It was nearly two miles to Lawson’s place, and when she reached the welcome shade of his grove she sank down to rest. Not too bad: she was making time. She rubbed her benumbed arm and wondered if there weren’t something in the bag she could dump out. She was going to have blisters on her feet. Soon, now, she’d reach the highway. If she did not get a ride, she would miss the boat.
When she set out again, she stumbled and cut her foot against a hidden stone. There was no time to do anything about it, however, so she plodded along, fixing her mind firmly on the Washington boat.
Thus she did not hear the cart until it was close behind her. Then she stopped, her legs trembling. The mule stopped without any sign from the Negro driver.
It was not the same mule, driven by the old Negro who had passed Amelia one morning more than six years before. There were so many mules being driven by so many Negroes up and down the Eastern Shore. This Negro was younger and he could see quite clearly. And what he saw puzzled and disturbed him—a white woman, alone on a side road, carrying a suitcase and giving every sign of being about to ask him for a lift!
Not good. He sat, a solid cloud of gloom, waiting for her to speak.
Amelia smiled. She had to clear her throat. The mule regarded her stolidly.
“Boy,” she asked, and the tone of her voice confirmed his worse fears, “are you going into St. Michaels?”
“No, ma’m. Jus’ up da road a piece, an’ right back. No, ma’m, Ah ain’t goin’ neah St. Michael. No, ma’m.”
He was too vehement. Amelia saw the confusion in his face and, because she was in the process of acquiring wisdom, she knew the cause. She must think of a way to reassure him. She spoke slowly.
“You see, I’m trying to get to St. Michaels. I want to catch a boat.”