IT would be most an hour yet
till breakfast, so we left and
struck down into the woods; because
Tom said we got to have SOME
light to see how to dig by, and
a lantern makes too much, and
might get us into trouble; what
we must have was a lot of them
rotten chunks that's called fox-fire,
and just makes a soft kind of
a glow when you lay them in a
dark place. We fetched an armful
and hid it in the weeds, and
set down to rest, and Tom says,
kind of dissatisfied:
"Blame it,
this whole thing is just as
easy and awkward as
it can be. And so it makes it
so rotten difficult to get up
a difficult plan. There ain't
no watchman to be drugged --
now there OUGHT to be a watchman.
There ain't even a dog to give
a sleeping-mixture to. And there's
Jim chained by one leg, with
a ten-foot chain, to the leg
of his bed: why, all you got
to do is to lift up the bedstead
and slip off the chain. And Uncle
Silas he trusts everybody; sends
the key to the punkin-headed
nigger, and don't send nobody
to watch the nigger. Jim could
a got out of that windowhole
before this, only there wouldn't
be no use trying to travel with
a ten-foot chain on his leg.
Why, drat it, Huck, it's the
stupidest arrangement I ever
see. You got to invent ALL the
difficulties. Well, we can't
help it; we got to do the best
we can with the materials we've
got. Anyhow, there's one thing
-- there's more honor in getting
him out through a lot of difficulties
and dangers, where there warn't
one of them furnished to you
by the people who it was their
duty to furnish them, and you
had to contrive them all out
of your own head. Now look at
just that one thing of the lantern.
When you come down to the cold
facts, we simply got to LET ON
that a lantern's resky. Why,
we could work with a torchlight
procession if we wanted to, I
believe. Now, whilst I think
of it, we got to hunt up something
to make a saw out of the first
chance we get."
"What do we
want of a saw?"
"What do we
WANT of a saw? Hain't we got
to saw the leg
of Jim's bed off, so as to get
the chain loose?"
"Why, you just
said a body could lift up the
bedstead and
slip the chain off."
"Well, if that
ain't just like you, Huck Finn.
You CAN get up
the infant-schooliest ways of
going at a thing. Why, hain't
you ever read any books at all?
-- Baron Trenck, nor Casanova,
nor Benvenuto Chelleeny, nor
Henri IV., nor none of them heroes?
Who ever heard of getting a prisoner
loose in such an oldmaidy way
as that? No; the way all the
best authorities does is to saw
the bed-leg in two, and leave
it just so, and swallow the sawdust,
so it can't be found, and put
some dirt and grease around the
sawed place so the very keenest
seneskal can't see no sign of
it's being sawed, and thinks
the bed-leg is perfectly sound.
Then, the night you're ready,
fetch the leg a kick, down she
goes; slip off your chain, and
there you are. Nothing to do
but hitch your rope ladder to
the battlements, shin down it,
break your leg in the moat --
because a rope ladder is nineteen
foot too short, you know -- and
there's your horses and your
trusty vassles, and they scoop
you up and fling you across a
saddle, and away you go to your
native Langudoc, or Navarre,
or wherever it is. It's gaudy,
Huck. I wish there was a moat
to this cabin. If we get time,
the night of the escape, we'll
dig one."
I says:
"What do we
want of a moat when we're going
to snake him
out from under the cabin?"
But he never heard me. He had
forgot me and everything else.
He had his chin in his hand,
thinking. Pretty soon he sighs
and shakes his head; then sighs
again, and says:
"No, it wouldn't
do -- there ain't necessity
enough for it."
"For what?" I
says.
"Why, to saw Jim's leg off," he
says.
"Good land!" I says; "why,
there ain't NO necessity for
it. And what would you want to
saw his leg off for, anyway?"
"Well, some
of the best authorities has
done it. They couldn't get
the chain off, so they just cut
their hand off and shoved. And
a leg would be better still.
But we got to let that go. There
ain't necessity enough in this
case; and, besides, Jim's a nigger,
and wouldn't understand the reasons
for it, and how it's the custom
in Europe; so we'll let it go.
But there's one thing -- he can
have a rope ladder; we can tear
up our sheets and make him a
rope ladder easy enough. And
we can send it to him in a pie;
it's mostly done that way. And
I've et worse pies."
"Why, Tom Sawyer, how you talk," I
says; "Jim ain't got no use for
a rope ladder."
"He HAS got
use for it. How YOU talk, you
better say; you
don't know nothing about it.
He's GOT to have a rope ladder;
they all do."
"What in the
nation can he DO with it?"
"DO with it? He can hide it
in his bed, can't he?" That's
what they all do; and HE'S got
to, too. Huck, you don't ever
seem to want to do anything that's
regular; you want to be starting
something fresh all the time.
S'pose he DON'T do nothing with
it? ain't it there in his bed,
for a clew, after he's gone?
and don't you reckon they'll
want clews? Of course they will.
And you wouldn't leave them any?
That would be a PRETTY howdy-do,
WOULDN'T it! I never heard of
such a thing."
"Well," I says, "if
it's in the regulations, and
he's got
to have it, all right, let him
have it; because I don't wish
to go back on no regulations;
but there's one thing, Tom Sawyer
-- if we go to tearing up our
sheets to make Jim a rope ladder,
we're going to get into trouble
with Aunt Sally, just as sure
as you're born. Now, the way
I look at it, a hickry-bark ladder
don't cost nothing, and don't
waste nothing, and is just as
good to load up a pie with, and
hide in a straw tick, as any
rag ladder you can start; and
as for Jim, he ain't had no experience,
and so he don't care what kind
of a --"
"Oh, shucks,
Huck Finn, if I was as ignorant
as you I'd
keep still -- that's what I'D
do. Who ever heard of a state
prisoner escaping by a hickry-bark
ladder? Why, it's perfectly ridiculous."
"Well, all
right, Tom, fix it your own
way; but if you'll
take my advice, you'll let me
borrow a sheet off of the clothesline."
He said that would do. And
that gave him another idea, and
he says:
"Borrow a shirt,
too."
"What do we
want of a shirt, Tom?"
"Want it for
Jim to keep a journal on."
"Journal your
granny -- JIM can't write."
"S'pose he
CAN'T write -- he can make
marks on the shirt,
can't he, if we make him a pen
out of an old pewter spoon or
a piece of an old iron barrelhoop?"
"Why, Tom,
we can pull a feather out of
a goose and make him a
better one; and quicker, too."
"PRISONERS
don't have geese running around
the donjon-keep
to pull pens out of, you muggins.
They ALWAYS make their pens out
of the hardest, toughest, troublesomest
piece of old brass candlestick
or something like that they can
get their hands on; and it takes
them weeks and weeks and months
and months to file it out, too,
because they've got to do it
by rubbing it on the wall. THEY
wouldn't use a goose-quill if
they had it. It ain't regular."
"Well, then,
what'll we make him the ink
out of?"
"Many makes
it out of iron-rust and tears;
but that's the common
sort and women; the best authorities
uses their own blood. Jim can
do that; and when he wants to
send any little common ordinary
mysterious message to let the
world know where he's captivated,
he can write it on the bottom
of a tin plate with a fork and
throw it out of the window. The
Iron Mask always done that, and
it's a blame' good way, too."
"Jim ain't
got no tin plates. They feed
him in a pan."
"That ain't
nothing; we can get him some."
"Can't nobody
READ his plates."
"That ain't
got anything to DO with it,
Huck Finn. All HE'S
got to do is to write on the
plate and throw it out. You don't
HAVE to be able to read it. Why,
half the time you can't read
anything a prisoner writes on
a tin plate, or anywhere else."
"Well, then,
what's the sense in wasting
the plates?"
"Why, blame
it all, it ain't the PRISONER'S
plates."
"But it's SOMEBODY'S
plates, ain't it?"
"Well, spos'n
it is? What does the PRISONER
care whose --"
He broke off there, because
we heard the breakfasthorn blowing.
So we cleared out for the house.
Along during the morning I
borrowed a sheet and a white
shirt off of the clothes-line;
and I found an old sack and put
them in it, and we went down
and got the fox-fire, and put
that in too. I called it borrowing,
because that was what pap always
called it; but Tom said it warn't
borrowing, it was stealing. He
said we was representing prisoners;
and prisoners don't care how
they get a thing so they get
it, and nobody don't blame them
for it, either. It ain't no crime
in a prisoner to steal the thing
he needs to get away with, Tom
said; it's his right; and so,
as long as we was representing
a prisoner, we had a perfect
right to steal anything on this
place we had the least use for
to get ourselves out of prison
with. He said if we warn't prisoners
it would be a very different
thing, and nobody but a mean,
ornery person would steal when
he warn't a prisoner. So we allowed
we would steal everything there
was that come handy. And yet
he made a mighty fuss, one day,
after that, when I stole a watermelon
out of the nigger-patch and eat
it; and he made me go and give
the niggers a dime without telling
them what it was for. Tom said
that what he meant was, we could
steal anything we NEEDED. Well,
I says, I needed the watermelon.
But he said I didn't need it
to get out of prison with; there's
where the difference was. He
said if I'd a wanted it to hide
a knife in, and smuggle it to
Jim to kill the seneskal with,
it would a been all right. So
I let it go at that, though I
couldn't see no advantage in
my representing a prisoner if
I got to set down and chaw over
a lot of gold-leaf distinctions
like that every time I see a
chance to hog a watermelon.
Well, as I was saying, we waited
that morning till everybody was
settled down to business, and
nobody in sight around the yard;
then Tom he carried the sack
into the lean-to whilst I stood
off a piece to keep watch. By
and by he come out, and we went
and set down on the woodpile
to talk. He says:
"Everything's
all right now except tools;
and that's easy
fixed."
"Tools?" I
says.
"Yes."
"Tools for
what?"
"Why, to dig
with. We ain't a-going to GNAW
him out, are
we?"
"Ain't them old crippled picks
and things in there good enough
to dig a nigger out with?" I
says.
He turns on me, looking pitying
enough to make a body cry, and
says:
"Huck Finn,
did you EVER hear of a prisoner
having picks and
shovels, and all the modern conveniences
in his wardrobe to dig himself
out with? Now I want to ask you
-- if you got any reasonableness
in you at all -- what kind of
a show would THAT give him to
be a hero? Why, they might as
well lend him the key and done
with it. Picks and shovels --
why, they wouldn't furnish 'em
to a king."
"Well, then," I says, "if
we don't want the picks and
shovels,
what do we want?"
"A couple of
case-knives."
"To dig the
foundations out from under
that cabin with?"
"Yes."
"Confound it,
it's foolish, Tom."
"It don't make
no difference how foolish it
is, it's the RIGHT
way -- and it's the regular way.
And there ain't no OTHER way,
that ever I heard of, and I've
read all the books that gives
any information about these things.
They always dig out with a case-knife
-- and not through dirt, mind
you; generly it's through solid
rock. And it takes them weeks
and weeks and weeks, and for
ever and ever. Why, look at one
of them prisoners in the bottom
dungeon of the Castle Deef, in
the harbor of Marseilles, that
dug himself out that way; how
long was HE at it, you reckon?"
"I don't know."
"Well, guess."
"I don't know.
A month and a half."
"THIRTY-SEVEN
YEAR -- and he come out in
China. THAT'S the
kind. I wish the bottom of THIS
fortress was solid rock."
"JIM don't
know nobody in China."
"What's THAT
got to do with it? Neither
did that other fellow.
But you're always a-wandering
off on a side issue. Why can't
you stick to the main point?"
"All right
-- I don't care where he comes
out, so he COMES
out; and Jim don't, either, I
reckon. But there's one thing,
anyway -- Jim's too old to be
dug out with a case-knife. He
won't last."
"Yes he will
LAST, too. You don't reckon
it's going to take
thirty-seven years to dig out
through a DIRT foundation, do
you?"
"How long will
it take, Tom?"
"Well, we can't
resk being as long as we ought
to, because
it mayn't take very long for
Uncle Silas to hear from down
there by New Orleans. He'll hear
Jim ain't from there. Then his
next move will be to advertise
Jim, or something like that.
So we can't resk being as long
digging him out as we ought to.
By rights I reckon we ought to
be a couple of years; but we
can't. Things being so uncertain,
what I recommend is this: that
we really dig right in, as quick
as we can; and after that, we
can LET ON, to ourselves, that
we was at it thirty-seven years.
Then we can snatch him out and
rush him away the first time
there's an alarm. Yes, I reckon
that 'll be the best way."
"Now, there's SENSE in that," I
says. "Letting on don't cost
nothing; letting on ain't no
trouble; and if it's any object,
I don't mind letting on we was
at it a hundred and fifty year.
It wouldn't strain me none, after
I got my hand in. So I'll mosey
along now, and smouch a couple
of case-knives."
"Smouch three," he says; "we
want one to make a saw out of."
"Tom, if it ain't unregular
and irreligious to sejest it," I
says, "there's an old rusty saw-blade
around yonder sticking under
the weather-boarding behind the
smoke-house."
He looked kind of weary and
discouraged-like, and says:
"It ain't no use to try to
learn you nothing, Huck. Run
along and smouch the knives --
three of them." So I done it.
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