piling up a tin pan with bread and meat and things; and whilst the others was leaving, the key come from the house. This nigger had a good-natured, chuckle-headed face, and his wool was all tied up in little bunches with thread.  That was to keep witches off.  He said the witches was pestering him awful these nights, and making him see all kinds of strange things, and hear all kinds of strange words and noises, and he didn't believe he was ever witched so long before in his life.  He got so worked up, and got to running on so about his troubles, he forgot all about what he'd been a-going to do.  So Tom says: “What's the vittles for?  Going to feed the dogs?” The nigger kind of smiled around gradually over his face, like when you heave a brickbat in a mud-puddle, and he says: “Yes, Mars Sid, A dog.  Cur'us dog, too.  Does you want to go en look at 'im?” “Yes.” I hunched Tom, and whispers: “You going, right here in the daybreak?  _that_ warn't the plan.” “No, it warn't; but it's the plan _now_.” So, drat him, we went along, but I didn't like it much.  When we got in we couldn't hardly see anything, it was so dark; but Jim was there, sure enough, and could see us; and he sings out: “Why, _Huck_!  En good _lan_'! ain' dat Misto Tom?” I just knowed how it would be; I just expected it.  I didn't know nothing to do; and if I had I couldn't a done it, because that nigger busted in and says: “Why, de gracious sakes! do he know you genlmen?” We could see pretty well now.  Tom he looked at the nigger, steady and kind of wondering, and says: “Does _who_ know us?” “Why, dis-yer runaway nigger.” “I don't reckon he does; but what put that into your head?” “What _put_ it dar?  Didn' he jis' dis minute sing out like he knowed you?” Tom says, in a puzzled-up kind of way: “Well, that's mighty curious.  _Who_ sung out? _when_ did he sing out?  _what_ did he sing out?” And turns to me, perfectly ca'm, and says, “Did _you_ hear anybody sing out?” Of course there warn