“And then—and then—well I won’t be certain, but it seems like as if you made Sid go and—and—”
“Well? Well? What did I make him do, Tom? What did I make him do?”
“You made him—you—Oh, you made him shut it.”
“Well, for the land’s sake! I never heard the beat of that in all my days! Don’t tell me there ain’t anything in dreams, any more. Sereny Harper shall know of this before I’m an hour older. I’d like to see her get around this with her rubbage ’bout superstition. Go on, Tom!”
“Oh, it’s all getting just as bright as day, now. Next you said I warn’t bad, only mischeevous and harum-scarum, and not any more responsible than—than—I think it was a colt, or something.”
“And so it was! Well, goodness gracious! Go on, Tom!”
“And then you began to cry.”
“So I did. So I did. Not the first time, neither. And then—”
“Then Mrs. Harper she began to cry, and said Joe was just the same, and she wished she hadn’t whipped him for taking cream when she’d throwed it out her own self—”
“Tom! The sperrit was upon you! You was a prophesying—that’s what you was doing! Land alive, go on, Tom!”
“Then Sid he said—he said—”
“I don’t think I said anything,” said Sid.
“Yes you did, Sid,” said Mary.
“Shut your heads and let Tom go on! What did he say, Tom?”
“He said—I think he said he hoped I was better off where I was gone to, but if I’d been better sometimes—”
“There, d’you hear that! It was his very words!”
“And you shut him up sharp.”
“I lay I did! There must ’a’ been an angel there. There was an angel there, somewheres!”
“And Mrs. Harper told about Joe scaring her with a firecracker, and you told about Peter and the Pain-killer—”
“Just as true as I live!”
“And then there was a whole lot of talk ’bout dragging the river for us, and ’bout having the funeral Sunday, and then you and old Miss Harper hugged and cried, and she went.”
“It happened just so! It happened just so, as sure as I’m a-sitting in these very tracks. Tom, you couldn’t told it more like if you’d ’a’ seen it! And then what? Go on, Tom!”
“Then I thought you prayed for me—and I could see you and hear every word you said. And you went to bed, and I was so sorry that I took and wrote on a piece of sycamore bark, ‘We ain’t dead—we are only off being pirates,’ and put it on the table by the candle; and then you looked so good, laying there asleep, that I thought I went and leaned over and kissed you on the lips.”
“Did you, Tom, did you! I just forgive you everything for that!” And she seized the boy in a crushing embrace that made him feel like the guiltiest of villains.
“It was very kind, even though it was only a—dream,” Sid soliloquized just audibly.
“Shut up, Sid! A body does just the same in a dream as he’d do if he was awake. Here’s a big Milum apple I’ve been saving for you, Tom, if you was ever found again—now go ’long to school. I’m thankful to the good God and Father of us all I’ve got you back, that’s long-suffering and merciful to them that believe on Him and keep His word, though goodness knows I’m unworthy of it, but if only the worthy ones got His blessings and had His hand to help them over the rough places, there’s few enough would smile here or ever enter into His rest when the long night comes. Go ’long Sid, Mary, Tom—take yourselves off—you’ve hendered me long enough.”
The children left for school, and the old lady to call on Mrs. Harper and vanquish her realism with Tom’s marvellous dream. Sid had better judgment than to utter the thought that was in his mind as he left the house. It was this: “Pretty thin—as long a dream as that, without any mistakes in it!”
What a hero Tom was become, now! He did not go skipping and prancing, but moved with a dignified swagger as became a pirate who felt that the public eye was on him. And indeed it was; he tried not to seem to see the looks or hear the remarks as he passed along, but they were food and drink to him. Smaller boys than himself flocked at his heels, as proud to be seen with him, and tolerated by him, as if he had been the drummer at the head of a procession or the elephant leading a menagerie into town. Boys of his own size pretended not to know he had been away at all; but they were consuming with envy, nevertheless. They would have given anything to have that swarthy sun-tanned skin of his, and his glittering notoriety; and Tom would not have parted with either for a circus.
At school the children made so much of him and of Joe, and delivered such eloquent admiration from their eyes, that the two heroes were not long in becoming insufferably “stuck-up.” They began to tell their adventures to hungry listeners—but they only began; it was not a thing likely to have an end, with imaginations like theirs to furnish material. And finally, when they got out their pipes and went serenely puffing around, the very summit of glory was reached.
Tom decided that he could be independent of Becky Thatcher now. Glory was sufficient. He would live for glory. Now that he was distinguished, maybe she would be wanting to “make up.” Well, let her—she should see that he could be as indifferent as some other people. Presently she arrived. Tom pretended not to see her. He moved away and joined a group of boys and girls and began to talk. Soon he observed that she was tripping gayly back and forth with flushed face and dancing eyes, pretending to be busy chasing schoolmates, and screaming with laughter when she made a capture; but he noticed that she always made her captures in his vicinity, and that she seemed to cast a conscious eye in his direction at such times, too. It gratified all the vicious vanity that was in him; and so, instead of winning him, it only “set him up” the more and made him the more diligent to avoid betraying that he knew she was about. Presently she gave over skylarking, and moved irresolutely about, sighing once or twice and glancing furtively and wistfully toward Tom. Then she observed that now Tom was talking more particularly to Amy Lawrence than to any one else. She felt a sharp pang and grew disturbed and uneasy at once. She tried to go away, but her feet were treacherous, and carried her to the group instead. She said to a girl almost at Tom’s elbow—with sham vivacity:
“Why, Mary Austin! you bad girl, why didn’t you come to Sunday-school?”
“I did come—didn’t you see me?”
“Why, no! Did you? Where did you sit?”
“I was in Miss Peters’ class, where I always go. I saw you.”
“Did you? Why, it’s funny I didn’t see you. I wanted to tell you about the picnic.”
“Oh, that’s jolly. Who’s going to give it?”
“My ma’s going to let me have one.”
“Oh, goody; I hope she’ll let me come.”
“Well, she will. The picnic’s for me. She’ll let anybody come that I want, and I want you.”
“That’s ever so nice. When is it going to be?”
“By and by. Maybe about vacation.”
“Oh, won’t it be fun! You going to have all the girls and boys?”
“Yes, every one that’s friends to me—or wants to be”; and she glanced ever so furtively at Tom, but he talked right along to Amy Lawrence about the terrible storm on the island, and how the lightning tore the great sycamore tree “all to flinders”