to fly, but they could not move until they saw the rock land. It was
making mighty leaps now, and the terrified negro had managed to get
directly in its path. They stood holding their breath, their mouths
open. Then suddenly they could hardly believe their eyes; the boulder
struck a projection a distance above the road, and with a mighty bound
sailed clear over the negro and his mule and landed in the soft dirt
beyond-only a fragment striking the shop, damaging but not wrecking
it. Half buried in the ground, that boulder lay there for nearly forty
years; then it was blasted up for milling purposes. It was the last rock
the boys ever rolled down. They began to suspect that the sport was not
altogether safe.

Sometimes the boys needed money, which was not easy to get in those
days. On one occasion of this sort, Tom Blankenship had the skin of a
coon he had captured, which represented the only capital in the crowd.
At Selms's store on Wild Cat corner the coonskin would bring ten cents,
but that was not enough. They arranged a plan which would make it pay
a good deal more than that. Selins's window was open, it being
summer-time, and his pile of pelts was pretty handy. Huck--that is to
say, Tom--went in the front door and sold the skin for ten cents to
Selms, who tossed it back on the pile. Tom came back with the money and
after a reasonable period went around to the open window, crawled in,
got the coonskin, and sold it to Selms again. He did this several times
that afternoon; then John Pierce, Selins's clerk, said:

"Look here, Selms, there is something wrong about this. That boy has
been selling us coonskins all the afternoon."

Selms went to his pile of pelts. There were several sheepskins and some
cowhides, but only one coonskin--the one he had that moment bought.
Selms himself used to tell this story as a great joke.

Perhaps it is not adding to Mark Twain's reputation to say that the boy
Sam Clemens--a pretty small boy, a good deal less than twelve at this
time--was the leader of this unhallowed band; yet any other record would
be less than historic. If the band had a leader, it was he. They were
always ready to listen to him--they would even stop fishing to do
that--and to follow his projects. They looked to him for ideas and
organization, whether the undertaking was to be real or make-believe.
When they played "Bandit" or "Pirate" or "Indian," Sam Clemens was
always chief; when they became real raiders it is re