“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.”