Tom dodged¹ hither and thither² through lanes until he was well out of the track of returning scholars, and then fell into a moody³ jog. He crossed a small “branch” two or three times, because of a prevailing⁴ juvenile⁵ superstition⁶ that to cross water baffled pursuit. Half an hour later he was disappearing behind the Douglas mansion⁷ on the summit of Cardiff Hill, and the school-house was hardly distinguishable away off in the valley behind him. He entered a dense⁸ wood, picked his pathless way to the centre of it, and sat down on a mossy spot under a spreading oak. There was not even a zephyr⁹ stirring; the dead noonday heat had even stilled the songs of the birds; nature lay in a trance that was broken by no sound but the occasional far-off hammering of a wood-pecker, and this seemed to render the pervading¹⁰ silence and sense of loneliness the more profound. The boy’s soul was steeped in melancholy¹¹; his feelings were in happy accord with his surroundings. He sat long with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands, meditating¹². It seemed to him that life was but a trouble, at best, and he more than half envied Jimmy Hodges, so lately released; it must be very peaceful, he thought, to lie and slumber¹³ and dream forever and ever, with the wind whispering through the trees and caressing¹⁵ the grass and the flowers over the grave, and nothing to bother and grieve about, ever any more. If he only had a clean Sunday-school record he could be willing to go, and be done with it all. Now as to this girl. What had he done? Nothing. He had meant the best in the world, and been treated like a dog—like a very dog. She would be sorry some day—maybe when it was too late. Ah, if he could only die temporarily!

But the elastic¹⁶ heart of youth cannot be compressed into one constrained¹⁷ shape long at a time. Tom presently began to drift insensibly back into the concerns of this life again. What if he turned his back, now, and disappeared mysteriously? What if he went away—ever so far away, into unknown countries beyond the seas—and never came back any more! How would she feel then! The idea of being a clown recurred¹⁸ to him now, only to fill him with disgust. For frivolity¹⁹ and jokes and spotted²⁰ tights were an offense²¹, when they intruded²² themselves upon a spirit that was exalted²³ into the vague august realm of the romantic. No, he would be a soldier, and return after long years, all war-worn and illustrious. No—better still, he would join the Indians, and hunt buffaloes²⁴ and go on the warpath in the mountain ranges and the trackless great plains of the Far West, and away in the future come back a great chief, bristling²⁵ with feathers, hideous²⁶ with paint, and prance²⁷ into Sunday-school, some drowsy²⁸ summer morning, with a blood-curdling war-whoop, and sear the eyeballs of all his companions with unappeasable envy. But no, there was something gaudier²⁹ even than this. He would be a pirate! That was it! now his future lay plain before him, and glowing with unimaginable splendor³⁰. How his name would fill the world, and make people shudder³¹! How gloriously he would go plowing³² the dancing seas, in his long, low, black-hulled racer, the Spirit of the Storm, with his grisly flag flying at the fore¹⁴! And at the zenith of his fame, how he would suddenly appear at the old village and stalk into church, brown and weather-beaten, in his black velvet³³ doublet and trunks, his great jack-boots, his crimson³⁴ sash, his belt bristling with horse-pistols, his crime-rusted cutlass at his side, his slouch hat with waving plumes³⁵, his black flag unfurled, with the skull³⁶ and crossbones on it, and hear with swelling³⁷ ecstasy³⁸ the whisperings, “It’s Tom Sawyer the Pirate!—the Black Avenger³⁹ of the Spanish Main!”

Yes, it was settled; his career was determined⁴⁰. He would run away from home and enter upon it. He would start the very next morning. Therefore he must now begin to get ready. He would collect his resources together. He went to a rotten log near at hand and began to dig under one end of it with his Barlow knife. He soon struck wood that sounded hollow. He put his hand there and uttered this incantation impressively:

“What hasn’t come here, come! What’s here, stay here!”

Then he scraped away the dirt, and exposed a pine shingle⁴¹. He took it up and disclosed a shapely little treasure-house whose bottom and sides were of shingles⁴². In it lay a marble. Tom’s astonishment⁴³ was boundless⁴⁴! He scratched his head with a perplexed⁴⁵ air, and said:

“Well, that beats anything!”

Then he tossed the marble away pettishly⁴⁶, and stood cogitating⁴⁷. The truth was, that a superstition of his had failed, here, which he and all his comrades had always looked upon as infallible. If you buried a marble with certain necessary incantations, and left it alone a fortnight, and then opened the place with the incantation he had just used, you would find that all the marbles you had ever lost had gathered themselves together there, meantime, no matter how widely they had been separated. But now, this thing had actually and unquestionably failed. Tom’s whole structure of faith was shaken to its foundations. He had many a time heard of this thing succeeding but never of its failing before. It did not occur to him that he had tried it several times before, himself, but could never find the hiding-places afterward⁴⁸. He puzzled over the matter some time, and finally decided⁴⁹ that some witch had interfered⁵⁰ and broken the charm. He thought he would satisfy himself on that point; so he searched around till he found a small sandy spot with a little funnel-shaped depression in it. He laid himself down and put his mouth close to this depression and called—

“Doodle-bug, doodle-bug, tell me what I want to know! Doodle-bug, doodle-bug, tell me what I want to know!”

The sand began to work, and presently a small black bug appeared for a second and then darted⁵¹ under again in a fright.

“He dasn’t tell! So it was a witch that done it. I just knowed it.”

He well knew the futility⁵² of trying to contend against witches, so he gave up discouraged. But it occurred to him that he might as well have the marble he had just thrown away, and therefore he went and made a patient search for it. But he could not find it. Now he went back to his treasure-house and carefully placed himself just as he had been standing⁵³ when he tossed the marble away; then he took another marble from his pocket and tossed it in the same way, saying:

“Brother, go find your brother!”

He watched where it stopped, and went there and looked. But it must have fallen short or gone too far; so he tried twice more. The last repetition was successful. The two marbles lay within a foot of each other.

Just here the blast of a toy tin trumpet⁵⁴ came faintly down the green aisles⁵⁵ of the forest. Tom flung off his jacket and trousers, turned a suspender into a belt, raked away some brush behind the rotten log, disclosing a rude bow and arrow, a lath sword and a tin trumpet, and in a moment had seized these things and bounded away, barelegged, with fluttering shirt. He presently halted under a great elm, blew an answering blast, and then began to tiptoe and look warily⁵⁶ out, this way and that. He said cautiously—to an imaginary company:

“Hold, my merry men! Keep hid till I blow.”

Now appeared Joe Harper, as airily clad and elaborately armed as Tom. Tom called:

“Hold! Who comes here into Sherwood Forest without my pass?”

“Guy of Guisborne wants no man’s pass. Who art thou that—that—”

“Dares to hold such language,” said Tom, prompting—for they talked “by the book,” from memory.

“Who art thou that dares to hold such language?”

“I, indeed! I am Robin⁵⁷ Hood⁵⁸, as thy caitiff carcase soon shall know.”

“Then art thou indeed that famous outlaw⁵⁹? Right gladly will I dispute with thee the passes of the merry wood. Have at thee!”

They took their lath swords, dumped their other traps on the ground, struck a fencing attitude, foot to foot, and began a grave, careful combat, “two up and two down.” Presently Tom said:

“Now, if you’ve got the hang, go it lively!”

So they “went it lively,” panting and perspiring⁶⁰ with the work. By and by Tom shouted:

“Fall! fall! Why don’t you fall?”

“I sha’n’t! Why don’t you fall yourself? You’re getting the worst of it.”

“Why, that ain’t anything. I can’t fall; that ain’t the way it is in the book. The book says, ‘Then with one back-handed stroke he slew⁶¹ poor Guy of Guisborne.’ You’re to turn around and let me hit you in the back.”

There was no getting around the authorities, so Joe turned, received the whack⁶² and fell.

“Now,” said Joe, getting up, “you got to let me kill you. That’s fair.”

“Why, I can’t do that, it ain’t in the book.”

“Well, it’s blamed mean—that’s all.”

“Well, say, Joe, you can be Friar Tuck or Much the miller’s son, and lam me with a quarter-staff; or I’ll be the Sheriff of Nottingham and you be Robin Hood a little while and kill me.”

This was satisfactory, and so these adventures were carried out. Then Tom became Robin Hood again, and was allowed by the treacherous⁶³ nun⁶⁴ to bleed his strength away through his neglected wound. And at last Joe, representing a whole tribe of weeping outlaws⁶⁵, dragged him sadly forth⁶⁶, gave his bow into his feeble hands, and Tom said, “Where this arrow falls, there bury poor Robin Hood under the greenwood tree.” Then he shot the arrow and fell back and would have died, but he lit on a nettle⁶⁷ and sprang up too gaily⁶⁸ for a corpse⁶⁹.

The boys dressed themselves, hid their accoutrements, and went off grieving that there were no outlaws any more, and wondering what modern civilization could claim to have done to compensate⁷⁰ for their loss. They said they would rather be outlaws a year in Sherwood Forest than President of the United States forever.