Along during the morning I borrowed a sheet and a white shirt off of the clothes-line; and I found an old sack and put them in it, and we went down and got the fox-fire, and put that in too.  I called it borrowing, because that was what pap always called it; but Tom said it warn't borrowing, it was stealing.  He said we was representing prisoners; and prisoners don't care how they get a thing so they get it, and nobody don't blame them for it, either.  It ain't no crime in a prisoner to steal the thing he needs to get away with, Tom said; it's his right; and so, as long as we was representing a prisoner, we had a perfect right to steal anything on this place we had the least use for to get ourselves out of prison with.  He said if we warn't prisoners it would be a very different thing, and nobody but a mean, ornery person would steal when he warn't a prisoner.  So we allowed we would steal everything there was that come handy.  And yet he made a mighty fuss, one day, after that, when I stole a watermelon out of the n*****-patch and eat it; and he made me go and give the n*****s a dime without telling them what it was for. Tom said that what he meant was, we could steal anything we _needed_. Well, I says, I needed the watermelon.  But he said I didn't need it to get out of prison with; there's where the difference was.  He said if I'd a wanted it to hide a knife in, and smuggle it to Jim to kill the seneskal with, it would a been all right.  So I let it go at that, though I couldn't see no advantage in my representing a prisoner if I got to set down and chaw over 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 n***** 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."

"_Thirty-seven year_—and he come out in China.  _That's_ the kind.  I wish the bottom of _this_ fortress was solid rock."

"_Jim_ don't know nobody in China."