“Anyway we don’t want no runaways in the Center House.”
“Amos,” ordered Morey, “get my bag.”
“Oh, I reckon not,” spoke up the hotel owner, “not ’till you pony up.”
Amos responded promptly. One over-eager spectator, the one who had referred to him as a “slick nigger,” he jostled smartly to one side. With a set jaw and a look of defiance at the proprietor, Morey turned, passed down the hall and mounted the stairs to the room assigned him. A moment later he was in the office. Dropping his bag vigorously on the floor he exclaimed:
“What’s my bill?”
The owner of the place had lost a little courage by this time. But he stepped around behind the desk, cleared his throat and said:
“You used that room and it’s the same as though you slept in it. That’s a dollar. Your supper was 35 cents. The nigger’s supper’ll be 70 cents. That’s $2.05.”
Morey walked up to the desk. “The room may be $1.00 a day. You’ve driven me out of it. I’ll not pay a cent for it. My supper is all right and a good one for the money. This boy’s meal was to be half price. That’s 17½ cents. My bill is 52½ cents. Here’s 53.”
He slapped the coins on the desk and faced the spectators.
“Now you loafers fall back or you’ll get what the ex-jurist got and right in front instead of from behind. Scat!”