Well, two or three days went along, and everybody got to getting uneasy about Jubiter Dunlap. Everybody was asking everybody if they had any idea what had become of him. No, they hadn’t, they said: and they shook their heads and said there was something powerful strange about it. Another and another day went by; then there was a report got around that praps he was murdered. You bet it made a big stir! Everybody’s tongue was clacking away after that. Saturday two or three gangs turned out and hunted the woods to see if they could run across his remainders. Me and Tom helped, and it was noble good times and exciting. Tom he was so brimful of it he couldn’t eat nor rest. He said if we could find that corpse we would be celebrated, and more talked about than if we got drownded. The others got tired and give it up; but not Tom Sawyer—that warn’t his style. Saturday night he didn’t sleep any, hardly, trying to think up a plan; and towards daylight in the morning he struck it. He snaked me out of bed and was all excited, and says: “Quick, Huck, snatch on your clothes—I’ve got it! Bloodhound!” In two minutes we was tearing up the river road in the dark towards the village. Old Jeff Hooker had a bloodhound, and Tom was going to borrow him. I says: “The trail’s too old, Tom—and besides, it’s rained, you know.” “It don’t make any difference, Huck. If the body’s hid in the woods anywhere around the hound will find it. If he’s been murdered and buried, they wouldn’t bury him deep, it ain’t likely, and if the dog goes over the spot he’ll scent him, sure. Huck, we’re going to be celebrated, sure as you’re born!” He was just a-blazing; and whenever he got afire he was most likely to get afire all over. That was the way this time. In two minutes he had got it all ciphered out, and wasn’t only just going to find the corpse—no, he was going to get on the track of that murderer and hunt _him_ down, too; and not only that, but he was going to stick to him till—“Well,” I says, “you better find the corpse first; I reckon that’s a-plenty for to-day. For all we know, there _ain’t_ any corpse and nobody hain’t been murdered. That cuss could ’a’ gone off somers and not been killed at all.” That graveled him, and he says: “Huck Finn, I never see such a person as you to want to spoil everything. As long as _you_ can’t see anything hopeful in a thing, you won’t let anybody else. What good can it do you to throw cold water on that corpse and get up that selfish theory that there ain’t been any murder? None in the world. I don’t see how you can act so. I wouldn’t treat you like that, and you know it. Here we’ve got a noble good opportunity to make a ruputation, and—” “Oh, go ahead,” I says. “I’m sorry, and I take it all back. I didn’t mean nothing. Fix it any way you want it. _He_ ain’t any consequence to me. If he’s killed, I’m as glad of it as you are; and if he—” “I never said anything about being glad; I only—”