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Chapter XXXVIII.
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 ***, 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 bull-headed 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 jews-harp; 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 ***
cabins and drop one, private, in Jim's
coffee-pot, 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.