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Las aventuras de Tom Sawyer
Capítulo 8, Página 1
Tom
dodged
hither
and
thither
through
lanes
until
he
was
well
out
of
the
track
of
returning
scholars,
and
then
fell
into
a
moody
jog.
He
crossed
a
small
“branch”
two
or
three
times,
because
of
a
prevailing
juvenile
superstition
that
to
cross
water
baffled
pursuit.
Half
an
hour
later
he
was
disappearing
behind
the
Douglas
mansion
on
the
summit
of
Cardiff
Hill,
and
the
school-house
was
hardly
distinguishable
away
off
in
the
valley
behind
him.
He
entered
a
dense
wood,
picked
his
pathless
way
to
the
centre
of
it,
and
sat
down
on
a
mossy
spot
under
a
spreading
oak.
There
was
not
even
a
zephyr
stirring;
the
dead
noonday
heat
had
even
stilled
the
songs
of
the
birds;
nature
lay
in
a
trance
that
was
broken
by
no
sound
but
the
occasional
far-off
hammering
of
a
wood-pecker,
and
this
seemed
to
render
the
pervading
silence
and
sense
of
loneliness
the
more
profound.
The
boy’s
soul
was
steeped
in
melancholy;
his
feelings
were
in
happy
accord
with
his
surroundings.
He
sat
long
with
his
elbows
on
his
knees
and
his
chin
in
his
hands,
meditating.
It
seemed
to
him
that
life
was
but
a
trouble,
at
best,
and
he
more
than
half
envied
Jimmy
Hodges,
so
lately
released;
it
must
be
very
peaceful,
he
thought,
to
lie
and
slumber
and
dream
forever
and
ever,
with
the
wind
whispering
through
the
trees
and
caressing
the
grass
and
the
flowers
over
the
grave,
and
nothing
to
bother
and
grieve
about,
ever
any
more.
If
he
only
had
a
clean
Sunday-school
record
he
could
be
willing
to
go,
and
be
done
with
it
all.
Now
as
to
this
girl.
What
had
he
done?
Nothing.
He
had
meant
the
best
in
the
world,
and
been
treated
like
a
dog—like
a
very
dog.
She
would
be
sorry
some
day—maybe
when
it
was
too
late.
Ah,
if
he
could
only
die
temporarily!
But
the
elastic
heart
of
youth
cannot
be
compressed
into
one
constrained
shape
long
at
a
time.
Tom
presently
began
to
drift
insensibly
back
into
the
concerns
of
this
life
again.
What
if
he
turned
his
back,
now,
and
disappeared
mysteriously?
What
if
he
went
away—ever
so
far
away,
into
unknown
countries
beyond
the
seas—and
never
came
back
any
more!
How
would
she
feel
then!
The
idea
of
being
a
clown
recurred
to
him
now,
only
to
fill
him
with
disgust.
For
frivolity
and
jokes
and
spotted
tights
were
an
offense,
when
they
intruded
themselves
upon
a
spirit
that
was
exalted
into
the
vague
august
realm
of
the
romantic.
No,
he
would
be
a
soldier,
and
return
after
long
years,
all
war-worn
and
illustrious.
No—better
still,
he
would
join
the
Indians,
and
hunt
buffaloes
and
go
on
the
warpath
in
the
mountain
ranges
and
the
trackless
great
plains
of
the
Far
West,
and
away
in
the
future
come
back
a
great
chief,
bristling
with
feathers,
hideous
with
paint,
and
prance
into
Sunday-school,
some
drowsy
summer
morning,
with
a
blood-curdling
war-whoop,
and
sear
the
eyeballs
of
all
his
companions
with
unappeasable
envy.
But
no,
there
was
something
gaudier
even
than
this.
He
would
be
a
pirate!
That
was
it!
now
his
future
lay
plain
before
him,
and
glowing
with
unimaginable
splendor.
How
his
name
would
fill
the
world,
and
make
people
shudder!
How
gloriously
he
would
go
plowing
the
dancing
seas,
in
his
long,
low,
black-hulled
racer,
the
Spirit
of
the
Storm,
with
his
grisly
flag
flying
at
the
fore!
And
at
the
zenith
of
his
fame,
how
he
would
suddenly
appear
at
the
old
village
and
stalk
into
church,
brown
and
weather-beaten,
in
his
black
velvet
doublet
and
trunks,
his
great
jack-boots,
his
crimson
sash,
his
belt
bristling
with
horse-pistols,
his
crime-rusted
cutlass
at
his
side,
his
slouch
hat
with
waving
plumes,
his
black
flag
unfurled,
with
the
skull
and
crossbones
on
it,
and
hear
with
swelling
ecstasy
the
whisperings,
“It’s
Tom
Sawyer
the
Pirate!—the
Black
Avenger
of
the
Spanish
Main!”
Yes,
it
was
settled;
his
career
was
determined.
He
would
run
away
from
home
and
enter
upon
it.
He
would
start
the
very
next
morning.
Therefore
he
must
now
begin
to
get
ready.
He
would
collect
his
resources
together.
He
went
to
a
rotten
log
near
at
hand
and
began
to
dig
under
one
end
of
it
with
his
Barlow
knife.
He
soon
struck
wood
that
sounded
hollow.
He
put
his
hand
there
and
uttered
this
incantation
impressively:
“What
hasn’t
come
here,
come!
What’s
here,
stay
here!”
Then
he
scraped
away
the
dirt,
and
exposed
a
pine
shingle.
He
took
it
up
and
disclosed
a
shapely
little
treasure-house
whose
bottom
and
sides
were
of
shingles.
In
it
lay
a
marble.
Tom’s
astonishment
was
boundless!
He
scratched
his
head
with
a
perplexed
air,
and
said:
“Well,
that
beats
anything!”
Then
he
tossed
the
marble
away
pettishly,
and
stood
cogitating.
The
truth
was,
that
a
superstition
of
his
had
failed,
here,
which
he
and
all
his
comrades
had
always
looked
upon
as
infallible.
If
you
buried
a
marble
with
certain
necessary
incantations,
and
left
it
alone
a
fortnight,
and
then
opened
the
place
with
the
incantation
he
had
just
used,
you
would
find
that
all
the
marbles
you
had
ever
lost
had
gathered
themselves
together
there,
meantime,
no
matter
how
widely
they
had
been
separated.
But
now,
this
thing
had
actually
and
unquestionably
failed.
Tom’s
whole
structure
of
faith
was
shaken
to
its
foundations.
He
had
many
a
time
heard
of
this
thing
succeeding
but
never
of
its
failing
before.
It
did
not
occur
to
him
that
he
had
tried
it
several
times
before,
himself,
but
could
never
find
the
hiding-places
afterward.
He
puzzled
over
the
matter
some
time,
and
finally
decided
that
some
witch
had
interfered
and
broken
the
charm.
He
thought
he
would
satisfy
himself
on
that
point;
so
he
searched
around
till
he
found
a
small
sandy
spot
with
a
little
funnel-shaped
depression
in
it.
He
laid
himself
down
and
put
his
mouth
close
to
this
depression
and
called—
“Doodle-bug,
doodle-bug,
tell
me
what
I
want
to
know!
Doodle-bug,
doodle-bug,
tell
me
what
I
want
to
know!”
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Las aventuras de Tom Sawyer — C1 Inglés | Cuentana