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.” “What's _that_ got to do with it?  Neither did that other fellow.  But you're always a-wandering off on a side issue.  Why can't you stick to the main point?” “All right--I don't care where he comes out, so he _comes_ out; and Jim don't, either, I reckon.  But there's one thing, anyway--Jim's too old to be dug out with a case-knife.  He won't last.” “Yes he will _last_, too.  You don't reckon it's going to take thirty-seven years to dig out through a _dirt_ foundation, do you?” “How long will it take, Tom?” “Well, we can't