There were no side streets in the village.
“De longes’ way roun’ is de bestes’,” was Amos’ advice.
As they approached the village, more than one light could be seen, and Morey, a little to his own disgust, permitted himself to turn out and make a long detour around the town. This accomplished, it was then nearly midnight—he took the main road to Warrenton. That town was fifteen miles distant. It had now grown so cool that both boys wrapped blankets about themselves, and half asleep and with little to say, they bobbed against each other while Betty jogged along.
The night seemed endless. There was no comfort in trying to sleep curled up on the rear seat—the road was too rough. Suddenly Morey roused himself. He had fallen asleep, and he awoke to find Betty standing by the roadside, nibbling at the clover in the fence corner. It was lighting up in the east and the haze of early dawn outlined the road dropping away before him into a wide valley over which lay a heavy mist. Amos was leaning against him, sound asleep. It was time for Betty to rest and feed.
Pushing the tired animal forward again until the bottom of the valley was reached, Morey came to what he was looking for—a little creek. Running south was a “river” road. Turning on to this until he was well into a bottom land grove of trees, he aroused Amos.
“Wake up, boy; camp number one!”
The colored boy aroused himself and then fell over asleep again.
“Breakfast!” exclaimed Morey in his ear.
Instantly he bolted upright, glanced about in an alarmed way and groaned. Blinking his eyes he whispered:
“Marse Morey, I done had a bad dream.”