It was nine o’clock. Tingling with excitement Morey hastily concealed the precious manuscript and drawings in his trunk and sought his mother. In the lower hall he heard a familiar low whistle. It was Amos crouching in the dark at the foot of the stairs. The black boy put his hand on Morey’s arm and motioned him silently to come out to the rear of the house. He shook his head ominously.
“Wha’ fo’ yo’ don’ tell me yo’ beat up Jedge Lummix?”
“I didn’t beat him up,” laughed Morey.
“Dey say yo’ nigh kilt ’im. De town’s all ’citement.”
“Is he hurt?” asked Morey, a little alarmed. Then he told the colored boy what had happened. At the end Amos shook his head.
“I been to town fo’ a pail o’ lard. Marshall Robi’son gwine come fo’ yo’ in de mornin’. Yo’ gwine be ’rested an’ locked up. Da’s what.”
“Who told you?” asked Morey now thoroughly alarmed. “I only acted in self defense. They can’t do anything to me.”
“Mr. Robi’son done ast me was I Miss Marshall’s boy. An’ he said I kin tell yo’ he gwine come an’ git yo’ tomorrer.”
“Why didn’t he come today?”
Amos shook his head.