“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.