“Promised my pants to a girl?”
“Yas sah,” explained Amos soberly. “’Mandy and me’s gwine to de camp meetin’ Sunday to the Co’t House. I promise her long time ago I’s gwine wear dem pants when we does.”
“Ah, I see,” laughed Morey at last, “well, don’t disappoint ’Mandy.”
When the two boys left the cabin and cut across the old tobacco field it would have been hard to tell which was the raggedest, Amos with his patched blue overalls, almost white from constant washing, or Morey clad in old Marsh Green’s working corduroys.
At the ruins of the old tobacco shed Amos paused, looked at Morey a little sheepishly and then, from under a few protecting boards, drew out an old torn seine about five feet long, attached to two thin saplings.
Morey’s face flushed at once.
“What you doing with that seine, Amos?” he exclaimed severely.
“What I doin’ wid dat?”
“You’ve been seining trout, you black rascal.”
“Cross my h’at, no sah. Deed I ain’t. No sah.”