汤姆·索亚历险记(插图·中文导读英文版)(txt+pdf+epub+mobi电子书下载)

作者：(美)马克·吐温（Twain, M.）

出版社：清华大学出版社

格式: AZW3, DOCX, EPUB, MOBI, PDF, TXT

汤姆·索亚历险记(插图·中文导读英文版)试读：

前言

马克·吐温（Mark Twain，1835—1910），美国著名作家，19世纪后期美国现实主义文学的杰出代表，被誉为“美国文学中的林肯”、“美国文学之父”。马克·吐温是他的笔名，他的原名塞缪尔·朗荷恩·克列门斯。

1835年11月30日，马克·吐温出生于美国密西西比河畔小城汉尼拔。他的父亲是当地的律师，收入微薄，家境拮据。在他四岁的时候，母亲去世，他们一家迁往密苏里州密西西比河的一港口，而这就成为了他后来的著作《汤姆·索亚历险记》和《顽童流浪记》中圣彼得堡的城市的灵感。那时的密苏里州是联邦的奴隶州，而年轻的吐温开始了解奴隶制，这成为了往后在他的历险小说中的主题。十二岁时，父亲去世，他从此开始了独立的劳动生活，当过排字工人、密西西比河水手、士兵和记者，还经营过木材业、矿业和出版业，但他最出色的工作是从事文学创作。

马克·吐温一生著作颇丰，代表作有《汤姆·索亚历险记》、《哈克贝利·费恩历险记》、《竞选州长》、《百万英镑》等。他的创作大致可分为三个时期：早期作品表现了对美国民主所存的幻想，以短篇为主，幽默与讽刺结合，如短篇小说《竞选州长》、《哥尔斯密的朋友再度出洋》等；中期以长篇小说为主，讽刺性加强，如《镀金时代》、《哈克贝里·费恩历险记》及《傻瓜威尔逊》等；后期作品则由幽默讽刺转到愤怒的揭发、谴责，甚至有悲观的情绪，如《赤道环行记》、《败坏了哈德莱堡的人》、《神秘来客》等。他的作品对后来的美国文学产生了深远的影响，人们普遍认为马克·吐温是美国文学史上里程碑式的人物。美国著名作家威廉·福克纳称马克·吐温为“第一位真正的美国作家，我们都是继承他而来”。著名盲人作家海伦·凯勒说：“我喜欢马克·吐温——谁会不喜欢他呢？即使是上帝，亦会钟爱他，赋予其智慧，并于其心灵里绘画出一道爱与信仰的彩虹”。他的主要作品大多已有中文译本。

在马克·吐温的众多杰作中，《汤姆·索亚历险记》是他最重要的代表作之一，这部作品取材他的童年生活，尤其是他在密西西比河上的生活。该作品已成为世界儿童（少年）文学宝库中的经典之作，作者用其脍炙人口的幽默与讽刺以及对儿童世界的精细刻画，使其“顽童”的文学形象一百多年来享誉世界，这部文学巨著也因此成为世界上最受欢迎的儿童小说之一。在这部传世之作中，儿童的灵动、活泼和周围现实生活的陈腐、刻板形成了鲜明的对照，书中对自然景色的描绘和对人物的刻画十分细致逼真，对家乡密西西比河上的风光描写尤其饱含深情。这部小说和《哈克贝利·费恩历险记》并列作为美国文学史上的一个辉煌的里程碑，对美国文学，乃至世界文学的发展都产生了深刻的影响。

在中国，《汤姆·索亚历险记》同样是最受广大青少年读者欢迎的经典小说之一。目前在中国出版的各类版本总计不下50种。作为世界文学宝库中的传世经典之作，它影响了一代又一代人的美丽童年、少年直至成年。目前，在国内数量众多的《汤姆·索亚历险记》书籍中，主要的出版形式有两种：一种是中文翻译版，另一种是中英文对照版。其中的中英文对照读本比较受读者的欢迎，这主要是得益于中国人热衷于学习英文的大环境。从英文学习的角度来看，直接使用纯英文的学习资料更有利于英语学习。考虑到对英文内容背景的了解有助于英文阅读，使用中文导读应该是一种比较好的方式，也可以说是该类型书的第三种版本形式。采用中文导读而非中英文对照的方式进行编排，这样有利于国内读者摆脱对英文阅读依赖中文注释的习惯。基于以上原因，我们决定编译《汤姆·索亚历险记》，并采用中文导读英文版的形式出版。在中文导读中，我们尽力使其贴近原作的精髓，也尽可能保留原作的风格。我们希望能够编出为当代中国读者所喜爱的经典读本。读者在阅读英文故事之前，可以先阅读中文导读内容，这样有利于了解故事背景，从而加快阅读速度。同时，为了读者更好地理解故事内容，书中加入了大量插图。我们相信，该经典著作的引进对加强当代中国读者，特别是青少年读者的人文修养是非常有帮助的。

本书主要内容由王勋、纪飞编译。参加本书故事素材搜集整理及编译工作的还有郑佳、刘乃亚、熊金玉、赵雪、李丽秀、熊红华、王婷婷、孟宪行、胡国平、李晓红、贡东兴、陈楠、邵舒丽、冯洁、王业伟、徐鑫、王晓旭、周丽萍、熊建国、徐平国、肖洁、王小红等。限于我们的科学、人文素养和英语水平，书中难免会有不当之处，衷心希望读者朋友批评指正。第一章/Chapter Ⅰ

老太太喊着汤姆，可是一直没有回应。她仔细地环视了房子一圈，还是没有发现小汤姆。老太太有些生气了，边大声说着威胁的话边拿扫帚往床底下乱捅一气，却只赶出了一只猫。

老太太走到敞开的门口处，观察外面的园子，也没见着他。于是她再次提高音量叫喊，身后忽然传来细小的声音。她一转身正好逮住了想要偷偷溜走的小汤姆。那家伙衣服上的果酱暴露了他刚才做的好事，老太太气得拿起鞭子就要抽。老太太是汤姆的包莉姨妈。小汤姆灵机一动，骗姨妈说她身后有东西，趁着姨妈转身的工夫转眼便脚底抹油溜走了。

包莉姨妈对小汤姆的行为又恨又怜，因为那是她的亲外甥。她觉得是因为自己太溺爱他了，他才会这么顽皮。于是包莉姨妈决定如果小汤姆再逃学，就让他在周六干麻烦的活儿。

而汤姆又逃学去玩尽兴了才回家，正好碰上黑孩子杰姆在锯木材和劈引火柴，于是一边帮忙一边讲述他今天的冒险故事。汤姆的表弟锡德在一边捡劈柴碎片。他不爱说话，也不会因为调皮捣蛋而闯祸。

吃晚饭的时候，包莉姨妈开始盘问小汤姆。小家伙心里七上八下，嘴里却对答如流。正当他暗自得意时，锡德指出了问题，使得包莉姨妈肯定汤姆是逃学游泳去了。汤姆一见事情暴露，赶紧逃出门去并扬言要好好揍表弟一顿。包莉姨妈拿扫帚往床下乱捅一气

可没过一会儿汤姆就忘记了他的烦恼，吹着口哨在街上闲逛着。忽然他遇到一个比他稍微大些的陌生男孩，衣着很体面。汤姆看不惯他自以为城里人的神气模样，便上去和他扭打成一团，最终那孩子哭着说饶命之后汤姆才放过他。哪知那孩子脱身后，捡起石子就往汤姆身上扔，然后逃之夭夭。愤怒的汤姆没追上那孩子，而他回到家时已经很晚了。看到汤姆玩得浑身脏兮兮的，包莉姨妈下定决心要让汤姆在周末干活了。

“T OM！”

No answer.

“TOM！”

No answer.

“What's gone with that boy, I wonder？You TOM！”

No answer.

The old lady pulled her spectacles down and looked over them about the room；then she put them up and looked out under them. She seldom or never looked through them for so small a thing as a boy；they were her state pair, the pride of her heart, and were built for“style”，not service—she could have seen through a pair of stove-lids just as well.She looked perplexed for a moment, and then said, not fiercely, but still loud enough for the furniture to hear：

“Well, I lay if I get hold of you, I'll—”

She did not finish, for by this time she was bending down and punching under the bed with the broom, and so she needed breath to punctuate the punches with. She resurrected nothing but the cat.

“I never did see the beat of that boy！”

She went to the open door and stood in it, and looked out among the tomato vines and“jimpson”weeds that constituted the garden. No Tom.So she lifted up her voice at an angle calculated for distance and shouted：

“Y-o-u-u Tom！”

There was a slight noise behind her, and she turned just in time to seize a small boy by the slack of his roundabout and arrest his flight.

“There！I might'a'thought of that closet. What you been doing in there？”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing！Look at your hands, and look at your mouth. What is that truck？”

“I don't know, aunt.”

“Well, I know. It's jam, that's what it is.Forty times I've said if you didn't let that jam alone I'd skin you.Hand me that switch.”

The switch hovered in the air—the peril was desperate.

“My！Look behind you, aunt！”

The old lady whirled round, and snatched her skirts out of danger. The lad fled, on the instant, scrambled up the high board-fence, and disappeared over it.His Aunt Polly stood surprised a moment, and then broke into a gentle laugh.

“Hang the boy, can't I never learn anything？Ain't he played me tricks enough like that for me to be looking out for him by this time？But old fools is the biggest fools there is. Can't learn an old dog new tricks, as the saying is.But my goodness, he never plays them alike two days, and how is a body to know what's coming？He'pears to know just how long he can torment me before I get my dander up, and he knows if he can make out to put me off for a minute or make me laugh, it’s all down again, and I can’t hit him a lick.I ain’t doing my duty by that boy, and that’s the Lord’s truth, goodness knows.Spare the rod and spile the child, as the Good Book says.I’m a laying up sin and suffering for us both, I know.He’s full of the Old Scratch, but laws-a-me！he’s my own dead sister’s boy, poor thing, and I ain’t got the heart to lash him, somehow.Every time I let him off my conscience does hurt me so；and every time I hit him my old heart most breaks.Well-a-well, man that is born of woman is of few days and full of trouble, as the Scripture says, and I reckon it’s so.He’ll play hookey this evening, and I’ll just be obleeged to make him work, to-morrow, to punish him.It’s mighty hard to make him work Saturdays, when all the boys is having holiday, but he hates work more than he hates anything else, and I’ve got to do some of my duty by him, or I’ll be the ruination of the child.”

Tom did play hookey, and he had a very good time. He got back home barely in season to help Jim, the small coloured boy, saw nextday's wood, and split the kindlings before supper—at least he was there in time to tell his adventures to Jim while Jim did three-fourths of the work.Tom's younger brother（or rather-half-brother）Sid was already through with his part of the work（picking up chips），for he was a quiet boy, and had no adventurous, troublesome ways.While Tom was eating his supper and stealing sugar as opportunity offered, Aunt Polly asked him questions that were full of guile, and very deep—for she wanted to trap him into damaging revealments.Like many other simple-hearted souls, it was her pet vanity to believe she was endowed with a talent for dark and mysterious diplomacy, and she loved to contemplate her most transparent devices as marvels of low cunning.Said she：

“Tom, it was middling warm in school, warn't it？”

“Yes'm.”

“Powerful warm, warn't it？”

“Yes'm.”

“Didn't you want to go in a-swimming, Tom？”

A bit of a scare shot through Tom—a touch of uncomfortable suspicion. He searched Aunt Polly's face, but it told him nothing.So he said：

“No'm—well, not very much.”

The old lady reached out her hand and felt Tom's shirt, and said：

“But you ain't too warm now, though.”And it flattered her to reflect that she had discovered that the shirt was dry without anybody knowing that that was what she had in her mind. But in spite of her, Tom knew where the wind lay now.So he forestalled what might be the next move：

“Some of us pumped on our heads—mine's damp yet. See？”

Aunt Polly was vexed to think she had overlooked that bit of circumstantial evidence, and missed a trick. Then she had a new inspiration：

“Tom, you didn't have to undo your shirt collar where I sewed it to pump on your head, did you？Unbutton your jacket！”

The trouble vanished out of Tom's face. He opened his jacket.His shirtcollar was securely sewed.

“Bother！Well, go'long with you. I made sure you'd played hookey and been a-swimming.But I forgive ye, Tom.I reckon you're a kind of a singed cat, as the saying is-better'n you look this time.”

She was half sorry her sagacity had miscarried, and half glad that Tom had stumbled into obedient conduct for once.

But Sidney said：

“Well, now, if I didn't think you sewed his collar with white thread, but it's black.”

“Why, I did sew it with white！Tom！”

But Tom did not wait for the rest. As he went out at the door, he said：

“Siddy, I'll lick you for that.”

In a safe place Tom examined two large needles which were thrust into the lapels of his jacket—and had thread bound about them—one needle carried white thread and the other black. He said：

“She'd never noticed if it hadn't been for Sid. Confound it！sometimes she sews it with white, and sometimes she sews it with black.I wish to geeminy she'd stick to one or t'other—I can't keep the run of’em.But I bet you I’ll lam Sid for that.I’ll learn him！”

He was not the Model Boy of the village. He knew the model boy very well though—and loathed him.

Within two minutes, or even less, he had forgotten all his troubles. Not because his troubles were one whit less heavy and bitter to him than a man's are to a man, but because a new and powerful interest bore them down and drove them out of his mind for the time—just as man's misfortunes are forgotten in the excitement of new enterprises.This new interest was a valued novelty in whistling, which he had just acquired from a negro, and he was suffering to practise it undisturbed.It consisted in a peculiar bird-like turn, a sort of liquid warble, produced by touching the tongue to the roof of the mouth at short intervals in the midst of the music.The reader probably remembers how to do it if he has ever been a boy.Diligence and attention soon gave himthe knack of it, and he strode down the street with his mouth full of harmony and his soul full of gratitude.He felt much as an astronomer feels who has discovered a new planet.No doubt, as far as strong, deep, unalloyed pleasure is concerned, the advantage was with the boy, not the astronomer.

The summer evenings were long. It was not dark yet.Presently Tom checked his whistle.A stranger was before him—a boy a shade larger than himself.A newcomer of any age or either sex was an impressive curiosity in the poor little shabby village of St.Petersburg.This boy was well-dressed, too—well-dressed on a week-day.This was simply astounding.His cap was a dainty thing, his close-buttoned blue cloth roundabout was new and natty, and so were his pantaloons.He had shoes on—and yet it was only Friday.He even wore a necktie, a bright bit of ribbon.He had a citified air about him that ate into Tom's vitals.The more Tom stared at the splendid marvel, the higher he turned up his nose at his finery, and the shabbier and shabbier his own outfit seemed to him to grow.Neither boy spoke.If one moved, the other moved—but only sideways, in a circle；they kept face to face and eye to eye all the time.Finally, Tom said：

“I can lick you！”

“I'd like to see you try it.”

“Well, I can do it.”

“No, you can't, either.”

“Yes, I can.”

“No, you can't.”

“I can.”

“You can't.”

“Can！”

“Can't！”

An uncomfortable pause. Then Tom said：

“What's your name？”

“'Tisn't any of your business, maybe.”

“Well I'low I'll make it my business.”

“Well, why don't you？”

“If you say much I will.”

“Much—much—much. There, now.”

“Oh, you think you're mighty smart, don't you.？I could lick you with one hand tied behind me, if I wanted to.”

“Well, why don't you do it？You say you can do it.”

“Well, I will, if you fool with me.”

“Oh, yes—I've seen whole families in the same fix.”

“Smarty！You think you're some now, don't you？Oh, what a hat！”

“You can lump that hat if you don't like it. I dare you to knock it off；and anybody that'll take a dare will suck eggs.”

“You're a liar！”

“You're another.”

“You're a fighting liar, and dasn't take it up.”

“Aw—take a walk！”

“Say—if you give me much more of your sass, I'll take and bounce a rock off'n your head.”

“Oh, of course you will.”

“Well, I will.”

“Well, why don't you do it, then？What do you keep saying you will for？Why don't you do it？It's because you're afraid.”

“I ain't afraid.”

“You are.”

“I ain't.”

“You are.”

Another pause, and more eyeing and sidling around each other. Presently they were shoulder to shoulder.Tom said：

“Get away from here！”

“Go away yourself！”

“I won't.”

“I won't either.”

So they stood, each with a foot placed at an angle as a brace, and both shoving with might and main, and glowering at each other with hate. But neither could get an advantage.After struggling till both were hot and flushed, each relaxed his strain with watchful caution, and Tom said：

“You're a coward and a pup. I'll tell my big brother on you, and he can thrash you with his little finger, and I'll make him do it, too.”

“What do I care for your big brother？I've got a brother that's bigger than he is；and, what's more, he can throw him over that fence, too.”[Both brothers were imaginary.]

“That's a lie.”

“Your saying so don't make it so.”

Tom drew a line in the dust with his big toe, and said：

“I dare you to step over that, and I'll lick you till you can't stand up. Anybody that'll take a dare will steal sheep.”

The new boy stepped over promptly, and said：

“Now you said you'd do it, now let's see you do it.”

“Don't you crowd me, now；you better look out.”

“Well, you said you'd do it—why don't you do it？”

“By jingo！for two cents I will do it.”

The new boy took two broad coppers out of his pocket, and held them out with derision. Tom struck them to the ground.In an instant both boys were rolling and tumbling in the dirt, gripped together like cats；and for the space of a minute they tugged and tore at each other's hair and clothes, punched and scratched each other's nose, and covered themselves with dust and glory.Presently the confusion took form, and through the fog of battle Tom appeared, seated astride the new boy, and pounding him with his fists.

“Holler'nuff！”said he.

The boy only struggled to free himself. He was crying—mainly from rage.

“Holler'nuff！”—and the pounding went on.

At last the stranger got out a smothered“'Nuff！”and Tom let him up, and said：

“Now that'll learn you. Better look out who you're fooling with next time.”

The new boy went off brushing the dust from his clothes, sobbing, snuffling, and occasionally looking back and shaking his head, and threatening what he would do to Tom the next time he caught him out”. To which Tom responded with jeers, and started off in high feather；and as soon as his back was turned the new boy snatched up a stone, threw it, and hit him between the shoulders, and then turned tail and ran like an antelope.Tom chased the traitor home, and thus found out where he lived.He then held a position at the gate for some time, dating the enemy to come outside；but the enemy only made faces at him through the window, and declined.At last the enemy's mother appeared, and called Tom a bad, vicious, vulgar child, and ordered him away.So he went away, but he said he“'lowed”to“lay”for that boy.

He got home pretty late that night, and when he climbed cautiously in at the window, he uncovered an ambuscade in the person of his aunt；and when she saw the state his clothes were in, her resolution to turn his Saturday holiday into captivity at hard labour became adamantine in its firmness.第二章/Chapter Ⅱ

星期六的早晨清新美丽，而汤姆却不得不提着石灰水，拿着长柄刷子去刷篱笆。

篱笆有三十码长，九英尺高。面对这浩大而无聊透顶的工程，小家伙非常沮丧。这时杰姆提着一只小铁桶，哼着歌从大门出来。汤姆向杰姆提出交换工作的建议。杰姆拒绝了，因为包莉姨妈早就吩咐他不要理会汤姆。汤姆把交换的筹码再加上一颗白弹珠子，并许诺让杰姆看他受伤的脚大拇指。杰姆正要答应时，包莉姨妈出现了。结果杰姆背部挨了重重一下，飞也似地打水去了，而汤姆又开始卖力地刷篱笆。

不多久，汤姆卖力的劲头儿就消失了。他想着伙伴们欢快玩耍的情景，觉得他们一定会笑话他做刷篱笆这种无聊的事情，心情变得更加郁闷。但突然他想到一个绝妙的主意，于是又开始认真地刷篱笆。

过了一会儿，汤姆最厌恶的本·罗求斯来了。他边吃苹果边模仿“大米苏里号”在水中航行，发出各种各样的声音。另一边，汤姆继续认真地刷篱笆，对本·罗求斯这只轮船置之不理。本故意刺激汤姆，说他要去游泳。汤姆却显得毫不在乎，还说他是包莉阿姨精挑细选出来刷篱笆的。被选出来刷篱笆是很难得的机会，他刷得非常开心。看着汤姆刷篱笆的兴奋劲儿，本心里痒痒起来，央求汤姆让他刷一会儿。汤姆故意不答应。最后本答应把整个苹果给汤姆，汤姆才很不情愿地把刷子递给他。汤姆坐在树下看着小伙伴们帮他刷篱笆

在本卖力地在烈日下刷篱笆时，汤姆坐在树荫底下，一边啃着甜甜的苹果，一边盘算怎么再多宰几个像本这样的傻家伙。结果傻家伙还是很多的。在汤姆的表演吸引下，每一个路过的孩子都对刷篱笆产生了浓厚兴趣，愿意用自己的宝贝玩意交换这工作。于是在下午快过去一半的时候，汤姆不仅把篱笆刷好了，还获得了一大堆其他男孩珍藏的玩意儿。汤姆把他计谋的成功归功于人们的空虚，然后就去向包莉姨妈报告工作情况了。

S aturday morning was come, and all the summer world was bright and fresh, and brimming with life. There was a song in every heart；and if the heart was young the music issued at the lips.There was cheer in every face, and a spring in every step.The locusttrees were in bloom, and the fragrance of the blossoms filled the air.Cardiff Hill, beyond the village and above it, was green with vegetation, and it lay just far enough away to seem a Delectable Land, dreamy, reposeful, and inviting.

Tom appeared on the side-walk with a bucket of whitewash and a long-handled brush. He surveyed the fence, and all gladness left him, and a deep melancholy settled down upon his spirits.Thirty yards of board-fence nine feet high！Life to him seemed hollow, and existence but a burden.Sighing he dipped his brush and passed it along the topmost plank；repeated the operation；did it again；compared the insignificant whitewashed streak with the far-reaching continent of unwhitewashed fence, and sat down on a tree-box discouraged.Jim came skipping out at the gate with a tin pall, and singing“Buffalo Gals”.Bringing water from the town pump had always been hateful work in Tom's eyes before, but now it did not strike him so.He remembered that there was company at the pump.White, mulatto, and negro boys and girls were always there waiting their turns, resting, trading playthings, quarrelling, fighting, skylarking.And he remembered that although the pump was only a hundred and fifty yards off, Jim never got back with a bucket of water under an hour；and even then somebody generally had to go after him.Tom said：

“Say, Jim；I'll fetch the water if you'll whitewash some.”

Jim shook his head and said：“Can't, Mars Tom. Ole missis, she tole me I got to go an git dis water an'not stop foolin'roun'wid anybody.She say she spec'Mars Tom gwine to ax me to whitewash, an’so she tole me go’long an’‘tend to my own business-she’lowed she’d‘tend to de whitewashin’。”

“Oh, never you mind what she said, Jim. That's the way she always talks.Gimme the bucket—I won't be gone only a minute.She won't ever know.”

“Oh, I dasn't, Mars Tom. Ole missis she'd take an‘tar de head off'n me.'Deed she would.”

“She！She never licks anybody—whacks'em over the head with her thimble, and who cares for that, I'd like to know？She talks awful, but talk don't hurt—anyways, it don't if she don't cry. Jim, I’ll give you a marvel.I’ll give you a white alley！”

Jim began to waver.

“White alley, Jim！And it's a bully taw.”

“My！Dat's a mighty gay marvel, I tell you！But, Mars Tom, I's powerful'fraid ole missis—”

“And besides, if you will I'll show you my sore toe.”

Jim was only human—this attraction was too much for him. He put down his pail, took the white alley, and bent over the toe with absorbing interest while the bandage was being unwound.In another moment he was flying down the street with his pail and a tingling rear, Tom was whitewashing with vigour, and Aunt Polly was retiring from the field with a slipper in her hand and triumph in her eye.

But Tom's energy did not last. He began to think of the fun he had planned for this day, and his sorrows multiplied.Soon the free boys would come tripping along on all sorts of delicious expeditions, and they would make a world of fun of him for having to work—the very thought of it burnt him like fire.He got out his worldly wealth and examined it—bits of toys, marbles and trash；enough to buy an exchange of work, maybe, but not half enough to buy so much as half an hour of pure freedom.So he returned his straitened means tohis pocket, and gave up the idea of trying to buy the boys.At this dark and hopeless moment an inspiration burst upon him！Nothing less than a great, magnificent inspiration.

He took up his brush and went tranquilly to work. Ben Rogers hove in sight presently—the very boy, of all boys, whose ridicule he had been dreading.Ben's gait was the hop-skip-and-jump—proof enough that his heart was light and his anticipations high.He was eating an apple, and giving a long, melodious whoop at intervals, followed by a deeptoned ding-dong-dong, ding-dong-dong, for he was personating a steamboat.As he drew near he slackened speed, took the middle of the street, leaned far over to starboard, and rounded to ponderously and with laborious pomp and circumstance—for he was personating the“Big missouri”，and considered himself to be drawing nine feet of water.He was boat, and captain, and engine-bells combined, so he had to imagine himself standing on his own hurricanedeck giving the orders and executing them：

“Stop her, sir！Ting-a-ling-ling！”The headway ran almost out, and he drew up slowly toward the sidewalk.

“Ship up to back！Ting-a-ling-ling！”His arms straightened and stiffened down his sides.

“Set her back on the stabboard！Ting-a-ling-ling！Chow！Ch-chow-wow！Chow！”His right hand meantime describing stately circles, for it was representing a forty-foot wheel.

“Let her go back on the labboard！Ting-a-ling-ling！Chow-ch-chow-chow！”The left hand began to describe circles.

“Stop the stabboard！Ting-a-ling-ling！Stop the labboard！Come ahead on the stabboard！Stop her！Let your outside turn over slow！Ting-a-ling-ling！Chow-ow-ow！Get out that head-line！Lively now！Come—out with your spring-line—what're you about there？Take a turn round that stump with the bight of it！Stand by that stage now—let her go！Done with the engines, sir！Ting-a-ling-ling！Sh't！s'h't！sh't！”（trying the gauge-cocks）.

Tom went on whitewashing—paid no attention to the steamboat. Benstared a moment, and then said：

“Hi-yi！You're up a stump, ain't you！”

No answer. Tom surveyed his last touch with the eye of an artist；then he gave his brush another gentle sweep, and surveyed the result, as before.Ben ranged up alongside of him.Tom's mouth watered for the apple, but he stuck to his work.Ben said：

“Hello, old chap, you got to work, hey？”

Tom wheeled suddenly and said：

“Why, it's you, Ben！I warn't noticing.”

“Say—I'm going in a-swimming, I am. Don't you wish you could？But of course you'd druther work—wouldn't you？Course you would！”

Tom contemplated the boy a bit, and said：

“What do you call work？”

“Why, ain't that work？”

Tom resumed his whitewashing, and answered carelessly：

“Well, maybe it is, and maybe it ain't. All I know is, it suits Tom Sawyer.”

“Oh, come now, you don't mean to let on that you like it？”

The brush continued to move.

“Like it？Well, I don't see why I oughtn't to like it. Does a boy get a chance to whitewash a fence every day？”

That put the thing in a new light. Ben stopped nibbling his apple.Tom swept his brush daintily back and forth—stepped back to note the effect—added a touch here and there—criticised the effect again—Ben watching every move, and getting more and more interested, more and more absorbed.

Presently he said：“Say, Tom, let me whitewash a little.”

Tom considered—was about to consent；but he altered his mind：

“No, no；I reckon it wouldn't hardly do, Ben. You see, Aunt Polly's awful particular about this fence—right here on the street, you know—but if it was the back fence I wouldn't mind, and she wouldn't.Yes, she's awful particular about this fence；it’s got to be done very careful；I reckon there ain’t one boy in a thousand, maybe two thousand, that can do it the way it’s got to be done.”

“No—is that so？Oh, come now；lemme just try. Only just a little.I'd let you, if you was me, Tom.”

“Ben, I'd like to, honest injun；but Aunt Polly—well, Jim wanted to do it, but she wouldn't let him. Sid wanted to do it, and she wouldn't let Sid.Now, don't you see how I'm fixed？If you was to tackle this fence, and anything was to happen to it—”

“Oh, shucks；I'll be just as careful. Now lemme try.Say—I'll give you the core of my apple.”

“Well, here—No, Ben；now don't. I'm afeard—”

“I'll give you all of it！”

Tom gave up the brush with reluctance in his face but alacrity in his heart. And while the late steamer“Big Missouri”worked and sweated in the sun, the retired artist sat on a barrel in the shade close by, dangled his legs, munched his apple, and planned the slaughter of more innocents.There was no lack of material；boys happened along every little while；they came to jeer, but remained to whitewash.By the time Ben was fagged out, Tom had traded the next chance to Billy Fisher for a kite, in good repair；and when he played out, Johnny Miller bought in for a dead rat and a string to swing it with；and so on, and so on, hour after hour.And when the middle of the afternoon came, from being a poor poverty-stricken boy in the morning, Tom was literally rolling in wealth.He had, besides the things before mentioned, twelve marbles, part of a jews-harp, a piece of blue bottle-glass to look through, a spool cannon, a key that wouldn't unlock anything, a fragment of chalk, a glass Stopper of a decanter, a tin soldier, a couple of tadpoles, six fire-crackers, a kitten with only one eye, a brass door-knob, a dog-collar—but no dog—the handle of a knife, four pieces of orange-peel, and a dilapidated old window-sash.He had had a nice, good, idle time all the while—plenty of company—and the fence had three coats of white-wash, on it！If he hadn't run out of whitewash, he would have bankrupted every boy in the village.

Tom said to himself that it was not such a hollow world, after all. He had discovered a great law of human action, without knowing it—namely, that inorder to make a man or a boy covet a thing, it is only necessary to make the thing difficult to attain.If he had been a great and wise philosopher, like the writer of this book, he would now have comprehended that Work consists of whatever a body is obliged to do, and that Play consists of whatever a body is not obliged to do.And this would help him to understand why constructing artificial flowers or performing on a treadmill is work, while rolling ten-pins or climbing Mont Blanc is only amusement.There are wealthy gentlemen in England who drive four-horse passenger-coaches twenty or thirty miles on a daily line in the summer, because the privilege costs them considerable money；but if they were offered wages for the service, that would turn it into work, and then they would resign.

The boy mused a while over the substantial change which had taken place in his worldly circumstances, and then wended toward head-quarters to report.第三章/Chapter Ⅲ

姨妈原以为汤姆早丢下工作玩儿去了，可小家伙却出现在她面前，报告篱笆全刷好了。她大吃一惊，走出去看到篱笆确实刷得好极了，就奖励了汤姆一个苹果。小家伙又偷偷拿了一个炸面包圈，然后出去玩儿。他刚走出门就碰见锡德。想起上次的事儿，小家伙愤怒地捡起地上的小土块，疯狂地向表弟扔去。锡德措手不及。包莉姨妈闻声赶来，他急忙越过篱笆逃走了。

汤姆逃到安全的地方，然后急奔往镇里广场。广场已经聚集了两队“孩子大军”。一边的将军是乔·哈泼，他是汤姆的知心好友。另一边的将军就是汤姆。将军到位后就开始在后方指挥战斗，最后汤姆所率的部队大获全胜。两方清点死亡人数，交换战俘并商定了下次开战的日期，然后孩子们就各自回家了。

汤姆经过杰夫·撒切尔家花园时，看到一位陌生小姑娘。他立刻为她的美丽所倾倒。前些日子他刚追到的艾米·劳伦斯，此刻在他心里消失得无影无踪。汤姆开始做各种各样的高难度动作，借此表现自己。可她似乎并不领情。就在汤姆黯然伤神时，她把一朵紫罗兰扔到了篱笆外。汤姆高兴地朝花儿奔去，用脚趾夹着一蹦一跳地走了。不一会儿，汤姆又回来像刚才那样表现自己。可她一直到天黑都没有出现。汤姆只好回家了。

这个晚上汤姆总是兴高采烈的，也不计较因用土块扔锡德而挨的骂。姨妈发现汤姆又偷糖吃，就教训了他一顿，还叫他多向锡德学习。过了一会儿，锡德故意在汤姆面前拿糖吃，却不小心把糖碗打碎了。汤姆十分高兴，一言不发地等待揭露锡德罪行的时机。谁知姨妈看到一句话没说就打了汤姆。汤姆大声地说出是锡德干的。姨妈心里过意不去，但没有承认错误。汤姆立刻觉得自己是世界上最可怜的人。他想象着自己遭受到各种各样的痛苦，姨妈后悔莫及的情形，泪水不住地往下流。这时他的表姐玛丽从乡下回来了，小家伙却低头走出门去。捡起个东西朝窗户扔去

汤姆来到冷冷清清的河边，他发现胸前的花儿已经枯萎了。小家伙想象着那个小姑娘知道他的委屈后安慰他的情景，感到既心痛又幸福。

一会儿他来到邂逅那位姑娘的地方，爬到亮着灯的一扇窗户下躺下来，想象着如果他死了，那位姑娘会不会为他流泪。这时窗户开了，然后一大盆水把他全身淋了个透。他马上跳起来，捡起个东西朝窗户扔去，然后急忙逃离了现场。

一会儿工夫汤姆就回到了家，脱下衣服准备睡觉。锡德醒了，但看到汤姆眼中藏有杀机，没敢说什么。

T om presented himself before Aunt Polly, who was sitting by an open window in a pleasant rearward apartment, which was bedroom, breakfast-room, diningroom, and library combined. The balmy summer air, the restful quiet, the odour of the flowers, and the drowsing murmur of the bees, had had their effect, and she was nodding over her knitting—for she had no company but the cat, and it was asleep in her lap.Her spectacles were propped up on her gray head for safety.She had thought that of course Tom had deserted long ago, and she wondered at seeing him place himself in her power again in this intrepid way.He said：

“Mayn't I go and play now, aunt？”

“What, a'ready？How much have you done？”

“It's all done, aunt.”

“Tom, don't lie to me—I can't bear it.”

“I ain't, aunt；it is all done.”

Aunt Polly placed small trust in such evidence. She went out to see forherself；and she would have been content to find twenty per cent of Tom's statement true.When she found the entire fence whitewashed, and not only whitewashed but elaborately coated and re-coated, and even a streak added to the ground, her astonishment was almost unspeakable.She said：

“Well, I never！There's no getting round it：you can work when you're a mind to, Tom.”And then she diluted the compliment by adding，“But it's powerful seldom you're a mind to, I'm bound to say. Well, go’long and play；but mind you get back sometime in a week, or I’ll tan you.”

She was so overcome by the splendour of his achievement that she took him into the closet and selected a choice apple, and delivered it to him, along with an improving lecture upon the added value and flavor a treat took to itself when it came without sin through virtuous effort. And while she closed with a happy Scriptural flourish, he“hooked”a doughnut.

Then he skipped out, and saw Sid just starting up the outside stairway that led to the back rooms on the second floor. Clods were handy and the air was full of them in a twinkling.They raged around Sid like a hailstorm；and before Aunt Polly could collect her surprised faculties and sally to the rescue, six or seven clods had taken personal effect, and Tom was over the fence and gone.There was a gate, but as a general thing he was too crowded for time to make use of it.His soul was at peace, now that he had settled with Sid for calling attention to his black thread and getting him into trouble.

Tom skirted the block, and came round into a muddy alley that led by the back of his aunt's cow-stable. He presently got safely beyond the reach of capture and punishment, and hasted toward the public square of the village, where two“military”companies of boys had met for conflict, according to previous appointment.Tom was General of one of these armies, Joe Harper（a bosom friend）General of the other.These two great commanders did not condescend to fight in person—that being better suited to the still smaller fry—but sat together on an eminence and conducted the field operations by orders delivered through aides-decamp.Tom's army won a'great victory, after a long and hardfought battle.Then the dead were counted, prisoners exchanged, theterms of the next disagreement agreed upon, and the day for the necessary battle appointed；after which the armies fell into line and marched away, and Tom turned homeward alone.

As he was passing by the house where Jeff Thatcher lived, he saw a new girl in the garden—a lovely little blue-eyed creature with yellow hair plaited into two long-tails, white summer frock, and embroidered pantalettes. The fresh-crowned hero fell without firing a shot.A certain Amy Lawrence vanished out of his heart, and left not even a memory of herself behind.He had thought he loved her to distraction；he had regarded his passion as adoration；and behold it was only a poor little evanescent partiality.He had been months winning her, she had confessed hardly a week ago；he had been the happiest and the proudest boy in the world only seven short days, and here, in one instant of time, she had gone out of his heart like a casual stranger whose visit is done.

He worshipped this new angel with furtive eye, till he saw that she had discovered him；then he pretended he did not know she was present, and began to“show off”in all sorts of absurd boyish ways, in order to win her admiration. He kept up this grotesque foolishness for some time；but by-and-by, while he was in the midst of some dangerous gymnastic performances, he glanced aside, and saw that the little girl was wending her way toward the house.Tom came up to the fence, and leaned on it, grieving, and hoping she would tarry yet a while longer.She halted a moment on the steps, and then moved toward the door.Tom heaved a great sigh as she put her foot on the threshold.But his face lit up, right away, for she tossed a pansy over the fence a moment before she disappeared.

The boy ran around and stopped within a foot or two of the flower, and then shaded his eyes with his hand, and began to look down street as if he had discovered something of interest going on in that direction. Presently he picked up a straw and began trying to balance it on his nose, with his head tilted far back；and as he moved from side to side in his efforts he edged nearer and nearer toward the pansy；finally his bare foot rested upon it, his pliant toesclosed upon it, and he hopped away with the treasure, and disappeared round the comer.But only for a minute—only while he could button the flower inside his jacket, next his heart, or next his stomach possibly, for he was not much posted in anatomy and not hypercritical anyway.

He returned now and hung about the fence till nightfall，“showing off”as before；but the girl never exhibited herself again, though Tom comforted himself a little with the hope that she had been near some window meantime, and been aware of his attentions. Finally, he rode home reluctantly, with his poor head full of visions.

All through supper his spirits were so high that his aunt wondered“what had got into the child”. He took a good scolding about clodding Sid, and did not seem to mind it in the least.He tried to steal sugar under his aunt's very nose, and got his knuckles rapped for it.He said：

“Aunt, you don't whack Sid when he takes it.”

“Well, Sid don't torment a body the way you do. You'd be always into that sugar if I warn't watching you.”

Presently she stepped into the kitchen, and Sid, happy in his immunity, reached for the sugar-bowl—a sort of glorying over Torn which was well-nigh unbearable. But Sid's fingers slipped, and the bowl dropped and broke.Tom was in ecstasies—in such ecstasies that he even controlled his tongue and was silent.He said to himself that he would not speak a word, even when his aunt came in, but would sit perfectly still till she asked who did the mischief；and then he would tell, and there would be nothing so good in the world as to see that pet model“catch it”.He was so brimful of exultation that he could hardly hold himself when the old lady came back and stood above the wreck discharging lightnings of wrath from over her spectacles.He said to himself，“Now it's coming！”And the next instant he was sprawling on the floor！The potent palm was uplifted to strike again, when Tom cried out：

“Hold on, now, what're you belting me for？Sid broke it！”

Aunt Polly paused, perplexed, and Tom looked for healing pity. But when she got her tongue again she only said：

“Umf！Well, you didn't get a lick amiss, I reckon. You been into some other audacious mischief when I wasn't around, like enough.”

Then her conscience reproached her, and she yearned to say something kind and loving；but she judged that this would be construed into a confession that she had been in the wrong, and discipline forbade that. So she kept silence, and went about her affairs with a troubled heart.Tom sulked in a corner, and exalted his woes.He knew that in her heart his aunt was on her knees to him, and he was morosely gratified by the consciousness of it.He would hang out no signals, he would take notice of none.He knew that a yearning glance fell upon him, now and then, through a film of tears, but he refused recognition of it.He pictured himself lying sick unto death and his aunt bending over him, beseeching one little forgiving word, but he would turn his face to the wall, and die with that word unsaid.Ah, how would she feel then？And he pictured himself brought home from the river, dead, with his curls all wet, and his sore heart at rest.How she would throw herself upon him, and how her tears would fall like rain, and her lips pray God to give her back her boy, and she would never, never abuse him any more！But he would lie there cold and white and make no sign—a poor little sufferer, whose griefs were at an end.He so worked upon his feelings with the pathos of these dreams that he had to keep swallowing—he was so like to choke；and his eyes swam in a blur of water, which overflowed when he winked, and ran down and trickled from the end of his nose.And such a luxury to him was this petting of his sorrows, that he could not bear to have any worldly cheeriness or any grating delight intrude upon it；it was too sacred for such contact；and so presently, when his cousin Mary danced in, all alive with the joy of seeing home again after an agelong visit of one week to the country, he got up and moved in clouds and darkness out at one door as she brought song and sunshine in at the other.

He wandered far from the accustomed haunts of boys, and sought desolate places that were in harmony with his spirit. A log raft in the river invited him, and he seated himself on its outer edge, and contemplated the dreary vastness of the stream, wishing the while, that he could only be drowned, all at once andunconsciously, without undergoing the uncomfortable routine devised by nature.Then he thought of his flower.He got it out, rumpled and wilted, and it mightily increased his dismal felicity.He wondered if she would pity him if she knew？Would she cry, and wish that she had a right to put her arms around his neck and comfort him？Or would she tum coldly away like all the hollow world？This picture brought such an agony of pleasurable suffering that he worked it over and over again in his mind, and set it up in new and varied lights, till he wore it threadbare.At last he rose up sighing, and departed in the darkness.

About half-past nine or ten o'clock he came along the deserted street to where the Adored Unknown lived；he paused a moment, no sound fell upon his listening ear；a candle was casting a dull glow upon the curtain of a second-story window. Was the sacred presence there？He climbed the fence, threaded his stealthy way through the plants, till he stood under that window；he looked up at it long, and with emotion；then he laid him down on the ground under it, disposing himself upon his back, with his hands clasped upon his breast, and holding his poor wilted flower.And thus he would die—out in the cold world, with no shelter over his homeless head, no friendly hand to wipe the death-damps from his brow, no loving face to bend pityingly over him when the great agony came.And thus she would see him when she looked out upon the glad morning—and oh！would she drop one little tear upon his poor, lifeless form, would she heave one little sigh to see a bright young life so rudely blighted, so untimely cut down？

The window went up；a maid-servant's discordant voice profaned the holy calm, and a deluge of water drenched the prone martyr's remains！

The strangling hero sprang up with a relieving snort；there was a whizas of a missile in the air, mingled with the murmur of a curse, a sound as of shivering glass followed, and a small, vague form went over the fence and shot away in the gloom.

Not long after, as Tom, all undressed for bed, was surveying his drenched garments by the light of a tallow dip, Sid woke up；but if he had any dim idea of making any“references to allusions”，he thought better of it, and held his peace—for there was danger in Tom's eye.

Tom turned in without the added vexation of prayers, and Sid made mental note of the omission.第四章/Chapter Ⅳ

早饭过后，姨妈领着全家做礼拜。姨妈做完祷告后就该汤姆背圣诗了——锡德几天前就已经完成了。玛丽拿着汤姆的书听他背。她虽然在一旁不住地给他提示，但汤姆就是背不下来。她鼓励汤姆说，如果他能背下来就给他一件好东西。在好奇心和利益的推动下，小汤姆终于成功了，于是获得了一把巴罗刀。他拿着小刀四处刻起来，但不一会儿就被叫去换衣服上主日学校了。

汤姆不喜欢洗脸。他把肥皂弄湿，然后就假模假样地用毛巾擦脸。玛丽发现了，叫他再洗一次。可洗后只有脸庞干净了，其他部位还是一团糟。玛丽只好亲自给小家伙洗干净，然后给他换上整洁的衣服。那套衣服汤姆只有星期天才穿。小家伙穿得整整齐齐，却感觉很不自在，最让他痛恨的是还要穿皮鞋，但玛丽总能哄他，直到穿上为止。然后玛丽、锡德和汤姆三人就一起去上主日学校。

主日学校九点到十点半上课，然后是做礼拜。教堂大约能坐下三百多人。在门口处，汤姆忙了起来，他不住地用自己前些时候获得的小玩意儿与其他孩子交换各种颜色的票，有蓝色、红色和黄色的。十张蓝票可以换一张红票，十张红票能换一张黄票，而有十张黄票校长就会颁发一本《圣经》，那是很光荣的事情。汤姆痛恨背书，但很渴望获奖时的风光。十几分钟后，小家伙就跟随吵吵嚷嚷的人群进了教堂。而他在教堂里仍不住地搞恶作剧，使他的附近吵嚷得更加厉害。汤姆获得了奖品

礼拜时间到了，主日学校的校长华尔特斯先生拿着本赞美诗集，走到讲台前，示意大家安静后就开始演说。讲的内容千篇一律。演讲进行着，台下的吵嚷音量开始增大，但随着演讲结束，一切声音也都一起停止。一会儿，耳语声又复苏了，撒切尔律师陪同几个采访的客人走了进来。汤姆眼前一亮，他看到了那位陌生姑娘。于是小家伙开始做各种各样的恶作剧，借以吸引那位女孩的注意力。

来访者们坐到了最尊贵的席位上。华尔特斯先生给大家介绍了来访的客人。其中一个是县里的撒切尔法官——镇上杰夫·撒切尔律师的兄弟。大人物在场，大家都忙着“表现自己”。华尔特斯先生四面八方地发号施令，图书管理员抱着书走来走去，年轻的老师们变得极其关心学生，孩子们则互相争吵，而撒切尔法官坐在高台上，洋洋自得地微笑着。

这时华尔特斯先生想要颁发奖品《圣经》，可在他的明星学生中却没有一个人的黄票够数。就在他绝望之际，汤姆拿出足够的票走上前去，要求得到一本《圣经》。华尔特斯先生大跌眼镜，但票是货真价实的。台上宣布了汤姆得到嘉奖的消息，并让小家伙坐到与法官同样的座位上，台下与他换票的孩子们后悔莫及。另一边的艾米·劳伦斯从汤姆的眼神知道他移情别恋了，从得意一下子失落下来。小家伙被引见给法官大人——他衷情的女孩的父亲。但当法官问他关于《圣经》的内容时，他却一句话也答不上来。

T he sun rose upon a tranquil world, and beamed down upon the peaceful village like a bene-diction. Breakfast over, Aunt Polly had family worship；it began with a prayer built from the ground up of solid courses of Scriptural quotations, welded together with a thin mortar of originality；and from the summit of this she delivered a grim chapter of the Mosaic Law, as from Sinai.

Then Tom girded up his loins, so to speak, and went to work to“get his verses”. Sid had learned his lesson days before.Tom bent all his energies to the memorizing of five verses；and he chose part of the Sermon on the Mount, because he could find no verses that were shorter.At the end of half an hour, Tom had a vague general idea of his lesson, but no more, for his mind wastraversing the whole field of human thought, and his hands were busy with distracting recreations.Mary took his book to hear him recite, and he tried to find his way through the fog.

“Blessed are the—a—a—”

“Poor—”

“Yes—poor；blessed are the poor—a—a—”

“In spirit—”

“In spirit；blessed are the poor in spirit, for they—they—”

“Theirs—”

“For theirs. Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs—is the kingdom of heaven.Blessed are they that mourn, for they—they—”

“Sh—”

“For they—a—”

“S, H，A—”

“For they S, H—Oh, I don't know what it is！”

“Shall！”

“Oh, shall！for they shall—for they shall—a—a—shall mourn—a—a—blessed are they that shall—they that—a—they that shall mourn, for they shall—a—shall what？Why don't you tell me, Mary？—what do you want to be so mean for？”

“Oh, Tom, you poor, thick-headed thing, I'm not teasing you. I wouldn't do that.You must go and learn it again.Don't you be discouraged, Tom, you'll manage it—and if you do, I'll give you something ever so nice.There, now, that’s a good boy.”

“All right！What is it, Mary？tell me what it is.”

“Never you mind, Tom. You know if I say it's nice, it is nice.”

“You bet you that's so, Mary. All right I'll tackle it again：”

And he did“tackle it again”；and under the double pressure of curiosity and prospective gain, he did it with such spirit that he accomplished a shining success. Mary gave him a brand-new“Barlow”knife, worth twelve and a half cents；and the convulsion of delight that swept his system shook him to hisfoundations.True, the knife would not cut anything, but it was a“sure-enough”Barlow, and there was inconceivable grandeur in that—though where the western boys ever got the idea that such a weapon would possibly be counterfeited to its injury is an imposing mystery, and will always remain so, perhaps.Tom contrived to scarify the cupboard with it, and was arranging to begin on the bureau, when he was called off to dress for Sunday-school.

Mary gave him a tin basin of water and a piece of soap, and he went outside the door and set the basin on a little bench there；then he dipped the soap in the water and laid it down；turned up his sleeves；poured out the water on the ground gently, and then entered the kitchen, and began to wipe his face diligently on the towel behind the door. But Mary removed the towel and said：

“Now ain't you ashamed, Tom？You mustn't be so bad. Water won't hurt you.”

Tom was a trifle disconcerted. The basin was refilled, and this time he stood over it a little while, gathering resolution；took in a big breath and began.When he entered the kitchen presently, with both eyes shut and groping for the towel with his hands, an honorable testimony of suds and water was dripping from his face.But when he emerged from the towel he was not yet satisfactory, for the clean territory stopped short at his chin and his jaws like a mask；below and beyond this line there was a dark expanse of unirrigated soil that spread downward in front and backward around his neck.Mary took him in hand, and when she was done with him he was a man and a brother, without distinction of colour, and his saturated hair was neatly brushed, and its short curls wrought into a dainty and symmetrical general effect.[He privately smoothed out the curls, with labor and difficulty, and plastered his hair close down to his head；for he held cuffs to be effeminate, and his own filled his life with bitterness.]Then Mary got out a suit of his clothing that had been used only on Sundays during two years—they were simply called his“other clothes”—and so by that we know the size of his wardrobe.The girl“put him to rights”after he had dressed himself；she buttoned his neat roundabout up to his chin, turned his vast shirt collar down over his shoulders, brushed him off, and crowned himwith his speckled hat.He now looked exceedingly improved and uncomfortable.He was fully as uncomfortable as he looked；for there was a restraint about whole clothes and cleanliness that galled him.He hoped that Mary would forget his shoes, but the hope was blighted；she coated them thoroughly with tallow, as was the custom, and brought them out.He lost his temper, and said he was always being made to do everything he didn't want to do.But Mary said persuasively：

“Please, Tom—that's a good boy.”

So he got into the shoes snarling. Mary was soon ready, and the three children set out for Sunday-school, a place that Tom hated with his whole heart；but Sid and Mary were fond of it.

Sabbath-school hours were from nine to half-past ten；and then church service. Two of the children always remained for the sermon voluntarily；and the other always remained, too—for stronger reasons.The church's high-backed, uncushioned pews would seat about three hundred persons；the edifice was but a small, plain affair, with a sort of pine board tree-box on top of it for a steeple.At the door Tom dropped back a step and accosted a Sunday-dressed comrade：

“Say, Billy, got a yaller ticket？”

“Yes.”

“What'll you take for her？”

“What'll you give？”

“Piece of lickrish and a fish-hook.”

“Less see'em.”

Tom exhibited. They were satisfactory, and the property changed hands.Then Tom traded a couple of white alleys for three red tickets, and some small trifle or other for a couple of blue ones.He waylaid other boys as they came, and went on buying tickets of various colors ten or fifteen minutes longer.He entered the church, now, with a swarm of clean and noisy boys and girls, proceeded to his seat and started a quarrel with the first boy that came handy.The teacher, a grave, elderly man, interfered；then turned his back a moment, and Tom pulled a boy's hair in the next bench, and was absorbed in his book when the boy turned around；stuck a pin in another boy, presently, in order to hear him say“Ouch！”and got a new reprimand from his teacher.Tom's whole class were of a pattern—restless, noisy, and troublesome.When they came to recite their lessons, not one of them knew his verses perfectly, but had to be prompted all along.However, they worried through, and each got his reward in small blue tickets, each with a passage of Scripture on it；each blue ticket was pay for two verses of the recitation.Ten blue tickets equalled a red one, and could be exchanged for it；ten red tickets equalled a yellow one；for ten yellow tickets the Superintendent gave a very plainly bound Bible（worth forty cents in those easy times）to the pupil.How many of my readers would have the industry and application to memorize two thousand verses, even for a Dore Bible？And yet Mary had acquired two Bibles in this way；it was the patient work of two years：and a boy of German parentage had won four or five.He once recited three thousand verses without stopping；but the strain upon his mental faculties was too great, and he was little better than an idiot from that day forth—a grievous misfortune for the school, for on great occasions before company, the Superintendent（as Tom expressed it）had always made this boy come out and“spread himself”.Only the older pupils managed to keep their tickets and stick to their tedious work long enough to get a Bible, and so the delivery of one of these prizes was a rare and noteworthy circumstance；the Successful pupil was so great and conspicuous for that day that on the spot every scholar's heart was fired with a fresh ambition that often lasted a couple of weeks.It is possible that Tom's mental stomach had never really hungered for one of those prizes, but unquestionably his entire being had for many a day longed for the glory and the eclat that came with it.

In due course the Superintendent stood up in front of the pulpit, with a closed hymn-book in his hand and his forefinger inserted between its leaves, and commanded attention. When a Sunday-school superintendent makes his customary little speech, a hymn-book in the hand is as necessary as is the inevitable sheet of music in the hand of a singer who stands forward on theplatform and sings a solo at a concert—though why is a mystery；for neither the hymn-book nor the sheet of music is ever referred to by the sufferer.This superintendent was a slim creature of thirty-five, with a sandy goatee and short sandy hair；he wore a stiff standing-collar whose upper edge almost reached his ears, and whose sharp points curved forward abreast the comers of his mouth—a fence that compelled a straight look-out ahead, and a turning of the whole body when a side view was required.His chin was propped on a spreading cravat which was as broad and as long as a bank-note, and had fringed ends；his boot toes were turned sharply up, in the fashion of the day, like sleigh-runners—an effect patiently and laboriously produced by the young men by sitting with their toes pressed against a wall for hours together.Mr.Waiters was very earnest of mien, and very sincere and honest at heart；and he held sacred things and places in such reverence, and so separated them from worldly matters, that unconsciously to himself his Sunday-school voice had acquired a peculiar intonation which was wholly absent on week-days.He began after this fashion：

“Now, children, I want you all to sit up just as straight and pretty as you can and give me all your attention for minute or two. There, that is it.That is the way good little boys and girls should do.I see one little girl who is looking out of the window—I am afraid she thinks I am out there somewhere—perhaps up in one of the trees making a speech to the little birds.[Applausive titter.]I want to tell you how good it makes me feel to see so many bright, clean little faces assembled in a place like this, learning to do right and be good.”

And so forth, and so on. It is not necessary to set down the rest of the oration.It was of a pattern which does not vary, and so it is familiar to us all.

The latter third of the speech was marred by the resumption of fights and other recreations among certain of the bad boys, and by fidgetings and whisperings that extended far and wide, washing even to the bases of isolated and incorruptible rocks like Sid and Mary. But now every sound ceased suddenly with the subsidence of Mr.Waiters'voice, and the conclusion of the speech was received with a burst of silent gratitude.

A good part of the whispering had been occasioned by an event which wasmore or less rare—the entrance of visitors；Lawyer Thatcher, accompanied by a very feeble and aged man, a fine, portly, middleaged gentleman with iron-gray hair, and a dignified lady who was doubtless the latter's wife. The lady was leading a child.Tom had been restless and full of chafings and repinings, conscience-smitten, too—he could not meet Amy Lawrence's eye, he could not brook her loving gaze.But when he saw this small new-comer his soul was all ablaze with bliss in a moment.The next moment he was“showing off”with all his might—cuffing boys, pulling hair, making faces, in a word, using every art that seemed likely to fascinate a girl, and win her applause.His exaltation had but one alloy—the memory of his humiliation in this angel's garden；and that record in sand was fast washing out under the waves of happiness that were sweeping over it now.The visitors were given the highest seat of honour, and as soon as Mr.Waiters'speech was finished, he introduced them to the school.The middle-aged man turned out to be a prodigious personage：no less an one than the county judge—altogether the most august creation these children had ever looked upon；and they wondered what kind of material he was made of；and they half wanted to hear him roar, and were half afraid he might, too.He was from Constantinople, twelve miles away—so he had travelled and seen the world—these very eyes had looked upon the County Court House, which was said to have a tin roof.The awe which these reflections inspired was attested by the impressive silence and the ranks of staring eyes.This was the great Judge Thatcher, brother of their own lawyer.Jeff Thatcher immediately went forward to be familiar with the great man, and be envied by the school.It would have been music to his soul to hear the whisperings：

“Look at him, Jim！He's a going up there. Say look！He's a going to shake hands with him；he is shaking hands with him.By jings, don't you wish you was Jeff？”

Mr. Waiters fell to“showing off”with all sorts of official bustlings and activities, giving orders, delivering judgments, discharging directions here.there, everywhere that he could find a target.The librarian“showed off”，running hither and thither with his arms full of books and making a deal of thesplutter and fuss that insect authority delights in.The young lady teachers“showed off”—bending sweetly over pupils that were lately being boxed, lifting pretty warning fingers at bad little boys and patting good ones lovingly.The young gentlemen teachers“showed off”with small scoldings and other little displays of authority and fine attention to discipline；and most of the teachers, of both sexes, found business up at the library by the pulpit；and it was business that frequently had to be done over again two or three times（with much seeming vexation）.The little girls“showed off”in various ways, and the little boys“showed off”with such diligence that the air was thick with paper wads and the murmur.of scufflings.And above it all the great man sat and beamed a majestic judicial smile upon all the house, and warmed himself in the sun of his own grandeur, for he was“showing off”too.There was only one thing wanting to make Mr.Waiters'ecstasy complete, and that was a chance to deliver a Bibleprize and exhibit a prodigy.Several pupils had a few yellow tickets, but none had enough—he had been around among the star pupils inquiring.He would have given worlds, now, to have that German lad back again with a sound mind.

And now at this moment, when hope was dead, Tom Sawyer came forward with nine yellow tickets, nine red tickets, and ten blue ones, and demanded a Bible！This was a thunderbolt out of a clear sky. Waiters was not expecting an application from this source for the next ten years.But there was no getting around it—here were the certified checks, and they were good for their face.Tom was therefore elevated to a place with the Judge and the other elect, and the great news was announced from headquarters.It was the most stunning surprise of the decade；and so profound was the sensation that it lifted the new hero up to the judicial one's altitude, and the school had two marvels to gaze upon in place of one.The boys were all eaten up with envy；but those that suffered the bitterest pangs were those who perceived too late that they themselves had contributed to this hated splendor by trading tickets to Tom for the wealth he had amassed in selling whitewashing privileges.These despised themselves, as being the dupes of a wily fraud, a guileful snake in the grass.

The prize was delivered to Tom with as much effusion as the Superintendent could pump up under the circumstances；but it lacked somewhat of the true gush, for the poor fellow's instinct taught him that there was a mystery here that could not well bear the light, perhaps；it was simply preposterous that this boy had warehoused two thousand sheaves of Scriptural wisdom on his premises—a dozen would strain his capacity, without a doubt. Amy Lawrence was proud and glad, and she tried to make Tom see it in her face；but he wouldn't look.She wondered；then she was just a grain troubled；next a dim suspicion came and went—came again；she watched；a furtive glance told her worlds—and then her heart broke, and she was jealous, and angry, and the tears came and she hated everybody；Tom most of all, she thought.

Tom was introduced to the Judge；but his tongue was tied, his breath would hardly come, his heart quaked—partly because of the awful greatness of the man, but mainly because he was her parent. He would have liked to fall down and worship him, if it were in the dark.The Judge put his hand on Tom's head and called him a fine little man, and asked him what his name was.The boy stammered, gasped, and got it out.

“Tom.”

“Oh, no, not Tom—it is—”

“Thomas.”

“Ah, that's it. I thought there was more to it, maybe.That's very well.But you've another one I dare say, and you'll tell it to me, won't you？”

“Tell the gentleman your other name, Thomas，”said Waiters，“and say sir. You mustn't forget your manners.”

“Thomas Sawyer—sir.”

“That's it！That's a good boy. Fine boy.Fine, manly little fellow.Two thousand verses is a great many—very, very great many.And you never can be sorry for the trouble you took to learn them；for knowledge is worth more than anything there is in the world；it's what makes great men and good men；you'll be a great man and a good man yourself some day, Thomas, and then you'lllook back and say，“It’s all owing to the precious Sunday-school privileges of my boyhood；it’s all owing to my dear teachers that taught me to learn；it’s all owing to the good Superintendent, who encouraged me and watched over me and gave me a beautiful Bible, a splendid, elegant Bible, to keep and have it all for my own, always；it’s all owing to right bringing up！”That is what you will say, Thomas；and you wouldn’t have any money for those two thousand verses—no, indeed you wouldn’t.And now you wouldn’t mind telling me and this lady some of the things you’ve learned—no, I know you wouldn’t—for we are proud of little boys that learn.Now no doubt you know the names of all the twelve disciples.Won’t you tell us the names of the first two that were appointed？”

Tom was tugging at a button and looking sheepish. He blushed now, and his eyes fell.Mr.Waiters'heart sank within him.He said to himself, it is not possible that the boy can answer the simplest question—why did the Judge ask him？Yet he felt obliged to speak up and say：

“Answer the gentleman, Thomas—don't be afraid.”

Tom still hung fire.

“Now, I know you'll tell me，”said the lady.“The names of the first two disciples were—”

“David and Goliah！”

Let us draw the curtain of charity over the rest of the scene.第五章/Chapter Ⅴ

十点半钟左右，小教堂的钟响了，人们很快聚集起来做晨祷。孩子们都分散到各自父母的身边。包莉姨妈、玛丽、锡德和汤姆坐在一起。钟声响了第二遍后，本区的教徒都到齐了。教堂里安静了下来，牧师开始分发赞美诗本。牧师是公认的杰出的朗读人，他很有感情地把赞美诗念了一遍。

人们唱过赞美诗后，斯普拉格牧师就开始念长得离谱的各种通知；然后就是牧师做祷告，为各种各样的人们祈求。汤姆很厌恶祷告，牧师从头到尾的声调他已经烂熟于心，但他相信在做祷告时乱动会遭到上帝的惩罚，所以他强迫自己忍受。

接下来牧师散发布道的全文，然后念了一下提要。汤姆从来不关心布道的内容，他想起他带着一只黑甲壳虫，于是拿出装着那宝贝玩意儿的盒子。没想到刚打开，他的手就被黑甲壳虫狠狠地钳了一下。小家伙本能地把甲虫甩开，用嘴吮吸着受伤的手指。甲虫被弹到过道上了，小家伙没法抓它回来。旁边的人也注意起那只甲虫。这时一只狗参与了进来。它用嘴和爪子耍弄着甲虫，但不一会儿就玩腻了。它想坐下来休息，哪知正好坐在甲虫身上，甲虫紧紧钳住了它的屁股，它便像发了疯似的乱叫乱窜起来，最后它跳到主人膝盖上，却被它的主人扔出了窗外。教堂里的人们都乐得不行，但都忍着尽量不笑出声来。牧师结束了演讲之后大家才感到真正地解脱了。汤姆对无聊的礼拜中的这场意外很满意，高兴地回家了。他的手被甲壳虫钳了一下

A bout half-past ten the cracked bell of the small church began to ring, and presently the people began to gather for the morning sermon. The Sunday-school children distributed themselves about the house, and occupied pews with their parents, so as to be under supervision.Aunt Polly came, and Tom and Sid, and Mary sat with her—Tom being placed next the aisle, in order that he might be as far away from the open window and the seductive outside summer scenes as possible.The crowd filed up the aisles：the aged and needy postmaster, who had seen better days；the mayor and his wife—for they had a mayor there, among other unnecessaries；the justice of the peace；the widow Douglass, fair, smart, and forty, a generous, good-hearted soul and well-to-do, her hill mansion the only palace in the town, and the most hospitable and much the most lavish in the matter of festivities that St.Petersburg could boast；the bent and venerable Major and Mrs.Ward；lawyer Riverson, the new notable from a distance；next the belle of the village, followed by a troop of lawn-clad and ribbondecked young heart breakers；then all the young clerks in town in a body—for they had stood in the vestibule sucking their cane heads, a circling wall of oiled and simpering admirers, till the last girl had run their gantlet；and last of all came the Model Boy, Will Mufferson, taking as heedful care of his mother as if she were cut glass.He always brought his mother to church, and was the pride of all the matrons.The boys all hated him, he was so good.And besides, he had been“thrown up to them”so much.His white handkerchief was hanging out of his pocket behind, as usual on Sundays—accidentally.Tom had no handkerchief, and he looked upon boys who had as snobs.The congregation being fully assembled now, the bell rang once more, to warn laggards and stragglers, and then a solemn hush fell upon the church, which was only broken by the tittering and whispering of the choir in the gallery.The choir always tittered and whispered all through service.There was once a church choir that was not ill-bred, but I have forgotten where it was now.It was a great many years ago, and I can scarcely remember anything about it, but I think it was in some foreign country.

The minister gave out the hymn, and read it through with a relish, in a peculiar style which was much admired in that part of the country. His voice began on a medium key, and climbed steadily up till it reached a certain point, where it bore with strong emphasis upon the topmost word, and then plunged down as if from a spring-board—

Shall I be car-ri-ed to the skies, on flow'ry beds of ease, Whilst others fight to win the prize, and sail thro'blood-y seas？

He was regarded as a wonderful reader. At church“sociables”he was always called upon to read poetry；and when he was through, the ladies would lift up their hands and let them fall helplessly in their laps, and“wall”their eyes, and shake their heads, as much as to say，“Words cannot express it；it is too beautiful, too beautiful for this mortal earth.”

After the hymn had been sung, the Rev. Mr.Sprague turned himself into a bulletin board, and read off“notices”of meetings and societies and things till it seemed that the list would stretch out to the crack of doom—a queer custom which is still kept up in America, even in cities, away here in this age of abundant newspapers.Often the less there is to justify a traditional custom, the harder it is to get rid of it.

And now the minister prayed. A good, generous prayer it was, and went into details.It pleaded for the Church, and the little children of the Church；for the other churches of the village；for the village itself；for the county；for the State；for the State officers；for the United States；for the churches of the United States；for Congress；for the President；for the officers of the Government；for poor sailors, tossed by stormy seas；for the oppressed millions groaning under the heel of European monarchies and Oriental despotisms；for such as have the light and the good tidings, and yet have not eyes to see nor ears to hear withal；for the heathen in the far islands of the sea；and closed with a supplication that the words he was about to speak might find grace and favour, and be as seed sown in fertile ground, yielding in time a grateful harvest of good.Amen.

There was a rustling of dresses, and the standing congregation sat down. The boy whose history this book relates did not enjoy the prayer, he only endured it—if he even did that much.He was restive all through it；he kepttally of the details of the prayer, unconsciously—for he was not listening, but he knew the ground of old, and the clergyman's regular route over it—and when a little trifle of new matter was interlarded, his ear detected it and his whole nature resented it；he considered additions unfair, and scoundrelly.In the midst of the prayer a fly had lit on the back of the pew in front of him, and tortured his spirit by calmly rubbing its hands together；embracing its head with its arms and polishing it so vigorously that it seemed to almost part company with the body, and the slender thread of a neck was exposed to view；scraping its wings with its hind legs and smoothing them to its body as if they had been coat-tails；going through its whole toilet as tranquilly as if it knew it was perfectly safe.As indeed it was；for as sorely as Tom's hands itched to grab for it they did not dare—he believed his soul would be instantly destroyed if he did such a thing while prayer was going on.But with the closing sentence his hand began to curve and steal forward；and the instant the“Amen”was out, the fly was a prisoner of war.His aunt detected the act, and made him let it go.

The minister gave out his text and droned along monotonously through an argument that was so prosy that many a head by and by began to nod—and yet it was an argument that dealt in limitless fire and brimstone and thinned the predestined elect down to a company so small as to be hardly worth the saving. Tom counted the pages of the sermon；after church he always knew how many pages there had been, but he seldom knew anything else about the discourse.However, this time he was really interested for a little while.The minister made a grand and moving picture of the assembling together of the world's hosts at the millennium, when the lion and the lamb should lie down together and a little child should lead them.But the pathos, the lesson, the moral of the great spectacle were lost upon the boy；he only thought of the conspicuousness of the principal character before the onlooking nations；his face lit with the thought, and he said to himself that he wished he could be that child, if it was a tame lion.

Now he lapsed into suffering again as the dry argument was resumed. Presently he bethought himself of a treasure he had, and got it out.It was alarge black beetle with formidable jaws—a“pinch-bug，”he called it.It was in a percussion-cap box.The first thing the beetle did was to take him by the finger.A natural fillip followed, the beetle went floundering into the aisle, and lit on its back, and the hurt finger went into the boy's mouth.The beetle lay there working its helpless legs, unable to turn over.Tom eyed it, and longed for it, but it was safe out of his reach.Other people, uninterested in the sermon found relief in the beetle, and they eyed it too.

Presently a vagrant poodle dog came idling along, sad at heart, lazy with the summer softness and the quiet, weary of captivity, sighing for change. He spied the beetle；the drooping tail lifted and wagged.He surveyed the prize；walked around it；smelt at it from a safe distance；walked around it again；grew bolder, and took a closer smell；then lifted his lip, and made a gingerly snap at it, just missing it；made another, and another；began to enjoy the diversion；subsided to his stomach with the beetle between his paws, and continued his experiments；grew weary at last, and then indifferent and absent-minded.His head nodded, and little by little his chin descended and touched the enemy, who seized it.There was a sharp yelp, a flirt of the poodle's head, and the beetle fell a couple of yards away, and lit on its back once more.The neighbouring spectators shook with a gentle inward joy, several faces went behind fans and handkerchiefs, and Tom was entirely happy.The dog looked foolish, and probably felt so；but there was resentment in his heart, too, and a craving for revenge.So he went to the beetle, and began a wary attack on it again；jumping at it from every point of a circle, lighting with his fore-paws within an inch of the creature, making even closer snatches at it with his teeth, and jerking his head till his ears flapped again.But he grew fired once more, after a while；tried to amuse himself with a fly, but found no relief；followed an ant around, with his nose close to the floor, and quickly wearied of that；yawned, sighed, forgot the beetle entirely, and sat down on it！Then there was a wild yelp of agony, and the poodle went sailing up the aisle；the yelps continued, and so did the dog；he crossed the house in front of the altar；he flew down the other aisle；he crossed before the doors；he clamored up the home-stretch；his anguish grewwith his progress, till presently he was but a woolly comet moving in its orbit with the gleam and the speed of light.At last the frantic sufferer sheered from its course and sprang into its master's lap：he flung it out of the window, and the voice of distress quickly thinned away and died in the distance.

By this time the whole church was red-faced and suffocating with suppressed laughter, and the sermon had come to a dead standstill. The discourse was resumed presently, but it went lame and halting, all possibility of impressiveness being at an end；for even the gravest sentiments were constantly being received with a smothered burst of unholy mirth, under cover of some remote pewback, as if the poor parson had said a rarely facetious thing.It was a genuine relief to the whole congregation when the ordeal was over and the benediction pronounced.

Tom Sawyer went home quite cheerful, thinking to himself that there was some satisfaction about divine service when there was a bit of variety in it. He had but one marring thought；he was willing that the dog should play with his pinch-bug, but he did not think it was upright in him to carry it off.第六章/Chapter Ⅵ

星期一又到来了，小家伙沮丧地躺在床上。他实在不想上学，于是把自己从头到尾检查了一遍，终于发现有一颗门牙松动了。他刚要装病，但马上想到姨妈会把牙给拔了，于是决定先想想其他能不去上学的理由。他想起医生说过某种厉害的病能让人卧床三星期，于是急忙看了一下他受伤的脚趾头，虽然没发现什么症状，但还是开始呻吟起来。

旁边的锡德睡得很熟，根本听不到他的呻吟。小家伙急了，一边喊着锡德一边去推他。锡德终于醒了。这时小家伙继续呻吟。锡德终于能听到了。面对锡德着急的表情，汤姆一边继续用力地呻吟，一边说自己快要死了。锡德急忙跑下楼把包莉姨妈叫了上来。姨妈刚开始也急坏了，但听到小家伙说他是脚趾痛和牙痛的时候，便松了一口气并打算把他的坏牙拔掉。小家伙害怕拔牙，急忙说他不再用牙疼做不去上学的借口了。这下姨妈完全明白到底是怎么回事了，她一边责怪着汤姆，一边继续做拔牙的准备。不一会儿，小家伙的牙就被拔了下来。

吃完早饭，汤姆就去上学了。刚拔过牙的他有了新的绝活：能够从拔掉的牙的缺口处吐唾沫，这让大家羡慕不已。

汤姆在上学的路上碰见了镇上唯一的酒鬼的儿子哈克贝利·费恩。虽然镇上的家长们都想让自己的孩子离哈克远远的，但孩子们都很喜欢和羡慕哈克无拘无束的生活。汤姆就是这些羡慕哈克的浪漫生活的孩子之一。汤姆终于引起了蓓姬的关注

汤姆和哈克打过招呼，二人就聊起怎么治疣子。他们说了很多方法，其中哈克说到一种很有趣的方法：半夜时候去墓地里，把死猫扔向带走坏人灵魂的魔鬼，再念些咒语就成。这让汤姆很感兴趣。最后二人决定尝试这一最新的方法，他们约定晚上一起去墓地，暗号为猫叫。汤姆用他那颗刚拔下来的牙齿与哈克交换了一只虱子，然后愉快地上学去了。

汤姆和往常一样又迟到了，老师很生气。汤姆刚想撒谎，突然看到他爱慕的那位女孩就在他们班上，并且她旁边有一个空位。于是汤姆老老实实地交代是与哈克贝利交谈耽误了时间。老师更生气了，用戒尺打了汤姆一顿后罚汤姆去和女生坐。这正中汤姆下怀，他高兴极了，不管旁边同学们的议论声，在那女孩旁边坐下了。

那女孩不想理睬汤姆，但汤姆根本静不下心来看书。他先给了那女孩一个桃子，然后在一旁偷偷地画画。女孩很好奇，终于开口叫他给她看看。汤姆当然愿意。结果她竟很喜欢他糟糕透顶的画。汤姆答应中午教她画画。女孩和他说她叫蓓姬·撒切尔。过了一会，汤姆又开始在一边秘密地写起什么来，蓓姬的好奇心促使她使劲地掰开汤姆的手，结果看到他写的是：我爱你。蓓姬羞得满脸通红，但小家伙看得出来，她是高兴的。

这时老师走过来把小家伙揪回了原来的座位，汤姆耳朵虽然很疼，但心里却美滋滋的。接下来他一直高度地兴奋，根本没心上课，在拼写课上还得了倒数第一，只好把他已经戴了好几个月的奖牌交还老师。

M onday morning found Tom Sawyer miserable. Monday morning always found him so, because it began another week's slow suffering in school.He generally began that day with wishing he had had no intervening holiday, it made the going into captivity and fetters again so much more odious.

Tom lay thinking. Presently it occurred to him that he wished he was sick；then he could stay home from school.Here was a vague possibility.He canvassed his system.No ailment was found, and he investigated again.This time he thought he could detect colicky symptoms, and he began to encourage them with considerable hope.But they soon grew feeble, and presently died wholly away.He reflected further.Suddenly he discovered something.One ofhis upper front teeth was loose.This was lucky；he was about to begin to groan, as a“starter，”as he called it, when it occurred to him that if he came into court with that argument, his aunt would pull it out, and that would hurt.So he thought he would hold the tooth in reserve for the present, and seek further.Nothing offered for some little time, and then he remembered hearing the doctor tell about a certain thing that laid up a patient for two or three weeks and threatened to make him lose a finger.So the boy eagerly drew his sore toe from under the sheet and held it up for inspection.But now he did not know the necessary symptoms.However, it seemed well worth while to chance it, so he fell to groaning with considerable spirit.

But Sid slept on, unconscious.

Tom groaned louder, and fancied that he began to feel pain in the toe.

No result from Sid.

Tom was panting with his exertions by this time. He took a rest and then swelled himself up and fetched a succession of admirable groans.

Sid snored on.

Tom was aggravated. He said，“Sid, Sid！”and shook him.This course worked well, and Tom began to groan again.Sid yawned stretched, then brought himself up on his elbow with a snort, and began to stare at Tom.Tom went on groaning.Sid said：

“Tom！Say, Tom！”

No response.

“Here, Tom！Tom！What is the matter, Tom？”And he shook him and looked in his face anxiously.

Tom moaned out：

“Oh, don't, Sid. Don't joggle me.”

“Why, what's the matter, Tom？I must call auntie.”

“No, never mind. It'll be over by and by, maybe.Don't call anybody.”

“But I must！Don't groan so, Tom, it's awful. How long you been this way？”

“Hours. Ouch！Oh, don't stir so, Sid.You'll kill me.”

“Tom, why didn't you wake me sooner？Oh, Tom, don't！It makes my flesh crawl to hear you. Tom, what is the matter？”

“I forgive you everything, Sid.[Groan.]Everything you've ever done to me. When I'm gone—”

“Oh, Tom, you ain't dying, are you？Don't, Tom. oh, don't.Maybe—”

“I forgive everybody, Sid.[Groan.]Tell'em so, Sid. And, Sid, you give my window-sash and my cat with one eye to that new girl that's come to town, and tell her—”

But Sid had snatched his clothes and gone. Tom was suffering in reality now, so handsomely was his imagination working, and so his groans had gathered quite a genuine tone.

Sid flew downstairs and said：

“Oh, Aunt Polly, come！Tom's dying！”

“Dying！”

“Yes'm Don't wait, come quick！”

“Rubbage！I don't believe it！”

But she fled upstairs nevertheless, with Sid and Mary at her heels. And her face grew white, too, and her lip trembled.When she reached the bed she gasped out：

“You, Tom！Tom, what the matter with you？”

“Oh, auntie, I'm—”‘What's the matter with you—what is the matter with you, child？”

“Oh, auntie, my sore toe's mortified！”

The old lady sank down into a chair, and laughed a little, then cried a little, then did both together. This restored her, and she said：

“Tom, what a turn you did give me. Now you shut up that nonsense and climb out of this.”

The groans ceased, and the pain vanished from the toe. The boy felt a little foolish, and he said：

“Aunt Polly, it seemed mortified, and it hurt so；I never minded my tooth at all.”

“Your tooth, indeed！What's the matter with your tooth？”

“One of them's loose, and it aches perfectly awful.”

“There, there now, don't begin that groaning again. Open your mouth.Well, your tooth is loose, but you're not going to die about that.Mary, get me a silk thread, and a chunk of fire out of the kitchen.”

Tom said：

“Oh, please, auntie, don't pull it out, it don't hurt any more. I wish I may never stir if it does.Please don't, auntie；I don't want to stay home from school.”

“Oh, you don't, don't you？So all this row was because you thought you'd get to stay home from school and go a-fishing？Tom, Tom, I love you so, and you seem to try every way you can to break my old heart with your outrageousness.”

By this time the dental instruments were ready. The old lady made one end of the silk thread fast to Tom's tooth with a loop and tied the other to the bed-post.Then she seized the chunk of fire and suddenly thrust it almost into the boy's face.The tooth hung dangling by the bedpost, now.

But all trials bring their compensations. As Tom wended to school after breakfast, he was the envy of every boy he met because the gap in his upper row of teeth enabled him to expectorate in a new and admirable way.He gathered quite a following of lads interested in the exhibition；and one that had cut his finger and had been a centre of fascination and homage up to this time, now found himself suddenly without an adherent, and shorn of his glory.His heart was heavy, and he said with a disdain which he did not feel, that it wasn't anything to spit like Tom Sawyer；but another boy said，“Sour grapes！”and he wandered away a dismantled hero.

Shortly Tom came upon the juvenile pariah of the village, Huckleberry Finn, son of the town drunkard. Huckleberry was cordially hated and dreaded by all the mothers of the town, because he was idle, and lawless, and vulgar, and bad—and because all their children admired him so, and delighted in his forbidden society and wished they dared to be like him.Tom was like the restof the respectable boys, in that he envied Huckleberry his gaudy outcast condition, and was under strict orders not to play with him.So he played with him every time he got a chance.Huckleberry was always dressed in the cast-off clothes of full-grown men, and they were in perennial bloom and fluttering with rags.His hat was a vast ruin with a wide crescent lopped out of its brim；his coat, when he wore one, hung nearly to his heels, and had the rearward buttons far down the back；but one suspender supported his trousers；the seat of the trousers bagged low and contained nothing；the fringed legs dragged in the dirt when not rolled up.

Huckleberry came and went at his own free will. He slept on doorsteps in fine weather and in empty hogsheads in wet；he did not have to go to school or to church, or call any being master, or obey anybody；he could go fishing or swimming when and where he chose, and stay as long as it suited him；nobody forbade him to fight；he could sit up as late as he pleased；he was always the first boy that went barefoot in the spring and the last to resume leather in the fall；he never had to wash, nor put on clean clothes；he could swear wonderfully.In a word, everything that goes to make life precious that boy had.So thought every harassed, hampered, respectable boy in St.Petersburg.Tom hailed the romantic outcast：

“Hello, Huckleberry！”

“Hello yourself, and see how you like it.”

“What's that you got？”

“Dead cat.”

“Lemme see him, Huck. My, he's pretty stiff.Where'd you get him？”

“Bought him off'n a boy.”

“What did you give？”

“I give a blue ticket and a bladder that I got at the slaughterhouse.”

“Where'd you get the blue ticket？”

“Bought it off'n Ben Rogers two weeks ago for a hoop-stick.”

“Say—what is dead cats good for, Huck？”

“Good for？Cure warts with.”

“No？Is that so？I know something that's better.”

“I bet you don't. What is it？”

“Why, spunk water.”

“Spunk water！I wouldn't give a dern for spunk water.”

“You wouldn't, wouldn't you？D'you ever try it？”

“No, I hain't. But Bob Tanner did.”

“Who told you so？”

“Why, he told Jeff Thatcher, and Jeff told Johnny Baker, and Johnny told Jim Hollis, and Jim told Ben Rogers, and Ben told a nigger, and the nigger told me. There now！”

“Well, what of it？They'll all lie. Leastways all but the nigger.I don't know him.But I never see a nigger that wouldn't lie.Shucks！Now you tell me how Bob Tanner done it, Huck.”

“Why, he took and dipped his hand in a rotten stump where the rain-water was.”

“In the daytime？”

“Certainly.”

“With his face to the stump？”

“Yes. Least I reckon so.”

“Did he say anything？”

“I don't reckon he did. I don't know.”

“Aha！Talk about trying to cure warts with spunk water such a blame fool way as that！Why, that ain't a going to do any good. You got to go all by yourself to the middle of the woods, where you know there's a spunk-water stump, and just as it's midnight you back up against the stump and jam your hand in and say：

Barley-corn, barley-corn, injun-meal shorts，

Spunk water, spunk water, swaller these warts，

and then walk away quick, eleven steps, with your eyes shut, and then tum around three times and walk home without speaking to anybody. Because if you speak, the charm's busted.”

“Well, that sounds like a good way；but that ain't the way Bob Tanner done.”

“No, sir, you can bet he didn't, becuz he's the wartiest boy in this town；and he wouldn't have a wart on him if he'd knowed how to work spunk water. I've took off thousands of warts off of my hands that way, Huck.I play with frogs so much that I’ve always got considerable many warts.Sometimes I take’em off with a bean.”

“Yes, bean's good. I've done that.”

“Have you？What's your way？”

“You take and split the bean, and cut the wart so as to get some blood, and then you put the blood on one piece of the bean, and take and dig a hole and bury it'bout midnight at the crossroads in the dark of the moon, and then you burn up the rest of the bean. You see that piece that's got the blood on it will keep drawing and drawing, trying to fetch the other piece to it, and so that helps the blood to draw the wart, and pretty soon off she comes.”

“Yes, that's it, Huck—that's it；though, when you're burying it, if you say“Down bean, off wart；come no more to bother me！'it's better. That’s the way Joe Harper does, and he’s been nearly to Coonville, and most everywheres.But say—how do you cure’em with dead cats？”

“Why, you take your cat and go and get in the graveyard'long about midnight, when somebody that was wicked has been buried；and when it's midnight a devil will come, or maybe two or three, but you can't see'em, you can only hear something like the wind, or maybe hear'em talk；and when they’re taking that feller away, you heave your

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