MINERVA

erent. Away up the river so, and not another house about. ’Twon’t ever be known that we tried, anyway, long as we didn’t succeed.” “Well, what’s more dangerous than coming here in the daytime!—anybody would suspicion us that saw us.” “I know that. But there warn’t any other place as handy after that fool of a job. I want to quit this shanty. I wanted to yesterday, only it warn’t any use trying to stir out of here, with those infernal boys playing over there on the hill right in full view.” “Those infernal boys” quaked again under the inspiration of this remark, and thought how lucky it was that they had remembered it was Friday and concluded to wait a day. They wished in their hearts they had waited a year. The two men got out some food and made a luncheon. After a long and thoughtful silence, Injun Joe said: “Look here, lad—you go back up the river where you belong. Wait there till you hear from me. I’ll take the chances on dropping into this town just once more, for a look. We’ll do that ‘dangerous’ job after I’ve spied around a little and think things look well for it. Then for Texas! We’ll leg it together!” This was satisfactory. Both men presently fell to yawning, and Injun Joe said: “I’m dead for sleep! It’s your turn to watch.” He curled down in the weeds and soon began to snore. His comrade stirred him once or twice and he became quiet. Presently the watcher began to nod; his head drooped lower and lower, both men began to snore now. The boys drew a long, grateful breath. Tom whispered: “Now’s our chance—come!” Huck said: “I can’t—I’d die if they was to wake.” Tom urged—Huck held back. At last Tom rose slowly and softly, and started alone. But the first step he made wrung such a hideous creak from the crazy floor that he sank down almost dead with fright. He never made a second attempt. The boys lay there counting the dragging moments till it seemed to them that time must be done and eternity growing gray; and then they were grateful to note that at last the sun was setting. Now one snore ceased. Injun Joe sat up, stared around—smiled grimly upon his comrade, whose head was drooping upon his knees—stirred him up with his foot and said: “Here! _You’re_ a watchman, ain’t you! All right, though—nothing’s happened.” “My! have I been asleep?” “Oh, partly, partly. Nearly time for us to be moving, pard. What’ll we do with what little swag we’ve got left?” “I don’t know—leave it here as we’ve always done, I reckon. No use to take it away till we start south. Six hundred and fifty in silver’s something to carry.” “Well—all right—it won’t matter to come here once more.” “No—but I’d say come in the night as we used to do—it’s better.” “Yes: but look here; it may be a good while before I get the right chance at that job; accidents might happen; ’tain’t in such a very good place; we’ll just regularly bury it—and bury it deep.” “Good idea,” said the comrade, who walked across the room, knelt down, raised one of the rearward hearth-stones and took out a bag that jingled pleasantly. He subtracted from it twenty or thirty dollars for himself and as much for Injun Joe, and passed the bag to the latter, who was on his knees in the corner, now, digging with his bowie-knife. The boys forgot all their fears, all their miseries in an instant. With gloating eyes they watched every movement. Luck!—the splendor of it was beyond all imagination! Six hun