MAKING them pens was a distressid
tough job, and so was the saw;
and Jim allowed the inscription
was going to be the toughest
of all. That's the one which
the prisoner has to scrabble
on the wall. But he had to have
it; Tom said he'd GOT to; there
warn't no case of a state prisoner
not scrabbling his inscription
to leave behind, and his coat
of arms.
"Look at Lady Jane Grey," he
says; "look at Gilford Dudley;
look at old Northumberland! Why,
Huck, s'pose it IS considerble
trouble? -- what you going to
do? -- how you going to get around
it? Jim's GOT to do his inscription
and coat of arms. They all do."
Jim says:
"Why, Mars
Tom, I hain't got no coat o'
arm; I hain't got
nuffn but dish yer ole shirt,
en you knows I got to keep de
journal on dat."
"Oh, you don't
understand, Jim; a coat of
arms is very different."
"Well," I says, "Jim's
right, anyway, when he says
he ain't
got no coat of arms, because
he hain't."
"I reckon I knowed that," Tom
says, "but you bet he'll have
one before he goes out of this
-- because he's going out RIGHT,
and there ain't going to be no
flaws in his record."
So whilst me and Jim filed
away at the pens on a brickbat
apiece, Jim a-making his'n out
of the brass and I making mine
out of the spoon, Tom set to
work to think out the coat of
arms. By and by he said he'd
struck so many good ones he didn't
hardly know which to take, but
there was one which he reckoned
he'd decide on. He says:
"On the scutcheon
we'll have a bend OR in the
dexter base,
a saltire MURREY in the fess,
with a dog, couchant, for common
charge, and under his foot a
chain embattled, for slavery,
with a chevron VERT in a chief
engrailed, and three invected
lines on a field AZURE, with
the nombril points rampant on
a dancette indented; crest, a
runaway nigger, SABLE, with his
bundle over his shoulder on a
bar sinister; and a couple of
gules for supporters, which is
you and me; motto, MAGGIORE FRETTA,
MINORE OTTO. Got it out of a
book -- means the more haste
the less speed."
"Geewhillikins," I says, "but
what does the rest of it mean?"
"We ain't got no time to bother
over that," he says; "we got
to dig in like all git-out."
"Well, anyway," I says, "what's
SOME of it? What's a fess?"
"A fess --
a fess is -- YOU don't need
to know what a fess
is. I'll show him how to make
it when he gets to it."
"Shucks, Tom," I says, "I
think you might tell a person.
What's
a bar sinister?"
"Oh, I don't
know. But he's got to have
it. All the nobility
does."
That was just his way. If it
didn't suit him to explain a
thing to you, he wouldn't do
it. You might pump at him a week,
it wouldn't make no difference.
He'd got all that coat of arms
business fixed, so now he started
in to finish up the rest of that
part of the work, which was to
plan out a mournful inscription
-- said Jim got to have one,
like they all done. He made up
a lot, and wrote them out on
a paper, and read them off, so:
1. Here a captive heart busted.
2. Here a poor prisoner, forsook
by the world and friends, fretted
his sorrowful life. 3. Here a
lonely heart broke, and a worn
spirit went to its rest, after
thirty-seven years of solitary
captivity. 4. Here, homeless
and friendless, after thirty-seven
years of bitter captivity, perished
a noble stranger, natural son
of Louis XIV.
Tom's voice trembled whilst
he was reading them, and he most
broke down. When he got done
he couldn't no way make up his
mind which one for Jim to scrabble
on to the wall, they was all
so good; but at last he allowed
he would let him scrabble them
all on. Jim said it would take
him a year to scrabble such a
lot of truck on to the logs with
a nail, and he didn't know how
to make letters, besides; but
Tom said he would block them
out for him, and then he wouldn't
have nothing to do but just follow
the lines. Then pretty soon he
says:
"Come to think,
the logs ain't a-going to do;
they don't have
log walls in a dungeon: we got
to dig the inscriptions into
a rock. We'll fetch a rock."
Jim said the rock was worse
than the logs; he said it would
take him such a pison long time
to dig them into a rock he wouldn't
ever get out. But Tom said he
would let me help him do it.
Then he took a look to see how
me and Jim was getting along
with the pens. It was most pesky
tedious hard work and slow, and
didn't give my hands no show
to get well of the sores, and
we didn't seem to make no headway,
hardly; so Tom says:
"I know how
to fix it. We got to have a
rock for the coat of
arms and mournful inscriptions,
and we can kill two birds with
that same rock. There's a gaudy
big grindstone down at the mill,
and we'll smouch it, and carve
the things on it, and file out
the pens and the saw on it, too."
It warn't no slouch of an idea;
and it warn't no slouch of a
grindstone nuther; but we allowed
we'd tackle it. It warn't quite
midnight yet, so we cleared out
for the mill, leaving Jim at
work. We smouched the grindstone,
and set out to roll her home,
but it was a most nation tough
job. Sometimes, do what we could,
we couldn't keep her from falling
over, and she come mighty near
mashing us every time. Tom said
she was going to get one of us,
sure, before we got through.
We got her half way; and then
we was plumb played out, and
most drownded with sweat. We
see it warn't no use; we got
to go and fetch Jim So he raised
up his bed and slid the chain
off of the bed-leg, and wrapt
it round and round his neck,
and we crawled out through our
hole and down there, and Jim
and me laid into that grindstone
and walked her along like nothing;
and Tom superintended. He could
out-superintend any boy I ever
see. He knowed how to do everything.
Our hole was pretty big, but
it warn't big enough to get the
grindstone through; but Jim he
took the pick and soon made it
big enough. Then Tom marked out
them things on it with the nail,
and set Jim to work on them,
with the nail for a chisel and
an iron bolt from the rubbage
in the lean-to for a hammer,
and told him to work till the
rest of his candle quit on him,
and then he could go to bed,
and hide the grindstone under
his straw tick and sleep on it.
Then we helped him fix his chain
back on the bed-leg, and was
ready for bed ourselves. But
Tom thought of something, and
says:
"You got any
spiders in here, Jim?"
"No, sah, thanks
to goodness I hain't, Mars
Tom."
"All right,
we'll get you some."
"But bless
you, honey, I doan' WANT none.
I's afeard un um.
I jis' 's soon have rattlesnakes
aroun'."
Tom thought a minute or two,
and says:
"It's a good
idea. And I reckon it's been
done. It MUST a been
done; it stands to reason. Yes,
it's a prime good idea. Where
could you keep it?"
"Keep what,
Mars Tom?"
"Why, a rattlesnake."
"De goodness
gracious alive, Mars Tom! Why,
if dey was a rattlesnake
to come in heah I'd take en bust
right out thoo dat log wall,
I would, wid my head."
Why, Jim, you
wouldn't be afraid of it after
a little. You could
tame it."
"TAME it!"
"Yes -- easy
enough. Every animal is grateful
for kindness
and petting, and they wouldn't
THINK of hurting a person that
pets them. Any book will tell
you that. You try -- that's all
I ask; just try for two or three
days. Why, you can get him so
in a little while that he'll
love you; and sleep with you;
and won't stay away from you
a minute; and will let you wrap
him round your neck and put his
head in your mouth."
"PLEASE, Mars
Tom -- DOAN' talk so! I can't
STAN' it! He'd
LET me shove his head in my mouf
-- fer a favor, hain't it? I
lay he'd wait a pow'ful long
time 'fo' I AST him. En mo' en
dat, I doan' WANT him to sleep
wid me."
"Jim, don't
act so foolish. A prisoner's
GOT to have some
kind of a dumb pet, and if a
rattlesnake hain't ever been
tried, why, there's more glory
to be gained in your being the
first to ever try it than any
other way you could ever think
of to save your life."
"Why, Mars
Tom, I doan' WANT no sich glory.
Snake take 'n
bite Jim's chin off, den WHAH
is de glory? No, sah, I doan'
want no sich doin's."
"Blame it,
can't you TRY? I only WANT
you to try -- you needn't
keep it up if it don't work."
"But de trouble
all DONE ef de snake bite me
while I's a
tryin' him. Mars Tom, I's willin'
to tackle mos' anything 'at ain't
onreasonable, but ef you en Huck
fetches a rattlesnake in heah
for me to tame, I's gwyne to
LEAVE, dat's SHORE."
"Well, then,
let it go, let it go, if you're
so bullheaded
about it. We can get you some
garter-snakes, and you can tie
some buttons on their tails,
and let on they're rattlesnakes,
and I reckon that 'll have to
do."
"I k'n stan'
DEM, Mars Tom, but blame' 'f
I couldn' get along
widout um, I tell you dat. I
never knowed b'fo' 't was so
much bother and trouble to be
a prisoner."
"Well, it ALWAYS
is when it's done right. You
got any rats
around here?"
"No, sah, I
hain't seed none."
"Well, we'll
get you some rats."
"Why, Mars
Tom, I doan' WANT no rats.
Dey's de dadblamedest
creturs to 'sturb a body, en
rustle roun' over 'im, en bite
his feet, when he's tryin' to
sleep, I ever see. No, sah, gimme
g'yarter-snakes, 'f I's got to
have 'm, but doan' gimme no rats;
I hain' got no use f'r um, skasely."
"But, Jim,
you GOT to have 'em -- they
all do. So don't
make no more fuss about it. Prisoners
ain't ever without rats. There
ain't no instance of it. And
they train them, and pet them,
and learn them tricks, and they
get to be as sociable as flies.
But you got to play music to
them. You got anything to play
music on?"
"I ain' got
nuffn but a coase comb en a
piece o' paper, en
a juice-harp; but I reck'n dey
wouldn' take no stock in a juice-harp."
"Yes they would.
THEY don't care what kind of
music 'tis.
A jews-harp's plenty good enough
for a rat. All animals like music
-- in a prison they dote on it.
Specially, painful music; and
you can't get no other kind out
of a jews-harp. It always interests
them; they come out to see what's
the matter with you. Yes, you're
all right; you're fixed very
well. You want to set on your
bed nights before you go to sleep,
and early in the mornings, and
play your jewsharp; play 'The
Last Link is Broken' -- that's
the thing that 'll scoop a rat
quicker 'n anything else; and
when you've played about two
minutes you'll see all the rats,
and the snakes, and spiders,
and things begin to feel worried
about you, and come. And they'll
just fairly swarm over you, and
have a noble good time."
"Yes, DEY will,
I reck'n, Mars Tom, but what
kine er time is
JIM havin'? Blest if I kin see
de pint. But I'll do it ef I
got to. I reck'n I better keep
de animals satisfied, en not
have no trouble in de house."
Tom waited to think it over,
and see if there wasn't nothing
else; and pretty soon he says:
"Oh, there's
one thing I forgot. Could you
raise a flower here,
do you reckon?"
"I doan know
but maybe I could, Mars Tom;
but it's tolable dark
in heah, en I ain' got no use
f'r no flower, nohow, en she'd
be a pow'ful sight o' trouble."
"Well, you
try it, anyway. Some other
prisoners has done
it."
"One er dem
big cat-tail-lookin' mullen-stalks
would grow in heah,
Mars Tom, I reck'n, but she wouldn't
be wuth half de trouble she'd
coss."
"Don't you
believe it. We'll fetch you
a little one and you
plant it in the corner over there,
and raise it. And don't call
it mullen, call it Pitchiola
-- that's its right name when
it's in a prison. And you want
to water it with your tears."
"Why, I got
plenty spring water, Mars Tom."
"You don't
WANT spring water; you want
to water it with your
tears. It's the way they always
do."
"Why, Mars
Tom, I lay I kin raise one
er dem mullen-stalks
twyste wid spring water whiles
another man's a START'N one wid
tears."
"That ain't
the idea. You GOT to do it
with tears."
"She'll die
on my han's, Mars Tom, she
sholy will; kase I doan'
skasely ever cry."
So Tom was
stumped. But he studied it
over, and then said
Jim would have to worry along
the best he could with an onion.
He promised he would go to the
nigger cabins and drop one, private,
in Jim's coffeepot, in the morning.
Jim said he would "jis' 's soon
have tobacker in his coffee;" and
found so much fault with it,
and with the work and bother
of raising the mullen, and jews-harping
the rats, and petting and flattering
up the snakes and spiders and
things, on top of all the other
work he had to do on pens, and
inscriptions, and journals, and
things, which made it more trouble
and worry and responsibility
to be a prisoner than anything
he ever undertook, that Tom most
lost all patience with him; and
said he was just loadened down
with more gaudier chances than
a prisoner ever had in the world
to make a name for himself, and
yet he didn't know enough to
appreciate them, and they was
just about wasted on him. So
Jim he was sorry, and said he
wouldn't behave so no more, and
then me and Tom shoved for bed.
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