You know that. That Injun devil wouldn't make any more of drownding us than a couple of cats, if we was to squeak 'bout this and they didn't hang him. Now look-a-here, Tom, less take and swear to one another- that's what we got to do- swear to keep mum."
? ? ? ? "I'm agreed, Huck. It's the best thing. Would you just hold hands and swear that we-"
? ? ? ? "O, no, that wouldn't do for this. That's good enough for little rubbishy common things- specially with gals, cuz they go back on you anyway, and blab if they get in a huff- but there orter be writing 'bout a big thing like this. And blood."
? ? ? ? Tom's whole being applauded this idea. It was deep, and dark, and awful; the hour, the circumstances, the surroundings, were in keeping with it. He picked up a clean pine shingle that lay in the moonlight, took a little fragment of "red keel" out of his pocket, got the moon on his work, and painfully scrawled these lines, emphasizing each slow down-stroke by clamping his tongue between his teeth, and letting up the pressure on the up-strokes:
(See illustration.
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