“Let me see—let me count it.”
Slowly and with some misgiving, Amos drew from his pocket a long-used handkerchief with a knot in one corner. Morey pulled up Betty along the road and climbed into the rear of the surrey. Hardly waiting for the hesitating black boy to hand over the little treasure Morey took the handkerchief, slipped the knot and dumped the earnings of many a day’s work in the berry patches on the seat.
A crumpled two dollar bill; three silver half dollars; three dimes; six nickels, and twenty-eight copper cents.
“Good for you, Amos! Why didn’t you tell me you had all this money?”
“How much money I got dar?”
“Four dollars and thirty-eight cents.”
“How much is dat, wid dis?” asked Amos, holding out his six nickels.
“That makes four dollars and fifty-eight cents.”
“Da’s why I’s goin’,” exclaimed Amos, his eyes glittering for the first time that day, and his sunken cheeks swelling with a happy smile. “I’se gwine to Wash’ton to git mah banjo.”