Morey, rising from the breakfast table, was almost on Mammy Ca’line’s heels.
“Mammy,” he shouted, “where’s my old fishin’ clothes?”
The fat old negress turned and then, embarrassed, exclaimed:
“Yo’ ma done say yo’ don’ want dem ol’ pants no mo’. She gib all yo’ ol’ garmen’s to Amos.”
“Everything?” laughed Morey, looking down at his second best trousers. “I’m goin’ for trout. I can’t wade in these.”
Old Ca’line shook her head.
“I reckon yo’ ma gwine get yo’ new clothes. Yo’ old clothes is Amos meetin’ pants.”
“Amos!” yelled Morey, rushing through the wide hall and out into the rear yard. “Amos!” he called, hurrying toward the tumble-down cabin of the Greens. “Gimme my pants! My fishin’ pants!”
The sober-faced colored boy was just emerging from the single room in which he and his father lived, with a bit of clothes line around his shoulders to which was attached an old, cracked, and broken creel, and carrying in his hand a long-preserved jointed casting rod.
“I say,” repeated Morey, half laughing, “Mammy Ca’line says Mother gave you my old fishing clothes. Produce—I want ’em.”