Read Online The Dover Anthology of American Literature Volume II by Bob Blaisdell - Free Book Online Page A

it’s you, Ben! I warn’t noticing.”
    â€œ Say—
I
’m going in a-swimming,
I
am. Don’t you wish you could? But of course you’d druther
work
—wouldn’t you? Course you would!”
    Tom contemplated the boy a bit, and said:
    â€œWhat do you call work?”
    â€œWhy ain’t
that
work?”
    Tom resumed his whitewashing, and answered carelessly:
    â€œWell, maybe it is, and maybe it ain’t. All I know is, it suits Tom Sawyer.”
    â€œOh come, now, you don’t mean to let on that you
like
it?”
    The brush continued to move.
    â€œLike it? Well, I don’t see why I oughtn’t to like it. Does a boy get a chance to whitewash a fence every day?”
    That put the thing in a new light. Ben stopped nibbling his apple. Tom swept his brush daintily back and forth—stepped back to note the effect—added a touch here and there—criticized the effect again—Ben watching every move and getting more and more interested, more and more absorbed. Presently he said:
    â€œSay, Tom, let
me
whitewash a little.”
    Tom considered, was about to consent; but he altered his mind:
    â€œNo—no—I reckon it wouldn’t hardly do, Ben. You see, Aunt Polly’s awful particular about this fence—right here on the street, you know—but if it was the back fence I wouldn’t mind and
she
wouldn’t. Yes, she’s awful particular about this fence; it’s got to be done very careful; I reckon there ain’t one boy in a thousand, maybe two thousand, that can do it the way it’s got to be done.”
    â€œNo—is that so? Oh come, now—lemme just try. Only just a little—I’d let
you
, if you was me, Tom.”
    â€œBen, I’d like to, honest injun; but Aunt Polly—well, Jim wanted to do it, but she wouldn’t let him; Sid wanted to do it, and she wouldn’t let Sid. Now don’t you see how I’m fixed? If you was to tackle this fence and anything was to happen to it—”
    â€œOh, shucks, I’ll be just as careful. Now lemme try. Say—I’ll give you the core of my apple.”
    â€œWell, here—No, Ben, now don’t. I’m afeard—”
    â€œI’ll give you
all
of it!”
    Tom gave up the brush with reluctance in his face, but alacrity in his heart. And while the late steamer
Big Missouri
worked and sweated in the sun, the retired artist sat on a barrel in the shade close by, dangled his legs, munched his apple, and planned the slaughter of more innocents. There was no lack of material; boys happened along every little while; they came to jeer, but remained to whitewash. By the time Ben was fagged out, Tom had traded the next chance to Billy Fisher for a kite, in good repair; and when
he
played out, Johnny Miller bought in for a dead rat and a string to swing it with—and so on, and so on, hour after hour. And when the middle of the afternoon came, from being a poor poverty-stricken boy in the morning, Tom was literally rolling in wealth. He had, besides the things before mentioned, twelve marbles, part of a Jew’s-harp, a piece of blue bottle glass to look through, a spool cannon, a key that wouldn’t unlock anything, a fragment of chalk, a glass stopper of a decanter, a tin soldier, a couple of tadpoles, six fire-crackers, a kitten with only one eye, a brass door-knob, a dog collar—but no dog—the handle of a knife, four pieces of orange peel, and a dilapidated old window sash.
    He had had a nice, good, idle time all the while, plenty of company—and the fence had three coats of whitewash on it! If he hadn’t run out of whitewash, he would have bankrupted every boy in the village.
    Tom said to himself that it was not such a hollow world, after all. He had discovered a great law of human action, without knowing it—namely, that in order to make a man or a boy covet a thing, it is only necessary to make the thing