“Well, he was a fine fellow, only he was crazy. He got so twisted in his head that he couldn’t see anything straight. He thought his home and the things about him were all right. But the place was tumbling over his head and he didn’t know it. When his servant stole chickens for him—”
“Who stole chickens? I ain’t steal no chickens. We done borrow ouah chickens.”
Morey held up a warning finger, with a smile.
“He couldn’t even see that the barn was rotten and no use; that there were weeds all over his place; that the house was too old to stand up.”
Amos sighed and knit his brows in an effort to connect the old knight with something he could grasp mentally.
“And that wasn’t the worst,” went on Morey, “when Don Quixote got so bad that he began to ‘see things’; when he was ‘conjured’ out of his wits, he up, one day, and decided to leave his home and seek his fortune in other places.”
“He done gwine to Wash’ton?”
“About the same thing,” explained Morey. “He took his old horse and rode away looking for—well everything he didn’t have at home.”
“Dey gwine to take his farm away?”