"Geewhillikins," I says, "but what does the rest of it mean?"

     "We ain't got no time to bother over that," he says; "we got to dig in like all git-out."

     "Well, anyway," I says, "what's SOME of it? What's a fess?"

     "A fess--a fess is--YOU don't need to know what a fess is. I'll show him how to make it when he gets to it."

     "Shucks, Tom," I says, "I think you might tell a person. What's a bar sinister?"

     "Oh, I don't know. But he's got to have it. All the nobility does."

     That was just his way. If it didn't suit him to explain a thing to you, he wouldn't do it. You might pump at him a week, it wouldn't make no difference.

     He'd got all that coat of arms business fixed, so now he started in to finish up the rest of that part of the work, which was to plan out a mournful inscription--said Jim got to have one, like they all done. He made up a lot, and wrote them out on a paper, and read them off, so: