Tom Sawyer, Detective 187
and then not till after twelve. There's something wrong about this one, now you mark my words. I don't believe it's got any right to be around in the daytime. But don't it look natural! Jake was going to play deef and dumb here, so the neighbors wouldn't know his voice. Do you reckon it would do that if we was to holler at it?"
" Lordy, Tom, don't talk so ! If you was to holler at it I'd die in my tracks."
" Don't you worry, I ain't going to holler at it. Look, Huck, it's a-scratching its head — don't you see?"
"Well, what of it?"
" Why, this. What's the sense of it scratching its head? There ain't anything there to itch; its head is made out of fog or something like that, and can't itch. A fog can't itch; any fool knows that."
" Well, then, if it don't itch and can't itch, what in the nation is it scratching it for? Ain't it just habit, don't you reckon?"
" No, sir, I don't. I ain't a bit satisfied about the way this one acts. I've a blame good notion it's a bogus one — I have, as sure as I'm a-sitting here. Because, if it—Huck!"
" Well, what's the matter now?"
" You can't see the bushes through it !"
" Why, Tom, it's so, sure! It's as solid as a cow. I sort of begin to think—"
"Huck, it's biting off a chaw of tobacker! By George, they don't chaw — they hain't got anything to chaw with. Huck !''