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 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 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: “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.” Jim said the rock was worse than the logs; he said it would ta