Morey saw that he was beaten in a flat race, but he did not surrender.
“Race you to the barn,” he cried as Amos’ kicks and lashing forced the plow mule once more to the front, “and over the front gate.”
“No sah! No sah!” trailed back from Amos. “Dis ain’t no fox hunt. Dis am a plain hoss race. Not ober de gate.”
“The first one over the gate,” insisted the white boy, now falling well behind.
Amos turned but he did not show his teeth.
“Look hyar, Marse Morey! What you talkin’ ’bout? Dat ole Betty ain’t jumped no gate sence you all’s pa died. Yo’ll break yo’ fool neck.”
Morey only smiled. The two animals beat the hard highway with their flying feet.
“Yo’ all’s on’y jokin’, Marse Morey,” pleaded the alarmed colored boy, as the racing steeds came to the dirt road leading through what was left of the Marshall estate, and headed toward the ramshackle old gate a quarter of a mile away. The dust rolled behind the galloping horse and mule. Amos turned and shouted again:
“Pull up dat ole plug. She cain’t jump a feed box. Yo’ all gwine break bofe yo’ necks.”