"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 resk being as long as we ought to, because it mayn't take very long for Uncle Silas to hear from down there by New Orleans.  He'll hear Jim ain't from there.  Then his next move will be to advertise Jim, or something like that.  So we can't resk being as long digging him out as we ought to.  By rights I reckon we ought to be a couple of years; but we can't.  Things being so uncertain, what I recommend is this:  that we really dig right in, as quick as we can; and after that, we can _let on_, to ourselves, that we was at it thirty-seven years.  Then we can snatch him out and rush him away the first time there's an alarm.  Yes, I reckon that 'll be the best way."

"Now, there's _sense_ in that," I says.  "Letting on don't cost nothing; letting on ain't no trouble; and if it's any object, I don't mind letting on we was at it a hundred and fifty year.  It wouldn't strain me none, after I got my hand in.  So I'll mosey along now, and smouch a couple of case-knives."

"Smouch three," he says; "we want one to make a saw out of."

"Tom, if it ain't unregular and irreligious to sejest it," I says, "there's an old rusty saw-blade around yonder sticking under the weather-boarding behind the smoke-house."

He looked kind of weary and discouraged-like, and says:

"It ain't no use to try to learn you nothing, Huck.  Run along and smouch the knives—three of them."  So I done it.