But trouble sat lightly on Morey Marshall. Before he and the shambling Amos were many feet apart the young Virginian paused and gave an old familiar soft whistle. The slow-footed colored boy stopped instantly, and then, as Betty wandered at will into a new flower bed and the lean mule walked with ears drooped towards the distant horse sheds, Amos hurried to Morey’s side.
“Amos,” said Morey, “are you busy this morning?”
The colored boy looked at his white companion in open amazement.
“I said,” repeated Morey, “are you busy this morning?”
Amos was not exactly quick-witted, but, in time, with great mental effort, he figured out that this must be a joke.
A sparkle slowly came into his wide-set eyes and then his long, hollow face grew shorter as his cheeks rounded out. His lips parted in a curved slit and his white teeth shone. He laughed loudly.
“I reckon I’s gwine be purty busy. Ma’m Ca’line done tole me to sarch de hen’s nes’. On’y,” and he scratched his kinky head, “on’y I ain’t had no time yit to git de aiggs.”
“Well, I’ll help you with that. How many hens are there now?”
“Fo’. But one’s a rooster.”