Chapter II

On a bright Saturday morning, the world seemed full of life and joy. Every heart hummed with a song, especially those that were young enough for their music to spill from their lips. Faces radiated cheer and steps carried an extra spring. The locust trees were in bloom, filling the air with their sweet fragrance. Cardiff Hill, situated just beyond the village, was lush with greenery and appeared like a dreamy haven inviting exploration.

Tom emerged onto the sidewalk carrying a bucket of whitewash and a long-handled brush. As he surveyed the daunting task before him—a thirty-yard section of nine-foot-high board fence—his spirit sank into deep melancholy. This chore made life feel hollow, existence burdensome. With a sigh, Tom dipped his brush into the whitewash, tracing it along the top plank several times in vain attempts to make any progress. Comparing the thin white streak against the vast expanse of unfinished fence, he sat discouraged on a tree-box.

Soon after, Jim came skipping out from the gate with a tin pail and singing “Buffalo Gals.” Fetching water from the town pump was always tedious for Tom, but today it seemed somewhat less burdensome. He recalled that there would be company at the pump—boys and girls of all backgrounds gathering to play or quarrel. Jim usually took an hour or more to fetch a bucket of water, which often required someone else to follow after him.

Tom proposed a deal: “Say, Jim, I’ll fetch the water if you’ll whitewash some.”

Jim hesitated, remembering his responsibility. He said, “Can’t, Tom. Old Missus told me to get this water and not stop fooling around with anyone. She guessed you’d ask me to help whitewash so she said go ahead with your own business—she’d handle the whitewashing herself.”

Tom reassured him, “Oh, never mind what she said, Jim. That’s how she always talks. Gimme the bucket—I won’t be gone only a minute. She’ll never know.”

Jim was reluctant: “I can’t, Tom. Old Missus would take and tar my head if I did that. Really, she would.”

Tom tried to ease his concerns: “‘She’! She never hits anyone—just whacks them on the head with her thimble—and who cares for that? She talks a lot but talk doesn’t hurt—at least it doesn’t if she doesn’t cry. Jim, I’ll give you something special—a white alley!”

The offer made Jim waver. “White alley, Jim! And it’s an amazing taw.”

“But Tom,” said Jim, still worried about Missus.

“And besides, if you agree, I’ll show you my sore toe.” The prospect was too enticing for Jim to resist. He put down his pail and eagerly accepted the white alley, bending over Tom’s toe with great interest as the bandage came undone. In a moment, he dashed off down the street with his pail, leaving Tom to continue whitewashing energetically while Aunt Polly retreated from the scene, her slipper in hand.

However, Tom’s enthusiasm didn’t last long. He began thinking about all the fun activities planned for that day and realized how unfortunate it was for him to be stuck working. Soon, other boys would pass by on their exciting adventures, probably mocking his predicament. The mere thought stung deeply. Tom assessed his meager belongings—some toys, marbles, and trinkets—enough perhaps to trade work but not enough to buy any real freedom. He decided against trying to barter with the other boys.

In that moment of despair, an idea sparked in Tom’s mind—an inspired plan. He picked up his brush again and began painting steadily. Presently, Ben Rogers appeared—the boy whose mockery he had dreaded most. Ben moved with a lively hop-skip-and-jump rhythm, fully immersed in pretending to be a steamboat. As he approached, he slowed down and entered the street’s middle, leaning dramatically to one side as if navigating his imaginary vessel.

Ben continued his performance: “Stop her, sir! Ting-a-ling-ling!” He reduced his pace until he nearly stopped. “Ship up to back! Ting-a-ling-ling!” His arms stiffened by his sides. “Set her back on the starboard! Ting-a-ling-ling! Chow! ch-chow-wow! Chow!” His right hand swept gracefully, simulating a ship’s wheel.

“Let her go back on the larboard! Ting-a-ling-ling! Chow-ch-chow-chow!” The left hand mirrored the movement. “Stop the starboard! Ting-a-ling-ling! Stop the larboard! Come ahead on the starboard! Stop her! Let your outside turn over slow! Ting-a-ling-ling! Chow-ow-ow! Get out that head-line! Lively now! Come—out with your spring line—what’re you about there? Take a turn round that stump with the bight of it! Stand by that stage, now—let her go! Done with the engines, sir! Ting-a-ling-ling! SH’T! S’H’T! SH’T!” He mimicked checking gauge-cocks.

Tom continued whitewashing without acknowledging Ben’s antics. Finally, Ben remarked, “Hi-Yi! You’re up a stump, aren’t you!”

Tom turned and replied nonchalantly: “Why, it’s you, Ben! I wasn’t noticing.”

“Oh—hello, old chap, you got to work, huh?”

Tom resumed his task and answered carelessly, “What do you call work?”

“Why, ain’t that work?”

Tom continued painting while contemplating the question. Ben stopped nibbling his apple.

“Like it? Well, I don’t see why I shouldn’t like it. Does a boy get to whitewash a fence every day?”

This new perspective intrigued Ben. He paused, watching Tom’s meticulous strokes with growing interest. After a moment, he suggested, “Say, Tom, let me whitewash a little.”

Tom considered and nearly agreed but changed his mind: “Ben, I’d like to, honestly—but Aunt Polly is very particular about this fence—it has to be done carefully. I don’t think there’s one boy in a thousand that could do it right.”

“Is that so? Oh come on—let me try just a little. Only for a bit—I would let you if I were you, Tom.”

“Ben, I’d like to, honest as the day is long—but Aunt Polly… she won’t allow anyone else but me.”

“I’ll give you the core of my apple,” Ben offered.

After some hesitation, Tom reluctantly handed over the brush with mixed feelings. As Ben worked under the sun’s heat, Tom sat back in the shade, dangled his legs from an old barrel, munched on his apple, and devised plans to entice other boys into taking up the task. Boys kept coming by; they initially came to mock but stayed to work for a chance at fun items or treats. By afternoon, Ben was worn out and had traded his turn to Billy Fisher for a kite in good repair. As time passed, others joined in: Johnny Miller exchanged something trivial for a turn, adding more resources to Tom’s collection.

Tom’s idle morning turned into an unexpectedly profitable day as he gathered a small fortune of trinkets—marbles, broken toys, and odds and ends—as well as a sense of accomplishment from the completed task. He mused over this transformation in his circumstances and realized an important truth about human nature: making something desirable is simply a matter of making it difficult to obtain.

Reflecting on his experiences, Tom felt that life wasn’t so bleak after all. If he’d been a philosopher like the writer, he might have understood why certain tasks are considered work while others feel like play, depending on whether they’re obligatory or optional. This realization helped him see why some activities, though physically demanding, were still enjoyable.

Tom wandered back to report his success, feeling rich in both experience and material goods.