MINERVA

inch and he’ll take an ell.” Thinks I, this is what comes of my not thinking. Here was this nigger, which I had as good as helped to run away, coming right out flat-footed and saying he would steal his children—children that belonged to a man I didn’t even know; a man that hadn’t ever done me no harm. I was sorry to hear Jim say that, it was such a lowering of him. My conscience got to stirring me up hotter than ever, until at last I says to it, “Let up on me—it ain’t too late yet—I’ll paddle ashore at the first light and tell.” I felt easy and happy and light as a feather right off. All my troubles was gone. I went to looking out sharp for a light, and sort of singing to myself. By-and-by one showed. Jim sings out: “We’s safe, Huck, we’s safe! Jump up and crack yo’ heels! Dat’s de good ole Cairo at las’, I jis knows it!” I says: “I’ll take the canoe and go and see, Jim. It mightn’t be, you know.” He jumped and got the canoe ready, and put his old coat in the bottom for me to set on, and give me the paddle; and as I shoved off, he says: “Pooty soon I’ll be a-shout’n’ for joy, en I’ll say, it’s all on accounts o’ Huck; I’s a free man, en I couldn’t ever ben free ef it hadn’ ben for Huck; Huck done it. Jim won’t ever forgit you, Huck; you’s de bes’ fren’ Jim’s ever had; en you’s de _only_ fren’ ole Jim’s got now.” I was paddling off, all in a sweat to tell on him; but when he says this, it seemed to kind of take the tuck all out of me. I went along slow then, and I warn’t right down certain whether I was glad I started or whether I warn’t. When I was fifty yards off, Jim says: “Dah you goes, de ole true Huck; de on’y white genlman dat ever kep’ his promise to ole Jim.” Well, I just felt sick. But I says, I _got_ to do it—I can’t get _out_ of it. Right then along comes a skiff with two men in it with guns, and they stopped and I stopped. One of them says: “What’s that yonder?” “A piece of a raft,” I says. “Do you belong on it?” “Yes, sir.” “Any men on it?” “Only one, sir.” “Well, there’s five niggers run off to-night up yonder, above the head of the bend. Is your man white or black?” I didn’t answer up prompt. I tried to, but the words wouldn’t come. I tried for a second or two to brace up and out with it, but I warn’t man enough—hadn’t the spunk of a rabbit. I see I was weakening; so I just give up trying, and up and says: “He’s white.” “I reckon we’ll go and see for ourselves.” “I wish you would,” says I, “because it’s pap that’s there, and maybe you’d help me tow the raft ashore where the light is. He’s sick—and so is mam and Mary Ann.” “Oh, the devil! we’re in a hurry, boy. But I s’pose we’ve got to. Come, buckle to your paddle, and let’s get along.” I buckled to my paddle and they laid to their oars. When we had made a stroke or two, I says: “Pap’ll be mighty much obleeged to you, I can tell you. Everybody goes away when I want them to help me tow the raft ashore, and I can’t do it by myself.” “Well, that’s infernal mean. Odd, too. Say, boy, what’s the matter with your father?” “It’s the—a—the—well, it ain’t anything much.” They stopped pulling. It warn’t but a mighty little ways to the raft now. One says: “Boy, that’s a lie. What _is_ the matter with your pap? Answer up square now, and it’ll be the better for you.” “I will, sir, I will, honest—but don’t leave us, please. It’s the—the—gentlemen, if you’ll only pull