“No.”
It was always nuts for Tom Sawyer—a mystery was. If you’d lay out a mystery and a pie before me and him, you wouldn’t have to say take your choice; it was a thing that would regulate itself. Because in my nature I have always run to pie, whilst in his nature he has always run to mystery. People are made different. And it is the best way. Tom says to the waiter:
“What’s the man’s name?”
“Phillips.”
“Where’d he come aboard?”
“I think he got aboard at Elexandria, up on the Iowa line.”
“What do you reckon he’s a-playing?”
“I hain’t any notion—I never thought of it.”
I says to myself, here’s another one that runs to pie.
“Anything peculiar about him?—the way he acts or talks?”