"I believe you would, boy," laughed his comrade, as he stepped from the deck to the shore.
He had already noted that Morehead did not appear to be much of a place. Indeed, beyond the piles of cordwood, and a few scattered cabins, there did not seem to be anything of a settlement.
"Only excuse it has for being on the map is that some steamers find it convenient to stop and wood up here. That woodyard is the whole thing," thought Maurice. He turned upon the negro who had whipped the cable around the post in an obliging way.
"Where can I find the man who runs the woodyard?" he asked.
"'Deed, I reckon he am in hees store dar, boss," came the reply.
"A store, eh? Where is it situated?" continued Maurice, bent on following up the clue.
"See dat flare up yander—dat am de light in de windy. Mars Kim he keep gen'ral 'sortment ob goods. On'y place to buy grits in ten mile," observed the other, pointing.
"What is his name?" asked the boy, deeming it only right that he should be fully armed with this much information before starting in to interview the other.
"Mars Kim, fuh sho'! Dat's wat we allers calls him, boss. Reckons, as how yuh haint gut sech a ting as some terbaccy 'bout yuh, now? I'se done clean out."
Maurice shook his head in the negative.