"Tom Sawyer"
by Mark Twain

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     "Tom, what on earth ails that cat?"

     "I don't know, aunt," gasped the boy.

     "Why, I never see anything like it. What did make him act so?"

     "Deed I don't know, Aunt Polly; cats always act so when they're having a good time."

     "They do, do they?" There was something in the tone that made Tom apprehensive.

     "Yes'm. That is, I believe they do."

     "You do?"



     The old lady was bending down, Tom watching, with interest emphasized by anxiety. Too late he divined her "drift." The handle of the telltale tea-spoon was visible under the bed-valance. Aunt Polly took it, held it up. Tom winced, and dropped his eyes. Aunt Polly raised him by the usual handle--his ear--and cracked his head soundly with her thimble.

     "Now, sir, what did you want to treat that poor dumb beast so, for?"

     "I done it out of pity for him--because he hadn't any aunt."

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