“I reckon I must have dropped my new knife in the cabin,” said Morey, turning back.
There was a swift pat-pat of bare feet and, as Morey glanced over his shoulder he saw Amos in a cloud of dust loping at the top of his speed toward the house.
Morey followed the flying colored boy who in a few minutes was scrambling up the kitchen roof. Mammy Ca’line was in the kitchen ironing and singing softly to herself. Throwing the now stiff trout on a table Morey said:
“Here you are, Mammy, trout for supper.”
“Ain’t you all gwine to Major Carey’s dis ebenin’?”
Morey’s jaw fell. He had forgotten about the proposed call.
“Anyway,” he said, “we aren’t going there for supper.”
“Wha’ fo’ yo’ gwine den? Yo’ ma’ she always stay fo’ eatin’.”
“Where is mother?” asked Morey.
“Sh! sh!” whispered Mammy Ca’line, “yo ma been gettin’ her beauty sleep, chile.”