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Las aventuras de Tom Sawyer
Capítulo 4, Página 5
Tom
exhibited.
They
were
satisfactory,
and
the
property
changed
hands.
Then
Tom
traded
a
couple
of
white
alleys
for
three
red
tickets,
and
some
small
trifle
or
other
for
a
couple
of
blue
ones.
He
waylaid
other
boys
as
they
came,
and
went
on
buying
tickets
of
various
colors
ten
or
fifteen
minutes
longer.
He
entered
the
church,
now,
with
a
swarm
of
clean
and
noisy
boys
and
girls,
proceeded
to
his
seat
and
started
a
quarrel
with
the
first
boy
that
came
handy.
The
teacher,
a
grave,
elderly
man,
interfered;
then
turned
his
back
a
moment
and
Tom
pulled
a
boy’s
hair
in
the
next
bench,
and
was
absorbed
in
his
book
when
the
boy
turned
around;
stuck
a
pin
in
another
boy,
presently,
in
order
to
hear
him
say
“Ouch!”
and
got
a
new
reprimand
from
his
teacher.
Tom’s
whole
class
were
of
a
pattern—restless,
noisy,
and
troublesome.
When
they
came
to
recite
their
lessons,
not
one
of
them
knew
his
verses
perfectly,
but
had
to
be
prompted
all
along.
However,
they
worried
through,
and
each
got
his
reward—in
small
blue
tickets,
each
with
a
passage
of
Scripture
on
it;
each
blue
ticket
was
pay
for
two
verses
of
the
recitation.
Ten
blue
tickets
equalled
a
red
one,
and
could
be
exchanged
for
it;
ten
red
tickets
equalled
a
yellow
one;
for
ten
yellow
tickets
the
superintendent
gave
a
very
plainly
bound
Bible
(worth
forty
cents
in
those
easy
times)
to
the
pupil.
How
many
of
my
readers
would
have
the
industry
and
application
to
memorize
two
thousand
verses,
even
for
a
Doré
Bible?
And
yet
Mary
had
acquired
two
Bibles
in
this
way—it
was
the
patient
work
of
two
years—and
a
boy
of
German
parentage
had
won
four
or
five.
He
once
recited
three
thousand
verses
without
stopping;
but
the
strain
upon
his
mental
faculties
was
too
great,
and
he
was
little
better
than
an
idiot
from
that
day
forth—a
grievous
misfortune
for
the
school,
for
on
great
occasions,
before
company,
the
superintendent
(as
Tom
expressed
it)
had
always
made
this
boy
come
out
and
“spread
himself.”
Only
the
older
pupils
managed
to
keep
their
tickets
and
stick
to
their
tedious
work
long
enough
to
get
a
Bible,
and
so
the
delivery
of
one
of
these
prizes
was
a
rare
and
noteworthy
circumstance;
the
successful
pupil
was
so
great
and
conspicuous
for
that
day
that
on
the
spot
every
scholar’s
heart
was
fired
with
a
fresh
ambition
that
often
lasted
a
couple
of
weeks.
It
is
possible
that
Tom’s
mental
stomach
had
never
really
hungered
for
one
of
those
prizes,
but
unquestionably
his
entire
being
had
for
many
a
day
longed
for
the
glory
and
the
eclat
that
came
with
it.
In
due
course
the
superintendent
stood
up
in
front
of
the
pulpit,
with
a
closed
hymn-book
in
his
hand
and
his
forefinger
inserted
between
its
leaves,
and
commanded
attention.
When
a
Sunday-school
superintendent
makes
his
customary
little
speech,
a
hymn-book
in
the
hand
is
as
necessary
as
is
the
inevitable
sheet
of
music
in
the
hand
of
a
singer
who
stands
forward
on
the
platform
and
sings
a
solo
at
a
concert—though
why,
is
a
mystery:
for
neither
the
hymn-book
nor
the
sheet
of
music
is
ever
referred
to
by
the
sufferer.
This
superintendent
was
a
slim
creature
of
thirty-five,
with
a
sandy
goatee
and
short
sandy
hair;
he
wore
a
stiff
standing-collar
whose
upper
edge
almost
reached
his
ears
and
whose
sharp
points
curved
forward
abreast
the
corners
of
his
mouth—a
fence
that
compelled
a
straight
lookout
ahead,
and
a
turning
of
the
whole
body
when
a
side
view
was
required;
his
chin
was
propped
on
a
spreading
cravat
which
was
as
broad
and
as
long
as
a
bank-note,
and
had
fringed
ends;
his
boot
toes
were
turned
sharply
up,
in
the
fashion
of
the
day,
like
sleigh-runners—an
effect
patiently
and
laboriously
produced
by
the
young
men
by
sitting
with
their
toes
pressed
against
a
wall
for
hours
together.
Mr.
Walters
was
very
earnest
of
mien,
and
very
sincere
and
honest
at
heart;
and
he
held
sacred
things
and
places
in
such
reverence,
and
so
separated
them
from
worldly
matters,
that
unconsciously
to
himself
his
Sunday-school
voice
had
acquired
a
peculiar
intonation
which
was
wholly
absent
on
week-days.
He
began
after
this
fashion:
“Now,
children,
I
want
you
all
to
sit
up
just
as
straight
and
pretty
as
you
can
and
give
me
all
your
attention
for
a
minute
or
two.
There—that
is
it.
That
is
the
way
good
little
boys
and
girls
should
do.
I
see
one
little
girl
who
is
looking
out
of
the
window—I
am
afraid
she
thinks
I
am
out
there
somewhere—perhaps
up
in
one
of
the
trees
making
a
speech
to
the
little
birds.
[Applausive
titter.]
I
want
to
tell
you
how
good
it
makes
me
feel
to
see
so
many
bright,
clean
little
faces
assembled
in
a
place
like
this,
learning
to
do
right
and
be
good.”
And
so
forth
and
so
on.
It
is
not
necessary
to
set
down
the
rest
of
the
oration.
It
was
of
a
pattern
which
does
not
vary,
and
so
it
is
familiar
to
us
all.
The
latter
third
of
the
speech
was
marred
by
the
resumption
of
fights
and
other
recreations
among
certain
of
the
bad
boys,
and
by
fidgetings
and
whisperings
that
extended
far
and
wide,
washing
even
to
the
bases
of
isolated
and
incorruptible
rocks
like
Sid
and
Mary.
But
now
every
sound
ceased
suddenly,
with
the
subsidence
of
Mr.
Walters’
voice,
and
the
conclusion
of
the
speech
was
received
with
a
burst
of
silent
gratitude.
A
good
part
of
the
whispering
had
been
occasioned
by
an
event
which
was
more
or
less
rare—the
entrance
of
visitors:
lawyer
Thatcher,
accompanied
by
a
very
feeble
and
aged
man;
a
fine,
portly,
middle-aged
gentleman
with
iron-gray
hair;
and
a
dignified
lady
who
was
doubtless
the
latter’s
wife.
The
lady
was
leading
a
child.
Tom
had
been
restless
and
full
of
chafings
and
repinings;
conscience-smitten,
too—he
could
not
meet
Amy
Lawrence’s
eye,
he
could
not
brook
her
loving
gaze.
But
when
he
saw
this
small
newcomer
his
soul
was
all
ablaze
with
bliss
in
a
moment.
The
next
moment
he
was
“showing
off”
with
all
his
might—cuffing
boys,
pulling
hair,
making
faces—in
a
word,
using
every
art
that
seemed
likely
to
fascinate
a
girl
and
win
her
applause.
His
exaltation
had
but
one
alloy—the
memory
of
his
humiliation
in
this
angel’s
garden—and
that
record
in
sand
was
fast
washing
out,
under
the
waves
of
happiness
that
were
sweeping
over
it
now.
The
visitors
were
given
the
highest
seat
of
honor,
and
as
soon
as
Mr.
Walters’
speech
was
finished,
he
introduced
them
to
the
school.
The
middle-aged
man
turned
out
to
be
a
prodigious
personage—no
less
a
one
than
the
county
judge—altogether
the
most
august
creation
these
children
had
ever
looked
upon—and
they
wondered
what
kind
of
material
he
was
made
of—and
they
half
wanted
to
hear
him
roar,
and
were
half
afraid
he
might,
too.
He
was
from
Constantinople,
twelve
miles
away—so
he
had
travelled,
and
seen
the
world—these
very
eyes
had
looked
upon
the
county
court-house—which
was
said
to
have
a
tin
roof.
The
awe
which
these
reflections
inspired
was
attested
by
the
impressive
silence
and
the
ranks
of
staring
eyes.
This
was
the
great
Judge
Thatcher,
brother
of
their
own
lawyer.
Jeff
Thatcher
immediately
went
forward,
to
be
familiar
with
the
great
man
and
be
envied
by
the
school.
It
would
have
been
music
to
his
soul
to
hear
the
whisperings:
“Look
at
him,
Jim!
He’s
a
going
up
there.
Say—look!
he’s
a
going
to
shake
hands
with
him—he
is
shaking
hands
with
him!
By
jings,
don’t
you
wish
you
was
Jeff?”
Mr.
Walters
fell
to
“showing
off,”
with
all
sorts
of
official
bustlings
and
activities,
giving
orders,
delivering
judgments,
discharging
directions
here,
there,
everywhere
that
he
could
find
a
target.
The
librarian
“showed
off”—running
hither
and
thither
with
his
arms
full
of
books
and
making
a
deal
of
the
splutter
and
fuss
that
insect
authority
delights
in.
The
young
lady
teachers
“showed
off”—bending
sweetly
over
pupils
that
were
lately
being
boxed,
lifting
pretty
warning
fingers
at
bad
little
boys
and
patting
good
ones
lovingly.
The
young
gentlemen
teachers
“showed
off”
with
small
scoldings
and
other
little
displays
of
authority
and
fine
attention
to
discipline—and
most
of
the
teachers,
of
both
sexes,
found
business
up
at
the
library,
by
the
pulpit;
and
it
was
business
that
frequently
had
to
be
done
over
again
two
or
three
times
(with
much
seeming
vexation).
The
little
girls
“showed
off”
in
various
ways,
and
the
little
boys
“showed
off”
with
such
diligence
that
the
air
was
thick
with
paper
wads
and
the
murmur
of
scufflings.
And
above
it
all
the
great
man
sat
and
beamed
a
majestic
judicial
smile
upon
all
the
house,
and
warmed
himself
in
the
sun
of
his
own
grandeur—for
he
was
“showing
off,”
too.
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Las aventuras de Tom Sawyer — C1 Inglés | Cuentana