, Tom. Looky-here, Tom, being rich ain’t what it’s cracked up to be. It’s just worry and worry, and sweat and sweat, and a-wishing you was dead all the time. Now these clothes suits me, and this bar’l suits me, and I ain’t ever going to shake ’em any more. Tom, I wouldn’t ever got into all this trouble if it hadn’t ’a’ been for that money; now you just take my sheer of it along with your’n, and gimme a ten-center sometimes⁠—not many times, becuz I don’t give a dern for a thing ’thout it’s tollable hard to git⁠—and you go and beg off for me with the widder.”

“Oh, Huck, you know I can’t do that. ’Tain’t fair; and besides if you’ll try this thing just a while longer you’ll come to like it.”

“Like it! Yes⁠—the way I’d like a hot stove if I was to set on it long enough. No, Tom, I won’t be rich, and I won’t live in them cussed smothery houses. I like the woods, and the river, and hogsheads, and I’ll stick to ’em, too. Blame it all! just as we’d got guns, and a cave, and all just fixed to rob, here this dern foolishness has got to come up and spile it all!”