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 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 o