The colored boy looked up, alarmed.
“Ah—ah,” he stuttered. “Dem’s my own clothes. Dey’s my onliest meetin’ pants.”
“I should say not,” roared Morey. “Mother didn’t know what she was doin’. Fork ’em over! I can’t go into the water in these,” he added, pointing to the trousers he had on. “These ain’t ready-made,” he went on proudly; “they ain’t boughten. I got them from a tailor in Richmond.”
Amos eyed the new trousers with interest and admiration. Then his lip quivered.
“Marse Morey,” he whimpered, “yo’ ma done gib me dem pants las’ Chrismus’. I speck’s she don’t ’low I’s gwine part wid dem. Dey’s a present.”
“Look here, boy, don’t make me mad,” retorted Morey. “Turn over my pants or we don’t go fishin’.”
Amos’ whine ended in a sob. He hesitated and then broke out: “Yo’ ma gib ’em to me. But—.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Marse Morey,” he said, coming close to the frowning white boy, “I’s got fo’ bits I made pickin’ berries fo’ Miss Carey—”
Morey’s voice did not change but a smile seemed to hover about his clean-cut lips.
“Look here, nigger,” he exclaimed suddenly, “do you want those pants worse than I do?”
“Wuss!” whimpered Amos. “I jes’ nachally got to hab ’em. I done promised dem pants to Miss ’Mandy Hill.”