Another and another day
went by; then there was a report got around that praps
he was murdered. You bet it made a big stir! Every-
body's tongue was clacking away after that. Saturday
two or three gangs turned out and hunted the woods to
see if they could run across his remainders. Me and
Tom helped, and it was noble good times and exciting.
Tom he was so brimful of it he couldn't eat nor rest.
He said if we could find that corpse we would be
celebrated, and more talked about than if we got
drownded.
The others got tired and give it up; but not Tom
Sawyer -- that warn't his style. Saturday night he
didn't sleep any, hardly, trying to think up a plan;
and towards daylight in the morning he struck it. He
snaked me out of bed and was all excited, and says:
"Quick, Huck, snatch on your clothes -- I've got
it! Bloodhound!"
In two minutes we was tearing up the river road in
the dark towards the village. Old Jeff Hooker had a
bloodhound, and Tom was going to borrow him. I
says:
"The trail's too old, Tom -- and besides, it's rained,
you know."
"It don't make any difference, Huck. If the body's
hid in the woods anywhere around the hound will find
it. If he's been murdered and buried, they wouldn't
bury him deep, it ain't likely, and if the dog goes over
the spot he'll scent him, sure. Huck, we're going to
be celebrated, sure as you're born!"
He was just a-blazing; and whenever he got afire he
was most likely to get afire all over.
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