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03 - The Adventures of Tom Sawyer - Mark Twain · Adventure Books Collection

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Chapter five, The pinch Bug and his Prey. About half past ten,
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the cracked bell of the small church began to ring, and presently the people
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began to gather for the morning sermon. The Sunday school children distributed themselves about
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the house and occupied pews with their parents, so as to be under supervision.
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Aunt Polly came and Tom and Sid and Mary sat with her, Tom
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being placed next to the isle in order that he might be as far away
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from the open window and the seductive outside summer scenes as possible. The crowd
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filed up the isles. The aged and needy postmaster, who had seen better
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days. The Mayor and his wife, for they had a mayor there,
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among other unnecessaries, the Justice of the Peace, the widow Douglas Fair,
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smart and forty, a generous, good hearted soul, and well to do.
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Her Hill mansion, the only palace in the town, and the most
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hospitable, and much the most lavish in the matter of festivities that Saint Petersburg
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could boast. The bent and venerable Major and Missus Ward Lawyer Riverson, they
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knew notable from a distance. Next the bell of the village, followed by
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a troop of lawn clad and ribbon decked young heartbreakers. Then all the young
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clerks in town in a body, for they had stood in the vestibules,
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sucking their cane heads, a circling wall of oiled and simpering admirers, till
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the last girl had run their gamplet. And last of all came the model
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boy, Willie Mufferson, taking as heedful care of his mother as if she
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were cut glass. He always brought his mother to church and was the pride
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of all the matrons. The boys all hated him. He was no good,
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and besides he had been thrown up to them so much. His white
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handkerchief was hanging out of his pocket behind as usual on Sundays. Accidentally,
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Tom had no handkerchief, and he looked upon boys who had as snobs.
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The congregation being fully assembled now, the bell rang once more to worn laggards
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and stragglers, and then a solemn hush fell upon the church, which was
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only broken by the tittering and whispering of the choir in the gallery. The
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choir ally was tittered and whispered all through service. There was once a church
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choir that was not ill bred, but I have forgotten where it was now.
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It was a great many years ago, and I can scarcely remember anything
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about it, but I think it was in some foreign country. The minister
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gave out the hymn and read it through with a relish in a peculiar style
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which was much admired in that part of the country. His voice began on
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a medium key and climbed steadily up till it reached a certain point where it
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bore with strong emphasis upon the topmost word, and then plunged down, as
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if from a spring board. Shall I be carry to tow the skies on
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flowery beds of ease, whilst others fight to win the prize and sail through
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bloody seas. He was regarded as a wonderful reader at church sociables. He
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was always called upon to read poetry, and when he was through, the
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ladies would lift up their hands and let them fall helplessly in their laps,
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and wall their eyes and shake their heads as much as to say, words
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cannot express it. It is too beautiful, too beautiful for this mortal earth.
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After the hymn had been sung, the Reverend mister Sprague turned himself into
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a bulletin board and read off notices of meetings and societies and things, till
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it seemed that the list would stretch out to the crack of doom, a
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queer custom which is still kept up in America, even in cities away here
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in this age of abundant newspapers. Often the less there is to justify a
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traditional custom, the harder it is to get rid of it. And now
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the minister prayed a good, generous prayer it was, and went into details.
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It pleaded for the church and the little children of the church, for
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the other churches of the village, for the village itself, for the county,
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for the state, for the state officers, for the United States,
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for the churches of the United States, for Congress, for the President,
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for the officers of the government. For poor sailors tossed by stormy seas,
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for the oppressed millions groaning under the heel of European monarchies and Oriental despotisms,
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For such as have the light and the good tidings, and yet have not
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eyes to see nor ears to hear withal, for the heathen in the far
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islands of the sea, and closed to the supplication that the words he was
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about to speak might find grace and favor, and be as seeds sown in
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fertile ground, yielding in time a grateful harvest of good ah Men. There
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was a rustling of dresses, and the standing congregation sat down. The boy
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whose history this book relates did not enjoy the prayer. He only endured it.
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If he even did that much. He was restive all through it.
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He kept tally of the details of the prayer unconsciously, for he was not
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listening. But he knew the ground of old and the clergyman's regular root over
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it. And when a little trifle of new matter was interlarded, his ear
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detected it, and his whole nature resented it. He considered editions unfair and
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scoundrelly. In the midst of the prayer, a fly had lit on the
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back of the pew in front of him, and tortured his spirit by calmly
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rubbing its hands together, embracing its head with its arms, and polishing it
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so vigorously that it seemed to almost part company with a body, and the
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slender thread of a neck was exposed to view, scraping its wings with its
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hind legs and smoothing them to its body as if they had been coat going
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through its whole toilet as tranquility, as if it knew it was perfectly safe,
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as indeed it was. For as sorely as Tom's hands itched to grab
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for it, they did not dare. He believed his soul would be instantly
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destroyed if he did such a thing. While the prayer was going on,
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But with the closing sentence, his hand began to curve and steal forward,
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and the instant the amen was out, the fly was a prisoner of war.
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His aunt detected the act and made him let it go. The minister
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gave out his text and droned along monotonously through an argument that was so prosy
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that many a head by and by began to nod. And yet it was
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an argument that dealt in limitless fire and brimstone, and thin the predestined elect
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down to a company so small as to be hardly worth the saving. Tom
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counted the pages of the sermon after church. He always knew how many pages
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there had been, but he seldom knew anything else about the discourse. However,
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this time he was really interested. For a little while, the minister
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made a grand and moving picture of the assembling together of the world's hosts at
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the millennium, when the lion and the lamb should lie down together, and
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a little child should lead them. But the pathos, the lesson, the
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moral of the great spectacle were lost upon the boy. He only thought of
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the conspicuousness of the principal character before the onlooking nations. His face lit with
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the thought, and he said to himself that he wished he could be that
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child, if it was a tame lion. Now he lapsed into suffering again,
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as the dry argument was resumed. Presently, he bethought him of a
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treasure he had and got it out. It was a large black beetle with
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formidable jaws, a pinch bug, he called it. It was in a
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percussion cap box. The first thing the beadle did was to take him by
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the finger. A natural philip followed. The beetle went floundering into the aisle
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and lit on its back, and the hurt finger went into the boy's mouth.
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The beadle lay there, working its helpless legs, unable to turn over.
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Tom eyed it and longed for it, but it was safe out of
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his reach. Other people, uninterested in the sermon, found relief in the
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beetle, and they eyed it too. Presently, a vagrant poodle dog came
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idling, long, sad at heart, lazy with the summer softness and the
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quiet, weary of captivity. Sighing for change, he spied the beetle.
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The drooping tail lifted and wagged. He surveyed the prize, walked around it,
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smelt at it from a safe distance, walked around it again, grew
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bolder and took a closer smell. Then lifted his lip and made a gingerly
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snatch at it, just missing it. Made another, and another began to
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enjoy the diversion. Subsided to his stomach with the beetle between his paws,
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and continued his experiments. Grew weary at last, and then indifferent and absent
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minded. His head nodded, and little by little his chin descended and touched
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the enemy, who seized it. There was a sharp yelp, a flirt
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of the poodle's head, and the beetle fell a couple of yards away and
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lit on its back once more. The neighboring spectators shook with a gentle inward
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joy. Several faces went behind fans and handkerchiefs, and Tom was entirely happy.
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The dog looked foolish and probably felt so, But there was resentment in
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his heart too, and a craving for revenge. So he went to the
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beetle and began a wary attack on it again, jumping at it from every
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point of a circle, lighting with his fore paws within an inch of the
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creature, making even closer, snatches at it with his teeth, and jerking
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his head till his ears flapped again. But he grew tired once more.
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After a while, tried to amuse himself with a fly, but found no
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relief. Followed an ant around with his nose close to the floor, and
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quickly wearied of that, yawned, sighed, forgot the beetle entirely, and
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sat down on it. Then there was a wild yelp of agony, and
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the poodle went sailing up the aisle. The alps continued, and so did
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the dog. He crossed the house in front of the altar, he flew
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down in the other aisle, he crossed before the doors. He clambered up
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the home stretch. His anguish grew with his progress, till presently he was
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but a wooly comet moving in its orbit. With a gleam and the speed
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of light. At last, the frantic sufferer sheered from its course and sprang
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into its master's lap. He flung it out of the window, and the
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voice of distress quickly thinned away and died in the distance. By this time
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the whole church was red faced and suffocating with suppressed laughter, and the sermon
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had come to a dead standstill. The discourse was resumed presently, but it
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went lame and halting, all possibility of impressiveness being at an end, for
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even the gravest sentiments were constantly being received with a smothered burst of unholy mirth
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under cover of some remote pewback, as if the poor parson had said a
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rarely facetious thing. It was a genuine relief to the whole congregation. When
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the ordeal was over and the benediction pronounced, Tom Sawyer went home quite cheerful,
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thinking to himself that there was some satisfaction about divine service when there was
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a bit of variety in it. He had but one marring thought. He
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was willing that the dog should play with his pinch bug, but he did
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not think it was upright in him to carry it off. Chapter six,
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Tom meets Becky. Monday morning found Tom Sawyer miserable. Monday morning always found
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him so because it began another week slow suffering in school. He generally began
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that day with wishing he had had no intervening holiday. It made the going
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into captivity in fetters again so much more odious. Tom lay thinking presently.
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It occurred to him that he wished he was sick. Then he could stay
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home from school. Here was a vague possibility he canvassed his system. No
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ailment was found, and he investigated again. This time he thought he could
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detect colicky symptoms, and he began to incur courage them with considerable hope.
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But they soon grew feeble and presently died wholly away, he reflected further.
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Suddenly he discovered something. One of his upper front teeth was loose. This
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was lucky. He was about to begin to groan as a starter, as
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he called it, when it occurred to him that if he came into court
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with that argument, his aunt would pull it out and that would hurt.
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So he thought he would hold a tooth and reserve for the present and seek
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further. Nothing offered for some little time, and then he remembered hearing the
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doctor tell about a certain thing that laid up a patient for two or three
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weeks and threatened to make him lose a finger. So the boy eagerly drew
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his sore toe from under the sheet and held it up for inspection. But
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now he did not know the necessary symptoms. However, it seemed well worth
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while to chance it, so he fell to groaning with considerable spirit. But
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Sid slept on unconscious. Tom groaned louder and fancied that he began to feel
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pain in the toe. No result from syd. Tom was panting with his
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exertions. By this time. He took a rest and then swelled himself up
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and fetched a succession of admirable groans. Sid snored on. Tom was aggravated,
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He said Sid, Sid and shook him. This course worked well,
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and Tom began to groan again. Sid yawned, stretched, then brought himself
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up on his elbow with a snort, and began to stare at Tom.
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Tom went on groaning, and Sid said Tom, say Tom, no response
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here, Tom, Tom, What is the matter? Tom? And he
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shook him and looked in his face anxiously. Tom moaned out, Oh,
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don't Sid don't joggle me. Why what's the matter, Tom? I must
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call Auntie. No, never mind, it'll be over by and by maybe,
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don't call anybody, but I must. Don't groan, So, Tom,
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it's awful how long you've been this way? Ours? Oh? Oh
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haw, don't stir so, Sid, you'll you'll kill me? Tom?
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Why didn't you wake me sooner? Oh? Tom? Don't? It makes
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my flesh crawl to hear you, Tom? What is the matter? I
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forgive you everything, Sid, h, everything you've ever done to me when
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I'm gone, Tom, don't you ain't dying? Are you? Don't?
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Tom? Oh? Don't? Maybe? Oh? I forgive everything Sid?
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No tell him? So, Sid? And Sid you give my window sash
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and my cat with one eye to that new girl that's come to town,
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and tell her. But Sid had snatched his clothes and gone. Tom was
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suffering in reality now, so handsomely was his imagination working, and so his
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groans had gathered quite a genuine tone. Sid flew downstairs and said, oh,
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aunt Polly, come, Tom's dying, dying, yes, and don't
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wait, come quick, rubbish. I don't believe it. But she fled
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upstairs, never the less with Sid and Mary at her heels, and her
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face grew white too, and her lip trembled. When she reached the bedside,
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she gasped out you, Tom, Tom, what's the matter with you?
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Oh Auntie? I'm what's the matter with you? What is the matter
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with you? Child? Oh Auntie, my sore toes. Mortified, the
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old lady sank down into a chair and laughed a little, then cried little,
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then did both together. This restored her, and she said, Tom,
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what a turn you did give me. Now you shut up that nonsense
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and climb out of this. The groan ceased, and the pain vanished from
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the toe. The boy felt a little foolish, and he said, Aunt
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Polly, it seemed mortified, and it hurts so I never minded my tooth
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at all. Your tooth, indeed, what's the matter with your tooth?
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One of them's loose, and it aches perfectly awful there there. Now,
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don't begin that groaning again, open your mouth. Well, your tooth is
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loose, but you're not going to die about that. Mary, get me
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a silk thread and a chunk of fire out of the kitchen. Tom said,
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oh, please, Auntie, don't pull it out. It don't hurt
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any more. I wish I may never stir. If it does, please
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don't Auntie. I don't want to stay home from school. Oh you don't,
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don't you? So? All this raw was because you thought you'd get
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to stay home from school and go a fishing Tom, Tom, I love
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you so, and you seem to try every way you can to break my
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old heart with your outrageousness. By this time the dental instruments were ready.
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The old lady made one end of the silk thread fast to Tom's tooth with
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a loop, and tied the other to the bedpost. Then she seized the
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chunk of fire and suddenly thrust it almost into the boy's face. The tooth
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hung dangling by the bed post now, but all trials bring their compensations.
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As Tom went into school after breakfast, he was the envy of every boy
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he met, because the gap in his upper row of teeth enabled him to
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expectorate in a new and admirable way. Gathered quite a following of lads interested
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in the exhibition, and one that had cut his finger and had been a
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center of fascination and homage up to this time, now found himself suddenly without
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an adherent and shorn of his glory. His heart was heavy, and he
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said, with a disdain which he did not feel, that it wasn't anything
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to spit like Tom Sawyer. But another boy said, sour grapes, and
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he wandered away, a dismantled hero. Shortly Tom came upon the juvenile pariah
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of the village, Huckleberry Finn, son of the town Drunkard. Huckleberry was
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cordially hated and dreaded by all the mothers of the town because he was idle
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and lawless, and vulgar and bad, and because all their children admired him
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so and delighted in his forbidden society, and wished they dared to be like
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him. Tom was like the rest of the respectable boys in that he envied
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Huckleberry his gaudy, outcast condition, and was under strict orders not to play
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with him, so he played with him every time he got a chance.
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Huckleberry was always dressed in the cast off clothes of full grown men, and
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they were in perennial bloom and fluttering with rags. His hat was a vast
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ruin with a wide crescent lopped out of its brim. His coat, when
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he wore one, hung nearly to his heels, and had the rearward buttons
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far down the back. But one suspender supported his trousers. The seat of
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the trousers bagged low and contained nothing. The fringed legs dragged in the dirt
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when not rolled up. Huckleberry came and went at his own free will.
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He slept on doorsteps in fine weather and in empty hogsheads and wet. He
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did not have to go to school or to church, or call any being
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master, or obey anybody. He could go fishing or swimming when and where
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he chose, and stay as long as it suited him. Nobody forbade him
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to fight. He could sit up as late as he pleased. He was
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always the first boy that went barefoot in the spring, and the last to
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resume leather in the fall. He never had to wash nor put on clean
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clothes. He could swear wonderfully in a word, everything that goes to make
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life precious. That boy had so thought every harassed, hampered, respectable boy
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in Saint Petersburg. Tom hailed a romantic outcast. Hello, Huckleberry, hello
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yourself, and see how you like it? What's that you got? Dead
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cat? Let me see him huck, My, he's pretty stiff. Where'd
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you get him? Bought him off in a boy? What'd you give?
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I gave a blue ticket and a bladder that I got at the slaughter house?
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Where'd you get the blue ticket? Bought it off in Ben Rogers two
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weeks ago for a hoopstick? Say? What is dead? Cat's good for?
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Huck? Good for cure warts? With? No? Is that?
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So? I know something that's better? I bet you don't. What is
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it? Why? Spunk water? Spunk water? I wouldn't give a dern
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for spunk water. You wouldn't, wouldn't you? Do you ever try it?
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No? I hain't. But Bob Tanner did? Who told you so?
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Why? He told Jeff Thatcher, and Jeff told Johnny Baker, and
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Johnny told Jim Hollis, and Jim told Ben Rogers, and Ben told a
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nigger and the nigger told me there. Now, well, what of it?
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They'll all lie least? Why is all but the nigger? I don't
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know him, but I never see a nigger that wouldn't lie. Shucks.
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Now you tell me how Bob Tanner done it, Huck? Why he took
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and dipped his hand in a rotten stump where the rain water was in the
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daytime, certainly with his face to the stump. Yes, at least,
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I reckon. So did he say anything? I don't reckon he did.
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I don't know, ah, talk about trying to cure wartz with spunk water
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in such a blame fool way as that, Why that ain't it going to
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do any good? You got to go all by yourself to the middle of
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the woods where you know there's a spunk water stump, and just as it's
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midnight, you back up against the stump and jam your hand in and say,
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barleycorn, barley corn, engine, meal shorts, spunk water, spunk
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water, swallow these warts, and then walk away quick, eleven steps with
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your eyes shut, and then turn around three times and walk home without speaking
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to anybody, because if you speak, the charm's busted. Well that sounds
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like a good way. But that ain't the way Bob Tanner done, No,
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sir, You can bet he didn't, because he's the wartiest boy in
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this town, and he wouldn't have a wart on him if he'd known how
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to work spunk water. I've took thousands of warts off my hands that way,
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huck. I play with frogs so much. I've always got considerable many
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warts. Sometimes I take him off with a bean. Yes, bean's good,
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I've done that, have you? What's your way? You take and
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split the bean and cut the warts so as to get some blood. And
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then you put the blood on one piece of the bean and take and dig
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a hole and bury it about midnight at the crossroads, in the dark of
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the moon, and then you burn up the rest of the bean. You
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see that piece that's got the blood on it will keep drawing and drawing,
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trying to fetch the other piece to it, and so that helps the blood
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to draw the wart, and pretty soon off she comes. Yes, that's
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it, Huck, that's it. Though, when you're burying it, if
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you say down, bean, off, wart, come, no more to
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bother me, it's better. That's the way Joe Harper does. And he's
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been nearly to Coonville and most everywheres. But say, how do you cure
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him with dead cats? Why you take your cat and go and get in
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the graveyard long about midnight when somebody that was wicked has been buried. And
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when it's midnight, a devil will come, or maybe two or three.
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But you can't see him. You can only hear something like the wind,
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or maybe hear him talk. And when they're taking that feller away, you
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heave your cat after him and say, devil follow, corpse cat follow,
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devil, warts follow cat. I'm done with you. That'll fetch any wart.
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Sounds right? Do you ever try it, Huck? No, but
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old mother Hopkins told me, well, I reckon it. So then,
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because they say she's a witch, say why Tom, I know she is?
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She witched Pap? Pap says, so his own self. He come
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along one day and he sees she was a witching him. So he took
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up a rock, and if she hadn't dodged, he'd have got her.
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Well, that very night he rolled off on the shed where he was a
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laying drunk and broke his arm. Why that's awful. How do you know
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she was a witching him? Lord Pap can tell easy, Pap says,
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when they keep looking at you right, stiddy, they're witching you, especially
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if they mumble, because when they mumble, they're saying the Lord's prayer backwards.
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Say Hockey, when you going to try the cat tonight? I reckon
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they'll come after old Hoss. Williams tonight. But they buried him Saturday.
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Didn't they get him Saturday night? Why how you talk? How could their
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charms work till midnight? And then it's Sunday? Devils don't slush round much
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of a Sunday. I don't reckon. I never thought of that. That's
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so let me go with you. Of course, if you ain't a feared,
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A feared tain't likely. Will you meow? Yes? And you meow
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back if you get a chance. Last time you kept me a meowing around
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till Old Hayes went to throwing rocks at me and says, daring that cat.
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And so I hove a brick through his window. But don't you tell
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I won't. I couldn't meow that night because Auntie was watching me. But
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I'll meow this time. Say what's that? Nothing but a tick? Where'd
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you get him out in the woods? What'll you take for him? I
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don't know. I don't want to sell him all right. It's a mighty
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small tick anyway. Oh, anybody can run a tick down that don't belong
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to them. I'm satisfied with it. It's a good enough tick for me.
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Soho, there's ticks of plenty. I could have a thousand of them
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if I wanted to, Well, why don't you, because you know mighty
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well you can't. This is a pretty early tick, I reckon, It's
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first one i've seen this year. Say Hawk, I'll give you my tooth
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for him. Let's see it. Tom got out a bit of paper and
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carefully unrolled it. Huckleberry viewed it wistfully. The temptation was very strong.
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At last, he said, is it genuine? Tom lifted his lip and
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showed the vacancy. Well, all right, said Huckleberry. It's a trade.
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Tom enclosed the tick in the percussion cat box that had lately been the
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pinch Bug's prison, and the boys separated, each feeling wealthier than before.
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When Tom reached the little isolated frame schoolhouse, he strode in briskly, with
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the manner of one who had come with all honest speed. He hung his
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hat on a peg and flung himself into his seat with business like alacrity.
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The master, throned on high in his great splint bottom arm chair, was
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dozing, lulled by the drowsy hum of study. The interruption roused him.
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Tomas sawyer. Tom knew that when his name was pronounced in full. It
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meant trouble, sir. Come up here now, sir, Why are you
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late again? As usual? Tom was about to take refuge in a lie
26:08
when he saw two long tails of yellow hair hanging down a back that he
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recognized by the electric sympathy of love, and by that form, was the
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only vacant place on the girl's side of the schoolhouse. He instantly said,
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I stop to talk with Huckleberry Finn. The master's pulse stood still, and
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he stared helplessly. The buzz of study ceased. The pupils wondered if this
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foolhardy boy had lost his mind. The master said you you did what?
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Stop to talk with Huckleberry Finn. There was no mistaking the words Thomas Sawyer.
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This is the most astounding confession I have ever listened to. No Mere
26:48
Ferrell will answer for this offense. Take off your jacket. The master's arm
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performed until it was tired and the stock of switches notably diminished. Then the
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order follows, Now, sir, go and sit with the girls, and
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let this be a warning to you. The titter that rippled around the room
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appeared to abash the boy, but in reality that result was caused rather more
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by his worshipful awe of his unknown idol and a dread pleasure that lay in
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his high good fortune. He sat down upon the end of the pine bench,
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and the girl hitched herself away from him with a toss of her head.
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Nudges and winks and whispers traversed the room, but Tom sat still,
27:30
with his arms upon the long low desk before him, and seemed to study
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his book. By and by attention ceased from him, and the accustomed school
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murmur rose upon the dull air once more. Presently, the boy began to
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steal furtive glances at the girl. She observed it, made a mouth at
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him, and gave him the back of her head for the space of a
27:49
minute. When she cautiously faced around again, a peach lay before her.
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She thrust it away. Tom gently put it back. She thrust it away
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then, but with less animosity, Tom patiently returned it to its place.
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Then she let it remain. Tom scrawled on his slate, please take it.
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I got more. The girl glanced at the words but made no sign.
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Now the boy began to draw something on the slate, hiding his work
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with his left hand for a time The girl refused to notice, but her
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human curiosity presently began to manifest itself by hardly perceptible signs. The boy worked
28:26
on apparently unconscious. The girl made a sort of noncommittal attempt to see it,
28:32
but the boy did not betray that he was aware of it. At
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last, she gave in and hesitatingly whispered, let me see it. Tom
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uncovered a dismal caricature of a house with two gable ends to it and a
28:45
corkscrew of smoke issuing from the chimney. Then the girl's interest began to fasten
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itself upon the work, as she forgot everything else. When it was finished,
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she gazed a moment, then whispered, it's nice. Make a man.
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The artist wrecked a man in the front yard that resembled a derrick.
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He could have stepped over the house, but the girl was not hypercritical.
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She was satisfied with the monster and whispered, it's a beautiful man. Now
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make me coming along. Tom drew an hour glass with a full moon and
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straw limbs to it and armed the spreading fingers with a portentous fan. The
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girl said, it's ever so nice. I wish I could draw. It's
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easy, whispered Tom. I'll learn you. Oh will you? When at
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noon do you go home to dinner? I'll stay if you will good.
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That's a whack. What's your name, Becky thatcher? What's yours? Oh?
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I know it's Tom as Sawyer. That's the name they lick me by.
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I'm Tom. When I'm good, you can call me Tom, will
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you? Yes? Now? Tom began to scrawl something on the slate,
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hiding the words from the girl, but she was not backward this time.
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She begged to see, and Tom said, oh, it ain't anything,
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Yes it is. No, it ain't you. You don't want to see
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it? Yes, I do, indeed I do. Please let me.
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You'll tell No, I won't deed and deed and double deed, I won't.
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You won't tell anybody at all ever as long as you live. No,
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I won't ever tell anybody. Now let me. Oh, you don't
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want to see now that you treat me? So I will see. And
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she put her small hand upon his, and the little scuffle ensued, Tom
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pretending to resist in earnest, but letting his hand slip by degrees till these
30:26
words were revealed. I love you, Oh you bad thing, and she
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hid his hand a smart rap, but reddened and looked pleased. Nevertheless,
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just at this juncture, the boy felt a slow, fateful grip closing on
30:41
his ear, and a steady lifting impulse. In that vice, he was
30:45
born across the house and deposited in his own seat under a peppering fire of
30:51
giggles from the whole school. Then the master stood over him during a few
30:55
awful moments, and finally moved away to his throne without saying a word.
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But although Tom's ear tingled, his heart was jubilant. As the school quieted
31:04
down, Tom made an honest effort to study, but the turmoil within him
31:10
was too great. In turn, he took his place in the reading class
31:12
and made a botch of it, then in the geography class, and turned
31:17
lakes into mountains, mountains into rivers, and rivers into continents till chaos was
31:22
come again. Then in the spelling class, and got turned down by a
31:26
succession of mere baby words, till he brought up at the foot and yielded
31:30
up the pewter metal which he had worn with ostentation for months. End of chapter six