AS soon as we reckoned everybody
was asleep that night we went
down the lightning-rod, and shut
ourselves up in the lean-to,
and got out our pile of fox-fire,
and went to work. We cleared
everything out of the way, about
four or five foot along the middle
of the bottom log. Tom said we
was right behind Jim's bed now,
and we'd dig in under it, and
when we got through there couldn't
nobody in the cabin ever know
there was any hole there, because
Jim's counterpin hung down most
to the ground, and you'd have
to raise it up and look under
to see the hole. So we dug and
dug with the case-knives till
most midnight; and then we was
dog-tired, and our hands was
blistered, and yet you couldn't
see we'd done anything hardly.
At last I says:
"This ain't
no thirty-seven year job; this
is a thirty-eight
year job, Tom Sawyer."
He never said nothing. But
he sighed, and pretty soon he
stopped digging, and then for
a good little while I knowed
that he was thinking. Then he
says:
"It ain't no
use, Huck, it ain't a-going
to work. If we
was prisoners it would, because
then we'd have as many years
as we wanted, and no hurry; and
we wouldn't get but a few minutes
to dig, every day, while they
was changing watches, and so
our hands wouldn't get blistered,
and we could keep it up right
along, year in and year out,
and do it right, and the way
it ought to be done. But WE can't
fool along; we got to rush; we
ain't got no time to spare. If
we was to put in another night
this way we'd have to knock off
for a week to let our hands get
well -- couldn't touch a case-knife
with them sooner."
"Well, then,
what we going to do, Tom?"
"I'll tell
you. It ain't right, and it
ain't moral, . and I wouldn't
like it to get out; but there
ain't only just the one way:
we got to dig him out with the
picks, and LET ON it's case-knives."
"NOW you're TALKING!" I says; "your
head gets leveler and leveler
all the time, Tom Sawyer," I
says. "Picks is the thing, moral
or no moral; and as for me, I
don't care shucks for the morality
of it, nohow. When I start in
to steal a nigger, or a watermelon,
or a Sunday-school book, I ain't
no ways particular how it's done
so it's done. What I want is
my nigger; or what I want is
my watermelon; or what I want
is my Sunday-school book; and
if a pick's the handiest thing,
that's the thing I'm a-going
to dig that nigger or that watermelon
or that Sunday-school book out
with; and I don't give a dead
rat what the authorities thinks
about it nuther."
"Well," he says, "there's
excuse for picks and letting-on
in a
case like this; if it warn't
so, I wouldn't approve of it,
nor I wouldn't stand by and see
the rules broke -- because right
is right, and wrong is wrong,
and a body ain't got no business
doing wrong when he ain't ignorant
and knows better. It might answer
for YOU to dig Jim out with a
pick, WITHOUT any letting on,
because you don't know no better;
but it wouldn't for me, because
I do know better. Gimme a case-knife."
He had his own by him, but
I handed him mine. He flung it
down, and says:
"Gimme a CASE-KNIFE."
I didn't know just what to
do -- but then I thought. I scratched
around amongst the old tools,
and got a pickaxe and give it
to him, and he took it and went
to work, and never said a word.
He was always just that particular.
Full of principle.
So then I got a shovel, and
then we picked and shoveled,
turn about, and made the fur
fly. We stuck to it about a half
an hour, which was as long as
we could stand up; but we had
a good deal of a hole to show
for it. When I got up stairs
I looked out at the window and
see Tom doing his level best
with the lightning-rod, but he
couldn't come it, his hands was
so sore. At last he says:
"It ain't no
use, it can't be done. What
you reckon I better
do? Can't you think of no way?"
"Yes," I says, "but
I reckon it ain't regular.
Come up the
stairs, and let on it's a lightning-rod."
So he done it.
Next day Tom stole a pewter
spoon and a brass candlestick
in the house, for to make some
pens for Jim out of, and six
tallow candles; and I hung around
the nigger cabins and laid for
a chance, and stole three tin
plates. Tom says it wasn't enough;
but I said nobody wouldn't ever
see the plates that Jim throwed
out, because they'd fall in the
dog-fennel and jimpson weeds
under the window-hole -- then
we could tote them back and he
could use them over again. So
Tom was satisfied. Then he says:
"Now, the thing
to study out is, how to get
the things to
Jim."
"Take them in through the hole," I
says, "when we get it done."
He only just looked scornful,
and said something about nobody
ever heard of such an idiotic
idea, and then he went to studying.
By and by he said he had ciphered
out two or three ways, but there
warn't no need to decide on any
of them yet. Said we'd got to
post Jim first.
That night we went down the
lightning-rod a little after
ten, and took one of the candles
along, and listened under the
window-hole, and heard Jim snoring;
so we pitched it in, and it didn't
wake him. Then we whirled in
with the pick and shovel, and
in about two hours and a half
the job was done. We crept in
under Jim's bed and into the
cabin, and pawed around and found
the candle and lit it, and stood
over Jim awhile, and found him
looking hearty and healthy, and
then we woke him up gentle and
gradual. He was so glad to see
us he most cried; and called
us honey, and all the pet names
he could think of; and was for
having us hunt up a cold-chisel
to cut the chain off of his leg
with right away, and clearing
out without losing any time.
But Tom he showed him how unregular
it would be, and set down and
told him all about our plans,
and how we could alter them in
a minute any time there was an
alarm; and not to be the least
afraid, because we would see
he got away, SURE. So Jim he
said it was all right, and we
set there and talked over old
times awhile, and then Tom asked
a lot of questions, and when
Jim told him Uncle Silas come
in every day or two to pray with
him, and Aunt Sally come in to
see if he was comfortable and
had plenty to eat, and both of
them was kind as they could be,
Tom says:
"NOW I know
how to fix it. We'll send you
some things by
them."
I said, "Don't do nothing of
the kind; it's one of the most
jackass ideas I ever struck;" but
he never paid no attention to
me; went right on. It was his
way when he'd got his plans set.
So he told Jim how we'd have
to smuggle in the rope-ladder
pie and other large things by
Nat, the nigger that fed him,
and he must be on the lookout,
and not be surprised, and not
let Nat see him open them; and
we would put small things in
uncle's coatpockets and he must
steal them out; and we would
tie things to aunt's apron-strings
or put them in her apron-pocket,
if we got a chance; and told
him what they would be and what
they was for. And told him how
to keep a journal on the shirt
with his blood, and all that.
He told him everything. Jim he
couldn't see no sense in the
most of it, but he allowed we
was white folks and knowed better
than him; so he was satisfied,
and said he would do it all just
as Tom said.
Jim had plenty corn-cob pipes
and tobacco; so we had a right
down good sociable time; then
we crawled out through the hole,
and so home to bed, with hands
that looked like they'd been
chawed. Tom was in high spirits.
He said it was the best fun he
ever had in his life, and the
most intellectural; and said
if he only could see his way
to it we would keep it up all
the rest of our lives and leave
Jim to our children to get out;
for he believed Jim would come
to like it better and better
the more he got used to it. He
said that in that way it could
be strung out to as much as eighty
year, and would be the best time
on record. And he said it would
make us all celebrated that had
a hand in it.
In the morning we went out
to the woodpile and chopped up
the brass candlestick into handy
sizes, and Tom put them and the
pewter spoon in his pocket. Then
we went to the nigger cabins,
and while I got Nat's notice
off, Tom shoved a piece of candlestick
into the middle of a corn-pone
that was in Jim's pan, and we
went along with Nat to see how
it would work, and it just worked
noble; when Jim bit into it it
most mashed all his teeth out;
and there warn't ever anything
could a worked better. Tom said
so himself. Jim he never let
on but what it was only just
a piece of rock or something
like that that's always getting
into bread, you know; but after
that he never bit into nothing
but what he jabbed his fork into
it in three or four places first.
And whilst
we was a-standing there in
the dimmish light, here
comes a couple of the hounds
bulging in from under Jim's bed;
and they kept on piling in till
there was eleven of them, and
there warn't hardly room in there
to get your breath. By jings,
we forgot to fasten that lean-to
door! The nigger Nat he only
just hollered "Witches" once,
and keeled over on to the floor
amongst the dogs, and begun to
groan like he was dying. Tom
jerked the door open and flung
out a slab of Jim's meat, and
the dogs went for it, and in
two seconds he was out himself
and back again and shut the door,
and I knowed he'd fixed the other
door too. Then he went to work
on the nigger, coaxing him and
petting him, and asking him if
he'd been imagining he saw something
again. He raised up, and blinked
his eyes around, and says:
"Mars Sid,
you'll say I's a fool, but
if I didn't b'lieve
I see most a million dogs, er
devils, er some'n, I wisht I
may die right heah in dese tracks.
I did, mos' sholy. Mars Sid,
I FELT um -- I FELT um, sah;
dey was all over me. Dad fetch
it, I jis' wisht I could git
my han's on one er dem witches
jis' wunst -- on'y jis' wunst
-- it's all I'd ast. But mos'ly
I wisht dey'd lemme 'lone, I
does."
Tom says:
"Well, I tell
you what I think. What makes
them come here just
at this runaway nigger's breakfast-time?
It's because they're hungry;
that's the reason. You make them
a witch pie; that's the thing
for YOU to do."
"But my lan',
Mars Sid, how's I gwyne to
make 'm a witch pie?
I doan' know how to make it.
I hain't ever hearn er sich a
thing b'fo'."
"Well, then,
I'll have to make it myself."
"Will you do it, honey? -- �will
you? I'll wusshup de groun' und'
yo' foot, I will!"
"All right,
I'll do it, seeing it's you,
and you've been good
to us and showed us the runaway
nigger. But you got to be mighty
careful. When we come around,
you turn your back; and then
whatever we've put in the pan,
don't you let on you see it at
all. And don't you look when
Jim unloads the pan -- something
might happen, I don't know what.
And above all, don't you HANDLE
the witch-things."
"HANNEL 'm,
Mars Sid? What IS you a-talkin'
'bout? I wouldn'
lay de weight er my finger on
um, not f'r ten hund'd thous'n
billion dollars, I wouldn't."
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