Chapter 37: Page 3
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And so he went on a-mumbling up stairs, and then we left. He was a mighty nice old man. And always is.
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He mumbled as he went back upstairs, and then we left too. He was a really nice old man. He always is.
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Tom was a good deal bothered about what to do for a spoon, but he said we’d got to have it; so he took a think. When he had ciphered it out he told me how we was to do; then we went and waited around the spoon-basket till we see Aunt Sally coming, and then Tom went to counting the spoons and laying them out to one side, and I slid one of them up my sleeve, and Tom says:
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Tom was really concerned about getting a new spoon, but he said we needed to have one. He thought for a while. When he finally figured it out, he told me the plan. We went over to the basket where Aunt Sally kept he spoons, and waited until she came by. Then Tom started counting the spoons and laying them off to one side of the basket. I slid one of them up my sleave as Tom said:
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“Why, Aunt Sally, there ain’t but nine spoons YET.”
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“Why, Aunt Sally—there are STILL only nine spoons.”
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She says:
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She said:
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“Go ’long to your play, and don’t bother me. I know better, I counted ’m myself.”
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“Go on and play. Don’t bother me. I know better, because I counted them myself.”
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“Well, I’ve counted them twice, Aunty, and I can’t make but nine.”
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“Well, I just counted them twice, Aunty, and I only counted nine.”
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She looked out of all patience, but of course she come to count—anybody would.
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She looked flustered and impatient, but of course she came over to count them—anyone would.
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“I declare to gracious ther’ AIN’T but nine!” she says. “Why, what in the world—plague TAKE the things, I’ll count ’m again.”
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“I DECLARE! There ARE only nine!” she said. “What in the world? Darn it, put them back, and I’ll count them again.”
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So I slipped back the one I had, and when she got done counting, she says:
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I slipped the spoon back into the pile, and when she finished recounting them all, she said:
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“Hang the troublesome rubbage, ther’s TEN now!” and she looked huffy and bothered both. But Tom says:
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“What a bunch of garbage! Now there are TEN!” She looked huffy and bothered, but Tom said:
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“Why, Aunty, I don’t think there’s ten.”
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“Why, Aunty, I don’t think there are ten.”
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“You numskull, didn’t you see me COUNT ’m?”
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“You numbskull—didn’t you see me COUNT them?”
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“I know, but—”
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“I know, but….”
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“Well, I’ll count ’m AGAIN.”
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“Well, I’ll count them AGAIN.”
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So I smouched one, and they come out nine, same as the other time. Well, she WAS in a tearing way—just a-trembling all over, she was so mad. But she counted and counted till she got that addled she’d start to count in the basket for a spoon sometimes; and so, three times they come out right, and three times they come out wrong. Then she grabbed up the basket and slammed it across the house and knocked the cat galley-west; and she said cle’r out and let her have some peace, and if we come bothering around her again betwixt that and dinner she’d skin us. So we had the odd spoon, and dropped it in her apron-pocket whilst she was a-giving us our sailing orders, and Jim got it all right, along with her shingle nail, before noon. We was very well satisfied with this business, and Tom allowed it was worth twice the trouble it took, because he said NOW she couldn’t ever count them spoons twice alike again to save her life; and wouldn’t believe she’d counted them right if she DID; and said that after she’d about counted her head off for the next three days he judged she’d give it up and offer to kill anybody that wanted her to ever count them any more.
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I secretly lifted one again, so she only counted nine this time, just as she had before. Now she WAS pretty worked up, shaking all over with anger. But she counted over and over until she got so frustrated that she started miscounting. Three times she came out with the right number and three times she counted it wrong. Then she picked up the basket and threw it across the house, where it hit the cat, dazing it. She told us to clear out and give her some peace, and that if we bothered her again between now and dinner she’d skin us alive. While she was shouting, we dropped the spoon we’d lifted in her apron pocket. Jim was able to grab it and the shingle nail before noon. We were quite pleased with ourselves for pulling this off. Tom said it was worth twice the trouble it had taken, because now she’d never be able to count those spoons again to save her life. No matter how many times she counted them, she’d never believe that she’d done it correctly. He said he figured she’d count them again and again for the next three days before she finally ging up and saying she’d kill anyone who ever asked her to count them again.
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So we put the sheet back on the line that night, and stole one out of her closet; and kept on putting it back and stealing it again for a couple of days till she didn’t know how many sheets she had any more, and she didn’t CARE, and warn’t a-going to bullyrag the rest of her soul out about it, and wouldn’t count them again not to save her life; she druther die first.
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We put the sheet back on the clothesline that night and stole another one out of Aunt Sally’s closet. We kept putting it back and stealing it for a couple days until she didn’t know how many sheets she had any more. Eventually, she no longer CARED how many sheets she had. She didn’t want to think about it and felt she’d rather die before counting them ever again.
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So we was all right now, as to the shirt and the sheet and the spoon and the candles, by the help of the calf and the rats and the mixed-up counting; and as to the candlestick, it warn’t no consequence, it would blow over by and by.
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With the help of the calf and the rats and the confusing countings, we were in a good position as far as the shirt, the sheet, the spoon, and the candles were concerned. As for the candlestick, it didn’t matter—that would work itself out soon.
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But that pie was a job; we had no end of trouble with that pie. We fixed it up away down in the woods, and cooked it there; and we got it done at last, and very satisfactory, too; but not all in one day; and we had to use up three wash-pans full of flour before we got through, and we got burnt pretty much all over, in places, and eyes put out with the smoke; because, you see, we didn’t want nothing but a crust, and we couldn’t prop it up right, and she would always cave in. But of course we thought of the right way at last—which was to cook the ladder, too, in the pie. So then we laid in with Jim the second night, and tore up the sheet all in little strings and twisted them together, and long before daylight we had a lovely rope that you could a hung a person with. We let on it took nine months to make it.
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But preparing that witch pie took considerable work. There was no end to our troubles with that pie. We prepared it and cooked it at a spot deep in the woods. We finished it just the way we planned, though not all in one day. We had to use three pans full of flour by the end of it, and we burned ourselves all over and got smoke in our eyes. You see, all we wanted was a pie crust, but we couldn’t keep an empty crust from collapsing and caving in at the middle. Of course, we finally figured out how to do it—we just had to cook a ladder in the pie. We visited Jim again on the second night, and tore the sheet into little strips. We twisted the strips together and, well before daylight, we had a lovely rope that you could hang a person with. We pretended that had taken us nine months to make.
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Chapter 37: Page 4
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And in the forenoon we took it down to the woods, but it wouldn’t go into the pie. Being made of a whole sheet, that way, there was rope enough for forty pies if we’d a wanted them, and plenty left over for soup, or sausage, or anything you choose. We could a had a whole dinner.
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We took the rope down to the woods the next morning, but it wouldn’t fit in the pie. Because it was made from an entire sheet, we had enough rope to fill forty pies if we’d needed, and we still would have had enough left over for soup or sausage or whatever else we chose. We could’ve made an entire fake dinner.
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But we didn’t need it. All we needed was just enough for the pie, and so we throwed the rest away. We didn’t cook none of the pies in the wash-pan—afraid the solder would melt; but Uncle Silas he had a noble brass warming-pan which he thought considerable of, because it belonged to one of his ancesters with a long wooden handle that come over from England with William the Conqueror in the Mayflower or one of them early ships and was hid away up garret with a lot of other old pots and things that was valuable, not on account of being any account, because they warn’t, but on account of them being relicts, you know, and we snaked her out, private, and took her down there, but she failed on the first pies, because we didn’t know how, but she come up smiling on the last one. We took and lined her with dough, and set her in the coals, and loaded her up with rag rope, and put on a dough roof, and shut down the lid, and put hot embers on top, and stood off five foot, with the long handle, cool and comfortable, and in fifteen minutes she turned out a pie that was a satisfaction to look at. But the person that et it would want to fetch a couple of kags of toothpicks along, for if that rope ladder wouldn’t cramp him down to business I don’t know nothing what I’m talking about, and lay him in enough stomach-ache to last him till next time, too.
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But we didn’t need it. We only needed enough rope for one pie, so we threw the rest away. We didn’t cook any of the pies in the wash pan because we were afraid the metal would melt. But Uncle Silas had a perfect brass warming pan with a long wooden handle that he liked a lot—it had apparently belonged to one of his ancestors who’d come over from England with William the Conquerer in the Mayflower or one of those early ships. It was hidden up in the attic with a lot of other old pots and valuables, not because they were important or anything—becasuse they weren’t—but because they were relics. We snuck it out and brought it to the woods. But it didn’t work at first because we didn’t know what we were doing. We made a great pie on our last try, though. We lined the pan with dough, and set it in the coals. Then we filled it with the rag rope and put dough on top. Then we put the lid on and put some of the embers from the fire on the top and stood back about five feet or so. We held onto the long handle, which was still cool, and in fifteen minutes we had a great-looking pie. Anyone who ate it, though, would need to have a couple of barrels of toothpicks handy because if that rope ladder inside wouldn’t be hard to swallow, then I don’t know anything. It’d give whoever ate it a pretty bad stomachache too.
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Nat didn’t look when we put the witch pie in Jim’s pan; and we put the three tin plates in the bottom of the pan under the vittles; and so Jim got everything all right, and as soon as he was by himself he busted into the pie and hid the rope ladder inside of his straw tick, and scratched some marks on a tin plate and throwed it out of the window-hole.
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Nat didn’t look over when we put the witch pie in Jim’s pan. We also put three tin plates in the bottom of the pan under the food. Jim got everything, and as soon as he was by himself he broke into the pie and hid the rope ladder inside of his straw mattress. Then he scratched some marks on one of the tin plates and threw it out of the window-hole.
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Chapter 38
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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.
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Making those pens and making that saw were tough jobs. Jim felt that making the actual inscription—where the prisoner scribbled onto the wall with the pen—was going to be the toughest job of all. But Tom said we had to do it—we just HAD to. He said there wasn’t a single case of a state prisoner not leaving some scribbled inscription along with his coat of arms.
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“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.”
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“Look at Lady Jane Grey,” he said. “Or look at Gilford Dudley—old Northumberland! Why, Huck, so what if this IS a lot of trouble? What can we do? How can we avoid it? Jim’s GOT to scribble an inscription and his coat of arms. They all do it.”
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Jim says:
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Jim said:
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“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.”
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“Bud, Master Tom, I don’t have a coat of arms. I don’t have anything but this old shirt, and you know I’ve got to keep the journal on that.”
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“Oh, you don’t understand, Jim; a coat of arms is very different.”
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“Oh, you don’t understand, Jim. A coat of arms is different.”
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“Well,” I says, “Jim’s right, anyway, when he says he ain’t got no coat of arms, because he hain’t.”
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“Well,” I said. “Jim’s right about one thing—he doesn’t have a coat of arms because he doesn’t have one.”
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“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.”
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“I know, I know,” Tom said. “But you bet he’ll have one before he gets out of here. He’s going to break out properly. There won’t be any flaws in this escape.”
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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:
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While Jim and I filed away at the metal to make the pens—Jim made one pen out of brass and I made one out of the spoon—Tom began thinking about what to do about the coat of arms. Pretty soon he said he had so many good ideas that he didn’t know which one to use, but he figured there was one that was the best. He said:
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“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.”
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“We’ll put a bend in the scutcheon OR in a dexter base. We’ll put the saltire MURREY in the fess with a couchant dog, to signify commonness. We’ll put an embattled chain, to signify slavery, with a chevron VERT in a chief engrailed. We’ll put three invected lines on a field AZURE, with the nombril points rampant on an indented dancette. We’ll put a runaway n----- with a bundle over his shoulder on a sinister bar on the SABLE crest and a couple of gules for supporters—the supporters will be you and me, Huck. The motto will be MAGGIORE FRETTA MINORE OTTO. I got that out of a book—it means The more haste, the less speed.
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“Geewhillikins,” I says, “but what does the rest of it mean?”
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“That’s great,” I said. “But what does all the rest that mean?”
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“We ain’t got no time to bother over that,” he says; “we got to dig in like all git-out.”
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“We don’t have time to worry about all that,” he said. “We’ve got to dig in like there’s no tomorrow.”
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“Well, anyway,” I says, “what’s SOME of it? What’s a fess?”
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“Well anyways,” I said, “Can you tell me what just SOME of it means? What’s a fess?”
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“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.”
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“A fess? A fess is… well, YOU don’t need to know what a fess is. I’ll show him how to make it when he gets to that part.”
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“Shucks, Tom,” I says, “I think you might tell a person. What’s a bar sinister?”
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“Shoot, Tom,” I said. “You could at least tell me. What’s a bar sinister?”
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“Oh, I don’t know. But he’s got to have it. All the nobility does.”
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“Oh, I don’t know. But he’s got to have it. All nobles do.”
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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.
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That’s how he did things—if he didn’t want to explain something to you, he wouldn’t. You could keep asking him for a week, but it wouldn’t make any difference.
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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:
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After he got all that coat of arms stuff settled, he started to work on the final piece of the plan: The gloomy inscription for Jim to write. He said Jim had to have one, just like all the other prisoners had. He made up several options, wrote them all on a piece of paper, and then read them to us. He read:
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1. Here a captive heart busted.
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1. Here a captive heart busted.
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2. Here a poor prisoner, forsook by the world and friends, fretted his sorrowful life.
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2. Here a poor prisoner, forsaken by the world and friends, worried away his sad life.
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3. Here a lonely heart broke, and a worn spirit went to its rest, after thirty-seven years of solitary captivity.
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3. Here a lonely heart broke and a worn spirit died after thirty-seven years of solitary captivity.
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4. Here, homeless and friendless, after thirty-seven years of bitter captivity, perished a noble stranger, natural son of Louis XIV.
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4. Here, homeless and friendless, after thirty-seven years of bitter captivity, died a noble stranger, the natural son of Louis XIV.
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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:
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Tom’s voice trembled while he was reading, and he almost broke down and cried. When he finished, he couldn’t make up his mind as to which one Jim should scribble on the wall—they were all so good. At last, he decided that Jim should scribble all of them on the wall. Jim said it would take him a year to write all that stuff on the logs with a nail. Besides, he said, he didn’t know how to write the letters. Tom said he’d made stensils for him so that all he’d have to do is follow the lines. Pretty soon Tom said:
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