“Alright, deacon,” Mr. Amos answered, with an air of feigned indifference. “If you think there’s nothing I can do to help you smooth out the kinks, whatever they are, so be it.”
Felo remained silent until Mr. Amos was about to leave the room. Seeing him start towards the stairway, he asked:
“You ain’ goin’ out tonight, is you?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Well, y’oughta stay home some time an’ git yo’ night-res’.... All time runnin’ out in de night air an’ fros’, exposin’ yo’self like you does; wid de win’ searchin’ ’roun yo’ ankles an’ things, an’ blowin’ ’cross yo’ body an’ keep you lookin’ so puny.”
“How about yourself?” Mr. Amos asked him. “You don’t seem to be concerned about the night air and the wind when you go rambling about? I suppose being a deacon of the church, you have some special arrangement with God to temper the elements to your convenience?”
“Look. Leave dat be jes’ like it is,” he said abruptly, “I’m thinkin’ ’bout who got to look aft’ you w’en you git flat o’ yo’ back an’ can’ help yo’self no mo’. ’Tain nobody but Felo got to be plague’ wid you. Da’s de one thing make me cuncern yonder wid de future.... But de main thing I ax you,—befo’ you commence all dis heavy comasation,—is you goin’ out tonight?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Well, w’en I git thoo in de kitchen, I wan’ talk wid you confidenshun.”
Mr. Amos laughed good-naturedly, saying to him: