The day was just the kind to put vigor and enthusiasm into one. Old Betty ambled along, reasonably frisky after a night’s rest, and the country began to show signs of thickening population. Amos began to get a little nervous.
“How much money yo’ got now Marse Morey?” he inquired at last, hesitatingly.
“Oh, ’bout two dollars.”
“How long dat ’gwine keep us when we git to Wash’ton?”
“Quit your worryin’, Amos. I’ll look after you. I’ll see that you don’t go hungry.”
“How yo’ gwine do dat? I ain’t got no mo’ money.”
“Well in a pinch, I’m going to sell Betty and the surrey.”
The colored boy shook his head.
“Yo’ don’ dast sell Betty. Yo’ ma’ll skin yo’ ef yo’ sell de ole hoss. Sides, who gwine buy dis ole trap? Dat hoss ain’t wuff—”
“Didn’t she carry us all the way here?”