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