“Who’s going to look after me?” answered Morey.
The black boy was in a quandary.
“I reckon yo’ ma gwine blame me fo’ dis.”
“Amos, did you ever hear of Don Quixote?”
“Dat a seegar?”
“Don Quixote was a man. He lived a long time ago—before even the Marshalls began to raise tobacco. He was poor as, as, well as we are. But, like a young man I know, this didn’t seem to make much difference to him. He sat, day after day, reading books about impossible things for this was in the time of chivalry—”
“Yas, sah—I knows dat—chivaree. Da’s when yo’ get married.”
Morey laughed, stopped his story and laying his hand on Amos’ arm led him into the dark, silent house, up the stairs to his room and, closing the door, lit his candle.
“Like to hear more about Don Quixote?” he asked, sitting down on his trunk.
“I ain’t hear ’bout him.”