Tom scored his accounts, and resolved to keep to the very letter of his reform, and never to put that will in jeopardy again.  He had three hundred dollars left.  According to his mother’s plan, he was to put that safely away, and add her half of his pension to it monthly.  In one year this fund would buy her free again.

For a whole week he was not able to sleep well, so much the villainy which he had played upon his trusting mother preyed upon his rag of conscience; but after that he began to get comfortable again, and was presently able to sleep like any other miscreant.

The boat bore Roxy away from St. Louis at four in the afternoon, and she stood on the lower guard abaft the paddle box and watched Tom through a blur of tears until he melted into the throng of people and disappeared; then she looked no more, but sat there on a coil of cable crying till far into the night.  When she went to her foul steerage bunk at last, between the clashing engines, it was not to sleep, but only to wait for the morning, and, waiting, grieve.

It had been imagined that she “would not know,” and would think she was traveling upstream.  She!  Why, she had been steamboating for years.  At dawn she got up and went listlessly and sat down on the cable coil again.  She passed many a snag whose “break” could have told her a thing to break her heart, for it showed a current moving in the same direction that the boat was going; but her thoughts were elsewhere, and she did not notice.  But at last the roar of a bigger and nearer break than usual brought her out of her torpor, and she looked up, and her practiced eye fell upon that telltale rush of water.  For one moment her petrified gaze fixed itself there.  Then her head dropped upon her breast, and she said: 

“Oh, de good Lord God have mercy on po’ sinful me—­I’S SOLE DOWN DE RIVER!”

CHAPTER 17 —­ The Judge Utters Dire Prophesy

Even popularity can be overdone.  In Rome, along at first, you are full of regrets that Michelangelo died; but by and by, you only regret that you didn’t see him do it. —­ Pudd’nhead Wilson’s Calendar

JULY 4.  Statistics show that we lose more fools on this day than in all the other days of the year put together.  This proves, by the number left in stock, that one Fourth of July per year is now inadequate, the country has grown so. —­ Pudd’nhead Wilson’s Calendar

The summer weeks dragged by, and then the political campaign opened —­opened in pretty warm fashion, and waxed hotter and hotter daily.  The twins threw themselves into it with their whole heart, for their self-love was engaged.  Their popularity, so general at first, had suffered afterward; mainly because they had been TOO popular, and so a natural reaction had followed.  Besides, it had been diligently whispered around that it was curious—­indeed, VERY curious—­that that wonderful knife