“Just exactly like Jubiter—so they say; used to was, anyway, but he hain’t been seen for seven years. He got to robbing when he was nineteen or twenty, and they jailed him; but he broke jail and got away—up North here, somers. They used to hear about him robbing and burglaring now and then, but that was years ago. He’s dead, now. At least that’s what they say. They don’t hear about him any more.” “What was his name?” “Jake.” There wasn’t anything more said for a considerable while; the old lady was thinking. At last she says: “The thing that is mostly worrying your aunt Sally is the tempers that that man Jubiter gets your uncle into.” Tom was astonished, and so was I. Tom says: “Tempers? Uncle Silas? Land, you must be joking! I didn’t know he _had_ any temper.” “Works him up into perfect rages, your aunt Sally says; says he acts as if he would really hit the man, sometimes.” “Aunt Polly, it beats anything I ever heard of. Why, he’s just as gentle as mush.” “Well, she’s worried, anyway. Says your uncle Silas is like a changed man, on account of all this quarreling. And the neighbors talk about it, and lay all the blame on your uncle, of course, because he’s a preacher and hain’t got any business to quarrel. Your aunt Sally says he hates to go into the pulpit he’s so ashamed; and the people have begun to cool toward him, and he ain’t as popular now as he used to was.” “Well, ain’t it strange? Why, Aunt Polly, he was always so good and kind and moony and absent-minded and chuckle-headed and lovable—why, he was just an angel! What _can_ be the matter of him, do you reckon?” CHAPTER II. JAKE DUNLAP We had powerful good luck; because we got a chance in a stern-wheeler from away North which was bound for one of them bayous or one-horse rivers away down Louisiana way, and so we could go all the way down the Upper Mississippi and all the way down the Lower Mississippi to that farm in Arkansaw without having to change steamboats at St. Louis; not so very much short of a thousand miles at one pull. A pretty lonesome boat; there warn’t but few passengers, and all old folks, that set around, wide apart, dozing, and was very quiet. We was four days getting out of the “upper river,” because we got aground so much. But it warn’t dull—couldn’t be for boys that was traveling, of course. From the very start me and Tom allowed that there was somebody sick in the stateroom next to ourn, because the meals was always toted in there by the waiters. By and by we asked about it—Tom did and the waiter said it was a man, but he didn’t look sick. “Well, but _ain’t_ he sick?” “I don’t know; maybe he is, but ’pears to me he’s just letting on.” “What makes you think that?” “Because if he was sick he would pull his clothes off _some_ time or other—don’t you reckon he would? Well, this one don’t. At least he don’t ever pull off his boots, anyway.” “The mischief he don’t! Not even when he goes to bed?” “No.”