"It ain't no use, it can't be done. What you reckon I better do? Can't you think of no way?"

     "Yes," I says, "but I reckon it ain't regular. Come up the stairs, and let on it's a lightning-rod."

     So he done it.

     Next day Tom stole a pewter spoon and a brass candlestick in the house, for to make some pens for Jim out of, and six tallow candles; and I hung around the nigger cabins and laid for a chance, and stole three tin plates. Tom says it wasn't enough; but I said nobody wouldn't ever see the plates that Jim throwed out, because they'd fall in the dog-fennel and jimpson weeds under the window-hole--then we could tote them back and he could use them over again. So Tom was satisfied. Then he says:

     "Now, the thing to study out is, how to get the things to Jim."

     "Take them in through the hole," I says, "when we get it done."

     He only just looked scornful, and said something about nobody ever heard of such an idiotic idea, and then he went to studying. By and by he said he had ciphered out two or three ways, but there warn't no need to decide on any of them yet. Said we'd got to post Jim first.