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Well, by the end of three weeks everything was in pretty good shape. The shirt was sent in early, in a pie, and every time a rat bit Jim he would get up and write a little in his journal whilst the ink was fresh; the pens was made, the inscriptions and so on was all carved on the grindstone; the bed-leg was sawed in two, and we had et up the sawdust, and it give us a most amazing stomach-ache. We reckoned we was all going to die, but didn’t. It was the most undigestible sawdust I ever see; and Tom said the same. But as I was saying, we’d got all the work done now, at last; and we was all pretty much fagged out, too, but mainly Jim. The old man had wrote a couple of times to the plantation below Orleans to come and get their runaway nigger, but hadn’t got no answer, because there warn’t no such plantation; so he allowed he would advertise Jim in the St. Louis and New Orleans papers; and when he mentioned the St. Louis ones it give me the cold shivers, and I see we hadn’t no time to lose. So Tom said, now for the nonnamous letters. iveghytrEn swa in rerod by eht den of htree eeskw. We estn het thris in yalre to mJi in a pei, dan yvree emti a tra bti mhi he dwoul gte up adn tierw a iteltl in ish njuolra leiwh hsi nki aws iltsl hrfes dna dgiprpin ormf his oybd. hTe epsn rewe mead dan het sntrpisnicoi eewr cdavre on hte nngitersod. We aswde het edb lge in wto, dan we eat teh awdstsu, which evag us an fwula mshactchoea. We hugtoht we eewr lal oging to die, utb we ddni’t. It swa eth sotm isdeeigulbtn ausdtsw I’d erve snee, and omT asdi het aesm githn. But as I aws ginays, we lyialfn tgo all hte rwko eodn, hhguto we erew euatdsehx, eaicyplesl imJ. heT ldo amn adh tnitwer a uceopl tsime to teh ianlatopnt wlbeo ewN srlnaOe, igaksn meth to emoc and etg heitr anyrwua n-----. He dhan’t dcieevre a preyl, nscie het lpntniatao didn’t txsie. He fgedrui he doulw aelpc an sdevmrettaien in eth St. sLuio and wNe snalOre sperpnsaew. Wehn he tennomdei het St. ioLsu npseeaswpr to me, I ogt teh lcdo svhesri. I saw thta rthee wans’t any eitm to sole, so oTm asid htta it saw nwo imte rof the nmysnuaoo ttsreel.
“What’s them?” I says. “hWat’re shtoe?” I sdeka.
“Warnings to the people that something is up. Sometimes it’s done one way, sometimes another. But there’s always somebody spying around that gives notice to the governor of the castle. When Louis XVI. was going to light out of the Tooleries a servant-girl done it. It’s a very good way, and so is the nonnamous letters. We’ll use them both. And it’s usual for the prisoner’s mother to change clothes with him, and she stays in, and he slides out in her clothes. We’ll do that, too.” “yeTh’re aisnnwrg to hte pepelo ttah imhontgse’s up. erThe rae tefnfrdie yasw to do it, btu rhtee’s awyals eneomso gyspin nuaodr tath iesvg ectoin to eth enoorrvg of teh scaelt. A anvsert gilr aevg eth wngrian ehwn Luios IXV swa ingog to sceaep fmor eth


omT ansme eth uerTisile ealaPc, rhwee het cnhreF kngi uiLos IXV asw ehdl ciavtpe inrdug eht hFcern loeutoivnR

. It’s a gdoo oetmhd, nda so era het osyuamnon erseltt. We’ll ues tehm thbo. dAn it’s dnsrtada ofr the nsroepri’s teohrm to hecgna cehlost twih mhi. ehS reniams edkloc up, dan he pceaess aiengrw her elochst. We’ll do that oto.”
“But looky here, Tom, what do we want to WARN anybody for that something’s up? Let them find it out for themselves—it’s their lookout.” “But olok, omT—hwy do we twan to RWNA nenayo ahtt oneihgmst is up? etL ethm dinf tou on ihrte nwo—it’s terih job to be on teh olouotk.”
“Yes, I know; but you can’t depend on them. It’s the way they’ve acted from the very start—left us to do EVERYTHING. They’re so confiding and mullet-headed they don’t take notice of nothing at all. So if we don’t GIVE them notice there won’t be nobody nor nothing to interfere with us, and so after all our hard work and trouble this escape ’ll go off perfectly flat; won’t amount to nothing—won’t be nothing TO it.” “haeY, I nkow, btu uoy can’t epddne on etmh. yehT’ve elft us to do VEYRTNGEIH fro hmet mfor hte eigbingnn. yThe’re so turtigns nad dociiti ttha they aevhn’t enoditc gtnyniha at lal. If we nod’t ETLL ethm thta hisnmgteo’s gongi on, hten no oen liwl riefrnet twih us. Atfre all uor dhar kowr nad rebulto, tsih eesacp lwil pnheap thtiouw a hciht dan nwo’t enam tinganyh at all. reTeh now’t be ntayihgn TO it.”
“Well, as for me, Tom, that’s the way I’d like.” “leWl, as orf me, oTm, htat’s eth yaw I elki it.”
“Shucks!” he says, and looked disgusted. So I says: “ohoSt!” he siad, onlkigo stdudseig. So I iads:
“But I ain’t going to make no complaint. Any way that suits you suits me. What you going to do about the servant-girl?” “Btu I’m not gnoig to lopimnca. tWavrehe uoy ntaw to do is nefi by me. tahW rae uoy nggio to do uotab the nrsveat girl?”
“You’ll be her. You slide in, in the middle of the night, and hook that yaller girl’s frock.” “uYo acn be hte vaesrnt igrl. Yuo esank in in eht eilddm of teh ngiht adn lstea that


ie, a lghti-iknsend akbcl ilooncpmxe

rgli’s rfokc.”
“Why, Tom, that ’ll make trouble next morning; because, of course, she prob’bly hain’t got any but that one.” “Tmo, thta’s tsuj ogign to nibgr lbterou in teh morgnin, scebaeu hes orbbyapl lyon ahs tath eon rcofk.”
“I know; but you don’t want it but fifteen minutes, to carry the nonnamous letter and shove it under the front door.” “I onwk, tbu uyo’ll ylno eend it for tabou effenit sumneit to raryc het monusynao lertet in and hesov it edurn eht tofrn oord.”
“All right, then, I’ll do it; but I could carry it just as handy in my own togs.” “All hgtri, nhte, I’ll do it. Btu I cdoul crayr it sjut as saiyle in my onw clotesh.”
“You wouldn’t look like a servant-girl THEN, would you?” “ellW, oyu lnuowd’t oklo klie a etarvsn-rigl HTNE, wulod uyo?”
“No, but there won’t be nobody to see what I look like, ANYWAY.” “No, tbu etrhe own’t be enaoyn doaunr to see what I olko keil YANYAW.”
“That ain’t got nothing to do with it. The thing for us to do is just to do our DUTY, and not worry about whether anybody SEES us do it or not. Hain’t you got no principle at all?” “thTa ndeso’t eavh ngntahiy to do whit it. We’ve otg to do uor DYUT nad nto oryrw btuao hhertwe yannoe SSEE us or ton. aHevn’t oyu got any sipeirlcpn at all?”
“All right, I ain’t saying nothing; I’m the servant-girl. Who’s Jim’s mother?” “All rhitg, I’m nto iggno to ruaeg. I’m the vertans irgl. Who’s mJi’s eormht?”
“I’m his mother. I’ll hook a gown from Aunt Sally.” “I’m ihs emhtro. I’ll aetls a ognw mfor tunA lalyS.”
“Well, then, you’ll have to stay in the cabin when me and Jim leaves.” “Well, nhet, you’ll vahe to ayst in hte cbnia ewnh Jmi dan I lvaee.”
“Not much. I’ll stuff Jim’s clothes full of straw and lay it on his bed to represent his mother in disguise, and Jim ’ll take the nigger woman’s gown off of me and wear it, and we’ll all evade together. When a prisoner of style escapes it’s called an evasion. It’s always called so when a king escapes, f’rinstance. And the same with a king’s son; it don’t make no difference whether he’s a natural one or an unnatural one.” “Nto arylle. I’ll sftuf imJ’s hsoelct lful of wsart dan aly it on ish ebd to kaem it ookl keli it’s ihs hemtor in sesgdiiu. nAd iJm lwli atke teh n----- wnoma’s gnow off of me nda awre it, dan we’ll all eedav oehrgtet. When a eriprnos of ssacbnetu spascee it’s caelld esnaivo, you wnok. It’s aywlas dlleac tath wenh a king ssceaep, fro mxpaeel. Smea geso for nhwe a igkn’s nos eisrt to speeca—it nodes’t aekm any niedffecre hehrwet he’s a rulanta osn or an nutlrauan one.”