Clive, Nelson, and Putnam as men who
"did n't know what feat was," we ought always to add
the flea—and put him at the head of the procession.—
Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.

was in bed and asleep by
ten o'clock on Friday night, and he was up
and gone a-fishing before daylight in the
morning with his friend Pembroke Howard.
These two had been boys together in Virginia

---

when that State still ranked as the chief and
most imposing member of the Union, and
they still coupled the proud and affectionate
adjective "old" with her name when they
spoke of her. In Missouri a recognized superiority
attached to any person who hailed
from Old Virginia; and this superiority was
exalted to supremacy when a person of such
nativity could also prove descent from the
First Families of that great commonwealth.
The Howards and Driscolls were of this aristocracy.
In their eyes it was a nobility. It
had its unwritten laws, and they were as clearly
defined and as strict as any that could be
found among the printed statutes of the land.
The F. F. V. was born a gentleman; his highest
duty in life was to watch over that great
inheritance and keep it unsmirched. He
must keep his honor spotless. Those laws
were his chart; his course was marked out on
it; if he swerved from it by so much as half a
point of the compass it meant shipwreck to
his honor; that is to say, degradation from his
rank as a gentleman. These laws required
certain things of him which his religion might

---

forbid: then his religion must yield—the laws
could not be relaxed to accommodate religions
or anything else. Honor stood first; and the
laws defined what it was and wherein it differed
in certain details from honor as defined
by church creeds and by the social laws and
customs of some of the minor divisions of the
globe that had got crowded out when the
sacred boundaries of Virginia were staked
out.

If Judge Driscoll was the recognized first
citizen of Dawson's Landing, Pembroke Howard
was easily its recognized second citizen.
He was called "the great lawyer"—an earned
title. He and Driscoll were of the same age
—a year or two past sixty.

Although Driscoll was a free-thinker and
Howard a strong and determined Presbyterian,
their warm intimacy suffered no impairment
in consequence. They were men whose
opinions were their own property and not
subject to revision and amendment, suggestion
or criticism, by anybody, even their
friends.

The day's fishing finished, they came floating

---

down stream in their skiff, talking national
politics and other high matters, and presently
met a skiff coming up from town, with a man
in it who said:

"I reckon you know one of the new twins
gave your nephew a kicking last night,
Judge?"

"Did what?"

"Gave him a kicking."

The old Judge's lips paled, and his eyes began
to flame. He choked with anger for a
moment, then he got out what he was trying
to say—

"Well—well—go on! give me the details."

The man did it. At the finish the Judge
was silent a minute, turning over in his mind
the shameful picture of Tom's flight over the
footlights; then he said, as if musing aloud—
"H'm—I don't understand it. I was asleep
at home. He did n't wake me. Thought he
was competent to manage his affair without
my help, I reckon." His face lit up with
pride and pleasure at that thought, and he
said with a cheery complacency, "I like that
—it's the true old blood—hey, Pembroke?"

---

Howard smiled an iron smile, and nodded
his head approvingly. Then the news-bringer
spoke again—

"But Tom beat the twin on the trial."

The Judge looked at the man wonderingly,
and said—

"The trial? What trial?"

"Why, Tom had him up before Judge Robinson
for assault and battery."

The old man shrank suddenly together
like one who has received a death-stroke.
Howard sprang for him as he sank forward in
a swoon, and took him in his arms, and
bedded him on his back in the boat. He
sprinkled water in his face, and said to the
startled visitor—

"Go, now—don't let him come to and find
you here. You see what an effect your heedless
speech has had; you ought to have been
more considerate than to blurt out such a
cruel piece of slander as that."

"I'm right down sorry I did it now, Mr.
Howard, and I would n't have done it if I had
thought: but it ain't slander; it's perfectly
true, just as I told him."

---

He rowed away. Presently the old Judge
came out of his faint and looked up piteously
into the sympathetic face that was bent over
him.

"Say it ain't true, Pembroke; tell me it
ain't true!" he said in a weak voice.

There was nothing weak in the deep organ-tones
that responded—

"You know it's a lie as well as I do, old
friend. He is of the best blood of the Old
Dominion."

"God bless you for saying it!" said the old
gentleman, fervently. "Ah, Pembroke, it
was such a blow!"

Howard stayed by his friend, and saw him
home, and entered the house with him. It
was dark, and past supper-time, but the Judge
was not thinking of supper; he was eager to
hear the slander refuted from headquarters,
and as eager to have Howard hear it, too.
Tom was sent for, and he came immediately.
He was bruised and lame, and was not a
happy-looking object. His uncle made him
sit down, and said—

"We have been hearing about your adventure,

---

Tom, with a handsome lie added to it
for embellishment. Now pulverize that lie to
dust! What measures have you taken? How
does the thing stand?"

Tom answered guilelessly: "It don't stand
at all; it's all over. I had him up in court
and beat him. Pudd'nhead Wilson defended
him—first case he ever had, and lost it. The
judge fined the miserable hound five dollars
for the assault."

Howard and the Judge sprang to their
feet with the opening sentence—why, neither
knew; then they stood gazing vacantly at
each other. Howard stood a moment, then
sat mournfully down without saying anything.
The Judge's wrath began to kindle, and he
burst out—

"You cur! You scum! You vermin! Do
you mean to tell me that blood of my race
has suffered a blow and crawled to a court
of law about it? Answer me!"

Tom's head drooped, and he answered
with an eloquent silence. His uncle stared
at him with a mixed expression of amazement
and shame and incredulity that was sorrowful
to see. At last he said—

---

"Which of the twins was it?"

"Count Luigi."

"You have challenged him?"

"N—no," hesitated Tom, turning pale.

"You will challenge him to-night. Howard
will carry it."

Tom began to turn sick, and to show it.
He turned his hat round and round in his
hand, his uncle glowering blacker and blacker
upon him as the heavy seconds drifted by;
then at last he began to stammer, and said
piteously—

"Oh, please don't ask me to do it, uncle!
He is a murderous devil—I never could—I—
I'm afraid of him!"

Old Driscoll's mouth opened and closed
three times before he could get it to perform
its office; then he stormed out—

"A coward in my family! A Driscoll a
coward! Oh, what have I done to deserve
this infamy!" He tottered to his secretary in
the corner repeating that lament again and
again in heartbreaking tones, and got out of
a drawer a paper, which he slowly tore to bits
scattering the bits absently in his track as he

---

walked up and down the room, still grieving
and lamenting. At last he said—

"There it is, shreds and fragments once
more—my will. Once more you have forced
me to disinherit you, you base son of a most
noble father! Leave my sight! Go—before
I spit on you!"

The young man did not tarry. Then the
Judge turned to Howard:

"You will be my second, old friend?"

"Of course."

"There is pen and paper. Draft the cartel,
and lose no time."

"The Count shall have it in his hands in
fifteen minutes," said Howard.

Tom was very heavy-hearted. His appetite
was gone with his property and his self-respect.
He went out the back way and
wandered down the obscure lane grieving,
and wondering if any course of future conduct,
however discreet and carefully perfected and
watched over, could win back his uncle's
favor and persuade him to reconstruct once
more that generous will which had just gone
to ruin before his eyes. He finally concluded

---

that it could. He said to himself that he
had accomplished this sort of triumph once
already, and that what had been done once
could be done again. He would set about it.
He would bend every energy to the task, and
he would score that triumph once more, cost
what it might to his convenience, limit as it
might his frivolous and liberty-loving life.

"To begin," he said to himself, "I'll square
up with the proceeds of my raid, and then
gambling has got to be stopped—and stopped
short off. It's the worst vice I've got—from
my standpoint, anyway, because it's the one
he can most easily find out, through the impatience
of my creditors. He thought it expensive
to have to pay two hundred dollars to
them for me once. Expensive—that! Why,
it cost me the whole of his fortune—but of
course he never thought of that; some people
can't think of any but their own side of a
case. If he had known how deep I am in,
now, the will would have gone to pot without
waiting for a duel to help. Three hundred
dollars! It's a pile! But he'll never hear
of it, I'm thankful to say. The minute I've

---

cleared it off, I'm safe; and I'll never touch a
card again. Anyway, I won't while he lives,
I make oath to that. I'm entering on my
last reform—I know it—yes, and I'll win; but
after that, if I ever slip again I'm gone."

---

CHAPTER XIII.

I reflect upon the number of disagreeable people
who I know have gone to a better world, I am moved to
lead a different life.—Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.

. This is one of the peculiarly dangerous
months to speculate in stocks in. The others are July,
January, September, April, November, May, March, June,
December, August, and February.—Pudd'nhead Wilson's
Calendar.

mournfully communing with himself
Tom moped along the lane past Pudd'nhead
Wilson's house, and still on and on between
fences inclosing vacant country on each
hand till he neared the haunted house, then
he came moping back again, with many sighs
and heavy with trouble. He sorely wanted
cheerful company. Rowena! His heart gave
a bound at the thought, but the next thought
quieted it—the detested twins would be
there.

He was on the inhabited side of Wilson's

---

house, and now as he approached it he noticed
that the sitting-room was lighted. This
would do; others made him feel unwelcome
sometimes, but Wilson never failed in courtesy
toward him, and a kindly courtesy does
at least save one's feelings, even if it is not
professing to stand for a welcome. Wilson
heard footsteps at his threshold, then the
clearing of a throat.

"It's that fickle-tempered, dissipated young
goose—poor devil, he finds friends pretty
scarce to-day, likely, after the disgrace of
carrying a personal-assault case into a law-court."

A dejected knock. "Come in!"

Tom entered, and drooped into a chair,
without saying anything. Wilson said
kindly—

"Why, my boy, you look desolate. Don't
take it so hard. Try and forget you have
been kicked.'

"Oh, dear," said Tom, wretchedly, "it's
not that, Pudd'nhead—it's not that. It's a
thousand times worse than that—oh, yes, a
million times worse."

---

"Why, Tom, what do you mean? Has
Rowena—"

"Flung me? No, but the old man has."

Wilson said to himself, "Aha!" and
thought of the mysterious girl in the bedroom.
"The Driscolls have been making discoveries!"
Then he said aloud, gravely:

"Tom, there are some kinds of dissipation
which——"

"Oh, shucks, this has n't got anything to
do with dissipation. He wanted me to challenge
that derned Italian savage, and I
would n't do it."

"Yes, of course he would do that," said
Wilson in a meditative matter-of-course way,
"but the thing that puzzled me was, why he
did n't look to that last night, for one thing,
and why he let you carry such a matter into
a court of law at all, either before the duel or
after it. It's no place for it. It was not like
him. I could n't understand it. How did it
happen?"

"It happened because he did n't know anything
about it. He was asleep when I got
home last night."

---

"And you did n't wake him? Tom, is
that possible?"

Tom was not getting much comfort here.
He fidgeted a moment, then said:

"I did n't choose to tell him—that's all.
He was going a-fishing before dawn, with
Pembroke Howard, and if I got the twins into
the common calaboose—and I thought sure I
could—I never dreamed of their slipping out
on a paltry fine for such an outrageous offense—well,
once in the calaboose they would
be disgraced, and uncle would n't want any
duels with that sort of characters, and
would n't allow any."

"Tom, I am ashamed of you! I don't see
how you could treat your good old uncle so.
I am a better friend of his than you are; for
if I had known the circumstances I would
have kept that case out of court until I got
word to him and let him have a gentleman's
chance."

"You would?" exclaimed Tom, with lively
surprise. "And it your first case! And you
know perfectly well there never would have
been any case if he had got that chance, don't

---

you? And you'd have finished your days a
pauper nobody, instead of being an actually
launched and recognized lawyer to-day. And
you would really have done that, would you?"

"Certainly."

Tom looked at him a moment or two, then
shook his head sorrowfully and said—

"I believe you—upon my word I do. I
don't know why I do, but I do. Pudd'nhead
Wilson, I think you're the biggest fool I
ever saw."

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it."

"Well, he has been requiring you to fight
the Italian and you have refused. You degenerate
remnant of an honorable line! I'm
thoroughly ashamed of you, Tom!"

"Oh, that's nothing! I don't care for anything,
now that the will's torn up again."

"Tom, tell me squarely—did n't he find
any fault with you for anything but those two
things—carrying the case into court and refusing
to fight?"

He watched the young fellow's face narrowly,
but it was entirely reposeful, and so
also was the voice that answered:

---

"No, he did n't find any other fault with
me. If he had had any to find, he would
have begun yesterday, for he was just in the
humor for it. He drove that jack-pair around
town and showed them the sights, and when
he came home he could n't find his father's old
silver watch that don't keep time and he
thinks so much of, and could n't remember
what he did with it three or four days ago
when he saw it last, and so when I arrived he
was all in a sweat about it, and when I suggested
that it probably was n't lost but stolen,
it put him in a regular passion and he said I
was a fool—which convinced me, without any
trouble, that that was just what he was afraid
had happened, himself, but did not want to
believe it, because lost things stand a better
chance of being found again than stolen
ones."

"Whe-ew!" whistled Wilson; "score another
on the list."

"Another what?"

"Another theft!"

"Theft?"

"Yes, theft. That watch is n't lost, it's

---

stolen. There's been another raid on the
town—and just the same old mysterious sort
of thing that has happened once before, as
you remember."

"You don't mean it!"

"It's as sure as you are born! Have you
missed anything yourself?"

"No. That is, I did miss a silver pencil-case
that Aunt Mary Pratt gave me last
birthday——"

"You'll find it stolen—that's what you'll
find."

"No, I sha' n't; for when I suggested theft
about the watch and got such a rap, I went
and examined my room, and the pencil-case
was missing, but it was only mislaid, and I
found it again."

"You are sure you missed nothing else?"

"Well, nothing of consequence. I missed
a small plain gold ring worth two or three
dollars, but that will turn up. I'll look
again."

"In my opinion you'll not find it. There's
been a raid, I tell you, Come in!"

Mr. Justice Robinson entered, followed by

---

Buckstone and the town-constable, Jim Blake.
They sat down, and after some wandering
and aimless weather-conversation Wilson
said—

"By the way, we've just added another to
the list of thefts, maybe two. Judge Driscoll's
old silver watch is gone, and Tom here has
missed a gold ring."

"Well, it is a bad business," said the Justice,
"and gets worse the further it goes. The
Hankses, the Dobsons, the Pilligrews, the Ortons,
the Grangers, the Hales, the Fullers,
the Holcombs, in fact everybody that lives
around about Patsy Cooper's has been robbed
of little things like trinkets and teaspoons and
such-like small valuables that are easily
carried off. It's perfectly plain that the
thief took advantage of the reception at Patsy
Cooper's when all the neighbors were in her
house and all their niggers hanging around
her fence for a look at the show, to raid the
vacant houses undisturbed. Patsy is miserable
about it; miserable on account of the
neighbors, and particularly miserable on account
of her foreigners, of course; so miserable

---

on their account that she has n't any
room to worry about her own little losses."

"It's the same old raider," said Wilson.
"I suppose there is n't any doubt about that."

"Constable Blake does n't think so."

"No, you're wrong there," said Blake;
"the other times it was a man; there was
plenty of signs of that, as we know, in the
profession, though we never got hands on him;
but this time it's a woman."

Wilson thought of the mysterious girl
straight off. She was always in his mind now.
But she failed him again. Blake continued:

"She's a stoop-shouldered old woman with
a covered basket on her arm, in a black veil,
dressed in mourning. I saw her going aboard
the ferry-boat yesterday. Lives in Illinois, I
reckon; but I don't care where she lives, I'm
going to get her—she can make herself sure
of that."

"What makes you think she's the thief?"

"Well, there ain't any other, for one thing;
and for another, some of the nigger draymen
that happened to be driving along saw her
coming out of or going into houses, and told

---

me so—and it just happens that they was
robbed houses, every time."

It was granted that this was plenty good
enough circumstantial evidence. A pensive
silence followed, which lasted some moments,
then Wilson said—

"There's one good thing, anyway. She
can't either pawn or sell Count Luigi's costly
Indian dagger."

"My!" said Tom, "is that gone?"

"Yes."

"Well, that was a haul! But why can't
she pawn it or sell it?"

"Because when the twins went home from
the Sons of Liberty meeting last night, news
of the raid was sifting in from everywhere,
and Aunt Patsy was in distress to know if
they had lost anything. They found that the
dagger was gone, and they notified the police
and pawnbrokers everywhere. It was a great
haul, yes, but the old woman won't get anything
out of it, because she'll get caught."

"Did they offer a reward?" asked Buckstone.

"Yes; five hundred dollars for the knife,
and five hundred more for the thief."

---

"What a leather-headed idea!" exclaimed
the constable. "The thief da's n't go near
them, nor send anybody. Whoever goes is
going to get himself nabbed, for there ain't
any pawnbroker that's going to lose the
chance to——"

If anybody had noticed Tom's face at that
time, the gray-green color of it might have
provoked curiosity; but nobody did. He
said to himself: "I'm gone! I never can
square up; the rest of the plunder won't
pawn or sell for half of the bill. Oh, I know
it—I'm gone, I'm gone—and this time it's
for good. Oh, this is awful—I don't know
what to do, nor which way to turn!"

"Softly, softly," said Wilson to Blake. "I
planned their scheme for them at midnight
last night, and it was all finished up shipshape
by two this morning. They'll get
their dagger back, and then I'll explain to
you how the thing was done."

There were strong signs of a general curiosity,
and Buckstone said—

"Well, you have whetted us up pretty
sharp, Wilson, and I'm free to say that

---

if you don't mind telling us in confidence——"

"Oh, I'd as soon tell as not, Buckstone,
but as long as the twins and I agreed to say
nothing about it, we must let it stand so.
But you can take my word for it you won't
be kept waiting three days. Somebody will
apply for that reward pretty promptly, and
I'll show you the thief and the dagger both
very soon afterward."

The constable was disappointed, and also
perplexed. He said—

"It may all be—yes, and I hope it will,
but I'm blamed if I can see my way through
it. It's too many for yours truly."

The subject seemed about talked out. Nobody
seemed to have anything further to
offer. After a silence the justice of the peace
informed Wilson that he and Buckstone and
the constable had come as a committee, on
the part of the Democratic party, to ask him
to run for mayor—for the little town was
about to become a city and the first charter
election was approaching. It was the first
attention which Wilson had ever received at

---

the hands of any party; it was a sufficiently
humble one, but it was a recognition of his
début into the town's life and activities at
last; it was a step upward, and he was deeply
gratified. He accepted, and the committee
departed, followed by young Tom.

---

CHAPTER XIV.

true Southern watermelon is a boon apart, and
not to be mentioned with commoner things. It is chief
of this world's luxuries, king by the grace of God over all
the fruits of the earth. When one has tasted it, he knows
what the angels eat. It was not a Southern watermelon
that Eve took: we know it because she repented.—Pudd'nhead
Wilson's Calendar.

the time that Wilson was bowing
the committee out, Pembroke Howard was
entering the next house to report. He found
the old Judge sitting grim and straight in his
chair, waiting.

"Well, Howard—the news?"

"The best in the world."

"Accepts, does he?" and the light of battle
gleamed joyously in the Judge's eye.

"Accepts? Why, he jumped at it."

"Did, did he? Now that's fine—that's
very fine. I like that. When is it to be?"

"Now! Straight off! To-night! An
admirable fellow—admirable!"

---

"Admirable? He's a darling! Why, it's
an honor as well as a pleasure to stand up
before such a man. Come—off with you!
Go and arrange everything—and give him—
my heartiest compliments. A rare fellow,
indeed; an admirable fellow, as you have
said!"

Howard hurried away, saying—

"I'll have him in the vacant stretch between
Wilson's and the haunted house within
the hour, and I'll bring my own pistols."

Judge Driscoll began to walk the floor in a
state of pleased excitement; but presently he
stopped, and began to think—began to think
of Tom. Twice he moved toward the secretary,
and twice he turned away again; but
finally he said—

"This may be my last night in the world—
I must not take the chance. He is worthless
and unworthy, but it is largely my fault. He
was intrusted to me by my brother on his dying
bed, and I have indulged him to his hurt,
instead of training him up severely, and making
a man of him. I have violated my trust,
and I must not add the sin of desertion to

---

that. I have forgiven him once already, and
would subject him to a long and hard trial
before forgiving him again, if I could live;
but I must not run that risk. No, I must restore
the will. But if I survive the duel, I
will hide it away, and he will not know, and I
will not tell him until he reforms, and I see
that his reformation is going to be permanent."

He re-drew the will, and his ostensible
nephew was heir to a fortune again. As he
was finishing his task, Tom, wearied with another
brooding tramp, entered the house and
went tiptoeing past the sitting-room door.
He glanced in, and hurried on, for the sight
of his uncle had nothing but terrors for him
to-night. But his uncle was writing! That
was unusual at this late hour. What could he
be writing? A chill of anxiety settled down
upon Tom's heart. Did that writing concern
him? He was afraid so. He reflected that
when ill luck begins, it does not come in
sprinkles, but in showers. He said he would
get a glimpse of that document or know the
reason why. He heard some one coming,
and stepped out of sight and hearing. It was

---

Pembroke Howard. What could be hatching.

Howard said, with great satisfaction:

"Everything's right and ready. He's gone
to the battle-ground with his second and the
surgeon—also with his brother. I've arranged
it all with Wilson—Wilson's his sec
ond. We are to have three shots apiece."

"Good! How is the moon?"

"Bright as day, nearly. Perfect, for the
distance—fifteen yards. No wind—not a
breath; hot and still."

"All good; all first-rate. Here, Pembroke,
read this, and witness it."

Pembroke read and witnessed the will, then
gave the old man's hand a hearty shake and
said:

"Now that's right, York—but I knew you
would do it. You could n't leave that poor
chap to fight along without means or profession,
with certain defeat before him, and I
knew you would n't, for his father's sake if not
for his own."

"For his dead father's sake I could n't, I
know; for poor Percy—but you know what

---

Percy was to me. But mind—Tom is not to
know of this unless I fall to-night."

"I understand. I'll keep the secret."

The Judge put the will away, and the two
started for the battle-ground. In another
minute the will was in Tom's hands. His
misery vanished, his feelings underwent a tremendous
revulsion. He put the will carefully
back in its place, and spread his mouth and
swung his hat once, twice, three times around
his head, in imitation of three rousing huzzas,
no sound issuing from his lips. He fell to
communing with himself excitedly and joyously,
but every now and then he let off another
volley of dumb hurrahs.

He said to himself: "I've got the fortune
again, but I'll not let on that I know about
it. And this time I'm going to hang on to
it. I take no more risks. I'll gamble no
more, I'll drink no more, because—well, because
I'll not go where there is any of that
sort of thing going on, again. It's the sure
way, and the only sure way; I might have
thought of that sooner—well, yes, if I had
wanted to. But now—dear me, I've had a

---

scare this time, and I'll take no more chances.
Not a single chance more. Land! I persuaded
myself this evening that I could fetch
him around without any great amount of
effort, but I've been getting more and more
heavy-hearted and doubtful straight along,
ever since. If he tells me about this thing,
all right; but if he does n't, I sha' n't, let on.
I—well, I'd like to tell Pudd'n head Wilson,
but—no, I'll think about that; perhaps I
won't." He whirled off another dead huzza,
and said, "I'm reformed, and this time I'll
stay so, sure!"

He was about to close with a final grand
silent demonstration, when he suddenly recollected
that Wilson had put it out of his power
to pawn or sell the Indian knife, and that he
was once more in awful peril of exposure by
his creditors for that reason. His joy
collapsed utterly, and he turned away and
moped toward the door moaning and lamenting
over the bitterness of his luck. He
dragged himself up-stairs, and brooded in his
room a long time disconsolate and forlorn,
with Luigi's Indian knife for a text. At last
he sighed and said:

---

"When I supposed these stones were glass
and this ivory bone, the thing had n't any interest
for me because it had n't any value, and
could n't help me out of my trouble. But
now—why, now it is full of interest; yes, and
of a sort to break a body's heart. It's a bag
of gold that has turned to dirt and ashes in
my hands. It could save me, and save me so
easily, and yet I've got to go to ruin. It's
like drowning with a life-preserver in my
reach. All the hard luck comes to me, and
all the good luck goes to other people—
Pudd'nhead Wilson, for instance; even his
career has got a sort of a little start at last,
and what has he done to deserve it, I should
like to know? Yes, he has opened his own
road, but he is n't content with that, but must
block mine. It's a sordid, selfish world, and
I wish I was out of it." He allowed the
light of the candle to play upon the jewels of
the sheath, but the flashings and sparklings
had no charm for his eye; they were only just
so many pangs to his heart. "I must not
say anything to Roxy about this thing," he
said, "she is too daring. She would be for

---

digging these stones out and selling them,
and then—why, she would be arrested and
the stones traced, and then—" The thought
made him quake, and he hid the knife away,
trembling all over and glancing furtively
about, like a criminal who fancies that the
accuser is already at hand.

Should he try to sleep? Oh, no, sleep was
not for him; his trouble was too haunting, too
afflicting for that. He must have somebody
to mourn with. He would carry his despair
to Roxy.

He had heard several distant gunshots, but
that sort of thing was not uncommon, and
they had made no impression upon him. He
went out at the back door, and turned westward.
He passed Wilson's house and proceeded
along the lane, and presently saw
several figures approaching Wilson's place
through the vacant lots. These were the duelists
returning from the fight; he thought he
recognized them, but as he had no desire for
white people's company, he stooped down behind
the fence until they were out of his way.

Roxy was feeling fine. She said:

---

"Whah was you, child? Warn't you in it?"

"In what?"

"In de duel."

"Duel? Has there been a duel?"

"'Co'se dey has. De ole Jedge has be'n
havin' a duel wid one o' dem twins."

"Great Scott!" Then he added to himself:
"That's what made him re-make the will; he
thought he might get killed, and it softened
him toward me. And that's what he and
Howard were so busy about. . . . Oh dear,
if the twin had only killed him, I should be
out of my——"

"What is you mumblin' bout, Chambers?
Whah was you? Did n't you know dey was
gwyne to be a duel?"

"No, I did n't. The old man tried to get
me to fight one with Count Luigi, but he
did n't succeed, so I reckon he concluded to
patch up the family honor himself."

He laughed at the idea, and went rambling
on with a detailed account of his talk with the
Judge, and how shocked and ashamed the
Judge was to find that he had a coward in his
family. He glanced up at last, and got a

---

shock himself. Roxana's bosom was heaving
with suppressed passion, and she was glowering
down upon him with measureless contempt
written in her face.

"En you refuse' to fight a man dat kicked
you, 'stid o' jumpin' at de chance! En you
ain't got no mo' feelin' den to come en tell me,
dat fetched sich a po' low-down ornery rabbit
into de worl'! Pah! it make me sick! It's
de nigger in you, dat's what it is. Thirty-one
parts o' you is white, en on'y one part nigger,
en dat po' little one part is yo' soul. Tain't
wuth savin'; tain't wuth totin' out on a shovel
en throwin' in de gutter. You has disgraced
yo' birth. What would yo' pa think o' you?
It's enough to make him turn in his grave."

The last three sentences stung Tom into a
fury, and he said to himself that if his father
were only alive and in reach of assassination
his mother would soon find that he had a very
clear notion of the size of his indebtedness to
that man, and was willing to pay it up in full,
and would do it too, even at risk of his life;
but he kept his thought to himself; that was
safest in his mother's present state.

---

"Whatever has come o' yo' Essex blood?
Dat's what I can't understan'. En it ain't on'y
jist Essex blood dat's in you, not by a long
sight—'deed it ain't! My great-great-great-gran'father
en yo' great-great-great-great-gran'father
was Ole Cap'n John Smith, de highest
blood dat Ole Virginny ever turned out, en
his great-great-gran'mother or somers along
back dah, was Pocahontas de Injun queen, en
her husbun' was a nigger king outen Africa—
en yit here you is, a slinkin' outen a duel en
disgracin' our whole line like a ornery lowdown
hound! Yes, it's de nigger in you!"

She sat down on her candle-box and fell into
a reverie. Tom did not disturb her; he sometimes
lacked prudence, but it was not in circumstances
of this kind. Roxana's storm
went gradually down, but it died hard, and
even when it seemed to be quite gone, it
would now and then break out in a distant
rumble, so to speak, in the form of muttered
ejaculations. One of these was, "Ain't nigger
enough in him to show in his finger-nails,
en dat takes mighty little—yit dey's enough
to paint his soul."

---

Presently she muttered. "Yassir, enough to
paint a whole thimbleful of 'em." At last her
ramblings ceased altogether, and her countenance
began to clear—a welcome sign to
Tom, who had learned her moods, and knew
she was on the threshold of good-humor, now.
He noticed that from time to time she unconsciously
carried her finger to the end of her
nose. He looked closer and said:

"Why, mammy, the end of your nose is
skinned. How did that come?"

She sent out the sort of whole-hearted peal
of laughter which God has vouchsafed in its
perfection to none but the happy angels in
heaven and the bruised and broken black slave
on the earth, and said:

"Dad fetch dat duel, I be'n in it myself."

"Gracious! did a bullet do that?"

"Yassir, you bet it did!"

"Well, I declare! Why, how did that happen?"

"Happened dis-away. I'uz a-sett'n' here
kinder dozin' in de dark, en che-bang! goes a
gun, right out dah. I skips along out towards
t'other end o' de house to see what's gwyne

---

on, en stops by de ole winder on de side to
wards Pudd'nhead Wilson's house dat ain't got
no sash in it,—but dey ain't none of 'em got
any sashes, fur as dat's concerned,—en I
stood dah in de dark en look out, en dar in de
moonlight, right down under me 'uz one o' de
twins a-cussin'—not much, but jist a-cussin'
soft—it 'uz de brown one dat 'uz cussin', 'ca'se
he 'uz hit in de shoulder. En Doctor Claypool
he 'uz a-workin' at him, en Pudd'nhead
Wilson he 'uz a-he'pin', en ole Jedge Driscoll
en Pem Howard 'uz a-standin' out yonder a
little piece waitin' for 'em to git ready agin.
En treckly dey squared off en give de word,
en bang-bang went de pistols, en de twin he
say, 'Ouch!'—hit him on de han' dis time,—
en I hear dat same bullet go spat! ag'in, de
logs under de winder; en de nex' time dey
shoot, de twin say, 'Ouch!' ag'in, en I done it
too, 'ca'se de bullet glance' on his cheek-bone
en skip up here en glance on de side o' de
winder en whiz right acrost my face en tuck
de hide off'n my nose—why, if I'd 'a 'be'n jist
a inch or a inch en a half furder 't would 'a'
tuck de whole nose en disfiggered me.
Here's de bullet; I hunted her up."

---

"Did you stand there all the time?"

"Dat's a question to ask, ain't it! What
else would I do? Does I git a chance to see
a duel every day?"

"Why, you were right in range! Were n't
you afraid?"

The woman gave a sniff of scorn.

"'Fraid! De Smith-Pocahontases ain't
'fraid o' nothin', let alone bullets."

"They've got pluck enough, I suppose;
what they lack is judgement. I would n't
have stood there."

"Nobody's accusin' you!"

"Did anybody else get hurt?"

"Yes, we all got hit 'cep' de blon' twin en
de doctor en de seconds. De Jedge did n't
git hurt, but I hear Pudd'nhead say de bullet
snip some o' his ha'r off."

"'George!" said Tom to himself, "to come
so near being out of my trouble, and miss it
by an inch. Oh dear, dear, he will live to find
me out and sell me to some nigger-trader yet
—yes, and he would do it in a minute." Then
he said aloud, in a grave tone—

"Mother, we are in an awful fix."

---

Roxana caught her breath with a spasm,
and said—

"Chile! What you hit a body so sudden
for, like dat? What's be'n en gone en happen'?"

"Well, there's one thing I did n't tell you.
When I would n't fight, he tore up the will
again, and—

Roxana's face turned a dead white, and she
said—

"Now you's done!—done forever! Dat's
de end. Bofe un us is gwyne to starve to—"

"Wait and hear me through, can't you! I
reckon that when he resolved to fight, himself,
he thought he might get killed and not have
a chance to forgive me any more in this life,
so he made the will again, and I've seen it,
and it's all right. But——"

"Oh, thank goodness, den we's safe ag'in!
—safe! en so what did you want to come here
en talk sich dreadful——"

"Hold on, I tell you, and let me finish. The
swag I gathered won't half square me up, and
the first thing we know, my creditors—well,
you know what'll happen."

---

Roxana dropped her chin, and told her son
to leave her alone—she must think this matter
out. Presently she said impressively:

"You got to go mighty keerful now, I tell
you! En here's what you got to do. He
did n't git killed, en if you gives him de least
reason, he'll bust de will ag'in, en dat's de
las' time, now you hear me! So—you's got
to show him what you kin do in de nex' few
days. You's got to be pison good, en let him
see it; you got to do everything dat'll make
him b'lieve in you, en you got to sweeten
aroun' ole Aunt Pratt, too,—she's pow'ful
strong wid de Jedge, en de bes' frien' you got.
Nex', you'll go 'long away to Sent Louis, en
dat'll keep him in yo' favor. Den you go en
make a bargain wid dem people. You tell
'em he ain't gwyne to live long—en dat's de
fac', too,—en tell 'em you'll pay 'em intrust,
en big intrust, too,—ten per—what you call
it?"

"Ten per cent. a month?"

"Dat's it. Den you take and sell yo' truck
aroun', a little at a time, en pay de intrust.
How long will it las'?"

---

"I think there's enough to pay the interest
five or six months."

"Den you's all right. If he don't die in
six months, dat don't make no diff'rence—
Providence'll provide. You's gwyne to be
safe—if you behaves." She bent an austere
eye on him and added, "En you is gwyne to
behave—does you know dat?"

He laughed and said he was going to try,
anyway. She did not unbend. She said
gravely:

"Tryin' ain't de thing. You's gwyne to do
it. You ain't gwyne to steal a pin—'ca'se it
ain't safe no mo'; en you ain't gwyne into no
bad comp'ny—not even once, you understand;
en you ain't gwyne to drink a drop—nary
single drop; en you ain't gwyne to gamble
one single gamble—not one! Dis ain't what
you's gwyne to try to do, it's what you's
gwyne to do. En I'll tell you how I knows
it. Dis is how. I's gwyne to foller along to
Sent Louis my own self; en you's gwyne to
come to me every day o' yo' life, en I'll look
you over; en if you fails in one single one o'
dem things—jist one—I take my oath I'll

---

come straight down to dis town en tell de
Jedge you's a nigger en a slave—en prove
it!" She paused to let her words sink home.
Then she added, "Chambers, does you b'lieve
me when I says dat?"

Tom was sober enough now. There was no
levity in his voice when he answered:

"Yes, mother, I know, now, that I am reformed—and
permanently. Permanently—
and beyond the reach of any human temptation.

"Den g' long home en begin!"

---

CHAPTER XV.

so needs reforming as other people's habits.—
Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.

, the fool saith, "Put not all thine eggs in the one
basket"—which is but a manner of saying, "Scatter your
money and your attention;" but the wise man saith,
"Put all your eggs in the one basket and—
." —Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.

a time of it Dawson's Landing was
having! All its life it had been asleep, but
now it hardly got a chance for a nod, so swiftly
did big events and crashing surprises come
along in one another's wake: Friday morning,
first glimpse of Real Nobility, also grand
reception at Aunt Patsy Cooper's, also great
robber-raid; Friday evening, dramatic kicking
of the heir of the chief citizen in presence of
four hundred people; Saturday morning,
emergence as practising lawyer of the long-submerged
Pudd'nhead Wilson; Saturday

---

night, duel between chief citizen and titled
stranger.

The people took more pride in the duel than
in all the other events put together, perhaps.
It was a glory to their town to have such
a thing happen there. In their eyes the principals
had reached the summit of human honor.
Everybody paid homage to their names; their
praises were in all mouths. Even the duelists'
subordinates came in for a handsome
share of the public approbation: wherefore
Pudd'nhead Wilson was suddenly become a
man of consequence. When asked to run for
the mayoralty Saturday night he was risking
defeat, but Sunday morning found him a
made man and his success assured.

The twins were prodigiously great, now;
the town took them to its bosom with enthusiasm.
Day after day, and night after night,
they went dining and visiting from house to
house, making friends, enlarging and solidifying
their popularity, and charming and
surprising all with their musical prodigies, and
now and then heightening the effects with
samples of what they could do in other directions,

---

out of their stock of rare and curious
accomplishments. They were so pleased
that they gave the regulation thirty days'
notice, the required preparation for citizenship,
and resolved to finish their days in this
pleasant place. That was the climax. The
delighted community rose as one man and
applauded; and when the twins were asked
to stand for seats in the forthcoming aldermanic
board, and consented, the public contentment
was rounded and complete.

Tom Driscoll was not happy over these
things; they sunk deep, and hurt all the way
down. He hated the one twin for kicking
him, and the other one for being the kicker's
brother.

Now and then the people wondered why
nothing was heard of the raider, or of the
stolen knife or the other plunder, but nobody
was able to throw any light on that matter.
Nearly a week had drifted by, and still the
thing remained a vexed mystery.

On Saturday Constable Blake and Pudd'nhead
Wilson met on the street, and Tom
Driscoll joined them in time to open their

---

conversation for them. He said to Blake—
"You are not looking well, Blake; you
seem to be annoyed about something. Has
anything gone wrong in the detective business?
I believe you fairly and justifiably
claim to have a pretty good reputation in that
line, is n't it so?"—which made Blake feel
good, and look it; but Tom added, "for a
country detective"—which made Blake feel
the other way, and not only look it, but betray
it in his voice—

"Yes, sir, I have got a reputation; and it's
as good as anybody's in the profession, too,
country or no country."

"Oh, I beg pardon; I did n't mean any offense.
What I started out to ask was only
about the old woman that raided the town—
the stoop-shouldered old woman, you know,
that you said you were going to catch; and I
knew you would, too, because you have the
reputation of never boasting, and—well, you
—you've caught the old woman?"

"D—— the old woman!"

"Why, sho! you don't mean to say you
have n't caught her?"

---

"No; I have n't caught her. If anybody
could have caught her, I could; but nobody
could n't, I don't care who he is."

"I am sorry, real sorry—for your sake; because,
when it gets around that a detective
has expressed himself so confidently, and
then——"

"Don't you worry, that's all—don't you
worry; and as for the town, the town need n't
worry, either. She's my meat—make yourself
easy about that. I'm on her track; I've
got clues that——"

"That's good! Now if you could get an
old veteran detective down from St. Louis to
help you find out what the clues mean, and
where they lead to, and then——"

"I'm plenty veteran enough myself, and I
don't need anybody's help. I'll have her inside
of a we—inside of a month. That I'll
swear to!"

Tom said carelessly—

"I suppose that will answer—yes, that
will answer. But I reckon she is pretty old,
and old people don't often outlive the cautious
pace of the professional detective when

---

he has got his clues together and is out on
his still-hunt."

Blake's dull face flusned under this gibe,
but before he could set his retort in order
Tom had turned to Wilson, and was saying,
with placid indifference of manner and voice—

"Who got the reward, Pudd'nhead?"

Wilson winced slightly, and saw that his
own turn was come.

"What reward?"

"Why, the reward for the thief, and the
other one for the knife."

Wilson answered—and rather uncomfortably,
to judge by his hesitating fashion of delivering
himself—

"Well, the—well, in fact, nobody has
claimed it yet."

Tom seemed surprised.

"Why, is that so?"

Wilson showed a trifle of irritation when
he replied—

"Yes, it's so. And what of it?"

"Oh, nothing. Only I thought you had
struck out a new idea, and invented a scheme
that was going to revolutionize the time-worn

---

and ineffectual methods of the——" He
stopped, and turned to Blake, who was happy
now that another had taken his place on the
gridiron: "Blake, did n't you understand him
to intimate that it would n't be necessary for
you to hunt the old woman down?"

"B'George, he said he'd have thief and
swag both inside of three days—he did, by
hokey! and that's just about a week ago.
Why, I said at the time that no thief and no
thief's pal was going to try to pawn or sell a
thing where he knowed the pawnbroker could
get both rewards by taking him into camp
with the swag. It was the blessedest idea
that ever I struck!"

"You'd change your mind," said Wilson,
with irritated bluntness, "if you knew the entire
scheme instead of only part of it."

"Well," said the constable, pensively, "I
had the idea that it would n't work, and up to
now I'm right anyway."

"Very well, then, let it stand at that, and
give it a further show. It has worked at
least as well as your own methods, you perceive."

---

The constable had n't anything handy to
hit back with, so he discharged a discontented
sniff, and said nothing.

After the night that Wilson had partly revealed
his scheme at his house, Tom had tried
for several days to guess out the secret of the
rest of it, but had failed. Then it occurred
to him to give Roxana's smarter head a
chance at it. He made up a supposititious
case, and laid it before her. She thought it
over, and delivered her verdict upon it. Tom
said to himself, "She's hit it, sure!" He
thought he would test that verdict, now, and
watch Wilson's face; so he said reflectively—

"Wilson, you're not a fool—a fact of recent
discovery. Whatever your scheme was,
it had sense in it, Blake's opinion to the contrary
notwithstanding, I don't ask you to
reveal it, but I will suppose a case—a case
which will answer as a starting-point for the
real thing I am going to come at, and that's
all I want. You offered five hundred dollars
for the knife, and five hundred for the thief.
We will suppose, for argument's sake, that
the first reward is advertised and the second

---

offered by private letter to pawnbrokers
and——"

Blake slapped his thigh, and cried out—

"By Jackson, he's got you, Puddn'head!
Now why could n't I or any fool have thought
of that?"

Wilson said to himself, "Anybody with a
reasonably good head would have thought of
it. I am not surprised that Blake did n't detect
it; I am only surprised that Tom did.
There is more to him than I supposed." He
said nothing aloud, and Tom went on:

"Very well. The thief would not suspect
that there was a trap, and he would bring or
send the knife, and say he bought it for a
song, or found it in the road, or something
like that, and try to collect the reward, and
be arrested—would n't he?"

"Yes," said Wilson.

"I think so," said Tom. "There can't be
any doubt of it. Have you ever seen that
knife?"

"No."

"Has any friend of yours?"

"Not that I know of."

---

"Well, I begin to think I understand why
your scheme failed."

"What do you mean, Tom? What are
you driving at?" asked Wilson, with a dawning
sense of discomfort.

"Why, that there is n't any such knife."

"Look here, Wilson," said Blake, "Tom
Driscoll's right, for a thousand dollars—if I
had it."

Wilson's blood warmed a little, and he wondered
if he had been played upon by those
strangers; it certainly had something of that
look. But what could they gain by it? He
threw out that suggestion. Tom replied:

"Gain? Oh, nothing that you would
value, maybe. But they are strangers making
their way in a new community. Is it nothing
to them to appear as pets of an Oriental
prince—at no expense? Is it nothing to them
to be able to dazzle this poor little town with
thousand-dollar rewards—at no expense?
Wilson, there is n't any such knife, or your
scheme would have fetched it to light. Or if
there is any such knife, they've got it yet.
I believe, myself, that they've seen such a

---

knife, for Angelo pictured it out with his
pencil too swiftly and handily for him to have
been inventing it, and of course I can't swear
that they've never had it; but this I'll go
bail for—if they had it when they came to this
town, they've got it yet."

Blake said—

"It looks mighty reasonable, the way Tom
puts it; it most certainly does."

Tom responded, turning to leave—

"You find the old woman, Blake, and if she
can't furnish the knife, go and search the
twins!"

Tom sauntered away. Wilson felt a good
deal depressed. He hardly knew what to
think. He was loth to withdraw his faith
from the twins, and was resolved not to do it
on the present indecisive evidence; but—
well, he would think, and then decide how to
act.

"Blake, what do you think of this matter?"

"Well, Pudd'nhead, I'm bound to say I
put it up the way Tom does. They had n't
the knife; or if they had it, they've got it
yet."

---

The men parted. Wilson said to himself:

"I believe they had it; if it had been stolen,
the scheme would have restored it, that is certain.
And so I believe they've got it yet."

Tom had no purpose in his mind when he
encountered those two men. When he began
his talk he hoped to be able to gall them a
little and get a trifle of malicious entertainment
out of it. But when he left, he left in
great spirits, for he perceived that just by pure
luck and no troublesome labor he had accomplished
several delightful things: he had
touched both men on a raw spot and seen
them squirm; he had modified Wilson's sweetness
for the twins with one small bitter taste
that he would n't be able to get out of his
mouth right away; and, best of all, he had
taken the hated twins down a peg with the
community; for Blake would gossip around
freely, after the manner of detectives, and
within a week the town would be laughing at
them in its sleeve for offering a gaudy reward
for a bauble which they either never possessed
or had n't lost. Tom was very well satisfied
with himself.

---

Tom's behavior at home had been perfect
during the entire week. His uncle and aunt
had seen nothing like it before. They could
find no fault with him anywhere.

Saturday evening he said to the Judge—

"I've had something preying on my mind,
uncle, and as I am going away, and might
never see you again, I can't bear it any longer.
I made you believe I was afraid to fight that
Italian adventurer. I had to get out of it on
some pretext or other, and maybe I chose
badly, being taken unawares, but no honorable
person could consent to meet him in the
field, knowing what I knew about him."

"Indeed? What was that?"

"Cound Luigi is a confessed assassin."

"Incredible!"

"It is perfectly true. Wilson detected it in
his hand, by palmistry, and charged him with
it, and cornered him up so close that he had
to confess; but both twins begged us on their
kness to keep the secret, and swore they
would lead straight lives here; and it was all
so pitiful that we gave our word of honor
never to expose them while they kept that

---

promise. You would have done it yourself,
uncle."

"You are right, my boy; I would. A
man's secret is still his own property, and
sacred, when it has been surprised out of him
like that. You did well, and I am proud of
you." Then he added mournfully, "But I
wish I could have been saved the shame of
meeting an assassin on the field of honor."

"It could n't be helped, uncle. If I had
known you were going to challenge him I
should have felt obliged to sacrifice my
pledged word in order to stop it, but Wilson
could n't be expected to do otherwise than
keep silent."

"Oh no; Wilson did right, and is in no way
to blame. Tom, Tom, you have lifted a
heavy load from my heart; I was stung to the
very soul when I seemed to have discovered
that I had a coward in my family."

"You may imagine what it cost me to
assume such a part, uncle."

"Oh, I know it, poor boy, I know it. And
I can understand how much it has cost you to
remain under that unjust stigma to this time.

---

But it is all right now, and no harm is done.
You have restored my comfort of mind, and
with it your own; and both of us had suffered
enough."

The old man sat awhile plunged in thought;
then he looked up with a satisfied light in his
eye, and said: "That this assassin should
have put the affront upon me of letting me
meet him on the field of honor as if he were a
gentleman is a matter which I will presently
settle—but not now. I will not shoot him
until after election. I see a way to ruin them
both before; I will attend to that first.
Neither of them shall be elected, that I promise.
You are sure that the fact that he is
an assassin has not got abroad?"

"Perfectly certain of it, sir."

"It will be a good card. I will fling a hint
at it from the stump on the polling-day. It
will sweep the ground from under both of
them."

"There's not a doubt of it. It will finish
them."

"That and outside work among the voters
will, to a certainty. I want you to come

---

down here by and by and work privately
among the rag-tag and bobtail. You shall
spend money among them; I will furnish it."

Another point scored against the detested
twins! Really it was a great day for Tom.
He was encouraged to chance a parting shot,
now, at the same target, and did it.

"You know that wounderful Indian knife
that the twins have been making such a to-do
about? Well, there's no track or trace of it
yet; so the town is beginning to sneer and
gossip and laugh. Half the people believe
they never had any such knife, the other half
believe they had it and have got it still. I've
heard twenty people talking like that today."

Yes, Tom's blemishless week had restored
him to the favor of his aunt and uncle.

His mother was satisfied with him, too.
Privately, she believed she was coming to love
him, but she did not say so. She told him to
go along to St. Louis, now, and she would
get ready and follow. Then she smashed her
whisky bottle and said—

"Dah now! I's a-gwyne to make you

---

walk as straight as a string, Chambers, en so
I's bown' you ain't gwyne to git no bad
example out o' yo' mammy. I tole you you
could n't go into no bad comp'ny. Well, you's
gwyne into my comp'ny, en I's gwyne to fill
de bill. Now, den, trot along, trot along!"

Tom went aboard one of the big transient
boats that night with his heavy satchel of miscellaneous
plunder, and slept the sleep of the
unjust, which is serener and sounder than the
other kind, as we know by the hanging-eve
history of a million rascals. But when he got
up in the morning, luck was against him
again: A brother-thief had robbed him while
he slept, and gone ashore at some intermediate
landing.

---

CHAPTER XVI.

you pick up a starving dog and make him prosperous,
he will not bite you. This is the principal difference between
a dog and a man.—Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.

know all about the habits of the ant, we know all
about the habits of the bee, but we know nothing at all
about the habits of the oyster. It seems almost certain
that we have been choosing the wrong time for studying
the oyster.—Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.

Roxana arrived, she found her son
in such despair and misery that her heart was
touched and her motherhood rose up strong
in her. He was ruined past hope, now; his
destruction would be immediate and sure,
and he would be an outcast and friendless.
That was reason enough for a mother to love
a child; so she loved him, and told him so.
It made him wince, secretly—for she was a
"nigger." That he was one himself was far
from reconciling him to that despised race.

---

Roxana poured out endearments upon him,
to which he responded uncomfortably, but as
well as he could. And she tried to comfort
him, but that was not possible. These intimacies
quickly became horrible to him, and
within the hour he began to try to get up
courage enough to tell her so, and require
that they be discontinued or very considerably
modified. But he was afraid of her; and besides,
there came a lull, now, for she had begun
to think. She was trying to invent a
saving plan. Finally she started up, and said
she had found a way out. Tom was almost
suffocated by the joy of this sudden good news.
Roxana said:

"Here is de plan, en she'll win, sure. I's a
nigger, en nobody ain't gwyne to doubt it dat
hears me talk. I's wuth six hund'd dollahs.
Take en sell me, en pay of dese gamblers."

Tom was dazed. He was not sure he had
heard aright. He was dumb for a moment;
then he said:

"Do you mean that you would be sold into
slavery to save me?"

"Ain't you my chile? En does you know

---

anything dat a mother won't do for her chile?
Dey ain't nothin'a white mother won't do for
her chile. Who made 'em so? De Lord
done it. En who made de niggers? De Lord
made 'em. In de inside, mothers is all de
same. De good Lord he made 'em so. I's
gwyne to be sole into slavery, en in a year
you's gwyne to buy yo' ole mammy free ag'in.
I'll show you how. Dat's de plan."

Tom's hopes began to rise, and his spirits
along with them. He said—

"It's lovely of you, mammy—it's just—"

"Say it ag'in! En keep on sayin'it? It's
all de pay a body kin want in dis worl', en it's
mo'den enough. Laws bless you, honey,
when I's slavin' aroun', en dey 'buses me, if I
knows you's a-sayin' dat, 'way off yonder
somers, it'll heal up all de sore places, en I kin
stan' 'em."

"I do say it again, mammy, and I'll keep on
saying it, too. But how am I going to sell
you? You're free, you know."

"Much diff'rence dat make! White folks
ain't partic'lar. De law kin sell me now if
dey tell me to leave de State in six months

---

en I don't go. You draw up a paper—bill o'
sale—en put it 'way off yonder, down in de
middle'o Kaintuck somers, en sign some
names to it, en say you'll sell me cheap 'ca'se
you's hard up; you'll find you ain't gwyne
to have no trouble. You take me up de
country a piece, en sell me on a farm; dem
people ain't gwyne to ask no questions if I's
a bargain."

Tom forged a bill of sale and sold his
mother to an Arkansas cotton-planter for a
trifle over six hundred dollars. He did not
want to commit this treachery, but luck
threw the man in his way, and this saved
him the necessity of going up country to
hunt up a purchaser, with the added risk of
having to answer a lot of questions, whereas
this planter was so pleased with Roxy that
he asked next to none at all. Besides, the
planter insisted that Roxy would n't know
where she was, at first, and that by the time
she found out she would already have become
contented. And Tom argued with himself
that it was an immense advantage for Roxy
to have a master who was so pleased with

---

her, as this planter manifestly was. In almost
no time his flowing reasonings carried
him to the point of even half believing he was
doing Roxy a splendid surreptitious service
in selling her "down the river." And then
he kept diligently saying to himself all the
time: "It's for only a year. In a year I
buy her free again; she'll keep that in mind,
and it'll reconcile her." Yes; the little
deception could do no harm, and everything
would come out right and pleasant in the
end, any way. By agreement, the conversation
in Roxy's presence was all about the
man's "upcountry" farm, and how pleasant a
place it was, and how happy the slaves were
there; so poor Roxy was entirely deceived;
and easily, for she was not dreaming that her
own son could be guilty of treason to a
mother who, in voluntarily going into slavery—slavery
of any kind, mild or severe, or
of any duration, brief or long—was making a
sacrifice for him compared with which death
would have been a poor and commonplace
one. She lavished tears and loving caresses
upon him privately, and then went away with

---

her owner—went away broken-hearted, and
yet proud of what she was doing, and glad
that it was in her power to do it.

Tom squared his accounts, and resolved to
keep to the very letter of his reform, and
never to put that will in jeopardy again. He
had three hundred dollars left. According
to his mother's plan, he was to put that
safely away, and add her half of his pension to
it monthly. In one year this fund would buy
her free again.

For a whole week he was not able to sleep
well, so much the villiany which he had
played upon his trusting mother preyed upon
his rag of a conscience; but after that he
began to get comfortable again, and was
presently able to sleep like any other miscreant.

boat bore Roxy away from St. Louis
at four in the afternoon, and she stood on
the lower guard abaft the paddle-box and
watched Tom through a blur of tears until
he melted into the throng of people and
disappeared; then she looked no more, but

---

sat there on a coil of cable crying till far into
the night. When she went to her foul steerage-bunk
at last, between the clashing
engines, it was not to sleep, but only to wait
for the morning, and, waiting, grieve.

It had been imagined that she "would not
know," and would think she was traveling
up stream. She! Why, she had been
steamboating for years. At dawn she got
up and went listlessly and sat down on the
cable-coil again. She passed many a snag
whose "break" could have told her a thing
to break her heart, for it showed a current
moving in the same direction that the boat
was going; but her thoughts were elsewhere,
and she did not notice. But at last the roar
of a bigger and nearer break than usual
brought her out of her torpor, and she looked
up, and her practised eye fell upon that telltale
rush of water. For one moment her
petrified gaze fixed itself there. Then her
head dropped upon her breast, and she said—

"Oh, de good Lord God have mercy on
po' sinful me—I's sole down de river!"

---

CHAPTER XVII.

popularity can be overdone. In Rome, along at
first, you are full of regrets that Michelangelo died; but
by and by you only regret that you did n't see him do it.—
Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.

July 4. Statistics show that we lose more fools on this
day than in all the other days of the year put together.
This proves, by the number left in stock, that one Fourth
of July per year is now inadequate, the country has grown
so.—Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.

summer weeks dragged by, and then
the political campaign opened—opened in
pretty warm fashion, and waxed hotter and
hotter daily. The twins threw themselves
into it with their whole heart, for their self-love
was engaged. Their popularity, so general
at first, had suffered afterward; mainly
because they had been too popular, and so a
natural reaction had followed. Besides, it
had been diligently whispered around that it

---

was curious—indeed, very curious—that that
wonderful knife of theirs did not turn up—if
it was so valuable, or if it had ever existed.
And with the whisperings went chucklings
and nudgings and winks, and such things
have an effect. The twins considered that
success in the election would reinstate them,
and that defeat would work them irreparable
damage. Therefore they worked hard, but
not harder than Judge Driscoll and Tom
worked against them in the closing days of
the canvas. Tom's conduct had remained so
letter-perfect during two whole months, now,
that his uncle not only trusted him with
money with which to persuade voters, but
trusted him to go and get it himself out of
the safe in the private sitting-room.

The closing speech of the campaign was
made by Judge Driscoll, and he made it
against both of the foreigners. It was disastrously
effective. He poured out rivers of
ridicule upon them, and forced the big mass-meeting
to laugh and applaud. He scoffed
at them as adventurers, mountebanks, sideshow
riff-raff, dime museum freaks; he assailed

---

their showy titles with measureless
derision; he said they were back-alley barbers
disguised as nobilities, peanut pedlers
masquerading as gentlemen, organ-grinders
bereft of their brother monkey. At last he stopped
and stood still. He waited until the place
had become absolutely silent and expectant,
then he delivered his deadliest shot; delivered
it with ice-cold seriousness and deliberation,
with a significant emphasis upon the
closing words: he said he believed that the
reward offered for the lost knife was humbug
and buncombe, and that its owner would know
where to find it whenever he should have occasion
to assassinate somebody.

Then he stepped from the stand, leaving a
startled and impressive hush behind him instead
of the customary explosion of cheers
and party cries.

The strange remark flew far and wide over
the town and made an extraordinary sensation.
Everybody was asking, "What could
he mean by that?" And everybody went on
asking that question, but in vain; for the
Judge only said he knew what he was talking

---

about, and stopped there; Tom said he
had n't any idea what his uncle meant, and
Wilson, whenever he was asked what he
thought it meant, parried the question by
asking the questioner what he thought it
meant.

Wilson was elected, the twins were defeated—crushed,
in fact, and left forlorn and
substantially friendless. Tom went back to
St. Louis happy.

Dawson's Landing had a week of repose,
now, and it needed it. But it was in an expectant
state, for the air was full of rumors of
a new duel. Judge Driscoll's election labors
had prostrated him, but it was said that as
soon as he was well enough to entertain a
challenge he would get one from Count Luigi.

The brothers withdrew entirely from society,
and nursed their humiliation in privacy.
They avoided the people, and went out for
exercise only late at night, when the streets
were deserted.

---

CHAPTER XVIII.

and treachery are merely the two extremities
of the same procession. You have seen all of it that
is worth staying for when the band and the gaudy officials
have gone by.—Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.

. Let all give humble, hearty,
and sincere thanks, now, but the turkeys. In the island
of Fiji they do not use turkeys; they use plumbers. It
does not become you and me to sneer at Fiji—Pudd'nhead
Wilson's Calendar.

friday after the election was a rainy
one in St. Louis. It rained all day long, and
rained hard, apparently trying its best to
wash that soot-blackened town white, but of
course not succeeding. Toward midnight
Tom Driscoll arrived at his lodgings from the
theatre in the heavy downpour, and closed
his umberella and let himself in; but when he
would have shut the door, he found that there
was another person entering—doubtless another
lodger; this person closed the door

---

and tramped up-stairs behind Tom. Tom
found his door in the dark, and entered it and
turned up the gas. When he faced about,
lightly whistling, he saw the back of a man.
The man was closing and locking his door
for him. His whistle faded out and he felt
uneasy. The man turned around, a wreck of
shabby old clothes, sodden with rain and all
a-drip, and showed a black face under an old
slouch hat. Tom was frightened. He tried
to order the man out, but the words refused
to come, and the other man got the start.
He said, in a low voice—

"Keep still—I's yo' mother!"

Tom sunk in a heap on a chair, and gasped
out—

"It was mean of me, and base—I know it;
but I meant it for the best, I did indeed—I
can swear it."

Roxana stood awhile looking mutely down
on him while he writhed in shame and went on
incoherently babbling self-accusations mixed
with pitiful attempts at explanation and palliation
of his crime; then she seated herself
and took off her hat, and her unkempt masses

---

of long brown hair tumbled down about her
shoulders.

"It ain't no fault o' yo'n dat dat ain't
gray," she said sadly, noticing the hair.

"I know it, I know it! I'm a scoundrel.
But I swear I meant it for the best. It was a
mistake, of course, but I thought it was for
the best, I truly did."

Roxy began to cry softly, and presently
words began to find their way out between
her sobs. They were uttered lamentingly,
rather than angrily—

"Sell a pusson down de river—down de
river!—for de bes'! I would n't treat a dog
so! I is all broke down en wore out, now, en
so I reckon it ain't in me to storm aroun' no
mo', like I used to when I'uz trompled on en
'bused. I don't know—but maybe it's so.
Leastways, I's suffered so much dat mournin'
seem to come mo' handy to me now den
stormin'."

These words should have touched Tom
Driscoll, but if they did, that effect was obliterated
by a stronger one—one which removed
the heavy weight of fear which lay upon him,

---

and gave his crushed spirit a most grateful rebound,
and filled all his small soul with a deep
sense of relief. But he kept prudently still,
and ventured no comment. There was a
voiceless interval of some duration, now, in
which no sounds were heard but the beating
of the rain upon the panes, the sighing and
complaining of the winds, and now and then
a muffled sob from Roxana. The sobs became
more and more infrequent, and at last
ceased. Then the refugee began to talk
again:

"Shet down dat light a little. More.
More yit. A pusson dat is hunted don't like
de light. Dah—dat'll do. I kin see whah
you is, en dat's enough. I's gwine to tell
you de tale, en cut it jes as short as I kin, en
den I'll tell you what you's got to do. Dat
man dat bought me ain't a bad man; he's
good enough, as planters goes; en if he
could'a' had his way I'd 'a' be'n a house servant
in his fambly en be'n comfortable: but
his wife she was a Yank, en not right down
good lookin', en she riz up agin me straight
off; so den dey sent me out to de quarter

---

'mongst de common fiel' han's. Dat woman
war n't satisfied even wid dat, but she worked
up de overseer ag'in' me, she'uz dat jealous
en hateful; so de overseer he had me out befo'
day in de mawnin's en worked me de whole
long day as long as dey'uz any light to see by;
en many's de lashin's I got 'ca'se I could n't
come up to de work o' de stronges'. Dat
overseer wuz a Yank, too, outen New Englan',
en anybody down South kin tell you what
dat mean. Dey knows how to work a nigger
to death, en day knows how to whale 'em, too
—whale 'em till dey backs is welted like a
washboard. 'Long at fust my marster say de
good word for me to de overseer, but dat'uz
bad for me; for de mistis she fine it out, en
arter dat I jist ketched it at every turn—dey
war n't no mercy for me no mo'."

Tom's heart was fired—with fury 'against
the planter's wife; and he said to himself, "But
for that meddlesome fool, everything would
have gone all right." He added a deep and
bitter curse against her.

The expression of this sentiment was fiercely
written in his face, and stood thus revealed to

---

Roxana by a white glare of lightning which
turned the somber dusk of the room into dazzling
day at that moment. She was pleased—
pleased and grateful; for did not that expression
show that her child was capable of grieving
for his mother's wrongs and of feeling resentment
toward her persecutors?—a thing
which she had been doubting. But her flash
of happiness was only a flash, and went out
again and left her spirit dark; for she said to
herself, "He sole me down de river—he can't
feel for a body long: dis'll pass en go." Then
she took up her tale again.

"'Bout ten days ago I'uz sayin' to myself
dat I could n't las' many mo' weeks I'uz so
wore out wid de awful work en de lashin's, en
so downhearted en misable. En I did n't
care no mo', nuther—life war n't wuth noth'n'
to me, if I got to go on like dat. Well,
when a body is in a frame o' mine like dat,
what do a body care what a body do? Dey
was a little sickly nigger wench 'bout ten year
ole dat'uz good to me, en had n't no mammy,
po' thing, en I loved her en she loved me;
en she come out whah I'uz workin 'en she had

---

a roasted tater, en tried to slip it to me,—robbin'
herself, you see, 'ca'se she knowed de
overseer did n't gimme enough to eat,—en he
ketched her at it, en give her a lick acrost de
back wid his stick, which 'uz as thick as a
broom-handle, en she drop' screamin' on de
groun', en squirmin' en wallerin' aroun' in
de dust like a spider dat's got crippled. I
could n't stan' it. All de hell-fire dat 'uz ever
in my heart flame' up, en I snatch de stick
outen his han' en laid him flat. He laid dah
moanin' en cussin', en all out of his head, you
know, en de niggers 'uz plumb sk'yerd to
death. Dey gathered roun' him to hep' him,
en I jumped on his hoss en took out for de
river as tight as I could go. I knowed what
dey would do wid me. Soon as he got well
he would start in en work me to death if
marster let him; en if dey did n't do dat, they'd
sell me furder down de river, en dat's de same
thing. So I 'lowed to drown myself en git out
o' my troubles. It 'uz gitt'n' towards dark.
I'uz at de river in two minutes. Den I see
a canoe, en I says dey ain't no use to drown
myself tell I got to; so I ties de hoss in de

---

edge o' de timber en shove out down de river,
keepin' in under de shelter o' de bluff bank en
prayin' for de dark to shet down quick. I
had a pow'ful good start, 'ca'se de big house
'uz three mile back f'om de river en on'y de
work-mules to ride dah on, en on'y niggers to
ride 'em, en day war n't gwine to hurry—dey'd
gimme all de chance dey could. Befo' a body
could go to de house en back it would be long
pas' dark, en dey could n't track de hoss en
fine out which way I went tell mawnin', en de
niggers would tell 'em all de lies dey could
'bout it.

"Well, de dark come, en I went on a-spinnin'
down de river. I paddled mo'n two
hours, den I war n't worried no mo', so I quit
paddlin, en floated down de current, considerin'
what I'uz gwine to do if I did n't have to
drown myself. I made up some plans, en
floated along, turnin' 'em over in my mine.
Well, when it'uz a little pas' midnight, as I
reckoned, en I had come fifteen or twenty
mile, I see de lights o'a steamboat layin' at
de bank, whah dey war n't no town en no
woodyard, en putty soon I ketched de shape

---

o' de chimbly-tops ag'in' de stars, en de good
gracious me, I 'most jumped out o' my skin
for joy! It 'uz de Gran' Mogul—I 'uz
chambermaid on her for eight seasons in de
Cincinnati en Orleans trade. I slid 'long pas'
—don't see nobody stirrin' nowhah—hear'em
a-hammerin' away in de engine-room, den I
knowed what de matter was—some o' de machinery's
broke. I got asho' below de boat
and turn' de canoe loose, den I goes 'long up,
en dey 'uz jes one plank out, en I step' 'board
de boat. It 'uz pow'ful hot, deckhan's en
roustabouts 'uz sprawled aroun' asleep on de
fo'cas'l', de second mate, Jim Bangs, he sot
dah on de bitts wid his head down, asleep—
'ca'se dat's de way de second mate stan' de
cap'n's watch!—en de ole watchman, Billy
Hatch, he 'uz a-noddin' on de companionway;
—en I knowed 'em all; 'en, lan', but dey did
look good! I says to myself, I wished old
marster'd come along now en try to take me
—bless yo' heart, I's 'mong frien's, I is. So
I tromped right along 'mongst 'em, en went
up on de b'iler deck en 'way back aft to de
ladies' cabin guard, en sot down dah in de

---

same cheer dat I'd sot in 'mos' a hund'd million
times, I reckon; en it 'uz jist home ag'in, I
tell you!

"In 'bout an hour I heard de ready-bell
jingle, en den de racket begin. Putty soon I
hear de gong strike. 'Set her back on de outside,'
I says to myself—'I reckon I knows dat
music!' I hear de gong ag'in. 'Come ahead
on de inside,' I says. Gong ag'in. 'Stop de
outside.' Gong ag'in. 'Come ahead on de outside—now
we's pinted for Sent Louis, en
I's outer de woods en ain't got to drown myself
at all.' I knowed de Mogul 'uz in de Sent
Louis trade now, you see. It 'uz jes fair daylight
when we passed our plantation, en I seed
a gang o' niggers en white folks huntin' up en
down de sho', en troublin' deyselves a good
deal 'bout me; but I war n't troublin' myself
none 'bout dem.

"'Bout dat time Sally Jackson, dat used to
be my second chambermaid en 'uz head chambermaid
now, she come out on de guard, en
'uz pow'ful glad to see me, en so 'uz all de
officers; en I tole 'em I'd got kidnapped en
sole down de river, en dey made me up

---

twenty dollahs en give it to me, en Sally she
rigged me out wid good clo'es, en when I got
here I went straight to whah you used to wuz,
en den I come to dis house, en dey say you's
away but 'spected back every day; so I
did n't dast to go down de river to Dawson's,
'ca'se I might miss you.

"Well, las' Monday I' uz pass'n' by one o'
dem places in Fourth street whah deh sticks
up runaway-nigger bills, en he'ps to ketch
'em, en I seed my marster! I 'mos' flopped
down on de groun', I felt so gone. He had
his back to me, en 'uz talkin' to de man en
givin' him some bills—nigger-bills, I reckon,
en I'se de nigger. He's offerin' a reward—
dat's it. Ain't I right, don't you reckon?"

Tom had been gradually sinking into a
state of ghastly terror, and he said to himself,
now: "I'm lost, no matter what turn things
take! This man has said to me that he
thinks there was something suspicious about
that sale. He said he had a letter from a
passenger on the Grand Mogul saying that
Roxy came here on that boat and that everybody
on board knew all about the case; so

---

he says that her coming here instead of flying
to a free State looks bad for me, and that if I
don't find her for him, and that pretty soon,
he will make trouble for me. I never believed
that story; I could n't believe she
would be so dead to all motherly instincts as
to come here, knowing the risk she would
run of getting me into irremediable trouble.
And after all, here she is! And I stupidly
swore I would help him find her, thinking it
was a perfectly safe thing to promise. If I
venture to deliver her up, she—she—but how
can I help myself? I've got to do that or
pay the money, and where's the money to
come from? I—I—well, I should think that
if he would swear to treat her kindly hereafter—and
she says, herself, that he is a good
man—and if he would swear to never allow
her to be overworked, or ill fed, or——"

A flash of lightning exposed Tom's pallid
face, drawn and rigid with these worrying
thoughts. Roxana spoke up sharply now,
and there was apprehension in her voice—

"Turn up dat light! I want to see yo'
face better. Dah now—lemme look at you.

---

Chambers, you's as white as yo' shirt! Has
you seen dat man? Has he be'n to see you?"

"Ye-s."

"When?"

"Monday noon."

"Monday noon! Was he on my track?"

"He—well, he thought he was. That is,
he hoped he was. This is the bill you saw."
He took it out of his pocket.

"Read it to me!"

She was panting with excitement, and
there was a dusky glow in her eyes that Tom
could not translate with certainty, but there
seemed to be something threatening about it.
The handbill had the usual rude woodcut of a
turbaned negro woman running, with the customary
bundle on a stick overher shoulder,
and the heading in bold type, "$100 -
." Tom read the bill aloud—at least
the part that described Roxana and named
the master and his St. Louis address and the
address of the Fourth-street agency; but he
left out the item that applicants for the reward
might also apply to Mr. Thomas Driscoll.

---

"Gimme de bill!"

Tom had folded it and was putting it in his
pocket. He felt a chilly streak creeping
down his back, but said as carelessly as he
could—

"The bill? Why, it isn't any use to you,
you can't read it. What do you want with
it?"

"Gimme de bill!" Tom gave it to her,
but with a reluctance which he could not entirely
disguise. "Did you read it all to me?"

"Certainly I did."

"Hole up yo' han' en swah to it."

Tom did it. Roxana put the bill carefully
away in her pocket, with her eyes fixed upon
Tom's face all the while; then she said—

"Yo's lyin!"

"What would I want to lie about it for?"

"I don't know—but you is. Dat's my
opinion, anyways. But nemmine 'bout dat.
When I seed dat man I'uz dat sk'yerd dat I
could sca'cely wobble home. Den I give a
nigger man a dollar for dese clo'es, en I ain't
be'n in a house sence, night ner day, till now.
I blacked my face en laid hid in de cellar of a

---

ole house dat's burnt down, daytimes, en
robbed de sugar hogsheads en grain sacks on
de wharf, nights, to git somethin' to eat, en
never dast to try to buy noth'n', en I's 'mos'
starved. En I never dast to come near dis
place till dis rainy night, when dey ain't no
people roun' sca'cely. But to-night I be'n
a-stannin' in de dark alley ever sence night
come, waitin' for you to go by. En here I is."

She fell to thinking. Presently she said—

"You seed dat man at noon, las' Monday?"

"Yes."

"I seed him de middle o' dat arternoon.
He hunted you up, didn't he?"

"Yes."

"Did he give you de bill dat time?"

"No, he had n't got it printed yet."

Roxana darted a suspicious glance at him.

"Did you he'p him fix up de bill?"

Tom cursed himself for making that stupid
blunder, and tried to rectify it by saying he
remembered, now, that it was at noon Monday
that the man gave him the bill. Roxana
said—

---

"You's lyin' ag'in, sho." Then she straightened
up and raised her finger:

"Now den! I's gwine to ask you a question,
en I wants to know how you's gwine to
git aroun't it. You knowed he 'uz arter me;
en if you run off, 'stid o' stayin' here to he'p
him, he'd know dey 'uz somethin' wrong 'bout
dis business, en den he would inquire 'bout
you, en dat would take him to yo' uncle, en
yo' uncle would read de bill en see dat you
be'n sellin'a free nigger down de river, en
you know him, I reckon! He'd t'ar up de
will en kick you outen de house. Now, den,
you answer me dis question: hain't you tole
dat man dat I would be sho' to come here, en
den you would fix it so he could set a trap
en ketch me?"

Tom recognized that neither lies nor arguments
could help him any longer—he was in a
vise, with the screw turned on, and out of it
there was no budging. His face began to
take on an ugly look, and presently he said,
with a snarl—

"Well, what could I do? You see, yourself,

---

that I was in his grip and could n't get
out."

Roxy scorched him with a scornful gaze
awhile, then she said—

"What could you do? You could be Judas
to yo' own mother to save yo' wuthless
hide! Would anybody b'lieve it? No—a
dog could n't! You is de low-downest orneriest
hound dat was ever pup'd into dis worl'—
en I's 'sponsible for it!"—and she spat on
him.

He made no effort to resent this. Roxy reflected
a moment, then she said—

"Now I'll tell you what you's gwine to do.
You's gwine to give dat man de money dat
you's got laid up, en make him wait till you
kin go to de Jedge en git de res' en buy me
free agin."

"Thunder! what are you thinking of? Go
and ask him for three hundred dollars and
odd? What would I tell him I want with it,
pray?"

Roxy's answer was delivered in a serene
and level voice—

"You'll tell him you's sole me to pay yo'

---

gamblin' debts en dat you lied to me en was a
villain, en dat I 'quires you to git dat money
en buy me back ag'in."

"Why, you've gone stark mad! He would
tear the will to shreds in a minute—don't you
know that?"

"Yes, I does."

"Then you don't believe I'm idiot enough
to go to him, do you?"

"I don't b'lieve nothin' 'bout it—I knows
you's a-goin'. I knows it 'ca'se you knows
dat if you don't raise dat money I'll go to
him myself, en den he'll sell you down de
river, en you kin see how you like it!"

Tom rose, trembling and excited, and there
was an evil light in his eye. He strode to
the door and said he must get out of this
suffocating place for a moment and clear his
brain in the fresh air so that he could determine
what to do. The door would n't open.
Roxy smiled grimly, and said—

"I's got de key, honey—set down. You
needn't cle'r up yo' brain none to fine out what
you gwine to do—I knows what you's gwine
to do." Tom sat down and began to pass his

---

hands through his hair with a helpless and
desperate air. Roxy said, "Is dat man in
dis house?"

Tom glanced up with a surprised expression,
and asked—

"What gave you such an idea?"

"You done it. Gwine out to cle'r yo'
brain! In de fust place you ain't got none to
cle'r, en in de second place yo' ornery eye
tole on you. You's de low-downest hound
dat ever—but I done tole you dat befo'.
Now den, dis is Friday. You kin fix it up
wid dat man, en tell him you's gwine away to
git de res' o' de money, en dat you'll be back
wid it nex' Tuesday, or maybe Wednesday.
You understan'?"

Tom answered sullenly—

"Yes."

"En when you gits de new bill o' sale dat
sells me to my own self, take en send it in de
mail to Mr. Pudd'nhead Wilson, en write on
de back dat he's to keep it tell I come. You
understan'?"

"Yes."

---

"Dat's all den. Take yo' umbreller, en
put on yo' hat."

"Why?"

"Beca'se you's gwine to see me home to
de wharf. You see dis knife? I's toted it
aroun' sence de day I seed dat man en bought
dese clo'es en it. If he ketch me, I's gwine to
kill myself wid it. Now start along, en go
sof', en lead de way; en if you gives a sign in
dis house, or if anybody comes up to you in
de street, I's gwine to jam it right into you.
Chambers, does you b'lieve me when I says
dat?"

"It's no use to bother me with that question.
I know your word's good."

"Yes, it's diff'rent from yo'n! Shet de
light out en move along—here's de key."

They were not followed. Tom trembled
every time a late straggler brushed by them
on the street, and half expected to feel the
cold steel in his back. Roxy was right at
his heels and always in reach. After tramping
a mile they reached a wide vacancy on
the deserted wharves, and in this dark and
rainy desert they parted.

---

As Tom trudged home his mind was full
of dreary thoughts and wild plans; but at
last he said to himself, wearily—

"There is but the one way out. I must
follow her plan. But with a variation—I will
not ask for the money and ruin myself; I will
rob the old skinflint."

---

CHAPTER XIX.

things are harder to put up with than the annoyance
of a good example.—Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.

were not best that we should all think alike; it is
difference of opinion that makes horse-races.—Pudd'nhead
Wilson's Calendar.

was comfortably finishing
its season of dull repose and waiting patiently
for the duel. Count Luigi was waiting,
too; but not patiently, rumor said. Sunday
came, and Luigi insisted on having his challenge
conveyed. Wilson carried it. Judge
Driscoll declined to fight with an assassin—
"that is," he added significantly, "in the field
of honor."

Elsewhere, of course, he would be ready.
Wilson tried to convince him that if he had
been present himself when Angelo told about
the homicide committed by Luigi, he would
not have considered the act discreditable to

---

Luigi; but the obstinate old man was not to
be moved.

Wilson went back to his principal and reported
the failure of his mission. Luigi was
incensed, and asked how it could be that the
old gentleman, who was by no means dull-witted,
held his trifling nephew's evidence and
inferences to be of more value than Wilson's.
But Wilson laughed, and said—

"That is quite simple; that is easily explicable.
I am not his doll—his baby—his infatuation:
his nephew is. The Judge and his
late wife never had any children. The Judge
and his wife were past middle age when this
treasure fell into their lap. One must make
allowances for a parental instinct that has
been starving for twenty-five or thirty years.
It is famished, it is crazed with hunger by
that time, and will be entirely satisfied with
anything that comes handy; its taste is atrophied,
it can't tell mud-cat from shad. A
devil born to a young couple is measurably
recognizable by them as a devil before long,
but a devil adopted by an old couple is an
angel to them, and remains so, through thick

---

and thin. Tom is this old man's angel; he is
infatuated with him. Tom can persuade him
into things which other people can't—not all
things; I don't mean that, but a good many—
particularly one class of things: the things
that create or abolish personal partialities or
prejudices in the old man's mind. The old
man liked both of you. Tom conceived a
hatred for you. That was enough; it turned
the old man around at once. The oldest and
strongest friendship must go to the ground
when one of these late-adopted darlings
throws a brick at it."

"It's a curious philosophy," said Luigi.

"It ain't a philosophy at all—it's a fact.
And there is something pathetic and beautiful
about it, too. I think there is nothing
more pathetic than to see one of these poor
old childless couples taking a menagerie of
yelping little worthless dogs to their hearts;
and then adding some cursing and squawking
parrots and a jackass-voiced macaw; and
next a couple of hundred screeching songbirds,
and presently some fetid guinea-pigs
and rabbits, and a howling colony of cats. It

---

is all a groping and ignorant effort to construct
out of base metal and brass filings, so
to speak, something to take the place of that
golden treasure denied them by Nature, a
child. But this is a digression. The unwritten
law of this region requires you to kill
Judge Driscoll on sight, and he and the community
will expect that attention at your
hands—though of course your own death by
his bullet will answer every purpose. Look
out for him! Are you heeled—that is, fixed?"

"Yes; he shall have his opportunity. If
he attacks me I will respond."

As Wilson was leaving, he said—

"The Judge is still a little used up by his
campaign work, and will not get out for a
day or so; but when he does get out, you
want to be on the alert."

About eleven at night the twins went out
for exercise, and started on a long stroll in
the veiled moonlight.

Tom Driscoll had landed at Hackett's
Store, two miles below Dawson's, just about
half an hour earlier, the only passenger for
that lonely spot, and had walked up the shore

---

road and entered Judge Driscoll's house without
having encountered any one either on the
road or under the roof.

He pulled down his window-blinds and
lighted his candle. He laid off his coat and
hat and began his preparations. He unlocked
his trunk and got his suit of girl's
clothes out from under the male attire in it,
and laid it by. Then he blacked his face
with burnt cork and put the cork in his
pocket. His plan was, to slip down to his uncle's
private sitting-room below, pass into the
bedroom, steal the safe-key from the old
gentleman's clothes, and then go back and
rob the safe. He took up his candle to start.
His courage and confidence were high, up to
this point, but both began to waver a little,
now. Suppose he should make a noise, by
some accident, and get caught—say, in the
act of opening the safe? Perhaps it would
be well to go armed. He took the Indian
knife from its hiding-place, and felt a
pleasant return of his wandering courage.
He slipped stealthily down the narrow stair,
his hair rising and his pulses halting at the

---

slightest creak. When he was half-way down,
he was disturbed to perceive that the landing
below was touched by a faint glow of light.
What could that mean? Was his uncle still
up? No, that was not likely; he must have
left his night-taper there when he went to
bed. Tom crept on down, pausing at every
step to listen. He found the door standing
open, and glanced in. What he saw pleased
him beyond measure. His uncle was asleep
on the sofa; on a small table at the head of
the sofa a lamp was burning low, and by it
stood the old man's small tin cash-box, closed.
Near the box was a pile of bank-notes and a
piece of paper covered with figures in pencil.
The safe-door was not open. Evidently the
sleeper had wearied himself with work upon
his finances, and was taking a rest.

Tom set his candle on the stairs, and began
to make his way toward the pile of notes,
stooping low as he went. When he was passing
his uncle, the old man stirred in his sleep,
and Tom stopped instantly—stopped, and
softly drew the knife from its sheath, with his
heart thumping, and his eyes fastened upon

---

his benefactor's face. After a moment or two
he ventured forward again—one step—
reached for his prize and seized it, dropping
the knife-sheath. Then he felt the old man's
strong grip upon him, and a wild cry of
"Help! help!" rang in his ear. Without
hesitation he drove the knife home—and was
free. Some of the notes escaped from his
left hand and fell in the blood on the floor.
He dropped the knife and snatched them up
and started to fly; transferred them to his
left hand, and seized the knife again, in his
fright and confusion, but remembered himself
and flung it from him, as being a dangerous
witness to carry away with him.

He jumped for the stair-foot, and closed
the door behind him; and as he snatched his
candle and fled upward, the stillness of the
night was broken by the sound of urgent footsteps
approaching the house. In another
moment he was in his room and the twins
were standing aghast over the body of the
murdered man!

Tom put on his coat, buttoned his hat under
it, threw on his suit of girl's clothes,

---

dropped the veil, blew out his light, locked
the room door by which he had just entered,
taking the key, passed through his other door
into the back hall, locked that door and kept
the key, then worked his way along in the
dark and descended the back stairs. He was
not expecting to meet anybody, for all interest
was centered in the other part of the
house, now; his calculation proved correct.
By the time he was passing through the backyard,
Mrs. Pratt, her servants, and a dozen
half-dressed neighbors had joined the twins
and the dead, and accessions were still arriving
at the front door.

As Tom, quaking as with a palsy, passed out
at the gate, three women came flying from
the house on the opposite side of the lane.
They rushed by him and in at the gate, asking
him what the trouble was there, but not
waiting for an answer. Tom said to himself,
"Those old maids waited to dress—they did
the same thing the night Stevens's house
burned down next door." In a few minutes
he was in the haunted house. He lighted a
candle and took off his girl-clothes. There

---

was blood on him all down his left side, and
his right hand was red with the stains of the
blood-soaked notes which he had crushed in
it; but otherwise he was free from this sort
of evidence. He cleansed his hand on the
straw, and cleaned most of the smut from his
face. Then he burned his male and female
attire to ashes, scattered the ashes, and put
on a disguise proper for a tramp. He blew
out his light, went below, and was soon loafing
down the river road with the intent to
borrow and use one of Roxy's devices. He
found a canoe and paddled off down-stream,
setting the canoe adrift as dawn approached,
and making his way by land to the next village,
where he kept out of sight till a transient
steamer came along, and then took deck
passage for St.Louis. He was ill at ease until
Dawson's Landing was behind him; then
he said to himself, "All the detectives on
earth could n't trace me now; there's not a
vestige of a clue left in the world; that homicide
will take its place with the permanent
mysteries, and people won't get done trying
to guess out the secret of it for fifty years."

---

In St.Louis, next morning, he read this
brief telegram in the papers—dated at Dawson's
Landing:
Judge Driscoll, an old and respected citizen, was assassinated
here about midnight by a profligate Italian nobleman
or barber on account of a quarrel growing out of
the recent election. The assassin will probably be
lynched.

"One of the twins!" soliloquized Tom;
"how lucky! It is the knife that has done
him this grace. We never know when fortune
is trying to favor us. I actually cursed
Pudd'nhead Wilson in my heart for putting it
out of my power to sell that knife. I take it
back, now."

Tom was now rich and independent. He
arranged with the planter, and mailed to Wilson
the new bill of sale which sold Roxana to
herself; then he telegraphed his Aunt Pratt:
Have seen the awful news in the papers and am almost
prostrated with grief. Shall start by packet to-day. Try
to bear up till I come.

When Wilson reached the house of mourning
and had gathered such details as Mrs.
Pratt and the rest of the crowd could tell him,

---

he took command as mayor, and gave orders
that nothing should be touched, but everything
left as it was until Justice Robinson
should arrive and take the proper measures as
coroner. He cleared everybody out of the
room but the twins and himself. The sheriff
soon arrived and took the twins away to jail.
Wilson told them to keep heart, and promised
to do his best in their defense when the case
should come to trial. Justice Robinson came
presently, and with him Constable Blake.
They examined the room thoroughly. They
found the knife and the sheath. Wilson
noticed that there were finger-prints on the
knife-handle. That pleased him, for the twins
had required the earliest comers to make a
scrutiny of their hands and clothes, and neither
these people nor Wilson himself had
found any blood-stains upon them. Could
there be a possibility that the twins had spoken
the truth when they said they found the man
dead when they ran into the house in answer
to the cry for help? He thought of that mysterious
girl at once. But this was not the
sort of work for a girl to be engaged in. No

---

matter; Tom Driscoll's room must be examined.

After the coroner's jury had viewed the
body and its surroundings, Wilson suggested
a search up-stairs, and he went along. The
jury forced an entrance to Tom's room, but
found nothing, of course.

The coroner's jury found that the homicide
was committed by Luigi, and that Angelo was
accessory to it.

The town was bitter against the unfortunates,
and for the first few days after the
murder they were in constant danger of being
lynched. The grand jury presently indicted
Luigi for murder in the first degree, and Angelo
as accessory before the fact. The twins
were transferred from the city jail to the
county prison to await trial.

Wilson examined the finger-marks on the
knife-handle and said to himself, "Neither of
the twins made those marks." Then manifestly
there was another person concerned, either in
his own interest or as hired assassin.

But who could it be? That, he must try
to find out. The safe was not open, the

---

cash-box was closed, and had three thousand
dollars in it. Then robbery was not the
motive, and revenge was. Where had the
murdered man an enemy except Luigi?
There was but that one person in the world
with a deep grudge against him.

The mysterious girl! The girl was a great
trial to Wilson. If the motive had been robbery,
the girl might answer; but there was n't
any girl that would want to take this old
man's life for revenge. He had no quarrels
with girls; he was a gentleman.

Wilson had perfect tracings of the fingermarks
of the knife-handle; and among his
glass-records he had a great array of the finger-prints
of women and girls, collected during
the last fifteen or eighteen years, but he
scanned them in vain, they successfully withstood
every test; among them were no duplicates
of the prints on the knife.

The presence of the knife on the stage of
the murder was a worrying circumstance for
Wilson. A week previously he had as good
as admitted to himself that he believed Luigi
had possessed such a knife, and that he still

---

possessed it notwithstanding his pretense that
it had been stolen. And now here was the
knife, and with it the twins. Half the town
had said the twins were humbugging when
they claimed that they had lost their knife,
and now these people were joyful, and said,
"I told you so!"

If their finger-prints had been on the handle—but
it was useless to bother any further
about that; the finger-prints on the handle
were not theirs—that he knew perfectly.

Wilson refused to suspect Tom; for first,
Tom could n't murder anybody—he had n't
character enough; secondly, if he could murder
a person he would n't select his doting
benefactor and nearest relative; thirdly, self-interest
was in the way; for while the uncle
lived, Tom was sure of a free support and a
chance to get the destroyed will revived again,
but with the uncle gone, that chance was gone,
too. It was true the will had really been revived,
as was now discovered, but Tom could
not have been aware of it, or he would have
spoken of it, in his native talky, unsecretive
way. Finally, Tom was in St. Louis when

---

the murder was done, and got the news out of
the morning journals, as was shown by his
telegram to his aunt. These speculations
were unemphasized sensations rather than
articulated thoughts, for Wilson would have
laughed at the idea of seriously connecting
Tom with the murder.

Wilson regarded the case of the twins as
desperate—in fact, about hopeless. For he
argued that if a confederate was not found, an
enlightened Missouri jury would hang them,
sure; if a confederate was found, that would
not improve the matter, but simply furnish one
more person for the sheriff to hang. Nothing
could save the twins but the discovery of
a person who did the murder on his sole personal
account—an undertaking which had all
the aspect of the impossible. Still, the person
who made the finger-prints must be sought.
The twins might have no case with him, but
they certainly would have none without him.

So Wilson mooned around, thinking, thinking,
guessing, guessing, day and night, and
arriving nowhere. Whenever he ran across a
girl or a woman he was not acquainted with,

---

he got her finger-prints, on one pretext or another;
and they always cost him a sigh when
he got home, for they never tallied with the
finger-marks on the knife-handle.

As to the mysterious girl, Tom swore he
knew no such girl, and did not remember ever
seeing a girl wearing a dress like the one described
by Wilson. He admitted that he did
not always lock his room, and that sometimes
the servants forgot to lock the house doors;
still, in his opinion the girl must have made
but few visits or she would have been discovered.
When Wilson tried to connect her with
the stealing-raid, and thought she might have
been the old woman's confederate, if not the
very thief herself disguised as an old woman,
Tom seemed struck, and also much interested,
and said he would keep a sharp eye out for
this person or persons, although he was afraid
that she or they would be too smart to venture
again into a town where everybody would now
be on the watch for a good while to come.

Everybody was pitying Tom, he looked so
quiet and sorrowful, and seemed to feel his
great loss so deeply. He was playing a part,

---

but it was not all a part. The picture of his
alleged uncle, as he had last seen him, was before
him in the dark pretty frequently, when
he was awake, and called again in his dreams,
when he was asleep. He would n't go into
the room where the tragedy had happened.
This charmed the doting Mrs. Pratt, who
realized now, "as she had never done before,"
she said, what a sensitive and delicate nature
her darling had, and how he adored his poor
uncle.

---

CHAPTER XX.

the clearest and most perfect circumstantial evidence
is likely to be at fault, after all, and therefore ought
to be received with great caution. Take the case of any
pencil, sharpened by any woman: if you have witnesses,
you will find she did it with a knife; but if you take
simply the aspect of the pencil, you will say she did it
with her teeth.—Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.

weeks dragged along, no friend visiting
the jailed twins but their counsel and
Aunt Patsy Cooper, and the day of trial came
at last—the heaviest day in Wilson's life; for
with all his tireless diligence he had discovered
no sign or trace of the missing confederate.
"Confederate" was the term he
had long ago privately accepted for that person—not
as being unquestionably the right
term, but as being at least possibly the right
one, though he was never able to understand
why the twins did not vanish and escape, as

---

the confederate had done, instead of remaining
by the murdered man and getting caught
there.

The court-house was crowded, of course,
and would remain so to the finish, for not
only in the town itself, but in the country for
miles around, the trial was the one topic of
conversation among the people. Mrs. Pratt,
in deep mourning, and Tom with a weed on
his hat, had seats near Pembroke Howard,
the public prosecutor, and back of them sat a
great array of friends of the family. The
twins had but one friend present to keep
their counsel in countenance, their poor
old sorrowing landlady. She sat near Wilson,
and looked her friendliest. In the
"nigger corner" sat Chambers; also Roxy,
with good clothes on, and her bill of sale
in her pocket. It was her most precious
possession, and she never parted with it, day
or night. Tom had allowed her thirty-five
dollars a month ever since he came into his
property, and had said that he and she ought
to be grateful to the twins for making them
rich; but had roused such a temper in her by

---

this speech that he did not repeat the argument
afterward. She said the old Judge had
treated her child a thousand times better than
he deserved, and had never done her an unkindness
in his life; so she hated these outlandish
devils for killing him, and should n't
ever sleep satisfied till she saw them hanged
for it. She was here to watch the trial, now,
and was going to lift up just one "hooraw"
over it if the County Judge put her in jail a
year for it. She gave her turbanced head a
toss and said, "When dat verdic' comes, I's
gwine to lif' dat roof, now, I tell you."

Pembroke Howard briefly sketched the
State's case. He said he would show by a
chain of circumstantial evidence without break
or fault in it anywhere, that the principal
prisoner at the bar committed the murder;
that the motive was partly revenge, and partly
a desire to take his own life out of jeopardy,
and that his brother, by his presence, was a
consenting accessory to the crime; a crime
which was the basest known to the calendar
of human misdeeds—assassination; that it
was conceived by the blackest of hearts and

---

consummated by the cowardliest of hands; a
crime which had broken a loving sister's heart,
blighted the happiness of a young nephew
who was as dear as a son, brought inconsolable
grief to many friends, and sorrow and loss
to the whole community. The utmost penalty
of the outraged law would be exacted, and
upon the accused, now present at the bar,
that penalty would unquestionably be executed.
He would reserve further remark until
his closing speech.

He was strongly moved, and so also was
the whole house; Mrs. Pratt and several other
women were weeping when he sat down, and
many an eye that was full of hate was riveted
upon the unhappy prisoners.

Witness after witness was called by the
State, and questioned at length; but the cross-questioning
was brief. Wilson knew they
could furnish nothing valuable for his side.
People were sorry for Pudd'nhead; his budding
career would get hurt by this trial.

Several witnesses swore they heard Judge
Driscoll say in his public speech that the
twins would be able to find their lost knife

---

again when they needed it to assassinate
somebody with. This was not news, but now
it was seen to have been sorrowfully prophetic,
and a profound sensation quivered
through the hushed court-room when those
dismal words were repeated.

The public prosecutor rose and said that it
was within his knowledge, through a conversation
held with Judge Driscoll on the last day
of his life, that counsel for the defense had
brought him a challenge from the person
charged at this bar with murder; that he had
refused to fight with a confessed assassin—
"that is, on the field of honor," but had added
significantly, that he would be ready for
him elsewhere. Presumably the person here
charged with murder was warned that he must
kill or be killed the first time he should meet
Judge Driscoll. If counsel for the defense
chose to let the statement stand so, he would
not call him to the witness stand. Mr. Wilson
said he would offer no denial. [Murmurs in
the house—"It is getting worse and worse
for Wilson's case."]

Mrs. Pratt testified that she heard no outcry,

---

and did not know what woke her up,
unless it was the sound of rapid footsteps
approaching the front door. She jumped up
and ran out in the hall just as she was, and
heard the footsteps flying up the front steps
and then following behind her as she ran to
the sitting-room. There she found the accused
standing over her murdered brother.
[Here she broke down and sobbed. Sensation
in the court.] Resuming, she said the
persons entering behind her were Mr. Rogers
and Mr. Buckstone.

Cross-examined by Wilson, she said the
twins proclaimed their innocence; declared
that they had been taking a walk, and had
hurried to the house in response to a cry for
help which was so loud and strong that they
had heard it at a considerable distance; that
they begged her and the gentlemen just mentioned
to examine their hands and clothes—
which was done, and no blood stains found.

Confirmatory evidence followed from Rogers
and Buckstone.

The finding of the knife was verified, the
advertisement minutely describing it and offering

---

a reward for it was put in evidence, and
its exact correspondence with that description
proved. Then followed a few minor details,
and the case for the State was closed.

Wilson said that he had three witnesses, the
Misses Clarkson, who would testify that they
met a veiled young woman leaving Judge
Driscoll's premises by the back gate a few
minutes after the cries for help were heard,
and that their evidence, taken with certain circumstantial
evidence which he would call the
court's attention to, would in his opinion convince
the court that there was still one person
concerned in this crime who had not yet been
found, and also that a stay of proceedings
ought to be granted, in justice to his clients,
until that person should be discovered. As
it was late, he would ask leave to defer the examination
of his three witnesses until the next
morning.

The crowd poured out of the place and went
flocking away in excited groups and couples,
talking the events of the session over with vivacity
and consuming interest, and everybody
seemed to have had a satisfactory and enjoyable

---

day except the accused, their counsel, and
their old-lady friend. There was no cheer
among these, and no substantial hope.

In parting with the twins Aunt Patsy did
attempt a good-night with a gay pretense of
hope and cheer in it, but broke down without
finishing.

Absolutely secure as Tom considered himself
to be, the opening solemnities of the trial
had nevertheless oppressed him with a
vague uneasiness, his being a nature sensitive
to even the smallest alarms; but from the
moment that the poverty and weakness of
Wilson's case lay exposed to the court, he was
comfortable once more, even jubilant. He
left the court-room sarcastically sorry for Wilson.
"The Clarksons met an unknown
woman in the back lane," he said to himself—
"that is his case! I'll give him a century to
find her in—a couple of them if he likes. A
woman who does n't exist any longer, and the
clothes that gave her her sex burnt up and the
ashes thrown away—oh, certainly, he'll find
her easy enough!" This reflection set him
to admiring, for the hundredth time, the

---

shrewd ingenuities by which he had insured
himself against detection—more, against even
suspicion.

"Nearly always in cases like this there is
some little detail or other overlooked, some
wee little track or trace left behind, and detection
follows; but here there's not even the
faintest suggestion of a trace left. No more
than a bird leaves when it flies through the
air—yes, through the night, you may say. The
man that can track a bird through the air in
the dark and find that bird is the man to track
me out and find the Judge's assassin—no other
need apply. And that is the job that has been
laid out for poor Pudd'nhead Wilson, of all
people in the world! Lord, it will be pathetically
funny to see him grubbing and groping
after that woman that don't exist, and the
right person sitting under his very nose all
the time!" The more he thought the situation
over, the more the humor of it struck
him. Finally he said, "I'll never let him
hear the last of that woman. Every time I
catch him in company, to his dying day, I'll
ask him in the guileless affectionate way that

---

used to gravel him so when I inquired how
his unborn law-business was coming along,
'Got on her track yet—hey, Pudd'nhead?'"
He wanted to laugh, but that would not have
answered; there were people about, and he
was mourning for his uncle. He made up his
mind that it would be good entertainment to
look in on Wilson that night and watch him
worry over his barren law-case and goad him
with an exasperating word or two of sympathy
and commiseration now and then.

Wilson wanted no supper, he had no appetite.
He got out all the finger-prints of girls
and women in his collection of records and
pored gloomily over them an hour or more,
trying to convince himself that that troublesome
girl's marks were there somewhere and
had been overlooked. But it was not so.
He drew back his chair, clasped his hands over
his head, and gave himself up to dull and arid
musings.

Tom Driscoll dropped in, an hour after
dark, and said with a pleasant laugh as he
took a seat—

"Hello, we've gone back to the amusements

---

of our days of neglect and obscurity for consolation,
have we?" and he took up one of the
glass strips and held it against the light to
inspect it. "Come, cheer up, old man;
there's no use in losing your grip and going
back to this child's-play merely because this
big sunspot is drifting across your shiny new
disk. It'll pass, and you'll be all right
again,"—and he laid the glass down. "Did
you think you could win always?"

"Oh, no," said Wilson, with a sigh, "I
did n't expect that, but I can't believe Luigi
killed your uncle, and I feel very sorry for
him. It makes me blue. And you would feel
as I do, Tom, if you were not prejudiced
against those young fellows."

"I don't know about that," and Tom's
countenence darkened, for his memory reverted
to his kicking; "I owe them no good
will, considering the brunette one's treatment
of me that night. Prejudice or no prejudice,
Pudd'nhead, I don't like them, and when they
get their deserts you're not going to find me
sitting on the mourner's bench."

---

He took up another strip of glass, and exclaimed—"

"Why, here's old Roxy's label! Are you
going to ornament the royal palaces with nigger
paw-marks, too? By the date here, I
was seven months old when this was done,
and she was nursing me and her little nigger
cub. There's a line straight across her
thumb-print. How comes that?" and Tom
held out the piece of glass to Wilson.

"That is common," said the bored man,
wearily. "Scar of a cut or a scratch, usually"—and
he took the strip of glass indifferently,
and raised it toward the lamp.

All the blood sunk suddenly out of his face;
his hand quaked, and he gazed at the polished
surface before him with the glassy stare of a
corpse.

"Great Heavens, what's the matter with
you, Wilson? Are you going to faint?"

Tom sprang for a glass of water and offered
it, but Wilson shrank shuddering from him
and said—

"No, no!—take it away!" His breast
was rising and falling, and he moved his head

---

about in a dull and wandering way, like a person
who has been stunned. Presently he
said, "I shall feel better when I get to bed;
I have been overwrought to-day; yes, and
over worked for many days."

"Then I'll leave you and let you to get to
your rest. Good-night, old man." But as
Tom went out he could n't deny himself a
small parting gibe: "Don't take it so hard;
a body can't win every time; you'll hang
somebody yet."

Wilson muttered to himself, "It is no lie to
say I am sorry I have to begin with you,
miserable dog though you are!"

He braced himself up with a glass of cold
whisky, and went to work again. He did not
compare the new finger-marks unintentionally
left by Tom a few minutes before on Roxy's
glass with the tracings of the marks left on the
knife-handle, there being no need of that (for
his trained eye), but busied himself with
another matter, muttering from time to time,
"Idiot that I was!—Nothing but a girl
would do me—a man in girl's clothes never
occurred to me." First, he hunted out the

---

plate containing the finger-prints made by
Tom when he was twelve years old, and laid
it by itself; then he brought forth the marks
made by Tom's baby fingers when he was a
suckling of seven months, and placed these
two plates with the one containing this subject's
newly (and unconsciously) made record.

"Now the series is complete," he said with
satisfaction, and sat down to inspect these
things and enjoy them.

But his enjoyment was brief. He stared a
considerable time at the three strips, and
seemed stupefied with astonishment. At last
he put them down and said, "I can't make it
out at all—hang it, the baby's don't tally with
the others!"

He walked the floor for half an hour puzzling
over his enigma, then he hunted out two
other glass plates.

He sat down and puzzled over these things
a good while, but kept muttering, "It's no
use; I can't understand it. They don't tally
right, and yet I'll swear the names and dates
are right, and so of course they ought to tally.

---

I never labeled one of these things carelessly
in my life. There is a most extraordinary
mystery here."

He was tired out, now, and his brains were
beginning to clog. He said he would sleep
himself fresh, and then see what he could do
with this riddle. He slept through a troubled
and unrestful hour, then unconsciousness began
to shred away, and presently he rose
drowsily to a sitting posture. "Now what
was that dream?" he said, trying to recall it;
"what was that dream?—it seemed to unravel
that puz——"

He landed in the middle of the floor at a
bound, without finishing the sentence, and
ran and turned up his light and seized his
"records." He took a single swift glance at
them and cried out—

"It's so! Heavens, what a revelation!
And for twenty-three years no man has ever
suspected it!"

---

CHAPTER XXI.

is useless on top of the ground; he ought to be
under it, inspiring the cabbages.—Pudd'nhead Wilson's
Calendar.

April 1. This is the day upon which we are reminded
of what we are on the other three hundred and sixty-four.
—Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.

put on enough clothes for business
purposes and went to work under a high pressure
of steam. He was awake all over. All
sense of weariness had been swept away by
the invigorating refreshment of the great and
hopeful discovery which he had made. He
made fine and accurate reproductions of a number
of his "records," and then enlarged them on
a scale of ten to one with his pantograph. He
did these pantograph enlargements on sheets of
white cardboard, and made each individual line
of the bewildering maze of whorls or curves
or loops which constituted the "pattern," of a
"record" stand out bold and black by reinforcing

---

it with ink. To the untrained eye the collection
of delicate originals made by the human
finger on the glass plates looked about alike;
but when enlarged ten times they resembled
the markings of a block of wood that has been
sawed across the grain, and the dullest eye
could detect at a glance, and at a distance of
many feet, that no two of the patterns were
alike. When Wilson had at last finished his
tedious and difficult work, he arranged its results
according to a plan in which a progressive
order and sequence was a principal feature;
then he added to the batch several pantograph
enlargements which he had made from
time to time in bygone years.

The night was spent and the day well advanced,
now. By the time he had snatched
a trifle of breakfast it was nine o'clock, and
the court was ready to begin its sitting. He
was in his place twelve minutes later with his
"records."

Tom Driscoll caught a slight glimpse of the
records, and nudged his nearest friend and
said, with a wink, "Pudd'nhead's got a rare
eye to business—thinks that as long as he

---

can't win his case it's at least a noble good
chance to advertise his palace-window decorations
without any expense." Wilson was informed
that his witnesses had been delayed, but
would arrive presently; but he rose and said
he should probably not have occasion to make
use of their testimony. [An amused murmur
ran through the room—"It's a clean backdown!
he gives up without hitting a lick!"]
Wilson continued—"I have other testimony
—and better. [This compelled interest, and
evoked murmurs of surprise that had a detectible
ingredient of disappointment in them.] If
I seem to be springing this evidence upon the
court, I offer as my justification for this, that
I did not discover its existence until late last
night, and have been engaged in examining
and classifying it ever since, until half an hour
ago. I shall offer it presently; but first I
wish to say a few preliminary words.

"May it please the Court, the claim given
the front place, the claim most persistently
urged, the claim most strenuously and I may
even say aggressively and defiantly insisted
upon by the prosecution, is this—that the person

---

whose hand left the blood-stained fingerprints
upon the handle of the Indian knife is
the person who committed the murder." Wilson
paused, during several moments, to give
impressiveness to what he was about to say,
and then added tranquilly, "We grant that
claim."

It was an electrical surprise. No one was
prepared for such an admission. A buzz of
astonishment rose on all sides, and people were
heard to intimate that the overworked lawyer
had lost his mind. Even the veteran judge,
accustomed as he was to legal ambushes and
masked batteries in criminal procedure, was
not sure that his ears were not deceiving him,
and asked counsel what it was he had said.
Howard's impassive face betrayed no sign, but
his attitude and bearing lost something of
their careless confidence for a moment. Wilson
resumed:

"We not only grant that claim, but we welcome
it and strongly endorse it. Leaving
that matter for the present, we will now proceed
to consider other points in the case
which we propose to establish by evidence,

---

and shall include that one in the chain in its
proper place."

He had made up his mind to try a few
hardy guesses, in mapping out his theory of
the origin and motive of the murder—guesses
designed to fill up gaps in it—guesses which
could help if they hit, and would probably do
no harm if they did n't.

"To my mind, certain circumstances of the
case before the court seem to suggest a motive
for the homicide quite different from the one
insisted on by the State. It is my conviction
that the motive was not revenge, but robbery.
It has been urged that the presence of the accused
brothers in that fatal room, just after
notification that one of them must take the
life of Judge Driscoll or lose his own the moment
the parties should meet, clearly signifies
that the natural instinct of self-preservation
moved my clients to go there secretly and save
Count Luigi by destroying his adversary.

"Then why did they stay there, after the
deed was done? Mrs. Pratt had time, although
she did not hear the cry for help, but
woke up some moments later, to run to that

---

room—and there she found these men standing
and making no effort to escape. If they were
guilty, they ought to have been running out
of the house at the same time that she was
running to that room. If they had had such
a strong instinct toward self-preservation as
to move them to kill that unarmed man, what
had become of it now, when it should have
been more alert than ever? Would any of us
have remained there? Let us not slander
our intelligence to that degree.

"Much stress has been laid upon the fact
that the accused offered a very large reward
for the knife with which this murder was done;
that no thief came forward to claim that extraordinary
reward; that the latter fact was
good circumstantial evidence that the claim
that the knife had been stolen was a vanity
and a fraud; that these details taken in con.
nection with the memorable and apparently
prophetic speech of the deceased concerning
that knife, and the final discovery of that very
knife in the fatal room where no living person
was found present with the slaughtered man
but the owner of the knife and his brother,

---

form an indestructible chain of evidence which
fixes the crime upon those unfortunate strangers.

"But I shall presently ask to be sworn, and
shall testify that there was a large reward offered
for the thief, also; that it was offered secretly
and not advertisde; that this fact was
indiscreetly mentioned—or at least tacitly admitted—in
what was supposed to be safe circumstances,
but may not have been. The
thief may have been present himself. [Tom
Driscoll had been looking at the speaker, but
dropped his eyes at this point.] In that case
he would retain the knife in his possession,
not daring to offer it for sale, or for pledge in
a pawn-shop. [There was a nodding of heads
among the audience by way of admission that
this was not a bad stroke.] I shall prove to
the satisfaction of the jury that there was a
person in Judge Driscoll's room several
minutes before the accused entered it. [This
produced a strong sensation; the last drowsy-head
in the court-room roused up, now, and
made preparation to listen.] If it shall seem
necessary, I will prove by the Misses Clarkson

---

that they met a veiled person—ostensibly
a woman—coming out of the back gate a few
minutes after the cry for help was heard.
This person was not a woman, but a man
dressed in woman's clothes." Another sensation.
Wilson had his eye on Tom when he
hazarded this guess, to see what effect it would
produce. He was satisfied with the result,
and said to himself, "It was a success—he's
hit!"

"The object of that person in that house
was robbery, not murder. It is true that the
safe was not open, but there was an ordinary
tin cash-box on the table, with three thousand
dollars in it. It is easily supposable that the
thief was concealed in the house; that he
knew of this box, and of its owner's habit of
counting its contents and arranging his accounts
at night—if he had that habit, which I
do not assert, of course;—that he tried to take
the box while its owner slept, but made a noise
and was seized, and had to use the knife to
save himself from capture; and that he fled
without his booty because he heard help
coming.

---

"I have now done with my theory, and will
proceed to the evidences by which I propose
to try to prove its soundness." Wilson took
up several of his strips of glass. When the
audience recognized these familiar mementoes
of Pudd'nhead's old-time childish "puttering"
and folly, the tense and funereal interest vanished
out of their faces, and the house burst
into volleys of relieving and refreshing laughter,
and Tom chirked up and joined in the
fun himself; but Wilson was apparently not
disturbed. He arranged his records on the
table before him, and said—

"I beg the indulgence of the court while I
make a few remarks in explanation of some
evidence which I am about to introduce, and
which I shall presently ask to be allowed to
verify under oath on the witness stand.
Every human being carries with him from his
cradle to his grave certain physical marks
which do not change their character, and by
which he can always be identified—and that
without shade of doubt or question. These
marks are his signature, his physiological autograph,
so to speak, and this autograph can

---

not be counterfeited, nor can he disguise it or
hide it away, nor can it become illegible by
the wear and mutations of time. This signature
is not his face—age can change that
beyond recognition; it is not his hair, for that
can fall out; it is not his height, for duplicates
of that exist; it is not his form, for duplicates
of that exist also, whereas this signature is
each man's very own—there is no duplicate of
it among the swarming populations of the
globe! [The audience were interested once
more.]

"This autograph consists of the delicate lines
or corrugations with which Nature marks the
insides of the hands and the soles of the feet.
If you will look at the balls of your fingers,—
you that have very sharp eyesight,—you will
observe that these dainty curving lines lie close
together, like those that indicate the borders
of oceans in maps, and that they form various
clearly defined patterns, such as arches, circles,
long curves, whorls, etc., and that these patterns
differ on the different fingers. [Every
man in the room had his hand up to the light,
now, and his head canted to one side, and

---

was minutely scrutinizing the balls of his
fingers; there were whispered ejaculations of
"Why, it's so—I never noticed that before!"]
The patterns on the right hand are not the
same as those on the left. [Ejaculations of
"Why, that's so, too!"] Taken finger for
finger, your patterns differ from your neighbor's.
[Comparisons were made all over the
house—even the judge and jury were absorbed
in this curious work.] The patterns
of a twin's right hand are not the same as
those on his left. One twin's patterns are
never the same as his fellow-twin's patterns—
the jury will find that the patterns upon the
finger-balls of the accused follow this rule.
[An examination of the twins' hands was begun
at once.] You have often heard of twins
who were so exactly alike that when dressed
alike their own parents could not tell them
apart. Yet there was never a twin born into
this world that did not carry from birth to
death a sure identifier in this mysterious and
marvelous natal autograph. That once known
to you, his fellow-twin could never personate
him and deceive you."

---

Wilson stopped and stood silent. Inattention
dies a quick and sure death when a
speaker does that. The stillness gives warning
that something is coming. All palms and
finger-balls went down, now, all slouching
forms straightened, all heads came up, all eyes
were fastened upon Wilson's face. He waited
yet one, two, three moments, to let his pause
complete and perfect its spell upon the house;
then, when through the profound hush he
could hear the ticking of the clock on the
wall, he put out his hand and took the Indian
knife by the blade and held it aloft where all
could see the sinister spots upon its ivory
handle; then he said, in a level and passionless
voice—

"Upon this haft stands the assassin's natal
autograph, written in the blood of that helpless
and unoffending old man who loved you
and whom you all loved. There is but one
man in the whole earth whose hand can duplicate
that crimson sign,"—he paused and
raised his eyes to the pendulum swinging back
and forth,—"and please God we will produce

---

that man in this room before the clock strikes
noon!"

Stunned, distraught, unconscious of its own
movement, the house half rose, as if expecting
to see the murderer appear at the door, and a
breeze of muttered ejaculations swept the
place. "Order in the court!—sit down!"
This from the sheriff. He was obeyed, and
quiet reigned again. Wilson stole a glance
at Tom, and said to himself, "He is flying
signals of distress, now; even people who despise
him are pitying him; they think this is a
hard ordeal for a young fellow who has lost
his benefactor by so cruel a stroke—and they
are right." He resumed his speech:

"For more than twenty years I have
amused my compulsory leisure with collecting
these curious physical signatures in this town.
At my house I have hundreds upon hundreds
of them. Each and every one is labelled
with name and date; not labelled the next
day or even the next hour, but in the very
minute that the impression was taken. When
I go upon the witness stand I will repeat under
oath the things which I am now saying. I

---

have the finger-prints of the court, the sheriff,
and every member of the jury. There is
hardly a person in this room, white or black,
whose natal signature I cannot produce, and
not one of them can so disguise himself that I
cannot pick him out from a multitude of
his fellow-creatures and unerringly identify
him by his hands. And if he and I should
live to be a hundred I could still do it.
[The interest of the audience was steadily
deepening, now.]

"I have studied some of these signatures so
much that I know them as well as the bank
cashier knows the autograph of his oldest customer.
While I turn my back now, I beg
that several persons will be so good as to pass
their fingers through their hair, and then
press them upon one of the panes of the window
near the jury, and that among them the
accused may set their finger-marks. Also, I
beg that these experimenters, or others, will
set their finger-marks upon another pane, and
add again the marks of the accused, but not
placing them in the same order or relation to
the other signatures as before—for, by one

---

chance in a millon, a person might happen
upon the right marks by pure guess-work once,
therefore I wish to be tested twice."

He turned his back, and the two panes were
quickly covered with delicately-lined oval
spots, but visible only to such persons as could
get a dark background for them—the foliage
of a tree, outside, for instance. Then, upon
call, Wilson went to the window, made his
examination, and said—

"This is Count Luigi's right hand; this one,
three signatures below, is his left. Here is
Count Angelo's right; down here is his left.
Now for the other pane: here and here are
Count Luigi's, here and here are his brother's."
He faced about. "Am I right?"

A deafening explosion of applause was the
answer. The Bench said—

"This certainly approaches the miraculous!"

Wilson turned to the window again and
remarked, pointing with his finger—

"This is the signature of Mr. Justice Robinson.
[Applause.] This, of Constable Blake.
[Applause.] This, of John Mason, juryman.
[Applause.] This, of the sheriff. [Applause.]

---

I cannot name the others, but I have them
all at home, named and dated, and could
identify them all by my finger-print records."

He moved to his place through a storm of
applause—which the sheriff stopped, and also
made the people sit down, for they were all
standing and struggling to see, of course.
Court, jury, sheriff, and everybody had been
too absorbed in observing Wilson's performance
to attend to the audience earlier.

"Now, then," said Wilson, "I have here
the natal autographs of two children—thrown
up to ten times the natural size by the pantograph,
so that any one who can see at all can
tell the markings apart at a glance. We will
call the children A and B. Here are A's
finger-marks, taken at the age of five months.
Here they are again, taken at seven months.
[Tom started.] They are alike, you see.
Here are B's at five months, and also at seven
months. They, too, exactly copy each other,
but the patterns are quite different from A's,
you observe. I shall refer to these again
presently, but we will turn them face down,
now.

---

"Here, thrown up ten sizes, are the natal
autographs of the two persons who are here
before you accused of murdering Judge Driscoll.
I made these pantograph copies last
night, and will so swear when I go upon the
witness stand. I ask the jury to compare
them with the finger-marks of the accused
upon the window panes, and tell the court
if they are the same."

He passed a powerful magnifying-glass to
the foreman.

One juryman after another took the cardboard
and the glass and made the comparison.
Then the foreman said to the judge—

"Your honor, we are all agreed that they
are identical."

Wilson said to the foreman—

"Please turn that cardboard face down,
and take this one, and compare it searchingly,
by the magnifier, with the fatal signature
upon the knife-handle, and report your finding
to the court."

Again the jury made minute examinations,
and again reported—

---

"We find them to be exactly identical,
your honor."

Wilson turned toward the counsel for the
prosecution, and there was a clearly recognizable
note of warning in his voice when he
said—

"May it please the court, the State has
claimed, strenuously and persistently, that
the blood-stained finger-prints upon that
knife-handle were left there by the assassin of
Judge Driscoll. You have heard us grant
that claim, and welcome it." He turned to
the jury: "Compare the finger-prints of the
accused with the finger-prints left by the assassin—and
report."

The comparison began. As it proceeded,
all movement and all sound ceased, and the
deep silence of an absorbed and waiting suspense
settled upon the house; and when at
last the words came—

"They do not even resemble," a thunder-crash
of applause followed and the house
sprang to its feet, but was quickly repressed
by official force and brought to order again.
Tom was altering his position every few minutes,

---

now, but none of his changes brought
repose nor any small trifle of comfort. When
the house's attention was become fixed once
more, Wilson said gravely, indicating the
twins with a gesture—

"These men are innocent—I have no further
concern with them. [Another outbreak
of applause began, but was promptly checked.]
We will now proceed to find the guilty.
[Tom's eyes were starting from their sockets
—yes, it was a cruel day for the bereaved
youth, everybody thought.] We will return
to the infant autographs of A and B. I will
ask the jury to take these large pantograph
facsimiles of A's marked five months and
seven months. Do they tally?"

The foreman responded—

"Perfectly."

"Now examine this pantograph, taken at
eight months, and also marked A. Does it
tally with the other two?"

The surprised response was—

"No—they differ widely!"

"You are quite right. Now take these
two pantographs of B's autograph, marked

---

five months and seven months. Do they tally
with each other?"

"Yes—perfectly."

"Take this third pantograph marked B,
eight months. Does it tally with B's other
two?"

"By no means!"

"Do you know how to account for those
strange discrepancies? I will tell you. For
a purpose unknown to us, but probably a selfish
one, somebody changed those children in
the cradle."

This produced a vast sensation, naturally;
Roxana was astonished at this admirable
guess, but not disturbed by it. To guess the
exchange was one thing, to guess who did it
quite another. Pudd'nhead Wilson could do
wonderful things, no doubt, but he could n't
do impossible ones. Safe? She was perfectly
safe. She smiled privately.

"Between the ages of seven months and
eight months those children were changed in
the cradle"—he made one of his effect-collecting
pauses, and added—"and the person who
did it is in this house!"

---

Roxy's pulses stood still! The house was
thrilled as with an electric shock, and the people
half rose as if to seek a glimpse of the
person who had made that exchange. Tom
was growing limp; the life seemed oozing
out of him. Wilson resumed:

"A was put into B's cradle in the nursery;
B was transferred to the kitchen and became
a negro and a slave, [Sensation—confusion
of angry ejaculations]—but within a quarter
of an hour he will stand before you white and
free! [Burst of applause, checked by the officers.]
From seven months onward until now,
A has still been a usurper, and in my finger-record
he bears B's name. Here is his pantograph
at the age of twelve. Compare it
with the assassin's signature upon the knife-handle.
Do they tally?"

The foreman answered—

"To the minutest detail!"

Wilson said, solemnly—

"The murderer of your friend and mine—
York Driscoll of the generous hand and the
kindly spirit—sits in among you. Valet de
Chambre, negro and slave,—falsely called

---

Thomas à Becket Driscoll,—make upon the
window the finger-prints that will hang you!"

Tom turned his ashen face imploringly
toward the speaker, made some impotent
movements with his white lips, then slid limp
and lifeless to the floor.

Wilson broke the awed silence with the
words—

"There is no need. He has confessed."

Roxy flung herself upon her knees, covered
her face with her hands, and out through her
sobs the words struggled—

"De Lord have mercy on me, po' misable
sinner dat I is!"

The clock struck twelve.

The court rose; the new prisoner, handcuffed,
was removed.

---

CONCLUSION.

is often the case that the man who can't tell a lie
thinks he is the best judge of one.—Pudd'nhead Wilson's
Calendar.

October 12, the Discovery. It was wonderful to find
America, but it would have been more wonderful to miss
it.—Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.

town sat up all night to discuss the
amazing events of the day and swap guesses
as to when Tom's trial would begin. Troop
after troop of citizens came to serenade Wilson,
and require a speech, and shout themselves
hoarse over every sentence that fell
from his lips—for all his sentences were
golden, now, all were marvelous. His long
fight against hard luck and prejudice was
ended; he was a made man for good.

And as each of these roaring gangs of enthusiasts
marched away, some remorseful

---

member of it was quite sure to raise his voice
and say—

"And this is the man the likes of us have
called a pudd'nhead for more than twenty
years. He has resigned from that position,
friends."

"Yes, but it is n't vacant—we're elected."

twins were heroes of romance, now,
and with rehabilitated reputations. But they
were weary of Western adventure, and
straightway retired to Europe.

Roxy's heart was broken. The young fellow
upon whom she had inflicted twenty-three
years of slavery continued the false heir's
pension of thirty-five dollars a month to her,
but her hurts were too deep for money to
heal; the spirit in her eye was quenched, her
martial bearing departed with it, and the
voice of her laughter ceased in the land. In
her church and its affairs she found her only
solace.

The real heir suddenly found himself rich
and free, but in a most embarrassing situation.
He could neither read nor write, and

---

his speech was the basest dialect of the negro
quarter. His gait, his attitudes, his gestures,
his bearing, his laugh—all were vulgar
and uncouth; his manners were the manners
of a slave. Money and fine clothes could not
mend these defects or cover them up; they
only made them the more glaring and the
more pathetic. The poor fellow could not
endure the terrors of the white man's parlor,
and felt at home and at peace nowhere but in
the kitchen. The family pew was a misery
to him, yet he could nevermore enter into
the solacing refuge of the "nigger gallery"—
that was closed to him for good and all. But
we cannot follow his curious fate further—
that it would be a long story.

The false heir made a full confession and
was sentenced to imprisonment for life. But
now a complication came up. The Percy
Driscoll estate was in such a crippled shape
when its owner died that it could pay only
sixty per cent. of its great indebtedness, and
was settled at that rate. But the creditors
came forward, now, and complained that inasmuch
as through an error for which they were

---

in no way to blame the false heir was not inventoried
at that time with the rest of the
property, great wrong and loss had thereby
been inflicted upon them. They rightly
claimed that "Tom" was lawfully their property
and had been so for eight years; that
they had already lost sufficiently in being deprived
of his services during that long period,
and ought not to be required to add anything
to that loss; that if he had been delivered up
to them in the first place, they would have
sold him and he could not have murdered
Judge Driscoll; therefore it was not he that
had really committed the murder, the guilt
lay with the erroneous inventory. Everybody
saw that there was reason in this.
Everybody granted that if "Tom" were
white and free it would be unquestionably
right to punish him—it would be no loss to
anybody; but to shut up a valuable slave for
life—that was quite another matter.

As soon as the Governor understood the
case, he pardoned Tom at once, and the
creditors sold him down the river.

---

---

THOSE EXTRAORDINARY TWINS

---

All Rights Reserved.)

---

---

---

THOSE EXTRAORDINARY TWINS.

who is not born with the novel-writing
gift has a troublesome time of it when he tries to
build a novel. I know this from experience. He
has no clear idea of his story; in fact he has no
story. He merely has some people in his mind, and
an incident or two, also a locality. He knows these
people, he knows the selected locality, and he trusts
that he can plunge those people into those incidents
with interesting results. So he goes to work. To
write a novel? No—that is a thought which comes
later; in the beginning he is only proposing to tell
a little tale; a very little tale; a six-page tale. But
as it is a tale which he is not acquainted with, and
can only find out what it is by listening as it goes
along telling itself, it is more than apt to go on and
on and on till it spreads itself into a book. I know
about this, because it has happened to me so many
times.

---

And I have noticed another thing: that as the
short tale grows into the long tale, the original intention
(or motif) is apt to get abolished and find
itself superseded by a quite different one. It was
so in the case of a magazine sketch which I once
started to write—a funny and fantastic sketch about
a prince and a pauper; it presently assumed a grave
cast of its own accord, and in that new shape spread
itself out into a book. Much the same thing happened
with "Pudd'nhead Wilson." I had a sufficiently
hard time with that tale, because it changed
itself from a farce to a tragedy while I was going
along with it,—a most embarrassing circumstance.
But what was a great deal worse was, that it was
not one story, but two stories tangled together;
and they obstructed and interrupted each other at
every turn and created no end of confusion and annoyance.
I could not offer the book for publication,
for I was afraid it would unseat the reader's reason,
I did not know what was the matter with it, for I
had not noticed, as yet, that it was two stories in
one. It took me months to make that discovery. I
carried the manuscript back and forth across the
Atlantic two or three times, and read it and studied
over it on shipboard; and at last I saw where the
difficulty lay. I had no further trouble. I pulled
one of the stories out by the roots, and left the other
one—a kind of literary Cæsarean operation.

---

Would the reader care to know something about
the story which I pulled out? He has been told
many a time how the born-and-trained novelist
works; won't he let me round and complete his
knowledge by telling him how the jack-leg does it?

Originally the story was called "Those Extraordinary
Twins." I meant to make it very short. I
had seen a picture of a youthful Italian "freak"—
or "freaks"—which was—or which were—on exhibition
in our cities—a combination consisting of
two heads and four arms joined to a single body and
a single pair of legs—and I thought I would write
an extravagantly fantastic little story with this
freak of nature for hero—or heroes—a silly young
Miss for heroine, and two old ladies and two boys for
the minor parts. I lavishly elaborated these people
and their doings, of course. But the tale kept
spreading along and spreading along, and other people
got to intruding themselves and taking up more
and more room with their talk and their affairs.
Among them came a stranger named Pudd'nhead
Wilson, and a woman named Roxana; and presently
the doings of these two pushed up into prominence
a young fellow named Tom Driscoll, whose proper
place was away in the obscure background. Before
the book was half finished those three were taking
things almost entirely into their own hands and
working the whole tale as a private venture of their

---

own—a tale which they had nothing at all to do
with, by rights.

When the book was finished and I came to look
around to see what had become of the team I had
originally started out with—Aunt Patsy Cooper,
Aunt Betsy Hale, the two boys, and Rowena the
light-weight heroine—they were nowhere to be
seen; they had disappeared from the story some
time or other. I hunted about and found them—
found them stranded, idle, forgotten, and permanently
useless. It was very awkward. It was awkward
all around, but more particularly in the case
of Rowena, because there was a lovematch on, between
her and one of the twins that constituted the
freak, and I had worked it up to a blistering heat
and thrown in a quite dramatic love-quarrel, wherein
Rowena scathingly denounced her betrothed for
getting drunk, and scoffed at his explanation of how
it had happened, and wouldn't listen to it, and had
driven him from her in the usual "forever" way;
and now here she sat crying and broken-hearted; for
she had found that he had spoken only the truth;
that it was not he, but the other half of the freak
that had drunk the liquor that made him drunk;
that her half was a prohibitionist and had never
drunk a drop in his life, and although tight as a
brick three days in the week, was wholly innocent
of blame; and indeed, when sober, was constantly

---

doing all he could to reform his brother, the other
half, who never got any satisfaction out of drinking,
anyway, because liquor never affected him. Yes,
here she was, stranded with that deep injustice of
hers torturing her poor torn heart.

I didn't know what to do with her. I was as
sorry for her as anybody could be, but the campaign
was over, the book was finished, she was sidetracked,
and there was no possible way of crowding
her in, anywhere. I could not leave her there, of
course; it would not do. After spreading her out
so, and making such a to-do over her affairs, it would
be absolutely necessary to account to the reader for
her. I thought and thought and studied and
studied; but I arrived at nothing. I finally saw
plainly that there was really no way but one—I
must simply give her the grand bounce. It grieved
me to do it, for after associating with her so much I
had come to kind of like her after a fashion, notwithstanding
she was such an ass and said such stupid,
irritating things and was so nauseatingly sentimental.
Still it had to be done. So at the top of Chapter
XVII. I put a "Calendar" remark concerning July
the Fourth, and began the chapter with this statistic:

"Rowena went out in the back yard after supper
to see the fireworks and fell down the well and got
drowned."

---

It seemed abrupt, but I thought maybe the reader
wouldn't notice it, because I changed the subject
right away to something else. Anyway it loosened
up Rowena from where she was stuck and got her
out of the way, and that was the main thing. It
seemed a prompt good way of weeding out people
that had got stalled, and a plenty good enough way
for those others; so I hunted up the two boys and
said "they went out back one night to stone the cat
and fell down the well and got drowned." Next
I searched around and found old Aunt Patsy Cooper
and Aunt Betsy Hale where they were aground,
and said "they went out back one night to visit the
sick and fell down the well and got drowned." I
was going to drown some of the others, but I gave
up the idea, partly because I believed that if I kept
that up it would arouse attention, and perhaps sympathy
with those people, and partly because it was
not a large well and would not hold any more anyway.

Still the story was unsatisfactory. Here was a set
of new characters who were become inordinately
prominent and who persisted in remaining so to the
end; and back yonder was an older set who made
a large noise and a great to-do for a little while and
then suddenly played out utterly and fell down the
well. There was a radical defect somewhere, and I
must search it out and cure it.

---

The defect turned out to be the one already
spoken of—two stories in one, a farce and a tragedy.
So I pulled out the farce and left the tragedy. This
left the original team in, but only as mere names,
not as characters. Their prominence was wholly
gone; they were not even worth drowning; so I removed
that detail. Also I took those twins apart
and made two separate men of them. They had no
occasion to have foreign names now, but it was too
much trouble to remove them all through, so I left
them christened as they were and made no explanation.

---

---

THE SUPPRESSED FARCE.CHAPTER I.

conglomerate twins were brought on
the stage in Chapter I. of the original extravaganza.
Aunt Patsy Cooper has received
their letter applying for board and lodging,
and Rowena, her daughter, insane with joy, is
begging for a hearing of it:

"Well, set down then, and be quiet a minute
and don't fly around so; it fairly makes
me tired to see you. It starts off so:
'—'"

"I like that, ma, don't you? It shows they're
high-bred."

"Yes, I noticed that when I first read it.
'My brother and I have seen your advertisement,

---

by chance, in a copy of your local
journal—"

"It's so beautiful and smooth, ma—don't
you think so?"

"Yes, seems so to me—'and beg leave to
take the room you offer. We are twenty-four
years of age, and twins—'"

"Twins! How sweet! I do hope they
are handsome, and I just know they are!
Don't you hope they are, ma?"

"Land, I ain't particular. 'We are Italians
by birth—'"

"It's so romantic! Just think—there 's
never been one in this town, and everybody
will want to see them, and they 're all ours!
Think of that!"

"—'but have lived long in the various countries
of Europe, and several years in the
United States.'"

"Oh, just think what wonders they 've seen,
ma! Won't it be good to hear them talk?"

"I reckon so; yes, I reckon so. 'Our
names are Luigi and Angelo Capello—'"

"Beautiful, perfectly beautiful! Not like
Jones and Robinson and those horrible names."

---

"'You desire but one guest, but dear
madam, if you will allow us to pay for two we
will not discommode you. We will sleep
together in the same bed. We have always
been used to this, and prefer it.' And then he
goes on to say they will be down Thursday."

"And this is Tuesday—I don't know how
I'm ever going to wait, ma! The time does
drag along so, and I'm so dying to see them!
Which of them do you reckon is the tallest,
ma?"

"How do you s'pose I can tell, child?
Mostly they are the same size—twins are."

"Well then, which do you reckon is the best
looking?"

"Goodness knows—I don't."

"I think Angelo is; it 's the prettiest name,
anyway. Don't you think it 's a sweet name,
ma?"

"Yes, it 's well enough. I 'd like both of
them better if I knew the way to pronounce
them—the Eyetalian way, I mean. The
Missouri way and the Eyetalian way is different
I judge."

"Maybe—yes. It 's Luigi that writes the

---

letter. What do you reckon is the reason
Angelo did n't write it?"

"Why, how can I tell? What's the difference
who writes it, so long as it's done?"

"Oh, I hope it was n't because he is sick!
You don't think he is sick, do you, ma?"

"Sick your granny; what's to make him
sick?"

"Oh, there 's never any telling. These
foreigners with that kind of names are so
delicate, and of course that kind of names are
not suited to our climate—you would n't expect
it."

[And so-on and so-on, no end. The time drags
along; Thursday comes; the boat arrives in a
pouring storm toward midnight.]

At last there was a knock at the door and
the anxious family jumped to open it. Two
negro men entered, each carrying a trunk, and
proceeded up-stairs toward the guest-room.
Then followed a stupefying apparition—a
double-headed human creature with four arms,
one body, and a single pair of legs!

It—or they, as you please—bowed with

---

elaborate foreign formality, but the Coopers
could not respond immediately; they were
paralyzed. At this moment there came from
the rear of the group a fervent ejaculation—
"My lan'!"—followed by a crash of crockery,
and the slave-wench Nancy stood pertified and
staring, with a tray of wrecked tea-things at
her feet. The incident broke the spell, and
brought the family to consciousness. The
beautiful heads of the new-comer bowed again,
and one of them said with easy grace and
dignity:

"I crave the honor, madam and miss, to
introduce to you my brother, Count Luigi
Capello," (the other head bowed) "and myself—Count
Angelo; and at the same time
offer sincere apologies for the lateness of our
coming, which was unavoidable," and both
heads bowed again.

The poor old lady was in a whirl of amazement
and confusion, but she managed to stammer
out:

"I'm sure I'm glad to make your acquaintance,
sir—I mean, gentlemen. As for the
delay, it is nothing, don't mention it. This

---

is my daughter Rowena, sir—gentlemen.
Please step into the parlor and sit down and
have a bite and sup; you are dreadful wet
and must be uncomfortable—both of you, I
mean."

But to the old lady's relief they courteously
excused themselves, saying it would be wrong
to keep the family out of their beds longer;
then each head bowed in turn and uttered a
friendly good-night, and the singular figure
moved away in the wake of Rowena's small
brothers, who bore candles, and disappeared
up the stairs.

The widow tottered into the parlor and
sank into a chair with a gasp, and Rowena
followed, tongue-tied and dazed. The two sat
silent in the throbbing summer heat unconscious
of the million-voiced music of the mosquitoes,
unconscious of the roaring gale, the
lashing and thrashing of the rain along the windows
and the roof, the white glare of the lightning,
the tumultuous booming and bellowing of
the thunder; conscious of nothing but that prodigy,
that uncanny apparition that had come
and gone so suddenly—that weird strange thing

---

that was so soft-spoken and so gentle of manner
and yet had shaken them up like an earthquake
with the shock of its gruesome aspect.
At last a cold little shudder quivered along
down the widow's meager frame and she said
in a weak voice:

"Ugh, it was awful—just the mere look of
that phillipene!"

Rowena did not answer. Her faculties were
still caked, she had not yet found her voice.
Presently the widow said, a little resentfully:

"Always been used to sleeping together—
in fact, prefer it. And I was thinking it
was to accommodate me. I thought it was
very good of them, whereas a person situated
as that young man is—"

"Ma, you ought n't to begin by getting up
a prejudice against him. I'm sure he is goodhearted
and means well. Both of his faces
show it."

"I'm not so certain about that. The one on
the left—I mean the one on it's left—has n't
near as good a face, in my opinion, as its
brother."

"That's Luigi."

---

"Yes, Luigi; anyway it's the dark-skinned
one; the one that was west of his brother
when they stood in the door. Up to all kinds
of mischief and disobedience when he was a
boy, I 'll be bound. I lay his mother had
trouble to lay her hand on him when she
wanted him. But the one on the right is as
good as gold, I can see that."

"That's Angelo."

"Yes, Angelo, I reckon, though I can't tell
t' other from which by their names, yet awhile.
But it's the right-hand one—the blonde one.
He has such kind blue eyes, and curly copper
hair and fresh complexion—"

"And such a noble face!—oh, it is a noble
face, ma, just royal, you may say! And
beautiful—deary me, how beautiful! But
both are that; the dark one's as beautiful as
a picture. There's no such wonderful faces
and handsome heads in this town—none that
even begin. And such hands—especially
Angelo's—so shapely and—"

"Stuff, how could you tell which they belonged
to?—they had gloves on."

---

Why, did n't I see them take off their
hats?"

"That don't signify. They might have
taken off each other's hats. Nobody could
tell. There was just a wormy squirming of
arms in the air—seemed to be a couple of
dozen of them, all writhing at once, and it
just made me dizzy to see them go."

"Why, ma, I had n't any difficulty. There's
two arms on each shoulder—"

"There, now. One arm on each shoulder
belongs to each of the creatures, don't it?
For a person to have two arms on one
shoulder would n't do him any good, would
it? Of course not. Each has an arm on
each shoulder. Now then, you tell me which
of them belongs to which, if you can. They
don't know, themselves—they just work whichever
arm comes handy. Of course they do;
especially if they are in a hurry and can't
stop to think which belongs to which."

The mother seemed to have the rights of
the argument, so the daughter abandoned the
struggle. Presently the widow rose with a
yawn and said:

---

"Poor thing, I hope it won't catch cold; it
was powerful wet, just drenched, you may say.
I hope it has left its boots outside, so they
can be dried." Then she gave a little start,
and looked perplexed. "Now I remember I
heard one of them ask Joe to call him at half
after seven—I think it was the one on the left
—no, it was the one to the east of the other
one—but I did n't hear the other one say
anything. I wonder if he wants to be called
too. Do you reckon it's too late to ask?"

"Why, ma, it's not necessary. Calling
one is calling both. If one gets up, the
other's got to."

"Sho, of course; I never thought of that.
Well, come along, maybe we can get some
sleep, but I don't know, I'm so shook up with
what we've been through."

The stranger had made an impression on
the boys, too. They had a word of talk as
they were getting to bed. Henry, the gentle,
the humane, said:

"I feel ever so sorry for it, don't you, Joe?"

But Joe was a boy of this world, active,
enterprising, and had a theatrical side to him:

---

"Sorry? Why, how you talk! It can't
stir a step without attracting attention. It's
just grand!"

Henry said, reproachfully:

"Instead of pitying it, Joe, you talk as
if—"

"Talk as if what? I know one thing
mighty certain: if you can fix me so I can eat
for two and only have to stub toes for one, I
ain't going to fool away no such chance just
for sentiment."

The twins were wet and tired, and they proceeded
to undress without any preliminary
remarks. The abundance of sleeves made
the partnership-coat hard to get off, for it
was like skinning a tarantula; but it came at
last, after much tugging and perspiring. The
mutual vest followed. Then the brothers
stood up before the glass, and each took off
his own cravat and collar. The collars were
of the standing kind, and came high up under
the ears, like the sides of a wheelbarrow, as
required by the fashion of the day. The
cravats were as broad as a bank bill, with
fringed ends which stood far out to right and

---

left like the wings of a dragon-fly, and this
also was strictly in accordance with the fashion
of the time. Each cravat, as to color, was
in perfect taste, so far as its owner's complexion
was concerned—a delicate pink, in
the case of the blonde brother, a violent
scarlet in the case of the brunette—but as a
combination they broke all the laws of taste
known to civilization. Nothing more fiendish
and irreconcilable than those shrieking and
blaspheming colors could have been contrived.
The wet boots gave no end of trouble—to
Luigi. When they were off at last, Angelo
said, with bitterness:

"I wish you would n't wear such tight
boots, they hurt my feet."

Luigi answered with indifference:

"My friend, when I am in command of our
body, I choose my apparel according to my
own convenience, as I have remarked more
than several times already. When you are in
command, I beg you will do as you please."

Angelo was hurt, and the tears came into
his eyes. There was gentle reproach in his
voice, but not anger, when he replied:

---

"Luigi, I often consult your wishes, but
you never consult mine. When I am in command
I treat you as a guest; I try to make
you feel at home; when you are in command
you treat me as an intruder, you make me
feel unwelcome. It embarrasses me cruelly
in company, for I can see that people notice it
and comment on it."

"Oh, damn the people," responded the
brother languidly, and with the air of one who
is tired of the subject.

A slight shudder shook the frame of Angelo,
but he said nothing and the conversation
ceased. Each buttoned his own share of the
night-shirt in silence; then Luigi, with Paine's
"Age of Reason" in his hand, sat down in
one chair and put his feet in another and lit
his pipe, while Angelo took his "Whole
Duty of Man," and both began to read.
Angelo presently began to cough; his coughing
increased and became mixed with gaspings
for breath, and he was finally obliged to make
an appeal to his brother's humanity:

"Luigi, if you would only smoke a little
milder tobacco, I am sure I could learn not to

---

mind it in time, but this is so strong, and the
pipe is so rank that—"

"Angelo. I would n't be such a baby! I
have learned to smoke in a week, and the
trouble is already over with me; if you would
try, you could learn too, and then you would
stop spoiling my comfort with your everlasting
complaints."

"Ah, brother, that is a strong word—everlasting—and
is n't quite fair. I only complain
when I suffocate; you know I don't complain
when we are in the open air."

"Well, anyway, you could learn to smoke
yourself."

"But my principles, Luigi, you forget my
principles. You would not have me do a
thing which I regard as a sin?"

"Oh, bosh!"

The conversation ceased again, for Angelo
was sick and discouraged and strangling; but
after some time he closed his book and asked
Luigi to sing "From Greenland's Icy Mountains"
with him, but he would not, and when
he tried to sing by himself Luigi did his best
to drown his plaintive tenor with a rude and

---

rollicking song delivered in a thundering
bass.

After the singing there was silence, and
neither brother was happy. Before blowing
the light out Luigi swallowed half a tumbler
of whiskey, and Angelo, whose sensitive organization
could not endure intoxicants of any
kind, took a pill to keep it from giving him
the headache.

---

CHAPTER II.

family sat in the breakfast-room waiting
for the twins to come down. The widow
was quiet, the daughter was all alive with
happy excitement. She said:

"Ah, they 're a boon, ma, just a boon!
don't you think so?"

"Laws, I hope so, I don't know."

"Why, ma, yes you do. They 're so fine
and handsome, and high-bred and polite, so
every way superior to our gawks here in this
village; why, they 'll make life different from
what it was—so humdrum and commonplace,
you know—oh, you may be sure they 're full
of accomplishments, and knowledge of the
world, and all that, that will be an immense
advantage to society here. Don't you think
so, ma?"

"Mercy on me, how should I know, and

---

I've hardly set eyes on them yet." After a
pause she added, "They made considerable
noise after they went up."

"Noise? Why, ma, they were singing!
And it was beautiful, too."

"Oh, it was well enough, but too mixed-up,
seemed to me."

"Now, ma, honor bright, did you ever hear
'Greenland's Icy Mountains' sung sweeter—
now did you?"

"If it had been sung by itself, it would
have been uncommon sweet, I don't deny it;
but what they wanted to mix it up with 'Old
Bob Ridley' for, I can't make out. Why, they
don't go together, at all. They are not of the
same nature. 'Bob Ridley' is a common
rackety slam-bang secular song, one of the
rippingest and rantingest and noisiest there is.
I am no judge of music, and I don't claim it,
but in my opinion nobody can make those two
songs go together right."

"Why, ma, I thought—"

"It don't make any difference what you
thought, it can't be done. They tried it, and
to my mind it was a failure. I never heard

---

such a crazy uproar; seemed to me, sometimes,
the roof would come off; and as for the cats
—well, I 've lived a many a year, and seen
cats aggravated in more ways than one, but
I 've never seen cats take on the way they took
on last night."

"Well, I don't think that that goes for anything,
ma, because it is the nature of cats that
any sound that is unusual——"

"Unusual! You may well call it so. Now
if they are going to sing duets every night, I
do hope they will both sing the same tune at
the same time, for in my opinion a duet that
is made up of two different tunes is a mistake;
especially when the tunes ain't any kin to one
another, that way."

"But, ma, I think it must be a foreign custom;
and it must be right too, and the best
way, because they have had every opportunity
to know what is right, and it don't stand to
reason that with their education they would
do anything but what the highest musical authorities
have sanctioned. You can't help
but admit that, ma."

The argument was formidably strong;

---

the old lady could not find any way around it;
so, after thinking it over a while she gave in
with a sigh of discontent, and admitted that
the daughter's position was probably correct.
Being vanquished, she had no mind to continue
the topic at that disadvantage, and was about
to seek a change when a change came of itself.
A footstep was heard on the stairs, and she
said:

"There—he 's coming!"

"They, ma—you ought to say they—it 's
nearer right."

The new lodger, rather shoutingly dressed
but looking superbly handsome, stepped with
courtly carriage into the trim little breakfast-room
and put out all his cordial arms at once,
like one of those pocket-knives with a multiplicity
of blades, and shook hands with the
whole family simultaneously. He was so easy
and pleasant and hearty that all embarrassment
presently thawed away and disappeared, and
a cheery feeling of friendliness and comradeship
took its place. He—or preferably they
—were asked to occupy the seat of honor at
the foot of the table. They consented with

---

thanks, and carved the beefsteak with one set
of their hands while they distributed it at the
same time with the other set.

"Will you have coffee, gentlemen, or tea?"

"Coffee for Luigi, if you please, madam,
tea for me."

"Cream and sugar?"

"For me, yes, madam; Luigi takes his
coffee black. Our natures differ a good deal
from each other, and our tastes also."

The first time the negro girl Nancy appeared
in the door and saw the two heads
turned in opposite directions and both talking
at once, then saw the commingling arms feed
potatoes into one mouth and coffee into the
other at the same time, she had to pause and
pull herself out of a faintness that came over
her; but after that she held her grip and
was able to wait on the table with fair courage.

Conversation fell naturally into the customary
grooves. It was a little jerky, at first, because
none of the family could get smoothly
through a sentence without a wobble in it
here and a break there, caused by some new

---

surprise in the way of attitude or gesture on
the part of the twins. The weather suffered
the most. The weather was all finished up
and disposed of, as a subject, before the simple
Missourians had gotten sufficiently wonted
to the spectacle of one body feeding two
heads to feel composed and reconciled in the
presence of so bizarre a miracle. And even
after everybody's mind became tranquilized
where was still one slight distraction left: the
hand that picked up a biscuit carried it to the
wrong head, as often as any other way, and
the wrong mouth devoured it. This was a
puzzling thing, and marred the talk a little.
It bothered the widow to such a degree that
she presently dropped out of the conversation
without knowing it, and fell to watching and
guessing and talking to herself:

"Now that hand is going to take that
coffee to—no, it 's gone to the other mouth;
I can't understand it; and now, here is the
dark complected hand with a potato on its
fork, I'll see what goes with it—there, the
light complected head 's got it, as sure as I
live!" Finally Rowena said:

---

"Ma, what is the matter with you? Are
you dreaming about something?"

The old lady came to herself and blushed;
then she explained with the first random thing
that came into her mind: "I saw Mr. Angelo
take up Mr. Luigi's coffee, and I thought
maybe he—sha' n't I give you a cup, Mr. Angelo?"

"Oh no, madam, I am very much obliged,
but I never drink coffee, much as I would like
to. You did see me take up Luigi's cup, it is
true, but if you noticed, I didn't carry it to
my mouth, but to his."

"Y—es, I thought you did. Did you mean
to?"

"How?"

The widow was a little embarrassed again.
She said:

"I don't know but what I'm foolish, and
you must n't mind; but you see, he got the
coffee I was expecting to see you drink, and
you got a potato that I thought he was going
to get. So I thought it might be a mistake
all around, and everybody getting what
was n't intended for him."

---

Both twins laughed and Luigi said:

"Dear madam, there was n't any mistake.
We are always helping each other that way.
It is a great economy for us both; it saves
time and labor. We have a system of signs
which nobody can notice or understand but
ourselves. If I am using both my hands and
want some coffee, I make the sign and Angelo
furnishes it to me; and you saw that when he
needed a potato I delivered it."

"How convenient!"

"Yes, and often of the extremest value.
Take the Mississippi boats, for instance. They
are always over-crowded. There is table-room
for only half of the passengers, therefore they
have to set a second table for the second half.
The stewards rush both parties, they give
them no time to eat a satisfying meal, both
divisions leave the table hungry. It is n't so
with us. Angelo books himself for the one
table, I book myself for the other. Neither of
us eats anything at the other's table, but
just simply works—works. Thus, you see
there are four hands to feed Angelo, and the

---

same four to feed me. Each of us eats two
meals."

The old lady was dazed with admiration,
and kept saying, "It is perfectly wonderful,
perfectly wonderful!" and the boy Joe licked
his chops enviously, but said nothing—at
least aloud.

"Yes," continued Luigi, "our construction
may have its disadvantages—in fact, has—but
it also has its compensations, of one sort and
another. Take travel, for instance. Travel
is enormously expensive, in all countries; we
have been obliged to do a vast deal of it—come,
Angelo, don't put any more sugar in your tea,
I'm just over one indigestion and don't want
another right away—been obliged to do a deal
of it, as I was saying. Well, we always travel
as one person, since we occupy but one seat;
so we save half the fare."

"How romantic!" interjected Rowena, with
effusion.

"Yes, my dear young lady, and how practical
too, and economical. In Europe, beds in
the hotels are not charged with the board, but
separately—another saving, for we stood to

---

our rights and paid for the one bed only. The
landlords often insisted that as both of us occupied
the bed we ought——"

"No, they did n't," said Angelo. "They
did it only twice, and in both cases it was a
double bed—a rare thing in Europe—and the
double bed gave them some excuse. Be fair to
the landlords; twice does n't constitute 'often.'"

"Well, that depends—that depends. I
knew a man who fell down a well twice. He
said he did n't mind the first time, but he
thought the second time was once too often.
Have I misused that word, Mrs. Cooper?"

"To tell the truth, I was afraid you had,
but it seems to look, now, like you had n't."
She stopped, and was evidently struggling
with the difficult problem a moment, then she
added in the tone of one who is convinced
without being converted, "It seems so, but
I can't somehow tell why."

Rowena thought Luigi's retort was wonderfully
quick and bright, and she remarked to
herself with satisfaction that there was n't any
young native of Dawson's Landing that could
have risen to the occasion like that. Luigi

---

detected the applause in her face, and expressed
his pleasure and his thanks with his
eyes; and so eloquently withal, that the girl
was proud and pleased, and hung out the delicate
sign of it on her cheeks.

Luigi went on, with animation:

"Both of us get a bath for one ticket, theater
seat for one ticket, pew-rent is on the same
basis, but at peep-shows we pay double."

"We have much to be thankful for," said
Angelo, impressively, with a reverent light in
his eye and a reminiscent tone in his voice,
"we have been greatly blessed. As a rule,
what one of us has lacked, the other, by the
bounty of Providence, has been able to supply.
My brother is hardy, I am not; he is very
masculine, assertive, aggressive; I am much
less so. I am subject to illness, he is never
ill. I cannot abide medicines, and cannot take
them, but he has no prejudice against them,
and—"

"Why, goodness gracious," interrupted the
widow, "when you are sick, does he take the
medicine for you?"

"Always, madam."

---

"Why, I never heard such a thing in my
life! I think it's beautiful of you."

"Oh, madam, it's nothing, don't mention it,
it's really nothing at all."

"But I say it's beautiful, and I stick to it!"
cried the widow, with a speaking moisture in
her eye. "A well brother to take the medicine
for his poor sick brother—I wish I had
such a son," and she glanced reproachfully at
her boys. "I declare I'll never rest till I've
shook you by the hand," and she scrambled
out of her chair in a fever of generous enthusiasm,
and made for the twins, blind with her
tears, and began to shake. The boy Joe corrected
her:

"You're shaking the wrong one, ma."

This flurried her, but she made a swift
change and went on shaking.

"Got the wrong one again ma," said the
boy.

"Oh, shut up, can't you!" said the widow,
embarrassed and irritated. "Give me all
your hands, I want to shake them all; for I
know you are both just as good as you can
be."

---

It was a victorious thought, a master-stroke
of diplomacy, though, that never occurred to
her and she cared nothing for diplomacy. She
shook the four hands in turn cordially, and
went back to her place in a state of high and
fine exaltation that made her look young and
handsome.

"Indeed I owe everything to Luigi," said
Angelo, affectionately. "But for him I could
not have survived our boyhood days, when we
were friendless and poor—ah, so poor! We
lived from hand to mouth—lived on the coarse
fare of unwilling charity, and for weeks and
weeks together not a morsel of food passed my
lips, for its character revolted me and I could
not eat it. But for Luigi I should have
died. He ate for us both."

"How noble!" sighed Rowena.

"Do you hear that?" said the widow, severely,
to her boys. "Let it be an example to
you—I mean you, Joe."

Joe gave his head a barely perceptible
disparaging toss and said: "Et for both. It
ain't anything—I'd a done it."

"Hush, if you have n't got any better manners

---

than that. You don't see the point at
all. It was n't good food."

"I don't care—it was food, and I 'd 'a et it
if it was rotten."

"Shame! Such language! Can't you understand?
They were starving—actually starving
—and he ate for both, and—"

"Shucks! you gimme a chance and I'll—"

"There, now—close your head! and don't
you open it again till you're asked."

[Angelo goes on and tells how his parents the Count and
Countess had to fly from Florence for political reasons,
and died poor in Berlin bereft of their great property by
confiscation; and how he and Luigi had to travel with a
freak-show during two years and suffer semi-starvation.]

"That hateful black-bread! but I seldom
ate anything during that time; that was poor
Luigi's affair——"

"I'll never Mister him again!" cried the
widow, with strong emotion, "he's Luigi to
me, from this out!"

"Thank you a thousand times, madam, a
thousand times! though in truth I don't
deserve it."

"Ah, Luigi is always the fortunate one

---

when honors are showering," said Angelo,
plaintively, "now what have I done, Mrs.
Cooper, that you leave me out? Come, you
must strain a point in my favor."

"Call you Angelo? Why, certainly I will;
what are you thinking of! In the case of
twins, why—"

"But, ma, you're breaking up the story—
do let him go on."

"You keep still, Rowena Cooper, and he
can go on all the better, I reckon. One
interruption don't hurt, it's two that makes
the trouble."

"But you've added one, now, and that is
three."

"Rowena! I will not allow you to talk
back at me when you have got nothing
rational to say."

---

CHAPTER III.

[After breakfast the whole village crowded in, and there
was a grand reception in honor of the twins; and at the
close of it the gifted "freak" captured everybody's admiration
by sitting down at the piano and knocking out a
classic four-handed piece in great style. Then the Judge
took it—or them—driving in his buggy and showed off
his village.]

along the streets the people crowded the
windows and stared at the amazing twins.
Troops of small boys flocked after the buggy,
excited and yelling. At first the dogs showed
no interest. They thought they merely saw
three men in a buggy—a matter of no consequence;
but when they found out the facts of
the case, they altered their opinion pretty
radically, and joined the boys, expressing their
minds as they came. Other dogs got interested;
indeed all the dogs. It was a spirited
sight to see them come leaping fences, tearing
around corners, swarming out of every by-street

---

and alley. The noise they made was
something beyond belief—or praise. They
did not seem to be moved by malice but only
by prejudice, the common human prejudice
against lack of conformity. If the twins
turned their heads, they broke and fled in
every direction, but stopped at a safe distance
and faced about; and then formed and came
on again as soon as the strangers showed
them their back. Negroes and farmers'
wives took to the woods when the buggy came
upon them suddenly, and altogether the drive
was pleasant and animated, and a refreshment
all around.

[It was a long and lively drive. Angelo was a Methodist,
Luigi was a Freethinker. The Judge was very
proud of his Freethinker Society, which was flourishing
along in a most prosperous way and already had two
members—himself and the obscure and neglected Pudd'nhead
Wilson. It was to meet that evening, and he invited
Luigi to join; a thing which Luigi was glad to do,
partly because it would please himself, and partly because
it would gravel Angelo.]

They had now arrived at the widow's gate,
and the excursion was ended. The twins politely
expressed their obligations for the pleasant

---

outing which had been afforded them; to
which the Judge bowed his thanks, and then
said he would now go and arrange for the
Freethinkers' meeting, and would call for
Count Luigi in the evening.

"For you also, dear sir," he added hastily,
turning to Angelo and bowing. "In addressing
myself particularly to your brother, I was
not meaning to leave you out. It was an unintentional
rudeness, I assure you, and due
wholly to accident—accident and preoccupation.
I beg you to forgive me."

His quick eye had seen the sensitive blood
mount into Angelo's face, betraying the wound
that had been inflicted. The sting of the
slight had gone deep, but the apology was so
prompt, and so evidently sincere, that the
hurt was almost immediately healed, and a
forgiving smile testified to the kindly Judge
that all was well again.

Concealed behind Angelo's modest and unassuming
exterior, and unsuspected by any
but his intimates, was a lofty pride, a pride of
almost abnormal proportions indeed, and this
rendered him ever the prey of slights; and

---

although they were almost always imaginary
ones, they hurt none the less on that account.
By ill fortune Judge Driscoll had happened
to touch his sorest point, i. e., his conviction
that his brother's presence was welcomer everywhere
than his own; that he was often invited,
out of mere courtesy, where only his brother
was wanted, and that in a majority of cases
he would not be included in an invitation if he
could be left out without offence. A sensitive
nature like this is necessarily subject to moods;
moods which traverse the whole gamut of feeling;
moods which know all the climes of
emotion, from the sunny heights of joy to the
black abysses of despair. At times, in his
seasons of deepest depression, Angelo almost
wished that he and his brother might become
segregated from each other and be separate
individuals, like other men. But of course as
soon as his mind cleared and these diseased
imaginings passed away, he shuddered at the
repulsive thought, and earnestly prayed that
it might visit him no more. To be separate,
and as other men are! How awkward it would
seem; how unendurable. What would he do

---

with his hands, his arms? How would his
legs feel? How odd, and strange, and grotesque
every action, attitude, movement, gesture
would be. To sleep by himself, eat by
himself, walk by himself—how lonely, how
unspeakably lonely! No, no, any fate but
that. In every way and from every point,
the idea was revolting.

This was of course natural; to have felt
otherwise would have been unnatural. He
had known no life but a combined one; he
had been familiar with it from his birth; he
was not able to conceive of any other as being
agreeable, or even bearable. To him, in
the privacy of his secret thoughts, all other
men were monsters, deformities; and during
three-fourths of his life their aspect had filled
him with what promised to be an unconquerable
aversion. But at eighteen his eye began
to take note of female beauty; and little
by little, undefined longings grew up in his
heart, under whose softening influences the old
stubborn aversion gradually diminished, and
finally disappeared. Men were still monstrosities
to him, still deformities, and in his sober
moments he had no desire to be like them,

---

but their strange and unsocial and uncanny
construction was no longer offensive to him.

This had been a hard day for him, physically
and mentally. He had been called in
the morning before he had quite slept off the
effects of the liquor which Luigi had drunk;
and so, for the first half hour had had the seedy
feeling, and languor, the brooding depression,
the cobwebby mouth and druggy taste that
come of dissipation and are so ill a preparation
for bodily or intellectual activities; the
long violent strain of the reception had followed;
and this had been followed, in turn,
by the dreary sight-seeing, the Judge's wearying
explanations and laudations of the sights,
and the stupefying clamor of the dogs. As
a congrous conclusion, a fitting end, his feelings
had been hurt, a slight had been put
upon him. He would have been glad to
forego dinner and betake himself to rest and
sleep, but he held his peace and said no word,
for he knew his brother, Luigi, was fresh.
unweary, full of life, spirit, energy; he would
have scoffed at the idea of wasting valuable
time on a bed or a sofa, and would have refused
permission.

---

CHAPTER IV.

was dining out, Joe and Harry
were belated at play, there were but three
chairs and four persons that noon at the home
dinner-table—the twins, the widow, and her
chum, Aunt Betsey Hale. The widow soon
perceived that Angelo's spirits were as low as
Luigi's were high, and also that he had a
jaded look. Her motherly solicitude was
aroused, and she tried to get him interested
in the talk and win him to a happier frame of
mind, but the cloud of sadness remained on
his countenance. Luigi lent his help, too.
He used a form and a phrase which he was
always accustomed to employ in these circumstances.
He gave his brother an affectionate
slap on the shoulder and said, encouragingly:

"Cheer up, the worst is yet to come!"

---

But this did no good. It never did. If
anything it made the matter worse, as a rule,
because it irritated Angelo. This made it a
favorite with Luigi. By and by the widow
said:

"Angelo, you are tired, you've overdone
yourself; you go right to bed, after dinner,
and get a good nap and a rest, then you'll be
all right."

"Indeed I would give anything if I could
do that, madam."

"And what's to hender, I'd like to know?
Land, the room's yours to do what you please
with! The idea that you can't do what you
like with your own!"

"But you see, there's one prime essential
—an essential of the very first importance—
which is n't my own."

"What is that?"

"My body."

The old ladies looked puzzled, and Aunt
Betsy Hale said:

"Why bless your heart, how is that?"

"It's my brother's."

"Your brother's! I don't quite understand.

---

I supposed it belonged to both of
you."

"So it does. But not to both at the same
time."

"That is mighty curious; I don't see how
it can be. I should n't think it could be managed
that way."

"Oh, it's a good enough arrangement, and
goes very well; in fact it would n't do to have
it otherwise. I find that the teetotalers and
the anti-teetotalers hire the use of the same
hall for their meetings. Both parties don't
use it at the same time, do they?"

"You bet they don't!" said both old ladies
in a breath.

"And moreover," said Aunt Betsy, "the
Freethinkers and the Baptist Bible-class use
the same room over the Market-house, but you
can take my word for it they don't mush up
together and use it at the same time."

"Very well," said Angelo, "you understand
it now. And it stands to reason that
the arrangement could n't be improved. I'll
prove it to you. If our legs tried to obey
two wills, how could we ever get anywhere?

---

I would start one way, Luigi would start
another, at the same moment—the result
would be a standstill, would n't it?"

"As sure as you are born! Now ain't
that wonderful! A body would never have
thought of it."

"We should always be arguing and fussing
and disputing over the merest trifles. We
should lose worlds of time, for we could n't go
down-stairs or up, could n't go to bed, could n't
rise, could n't wash, could n't dress, could n't
stand up, could n't sit down, could n't even
cross our legs, without calling a meeting first
and explaining the case and passing resolutions,
and getting consent. It would n't ever do—
now would it?"

"Do? Why, it would wear a person out
in a week! Did you ever hear anything
like it, Patsy Cooper?"

"Oh, you'll find there's more than one
thing about them that ain't commonplace,"
said the widow, with the complacent air of a
person with a property-right in a novelty
that is under admiring scrutiny.

"Well now, how ever do you manage it?
I don't mind saying I'm suffering to know."

---

"He who made us," said Angelo reverently,
"and with us this difficulty, also provided a
way out of it. By a mysterious law of our
being, each of us has utter and indisputable
command of our body a week at a time, turn
and turn about."

"Well, I never! Now ain't that beautiful!"

"Yes, it is beautiful and infinitely wise and
just. The week ends every Saturday at midnight
to the minute, to the second, to the
last shade of a fraction of a second, infallibly,
unerringly, and in that instant the one brother's
power over the body vanishes and the other
brother takes possession, asleep or awake."

"How marvelous are His ways, and past
finding out!"

Luigi said: "So exactly to the instant does
the change come, that during our stay in
many of the great cities of the world, the
public clocks were regulated by it; and as
hundreds of thousands of private clocks and
watches were set and corrected in accordance
with the public clocks, we really furnished the
standard time for the entire city."

"Don't tell me that He don't do miracles

---

any more! Blowing down the walls of Jericho
with rams' horns wa' n't as difficult, in
my opinion."

"And that is not all," said Angelo. "A
thing that is even more marvelous, perhaps, is
the fact that the change takes note of longitude
and fits itself to the meridian we are on.
Luigi is in command this week. Now, if on
Saturday night at a moment before midnight
we could fly in an instant to a point fifteen
degrees west of here, he would hold possession
of the power another hour, for the change
observes local time and no other."

Betsy Hale was deeply impressed, and said
with solemnity:"

"Patsy Cooper, for detail it lays over the
Passage of the Red Sea."

"Now, I should n't go as far as that," said
Aunt Patsy, "but if you've a mind to say
Sodom and Gomorrah, I am with you, Betsy
Hale."

"I am agreeable, then, though I do think I
was right, and I believe Parson Maltby would
say the same. Well now, there's another
thing. Suppose one of you wants to borrow

---

the legs a minute from the one that's got
them, could he let him?"

"Yes, but we hardly ever do that. There
were disagreeable results, several times, and
so we very seldom ask or grant the privilege,
nowdays, and we never even think of such a
thing unless the case is extremely urgent.
Besides, a week's possession at a time seems
so little that we can't bear to spare a minute
of it. People who have the use of their legs
all the time never think of what a blessing it
is, of course. It never occurs to them; it's
just their natural ordinary condition, and so it
does not excite them at all. But when I
wake up, on Sunday morning, and it's my
week and I feel the power all through me, oh,
such a wave of exultation and thanksgiving
goes surging over me, and I want to shout
'I can walk! I can walk!' Madam, do
you ever, at your uprising want to shout 'I
can walk! I can walk'?"

"No, you poor unfortunate cretur', but I'll
never get out of my bed again without doing
it! Laws, to think I've had this unspeakable
blessing all my long life and never had

---

the grace to thank the good Lord that gave
it to me!"

Tears stood in the eyes of both the old
ladies and the widow said, softly:

"Betsy Hale, we have learned something,
you and me."

The conversation now drifted wide, but by
and by floated back once more to that admired
detail, the rigid and beautiful impartiality
with which the possession of power had been
distributed between the twins. Aunt Betsy
saw in it a far finer justice than human law
exhibits in related cases. She said:

"In my opinion it ain't right now, and
never has been right, the way a twin born a
quarter of a minute sooner than the other one
gets all the land an-grandeurs and nobilities
in the old countries and his brother has to go
bare and be a nobody. Which of you was
born first?"

Angelo's head was resting against Luigi's;
weariness had overcome him, and for the past
five minutes he had been peacefully sleeping.
The old ladies had dropped their voices to a
fulling drone, to help him steal the rest his

---

brother would n't take him up-stairs to get.
Luigi listened a moment to Angelo's regular
breathing, then said in a voice barely audible:

"We were both born at the same time, but
I am six months older than he is."

"For the land's sake!"

"'Sh! don't wake him up; he would n't
like my telling this. It has always been kept
secret till now."

"But how in the world can it be? If you
were both born at the same time, how can
one of you be older than the other?"

"It is very simple, and I assure you it is
true. I was born with a full crop of hair, he
was as bald as an egg for six months. I
could walk six months before he could make
a step. I finished teething six months ahead
of him. I began to take solids six months
before he left the breast. I began to talk six
months before he could say a word. Last,
and absolutely unassailable proof, the sutures
in my skull closed six months ahead of his.
Always just that six months difference to a
day. Was that accident? Nobody is going
to claim that, I'm sure. It was ordained—it

---

was law—it had its meaning, and we know
what that meaning was. Now what does this
overwhelming body of evidence establish? It
establishes just one thing, and that thing it
establishes beyond any peradventure whatever.
Friends, we would not have it known
for the world, and I must beg you to keep it
strictly to yourselves, but the truth is, we are
no more twins than you are."

The two old ladies were stunned, paralyzed
—petrified, one may almost say—and could
only sit and gaze vacantly at each other for
some moments; then Aunt Betsy Hale said
impressively:

"There's no getting around proof like that.
I do believe it's the most amazing thing I
ever heard of." She sat silent a moment or
two and breathing hard with excitement, then
she looked up and surveyed the strangers
steadfastly a little while, and added: "Well,
it does beat me, but I would have took you
for twins anywhere."

"So would I, so would I," said Aunt Patsy
with the emphasis of a certainty that is not
impaired by any shade of doubt.

---

"Anybody would—anybody in the world,
I don't care who he is," said Aunt Betsy with
decision.

"You won't tell," said Luigi, appealingly.

"Oh, dear no!" answered both ladies
promptly, "you can trust us, don't you be
afraid."

"That is good of you, and kind. Never
let on; treat us always as if we were twins."

"You can depend on us," said Aunt Betsy,
"but it won't be easy, because now that I
know you ain't, you don't seem so."

Luigi muttered to himself with satisfaction:

"That swindle has gone through without
change of cars."

It was not very kind of him to load the
poor things up with a secret like that, which
would be always flying to their tongues' ends
every time they heard any one speak of the
strangers as twins, and would become harder
and harder to hang on to with every recurrence
of the temptation to tell it, while the
torture of retaining it would increase with
every new strain that was applied; but he
never thought of that, and probably would
not have worried much about it if he had.

---

A visitor was announced—some one to see
the twins. They withdrew to the parlor, and
the two old ladies began to discuss with interest
the strange things which they had been
listening to. When they had finished the
matter to their satisfaction, and Aunt
Betsy rose to go, she stopped to ask a question:

"How does things come on between Roweny
and Tom Driscoll?"

"Well, about the same. He writes tolerable
often, and she answers tolerable seldom."

"Where is he?"

"In St. Louis, I believe, though he's such
a gad-about that a body can't be very certain
of him, I reckon."

"Don't Roweny know?"

"Oh, yes, like enough. I have n't asked her
lately."

"Do you know how him and the Judge are
getting along now?"

"First-rate, I believe. Mrs. Pratt says so;
and being right in the house, and sister to the
one and aunt to t' other, of course she ought
to know. She says the Judge is real fond of

---

him when he's away, but frets when he's
around and is vexed with his ways, and not
sorry to have him go again. He has been
gone three weeks this time—a pleasant thing
for both of them, I reckon."

"Tom's ruther harum-scarum, but there
ain't anything bad in him, I guess."

"Oh no, he's just young, that's all. Still,
twenty-three is old, in one way. A young
man ought to be earning his living by that
time. If Tom were doing that, or was even
trying to do it, the Judge would be a heap
better satisfied with him. Tom's always going
to begin, but somehow he can't seem to
find just the opening he likes."

"Well now, it's partly the Judge's own
fault. Promising the boy his property was n't
the way to set him to earning a fortune of his
own. But what do you think—is Roweny
beginning to lean any towards him, or ain't
she?"

Aunt Patsy had a secret in her bosom; she
wanted to keep it there, but nature was too
strong for her. She drew Aunt Betsy aside,
and said in her most confidential and mysterious
manner:

---

"Don't you breathe a syllable to a soul—
I'm going to tell you something. In my
opinion Tom Driscoll's chances were considerable
better yesterday than they are today."

"Patsy Cooper, what do you mean?"

"It's so, as sure as you're born. I wish
you could 'a' been at breakfast and seen for
yourself."

"You don't mean it!"

"Well, if I'm any judge, there's a leaning
—there's a leaning, sure."

"My land! Which one of 'em is it?"

"I can't say for certain, but I think it's the
youngest one—Anjy."

Then there were handshakings, and congratulations,
and hopes, and so on, and the
old ladies parted, perfectly happy—the one
in knowing something which the rest of the
town didn't, and the other in having been the
sole person able to furnish that knowledge.

The visitor who had called to see the twins
was the Rev. Mr. Hotchkiss, pastor of the
Baptist church. At the reception Angelo had
told him he had lately experienced a change

---

in his religious views, and was now desirous
of becoming a Baptist, and would immediately
join Mr. Hotchkiss's church. There was
no time to say more, and the brief talk ended
at that point. The minister was much gratified,
and had dropped in for a moment, now,
to invite the twins to attend his Bible-class at
eight that evening. Angelo accepted, and
was expecting Luigi to decline, but he did
not, because he knew that the Bible-class and
the Freethinkers met in the same room, and
he wanted to treat his brother to the embarrassment
of being caught in freethinking
company.

---

CHAPTER V.

[A long and vigorous quarrel follows, between the
twins. And there is plenty to quarrel about, for Angelo
was always seeking truth, and this obliged him to change
and improve his religion with frequency, which wearied
Luigi, and annoyed him too; for he had to be present at
each new enlistment—which placed him in the false
position of seeming to indorse and approve his brother's
fickleness; moreover, he had to go to Angelo's prohibition
meetings, and he hated them. On the other hand,
when it was his week to command the legs he gave
Angelo just cause of complaint, for he took him to circuses
and horse-races and fandangoes, exposing him to
all sorts of censure and criticism; and he drank, too;
and whatever he drank went to Angelo's head instead of
his own and made him act disgracefully. When the
evening was come, the two attended the Freethinkers'
meeting, where Angelo was sad and silent; then came the
Bible-class and looked upon him coldly, finding him in
such company. Then they went to Wilson's house, and
Chapter XI. of "Pudd'nhead Wilson" follows, which
tells of the girl seen in Tom Driscoll's room; and closes
with the kicking of Tom by Luigi at the anti-temperance
mass meeting of the Sons of Liberty; with the addition of
some account of Roxy's adventures as a chambermaid on
a Mississippi boat. Her exchange of the children had
been flippantly and farcically described in an earlier
chapter.]

---

Next morning all the town was a-buzz with
great news; Pudd'nhead Wilson had a law-case!
The public astonishment was so great
and the public curiosity so intense, that when
the justice of the peace opened his court, the
place was packed with people, and even the
windows were full. Everybody was flushed
and perspiring, the summer heat was almost
unendurable.

Tom Driscoll had brought a charge of assault
and battery against the twins. Robert
Allen was retained by Driscoll, David Wilson
by the defense. Tom, his native cheerfulness
unannihilated by his back-breaking and bone-bruising
passage across the massed heads of
the Sons of Liberty the previous night,
laughed his little customary laugh, and said to
Wilson:

"I've kept my promise, you see: I'm
throwing my business your way. Sooner than
I was expecting, too."

"It's very good of you—particularly if you
mean to keep it up."

"Well, I can't tell about that, yet. But
we'll see. If I find you deserve it I'll take you

---

under my protection and make your fame
and fortune for you."

"I'll try to deserve it, Tom."

A jury was sworn in; then Mr. Allen said:

"We will detain your honor but a moment
with this case. It is not one where any doubt
of the fact of the assault can enter in. These
gentlemen—the accused—kicked my client at
the Market Hall last night; they kicked him
with violence; with extraodinary violence;
with even unprecedented violence, I may say;
insomuch that he was lifted entirely off his
feet and discharged into the midst of the audience.
We can prove this by four hundred
witnesses—we shall call but three. Mr.
Harkness will take the stand."

Mr. Harkness being sworn, testified that
he was chairman upon the occasion mentioned;
that he was close at hand and saw the defendants
in this action kick the plaintiff into the
air and saw him descend among the audience.

"Take the witness," said Allen.

"Mr. Harkness," said Wilson, "you say
you saw these gentlemen, my clients, kick the
plaintiff. Are you sure—and please remember

---

that you are on oath—are you perfectly
sure that you saw both of them kick him, or
only one? Now be careful."

A bewildered look began to spread itself
over the witness's face. He hesitated, stammered,
but got out nothing. His eyes wandered
to the twins and fixed themselves there
with a vacant gaze.

"Please answer, Mr. Harkness, you are
keeping the court waiting. It is a very simple
question."

Counsel for the prosecution broke in with
impatience:

"Your honor, the question is an irrelevant
triviality. Necessarily they both kicked him,
for they have but the one pair of legs, and
both are responsible for them."

Wilson said, sarcastically:

"Will your honor permit this new witness
to be sworn? He seems to possess knowledge
which can be of the utmost value just at this
moment—knowledge which would at once dispose
of what every one must see is a very
difficult question in this case. Brother Allen,
will you take the stand?"

---

"Go on with your case!" said Allen, petulantly.
The audience laughed, and got a
warning from the court.

"Now, Mr. Harkness," said Wilson, insinuatingly,
"we shall have to insist upon an answer
to that question."

"I—er—well, of course I do not absolutely
know, but in my opinion—"

"Never mind your opinion, sir—answer the
question."

"I—why, I can't answer it."

"That will do, Mr. Harkness. Stand down."

The audience tittered, and the discomfited
witness retired in a state of great embarrassment.

Mr. Wakeman took the stand and swore
that he saw the twins kick the plaintiff off the
platform. The defence took the witness.

"Mr. Wakeman, you have sworn that you
saw these gentlemen kick the plaintiff. Do I
understand you to swear that you saw them
both do it?"

"Yes, sir,"—with decision.

"How do you know that both did it?"

"Because I saw them do it."

---

The audience laughed, and got another
warning from the court.

"But by what means do you know that
both, and not one, did it?"

"Well, in the first place, the insult was
given to both of them equally, for they were
called a pair of scissors. Of course they
would both want to resent it, and so—"

"Wait! You are theorizing now. Stick to
facts—counsel will attend to the arguments.
Go on."

"Well, they both went over there—that I
saw."

"Very good. Go on."

"And they both kicked him—I swear to
it."

"Mr. Wakeman, was Count Luigi, here,
willing to join the Sons of Liberty last
night?"

"Yes, sir, he was. He did join, too, and
drank a glass or two of whisky, like a man.'

"Was his brother willing to join?"

"No, sir, he was n't. He is a teetotaler,
and was elected through a mistake."

"Was he given a glass of whisky?"

---

"Yes, sir, but of course that was another
mistake, and not intentional. He would n't
drink it. He set it down." A slight pause,
then he added, casually and quite simply:
"The plaintiff reached for it and hogged it."

There was a fine outburst of laughter, but
as the justice was caught out himself, his reprimand
was not very vigorous.

Mr. Allen jumped up and exclaimed: "I
protest against these foolish irrelevancies.
What have they to do with the case?"

Wilson said: "Calm yourself, brother, it
was only an experiment. Now, Mr. Wakeman,
if one of these gentlemen chooses to join an
association and the other does n't; and if one
of them enjoys whisky and the other does n't,
but sets it aside and leaves it unprotected"
(titter from the audience), "it seems to show
that they have independent minds and tastes
and preferences, and that one of them is able
to approve of a thing at the very moment
that the other is heartily disapproving of it.
Does n't it seem so to you?"

"Certainly it does. It's perfectly plain."

"Now then, it might be—I only say it

---

might be—that one of these brothers wanted
to kick the plaintiff last night, and that the
other did n't want that humilating punishment
inflicted upon him in that public way
and before all those people. Is n't that possible?

"Of course it is. It's more than possible.
I don't believe the blonde one would kick
anybody. It was the other one that—"

"Silence!" shouted the plaintiff's counsel,
and went on with an angry sentence which
was lost in the wave of laughter that swept
the house.

"That will do, Mr. Wakeman," said Wilson,
"you may stand down."

The third witness was called. He had seen
the twins kick the plaintiff. Mr. Wilson took
the witness.

"Mr. Rogers, you say you saw these accused
gentlemen kick the plaintiff?"

"Yes, sir."

"Both of them?"

"Yes, sir."

"Which of them kicked him first?"

"Why—they—they both kicked him at the
same time."

---

"Are you perfectly sure of that?"

"Yes, sir."

"What makes you sure of it?"

"Why, I stood right behind them, and saw
them do it."

"How many kicks were delivered?"

"Only one."

"If two men kick, the result should be two
kicks, should n't it?"

"Why—why—yes, as a rule."

"Then what do you think went with the
other kick?"

"I—well—the fact is, I was n't thinking of
two being necessary, this time."

"What do you think now?"

"Well, I—I'm sure I don't quite know
what to think, but I reckon that one of them
did half of the kick and the other one did the
other half."

Somebody in the crowd sung out: "It's
the first sane thing that any of them has said."

The audience applauded. The judge said:
"Silence! or I will clear the court."

Mr. Allen looked pleased, but Wilson did
not seem disturbed. He said:

---

"Mr. Rogers, you have favored us with
what you think and what you reckon, but as
thinking and reckoning are not evidence, I
will now give you a chance to come out with
something positive, one way or the other, and
shall require you to produce it. I will ask the
accused to stand up and repeat the phenomenal
kick of last night." The twins stood up.
"Now, Mr. Rogers, please stand behind them."

A Voice: "No, stand in front!" (Laughter.
Silenced by the court.) Another Voice:
"No, give Tommy another highst!" (Laughter.
Sharply rebuked by the court.)

"Now then, Mr. Rogers, two kicks shall be
delivered, one after the other, and I give you
my word that at least one of the two shall be
delivered by one of the twins alone, without
the slightest assistance from his brother.
Watch sharply, for you have got to render a
decision without any if's and and's in it."
Rogers bent himself behind the twins with his
palms just above his knees, in the modern attitude
of the catcher at a base-ball match, and
riveted his eyes on the pair of legs in front of
him. "Are you ready, Mr. Rogers?"

---

"Ready, sir."

"Kick!"

The kick was launched.

"Have you got that one classified, Mr.
Rogers?"

"Let me study a minute, sir."

"Take as much time as you please. Let
me know when you are ready."

For as much as a minute Rogers pondered,
with all eyes and a breathless interest fastened
upon him. Then he gave the word: "Ready,
sir."

"Kick!"

The kick that followed was an exact duplicate
of the first one.

"Now then, Mr. Rogers, one of those kicks
was an individual kick, not a mutual one.
You will now state positively which was the
mutual one."

The witness said, with a crestfallen look:

"I've got to give it up. There ain't any
man in the world that could tell t'other from
which, sir."

"Do you still assert that last night's kick
was a mutual kick?"

---

"Indeed I don't, sir."

"That will do, Mr. Rogers. If my brother
Allen desires to address the court, your honor,
very well; but as far as I am concerned I am
ready to let the case be at once delivered
into the hands of this intelligent jury without
comment."

Mr. Justice Robinson had been in office
only two months, and in that short time had
not had many cases to try, of course. He had
no knowledge of laws and courts except what
he had picked up since he came into office.
He was a sore trouble to the lawyers, for his
rulings were pretty eccentric sometimes, and
he stood by them with Roman simplicity and
fortitude; but the people were well satisfied
with him, for they saw that his intentions were
always right, that he was entirely impartial,
and that he usually made up in good sense
what he lacked in technique, so to speak. He
now perceived that there was likely to be a
miscarriage of justice here, and he rose to the
occasion.

"Wait a moment, gentlemen," he said, "it
is plain that an assault has been committed—

---

it is plain to anybody; but the way things are
going, the guilty will certainly escape conviction.
I cannot allow this. Now—"

"But, your honor!" said Wilson, interrupting
him, earnestly but respectfully, "you
are deciding the case yourself, whereas the
jury—"

"Never mind the jury, Mr. Wilson; the jury
will have a chance when there is a reasonable
doubt for them to take hold of—which there
is n't, so far. There is no doubt whatever that
an assault has been committed. The attempt
to show that both of the accused committed it
has failed. Are they both to escape justice on
that account? Not in this court, if I can prevent
it. It appears to have been a mistake to
bring the charge against them as a corporation;
each should have been charged in his capacity
as an individual, and—"

"But your honor!" said Wilson, "in fairness
to my clients I must insist that inasmuch
as the prosecution did not separate the—"

"No wrong will be done your clients, sir—
they will be protected; also the public and
the offended laws. Mr. Allen, you will amend

---

your pleadings, and put one of the accused
on trial at a time."

Wilson broke in: "But your honor! this
is wholly unprecedented! To imperil an
accused person by arbitrarily altering and
widening the charge against him in order to
compass his conviction when the charge as
originally brought promises to fail to convict,
is a thing unheard of before."

"Unheard of where?"

"In the courts of this or any other State."

The judge said with dignity: "I am not
aquainted with the customs of other courts,
and am not concerned to know what they
are. I am responsible for this court, and I
cannot conscientiously allow my judgment
to be warped and my judicial liberty hampered
by trying to conform to the caprices of
other courts, be they—"

"But, your honor, the oldest and highest
courts in Europe—"

"This court is not run on the European plan,
Mr. Wilson; it is not run on any plan but its
own. It has a plan of its own; and that plan
is, to find justice for both State and accused,

---

no matter what happens to be practice and custom
in Europe or anywhere else." (Great
applause.) "Silence! It has not been the
custom of this court to imitate other courts;
it has not been the custom of this court to
take shelter behind the decisions of other
courts, and we will not begin now. We will
do the best we can by the light that God has
given us, and while this court continues to
have His approval, it will remain in different
to what other organizations may think of it."
(Applause.) "Gentlemen, I must have order!
—quiet yourselves! Mr. Allen, you will now
proceed against the prisoners one at a time.
Go on with the case."

Allen was not at his ease. However, after
whispering a moment with his client and
with one or two other people, he rose and
said:

"Your honor, I find it to be reported and
believed that the accused are able to act independently
in many ways, but that this
independence does not extend to their legs,
authority over their legs being vested exclusively
in the one brother during a specific

---

term of days, and then passing to the other
brother for a like term, and so on, by regular
alternation. I could call witnesses who would
prove that the accused had revealed to them
the existence of this extraordinary fact, and
had also made known which of them was in
possession of the legs yesterday—and this
would of course indicate where the guilt of
the assault belongs—but as this would be
mere hearsay evidence, these revelations not
having been made under oath—"

"Never mind about that, Mr. Allen. It
may not all be hearsay. We shall see. It
may at least help to put us on the right track.
Call the witnesses."

"Then I will call Mr. John Buckstone, who
is now present, and I beg that Mrs. Patsy
Cooper may be sent for. Take the stand,
Mr. Buckstone."

Buckstone took the oath, and then testified
that on the previous evening the Count Angelo
Cappello had protested against going
to the hall, and had called all present to witness
that he was going by compulsion and
would not go if he could help himself. Also,

---

that the Count Luigi had replied sharply
that he would go, just the same, and that he,
Count Luigi, would see to that, himself. Also,
that upon Count Angelo's complaining
about being kept on his legs so long, Count
Luigi retorted with apparant surprise, 'Your
legs!—I like your impudence!'"

"Now we are getting at the kernel of the
thing," observed the judge, with grave and
earnest satisfaction. "It looks as if the
Count Luigi was in possession of the battery
at the time of the assault."

Nothing further was elicited from Mr.
Buckstone on direct examination. Mr. Wilson
took the witness.

"Mr. Buckstone, about what time was it
that that conversation took place?"

"Toward nine yesterday evening, sir."

"Did you then proceed directly to the
hall?"

"Yes, sir."

"How long did it take you to go there?"

"Well, we walked; and as it was from the
extreme edge of the town, and there was no

---

hurry, I judge it took us about twenty minutes,
maybe a trifle more."

"About what hour was the kick delivered?"

"At thirteen minutes and a half to ten."

"Admirable! You are a pattern witness,
Mr. Buckstone. How did you happen to
look at your watch at that particular moment?"

"I always do it when I see an assault.
It's likely I shall be called as a witness, and
it's a good point to have."

"It would be well if others were as
thoughtful. Was anything said, between the
conversation at my house and the assault,
upon the detail which we are now examining
into?"

"No, sir."

"If power over the mutual legs was in the
possession of one brother at nine, and passed
into the possession of the other one during
the next thirty or forty minutes, do you think
you could have detected the change?"

"By no means!"

"That is all, Mr. Buckstone."

---

Mrs. Patsy Cooper was called. The crowd
made way for her, and she came smiling and
bowing through the narrow human lane, with
Betsy Hale, as escort and support, smiling
and bowing in her wake, the audience breaking
into welcoming cheers as the old favorites
filed along. The judge did not check this
kindly demonstration of homage and affection,
but let it run its course unrebuked.

The old ladies stopped and shook hands
with the twins with effusion, then gave the
judge a friendly nod, and bustled into the
seats provided for them. They immediately
began to deliver a volley of eager questions
at the friends around them: "What is this
thing for?" "What is that thing for?"
"Who is that young man that's writing at
the desk? Why, I declare, it's Jack Bunce!
I thought he was sick." "Which is the
jury? Why, is that the jury? Billy Price
and Job Turner, and Jack Lounsbury, and—
well, I never!" "Now who would ever a'
thought—"

But they were gently called to order at
this point, and asked not to talk in court.

---

Their tongues fell silent, but the radiant interest
in their faces remained, and their gratitude
for the blessing of a new sensation and a
novel experience still beamed undimmed from
their eyes. Aunt Patsy stood up and took
the oath, and Mr. Allen explained the point
in issue, and asked her to go on, now, in her
own way, and throw as much light upon it as
she could. She toyed with her reticule a moment
or two, as if considering where to begin,
then she said:

"Well, the way of it is this. They are
Luigi's legs a week at a time, and then they
are Angelo's, and he can do whatever he
wants to with them."

"You are making a mistake, Aunt Patsy
Cooper," said the judge. "You should n't
state that as a fact, because you don't know
it to be a fact."

"What's the reason I don't?" said Aunt
Patsy, bridling a little.

"What is the reason that you do know it?"

"The best in the world—because they told
me."

"That is n't a reason."

---

"Well, for the land's sake! Betsy Hale,
do you hear that?"

"Hear it? I should think so," said Aunt
Betsy, rising and facing the court. "Why,
Judge, I was there and heard it myself.
Luigi says to Angelo—no, it was Angelo said
it to—"

"Come, come, Mrs. Hale, pray sit down,
and—"

"Certainly, it's all right, I'm going to sit
down presently, but not until I've—"

"But you must sit down!"

"Must! Well, upon my word if things
ain't getting to a pretty pass when—"

The house broke into laughter, but was
promptly brought to order, and meantime Mr.
Allen persuaded the old lady to take her seat.
Aunt Patsy continued:

"Yes, they told me that, and I know it's
true. They're Luigi's legs this week, but—"

"Ah, they told you that, did they?" said
the justice, with interest.

"Well no, I don't know that they told me,
but that's neither here nor there. I know,
without that, that at dinner yesterday, Angelo

---

was as tired as a dog, and yet Luigi would n't
lend him the legs to go up-stairs and take a
nap with."

"Did he ask for them?"

"Let me see—it seems to me somehow,
that—that—Aunt Betsy, do you remember
whether he——"

"Never mind about what Aunt Betsy remembers—she
is not a witness; we only want
to know what you remember, yourself," said
the judge.

"Well, it does seem to me that you are
most cantankerously particular about a little
thing, Sim Robinson. Why, when I can't
remember a thing myself, I always——"

"Ah, please go on!"

"Now how can she when you keep fussing
at her all the time?" said Aunt Betsy. "Why,
with a person pecking at me that way, I should
get that fuzzled and fuddled that——"

She was on her feet again, but Allen coaxed
her into her seat once more, while the court
squelched the mirth of the house. Then the
judge said:

"Madam, do you know—do you absolutely

---

know, independently of anything these
gentlemen have told you—that the power
over their legs passes from the one to the
other regularly every week?"

"Regularly? Bless your heart, regularly
ain't any name for the exactness of it! All
the big cities in Europe used to set the clocks
by it." (Laughter, suppressed by the court.)

"How do you know? That is the question.
Please answer it plainly and squarely."

"Don't you talk to me like that, Sim
Robinson—I won't have it. How do I
know, indeed! How do you know what you
know? Because somebody told you. You
did n't invent it out of your own head,
did you? Why, these twins are the truthfulest
people in the world; and I don't think it
becomes you to sit up there and throw slurs
at them when they have n't been doing anything
to you. And they are orphans besides
—both of them. All—"

But Aunt Betsy was up again, now, and
both old ladies were talking at once and with
all their might; but as the house was weltering
in a storm of laughter, and the judge was

---

hammering his desk with an iron paper-weight,
one could only see them talk, not hear them.
At last, when quiet was restored, the court
said:

"Let the ladies retire."

"But, your honor, I have the right, in the
interest of my clients, to cross-exam—"

"You'll not need to exercise it, Mr. Wilson
—the evidence is thrown out."

"Thrown out!" said Aunt Patsy, ruffled;
"and what's it thrown out for, I'd like to
know."

"And so would I, Patsy Cooper. It seems
to me that if we can save these poor persecuted
strangers, it is our bounden duty to stand up
here and talk for them till—"

"There, there, there, do sit down!"

It cost some trouble and a good deal of coaxing,
but they were got into their seats at last.
The trial was soon ended, now. The twins
themselves became witnesses in their own defense.
They established the fact, upon oath,
that the leg-power passed from one to the
other every Saturday night at twelve o'clock,
sharp. But on cross-examination their counsel

---

would not allow them to tell whose week
of power the current week was. The judge
insisted upon their answering, and proposed
to compel them, but even the prosecution
took fright and came to the rescue then, and
helped stay the sturdy jurist's revolutionary
hand. So the case had to go to the jury with
that important point hanging in the air. They
were out an hour, and brought in this verdict:

"We the jury do find: 1, that an assault
was committed, as charged; 2, that it was committed
by one of the persons accused, he
having been seen to do it by several credible
witnesses: 3, but that his identity is so
merged in his brother's that we have not been
able to tell which was him. We cannot convict
both, for only one is guilty. We cannot
acquit both, for only one is innocent. Our
verdict is that justice has been defeated by
the dispensation of God, and ask to be discharged
from further duty."

This was read aloud in court and brought
out a burst of hearty applause. The old
ladies made a spring at the twins, to shake and

---

congratulate, but were gently disengaged by
Mr. Wilson and softly crowded back into their
places.

The Judge rose in his little tribune, laid
aside his silver-bowed spectacles, roached his
gray hair up with his fingers, and said, with
dignity and solemnity, and even with a certain
pathos:

"In all my experience on the bench, I have
not seen Justice bow her head in shame in
this court until this day. You little realize
what far-reaching harm has just been wrought
here under the fickle forms of law. Imitation
is the bane of courts—I thank God that this
one is free from the contamination of that vice
—and in no long time you will see the fatal
work of this hour seized upon by profligate
so-called guardians of justice in all the wide
circumstance of this planet and perpetuated in
their pernicious decisions. I wash my hands
of this iniquity. I would have compelled
these culprits to expose their guilt, but support
failed me where I had most right to expect
aid and encouragement. And I was
confronted by a law made in the interest of

---

crime, which protects the criminal from testifying
against himself. Yet I had precedents of
my own whereby I had set aside that law on
two different occasions and thus succeeded in
convicting criminals to whose crimes there
were no witnesses but themselves. What
have you accomplished this day? Do you
realize it? You have set adrift, unadmonished,
in this community, two men endowed with an
awful and mysterious gift, a hidden and grisly
power for evil—a power by which each in his
turn may commit crime after crime of the
most heinous character, and no man be able
to tell which is the guilty or which the innocent
party in any case of them all. Look to
your homes—look to your property—look to
your lives—for you have need!

"Prisoners at the bar, stand up. Through
suppression of evidence, a jury of your—our
—countrymen have been obliged to deliver a
verdict concerning your case which stinks to
heaven with the rankness of its injustice. By
its terms you, the guilty one, go free with the
innocent. Depart in peace, and come no
more! The costs devolve upon the outraged

---

plaintiff—another iniquity. The Court stands
dissolved."

Almost everybody crowded forward to overwhelm
the twins and their counsel with congratulations;
but presently the two old
aunties dug the duplicates out and bore
them away in triumph through the hurrahing
crowd, while lots of new friends carried Pudd'nhead
Wilson off tavern-wards to feast him
and "wet down" his great and victorious
entry into the legal arena. To Wilson, so long
familiar with neglect and depreciation, this
strange new incense of popularity and admiration
was as a fragrance blown from the
fields of paradise. A happy man was Wilson.

---

CHAPTER VI.

came in the evening and conferred upon
Wilson the welcome honor of a nomination for mayor;
for the village has just been converted into a city by
charter. Tom skulks out of challenging the twins.
Judge Driscoll thereupon challenges Angelo, (accused by
Tom of doing the kicking;) he declines, but Luigi accepts
in his place against Angelo's timid protest.

was late Saturday night—nearing eleven.

The Judge and his second found the rest
of the war party at the further end of the
vacant ground, near the haunted house.
Pudd'nhead Wilson advanced to meet them,
and said anxiously—

"I must say a word in behalf of my prin-
cipal's proxy, Count Luigi, to whom you have
kindly granted the privilege of fighting my
principal's battle for him. It is growing
late, and Count Luigi is in great trouble lest
midnight shall strike before the finish."

"It is another testimony," said Howard,

---

approvingly. "That young man is fine all
through. He wishes to save his brother the
sorrow of fighting on the Sabbath, and he is
right; it is the right and manly feeling and
does him credit. We will make all possible
haste."

Wilson said—

"There is also another reason—a consideration,
in fact, which deeply concerns Count
Luigi himself. These twins have command
of their mutual legs turn about. Count
Luigi is in command, now; but at midnight,
possession will pass to my principal, Count Angelo,
and—well, you can foresee what will
happen. He will march straight off the field,
and carry Luigi with him."

"Why! sure enough!" cried the Judge,
"we have heard something about that extraodinary
law of their being, already—nothing
very definite, it is true, as regards dates
and durations of the power, but I see it is
definite enough as regards to-night. Of course
we must give Luigi every chance. Omit all
the ceremonial possible, gentlemen, and
place us in position."

---

The seconds at once tossed up a coin;
Howard won the choice. He placed the
Judge sixty feet from the haunted house and
facing it; Wilson placed the twins within
fifteen feet of the house and facing the Judge
—necessarily. The pistol-case was opened
and the long slim tubes taken out; when the
moonlight glinted from them a shiver went
through Angelo. The doctor was a fool,
but a thoroughly well-meaning one, with a
kind heart and a sincere disposition to oblige,
but along with it an absence of tact which
often hurt its effectiveness. He brought his
box of lint and bandages, and asked Angelo
to feel and see how soft and comfortable
they were. Angelo's head fell over against
Luigi's in a faint, and precious time was lost
in bringing him to; which provoked Luigi
into expressing his mind to the doctor with a
good deal of vigor and frankness. After
Angelo came to he was still so weak that
Luigi was obliged to drink a stiff horn of
brandy to brace him up.

The seconds now stepped at once to their
posts, half way between the combatants, one

---

of them on each side of the line of fire. Wilson
was to count, very deliberately, "One—
two—three—fire!—stop!" and the duelists
could bang away at any time they chose during
that recitation, but not after the last word.
Angelo grew very nervous when he saw
Wilson's hand rising slowly into the air as a
sign to make ready, and he leaned his head
against Luigi's and said—

"O, please take me away from here, I can't
stay, I know I can't!"

"What in the world are you doing?
Straighten up! What's the matter with you?
—you're in no danger—nobody's going to
shoot at you. Straighten up, I tell you!"

Angelo obeyed, just in time to hear—
"One—!"

"Bang!" Just one report, and a little
tuft of white hair floated slowly to the Judge's
feet in the moonlight. The Judge did not
swerve; he still stood erect and motionless,
like a statue, with his pistol-arm hanging
straight down at his side. He was reserving
his fire.

"Two—!"

---

"Three—!"

"Fire—!"

Up came the pistol-arm instantly—Angelo
dodged with the report. He said "Ouch!"
and fainted again.

The doctor examined and bandaged the
wound. It was of no consequence, he said—
bullet through fleshy part of arm—no bones
broken—the gentleman was still able to fight
—let the duel proceed.

Next time Angelo jumped just as Luigi
fired, which disordered his aim and caused
him to cut a chip out of Howard's ear. The
Judge took his time again, and when he fired
Angelo jumped and got a knuckle skinned.
The doctor inspected and dressed the wounds.
Angelo now spoke out and said he was con-
tent with the satisfaction he had got, and if
the Judge—but Luigi shut him roughly up,
and asked him not to make an ass of himself;
adding—

"And I want you to stop dodging. You
take a great deal too prominent a part in this
thing for a person who has got nothing to do
with it. You should remember that you are

---

here only by courtesy, and are without official
recognition; officially you are not here at
all; officially you do not even exist. To all
intents and purposes you are absent from this
place, and you ought for your own modesty's
sake to reflect that it cannot become a person
who is not present here to be taking this sort
of public and indecent prominence in a matter
in which he is not in the slightest degree concerned.
Now, don't dodge again; the bullets
are not for you, they are for me; if I want
them dodged I will attend to it myself. I
never saw a person act so."

Angelo saw the reasonableness of what his
brother had said, and he did try to reform,
but it was of no use; both pistols went off at
the same instant, and he jumped once more;
he got a sharp scrape along his cheek from
the Judge's bullet, and so deflected Luigi's
aim that his ball went wide and chipped a
flake of skin from Pudd'nhead Wilson's chin.
The doctor attended to the wounded.

By the terms, the duel was over. But
Luigi was entirely out of patience, and begged
for one more exchange of shots, insisting that

---

he had had no fair chance, on account of his
brother's indelicate behavior. Howard was
opposed to granting so unusual a privilege,
but the Judge took Luigi's part, and added
that indeed he himself might fairly be considered
entitled to another trial, because although
the proxy on the other side was in no
way to blame for his (the Judge's) humiliatingly
resultless work, the gentleman with
whom he was fighting this duel was to blame
for it, since if he had played no advantages
and had held his head still, his proxy would
have been disposed of early. He added—

"Count Luigi's request for another exchange
is another proof that he is a brave and
chivalrous gentleman, and I beg that the
courtesy he asks may be accorded him."

"I thank you most sincerely for this generosity,
Judge Driscoll," said Luigi, with a
polite bow, and moving to his place. Then
he added—to Angelo, "Now hold your grip,
hold your grip, I tell you, and I'll land him,
sure!"

The men stood erect, their pistol-arms at
their sides, the two seconds stood at their

---

official posts, the doctor stood five paces in
Wilson's rear with his instruments and bandages
in his hands. The deep stillness, the
peaceful moonlight, the motionless figures,
made an impressive picture and the impending
fatal possibilities augmented this impressiveness
to solemnity. Wilson's hand began
to rise—slowly—slowly—higher—still higher
—in another moment—

"Boom!"—the first stroke of midnight
swung up out of the distance: Angelo was
off like a deer!

"Oh, you unspeakable traitor!" wailed his
brother, as they went soaring over the fence.

The others stood astonished and gazing;
and so stood, watching that strange spectacle
until distance dissolved it and swept it from
their view. Then they rubbed their eyes
like people waking out of a dream.

"Well, I've never seen anything like that
before!" said the Judge. "Wilson, I am going
to confess, now, that I was n't quite able
to believe in that leg-business, and had a
suspicion that it was a put-up convenience
between those twins; and when Count Angelo

---

fainted I thought I saw the whole scheme
—thought it was pretext No. I, and would be
followed by others till twelve o'clock should
arrive and Luigi would get off with all the
credit of seeming to want to fight and yet
not have to fight, after all. But I was mistaken.
His pluck proved it. He's a brave
fellow and did want to fight."

"There is n't any doubt about that," said
Howard, and added in a grieved tone, "but
what an unworthy sort of Christian that
Angelo is—I hope and believe there are not
many like him. It is not right to engage in
a duel on the Sabbath—I could not approve
of that myself; but to finish one that has
been begun—that is a duty, let the day be
what it may."

They strolled along, still wondering, still
talking.

"It is a curious circumstance," remarked
the surgeon, halting Wilson a moment to
paste some more court plaster on his chin,
which had gone to leaking blood again, "that
in this duel neither of the parties who handled
the pistols lost blood, while nearly all the

---

persons present in the mere capacity of guests
got hit. I have not heard of such a thing
before. Don't you think it unusual?"

"Yes," said the Judge, "it has struck me
as peculiar. Peculiar and unfortunate. I
was annoyed at it, all the time. In the case
of Angelo it made no great difference, because
he was in a measure concerned, though not
officially; but it troubled me to see the
seconds compromised, and yet I knew no way
to mend the matter."

"There was no way to mend it," said
Howard, whose ear was being readjusted
now by the doctor; "the code fixes our
place, and it would not have been lawful to
change it. If we could have stood at your
side, or behind you, or in front of you, it—
but it would not have been legitimate and the
other parties would have had a just right to
complain of our trying to protect ourselves
from danger; infractions of the code are
certainly not permissible in any case whatever."

Wilson offered no remarks. It seemed to
him that there was very little place here for

---

so much solemnity, but he judged that if a
duel where nobody was in danger or got
crippled but the seconds and the outsiders had
nothing ridiculous about for these gentlemen,
his pointing out that feature would probably
not help them to see it.

He invited them in to take a nightcap, and
Howard and the Judge accepted, but the
doctor said he would have to go and see how
Angelo's principal wound was getting on.

[It was now Sunday, and in the afternoon Angelo was
to be received into the Baptist communion by immersion
—a doubtful prospect, the doctor feared.]

---

CHAPTER VII.

the doctor arrived at Aunt Patsy
Cooper's house, he found the lights going and
everybody up and dressed and in a great state
of solicitude and excitement. The twins
were stretched on a sofa in the sitting-room,
Aunt Patsy was fussing at Angelo's arm,
Nancy was flying around under her commands,
the two young boys were trying to keep out
of the way and always getting in it, in order
to see and wonder, Rowena stood apart, helpless
with apprehension and emotion, and
Luigi was growling in unappeasable fury over
Angelo's shameful flight.

As has been reported before, the doctor
was a fool—a kindhearted and well-meaning
one, but with no tact; and as he was by long
odds the most learned physician in the town,

---

and was quite well aware of it, and could talk
his learning with ease and precision, and liked
to show off when he had an audience, he was
sometimes tempted into revealing more of a
case than was good for the patient.

He examined Angelo's wound, and was
really minded to say nothing for once; but
Aunt Patsy was so anxious and so pressing
that he allowed his caution to be overcome,
and proceeded to empty himself as follows,
with scientific relish—

"Without going too much into detail,
madam—for you would probably not understand
it anyway—I concede that great care is
going to be necessary here; otherwise exudation
of the aesophagus is nearly sure to ensue,
and this will be followed by ossification
and extradition of the maxillaris superioris,
which must decompose the granular surfaces
of the great infusorial ganglionic system, thus
obstructing the action of the posterior varioloid
arteries, and precipitating compound
strangulated sorosis of the valvular tissues,
and ending unavoidably in the dispersion and
combustion of the marsupial fluxes and the

---

consequent embrocation of the bicuspid
populo redax referendum rotulorum."

A miserable silence followed. Aunt Patsy's
heart sank, the pallor of despair invaded her
face, she was not able to speak; poor Rowena
wrung her hands in privacy and silence, and
said to herself in the bitterness of her young
grief, "There is no hope—it is plain there is
no hope;" the good-hearted negro wench,
Nancy, paled to chocolate, then to orange,
then to amber, and thought to herself with
yearning sympathy and sorrow, "Po' thing,
he ain' gwyne to las' throo de half o' dat;" small
Henry choked up, and turned his head away
to hide his rising tears, and his brother Joe
said to himself, with a sense of loss, "The
baptizing's busted, that's sure." Luigi was
the only person who had any heart to speak.
He said, a little bit sharply, to the doctor—

"Well, well, there's nothing to be gained
by wasting precious time: give him a barrel
of pills—I'll take them for him."

"You?" asked the doctor.

"Yes. Did you suppose he was going to
take them himself?"

---

"Why, of course."

"Well, it's a mistake. He never took a
dose of medicine in his life. He can't."

"Well, upon my word, it's the most extraordinary
thing I ever heard of!"

"Oh," said Aunt Patsy, as pleased as a
mother whose child is being admired and
wondered at, "you'll find that there's more
about them that's wonderful than their just
being made in the image of God like the rest
of His creatures, now you can depend on that,
I tell you," and she wagged her complacent
head like one who could reveal marvelous
things if she chose.

The boy Joe began—

"Why, ma, they ain't made in the im—"

"You shut up, and wait till you're asked,
Joe. I'll let you know when I want help.
Are you looking for something, Doctor?"

The doctor asked for a few sheets of paper
and a pen, and said he would write a prescription;
which he did. It was one of Galen's;
in fact, it was Galen's favorite, and had been
slaying people for sixteen thousand years.
Galen used it for everything, applied it to

---

everything, said it would remove everything,
from warts all the way through to lungs—and
it generally did. Galen was still the only
medical authority recognized in Missouri;
his practice was the only practice known to
the Missouri doctors, and his prescriptions
were the only ammunition they carried when
they went out for game. By and by Dr.
Claypool laid down his pen and read the result
of his labors aloud, carefully and deliberately,
for this battery must be constructed on
the premises by the family, and mistakes
could occur; for he wrote a doctor's hand—
the hand which from the beginning of time
has been so disastrous to the apothecary and
so profitable to the undertaker:

"Take of afarabocca, henbane, corpobalsamum,
each two drams and a half; of cloves,
opium, myrrh, cyperus, each two drams; of
opobalsamum, Indian leaf, cinnamon, zedoary,
ginger, coftus, coral, cassia, euphorbium,
gum tragacanth, frankincense, styrax calamita,
celtic, nard, spignel, hartwort, mustard,
saxifrage, dill, anise, each one dram; of xylaloes,
rheum ponticum, alipta moschata, castor,

---

spikenard, galangals, opoponax, anacardium,
mastich, brimstone, peony, eringo,
pulp of dates, red and white hermodactyls,
roses, thyme, acorns, pennyroyal, gentian, the
bark of the root of mandrake, germander,
valerian, bishop's weed, bay-berries, long and
white pepper, xylobalsamum, carnabadium,
macedonian, parsley-seeds, lovage, the seeds
of rue, and sinon, of each a dram and a half;
of pure gold, pure silver, pearls not perforated,
the blatta byzantina, the bone of the
stag's heart, of each the quantity of fourteen
grains of wheat; of sapphire, emerald and
jasper stones, each one dram; of hazel-nut,
two drams; of pellitory of Spain, shavings of
ivory, calamus odoratus, each the quantity of
twenty-nine grains of wheat; of honey or
sugar a sufficient quantity. Boil down and
skim off."

"There," he said, "that will fix the patient;
give his brother a dipperful every three-quarters
of an hour—"

—"while he survives," muttered Luigi—

—"and see that the room is kept wholesomely
hot, and the doors and windows

---

closed tight. Keep Count Angelo nicely
covered up with six or seven blankets, and
when he is thirsty—which will be frequently
—moisten a rag in the vapor of the tea-kettle
and let his brother suck it. When he is
hungry—which will also be frequently—he
must not be humored oftener than every
seven or eight hours; then toast part of a
cracker until it begins to brown, and give it
to his brother."

"That is all very well, as far as Angelo is
concerned," said Luigi, "but what am I to
eat?"

"I do not see that there is anything the
matter with you," the doctor answered, "you
may of course eat what you please."

"And also drink what I please, I suppose?"

"Oh, certainly—at present. When the
violent and continuous perspiring has reduced
your strength, I shall have to reduce your
diet, of course, and also bleed you, but there
is no occasion for that yet awhile." He
turned to Aunt Patsy and said: "He must
be put to bed, and sat up with, and tended

---

with the greatest care, and not allowed to stir
for several days and nights."

"For one, I'm sacredly thankful for that,"
said Luigi, "it postpones the funeral—I'm
not to be drowned to-day, anyhow."

Angelo said quietly to the doctor:

"I will cheerfully submit to all your requirements,
sir, up to two o'clock this afternoon,
and will resume them after three, but
cannot be confined to the house during that
intermediate hour."

"Why, may I ask?"

"Because I have entered the Baptist communion,
and by appointment am to be baptized
in the river at that hour."

"Oh, insanity!—it cannot be allowed!"

Angelo answered with placid firmness—

"Nothing shall prevent it, if I am alive."

"Why, consider, my dear sir, in your condition
it might prove fatal."

A tender and ecstatic smile beamed from
Angelo's eyes, and he broke forth in a tone of
joyous fervency—

"Ah, how blessed it would be to die for
such a cause—it would be martydom!"

---

"But your brother—consider your brother;
you would be risking his life, too."

"He risked mine an hour ago," responded
Angelo, gloomily; "did he consider me?"
A thought swept through his mind that made
him shudder. "If I had not run, I might
have been killed in a duel on the Sabbath day,
and my soul would have been lost—lost."

"Oh, don't fret, it was n't in any danger," said
Luigi, irritably; "they wouldn't waste it for a
little thing like that; there's a glass case all
ready for it in the heavenly museum, and a
pin to stick it up with."

Aunt Patsy was shocked, and said—

"Looy, Looy!—don't talk so, dear!"

Rowena's soft heart was pierced by Luigi's
unfeeling words, and she murmured to herself,
"Oh, if I but had the dear privilege of protecting
and defending him with my weak voice!
—but alas, this sweet boon is denied me by
the cruel conventions of social intercourse."

"Get their bed ready," said Aunt Patsy to
Nancy, "and shut up the windows and doors,
and light their candles, and see that you drive
all the mosquitoes out of their bar, and make

---

up a good fire in their stove, and carry up
some bags of hot ashes to lay to his feet——"

—"and a shovel of fire for his head, and a
mustard plaster for his neck, and some gum
shoes for his ears," Luigi interrupted, with
temper; and added, to himself, "Damnation,
I'm going to be roasted alive, I just know it!"

"Why, Looy! Do be quiet; I never saw
such a fractious thing. A body would think
you did n't care for your brother."

"I don't—to that extent, Aunt Patsy. I was
glad the drowning was postponed a minute
ago, but I'm not, now. No, that is all gone
by: I want to be drowned."

"You'll bring a judgment on yourself just
as sure as you live, if you go on like that.
Why, I never heard the beat of it. Now,
there,—there! you've said enough. Not
another word out of you,—I won't have it!"

"But, Aunt Patsy—"

"Luigi! Did n't you hear what I told
you?"

"But, Aunt Patsy, I—why, I'm not going
to set my heart and lungs afloat in that pail of

---

sewage which this criminal here has been
prescri—"

"Yes, you are, too. You are going to be
good, and do everything I tell you, like a
dear," and she tapped his cheek affectionately
with her finger. "Rowena, take the prescription
and go in the kitchen and hunt up the
things and lay them out for me. I'll sit up
with my patient the rest of the night. Doctor;
I can't trust Nancy, she couldn't make Luigi
take the medicine. Of course you'll drop in
again during the day. Have you got any
more directions?"

"No, I believe not, Aunt Patsy. If I don't
get in earlier, I'll be along by early candlelight,
anyway. Meantime, don't allow him to get
out of his bed."

Angelo said, with calm determination—

"I shall be baptized at two o'clock. Nothing
but death shall prevent me."

The doctor said nothing aloud, but to himself
he said:

"Why, this chap's got a manly side, after
all! Physically he's a coward, but morally
he's a lion. I'll go and tell the others about

---

this; it will raise him a good deal in their
estimation—and the public will follow their
lead, of course."

Privately, Aunt Patsy applauded too, and
was proud of Angelo's courage in the moral
field as she was of Luigi's in the field of
honor.

The boy Henry was troubled, but the boy
Joe said, inaudibly, and gratefully, "We're
all hunky, after all; and no postponement on
account of the weather."

---

CHAPTER VIII.

nine o'clock the town was humming
with the news of the midnight duel, and
there were but two opinions about it: one,
that Luigi's pluck in the field was most
praiseworthy and Angelo's flight most scandalous;
the other, that Angelo's courage in
flying the field for conscience' sake was as
fine and creditable as was Luigi's in holding
the field in the face of the bullets. The one
opinion was held by half of the town, the
other one was maintained by the other half.
The division was clean and exact, and it
made two parties, an Angelo party and a
Luigi party. The twins had suddenly become
popular idols along with Pudd'nhead Wilson,
and haloed with a glory as intense as his.
The children talked the duel all the way to
Sunday-school, their elders talked it all the

---

way to church, the choir discussed it behind
their red curtain, it usurped the place of pious
thought in the "nigger gallery."

By noon the doctor had added the news,
and spread it, that Count Angelo, in spite of
his wound and all warnings and supplications,
was resolute in his determination to be baptised
at the hour appointed. This swept the
town like wildfire, and mightily reinforced the
enthusism of the Angelo faction, who said,
"If any doubted that it was moral courage
that took him from the field, what have they
to say now!"

Still the excitement grew. All the morning
it was traveling countrywards, toward all
points of the compass; so, whereas before only
the farmers and their wives were intending to
come and witness the remarkable baptism, a
general holiday was now proclaimed and the
children and negroes admitted to the privileges
of the occasion. All the farms for ten miles
around were vacated, all the converging roads
emptied long processions of wagons, horses and
yeomanry into the town. The pack and cram
of people vastly exceeded any that had ever

---

been seen in that sleepy region before. The
only thing that had ever even approached it,
was the time long gone by, but never forgotten,
nor even referred to without wonder and
pride, when two circuses and a Fourth of July
fell together. But the glory of that occasion
was extinguished, now, for good. It was but
a freshet to this deluge.

The great invasion massed itself on the
river bank and waited hungrily for the immense
event. Waited, and wondered if it
would really happen, or if the twin who was not
a "professor" would stand out and prevent it.

But they were not to be disappointed.
Angelo was as good as his word. He came
attended by an escort of honor composed of
several hundred of the best citizens, all of the
Angelo party; and when the immersion was
finished they escorted him back home; and
would even have carried him on their shoulders,
but that people might think they were
carrying Luigi.

Far into the night the citizens continued
to discuss and wonder over the strangely-mated
pair of incidents that had distinguished

---

and exalted the past twenty-four hours above
any other twenty-four in the history of their
town for picturesqueness and splendid interest;
and long before the lights were out and
burghers asleep it had been decided on all
hands that in capturing these twins Dawson's
Landing had drawn a prize in the great lottery
of municipal fortune.

At midnight Angelo was sleeping peacefully.
His immersion had not harmed him, it had
merely made him wholesomely drowsy, and he
had been dead asleep many hours now. It
had made Luigi drowsy, too, but he had got
only brief naps, on account of his having to
take the medicine every three-quarters of an
hour—and Annt Betsy Hale was there to see
that he did it. When he complained and
resisted, she was quietly firm with him, and
said in a low voice:

"No—no, that won't do; you must n't talk,
and you must n't retch and gag that way,
either—you'll wake up your poor brother."

"Well, what of it, Aunt Betsy, he—"

"Sh-h! Don't make a noise, dear. You

---

must n't forget that your poor brother is sick
and—"

"Sick, is he? Well, I wish I—"

"Sh-h-h! Will you be quiet, Luigi! Here,
now, take the rest of it—don't keep me holding
the dipper all night. I declare if you
have n't left a good fourth of it in the bottom!
Come—that's a good boy."

"Aunt Betsy, don't make me! I feel like
I've swallowed a cemetery; I do, indeed. Do
let me rest a little—just a little; I can't take
any more of the devilish stuff, now."

"Luigi! Using such language here, and
him just baptised! Do you want the roof to
fall on you?"

"I wish to goodness it would!"

"Why, you dreadful thing! I've a good
notion to—let that blanket alone; do you
want your brother to catch his death?"

"Aunt Betsy, I've got to have it off, I'm
being roasted alive; nobody could stand it—
you could n't, yourself."

"Now, then, you're sneezing again—I just
expected it."

"Because I've caught a cold in my head.

---

I always do, when I go in the water with my
clothes on. And it takes me weeks to get
over it, too. I think it was a shame to serve
me so."

"Luigi, you are unreasonable; you know
very well they couldn't baptise him dry. I
should think you would be willing to undergo
a little inconvenience for your brother's
sake."

"Inconvenience! Now how you talk,
Aunt Betsy. I came as near as anything to
getting drowned—you saw that, yourself; and
do you call this inconvenience?—the room
shut up as tight as a drum, and so hot the
mosquitoes are trying to get out; and a cold
in the head, and dying for sleep and no chance
to get any on account of this infamous medicine
that that assassin prescri—"

"There, you're sneezing again. I'm going
down and mix some more of this truck for
you, dear."

---

CHAPTER IX.

Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday
the twins grew steadily worse; but then the
doctor was summoned south to attend his
mother's funeral and they got well in forty-eight
hours. They appeared on the street on
Friday, and were welcomed with enthusiasm
by the new-born parties, the Luigi and Angelo
factions. The Luigi faction carried its
strength into the Democratic party, the Angelo
faction entered into a combination with
the Whigs. The Democrats nominated Luigi
for alderman under the new city government,
and the Whigs put up Angelo against him.
The Democrats nominated Pudd'nhead Wilson
for mayor, and he was left alone in this
glory, for the Whigs had no man who was
willing to enter the lists against such a formidable
opponent. No politician had scored

---

such a compliment as this before in the history
of the Mississippi Valley.

The political campaign in Dawson's Landing
opened in a pretty warm fashion, and
waxed hotter every week. Luigi's whole heart
was in it, and even Angelo developed a surprising
amount of interest—which was natural,
because he was not merely representing Whigism,
a matter of no consequence to him, but he
was representing something immensely finer
and greater—to wit, Reform. In him was centred
the hopes of the whole reform element of
the town; he was the chosen and admired
champion of every clique that had a pet reform
of any sort or kind at heart. He was
president of the great Teetotaller's Union, its
chiefest prophet and mouthpiece.

But as the canvass went on, troubles began
to spring up all around—troubles for the
twins, and through them for all the parties
and segments and fractions of parties. Whenever
Luigi had possession of the legs, he carried
Angelo to balls, rum shops, Sons of
Liberty parades, horse races, campaign riots,
and everywhere else that could damage him
with his party and the church; and when it

---

was Angelo's week he carried Luigi diligently
to all manner of moral and religious gatherings,
doing his best to regain the ground he
had lost before. As a result of these double
performances, there was a storm blowing all
the time, an ever rising storm, too—a storm
of frantic criticism of the twins, and rage over
their extravagant, incomprehensible conduct.

Luigi had the final chance. The legs were
his for the closing week of the canvas. He
led his brother a fearful dance.

But he saved his best card for the very eve
of the election. There was to be a grand
turn-out of the Teetotaller's Union that day,
and Angelo was to march at the head of the
procession and deliver a great oration afterward.
Luigi drank a couple of glasses of
whiskey—which steadied his nerves and clarified
his mind, but made Angelo drunk.
Everybody who saw the march, saw that the
Champion of the Teetotallers was half seas
over, and noted also that his brother, who
made no hypocritical protensions to extra
temperance virtues, was dignified and sober.
This eloquent fact could not be unfruitful at
the end of a hot political canvass. At the

---

mass meeting Angelo tried to make his great
temperance oration but was so discommoded
by hiccoughs and thickness of tongue that he
had to give it up; then drowsiness overtook
him and his head drooped against Luigi's
and he went to sleep. Luigi apologized for
him, and was going on to improve his opportunity
with an appeal for a moderation of what
he called "the prevailing teetotal madness,"
but persons in the audience began to howl and
throw things at him, and then the meeting
rose in wrath and chased him home.

This episode was a crusher for Angelo in
another way. It destroyed his chances with
Rowena. Those chances had been growing,
right along, for two months. Rowena had
partly confessed that she loved him, but wanted
time to consider. Now the tender dream
was ended, and she told him so, the moment
he was sober enough to understand. She said
she would never marry a man who drank.

"But I don't drink," he pleaded.

"That is nothing to the point," she said,
coldly, "you get drunk, and that is worse."

[There was a long and sufficiently idiotic discussion
here, which ended as reported in a previous note.]

---

CHAPTER X.

had a week of repose,
after the election, and it needed it, for the
frantic and variegated nightmare which had
tormented it all through the preceding week
had left it limp, haggard and exhausted at
the end. It got the week of repose because
Angelo had the legs, and was in too subdued
a condition to want to go out and mingle
with an irritated community that had come to
distrust and detest him because there was
such a lack of harmony between his morals,
which were confessedly excellent, and his
methods of illustrating them, which were distinctly
damnable.

The new city officers were sworn in on the
following Monday—at least all but Luigi.
There was a complication in his case. His
election was conceded, but he could not sit

---

in the board of aldermen without his brother,
and his brother could not sit there because
he was not a member. There seemed to be
no way out of the difficulty but to carry the
matter into the courts, so this was resolved
upon. The case was set for the Monday
fortnight. In due course the time arrived.
In the meantime the city government had
been at a stand-still, because without Luigi
there was a tie in the board of aldermen,
whereas with him the liquor interest—the
richest in the political field—would have one
majority. But the court decided that Angelo
could not sit in the board with him, either in
public or executive sessions, and at the same
time forbade the board to deny admission
to Luigi, a fairly and legally chosen alderman.
The case was carried up and up from court
to court, yet still the same old original decision
was confirmed every time. As a result,
the city government not only stood still,
with its hands tied, but everything it was
created to protect and care for went a steady
gait toward rack and ruin. There was no
way to levy a tax, so the minor officals had

---

to resign or starve; therefore they resigned.
There being no city money, the enormous
legal expenses on both sides had to be defrayed
by private subscription. But at last
the people came to their senses, and said—

"Pudd'nhead was right, at the start—we
ought to have hired the official half of that
human phillipene to resign; but it's too late,
now; some of us have n't got anything left to
hire him with."

"Yes, we have," said another citizen,
"we've got this"—and he produced a halter.

Many shouted, "That's the ticket." But
others said, "No—Count Angelo is innocent;
we must n't hang him."

"Who said anything about hanging him?
We are only going to hang the other one."

"Then that is all right—there is no objection
to that."

So they hanged Luigi. And so ends the
history of "Those Extraordinary Twins."