“You slew-footed, wobble-jointed son of a cannibal!” he yelps. “Where’s them pink silk underclothes of mine, eh?”
Slim Hawkins is slow to anger, but when he does get to going he’s hard to stop. He climbs under and over and through this stranger like he was searching for something, and when he gets through this feller ain’t got nothing on but a look of wonderment and one sleeve of his undershirt. Slim looks over the pile of clothes on the floor, and shakes his head.
“I can’t find ’em,” he states, serious-like. “Furthermore I don’t admire to be called a son of a cannibal, Mister Man!”
The feller braces his hands behind him on the floor, and shakes his head like he was trying to collect his thoughts. He squints at Slim, and then explodes:
“My ——! You ain’t Sam!”
“A slight inquiry would have saved us all this search,” says Slim. “Who is Sam?”
“One of my company—my Uncle Tom.”
“So?” drawled Slim. “You with this here ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin’ outfit?”
“Yes,” says he. “I’m Simon Legree.”
“So?”