The only answer was a wave of Morey’s riding crop and a toss of the smiling boy’s head.
“Out of our way, boy!” sang out Morey. “Over the gate—”
“Hey, Marse Morey! Hey dar! Take yo’ ole race. I’s jes’ jokin’. I ain’t racin’ no mo’,” and throwing himself backwards on old Jim the frightened Amos pulled out of the race. But Betty, the stiff and crippled old hunter, had her mettle up, and Morey made no effort to stop her. With a laugh and a wave of his hand at the alarmed colored boy as he dashed by, the cool young white lad gave the proud mare her head.
At the half-broken gate the trembling animal, throwing off for a moment the stiffness of years, came to a mincing pause, gathered her fore feet beneath her and rose. Up in the air went Morey’s hands and his father’s old crop as Betty’s fore feet cleared the top panel. Then—crash! On the uncut grass of the door yard tumbled horse and rider.
“I tol’ yo’! I tol’ yo’!” shouted Amos as Betty struggled clumsily to her feet. “Marse Morey,” he added, rolling from old Jim’s back, “is yo’ hurted?”
There was a dash of red on the white cheek of the prostrate Morey but in another moment he was on his feet.
“I ain’t hurt, you rascal, but the next time you turn that old plow plug loose against Betty I’ll break your black head.”
“Yas sah, yas sah,” snickered Amos. “She sho’ was gwine some!”
“Rub Betty down and then give her a quart of oats.”
“Yo’ mean turn her in de fiel’!”