“Look in his pockets,” retorted the stranger.
Morey hesitated a moment.
“My name is Mortimer Marshall, sir, of Aspley Place. This boy is my mother’s servant. He—”
At that moment Morey saw a suspicious movement of Amos’ hand.
“Amos,” he exclaimed sternly, “come here!”
Slowly the black boy splashed forward, the rock still in his hand, but with one cautious eye on the stranger.
Morey ran his hand into the colored boy’s pocket and drew slowly forth a still flopping three-quarter pound trout.
“Fo’ de lan’s sake, Marse Morey, who done put dat fish in dar?”
The man did not smile.