“Marse Morey, I jes’ natchally cain’t.”
“Then I’ve got to go alone and take my chances,” answered Morey, opening his trunk and taking out the blue packet, his father’s “dream,” that was to mean so much to him.
“I ain’t got no clo’es,” almost sobbed the black boy.
“What’s the matter with your meetin’ pants and the shoes you had on last night?”
“Dem’s my Sunday cloes!”
“All right. Goodbye.”
“Sides, pa’s in de cabin.”
Morey turned, smiled and put his arm on Amos’ shoulder.
“Of course you’re going. We’ve lived together all our lives. You go and tell your father I want to see him right away, out on the kitchen gallery. While he is gone pack up your duds. I’ll tell him to hitch up, that we have to go to town. Hide your things in the surrey while he is gone.”
There was no delay in carrying out this plan. By the time Marsh Green had responded to Morey’s summons, hooked up old Betty to the surrey and brought the ancient equipage to the barnyard gate, Morey was ready. His letter to his mother had been written and in the weeds and grass, well down toward the front yard gate was a little pile of baggage, a bulging traveling bag, a package of books and circulars, two blankets and a basket of such food as he could find—two loaves of bread, a dozen cold biscuits, a small paper of sugar, a few pinches of tea, a quart cup, two glasses of jelly, a tin can of some preserves and a half pound of salt pork. Amos’ baggage was not even tied in a bundle.