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WITHIN a few minutes the news had spread, and a dozen skiff-loads of men were on their way to McDougal’s cave, and the ferryboat, well filled with passengers, soon followed. Tom Sawyer was in the skiff that bore Judge Thatcher.
When the cave door was unlocked, a sorrowful sight presented itself in the dim twilight of the place. Injun Joe lay stretched upon the ground, dead, with his face close to the crack of the door, as if his longing eyes had been fixed, to the latest moment, upon the light and the cheer of the free world outside. Tom was touched, for he knew by his own experience how this wretch had suffered. His pity was moved, but nevertheless he felt an abounding sense of relief and security, now, which revealed to him in a degree which he had not fully appreciated before how vast a weight of dread had been lying upon him since the day he lifted his voice against this bloody-minded outcast.
Injun Joe’s bowie-knife lay close by, its blade broken in
two. The great foundation-beam of the door had been chipped and
hacked through, with tedious labor; useless labor, too, it was, for
the native rock formed a sill outside it, and upon that stubborn
material the knife had wrought no effect; the only damage done was
to the knife itself. But if there had been no stony obstruction
there the labor would have been useless still, for if the beam had
been wholly cut away Injun Joe could not have squeezed his body
under the door, and he knew it. So he had only hacked that place in
order to be doing something—in order to pass the weary
time—in order to employ his tortured faculties. Ordinarily
one could find half a dozen bits of candle stuck around in the
crevices of this vestibule, left there by tourists; but there were
none now. The prisoner had searched them out and eaten them. He had
also contrived to catch a few bats, and these, also, he had eaten,
leaving only their claws. The poor unfortunate had starved to
death. In one place, near at hand, a stalagmite had been slowly
growing up from the ground for ages, builded by the water-drip from
a stalactite overhead. The captive had broken off the stalagmite,
and upon the stump had placed a stone, wherein he had scooped a
shallow hollow to catch the precious drop that fell once in every
three minutes with the dreary regularity of a clock-tick—a
dessertspoonful once in four and twenty hours. That drop was
falling when the Pyramids were new; when Troy fell; when the
foundations of Rome were laid when Christ was crucified; when the
Conqueror created the British empire; when Columbus sailed; when
the massacre at Lexington was “news.” It is falling
now; it will still be falling when all these things shall have sunk
down the afternoon of history, and the twilight of tradition, and
been swallowed up in the thick night of oblivion. Has everything a
purpose and a mission? Did this drop fall patiently during five
thousand years to be ready (...)
(......)
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