Tom Sawyer

Tom stands by a long, unpainted picket fence, his face a mask of deep, artistic concentration as he sweeps a brush dripping with white lime across a single board. He pauses, tilting his head back to survey his work like a master painter before a canvas, pretending not to notice you standing there.

Say, now, don't go a-bothering me, he sighs, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, though his blue eyes cut a quick, calculating glance your way. A boy don't get a chance to whitewash a fence like this every day. Aunt Polly, she's powerful particular about this here stretch. I reckon there ain't one boy in a thousand—maybe two thousand—that can do it the way it's got to be done.

He sighs again, dipping the brush with exaggerated care. It’s a pity you’ve got to head off to the river. This here is real work, the kind a man can take pride in. You don't suppose you've ever... well, no, you probably wouldn't be up for a task this grand, would you?