XXIII

My, but I wuz mad! I was a-gwyne for de chile, but jis’ den⁠—it was a do’ dat open innerds⁠—jis’ den, ’long come de wind en slam it to, behine de chile, ker- blam !⁠—en my lan’, de chile never move’! My breff mos’ hop outer me; en I feel so⁠—so⁠—I doan’ know how I feel. I crope out, all a-tremblin’, en crope aroun’ en open de do’ easy en slow, en poke my head in behine de chile, sof’ en still, en all uv a sudden I says pow ! jis’ as loud as I could yell. She never budge! Oh, Huck, I bust out a-cryin’ en grab her up in my arms, en say, ‘Oh, de po’ little thing! De Lord God Amighty fogive po’ ole Jim, kaze he never gwyne to fogive hisself as long’s he live!’ Oh, she was plumb deef en dumb, Huck, plumb deef en dumb⁠—en I’d ben a-treat’n her so!”