CHAPTER II

Saturday morning was come, and all the summer world was bright andrnfresh, and brimming with life. There was a song in every heart; and ifrnthe heart was young the music issued at the lips. There was cheer inrnevery face and a spring in every step. The locust-trees were in bloomrnand the fragrance of the blossoms filled the air. Cardiff Hill, beyondrnthe village and above it, was green with vegetation and it lay just farrnenough away to seem a Delectable Land, dreamy, reposeful, and inviting.rnrnTom appeared on the sidewalk with a bucket of whitewash and arnlong-handled brush. He surveyed the fence, and all gladness left him andrna deep melancholy settled down upon his spirit. Thirty yards of boardrnfence nine feet high. Life to him seemed hollow, and existence but arnburden. Sighing, he dipped his brush and passed it along the topmostrnplank; repeated the operation; did it again; compared the insignificantrnwhitewashed streak with the far-reaching continent of unwhitewashedrnfence, and sat down on a tree-box discouraged. Jim came skipping out atrnthe gate with a tin pail, and singing Buffalo Gals. Bringing water fromrnthe town pump had always been hateful work in Tom’s eyes, before, butrnnow it did not strike him so. He remembered that there was company atrnthe pump. White, mulatto, and negro boys and girls were always therernwaiting their turns, resting, trading playthings, quarrelling, fighting,rnskylarking. And he remembered that although the pump was only a hundredrnand fifty yards off, Jim never got back with a bucket of water under anrnhour—and even then somebody generally had to go after him. Tom said:rnrn“Say, Jim, I’ll fetch the water if you’ll whitewash some.”rnrnJim shook his head and said:rnrn“Can’t, Mars Tom. Ole missis, she tole me I got to go an’ git dis waterrnan’ not stop foolin’ roun’ wid anybody. She say she spec’ Mars Tom gwinernto ax me to whitewash, an’ so she tole me go ’long an’ ’tend to my ownrnbusiness—she ’lowed _she’d_ ’tend to de whitewashin’.”rnrn“Oh, never you mind what she said, Jim. That’s the way she always talks.rnGimme the bucket—I won’t be gone only a a minute. _She_ won’t everrnknow.”rnrn“Oh, I dasn’t, Mars Tom. Ole missis she’d take an’ tar de head off’n me.’Deed she would.”rnrn“_She_! She never licks anybody—whacks ’em over the head with herrnthimble—and who cares for that, I’d like to know. She talks awful, butrntalk don’t hurt—anyways it don’t if she don’t cry. Jim, I’ll give you arnmarvel. I’ll give you a white alley!”rnrnJim began to waver.rnrn“White alley, Jim! And it’s a bully taw.”rnrn“My! Dat’s a mighty gay marvel, I tell you! But Mars Tom I’s powerfulrn’fraid ole missis—”rnrn“And besides, if you will I’ll show you my sore toe.”rnrnJim was only human—this attraction was too much for him. He put downrnhis pail, took the white alley, and bent over the toe with absorbingrninterest while the bandage was being unwound. In another moment hernwas flying down the street with his pail and a tingling rear, Tom wasrnwhitewashing with vigor, and Aunt Polly was retiring from the field withrna slipper in her hand and triumph in her eye.rnrnBut Tom’s energy did not last. He began to think of the fun he hadrnplanned for this day, and his sorrows multiplied. Soon the free boysrnwould come tripping along on all sorts of delicious expeditions, andrnthey would make a world of fun of him for having to work—the veryrnthought of it burnt him like fire. He got out his worldly wealth andrnexamined it—bits of toys, marbles, and trash; enough to buy an exchangernof _work_, maybe, but not half enough to buy so much as half an hourrnof pure freedom. So he returned his straitened means to his pocket, andrngave up the idea of trying to buy the boys. At this dark and hopelessrnmoment an inspiration burst upon him! Nothing less than a great,rnmagnificent inspiration.rnrnHe took up his brush and went tranquilly to work. Ben Rogers hove inrnsight presently—the very boy, of all boys, whose ridicule he had beenrndreading. Ben’s gait was the hop-skip-and-jump—proof enough that hisrnheart was light and his anticipations high. He was eating an apple, andrngiving a long, melodious whoop, at intervals, followed by a deep-tonedrnding-dong-dong, ding-dong-dong, for he was personating a steamboat. Asrnhe drew near, he slackened speed, took the middle of the street, leanedrnfar over to starboard and rounded to ponderously and with laborious pomprnand circumstance—for he was personating the Big Missouri, and consideredrnhimself to be drawing nine feet of water. He was boat and captain andrnengine-bells combined, so he had to imagine himself standing on his ownrnhurricane-deck giving the orders and executing them:rnrn“Stop her, sir! Ting-a-ling-ling!” The headway ran almost out, and herndrew up slowly toward the sidewalk.rnrn“Ship up to back! Ting-a-ling-ling!” His arms straightened and stiffenedrndown his sides.rnrn“Set her back on the stabboard! Ting-a-ling-ling! Chow! ch-chow-wow!rnChow!” His right hand, mean-time, describing stately circles—for it wasrnrepresenting a forty-foot wheel.rnrn“Let her go back on the labboard! Ting-a-ling-ling! Chow-ch-chow-chow!” The left hand began to describe circles.rnrn“Stop the stabboard! Ting-a-ling-ling! Stop the labboard! Come ahead onrnthe stabboard! Stop her! Let your outside turn over slow!rnTing-a-ling-ling! Chow-ow-ow! Get out that head-line! _lively_ now!rnCome—out with your spring-line—what’re you about there! Take a turnrnround that stump with the bight of it! Stand by that stage, now—let herrngo! Done with the engines, sir! Ting-a-ling-ling! SH’T! S’H’T! SH’T!”(trying the gauge-cocks).rnrnTom went on whitewashing—paid no attention to the steamboat. Ben staredrna moment and then said: “_Hi-Yi! You’re_ up a stump, ain’t you!”rnrnNo answer. Tom surveyed his last touch with the eye of an artist, thenrnhe gave his brush another gentle sweep and surveyed the result, asrnbefore. Ben ranged up alongside of him. Tom’s mouth watered for thernapple, but he stuck to his work. Ben said:rnrn“Hello, old chap, you got to work, hey?”rnrnTom wheeled suddenly and said:rnrn“Why, it’s you, Ben! I warn’t noticing.”rnrn“Say—I’m going in a-swimming, I am. Don’t you wish you could? But ofrncourse you’d druther _work_—wouldn’t you? Course you would!”rnrnTom contemplated the boy a bit, and said:rnrn“What do you call work?”rnrn“Why, ain’t _that_ work?”rnrnTom resumed his whitewashing, and answered carelessly:rnrn“Well, maybe it is, and maybe it ain’t. All I know, is, it suits TomrnSawyer.”rnrn“Oh come, now, you don’t mean to let on that you _like_ it?”rnrnThe brush continued to move.rnrn“Like it? Well, I don’t see why I oughtn’t to like it. Does a boy get arnchance to whitewash a fence every day?”rnrnThat put the thing in a new light. Ben stopped nibbling his apple.rnTom swept his brush daintily back and forth—stepped back to note therneffect—added a touch here and there—criticised the effect again—Benrnwatching every move and getting more and more interested, more and morernabsorbed. Presently he said:rnrn“Say, Tom, let _me_ whitewash a little.”rnrnTom considered, was about to consent; but he altered his mind:rnrn“No—no—I reckon it wouldn’t hardly do, Ben. You see, Aunt Polly’s awfulrnparticular about this fence—right here on the street, you know—but if itrnwas the back fence I wouldn’t mind and _she_ wouldn’t. Yes, she’s awfulrnparticular about this fence; it’s got to be done very careful; I reckonrnthere ain’t one boy in a thousand, maybe two thousand, that can do itrnthe way it’s got to be done.”rnrn“No—is that so? Oh come, now—lemme just try. Only just a little—I’d letrn_you_, if you was me, Tom.”rnrn“Ben, I’d like to, honest injun; but Aunt Polly—well, Jim wanted to dornit, but she wouldn’t let him; Sid wanted to do it, and she wouldn’t letrnSid. Now don’t you see how I’m fixed? If you was to tackle this fencernand anything was to happen to it—”rnrn“Oh, shucks, I’ll be just as careful. Now lemme try. Say—I’ll give yournthe core of my apple.”rnrn“Well, here—No, Ben, now don’t. I’m afeard—”rnrn“I’ll give you _all_ of it!”rnrnTom gave up the brush with reluctance in his face, but alacrity in hisrnheart. And while the late steamer Big Missouri worked and sweated in thernsun, the retired artist sat on a barrel in the shade close by,rndangled his legs, munched his apple, and planned the slaughter of morerninnocents. There was no lack of material; boys happened along everyrnlittle while; they came to jeer, but remained to whitewash. By the timernBen was fagged out, Tom had traded the next chance to Billy Fisher forrna kite, in good repair; and when he played out, Johnny Miller bought inrnfor a dead rat and a string to swing it with—and so on, and so on, hourrnafter hour. And when the middle of the afternoon came, from being arnpoor poverty-stricken boy in the morning, Tom was literally rolling inrnwealth. He had besides the things before mentioned, twelve marbles, partrnof a jews-harp, a piece of blue bottle-glass to look through, a spoolrncannon, a key that wouldn’t unlock anything, a fragment of chalk, arnglass stopper of a decanter, a tin soldier, a couple of tadpoles,rnsix fire-crackers, a kitten with only one eye, a brass door-knob, arndog-collar—but no dog—the handle of a knife, four pieces of orange-peel,rnand a dilapidated old window sash.rnrnHe had had a nice, good, idle time all the while—plenty of company—andrnthe fence had three coats of whitewash on it! If he hadn’t run out ofrnwhitewash he would have bankrupted every boy in the village.rnrnTom said to himself that it was not such a hollow world, after all. Hernhad discovered a great law of human action, without knowing it—namely,rnthat in order to make a man or a boy covet a thing, it is only necessaryrnto make the thing difficult to attain. If he had been a great andrnwise philosopher, like the writer of this book, he would now haverncomprehended that Work consists of whatever a body is _obliged_ to do,rnand that Play consists of whatever a body is not obliged to do. Andrnthis would help him to understand why constructing artificial flowers orrnperforming on a tread-mill is work, while rolling ten-pins or climbingrnMont Blanc is only amusement. There are wealthy gentlemen in Englandrnwho drive four-horse passenger-coaches twenty or thirty miles on arndaily line, in the summer, because the privilege costs them considerablernmoney; but if they were offered wages for the service, that would turnrnit into work and then they would resign.rnrnThe boy mused awhile over the substantial change which had taken placernin his worldly circumstances, and then wended toward headquarters tornreport.