some old rusty played-out hoes and spades and picks and a crippled plow. The match went out, and so did we, and shoved in the staple again, and the door was locked as good as ever.

Tom was joyful. He says:

“Now we’re all right. We’ll dig him out. It ’ll take about a week!”

Then we started for the house, and I went in the back door — you only have to pull a buckskin latch-string, they don’t fasten the doors — but that warn’t romantical enough for Tom Sawyer; no way would do him but he must climb up the lightning-rod. But after he got up half-way about three times, and missed fire and fell every time, and the last time most busted his brains out, he thought he’d got to give it up; but after he