“Anyway don’t stab him,” said Morey putting on his own trousers.
“I ain’t no stabbin’ colored boy,” began Amos with dignity, “an’ I ain’t gwine hit no pusson when he ain’t lookin!”
“Good. Never do any thing behind another man’s back.”
The colored boy shifted a little uneasily but Morey only laughed and said no more. As the two boys passed out of the cabin Morey pointed to the distant home.
“Amos,” he said, “why don’t you get up there and take those bricks down?”
“Yo’ ma don’ tell me to take no bricks down. How I gwine to git ’way up dar? ’Sides, I ain’t got no time—.”
“Well, I tell you—”
“Miss Marshall, don’ tell me—.”
“Git, boy!” snapped Morey nodding toward the house.
But Amos hung back, digging his toes into the dust, with a defiant look on his face. Morey began to feel in his pockets and his face assumed a puzzled look.