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“Well, I don’t know no kings, Tom.” “I reckon you don’t. But if you was to go to
Europe you’d see a raft of ‘em hopping around.” “Do they hop?” “Hop?- you
granny! No!” “Well what did you say they did, for?” “Shucks, I only meant
you’d see ‘em-not hopping, of course-what do they want to hop for?- but I
mean you’d just see ‘em-scattered around, you know, in a kind of a general
way. Like that old hump-backed Richard.” “Richard? What’s his other name?”
“He didn’t have any other name. Kings don’t have any but a given name.”
“No?” “But they don’t.” “Well, if they like it, Tom, all right; but I don’t want to
be a king and have only just a given name, like a nigger. But say-where you
going to dig first?” “Well, I don’t know. S’pose we tackle that old dead-limb tree
on the hill t’other side of Still-House branch?” So they got a crippled pick and a
shovel, and set out on their three-mile tramp.

They arrived hot and panting, and threw themselves down in the shade of a
neighboring elm to rest and have a smoke.

“I like this,” said Tom.
“So do I.” “Say, Huck, if we find a treasure here, what you going to do with
your share?” “Well I’ll have pie and a glass of soda every day, and I’ll go to
every circus that comes along. I bet I’ll have a gay time.” “Well ain’t you going
to save any of it?” “Save it? What for?” “Why so as to have something to live on,
by and by.” “O, that ain’t any use. Pap would come back to thish-yer town some
day and get his claws on it if I didn’t hurry up, and I tell you he’d clean it out
pretty quick.

What you going to do with yourn, Tom?” “I’m going to buy a new drum, and a
sure-’nough sword, and a red neck-tie and a bull pup, and get married.”
“Married!” “That’s it.” “Tom, you-why you ain’t in your right mind.” “Wait-
you’ll see.” “Well that’s the foolishest thing you could do, Tom. Look at pap and
my mother. Fight? Why they used to fight all the time. I remember, mighty
well.”

“That ain’t anything. The girl I’m going to marry won’t fight.” “Tom, I reckon
they’re all alike. They’ll all comb a body. Now you better think ‘bout this a
while. I tell you you better. What’s the name of the gal?” “It ain’t a gal at all-it’s
a girl.” “It’s all the same, I reckon; some says gal, some says girl-both’s right,
like enough. Anyway, what’s her name, Tom?” “I’ll tell you some time-not
now.” “All right-that’ll do. Only if you get married I’ll be more lonesomer than
ever.” “No you won’t. You’ll come and live with me. Now stir out of this and
we’ll go to digging.” They worked and sweated for half an hour. No result. They
toiled another halfhour. Still no result. Huck said: “Do they always bury it as
deep as this?” “Sometimes-not always. Not generally. I reckon we haven’t got
the right place.” So they chose a new spot and began again. The labor dragged a
little, but still they made progress. They pegged away in silence for some time.
Finally Huck leaned on his shovel, swabbed the beaded drops from his brow
with his sleeve, and said: “Where you going to dig next, after we get this one?”
“I reckon maybe we’ll tackle the old tree that’s over yonder on Cardiff Hill back
of the widow’s.” “I reckon that’ll be a good one. But won’t the widow take it