Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Mark J. Twain

  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. Spose 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 clothes-line.”

  He said that would do. And that give 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.”

  “Spose 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 barrel-hoop?”

  “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 Maskfc 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 anything; we can get him some.”

  “Can’t nobody read his plates.”

  “That ain’t got nothing 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 breakfast-horn blowing. So we cleared out for the house.

  Along during that 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,fd 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 agoing 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,fe 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 smouchff a couple of case-knives.“fg

  “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 weatherboard ing 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.

  CHAPTER 36

  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 he 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 counterpinfh 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 he was thinking. Then he says:

  “It ain’t no use, Huck, it ain’t agoing 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 agoing 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 pick-ax 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 up 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 said 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 a while, 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 c
old 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 a while, 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 coat pockets 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.