“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 window-hole 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 it?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 old-maidy 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 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 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.”