shivers, and I see we hadn't no time to lose. So Tom said, now for the nonnamous letters.
"What's them?" I says.
"Warnings to the people that something is up. Sometimes it's done one way, sometimes another. But there's always somebody spying around, that gives notice to the governor of the castle. When Louis XVI. was going to light out of the Tooleries, a servant girl done it. It's a very good way, and so is the nonnamous letters. We'll use them both. And it's usual for the prisoner's mother to change clothes with him, and she stays in, and he slides out in her clothes. We'll do that too."
"But looky here, Tom, what do we want to warn anybody for, that's something's up? Let them find it out for themselves—it's their look-out."
"Yes, I know; but you can't depend on them. It's the way they've acted from the very start—left us to do everything. They're so confiding and mullet-headed they don't take notice of nothing at all. So if we don't give them notice, there won't be nobody nor nothing to interfere with us, and so after all our bard work and trouble this escape 'll go off perfectly flat: won't amount to nothing—won't be nothing to it."
"Well, as for me, Tom, that's the way I'd like."
"Shucks," he says, and looked disgusted. So I says:
"But I ain't going to make no complaint. Anyway that suits you suits me. What you going to do about the servant-girl?"
"You'll be her. You slide in, in the middle of the night, and hook that yaller girl's frock."
"Why, Tom, that'll make trouble next morning; because of course she prob'bly hain't got any but that one."
"I know; but you don't want it but fifteen minutes, to carry the nonnamous letter and shove it under the front door."
