“Yo’ ma don’ know nothin’ ’bout de critters. Pa, he paid Captain Barber fo’ de ole hen we et.”
“That’s right.”
“Yas sah, yas sah. I done took him a dozen aiggs ma sef. Wha’ fo’ yo’ laffin’, boy? Da’s right.”
“What I wanted to know is, have you time to go fishing this morning? How about that trout hole up at the bend of the creek?”
Amos’ smile gleamed again like a white gash.
“Ole Julius Cæsar, de king trout? Ain’t nobody cotch him yit. But he’s got ’bout a million chilluns. Say, boy,” whispered the colored lad, “I done reckon Miss Marshall had her breakfus’ by dis’ time. An’ dem aiggs ain’t gwine to spile whar dey is. I’s git yo’ ol’ rod and yo’ ol’ flies, an’ say, I’s got one dat ah made mase’f. Dat fly’s fo’ ol’ Julius Cæsar an’ you. Say,” he concluded, looking wisely into the clear blue unclouded sky and wrinkling his sober brow, “I spec’s we bes’ be gwine ’long. Pears to me like rain.”
“I’ll meet you in a half hour by the tobacco shed,” exclaimed Morey.
Again Amos’ brow lowered and he shook his head.
“Ain’t yo’ ma tol’ you?” he asked.
“Told me what?”