“Has she been fed this morning?”
“Dey ain’t no oats. We’s out ob oats.”
“Tell your father to order some.”
“I reckon he done ordah cawn an’ oats but dey’s slow bringin’ ’em. Dey’s slow all de time. I done been borrowin’ oats offen Majah Carey.”
“Well,” exclaimed Morey proudly, “don’t you borrow any more oats from Major Carey!”
“Why,” exclaimed Amos, “we been gittin’ fodder offen’ Majah Carey all winter—all de while yo’ been to school. Dey’s so slow bringin’ oats from town dey don’t never git hyar.”
“Did my mother tell you to go to the Carey’s for horse feed?”
“Fo’ de lan’ sake, chile! you don’ reckon my ole pap gwine to bodder Miss Marshall ’bout oats and cawn! He jes’ tells me to go git ’em and I done go git ’em.”
A peculiar look came into the face of Amos’ young master. But Morey said nothing. Waving his hand to the solemn-faced colored boy to care for the animals, he started across the long, fragrant June grass thick about the dingy plantation home.