in my estimation.  Only I couldn't believe it.  Tom Sawyer a _nigger-stealer!_ “Oh, shucks!”  I says; “you're joking.” “I ain't joking, either.” “Well, then,” I says, “joking or no joking, if you hear anything said about a runaway nigger, don't forget to remember that _you_ don't know nothing about him, and I don't know nothing about him.” Then we took the trunk and put it in my wagon, and he drove off his way and I drove mine.  But of course I forgot all about driving slow on accounts of being glad and full of thinking; so I got home a heap too quick for that length of a trip.  The old gentleman was at the door, and he says: “Why, this is wonderful!  Whoever would a thought it was in that mare to do it?  I wish we'd a timed her.  And she hain't sweated a hair--not a hair. It's wonderful.  Why, I wouldn't take a hundred dollars for that horse now--I wouldn't, honest; and yet I'd a sold her for fifteen before, and thought 'twas all she was worth.” That's all he said.  He was the innocentest, best old soul I ever see. But it warn't surprising; because he warn't only just a farmer, he was a preacher, too, and had a little one-horse log church down back of the plantation, which he built it himself at his own expense, for a church and schoolhouse, and never charged nothing for his preaching, and it was worth it, too.  There was plenty other farmer-preachers like that, and done the same way, down South. In about half an hour Tom's wagon drove up to the front stile, and Aunt Sally she see it through the window, because it was only about fifty yards, and says: “Why, there's somebody come!  I wonder who 'tis?  Why, I do believe it's a stranger.  Jimmy” (that's one of the children) “run and tell Lize to put on another plate for dinner.” Everybody made a rush for the front door, because, of course, a stranger don't come _every_ year, and so he lays over the yaller-fever, for interest, when he does come.  Tom was over the stile and starting for the house; the wagon wa