“Borrow a shirt, too.” “What do we want of a shirt, Tom?” “Want it for Jim to keep a journal on.” “Journal your granny--_Jim_ can't write.” “S'pose he _can't_ write--he can make marks on the shirt, can't he, if we make him a pen out of an old pewter spoon or a piece of an old iron barrel-hoop?” “Why, Tom, we can pull a feather out of a goose and make him a better one; and quicker, too.” “_Prisoners_ don't have geese running around the donjon-keep to pull pens out of, you muggins.  They _always_ make their pens out of the hardest, toughest, troublesomest piece of old brass candlestick or something like that they can get their hands on; and it takes them weeks and weeks and months and months to file it out, too, because they've got to do it by rubbing it on the wall.  _They_ wouldn't use a goose-quill if they had it. It ain't regular.” “Well, then, what'll we make him the ink out of?” “Many makes it out of iron-rust and tears; but that's the common sort and women; the best authorities uses their own blood.  Jim can do that; and when he wants to send any little common ordinary mysterious message to let the world know where he's captivated, he can write it on the bottom of a tin plate with a fork and throw it out of the window.  The Iron Mask always done that, and it's a blame' good way, too.” “Jim ain't got no tin plates.  They feed him in a pan.” “That ain't nothing; we can get him some.” “Can't nobody _read_ his plates.” “That ain't got anything to _do_ with it, Huck Finn.  All _he's_ got to do is to write on the plate and throw it out.  You don't _have_ to be able to read it. Why, half the time you can't read anything a prisoner writes on a tin plate, or anywhere else.” “Well, then, what's the sense in wasting the plates?” “Why, blame it all, it ain't the _prisoner's_ plates.” “But it's _somebody's_ plates, ain't it?” “Well, spos'n it is?  What does the _prisoner_ care whose--” He broke off there, because we heard the breakfast-horn blowing.  So w