Them awful words froze us solid. We couldn’t move hand or foot for as much as half a minute. Then we kind of come to, and lifted the old man up and got him into his chair, and Benny petted him and kissed him and tried to comfort him, and poor old Aunt Sally she done the same; but, poor things, they was so broke up and scared and knocked out of their right minds that they didn’t hardly know what they was about. With Tom it was awful; it ’most petrified him to think maybe he had got his uncle into a thousand times more trouble than ever, and maybe it wouldn’t ever happened if he hadn’t been so ambitious to get celebrated, and let the corpse alone the way the others done. But pretty soon he sort of come to himself again and says: “Uncle Silas, don’t you say another word like that. It’s dangerous, and there ain’t a shadder of truth in it.” Aunt Sally and Benny was thankful to hear him say that, and they said the same; but the old man he wagged his head sorrowful and hopeless, and the tears run down his face, and he says; “No—I done it; poor Jubiter, I done it!” It was dreadful to hear him say it. Then he went on and told about it, and said it happened the day me and Tom come—along about sundown. He said Jubiter pestered him and aggravated him till he was so mad he just sort of lost his mind and grabbed up a stick and hit him over the head with all his might, and Jubiter dropped in his tracks. Then he was scared and sorry, and got down on his knees and lifted his head up, and begged him to speak and say he wasn’t dead; and before long he come to, and when he see who it was holding his head, he jumped like he was ’most scared to death, and cleared the fence and tore into the woods, and was gone. So he hoped he wasn’t hurt bad. “But laws,” he says, “it was only just fear that gave him that last little spurt of strength, and of course it soon played out and he laid down in the bush, and there wasn’t anybody to help him, and he died.” Then the old man cried and grieved, and said he was a murderer and the mark of Cain was on him, and he had disgraced his family and was going to be found out and hung. But Tom said: “No, you ain’t going to be found out. You _didn’t_ kill him. _One_ lick wouldn’t kill him. Somebody else done it.” “Oh, yes,” he says, “I done it—nobody else. Who else had anything against him? Who else _could_ have anything against him?” He looked up kind of like he hoped some of us could mention somebody that could have a grudge against that harmless no-account, but of course it warn’t no use—he _had_ us; we couldn’t say a word. He noticed that, and he saddened down again, and I never see a face so miserable and so pitiful to see. Tom had a sudden idea, and says: “But hold on!—somebody _buried_ him. Now who—”