“Almost. He had old Sancho Panza. Sancho was his boy, and he never left him.”
Amos was in sore straits. Morey said no more for a few moments, but he began making preparations for his departure. He laid out a few clothes and took down the old, battered traveling bag that he had unpacked but the day before; the black boy’s eyes filled with tears.
“Marse Morey,” whimpered Amos, “yo’ ain’t foolin’ me? Yo’ sho’ gwine away to Wash’ton?”
“As soon as I can pack my grip, write a note to my mother, get together all Mammy Ca’line’s loose food and hitch up.”
“An’ yo’ ain’t goin’ to tell yo’ ma?”
Morey shook his head.
“But she ain’t gwine skin yo’ like my pa trounce me!”
“I’ll see that you aren’t punished.”
Big tears rolled down Amos’ sunken cheeks. Then his big black hands wandered over his patched and tattered garments. As Morey laid some fresh linen in his valise the colored boy looked shamefacedly at his own faded blue calico shirt. Then he dug his shoeless toes into the carpet.
Finally, with a gulp, he exclaimed: