“I reckon dat boy been livin’ high and mighty down to Richmond. Suckers is gittin’ ’tas’ good to me sence Marse Aspley gone.”
Morey left the tobacco field and took the old meadow path to the big bend above—Julius Cæsar’s domain and the best part of the creek. Amos took the road to the ford, two bends below and about an hour’s fishing from the big pool. If Julius Cæsar existed outside of Amos’ head Morey could not prove it. With what skill he had he fished the pool, waited ten minutes and went over the same water again without a strike. Then he advanced slowly down stream. In three quarters of an hour only two trout did he hook, neither of them a fish to be proud of.
When he reached the ford where Amos should have been waiting for him there was no sign of the colored boy and the sun was high overhead. Ten minutes later, wading softly down the cool and shady little stream and almost lost in the sportsman’s absorption, his fly shooting forward swiftly and silently over each eddy and likely log, he was suddenly aroused by a quick splash and a violent exclamation.
[Amos Struggled to Free Himself.]
Just before him, and struggling in the middle of the stream, were two persons. [Amos], who was one of them, almost prostrate in the shallow water, [was struggling to free himself] from the grip of a man about thirty-five years old.
“You black rascal,” exclaimed the man. “What d’you mean. Seinin’, eh? Take that!”
At the word he planted the flat of his hand on the black boy’s back. As Amos fell flat in the stream and rolled over in the water there was a splashing behind his assailant. The man turned just in time to see Morey, his ragged, baggy trousers wet and impeding his progress, plugging furiously forward.