“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.