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may be bullier circuses than what that one was, but I never struck them

yet. Anyways, it was plenty good enough for ME; and wherever I run across

it, it can have all of MY custom every time.

Well, that night we had OUR show; but there warn't only about twelve

people there--just enough to pay expenses. And they laughed all the

time, and that made the duke mad; and everybody left, anyway, before the

show was over, but one boy which was asleep. So the duke said these

Arkansaw lunkheads couldn't come up to Shakespeare; what they wanted was

low comedy--and maybe something ruther worse than low comedy, he

reckoned. He said he could size their style. So next morning he got

some big sheets of wrapping paper and some black paint, and drawed off

some handbills, and stuck them up all over the village. The bills said:

AT THE COURT HOUSE! FOR 3 NIGHTS ONLY!

The World-Renowned Tragedians

DAVID GARRICK THE YOUNGER!

AND EDMUND KEAN THE ELDER!

Of the London and

Continental Theatres,

In their Thrilling Tragedy of

THE KING'S CAMELEOPARD,

OR THE ROYAL NONESUCH ! ! !

Admission 50 cents.

Then at the bottom was the biggest line of all, which said:

LADIES AND CHILDREN NOT ADMITTED.

"There," says he, "if that line don't fetch them, I don't know Arkansaw!"

CHAPTER XXIII.

WELL, all day him and the king was hard at it, rigging up a stage and a

curtain and a row of candles for footlights; and that night the house was

jam full of men in no time. When the place couldn't hold no more, the

duke he quit tending door and went around the back way and come on to the

stage and stood up before the curtain and made a little speech, and

praised up this tragedy, and said it was the most thrillingest one that

ever was; and so he went on a-bragging about the tragedy, and about

Edmund Kean the Elder, which was to play the main principal part in it;

and at last when he'd got everybody's expectations up high enough, he

rolled up the curtain, and the next minute the king come a-prancing out

on all fours, naked; and he was painted all over, ring-streaked-and-

striped, all sorts of colors, as splendid as a rainbow. And--but never

mind the rest of his outfit; it was just wild, but it was awful funny.

The people most killed themselves laughing; and when the king got done

capering and capered off behind the scenes, they roared and clapped and

stormed and haw-hawed till he come back and done it over again, and after

that they made him do it another time. Well, it would make a cow laugh to

see the shines that old idiot cut.

Then the duke he lets the curtain down, and bows to the people, and says

the great tragedy will be performed only two nights more, on accounts of

pressing London engagements, where the seats is all sold already for it

in Drury Lane; and then he makes them another bow, and says if he has

succeeded in pleasing them and instructing them, he will be deeply

obleeged if they will mention it to their friends and get them to come

and see it.

Twenty people sings out:

"What, is it over? Is that ALL?"

The duke says yes. Then there was a fine time. Everybody sings out,

"Sold!" and rose up mad, and was a-going for that stage and them

tragedians. But a big, fine looking man jumps up on a bench and shouts:

"Hold on! Just a word, gentlemen." They stopped to listen. "We are

sold--mighty badly sold. But we don't want to be the laughing stock of

this whole town, I reckon, and never hear the last of this thing as long

as we live. NO. What we want is to go out of here quiet, and talk this

show up, and sell the REST of the town! Then we'll all be in the same

boat. Ain't that sensible?" ("You bet it is!--the jedge is right!"

everybody sings out.) "All right, then--not a word about any sell. Go

along home, and advise everybody to come and see the tragedy."

Next day you couldn't hear nothing around that town but how splendid that

show was. House was jammed again that night, and we sold this crowd the

same way. When me and the king and the duke got home to the raft we all

had a supper; and by and by, about midnight, they made Jim and me back

her out and float her down the middle of the river, and fetch her in and

hide her about two mile below town.

The third night the house was crammed again--and they warn't new-comers

this time, but people that was at the show the other two nights. I stood

by the duke at the door, and I see that every man that went in had his

pockets bulging, or something muffled up under his coat--and I see it

warn't no perfumery, neither, not by a long sight. I smelt sickly eggs

by the barrel, and rotten cabbages, and such things; and if I know the

signs of a dead cat being around, and I bet I do, there was sixty-four of

them went in. I shoved in there for a minute, but it was too various for

me; I couldn't stand it. Well, when the place couldn't hold no more

people the duke he give a fellow a quarter and told him to tend door for

him a minute, and then he started around for the stage door, I after him;

but the minute we turned the corner and was in the dark he says:

"Walk fast now till you get away from the houses, and then shin for the

raft like the dickens was after you!"

I done it, and he done the same. We struck the raft at the same time,

and in less than two seconds we was gliding down stream, all dark and

still, and edging towards the middle of the river, nobody saying a word.

I reckoned the poor king was in for a gaudy time of it with the audience,

but nothing of the sort; pretty soon he crawls out from under the wigwam,

and says:

"Well, how'd the old thing pan out this time, duke?" He hadn't been

up-town at all.

We never showed a light till we was about ten mile below the village.

Then we lit up and had a supper, and the king and the duke fairly laughed

their bones loose over the way they'd served them people. The duke says:

"Greenhorns, flatheads! I knew the first house would keep mum and let

the rest of the town get roped in; and I knew they'd lay for us the third

night, and consider it was THEIR turn now. Well, it IS their turn, and

I'd give something to know how much they'd take for it. I WOULD just

like to know how they're putting in their opportunity. They can turn it

into a picnic if they want to--they brought plenty provisions."

Them rapscallions took in four hundred and sixty-five dollars in that

three nights. I never see money hauled in by the wagon-load like that

before. By and by, when they was asleep and snoring, Jim says:

"Don't it s'prise you de way dem kings carries on, Huck?"

"No," I says, "it don't."

"Why don't it, Huck?"

"Well, it don't, because it's in the breed. I reckon they're all alike,"

"But, Huck, dese kings o' ourn is reglar rapscallions; dat's jist what

dey is; dey's reglar rapscallions."

"Well, that's what I'm a-saying; all kings is mostly rapscallions, as fur

as I can make out."

"Is dat so?"

"You read about them once--you'll see. Look at Henry the Eight; this 'n

's a Sunday-school Superintendent to HIM. And look at Charles Second,

and Louis Fourteen, and Louis Fifteen, and James Second, and Edward

Second, and Richard Third, and forty more; besides all them Saxon

heptarchies that used to rip around so in old times and raise Cain. My,

you ought to seen old Henry the Eight when he was in bloom. He WAS a

blossom. He used to marry a new wife every day, and chop off her head

next morning. And he would do it just as indifferent as if he was

ordering up eggs. 'Fetch up Nell Gwynn,' he says. They fetch her up.

Next morning, 'Chop off her head!' And they chop it off. 'Fetch up Jane

Shore,' he says; and up she comes, Next morning, 'Chop off her head'--and

they chop it off. 'Ring up Fair Rosamun.' Fair Rosamun answers the

bell. Next morning, 'Chop off her head.' And he made every one of them

tell him a tale every night; and he kept that up till he had hogged a

thousand and one tales that way, and then he put them all in a book, and

called it Domesday Book--which was a good name and stated the case. You

don't know kings, Jim, but I know them; and this old rip of ourn is one

of the cleanest I've struck in history. Well, Henry he takes a notion he

wants to get up some trouble with this country. How does he go at it

--give notice?--give the country a show? No. All of a sudden he heaves

all the tea in Boston Harbor overboard, and whacks out a declaration of

independence, and dares them to come on. That was HIS style--he never

give anybody a chance. He had suspicions of his father, the Duke of

Wellington. Well, what did he do? Ask him to show up? No--drownded

him in a butt of mamsey, like a cat. S'pose people left money laying

around where he was--what did he do? He collared it. S'pose he

contracted to do a thing, and you paid him, and didn't set down there and

see that he done it--what did he do? He always done the other thing.

S'pose he opened his mouth--what then? If he didn't shut it up powerful

quick he'd lose a lie every time. That's the kind of a bug Henry was;

and if we'd a had him along 'stead of our kings he'd a fooled that town a

heap worse than ourn done. I don't say that ourn is lambs, because they

ain't, when you come right down to the cold facts; but they ain't nothing

to THAT old ram, anyway. All I say is, kings is kings, and you got to

make allowances. Take them all around, they're a mighty ornery lot.

It's the way they're raised."

"But dis one do SMELL so like de nation, Huck."

"Well, they all do, Jim. We can't help the way a king smells; history

don't tell no way."

"Now de duke, he's a tolerble likely man in some ways."

"Yes, a duke's different. But not very different. This one's a middling

hard lot for a duke. When he's drunk there ain't no near-sighted man

could tell him from a king."

"Well, anyways, I doan' hanker for no mo' un um, Huck. Dese is all I kin

stan'."

"It's the way I feel, too, Jim. But we've got them on our hands, and we

got to remember what they are, and make allowances. Sometimes I wish we

could hear of a country that's out of kings."

What was the use to tell Jim these warn't real kings and dukes? It

wouldn't a done no good; and, besides, it was just as I said: you

couldn't tell them from the real kind.

I went to sleep, and Jim didn't call me when it was my turn. He often

done that. When I waked up just at daybreak he was sitting there with

his head down betwixt his knees, moaning and mourning to himself. I

didn't take notice nor let on. I knowed what it was about. He was

thinking about his wife and his children, away up yonder, and he was low

and homesick; because he hadn't ever been away from home before in his

life; and I do believe he cared just as much for his people as white

folks does for their'n. It don't seem natural, but I reckon it's so. He

was often moaning and mourning that way nights, when he judged I was

asleep, and saying, "Po' little 'Lizabeth! po' little Johnny! it's mighty

hard; I spec' I ain't ever gwyne to see you no mo', no mo'!" He was a

mighty good nigger, Jim was.

But this time I somehow got to talking to him about his wife and young

ones; and by and by he says:

"What makes me feel so bad dis time 'uz bekase I hear sumpn over yonder

on de bank like a whack, er a slam, while ago, en it mine me er de time I

treat my little 'Lizabeth so ornery. She warn't on'y 'bout fo' year ole,

en she tuck de sk'yarlet fever, en had a powful rough spell; but she got

well, en one day she was a-stannin' aroun', en I says to her, I says:

"'Shet de do'.'

"She never done it; jis' stood dah, kiner smilin' up at me. It make me

mad; en I says agin, mighty loud, I says:

"'Doan' you hear me? Shet de do'!'

"She jis stood de same way, kiner smilin' up. I was a-bilin'! I says:

"'I lay I MAKE you mine!'

"En wid dat I fetch' her a slap side de head dat sont her a-sprawlin'.

Den I went into de yuther room, en 'uz gone 'bout ten minutes; en when I

come back dah was dat do' a-stannin' open YIT, en dat chile stannin' mos'

right in it, a-lookin' down and mournin', en de tears runnin' down. My,

but I WUZ mad! I was a-gwyne for de chile, but jis' den--it was a do'

dat open innerds--jis' den, 'long come de wind en slam it to, behine de

chile, ker-BLAM!--en my lan', de chile never move'! My breff mos' hop

outer me; en I feel so--so--I doan' know HOW I feel. I crope out, all

a-tremblin', en crope aroun' en open de do' easy en slow, en poke my head

in behine de chile, sof' en still, en all uv a sudden I says POW! jis' as

loud as I could yell. SHE NEVER BUDGE! Oh, Huck, I bust out a-cryin' en

grab her up in my arms, en say, 'Oh, de po' little thing! De Lord God

Amighty fogive po' ole Jim, kaze he never gwyne to fogive hisself as

long's he live!' Oh, she was plumb deef en dumb, Huck, plumb deef en

dumb--en I'd ben a-treat'n her so!"

CHAPTER XXIV.

NEXT day, towards night, we laid up under a little willow towhead out in

the middle, where there was a village on each side of the river, and the

duke and the king begun to lay out a plan for working them towns. Jim he

spoke to the duke, and said he hoped it wouldn't take but a few hours,