Amos’ eyes were set. On his solemn black face there was a look of longing. His temptation was too great. Squatting on the floor the colored boy emptied the contents of the trousers’ pockets on the clay; seventy-five cents in money—dimes, nickels and a shining quarter—Morey’s key ring, a silver pencil case, note-book, handkerchief, rubber eraser and his new pocket knife, the last thing he had bought in Richmond.
Each thing the colored lad fondled, felt and smelled. Then he opened the knife, tested it and held it off at arm’s length. Gradually he returned each object to its place, the knife last of all. He sprang to his feet, and Morey was just about to call out, but stopped. The black boy, giving way to temptation, plunged his hand again into a pocket of the trousers and pulled out the new knife. He shoved the knife into his own pocket and dropped the trousers where Morey had left them.
Chuckling to himself, Morey, a few moments later, sauntered into the cabin.
“Amos,” said Morey, “did that man hurt you when he pushed you over?”
“Push me?” said Amos. “He done hit me wid his fis’.”
“Did he hurt you?” persisted Morey, doffing Marsh’s unwieldly trousers.
For answer Amos produced and exhibited the mossy boulder that he had carried from the creek.
“Don’ mak no diffunce ’bout dat. But ef dat man ebber comes dis way,” and he shook his head belligerently, “yo’ don’ need ast him no sich quesson. He ain’t gwine to be hurted—he gwine to be kilt—da’s right.”