"

"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:

1. Here a captive heart busted. 2. Here a poor prisoner, forsook by the
world and friends, fretted his sorrowful life. 3. Here a lonely heart
broke, and a worn spirit went to its rest, after thirty-seven years of
solitary captivity. 4. Here, homeless and friendless, after thirty-seven
years of bitter captivity, perished a noble stranger, natural son of
Louis XIV.

Tom's voice trembled whilst he was reading them, and he most broke down.
When he got done he couldn't no way make up his mind which one for Jim to
scrabble on to the wall, they was all so good; but at last he allowed he
would let him scrabble them all on. Jim said it would take him a year to
scrabble such a lot of truck on to the logs with a nail, and he didn't
know how to make letters, besides; but Tom said he would block them out
for him, and then he wouldn't have nothing to do but just follow the
lines. Then pretty soon he says:

"Come to think, the logs ain't a-going to do; they don't have log walls
in a dungeon: we got to dig the inscriptions into a rock. We'll fetch a
rock."

Jim said the rock was worse than the logs; he said it would take him such
a pison long time to dig them into a rock he wouldn't ever get out. But
Tom said he would let me help him do it. Then he took a look to see how
me and Jim was getting along with the pens. It was most pesky tedious
hard work and slow, and didn't give my hands no show to get well of the
sores, and we didn't seem to make no headway, hardly; so Tom says:

"I know how to fix it. We got to have a rock for the coat of arms and
mournful inscriptions, and we can kill two birds with that same rock.
There's a gaudy big grindstone down at the mill, and we'll smouch it, and
carve the things on it, and file out the pens and the saw on it, too."

It warn't no slouch of an idea; and it warn't no slouch of a grindstone