And we left the bird and the train both behind, ’_way_ behind, and done it easy, too. But Tom he was huffy, and said me and Jim was a couple of ignorant blatherskites, and then he says: “Suppose there’s a brown calf and a big brown dog, and an artist is making a picture of them. What is the _main_ thing that that artist has got to do? He has got to paint them so you can tell them apart the minute you look at them, hain’t he? Of course. Well, then, do you want him to go and paint _both_ of them brown? Certainly you don’t. He paints one of them blue, and then you can’t make no mistake. It’s just the same with the maps. That’s why they make every State a different color; it ain’t to deceive you, it’s to keep you from deceiving yourself.” But I couldn’t see no argument about that, and neither could Jim. Jim shook his head, and says: “Why, Mars Tom, if you knowed what chuckle-heads dem painters is, you’d wait a long time before you’d fetch one er _dem_ in to back up a fac’. I’s gwine to tell you, den you kin see for you’self. I see one of ’em a-paintin’ away, one day, down in ole Hank Wilson’s back lot, en I went down to see, en he was paintin’ dat old brindle cow wid de near horn gone—you knows de one I means. En I ast him what he’s paintin’ her for, en he say when he git her painted, de picture’s wuth a hundred dollars. Mars Tom, he could a got de cow fer fifteen, en I tole him so. Well, sah, if you’ll b’lieve me, he jes’ shuck his head, dat painter did, en went on a-dobbin’. Bless you, Mars Tom, _dey_ don’t know nothin’.” Tom lost his temper. I notice a person ’most always does that’s got laid out in an argument. He told us to shut up, and maybe we’d feel better. Then he see a town clock away off down yonder, and he took up the glass and looked at it, and then looked at his silver turnip, and then at the clock, and then at the turnip again, and says: “That’s funny! That clock’s near about an hour fast.” So he put up his turnip. Then he see another clock, and took a look, and it was an hour fast too. That puzzled him. “That’s a mighty curious thing,” he says. “I don’t understand it.” Then he took the glass and hunted up another clock, and sure enough it was an hour fast too. Then his eyes began to spread and his breath to come out kinder gaspy like, and he says: “Ger-reat Scott, it’s the _longitude!_” I says, considerably scared: “Well, what’s been and gone and happened now?” “Why, the thing that’s happened is that this old bladder has slid over Illinois and Indiana and Ohio like nothing, and this is the east end of Pennsylvania or New York, or somewheres around there.” “Tom Sawyer, you don’t mean it!” “Yes, I do, and it’s dead sure. We’ve covered about fifteen degrees of longitude since we left St. Louis yesterday afternoon, and them clocks are right. We’ve come close on to eight hundred miles.”