Chapter 38

12 min

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.

Making them pens was a terribly tough job, and so was making the saw. And Jim reckoned the inscription was going to be the toughest of all. That’s the message the prisoner has to scratch on the wall. But he had to have an inscription. Tom said he’d got to have one. There wasn’t no case of a state prisoner not scratching his inscription to leave behind, along with 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.”

“Look at Lady Jane Grey,” he says. “Look at Gilford Dudley. Look at old Northumberland! Why, Huck, suppose it is a lot of 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.”

“Why, Master Tom, I ain't got no coat of arms. I ain't got nothing but this here old shirt, and you knows I got to keep the journal on that.”

“Oh, you don’t understand, Jim; a coat of arms is very different.”

“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.”

“Well,” I says, “Jim’s right, anyway, when he says he ain’t got no coat of arms, because he ain’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.”

“I reckon I knowed that,” Tom says, “but you bet he’ll have one before he gets out of this. Because he’s getting 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:

So me and Jim filed away at the pens, each using a piece of broken brick. Jim was making his out of brass, and I was making mine out of the spoon. While we worked, Tom set to work thinking up the coat of arms. After a while, he said he’d thought of so many good ones he didn’t hardly know which to pick. But there was one he reckoned he’d settle 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 atto. Got it out of a book—means the more haste, the less speed.”

“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 atto. Got it out of a book. Means the more haste, the less speed.”

“Geewhillikins,” I says, “but what does the rest of it mean?”

“Gee,” 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.”

“We ain’t got no time to bother over that,” he says. “We got to dig in like all get-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.”

“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?”

“Shucks, Tom,” I says, “I think you could at least tell me. What’s a bar sinister?”

“Oh, I don’t know. But he’s got to have it. All the nobility does.”

“Oh, I don’t know. But he’s got to have it. All the nobles do.”

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.

That was just his way. If he didn’t feel like explaining something to you, he wouldn’t do it. You might question him for a week, but 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:

He’d got all that coat of arms business settled. So now he started on the rest of that work, which was to plan out a sad inscription. He said Jim got to have one, like they all done. He made up a lot of inscriptions, wrote them on paper, and read them out like this:

1. Here a captive heart busted.

1. Here a captive heart burst.

2. Here a poor prisoner, forsook by the world and friends, fretted out his sorrowful life.

2. Here a poor prisoner, abandoned by the world and his friends, lived out his sad life in anguish.

3. Here a lonely heart broke, and a worn spirit went to its rest, after thirty-seven years of solitary captivity.

3. Here a lonely heart broke. And a weary spirit found rest after thirty-seven years of being held captive alone.

4. Here, homeless and friendless, after thirty-seven years of bitter captivity, perished a noble stranger, natural son of Louis XIV.

4. Here, homeless and friendless after thirty-seven years of bitter captivity, a noble stranger died. He was the illegitimate 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:

Tom’s voice trembled while he was reading them, and he almost broke down. When he got done, he couldn’t no way make up his mind which one for Jim to scratch onto the wall. They was all so good. But at last he decided he would let Jim scratch them all on. Jim said it would take him a year to scratch such a lot of stuff onto the logs with a nail. Besides, he didn’t know how to make letters. But Tom said he would draw the outlines for him. Then Jim wouldn’t have nothing to do but just follow the lines. Then pretty soon Tom 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.”

“Come to think of it, the logs ain’t going to work. Dungeons don’t have log walls. We got to carve the inscriptions into a rock. We’ll get 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:

Jim said the rock was worse than the logs. He said digging them into a rock would take him such a poison long time 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 awful tedious, hard work, and slow. And it didn’t give my hands no chance to heal from the sores. And we didn’t seem to make no progress, 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.”

“I know how to fix it. We got to have a rock for the coat of arms and the sad inscriptions. And we can kill two birds with that same rock. There’s a great big grindstone down at the mill, and we’ll steal it. We’ll carve the designs and words on it. And we’ll use the grindstone to file the pens and the saw into shape, 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.

It wasn’t no slouch of an idea, and it wasn’t no slouch of a grindstone neither, but we allowed we’d tackle it. It wasn’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 halfway, and then we was plumb played out, and pretty near drownded in sweat. We see it wasn’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 wrapped it round and round his neck. 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:

Our hole was pretty big, but it wasn't big enough to get the grindstone through. But Jim he took the pick and soon made the hole big enough. Then Tom marked out them things on the grindstone with the nail and set Jim to work on them. Jim was to use the nail for a chisel. For a hammer, he was to use an iron bolt from the junk in the lean-to. Tom told him to work till the rest of his candle burned out, and then he could go to bed. He was to hide the grindstone under his straw mattress 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.”

“No, sir, thanks to goodness I ain't, Master 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’.”

“But bless you, honey, I don't want none. I's afraid of them. I just as soon have rattlesnakes around.”

Tom thought a minute or two, and says:

Tom thought for 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?”

“It’s a good idea. And I reckon it’s been done. It must have been done. It stands to reason. Yes, it’s a really good idea. Where could you keep it?”

“Keep what, Mars Tom?”

“Keep what, Master 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.”

“Goodness gracious alive, Master Tom! Why, if there was a rattlesnake to come in here, I’d take and bust right out through that log wall. I would, with my head.”

“Why, Jim, you wouldn’t be afraid of it after a little. You could tame it.”

“Why, Jim, you wouldn’t be afraid of it after a little while. 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.”

“Yes, easy enough. Every animal is grateful for kindness and petting, and they wouldn’t think of hurting a person who pets them. Any book will tell you that. You try. That’s all I ask. Just try for two or three days. Why, before long, you can get him to love you and sleep with you. And he won’t stay away from you for a minute. He’ll even let you wrap him around 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.”

“Please, Master Tom, don't talk so! I can't stand it! He'd let me shove his head in my mouth, for a favor, ain't it? I bet he'd wait a powerful long time before I asked him. And more than that, I don't want him to sleep with 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.”

“Jim, don’t act so foolish. A prisoner’s got to have some kind of pet that can’t talk. And if a rattlesnake ain't ever been tried, why, being the first to try one will bring you more glory 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.”

“Why, Master Tom, I don’t want no such glory. Snake take and bite Jim’s chin off, then where is the glory? No, sir, I don’t want no such doings.”

“Blame it, can’t you try? I only want you to try—you needn’t keep it up if it don’t work.”

“Blame it, can’t you try? I only want you to try. You don’t have to 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.”

“But the trouble's all done if the snake bites me while I's trying to tame him. Master Tom, I's willing to tackle most anything that ain't unreasonable. But if you and Huck fetches a rattlesnake in here for me to tame, I's going to leave. That's sure.”

“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.”

“Well, then, let it go, let it go, if you’re so stubborn about it. We can get you some garter snakes, and you can tie some buttons on their tails. Then you can pretend 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.”

“I can stand them, Master Tom. But blamed if I couldn't get along without them, I tell you that. I never knowed before it 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.”

“No, sir, I ain’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.”

“Why, Master Tom, I don't want no rats. They's the dadblamedest creatures I ever see. They disturb a body, rustle around over him, and bite his feet when he's trying to sleep. No, sir, give me garter snakes, if I's got to have them, but don't give me no rats. I ain't got no use for them, scarcely.”

“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?”

“But, Jim, you got to have rats. All prisoners do. So don’t make no more fuss about it. Prisoners ain’t ever without rats. There ain’t no case of it. And prisoners train the rats, and pet them, and learn them tricks. And the rats 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.”

“I ain't got nothing but a coarse comb and a piece of paper, and a jaw harp. But I reckon they wouldn't take no stock in a jaw 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 they would. They don’t care what kind of music it is. A jaw harp’s plenty good enough for a rat. All animals like music. In a prison they love it. Especially painful music, and you can’t get no other kind out of a jaw harp. It always interests them. They come out to see what’s the matter with you. Yes, you’re all right. You’re set up very well. You want to set on your bed at night before you go to sleep, and early in the mornings. Play your jaw harp. Play ‘The Last Link is Broken’. That’s the tune that’ll draw a rat in quicker than anything else. And when you’ve played about two minutes, you’ll see all the rats, snakes, spiders, and things start worrying about you. And they’ll come. And they’ll just swarm all over you and have a grand 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.”

“Yes, they will, I reckon, Master Tom, but what kind of time is Jim having? Blessed if I can see the point. But I’ll do it if I got to. I reckon I better keep the animals satisfied, and not have no trouble in the house.”

Tom waited to think it over, and see if there wasn’t nothing else; and pretty soon he says:

Tom paused 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?”

“Oh, there’s one thing I forgot. Could you grow 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.”

“I don't know but maybe I could, Master Tom. But it's tolerable dark in here, and I ain't got no use for no flower, anyhow. And she'd be a powerful sight of 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.”

“One of them big cattail-looking mullein stalks would grow in here, Master Tom, I reckon. But she wouldn’t be worth half the trouble she’d cause.”

“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.”

“Don’t you believe it. We’ll bring you a little one, and you plant it in the corner over there and grow it. And don’t call it mullein. Call it Pitchiola. That’s its proper name when it’s in a prison. And you want to water it with your tears.”

“Why, I got plenty spring water, Mars Tom.”

“Why, I got plenty spring water, Master Tom.”

“You don’t want spring water; you want to water it with your tears. It’s the way they always do.”

“You don’t want spring water. You want to water it with your tears. That’s how they always do it.”

“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.”

“Why, Master Tom, I lay I can raise one of them mullein stalks twice with spring water while another man’s starting one with 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.”

“She’ll die on my hands, Master Tom. She surely will, because I don’t scarcely 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.

So Tom was stumped. But he thought it over, and then said Jim would have to get along the best he could with an onion. He promised he would go to the cabins and secretly drop one in Jim’s coffee pot in the morning. Jim said he would “just as soon have tobacco in his coffee.” And he complained so much that Tom most lost all patience with him. Jim complained about the onion, and about all the work and bother of growing the mullein. He complained about playing the jaw harp for the rats, and petting and flattering the snakes and spiders and things. All that came on top of his other work on pens, and inscriptions, and journals, and things. Being a prisoner meant more trouble and worry and responsibility than anything he ever undertook. Tom said Jim was just loaded down with more splendid chances to make a name for himself than any prisoner ever had. 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 that way no more, and then me and Tom headed for bed.