CHAPTER XII THE RUNAWAYS DISCOVERED

A little after seven o’clock, those citizens of Centerville who were diligently loafing in front of the Center House, were amused to see a wobbling vehicle dash up to that hostelry with an extraordinary burst of speed. It was hardly necessary to check the steed that drew the Marshall surrey, for old Betty stopped of her own accord at sight of the water trough.

“Boy,” exclaimed Morey, in a gracious but positive command, “see to the animal.”

Amos was nonplussed. In the days when the Center House was the Fairfax Inn there had been ample stable and coach room in the rear, but these existed no longer. While Morey made his way into the office of the hotel, Amos stood holding Betty’s bridle. Morey registered: “Mortimer Marshall and servant, Lee’s Court House, Va.”

“Want a regular room for the nigger?” asked the proprietor.

That had not occurred to Morey.

“What are your rates?” he asked, a little alarmed.

“Supper’s over,” explained the host, “unless you want a special meal. Reg’lar rates $2 per day.” Then he looked out and had another glance at Amos. “I reckon I kin make it half price fur the boy. But ef we git supper for you it’ll be extra.”

Morey made a rapid calculation. He was tired and hungry and wanted a bath. It couldn’t come to over $2.50.

“I am traveling,” he answered, “and a little tired. The accommodations along the road are not the best. If you have a young chicken I’d like it broiled with a baked potato, some hot biscuits, fruit and coffee. My boy will eat with me—”

“We’ve got ham and eggs and tea,” remarked the landlord.

“That will do very nicely,” replied Morey smiling.

“What you goin’ to do with your hoss?”

“My servant will look after the animal.”

“Hain’t got no stable here. Two blocks up,” exclaimed the Center House host, as he retreated toward the kitchen.

When Amos had carried Morey’s bag into the office he drove Betty to “Abson’s Livery, Feed and Sale Stable,” while Morey, unassisted as to his bag, followed the proprietor to his room. Making a brief toilet he waited for the supper bell. In the course of twenty minutes, hearing a commotion outside, he stepped to the window. But it was too dark to see anything. Yet his suspicions were aroused.

“Hello boy, goin’ to meetin’?”

“Purty slick nigger, eh?”

Morey rushed downstairs. On the newly sprinkled board sidewalk and in the full glare of the light stood Amos, a picture of smiles and colors. In Morey’s trousers—his “meetin’ pants,”—shoes, and one of Morey’s two-year-old hats, a starchless but glaring white shirt, a paper collar and a blue ready-made necktie in which shone an elaborately mounted red stone, Amos was ready for the admiration of Centerville.

“Rigged out to beat yer boss!” shouted another humorist.

“Yer meal’s ready,” interrupted the proprietor.

Morey beckoned to the colored boy and led him into the dining-room.

“What in the world does this mean, Amos? Where’d you get all this stuff?”

“Don’t you bodder ’bout whar I git dat. Dese is mah Sunday clo’es.”

“This isn’t Sunday. What’d you dress up that way for?”

“Whar I gwine leab ’em? I ain’t no trunk. I ain’t gwine leab dese garmens’ in no liberty stable.”

Morey laughed.

“You’re pretty gay for a boy who hasn’t a cent!”

“Cain’t I hab ten cents, Marse Morey?”

“What do you want ten cents for? You’ve eaten.”

“I allays has some cin’mon draps w’en I’s dressed up. An’ I wants one dem cahds, one of dem pitcher cahds, to send back to pa at de Co’ht House.”

“You mean one of those picture postal cards?”

“I ain’t nebber had none o’ dem cahds yit.”

Morey laughed.

“You can have cinnamon drops, Amos, but we’re not sending back post cards yet.”

The two boys consumed their ham and eggs and left the dining-room.

“Mr. Marshall,” exclaimed the proprietor, as Morey passed through the combination parlor and office, “I reckon you know ’taint customary for colored persons to eat in the main dinin’ room.”

“I don’t object,” answered the boy.

“Some o’ the folks about here is findin’ fault.”

“But we were in there alone.”

“It’s the principle o’ the thing. Colored folks has their place.”

“Why didn’t you say so before he went in?”

“I reckoned you all knowed it.”

“Well I didn’t. We’ll leave your place if you prefer.”

“Oh ye’re welcome, yerself, an’ I reckon he kin stay. But I’m allowin’ yo’ ought to pay extry fer him instid o’ half price.”

Morey looked at the proprietor and his usually smiling face changed to a cold expression. Then he smiled.

“You are the proprietor, aren’t you?”

“Me and my wife.”

“Well, I am Mortimer Marshall, of Aspley Place, Lee’s Court House. In my part of Virginia a contract is a contract. Where I go my boy goes.”

“A nigger ’at kin dress like that coon, kin pay his bills, I reckon.”

“Do you want your money now?”

The landlord’s loud talk had attracted a half dozen town worthies who now crowded into the little room. The landlord was mad.

“I knowed who you was as soon as you drive up,” he retorted.

As the agitated hotel keeper reached over and picked up a newspaper from the ink-smeared desk the curious onlookers crowded forward, Amos among them. The matter that had been the sole topic of conversation for the last half hour was coming to a dramatic sequel.

“I knowed you. I reckon you all thought we don’t see no newspapers in Centerville. How about this piece in the paper?”

Morey took the paper, followed the direction of a shaking finger and read:

MURDEROUS ASSAULT
ON MEMBER OF BENCH.
Scion of Aristocratic Virginia Family
Attacks Ex-Jurist.

“Lee’s Court House, Virginia.—About noon today Mortimer Marshall, the son of the late Colonel Aspley Marshall of Aspley Place, made a mysterious and as yet unexplained attack on Ex-Judge E. L. Lomax, in the latter’s offices in this city. Marshall escaped, but will be arrested in the morning. The jurist, who had lain unconscious for over an hour, finally managed to call for assistance and he is now lying at his home with probably fatal wounds. So far, he has been unable to give but a fragmentary account of the assault which he says was wholly unprovoked and made when his back was turned. Some blunt instrument was used—”

Morey threw the paper on the floor.

“That’s a lie, mainly,” he exclaimed.

“Anyway we don’t want no runaways in the Center House.”

“Amos,” ordered Morey, “get my bag.”

“Oh, I reckon not,” spoke up the hotel owner, “not ’till you pony up.”

Amos responded promptly. One over-eager spectator, the one who had referred to him as a “slick nigger,” he jostled smartly to one side. With a set jaw and a look of defiance at the proprietor, Morey turned, passed down the hall and mounted the stairs to the room assigned him. A moment later he was in the office. Dropping his bag vigorously on the floor he exclaimed:

“What’s my bill?”

The owner of the place had lost a little courage by this time. But he stepped around behind the desk, cleared his throat and said:

“You used that room and it’s the same as though you slept in it. That’s a dollar. Your supper was 35 cents. The nigger’s supper’ll be 70 cents. That’s $2.05.”

Morey walked up to the desk. “The room may be $1.00 a day. You’ve driven me out of it. I’ll not pay a cent for it. My supper is all right and a good one for the money. This boy’s meal was to be half price. That’s 17½ cents. My bill is 52½ cents. Here’s 53.”

He slapped the coins on the desk and faced the spectators.

“Now you loafers fall back or you’ll get what the ex-jurist got and right in front instead of from behind. Scat!”

A panic struck the open-mouthed Centerville citizens and they bumped against each other in their fright. As the two boys were about to step from the room the man behind the desk made a feeble request.

“Some one o’ you git the marshal.”

“For what?” snapped Morey.

“Fo’ dis,” sounded by his side, and Amos, the bag in one hand, shoved forward the red bandanna containing his carefully preserved rock.

“De fus’ pusson crosses mah path gits dis on de haid. It’s a dornick.”

Without interruption Morey and the valiant Amos made their way to the livery barn. The proprietor, one of the panic-stricken hotel spectators, came running after them. With nervous energy he assisted Amos in hitching up Betty.

“What’s your bill?” asked Morey.

The man hesitated.

“I reckon you done owe me ’bout two bits.”

Slowly climbing into the surrey, Morey said:

“Here’s fifty cents for you and I want you to take a message to your marshal. If he hasn’t a warrant for my arrest he’d better not follow me. If he does—I’ll break his head.”

“I reckon you all kin sleep in my barn if you ain’t got no hotel.”

“Thanks,” retorted Morey, “I’ve had enough of Centerville. It’s small potatoes.”

Passing the drug and grocery store a moment later, in spite of the already growing crowd of curious persons, he stopped Betty, alighted and entered the place.

“Got any cinnamon drops?” asked Morey.

The proprietor, a little out of breath, finally discovered a jar of the confection several years old.

“Gimme a nickel’s worth!”

Gaping faces were in the door while this transaction was in progress. But as Morey left, a clear path instantly opened before the desperate fugitive.

“Amos,” he said, springing into the surrey, “here’s your cinnamon drops. And for goodness’ sake don’t put on those clothes again without telling me.”

“Marse Morey,” exclaimed Amos with a sigh, “I’s ’bliged fo’ dem cin’mon draps, but is we gwine drive all night?”

“There is a real town on ahead, only seven miles. If the hotel is more hospitable we’ll sleep there.”

“How much ma’ money dat gwine cos’?”

“Don’t you bother about money. I’m the one to worry. You are protected. You have my note.”

“I’s got de note all right. But I don’ see no banjo.”

“Forget the banjo. We are playing for higher stakes.”

“Steaks? We don’ need no steaks. We’s got a fat pullet.”

“Eat your cinnamon drops and be happy,” laughed Morey. “Giddap,” he clucked to the tired Betty and they rolled slowly out of Centerville.

Suddenly, his mouth full of the spicy confection, Amos grabbed Morey by the shoulder.

“Don’ look dat way, look dis way.”

Whirling the white boy on the seat Amos pointed to the western horizon. The thin sickle of a new moon was just visible.

“Yo’ come nigh seem’ dat moon ober yo’ right shoulder. Dat’d sho’ly brung us bad luck.”

“What shoulder did you see it over?”

“I almos’ seen it ober de left shoulder. I reckon we’s all right. But I’s kind o’ skeered. Dat crazy ole man Keyhole boun’ to come back.”

But if he had come back Amos would have been too tired to recognize the ghost of the old knight. Still sucking at the cinnamon drops he soon fell asleep. When he awoke Morey was dickering with the half-asleep owner of a small hotel in Fairfax. A little of the young Virginian’s assurance was gone. He rather humbly inquired the cost of lodging and breakfast for himself and Amos and stabling for the horse and was glad to close the contract at $1.50.

It was midnight when he at last found his bed. Mr. Perry’s hotel was really only a poorly patronized boarding house, but it gave Morey a chance to get his clothes off and to crawl into a bed in which, though it was poor enough, he could straighten out his tired legs. Amos slept on a cot outside of Morey’s door. Nor did the boys have the luxury of late hours. They were turned out promptly at the sound of a cracked bell at six o’clock. At seven o’clock, having breakfasted on a few thin slices of very fat bacon and one egg apiece, the refreshed wanderers set forth. Washington, their Mecca, was but eighteen miles away.