“What you goin’ to do with your hoss?”
“My servant will look after the animal.”
“Hain’t got no stable here. Two blocks up,” exclaimed the Center House host, as he retreated toward the kitchen.
When Amos had carried Morey’s bag into the office he drove Betty to “Abson’s Livery, Feed and Sale Stable,” while Morey, unassisted as to his bag, followed the proprietor to his room. Making a brief toilet he waited for the supper bell. In the course of twenty minutes, hearing a commotion outside, he stepped to the window. But it was too dark to see anything. Yet his suspicions were aroused.
“Hello boy, goin’ to meetin’?”
“Purty slick nigger, eh?”
Morey rushed downstairs. On the newly sprinkled board sidewalk and in the full glare of the light stood Amos, a picture of smiles and colors. In Morey’s trousers—his “meetin’ pants,”—shoes, and one of Morey’s two-year-old hats, a starchless but glaring white shirt, a paper collar and a blue ready-made necktie in which shone an elaborately mounted red stone, Amos was ready for the admiration of Centerville.
“Rigged out to beat yer boss!” shouted another humorist.
“Yer meal’s ready,” interrupted the proprietor.
Morey beckoned to the colored boy and led him into the dining-room.