It s nice make a man.
The artist erected a man in the front yard, that resembled a derrick. He
could have stepped over the house; but the girl was not hypercritical;
she was satisfied with the monster, and whispered:
It s a beautiful man now make me coming along.
Tom drew an hour-glass with a full moon and straw limbs to it and armed
the spreading fingers with a portentous fan. The girl said:
It s ever so nice I wish I could draw.
It s easy, whispered Tom, I ll learn you.
Oh, will you? When?
At noon. Do you go home to dinner?
I ll stay if you will.
Good that s a whack. What s your name?
Becky Thatcher. What s yours? Oh, I know. It s Thomas Sawyer.
That s the name they lick me by. I m Tom when I m good. You call me
Tom, will you?
Yes.
Now Tom began to scrawl something on the slate, hiding the words from
the girl. But she was not backward this time. She begged to see. Tom
said:
Oh, it ain t anything.
Yes it is.
No it ain t. You don t want to see.
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