For forty-eight hours the widow hunted for him everywhere in great distress.

The public were profoundly concerned; they searched high and low, they dragged the river for his body.

Early the third morning Tom Sawyer wisely went poking among some old empty hogsheads down behind the abandoned slaughter-house, and in one of them he found the refugee.

Huck had slept there; he had just breakfasted upon some stolen odds and ends of food, and was lying off, now, in comfort, with his pipe.

He was unkempt, uncombed, and clad in the same old ruin of rags that had made him picturesque in the days when he was free and happy.