a lot of gold-leaf distinctions like that every time I see a chance to hog a watermelon. Well, as I was saying, we waited that morning till everybody was settled down to business, and nobody in sight around the yard; then Tom he carried the sack into the lean-to whilst I stood off a piece to keep watch.  By and by he come out, and we went and set down on the woodpile to talk.  He says: “Everything's all right now except tools; and that's easy fixed.” “Tools?”  I says. “Yes.” “Tools for what?” “Why, to dig with.  We ain't a-going to _gnaw_ him out, are we?” “Ain't them old crippled picks and things in there good enough to dig a nigger out with?”  I says. He turns on me, looking pitying enough to make a body cry, and says: “Huck Finn, did you _ever_ hear of a prisoner having picks and shovels, and all the modern conveniences in his wardrobe to dig himself out with?  Now I want to ask you--if you got any reasonableness in you at all--what kind of a show would _that_ give him to be a hero?  Why, they might as well lend him the key and done with it.  Picks and shovels--why, they wouldn't furnish 'em to a king.” “Well, then,” I says, “if we don't want the picks and shovels, what do we want?” “A couple of case-knives.” “To dig the foundations out from under that cabin with?” “Yes.” “Confound it, it's foolish, Tom.” “It don't make no difference how foolish it is, it's the _right_ way--and it's the regular way.  And there ain't no _other_ way, that ever I heard of, and I've read all the books that gives any information about these things. They always dig out with a case-knife--and not through dirt, mind you; generly it's through solid rock.  And it takes them weeks and weeks and weeks, and for ever and ever.  Why, look at one of them prisoners in the bottom dungeon of the Castle Deef, in the harbor of Marseilles, that dug himself out that way; how long was _he_ at it, you reckon?” “I don't know.” “Well, guess.” “I don't know.  A month and a half.” “_Thirt