or a watermelon, or a Sunday-school book, I ain't no ways particular how it's done so it's done.  What I want is my nigger; or what I want is my watermelon; or what I want is my Sunday-school book; and if a pick's the handiest thing, that's the thing I'm a-going to dig that nigger or that watermelon or that Sunday-school book out with; and I don't give a dead rat what the authorities thinks about it nuther.” “Well,” he says, “there's excuse for picks and letting-on in a case like this; if it warn't so, I wouldn't approve of it, nor I wouldn't stand by and see the rules broke--because right is right, and wrong is wrong, and a body ain't got no business doing wrong when he ain't ignorant and knows better.  It might answer for _you_ to dig Jim out with a pick, _without_ any letting on, because you don't know no better; but it wouldn't for me, because I do know better.  Gimme a case-knife.” He had his own by him, but I handed him mine.  He flung it down, and says: “Gimme a _case-knife_.” I didn't know just what to do--but then I thought.  I scratched around amongst the old tools, and got a pickaxe and give it to him, and he took it and went to work, and never said a word. He was always just that particular.  Full of principle. So then I got a shovel, and then we picked and shoveled, turn about, and made the fur fly.  We stuck to it about a half an hour, which was as long as we could stand up; but we had a good deal of a hole to show for it. When I got up stairs I looked out at the window and see Tom doing his level best with the lightning-rod, but he couldn't come it, his hands was so sore.  At last he says: “It ain't no use, it can't be done.  What you reckon I better do?  Can't you think of no way?” “Yes,” I says, “but I reckon it ain't regular.  Come up the stairs, and let on it's a lightning-rod.” So he done it. Next day Tom stole a pewter spoon and a brass candlestick in the house, for to make some pens for Jim out of, and six tallow candles; and I hung