I took off my coat, and showed him one of the wales of the cowhide which my tyrants had left upon my arm.
"But they give you all you want to eat," he replied, pulling away the rags from his shoulder, and exhibiting some marks like my own. "I don't mind them things much if they will only let me have something to eat."
Sim was a puzzle to me. He was all stomach. Blows were nothing; food was everything.
"Where have you been since yesterday?" I asked.
"Laying round, looking for something to eat."
"Sim, we must build a raft," I added.
"What for?" he inquired, opening his eyes, as he always did when his muddy brain seized an idea.
"To run away on. Do you see those logs and boards?"
"I see them."
"Well, Sim, we can build a big raft, with a house on it,—a place to live in,—where we can cook, and sleep, and eat."