University of Virginia Library

Chapter XXXVIII.

Making them pens was a distressidtough
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 we
had to have it; Tom said we'd got
to; there warn't no case of a state
prisoner not scrabbling his inscription
to leave behind, and his coat of
arms.

[ILLUSTRATION]

jim's coat of arms.

"Look at Lady Jane Grey," he
says; "look at Gilford Dudley;
look at old Northumberland! Why,
Huck, spose it is considerable 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' arms; I hain't got nuffn but dishyer
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 hain'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 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 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?"

"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 out 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 onto 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 onto 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 agoing 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.

[ILLUSTRATION]

a tough job

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."

[ILLUSTRATION]

buttons on their tails.

"Well, then, let it go, let it go, if you're so bullheaded 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 dad-blamedest 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 ain' 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 jew-sharp's
plenty good enough for a rat. All animals likes music—in a prison they dote on
it. Specially, painful music; and you can't get no other kind out of a jewsharp.
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 jewsharp;
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 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' 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."

[ILLUSTRATION]

irrigation.

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 nigger 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.