OR
Morey Marshall of the Signal Corps
[CHAPTER I]
AN EARLY MORNING GALLOP.
“Hey dar, come along. What’s detainin’ yo’ all?”
Two boys, one, a gaunt, long-legged, barefooted colored lad, mounted on a lean mule, and the other a white lad, knees in and bestriding a fat, puffing, sway-backed mare, came dashing down a country road in Virginia.
“You black rascal!” panted the white rider, “what d’you mean? Pull up!”
“I cain’t,” shouted the boy on the mule. “Ole Jim’s got de bit.”
“Bit?” muttered the other rider, noticing the mule’s rope halter and smiling. “I reckon Amos wants a race.”
Loosening his worn and dingy reins the white boy drew himself together, took a fresh grip on an old fashioned riding crop and spoke to his mount.