“Amos,” he said, springing into the surrey, “here’s your cinnamon drops. And for goodness’ sake don’t put on those clothes again without telling me.”
“Marse Morey,” exclaimed Amos with a sigh, “I’s ’bliged fo’ dem cin’mon draps, but is we gwine drive all night?”
“There is a real town on ahead, only seven miles. If the hotel is more hospitable we’ll sleep there.”
“How much ma’ money dat gwine cos’?”
“Don’t you bother about money. I’m the one to worry. You are protected. You have my note.”
“I’s got de note all right. But I don’ see no banjo.”
“Forget the banjo. We are playing for higher stakes.”
“Steaks? We don’ need no steaks. We’s got a fat pullet.”
“Eat your cinnamon drops and be happy,” laughed Morey. “Giddap,” he clucked to the tired Betty and they rolled slowly out of Centerville.
Suddenly, his mouth full of the spicy confection, Amos grabbed Morey by the shoulder.