CHAPTER XI MOREY MAKES AMOS A NOTE

It was eleven o’clock of a moonless June night when Morey and Amos closed the disjointed gate and turned their backs on Aspley Place. There was a little chill in the air and the vapor of dew. On each side of the broad and rough dirt road little more could be seen than the creeper-covered fences. Neither cabin nor farmhouse showed a light. Even over the distant village of Lee’s Court House, toward which old Betty’s head was turned, hung a pall of blackness.

Morey was in high spirits. Considering the dire possibilities of his flight he might well have been downhearted. But the spell of coming adventure was on him. He patted his feet on the rickety bottom of the surrey, he whistled, he cocked his feet on the loose dashboard as he smacked the lines on Betty’s back, and he hummed the darky songs that Amos knew. But Amos did not join in the choruses. The black boy was far from being in jovial spirits.

“Yo’ all ain’t gwine plumb thro’ de town is yo’?”

This was his first concern.

“You don’t think the marshal is awake now, do you?” answered Morey, with a resounding “Giddap, Betty.”

“He’s loafin’ on de square, ef de saloons is open,” Amos assured him.

“Perhaps it would be safer to go around,” concluded Morey, “but it’s a long way.”

There were no side streets in the village.

“De longes’ way roun’ is de bestes’,” was Amos’ advice.

As they approached the village, more than one light could be seen, and Morey, a little to his own disgust, permitted himself to turn out and make a long detour around the town. This accomplished, it was then nearly midnight—he took the main road to Warrenton. That town was fifteen miles distant. It had now grown so cool that both boys wrapped blankets about themselves, and half asleep and with little to say, they bobbed against each other while Betty jogged along.

The night seemed endless. There was no comfort in trying to sleep curled up on the rear seat—the road was too rough. Suddenly Morey roused himself. He had fallen asleep, and he awoke to find Betty standing by the roadside, nibbling at the clover in the fence corner. It was lighting up in the east and the haze of early dawn outlined the road dropping away before him into a wide valley over which lay a heavy mist. Amos was leaning against him, sound asleep. It was time for Betty to rest and feed.

Pushing the tired animal forward again until the bottom of the valley was reached, Morey came to what he was looking for—a little creek. Running south was a “river” road. Turning on to this until he was well into a bottom land grove of trees, he aroused Amos.

“Wake up, boy; camp number one!”

The colored boy aroused himself and then fell over asleep again.

“Breakfast!” exclaimed Morey in his ear.

Instantly he bolted upright, glanced about in an alarmed way and groaned. Blinking his eyes he whispered:

“Marse Morey, I done had a bad dream.”

“Well, you dream about unhooking Betty and finding her some water and grass.”

“I done dream dat old crazy man yo’ all’s tellin’ ’bout been chasin’ me.”

“Don Quixote?”

“Da’s him. He been ridin’ right hyar wid us in de back seat.” And Amos turned suddenly as if expecting to see the ghost of the old knight sitting in the surrey.

Morey laughed as he forced Betty through the underbrush.

“What did he say?”

“He been shoutin’ ‘Go on, niggah! Go on, white boy! I’s wid you!’ No, sah, I ain’t gwine on, I’s gwine home. Dat ol’ boy sho’ly don’ mean no good. Da’s his ghos’—I seen him. He cain’t conjure me, no, sah. I don’t reckon I’ll go no furder. Marse Morey, dat ol’ hoss done played out a’ready.”

Morey was on the ground limbering his stiffened limbs and laughing.

“If I could just find my knife I lost,” he murmured while he felt in his pockets, “I’d cut a new whip.”

Amos started, opened his mouth and closed it nervously and then climbed from the surrey without further comment.

“If any one stole that knife,” continued Morey, “and I ever found it out I’d get Marshal Robinson to lock him up. I paid a dollar and a half for that knife—”

Amos was already busy with Betty. There was no further complaint about old Don Quixote conjuring him. When the mare had been watered in the creek and tied in a bunch of grass where she might find what sustenance she could, the sleepy boys had some cold biscuits, jelly and water, and, with a blanket under them and another over them, they turned in for a nap.

About noon Morey awoke, stiffer than ever and hungry as a young bear. The sun had made its way down through the foliage and he was wet with perspiration. Amos, the blanket still over his head, was snoring like a rip saw. As the white boy reached over to twist Amos’ nose his hand felt something hard on the blanket by his side. It was his purloined knife. It had slipped from the black boy’s pocket. When Amos finally aroused himself he saw his white companion sitting by his side carefully examining the knife.

A look of wild alarm lengthened Amos’ face. Clasping his big black hand against his pocket he exclaimed:

“Whar yo’ git dat?”

Morey smiled and pointed to their improvised bed.

“I found it here between us—here on the blanket.”

“I ain’t stole no knife! Yo’ ain’t ’spicion me, is yo’?”

“I’d hate to think you’d steal.”

“Cross ma h’aht, I ain’t stole yo’ knife.”

Morey smiled.

“I wonder who put it here?” he said.

“Marse Morey,” exclaimed Amos suddenly. “I know who done bring yo’ knife back. De ghos’ ob de ole crazy man, he brung it. Dat ol’ ghos’ I see in de back seat, he tryin’ to conjure us. Da’s what.”

“Old Don Quixote’s spirit?”

“Dat old crazy man’s sure wid us. Better look out, Marse Morey. I’se gwine put a charm on de ole conjure dis night ef I kin fin’ any spunk water.”

“And you didn’t take my knife?”

“Don’t you ’sult me, Marse Morey. Don’t yo’ let ole Keyhole put sech notions in yo’ head. How come dat knife hyar? Yo’ ast old Keyhole ghos’—don’ ast me. I reckon we better be gittin ouah eatin’.”

The noonday meal made deep inroads in the stock of provisions. When the adventurers had reached the main road again, crossed the stream and ascended to the far side of the valley, Warrenton was before them. They were less than twenty miles from home and were a little nervous about being seen so near to Lee’s Court House, but it was necessary to pass through the village to inquire their way. This led them almost north.

At two o’clock Betty pulled into the settlement of Baltimore in Farquar county. The next town would be Centerville in Fairfax County, eighteen miles beyond. Baltimore was a crossroads village with a “hotel,” a blacksmith shop and two stores. At the hotel, where Betty was watered from a moss-covered wooden trough as big as a bath tub, Morey spent twenty-five cents of his fortune for oats. Crossing the street to the general store, he expended twenty cents more for bologna sausage and five cents for some very old and musty crackers.

About four o’clock, in a shady spot by a little unbridged stream, a halt was made and Betty was given water and oats. The two boys regaled themselves with bread, bologna and jelly. The afternoon was drowsily warm. Betty was tired and the cool shade was inviting. Both boys fell into a doze. In a half hour or so Morey was awakened by a violent torrent of exclamations. Amos was chasing and belaboring a gaunt roadside hog. Of their food the only article left by this rascally thief was the tin of preserves. The last of their bread, crackers and all their pork had disappeared. When Amos returned, hot and angry, he held a scrap of salt pork rind.

“Why didn’t you put the things in the wagon, Sancho?” laughed Morey.

“Dat ain’t no Sanko, da’s a hog. All ouah suppah and breakfus’ and dinnah gone now. How far dat Wash’ton?”

“We’ll get there tomorrow,” explained the white boy with another laugh.

Amos scratched his head.

“We gwine to eat, den?”

“If we have luck.”

“Den I reckon we better has’en on.”

Further investigation revealed another calamity. Betty, prowling about, had discovered the paper bag of oats in the rear of the surrey. She had leisurely consumed the feed reserve.

“Never mind,” expostulated Morey, “there’s grass and water.”

“I cain’t eat no grass,” remonstrated the black boy.

“Here’s preserves,” suggested Morey.

“I wants meat, da’s what I wants.”

“You’ve had enough meat for one day,” laughed Morey, who, being full of bologna sausage, crackers and jelly, refused to bother about the future. “We can boil some greens in our quart cup this evening.”

The colored boy began to wipe the piece of pork rind on the grass.

“But no pork—just grass and water,” went on Morey.

At seven o’clock the white houses of Centerville rose above the orchards on a distant hill. The road was up grade and Amos had been walking to relieve Betty. He had been shaking his head and growling about the absence of supper. They had just passed a cabin, some distance back from the road, when Morey heard a squawk and a flutter and turned in time to see the colored boy throw himself on a fat hen. Before Morey could call out Amos was on his feet and with one swift, deft whirl he had wrung the chicken’s neck. Springing forward he hurled the still kicking fowl into the wagon and springing up behind called out:

“Git goin’, Marse Morey, de ole woman comin’.”

Over the tops of the fence weeds Morey could just make out an excited colored woman waddling towards the road stile.

“Da’s mah chicken, da’s mah fowl,” she was crying.

“Giddap, Betty,” shouted Amos. “De ole woman got a stick. Make has’e.”

Instead, Morey drew the old horse up sharply and sprang out.

As the panic-stricken old mammy came rolling down the road, shaking her stick and yelling “Da’s mah chicken,” the white boy began calling, in turn:

“All right, Aunty, don’t get excited. We made a mistake.”

“Gib me mah fowl,” wailed the colored woman.

“Two bits,” shouted Morey, “two bits.”

As he held up his last quarter the old colored woman’s angry face softened. Having satisfied her, Morey returned to the vehicle and the astounded Amos.

“Now,” began Morey, “if we should happen upon a toll gate, we’re stuck. I haven’t a cent.”

Amos shifted uneasily.

“Wha’fo’ you gwine waste yo’ two bits dat way? We could git away!”

“It was burning a hole in my pocket,” answered his white companion. “But, Amos, when you want to steal you’d better not let me know it.”

“Dat wan’t stealin’. Da’s a wild chicken.”

“I hope it is. We’ll have game for breakfast.”

“Yo’ jes’ fro’ dat two bits away,” growled Amos.

Betty had been urged ahead and Centerville was just before them. Amos had crawled into the rear seat and was mumbling to himself about the chicken and the squandered quarter. At last Morey felt a touch on his arm.

“Ef we all had dat money we could get some crackers and cheese, couldn’t we?”

“You’ll get chicken broiled on a stick if you get anything tonight. But I reckon we ought to save the chicken for tomorrow.”

“Cheese and crackers would go pow’ful well. Dey’s got cheese in dis town.”

Morey whirled about to retort angrily that the “quarter” episode was closed. But, instead of reprimanding his colored servitor, he paused with mouth wide open. Amos’ big black hand was stretched out towards him. In it were six nickels.

“Dat two bits?” inquired Amos, in doubt.

“Where did you get that?” asked Morey, recovering from his surprise.

“I’s got money, I has. Dar’s yo’ two bits yo’ fussin’ ’bout.”

“Have you any more?” asked the white boy, eagerly.

“I’s got mah banjo money. I been savin’ fo’ to git a banjo fo’ two berry-pickin’s.”

“How much?”

Amos shook his head.

“Ah been too busy to ezackly count it.”

“Let me see—let me count it.”

Slowly and with some misgiving, Amos drew from his pocket a long-used handkerchief with a knot in one corner. Morey pulled up Betty along the road and climbed into the rear of the surrey. Hardly waiting for the hesitating black boy to hand over the little treasure Morey took the handkerchief, slipped the knot and dumped the earnings of many a day’s work in the berry patches on the seat.

A crumpled two dollar bill; three silver half dollars; three dimes; six nickels, and twenty-eight copper cents.

“Good for you, Amos! Why didn’t you tell me you had all this money?”

“How much money I got dar?”

“Four dollars and thirty-eight cents.”

“How much is dat, wid dis?” asked Amos, holding out his six nickels.

“That makes four dollars and fifty-eight cents.”

“Da’s why I’s goin’,” exclaimed Amos, his eyes glittering for the first time that day, and his sunken cheeks swelling with a happy smile. “I’se gwine to Wash’ton to git mah banjo.”

Morey gathered up the loose coins, took the nickels from Amos’ clinched fingers and slowly dropped the treasure into his own pocket. The black boy gazed open mouthed—too alarmed to speak. This done, Morey took out his little note book, his pencil, and on a page of the book he wrote, hastily:

“I promise to pay Amos Green $4.58 one day after date, at 7% interest.

“Mortimer Marshall.”

“There, Amos, that’s a note. I’ve borrowed your money. You’ll get interest on it now. We’ll stop at the Grand Central Hotel in Centerville tonight like gentlemen. Giddap, Betty.”

And, while the stiffened old mare began trotting along again toward the village, Amos sat as if in a trance, with Morey’s note in his clumsy fingers.