CHAPTER XXIV



TOM was a glittering hero once more -- the pet of the old,

the envy of the young. His name even went into immortal

print, for the village paper magnified him. There were some

that believed he would be President, yet, if he escaped hanging.



As usual, the fickle, unreasoning world took Muff

Potter to its bosom and fondled him as lavishly as it

had abused him before. But that sort of conduct is

to the world's credit; therefore it is not well to find

fault with it.



Tom's days were days of splendor and exultation

to him, but his nights were seasons of horror. Injun

Joe infested all his dreams, and always with doom

in his eye. Hardly any temptation could persuade

the boy to stir abroad after nightfall. Poor Huck

was in the same state of wretchedness and terror, for

Tom had told the whole story to the lawyer the night

before the great day of the trial, and Huck was sore

afraid that his share in the business might leak out,

yet, notwithstanding Injun Joe's flight had saved

him the suffering of testifying in court. The poor

fellow had got the attorney to promise secrecy, but

what of that? Since Tom's harassed conscience had

managed to drive him to the lawyer's house by night

and wring a dread tale from lips that had been sealed

with the dismalest and most formidable of oaths,

Huck's confidence in the human race was well-nigh

obliterated.



Daily Muff Potter's gratitude made Tom glad he

had spoken; but nightly he wished he had sealed up

his tongue.



Half the time Tom was afraid Injun Joe would

never be captured; the other half he was afraid he

would be. He felt sure he never could draw a safe

breath again until that man was dead and he had

seen the corpse.



Rewards had been offered, the country had been

scoured, but no Injun Joe was found. One of those

omniscient and awe-inspiring marvels, a detective,

came up from St. Louis, moused around, shook his

head, looked wise, and made that sort of astounding

success which members of that craft usually achieve.

That is to say, he "found a clew." But you can't

hang a "clew" for murder, and so after that detec-

tive had got through and gone home, Tom felt just

as insecure as he was before.



The slow days drifted on, and each left behind it

a slightly lightened weight of apprehension.

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