"Well, guess."
"I don't know. A month and a half?"
"Thirty-seven year—and he come out in China. That's the kind. I wish the bottom of this fortress was solid rock."
"Jim don't know nobody in China."
"What's that got to do with it? Neither did that other fellow. But you're always a-wandering off on a side issue. Why can't you stick to the main point?"
SMOUCHING THE KNIVES.
"All right—I don't care where he comes out, so he comes out; and Jim don't, either, I reckon. But there's one thing, anyway—Jim's too old to be dug out with a case-knife. He won't last."
"Yes he will last, too. You don't reckon it's going to take thirty-seven years to dig out through a dirt foundation, do you?"
"How long will it take, Tom?"
"Well, we can't resk being as long as we ought to, because it mayn't take very long for Uncle Silas to hear from down there by New Orleans. He'll hear Jim ain't from there. Then his next move will be to advertise Jim, or something like that. So we can't resk being as long digging him out as we ought to. By rights I reckon we ought to be a couple of years; but we can't. Things being so uncertain, what I recommend is this: that we really dig right in, as quick as we can; and after that, we can let on, to ourselves, that we was at it thirty-seven years. Then we can snatch him out and rush him away the first time there's an alarm. Yes, I reckon that'll be the best way."
