that.”
“So did I. How can there be a ghost-bag, Tom?”
“Sho! I wouldn’t be as ignorant as that if I was
you, Huck Finn. Whatever a ghost has, turns to ghost-
stuff. They’ve got to have their things, like anybody
else. You see, yourself, that its clothes was turned to
ghost-stuff. Well, then, what’s to hender its bag from
turning, too? Of course it done it.”
That was reasonable. I couldn’t find no fault with
it. Bill Withers and his brother Jack come along by,
talking, and Jack says:
“What do you reckon he was toting?”
“I dunno; but it was pretty heavy.”
“Yes, all he could lug. Nigger stealing corn from
old Parson Silas, I judged.”
“So did I. And so I allowed I wouldn’t let on to
see him.”
“That’s me, too.”
Then they both laughed, and went on out of hearing.
It showed how unpopular old Uncle Silas had got to be
now. They wouldn’t ‘a’ let a nigger steal anybody
else’s corn and never done anything to him.
We heard some more voices mumbling along towards
us and getting louder, and sometimes a cackle of a
laugh. It was Lem Beebe and Jim Lane. Jim Lane
says:
“Who? — Jubiter Dunlap?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I reckon so. I seen him spad-
ing up some ground along about an hour ago, just be-
fore sundown — him and the parson. Said he guessed
he wouldn’t go to-night, but we could have his dog if
we wanted him.”
“Too tired, I reckon.”
“Yes — works so hard!”
“Oh, you bet!”
They cackled at that, and went on by. Tom said we
better jump out and tag along after them, because they
was going our way and it wouldn’t be comfortable to
run across the ghost all by ourselves. So we done it,
and got home all right.
That night was the second of September — a Satur-
day. I sha’n’t ever forget it. You’ll see why, pretty
soon .
CHAPTER VI.
PLANS TO SECURE THE DIAMONDS
WE tramped along behind Jim and Lem till we come
to the back stile where old Jim’s cabin was that
he was captivated in, the time we set him free, and here
come the dogs piling around us to say howdy, and
there was the lights of the house, too; so we warn’t
afeard any more, and was going to climb over, but
Tom says:
“Hold on; set down here a minute. By George!”
“What’s the matter?” says I.
“Matter enough!” he says. “Wasn’t you expect-
ing we would be the first to tell the family who it is
that’s been killed yonder in the sycamores, and all
about them rapscallions that done it, and about the
di’monds they’ve smouched off of the corpse, and paint
it up fine, and have the glory of being the ones that
knows a lot more about it than anybody else?”
“Why, of course. It wouldn’t be you, Tom Sawyer,
if you was to let such a chance go by. I reckon it
ain’t going to suffer none for lack of paint,” I says,
“when you start in to scollop the facts.”
“Well, now,” he says, perfectly ca’m, “what would
you say if I was to tell you I ain’t going to start in at
all?”
I was astonished to hear him talk so. I says:
“I’d say it’s a lie. You ain’t in earnest, Tom
Sawyer?”
“You’ll soon see. Was the ghost barefooted?”
“No, it wasn’t. What of it?”
“You wait — I’ll show you what. Did it have its
boots on?”
“Yes. I seen them plain.”
“Swear it?”
“Yes, I swear it.”
“So do I. Now do you know what that means?”
“No. What does it mean?”
“Means that them thieves DIDN’T GET THE DI’MONDS.”
“Jimminy! What makes you think that?”
“I don’t only think it, I know it. Didn’t the
breeches and goggles and whiskers and hand-bag and
every blessed thing turn to ghost-stuff? Everything it
had on turned, didn’t it? It shows that the reason its
boots turned too was because it still had them on after
it started to go ha’nting around, and if that ain’t proof
that them blatherskites didn’t get the boots, I’d like to