“Me gwine to Whas’ton?”
“Tonight. And we start as soon as we can get ready.”
The black boy had edged away in a state of half terror.
“No, sah, chile. No, sah, Marse Morey. My pa won’t let me.”
“Your father won’t know anything about it. And my mother won’t. That’s the reason we are going. If you speak of it to your father I’ll thrash you. Do you hear?”
“I cain’t go to no Wash’ton now. I’se gwine camp meetin’ Sunday.”
“You’ll probably be camping by the roadside next Sunday,” laughed Morey.
“No, sah, Marse Morey, I can’t do dat. I been to Linden once when de circus show was dere and pa done lambast me fo’ dat. How fur dat Wash’ton?”
“About seventy-five miles.”