to see the hole.  So we dug and dug with the case-knives till most midnight; and then we was dog-tired, and our hands was blistered, and yet you couldn't see we'd done anything hardly.  At last I says: “This ain't no thirty-seven year job; this is a thirty-eight year job, Tom Sawyer.” He never said nothing.  But he sighed, and pretty soon he stopped digging, and then for a good little while I knowed that he was thinking. Then he says: “It ain't no use, Huck, it ain't a-going to work.  If we was prisoners it would, because then we'd have as many years as we wanted, and no hurry; and we wouldn't get but a few minutes to dig, every day, while they was changing watches, and so our hands wouldn't get blistered, and we could keep it up right along, year in and year out, and do it right, and the way it ought to be done.  But _we_ can't fool along; we got to rush; we ain't got no time to spare.  If we was to put in another night this way we'd have to knock off for a week to let our hands get well--couldn't touch a case-knife with them sooner.” “Well, then, what we going to do, Tom?” “I'll tell you.  It ain't right, and it ain't moral, and I wouldn't like it to get out; but there ain't only just the one way:  we got to dig him out with the picks, and _let on_ it's case-knives.” “_Now_ you're _talking_!”  I says; “your head gets leveler and leveler all the time, Tom Sawyer,” I says. “Picks is the thing, moral or no moral; and as for me, I don't care shucks for the morality of it, nohow.  When I start in to steal a nigger, or a watermelon, or a Sunday-school book, I ain't no ways particular how it's done so it's done.  What I want is my nigger; or what I want is my watermelon; or what I want is my Sunday-school book; and if a pick's the handiest thing, that's the thing I'm a-going to dig that nigger or that watermelon or that Sunday-school book out with; and I don't give a dead rat what the authorities thinks about it nuther.” “Well,” he says, “there's excuse for pick