Chapter VI

Monday morning found Tom Sawyer in quite a sour mood. Monday mornings always had that effect on him because they marked the beginning of another week of school—a place he viewed as confining and tiresome. He often wished there had been no break; it made returning to what felt like captivity all the more unpleasant.

Tom lay thinking. It occurred to him that being sick would allow him to stay home from school, which seemed like an appealing idea. This vague possibility prompted a quick self-examination for symptoms. Finding none at first, he tried again and thought he detected some colic-like pains, which he began to encourage with a glimmer of hope. However, those symptoms quickly faded away.

Reflecting further, Tom suddenly realized that one of his upper front teeth was loose—an opportunity! He started to groan as a “starter,” but remembered that if he brought this up in court, his aunt would likely pull the tooth out, which could hurt. So he decided to save the dental issue for later and looked for other symptoms.

After some time with no new ideas, Tom recalled something a doctor had mentioned about an ailment that laid someone up for weeks and threatened the loss of a finger. Eagerly, he pulled his sore toe from under the sheet for examination. Lacking full knowledge of the necessary symptoms, he decided to chance it anyway and started groaning with determination.

Sid, Tom’s brother, slept on, oblivious to all this.

Tom groaned louder, convincing himself that pain had started in his toe—but Sid remained unaffected.

By now, Tom was panting from exertion. He paused for a moment before swelling up and producing a series of impressive groans.

Sid continued snoring.

Aggravated, Tom tried a different tactic. “Sid! Sid!” he called out, shaking the boy gently. This seemed to work; Tom began groaning again. Sid yawned, stretched, then sat up with a snort and looked at Tom curiously.

“Tom! Say, Tom!” Sid said, receiving no response. He shook him and studied his face anxiously. “Here, Tom! TOM! What’s the matter, Tom?”

“Oh, don’t, Sid. Don’t joggle me,” moaned Tom.

“Why, what’s the matter, Tom? I must call Aunt Polly.”

“No—never mind. It’ll be over by and by, maybe. Don’t call anybody.”

“But I must! Don’t groan so, Tom; it’s awful. How long have you been like this?”

“Hours. Ouch! Oh, don’t stir so, Sid; you’ll kill me.”

“Tom, why didn’t you wake me sooner? Oh, Tom—don’t! It makes my flesh crawl to hear you. What is the matter, Tom?”

“I forgive everything, Sid. [Groan.] Everything you’ve ever done to me. When I’m gone…”

“Oh, Tom, are you dying? Don’t, Tom—oh, don’t. Maybe…”

“I forgive everybody, Sid. [Groan.] Tell them so, Sid. And Sid, give my window-sash and my one-eyed cat to that new girl in town when I’m gone.”

Sid had hurriedly put on his clothes and left. Tom’s imagination was working overtime, making his groans increasingly genuine.

Sid ran downstairs and exclaimed, “Oh, Aunt Polly, come! Tom’s dying!”

“Dying?”

“Yes, ma’am. Don’t wait—come quickly!”

“Rubbish! I don’t believe it!” But she didn’t hesitate to follow him upstairs with Sid and Mary close behind. Her face went pale, her lip trembled—but then laughter mixed with tears broke through.

When they reached Tom’s bedside, Aunt Polly gasped, “You, Tom! What’s the matter?”

“Oh, auntie, I’m—”

“What is it? Tell me, child!”

“Oh, auntie, my sore toe’s mortified!”

Aunt Polly sank into a chair, laughing and then crying before finally steadying herself. She said, “Tom, what a scare you’ve given me! Now stop that nonsense and get out of this bed.”

The groans ceased and the pain vanished from his toe. Tom felt slightly embarrassed but explained, “Auntie, it seemed mortified, and it hurt so much I didn’t think about my tooth at all.”

“Your tooth? What’s wrong with your tooth?”

“One of them’s loose and aches terribly.”

“There, there, now—no more groaning. Open your mouth.” She examined him closely. “Well, your tooth is loose, but you’re certainly not dying because of that!” Aunt Polly called for Mary to bring her some silk thread and a piece of fire from the kitchen.

Tom said, “Oh, please, auntie, don’t pull it out. It doesn’t hurt anymore. I promise never to move if you do! Please don’t—I’d rather stay in school.”

“Oh, so that’s why all this fuss was made? You wanted an excuse to skip school and go fishing? Tom, Tom, I love you dearly, but your antics break my heart.”

As she prepared the dental fixings, Aunt Polly tied one end of the silk thread to Tom’s tooth with a loop and secured the other end to the bedpost. Then she brandished a piece of fire towards his face. The tooth now dangled by the bedpost.

With this solution in place, it was clear that Tom would be attending school after all.

Every challenge has its rewards. As Tom walked to school after breakfast, he felt like quite the hero among his peers because a gap in his upper teeth allowed him to spit impressively. This new skill drew attention from other boys eager to see it, leaving behind even those with more traditional charms.

As he continued on his way, Tom encountered Huckleberry Finn, the local outcast despised by every mother in town due to his unruly nature and poor reputation—despite their children’s secret admiration for him. While Tom was supposed to avoid Huckleberry, he couldn’t resist playing with him whenever possible.

Huck always wore hand-me-downs that were a colorful patchwork of rags. His hat sported a wide tear, and his coat hung nearly to the ground. He lived by his own rules: sleeping wherever he pleased, never having to go to school or church, free to fish, swim, fight, or stay up late as he wished. This freedom was envied by every well-behaved boy in St. Petersburg.

Tom greeted Huck with enthusiasm:

“Hey there, Huckleberry!”

“Hi! See if you like what I got.”

“What’s that?”

“A dead cat.”

“Let me see it, Huck. Wow, he’s really stiff. Where’d you find him?”

“I bought him from another kid.”

“How much did you pay?”

“I gave a blue ticket and a bladder I picked up at the slaughterhouse.”

“Where’d you get the blue ticket?”

“Bought it off Ben Rogers two weeks ago for a hoop-stick.”

“What are dead cats good for, Huck?”

“For? They cure warts!”

“No way! There’s something better, though.”

“You don’t say. What is it?”

“It’s spunk-water.”

“Spunk-water! I wouldn’t bother with that.”

“You wouldn’t? Ever tried it?”

“Nope. But Bob Tanner did.”

“Who told you about him?”

“He told Jeff Thatcher, and from there the story went through several boys until a black kid finally told me. Got it?”

“Well, what’s the deal? They’re all probably lying—except maybe the nigger since I don’t know any who wouldn’t lie. Tell me how Bob Tanner used spunk-water.”

“Bob just dipped his hand in water from a rotten stump during the day.”

“What? With his face to the stump?”

“I guess so.”

“Did he say anything?”

“No idea. It doesn’t matter, though. Trying to cure warts with spunk-water that way is foolish. You need to go alone to a forest at midnight and find a special stump. When you reach it, slam your hand in and chant:

‘Barley-corn, barley-corn,
Injun-meal shorts,
Spunk-water, spunk-water,
Swaller these warts.’

Then walk away eleven steps with your eyes shut, turn around three times without speaking to anyone. If you break the silence, the charm is ruined.”

“That sounds like a real method, but that’s not how Bob Tanner did it.”

“No way he would’ve; he’s got so many warts. I’ve used spunk-water on my hands all the time because of playing with frogs. You can also use a bean for wart removal.”

“Yeah, beans work too. How do you do it?”

“You split the bean and cut into the wart to draw some blood. Then you place that bloody piece in a hole at the crossroads under the dark moon’s light around midnight. Burn the rest of the bean. The soaked part will pull towards its pair, drawing out the wart.”

“Right! Adding ‘Down bean; off wart; come no more to bother me!’ when burying it works better. That’s how Joe Harper does it. He travels almost everywhere. But tell me how you use dead cats for warts?”

“You wait until midnight in a graveyard where someone wicked has been buried. When devils arrive—though invisible, they make noises—you toss your cat after the spirit and say, ‘Devil follow corpse, cat follow devil, warts follow cat, I’m done with ye!’ That takes off any wart.”

“Sounds legit. Did you try it?”

“No, but Old Mother Hopkins told me about it.”

“I bet that works because they all claim she’s a witch.”

“Yes! She is. She even bewitched my dad. He saw her doing it and tried to stop her by throwing a rock. That night, he fell off a shed drunk and broke his arm.”

“How did your dad know she was bewitching him?”

“Dad can tell easily. If they stare at you intently and mumble words like the Lord’s Prayer backward, that’s witchcraft in action.”

“Wow! When are we trying this cat thing?”

“To-night. They’ll likely come for old Hoss Williams tonight.”

“But wasn’t he buried on Saturday? Wouldn’t their spells start then?”

“How would they work until midnight—especially if it’s Sunday? I don’t think devils like to hang around on Sundays, anyway.”

“I never thought about that! Makes sense. Can I go with you?”

“Sure, if you’re not scared.”

“Scared? No way. Will we meow at the right times?”

“Yes—and if you get a chance, meow back. Last time, your cat kept me up all night until old Mr. Hays tried to throw rocks at it and shouted ‘Darn that cat!’ So I threw a brick through his window—but keep this between us.”

“I won’t. Auntie was watching me last time, so I couldn’t join in. But tonight’s different. What’s that?”

“Just a tick.”

“How’d you get it?”

“In the woods.”

“What’ll you trade for it?”

“I don’t want to sell it.”

“It’s a tiny one anyway.”

“But everyone can catch ticks that aren’t theirs. This is fine as it is.”

“Oh, there are plenty of ticks around if I wanted them.”

“Why not have some then? Because you know you can’t. It’s the first tick I’ve seen this year.”

“Hey, Huck—I’ll trade my loose tooth for your tick!”

“Show me.”

Tom carefully revealed his paper-wrapped treasure, and Huckleberry couldn’t resist. Finally, he agreed:

“You sure it’s genuine?”

Tom displayed his empty gap.

“All right,” said Huckleberry, “deal’s on.”

Tom tucked the tick into a small box, once home to an insect, feeling richer than before as they parted ways.

When Tom arrived at the small, wooden schoolhouse, he walked in briskly as if he’d come straight from home. He hung his hat on a hook and dropped into his seat with purposeful energy. The teacher sat high up in his big chair, half-asleep amidst the low buzz of students studying. But when he noticed Tom’s arrival, he perked up.

“Thomas Sawyer!”

Tom knew trouble was coming whenever they called him by his full name.

“Sir!”

“Come here. Now, why are you late again?”

Tom considered making something up but then saw two long locks of yellow hair hanging down from a familiar back. His heart skipped as he recognized this girl—the only empty seat on the girls’ side. Instantly, Tom blurted out:

“I stopped to chat with Huckleberry Finn!”

The teacher’s eyes widened, and the classroom fell silent. Everyone stared, wondering if Tom had lost his mind. The teacher repeated in disbelief:

“You—you did what?”

“Stopped to talk with Huckleberry Finn.”

Tom stood by his words.

“Thomas Sawyer,” the teacher said sternly, “this is the most shocking thing I’ve ever heard from a student. This isn’t something we can just slap you for. Take off your jacket.”

The teacher’s arm got tired as he gave Tom a spanking until there were hardly any switches left. Then came the order:

“Now, sit with the girls! Consider this a warning.”

A ripple of giggles spread through the room, but it wasn’t embarrassment that made Tom sit down on the end bench next to his idol; it was more about awe and excitement. He sat still, arms folded over his desk, appearing focused on his book.

As class went back to its usual chatter, Tom couldn’t help glancing at her every now and then. She caught him looking and playfully flipped her head away, but when she turned around cautiously, there was a peach before her. She pushed it away, but he gently replaced it. Finally, she left the peach alone.

Tom scribbled on his slate, “Please take it—I have more.” The girl glanced at the message but didn’t respond. Tom started drawing something with his free hand. At first, she ignored him, but curiosity got the better of her. He worked diligently and finally whispered:

“Let me see.”

Revealing a simple drawing of a house spewing smoke from its chimney, the girl’s attention was now fully on it. When he finished, she praised it and asked for another drawing—this time of herself.

Tom drew an hourglass figure with straw-like limbs and a large fan in hand. The girl admired it, saying she wished she could draw. Tom offered to teach her after school.

“Oh, will you? Do you stay for lunch?”

“I’ll if you do.”

“Great! What’s your name?”

“Rebecca Thatcher. And yours is Thomas Sawyer.”

“That’s what they call me when I’m in trouble. Just call me Tom, okay?”

“Okay.”

Tom started writing something on the slate again but hid it from her this time. But she insisted to see. After some teasing and negotiation, he revealed his message: “I love you.”

She playfully slapped his hand but looked pleased nonetheless.

Just then, Tom felt himself being pulled by his ear back to his seat by the teacher, under a chorus of giggles. The teacher returned to his own seat but said nothing as Tom’s ear tingled with embarrassment yet his heart was secretly happy.

As the class settled, Tom tried to concentrate on studying but found it impossible. He struggled through reading, geography, and spelling lessons—misplacing lakes, mountains, rivers, and continents until everything fell into chaos again.