It was setting on a log right in the edge of a little prairie, thinking. I tried to get Tom to come away, but he wouldn’t, and I dasn’t budge by myself. He said we mightn’t ever get another chance to see one, and he was going to look his fill at this one if he died for it. So I looked too, though it give me the fan-tods to do it. Tom he _had_ to talk, but he talked low. He says: “Poor Jakey, it’s got all its things on, just as he said he would. _Now_ you see what we wasn’t certain about—its hair. It’s not long now the way it was: it’s got it cropped close to its head, the way he said he would. Huck, I never see anything look any more naturaler than what It does.” “Nor I neither,” I says; “I’d recognize it anywheres.” “So would I. It looks perfectly solid and genuwyne, just the way it done before it died.” So we kept a-gazing. Pretty soon Tom says: “Huck, there’s something mighty curious about this one, don’t you know? IT oughtn’t to be going around in the daytime.” “That’s so, Tom—I never heard the like of it before.” “No, sir, they don’t ever come out only at night—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!” “I’m a-listening.” “It ain’t a ghost at all. It’s Jake Dunlap his own self!” “Oh your granny!” I says. “Huck Finn, did we find any corpse in the sycamores?” “No.” “Or any sign of one?” “No.” “Mighty good reason. Hadn’t ever been any corpse there.” “Why, Tom, you know we heard—”