The Aeroplane Boys Series

In the Clouds for Uncle Sam

OR

Morey Marshall of the Signal Corps

[The Aeroplane Boys Series]

By ASHTON LAMAR

• I IN THE CLOUDS FOR UNCLE SAM
  Or, Morey Marshall of the Signal Corps.
• II THE STOLEN AEROPLANE
  Or, How Bud Wilson Made Good.
• III THE AEROPLANE EXPRESS
  Or, The Boy Aeronaut’s Grit.
• IV THE BOY AERONAUTS’ CLUB
  Or, Flying For Fun.
• V A CRUISE IN THE SKY
  Or, The Legend of the Great Pink Pearl.
• VI BATTLING THE BIG HORN
  Or, The Aeroplane in the Rockies.

OTHER TITLES TO FOLLOW

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  Or, The Quest of the Aztec Treasure.
• II THE AIRSHIP BOYS ADRIFT
  Or, Saved by an Aeroplane.
• III THE AIRSHIP BOYS DUE NORTH
  Or, By Balloon to the Pole.
• IV THE AIRSHIP BOYS IN THE BARREN LANDS
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• V THE AIRSHIP BOYS IN FINANCE
  Or, The Flight of the Flying Cow.
• VI THE AIRSHIP BOYS’ OCEAN FLYER
  Or, New York to London in Twelve Hours.

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[Morey Hits the Mark.]

In The Clouds
For Uncle Sam

OR

Morey Marshall of the Signal Corps

BY

ASHTON LAMAR

Illustrated by S. H. Riesenberg

Chicago

The Reilly & Britton Co.

Publishers

COPYRIGHT, 1910,

by

THE REILLY & BRITTON CO.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

IN THE CLOUDS FOR UNCLE SAM

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

In the Clouds for Uncle Sam

OR

Morey Marshall of the Signal Corps

[CHAPTER I]
AN EARLY MORNING GALLOP.

“Hey dar, come along. What’s detainin’ yo’ all?”

Two boys, one, a gaunt, long-legged, barefooted colored lad, mounted on a lean mule, and the other a white lad, knees in and bestriding a fat, puffing, sway-backed mare, came dashing down a country road in Virginia.

“You black rascal!” panted the white rider, “what d’you mean? Pull up!”

“I cain’t,” shouted the boy on the mule. “Ole Jim’s got de bit.”

“Bit?” muttered the other rider, noticing the mule’s rope halter and smiling. “I reckon Amos wants a race.”

Loosening his worn and dingy reins the white boy drew himself together, took a fresh grip on an old fashioned riding crop and spoke to his mount.

“You ain’t goin’ to take the dust from a common mule, are you, Betty?”

As if she understood, the laboring mare, already wet with foam, and with nostrils throbbing, sprang forward.

“Out of the way!” shouted her rider. His light hair lay flat on his bare head and his arms were close by his side. “Mules off the road for the old hunter!”

Like a flash the boy on the mare passed the plunging, clattering old Jim and his humped-up rider. But only for a moment. Proud Betty, once the pride of the late Colonel Aspley Marshall, the hunter that took the dust from nothing in western Virginia, had seen her day. Old Jim came on like an avalanche.

“Cain’t stop dis beas’, Marse Morey. Git outen de way, Marse Morey, we’s needin’ de road.”

Hanging about the neck of the mule, Amos, the colored boy, opened his mouth, flashing a row of white teeth on Morey’s sight. The young rider knew that Amos was laughing at him. He set his square jaw and leaned forward over the old hunter’s neck.

“Betty,” he whispered, patting the soft, silken coat of his laboring animal, “for the honor of the stable we used to own—go it!”

And Betty tried—her nostrils now set, her head and neck forward, and the light young rider firm but easy in his seat.

“Can’t hold him, eh?” shouted Betty’s rider as the mule drew alongside.

Amos was digging his bare heels into old Jim’s ribbed sides and lashing like mad with the end of his bridle rope.

Morey saw that he was beaten in a flat race, but he did not surrender.

“Race you to the barn,” he cried as Amos’ kicks and lashing forced the plow mule once more to the front, “and over the front gate.”

“No sah! No sah!” trailed back from Amos. “Dis ain’t no fox hunt. Dis am a plain hoss race. Not ober de gate.”

“The first one over the gate,” insisted the white boy, now falling well behind.

Amos turned but he did not show his teeth.

“Look hyar, Marse Morey! What you talkin’ ’bout? Dat ole Betty ain’t jumped no gate sence you all’s pa died. Yo’ll break yo’ fool neck.”

Morey only smiled. The two animals beat the hard highway with their flying feet.

“Yo’ all’s on’y jokin’, Marse Morey,” pleaded the alarmed colored boy, as the racing steeds came to the dirt road leading through what was left of the Marshall estate, and headed toward the ramshackle old gate a quarter of a mile away. The dust rolled behind the galloping horse and mule. Amos turned and shouted again:

“Pull up dat ole plug. She cain’t jump a feed box. Yo’ all gwine break bofe yo’ necks.”

The only answer was a wave of Morey’s riding crop and a toss of the smiling boy’s head.

“Out of our way, boy!” sang out Morey. “Over the gate—”

“Hey, Marse Morey! Hey dar! Take yo’ ole race. I’s jes’ jokin’. I ain’t racin’ no mo’,” and throwing himself backwards on old Jim the frightened Amos pulled out of the race. But Betty, the stiff and crippled old hunter, had her mettle up, and Morey made no effort to stop her. With a laugh and a wave of his hand at the alarmed colored boy as he dashed by, the cool young white lad gave the proud mare her head.

At the half-broken gate the trembling animal, throwing off for a moment the stiffness of years, came to a mincing pause, gathered her fore feet beneath her and rose. Up in the air went Morey’s hands and his father’s old crop as Betty’s fore feet cleared the top panel. Then—crash! On the uncut grass of the door yard tumbled horse and rider.

“I tol’ yo’! I tol’ yo’!” shouted Amos as Betty struggled clumsily to her feet. “Marse Morey,” he added, rolling from old Jim’s back, “is yo’ hurted?”

There was a dash of red on the white cheek of the prostrate Morey but in another moment he was on his feet.

“I ain’t hurt, you rascal, but the next time you turn that old plow plug loose against Betty I’ll break your black head.”

“Yas sah, yas sah,” snickered Amos. “She sho’ was gwine some!”

“Rub Betty down and then give her a quart of oats.”

“Yo’ mean turn her in de fiel’!”

“Has she been fed this morning?”

“Dey ain’t no oats. We’s out ob oats.”

“Tell your father to order some.”

“I reckon he done ordah cawn an’ oats but dey’s slow bringin’ ’em. Dey’s slow all de time. I done been borrowin’ oats offen Majah Carey.”

“Well,” exclaimed Morey proudly, “don’t you borrow any more oats from Major Carey!”

“Why,” exclaimed Amos, “we been gittin’ fodder offen’ Majah Carey all winter—all de while yo’ been to school. Dey’s so slow bringin’ oats from town dey don’t never git hyar.”

“Did my mother tell you to go to the Carey’s for horse feed?”

“Fo’ de lan’ sake, chile! you don’ reckon my ole pap gwine to bodder Miss Marshall ’bout oats and cawn! He jes’ tells me to go git ’em and I done go git ’em.”

A peculiar look came into the face of Amos’ young master. But Morey said nothing. Waving his hand to the solemn-faced colored boy to care for the animals, he started across the long, fragrant June grass thick about the dingy plantation home.

But trouble sat lightly on Morey Marshall. Before he and the shambling Amos were many feet apart the young Virginian paused and gave an old familiar soft whistle. The slow-footed colored boy stopped instantly, and then, as Betty wandered at will into a new flower bed and the lean mule walked with ears drooped towards the distant horse sheds, Amos hurried to Morey’s side.

“Amos,” said Morey, “are you busy this morning?”

The colored boy looked at his white companion in open amazement.

“I said,” repeated Morey, “are you busy this morning?”

Amos was not exactly quick-witted, but, in time, with great mental effort, he figured out that this must be a joke.

A sparkle slowly came into his wide-set eyes and then his long, hollow face grew shorter as his cheeks rounded out. His lips parted in a curved slit and his white teeth shone. He laughed loudly.

“I reckon I’s gwine be purty busy. Ma’m Ca’line done tole me to sarch de hen’s nes’. On’y,” and he scratched his kinky head, “on’y I ain’t had no time yit to git de aiggs.”

“Well, I’ll help you with that. How many hens are there now?”

“Fo’. But one’s a rooster.”

“How many eggs do we get a day?”

“Ebery day two—sometimes. Des’ fo’ yo’ ma’s breakfus’.”

It was Morey’s turn to laugh.

“Pa’s done made ’rangements to lend us six pullets from Majah Carey.”

“To borrow six hens?”

“Sho’. We done borrow’ chickens mos’ ob de time—fo’ de aiggs. But we don’t keep ’em. We always takes ’em back—mostly.”

“Mostly?” roared Morey.

“Shorely,” explained Amos soberly. “We’s pa’ticlar ’bout dat. But we done et one of Captain Barber’s ole hens. She was too fat an’ lazy—didn’t git us one aigg.”

“Was this all for my mother?” queried Morey, his face clouding again.

“Yo’ ma don’ know nothin’ ’bout de critters. Pa, he paid Captain Barber fo’ de ole hen we et.”

“That’s right.”

“Yas sah, yas sah. I done took him a dozen aiggs ma sef. Wha’ fo’ yo’ laffin’, boy? Da’s right.”

“What I wanted to know is, have you time to go fishing this morning? How about that trout hole up at the bend of the creek?”

Amos’ smile gleamed again like a white gash.

“Ole Julius Cæsar, de king trout? Ain’t nobody cotch him yit. But he’s got ’bout a million chilluns. Say, boy,” whispered the colored lad, “I done reckon Miss Marshall had her breakfus’ by dis’ time. An’ dem aiggs ain’t gwine to spile whar dey is. I’s git yo’ ol’ rod and yo’ ol’ flies, an’ say, I’s got one dat ah made mase’f. Dat fly’s fo’ ol’ Julius Cæsar an’ you. Say,” he concluded, looking wisely into the clear blue unclouded sky and wrinkling his sober brow, “I spec’s we bes’ be gwine ’long. Pears to me like rain.”

“I’ll meet you in a half hour by the tobacco shed,” exclaimed Morey.

Again Amos’ brow lowered and he shook his head.

“Ain’t yo’ ma tol’ you?” he asked.

“Told me what?”

“Dey ain’t no shed no mo’.”

“No shed!” exclaimed Morey, looking quickly toward the far end of the old plantation. “Why, what’s become of it?”

“Captain Barber, he done tote it away.”

“Captain Barber moved it away? Why, what right has he on my mother’s place?”

“I dunno. But he tooked it away.”

“When?” exclaimed Morey excitedly.

“When?” repeated Amos. “Da’s when he fit pa and call him ‘ol’ fashion nigger better wake up.’”

Morey caught the colored boy by the shoulders.

“I didn’t know your father ever had a fight with our neighbor.”

“Not ezackly no fight, kase Captain Barber he wouldn’t do nothin’ but laugh.”

“But what was it all about?”

“Pap done call him a liar.”

“Your pap ought to be hided. Captain Barber is a white man.”

“Yas sah, yas sah. But he is a liar.”

Morey smiled again.

“Do you know what he lied about?” he asked.

Amos drew himself up in indignation.

“Didn’ he go fo’ to say he bought de’ ole fiel’ whar de baccy shed was? An’ ain’t dat a big lie? Yo’ ma owns all dis ole plantation ’case pap says she do. But he tooked de house. He ain’t buy dat lan’, is he?” concluded the simple colored boy.

Morey stood in deep thought. But at last, his voice quavering, he said:

“I don’t know, Amos—I hope not.”

Morey had returned home that morning after a winter in school at Richmond and a visit to his uncle in New York State. To him the old house appeared much the same, and his mother was in no wise changed. With her he had as yet had no talk over the affairs of the plantation and, after his morning coffee, he had hurried with Amos to the village two miles away on an errand. The hints that Amos had dropped unconsciously startled him, but the sky was blue, the air was soft, there was the smell of mint in the neglected grass and he was but eighteen years old.

“Meet me where the barn used to be,” he exclaimed suddenly and, turning ran toward the house.

[CHAPTER II]
BREAKFAST ON THE GALLERY.

Aspley Place, once the center of a large estate and the scene of much hospitality in Colonel Aspley Marshall’s lifetime, was now surrounded by a farm of less than two hundred acres. Mortimer, or “Morey” as he was always called, and his mother, had been left dependent upon the estate at Colonel Marshall’s death three years before. At first it was not known that Colonel Marshall was financially involved. But his debts almost consumed his supposed enormous and valuable tobacco plantation. Out of the settlement Major Carey, his executor, saved for the widow and her son the home. But it and the little farm immediately about the house was mortgaged to Major Carey himself, who from year to year renewed the notes for borrowed money.

On these few worn and almost exhausted acres a faithful retainer, an old negro, Marshall or “Marsh” Green, who had been Colonel Marshall’s servant from babyhood, made desperate efforts to provide a living for his mistress. He and his boy Amos Green lived in the sole remaining cabin of the old quarters, where, in the time of Colonel Marshall’s father and in the days when Amos Green’s grandfather was a boy, there had been a street of log huts beneath big oaks, and a hundred slaves might be counted. Marsh Green and his boy now lived in a cabin patched with store boxes, beneath a roof mended with flattened lard tins.

It was now many a day since the Marshalls had killed their own hogs, and as for the old oaks, Colonel Aspley himself had sold them. In truth, Morey’s father was neither a successful farmer nor a frugal business man. He believed in the past, was a kind parent and husband, had his mint juleps regularly, lived up to his patrimony and left for Morey nothing more than the recollection of a chivalrous and proud father, a mortgaged plantation, old Marsh Green and fat Betty, his hunter.

But these things Morey neither knew nor understood. Mrs. Marshall had a vague belief that what she called her “private fortune” would amply care for her and for Morey’s education. She neither knew the amount of this nor her real income. In fact, this fortune, left to her by an uncle, was a meagre five thousand dollars, and the $250 it produced annually, which Captain Barber’s bank at Lee’s Court House collected and held for her, was always overdrawn.

It was by Captain Barber and Major Carey that Mrs. Marshall’s taxes were looked after, her insurance cared for and her notes renewed from year to year, and she lived on in dignity and pride with little understanding of how the money came. Nor did she even suspect how much was due to the ceaseless efforts of Marsh Green.

“Colonel Aspley’s overseer,” she always said in referring to the faithful Green.

“Mrs. Marshall’s hired man,” said the newcomers who were turning old and historic tobacco fields into fruit orchards and vegetable gardens.

But Marsh could hardly be called a “hired” man. If he was “hired” it was without pay. All the money that the white-haired negro saw came from the vegetables he grew that “the place” did not need. And these were as much the property of old Marsh as if the plantation were his. Mrs. Marshall did not even think of the matter. Twice a year she and Marsh and Amos drove to Lee’s and the colored servitors were clothed.

The fall before, Morey, with much ceremony, had been forwarded to a school for boys in Richmond, famous both for its excellent curriculum and its high tuition. The bills for this had been met by Captain Barber as long as the little account in his bank warranted. Then came the inevitable.

On a day late in the winter Captain Barber and Major Carey, freshly shaven and carrying their gold-headed canes, drove slowly up to Aspley Place. Mammy Ca’line received them. In the musty old parlor, where Colonel Marshall’s picture in his red hunting coat glared down upon his old time friends, the nervous committee twirled two shiny canes.

Mrs. Marshall was not an old woman. Her veneration for the past was not based on any love for long gold chains, earrings, or corkscrew ear curls. There was something a little faded about her appearance but it was not in her hair, nor in her face. Perhaps it was in the gown she wore, but this neither the Captain nor the Major saw. Mrs. Marshall’s neighborly greeting, her courtesy, preserved with many other graces from the days of the old régime, her smile of peace and content, disconcerted the visitors.

“Madam,” began Major Carey at last, “theah is a little mattah—a trifle—but, ah, a mattah that we feel bound, Madam, to lay befoah you.”

“Ouah respect, Madam, foah yo’ husban’, the late Colonel Marshall, who was ouah friend,”—added Captain Barber.

“The regard we hold fo’ his memory and fo’ you and yo’ son Mortimer,”—went on the Major.

What they had come to say to Mrs. Marshall was that, in her circumstances, Mortimer could not be sent away to a fashionable school; that he could not hope to play the role of a gentleman, that the farm was non-productive and should be sold, that Mortimer, now a young man, should set about earning a living, and that she and her son ought to purchase a cottage in the nearby village where they might live on a reduced scale and dispense with the unremunerated services of old Marsh and his idle, lazy, hungry son.

But no such suggestions were made.

Mrs. Marshall listened to the explanation of her financial straits undisturbed. Where the agitated visitors expected tears and despair they found a paralyzing calmness.

“I regret to say, my dear Madam,” concluded Major Carey at last and with a dry throat, “that you now owe Mortimer’s school four hundred dollars, and the bill is so long overdue that they are, ah, becoming even impertinent.”

“I really thought it had been paid,” said Mrs. Marshall in her low, soft tone and looking at her banker, Captain Barber, in an injured way. The Captain only wiggled in his chair. He even dismissed the idea he had had of telling Mrs. Marshall that she had already overdrawn her account one hundred and eighty dollars. “Haven’t I some funds out at interest?” continued their hostess.

“I think you have about—”

Mrs. Marshall smiled and raised her still plump hand.

“Please don’t bother about the details,” she added hastily. “You have always been so good as to look after my business. I will take it as a favor if you will realize out of my funds whatever is needed to cover this obligation. I prefer to sacrifice my private fortune rather than encumber the family estate which, of course,” and she smiled comfortably, “is to be preserved for Mortimer.”

The two visitors could not look at each other. They sat silent and aghast. The “family estate” had been reduced to less than two hundred acres of worn out and almost unsalable tobacco land. Even this was mortgaged and Major Carey had been carrying the obligation for years. He had not even received a cent of interest since Colonel Marshall’s death.

“Certainly, Madam,” stammered Captain Barber at last, rising. “Just as you wish.”

“Mrs. Marshall,” said Major Carey bowing, “when Master Mortimer returns from school will you have him do me the honor to call upon me?”

“With great pleasure,” said Mortimer’s mother, “although the poor boy is not coming directly home at the close of school. He will first visit his uncle Douglas in Hammondsport, New York. And, by the way, Captain,” she added, turning to the flustered planter-banker, “I’m afraid his wardrobe may require replenishing and he will need a little pocket money. Will you kindly send him a hundred dollars and charge it to my account?”

There was no help for it. If she had been a man the thrifty banker would have been adamant. To the widow of his dead friend he only bowed.

“At once,” he answered politely. Then he added: “Madam, I trust you will not think me impertinent. But what are your plans for your son’s future?”

“Colonel Marshall was a tobacco grower,” she answered proudly. “The Aspley plantation has known nothing but tobacco for a hundred and fifty years.”

When Major Carey’s old buggy—he did not own or use an automobile—had creaked down the weed-grown Aspley Place private road to the highway and the unhinged gate had been dragged into place, Captain Barber turned to his companion.

“If Mrs. Marshall’s son hasn’t any more business sense than his mother the Barber Bank is going to have a tidy sum to charge up to profit and loss. We’re two old fools. What do you want to see the boy about?”

Major Carey grunted. “I’m goin’ to tell him what his mother doesn’t know—that she isn’t worth a cent and that he must go to work and care for her.”

This was in March.

On the day in June that Morey reached his home, raced with Amos, arranged to go in quest of “old Julius Cæsar” and his many “chilluns,” and then made his way free-hearted and devoid of care over the unkempt lawn toward the house, there was no thought in his mind of money, debts and little of the future.

“Aspley House” hardly merited such a formal title. The building itself was of wood, two stories high and long since denuded of paint. But the gallery, or porch, in front seemed part of some other architectural creation. The floor of it was flush with the yard and of brick, worn and with sections missing here and there. The columns, unencumbered with a second story floor, were of great round pillars of brick. They had once been covered with cement, but this coating had now fallen away and the soft red of the weather beaten bricks was almost covered with entwined swaying masses of honeysuckle.

Beneath these blossoming vines Morey’s mother awaited him.

“I saw it,” she exclaimed anxiously. “I’ve seen your poor father do the same. You are not hurt?”

“Hurt?” shouted Morey as his mother put her arm about his neck and wiped the blood from his face with her lace handkerchief. “I’ve forgotten it. Breakfast ready?”

In a fragrant, shaded corner of the gallery, where the brick pavement was reasonably intact, sat a little table. On the snow-white cloth rested a bowl of flowers. At two places thin, worn silver knives, forks and spoons glistened with a new polish. But the “M” had nearly disappeared from them.

“Say, mater,” laughed Morey, proud of his newly acquired Latin, “why don’t you fix this pavement? Some one’s going to break his neck on these broken bricks.”

“It should have been seen to before this,” his mother answered. “And I really believe we ought to paint the house.”

“Looks like a barn,” commented Morey, attacking a plate of Mammy Ca’line’s corn bread. “This some of our own butter?”

Mrs. Marshall looked up at the fat smiling Mammy Ca’line, beaming in her red bandanna.

“Mammy,” asked Mrs. Marshall, “is this some of our own butter?”

“Ouah own buttah!” exclaimed the grinning cook, maid and all-around servant. “Fo’ the lans’ sake, Miss Marshall, we ain’t made no buttah on dis place sense ole Marse done gone, fo’ yars come dis fall.”

Mrs. Marshall sighed.

“Why don’t you?” snapped Morey with a tone that reminded his mother of his dead father.

“Why don’t we?” laughed old Ca’line. “I reckon you boun’ to have cows to make buttah—leastways a cow. Dat ole Ma’sh Green don’ keep no cows no mo’.”

Morey laughed.

“Runnin’ on the cheaps, eh?”

But his mother only smiled and sipped her coffee.

As the hungry, happy boy helped himself to one of the three thin slices of bacon, old Ca’line leaned toward her mistress and said, in a low voice:

“Miss Ma’shall, dat’s de lastest of dat two poun’ of salt meat.”

Mrs. Marshall smiled again.

“Have the overseer go to town this morning, Ca’line, and lay in what supplies are needed. Have we any fowls on the place?”

“Yas ’um, dey’s fowls, but dey’s only ‘aiggers.’ Dey ain’t ‘eaters.’”

As Mrs. Marshall looked up in surprise, Morey experienced the first serious moment of his life.

“It’s one of Amos’ jokes, mater. I understand. I’ll tell you about it after a bit.”

“Amos is really very trying at times,” was Mrs. Marshall’s only comment.

“As for meat, Ca’line,” went on Morey gaily, “don’t bother. Amos and I are going for trout this morning. We’ll have a fish dinner today.”

“Your father was very fond of trout,” exclaimed Morey’s mother. “I’m so glad you’re going. By the way, Mortimer, the first day you find the time Major Carey wants you to call. He’s very fond of you.” Then, thoughtfully, “Have you any engagement this evening? We might drive over late today.”

“That’s a go,” exclaimed Morey, springing up, “unless the fishing makes me too late. Pleasure before business, you know.”

As old Ca’line shambled down the wide hall she shook her head and mumbled:

“His pappy’s own chile! An’ dat’s what took de paint offen dis house.”

[CHAPTER III]
MOREY MEETS A FELLOW FISHERMAN.

Mrs. Marshall’s home fronted the west. Always, in the distance, like a magic curtain ready to rise and reveal a fairyland beyond, hung the vapory Blue Mountains. Round about, like long fingers, the rough mountain heights ran down among the century-old plantations. Ridges, pine-grown and rocky, and here and there tumbling rivulets gave variety to the long, level reaches of tobacco land.

A little creek, finally trickling into the north part of the Rappahannock river, skirted what had once been the east boundary of the old Marshall plantation. In days long gone, before the forests thinned and while the mountain sides were thick with laurel, ash, and oak, the creek plunged lustily in and out of its wide and deep pools and went bounding musically in many a rapid. But now, even as the Marshall acres had thinned and disappeared, the woodland stream had dwarfed and shrunk until it was little more than a reminder of its former vigor.

Yet, by all the Marshalls it was remembered as the place where Colonel Aspley had “whipped the stream for speckled beauties” like a gentleman; it was still Aspley Creek, and Amos was not the only one who believed trout might still be taken there. It was not surprising, therefore, that Lieutenant Fred Purcell, of the U. S. Army, should on this day drive twenty miles from Linden to try his luck there.

Why this keen-eyed young officer, and many other soldiers who were not officers, were seen so often in the little railroad town of Linden, few persons knew. But to this place he had come, when the snows in the mountains were disappearing in March, with a few brother officers and a squad of privates and much strange baggage. Mules and wagons followed a few days later and then the new arrivals disappeared. There were many theories. Generally it was agreed that it might mean an expedition against “moonshiners” or illicit distillers. More conservative gossips predicted that it was a party of military engineers. The local paper ventured that the war department was about to locate a weather observatory on the mountains. One thing only became, gradually, common knowledge—that the soldiers were in camp near Green Springs, in Squirrel Gap, ten miles back in the foot hills and that the officers came every few days to the Green Tree Inn, in Linden, to eat and smoke.

Morey, rising from the breakfast table, was almost on Mammy Ca’line’s heels.

“Mammy,” he shouted, “where’s my old fishin’ clothes?”

The fat old negress turned and then, embarrassed, exclaimed:

“Yo’ ma done say yo’ don’ want dem ol’ pants no mo’. She gib all yo’ ol’ garmen’s to Amos.”

“Everything?” laughed Morey, looking down at his second best trousers. “I’m goin’ for trout. I can’t wade in these.”

Old Ca’line shook her head.

“I reckon yo’ ma gwine get yo’ new clothes. Yo’ old clothes is Amos meetin’ pants.”

“Amos!” yelled Morey, rushing through the wide hall and out into the rear yard. “Amos!” he called, hurrying toward the tumble-down cabin of the Greens. “Gimme my pants! My fishin’ pants!”

The sober-faced colored boy was just emerging from the single room in which he and his father lived, with a bit of clothes line around his shoulders to which was attached an old, cracked, and broken creel, and carrying in his hand a long-preserved jointed casting rod.

“I say,” repeated Morey, half laughing, “Mammy Ca’line says Mother gave you my old fishing clothes. Produce—I want ’em.”

The colored boy looked up, alarmed.

“Ah—ah,” he stuttered. “Dem’s my own clothes. Dey’s my onliest meetin’ pants.”

“I should say not,” roared Morey. “Mother didn’t know what she was doin’. Fork ’em over! I can’t go into the water in these,” he added, pointing to the trousers he had on. “These ain’t ready-made,” he went on proudly; “they ain’t boughten. I got them from a tailor in Richmond.”

Amos eyed the new trousers with interest and admiration. Then his lip quivered.

“Marse Morey,” he whimpered, “yo’ ma done gib me dem pants las’ Chrismus’. I speck’s she don’t ’low I’s gwine part wid dem. Dey’s a present.”

“Look here, boy, don’t make me mad,” retorted Morey. “Turn over my pants or we don’t go fishin’.”

Amos’ whine ended in a sob. He hesitated and then broke out: “Yo’ ma gib ’em to me. But—.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Marse Morey,” he said, coming close to the frowning white boy, “I’s got fo’ bits I made pickin’ berries fo’ Miss Carey—”

Morey’s voice did not change but a smile seemed to hover about his clean-cut lips.

“Look here, nigger,” he exclaimed suddenly, “do you want those pants worse than I do?”

“Wuss!” whimpered Amos. “I jes’ nachally got to hab ’em. I done promised dem pants to Miss ’Mandy Hill.”

“Promised my pants to a girl?”

“Yas sah,” explained Amos soberly. “’Mandy and me’s gwine to de camp meetin’ Sunday to the Co’t House. I promise her long time ago I’s gwine wear dem pants when we does.”

“Ah, I see,” laughed Morey at last, “well, don’t disappoint ’Mandy.”

When the two boys left the cabin and cut across the old tobacco field it would have been hard to tell which was the raggedest, Amos with his patched blue overalls, almost white from constant washing, or Morey clad in old Marsh Green’s working corduroys.

At the ruins of the old tobacco shed Amos paused, looked at Morey a little sheepishly and then, from under a few protecting boards, drew out an old torn seine about five feet long, attached to two thin saplings.

Morey’s face flushed at once.

“What you doing with that seine, Amos?” he exclaimed severely.

“What I doin’ wid dat?”

“You’ve been seining trout, you black rascal.”

“Cross my h’at, no sah. Deed I ain’t. No sah.”

“What have you been doing with it?”

“Well sah, some says dey is and some says dey ain’t. But, ef yo’ ain’t no salt meat, suckers is good eatin’.”

“Suckers!” snorted Morey. “You all ain’t been seinin’ and eatin’ suckers?”

Amos nodded his head.

“You never eat none o’ Mammy Ca’line’s sucker chowder?”

Morey turned up his nose in disgust.

“Can’t mostly tell no difference ’tween Ca’line’s chowder and reg’lar fish,” the black boy went on appealingly.

As they neared the creek Morey said:

“Amos, if I ever catch you takin’ a trout with that net I’ll thrash you.”

As Morey went on and the tall colored boy looked down on his slender companion, his hollow, mournful cheeks rounded into what was almost a smile and he muttered to himself:

“I reckon dat boy been livin’ high and mighty down to Richmond. Suckers is gittin’ ’tas’ good to me sence Marse Aspley gone.”

Morey left the tobacco field and took the old meadow path to the big bend above—Julius Cæsar’s domain and the best part of the creek. Amos took the road to the ford, two bends below and about an hour’s fishing from the big pool. If Julius Cæsar existed outside of Amos’ head Morey could not prove it. With what skill he had he fished the pool, waited ten minutes and went over the same water again without a strike. Then he advanced slowly down stream. In three quarters of an hour only two trout did he hook, neither of them a fish to be proud of.

When he reached the ford where Amos should have been waiting for him there was no sign of the colored boy and the sun was high overhead. Ten minutes later, wading softly down the cool and shady little stream and almost lost in the sportsman’s absorption, his fly shooting forward swiftly and silently over each eddy and likely log, he was suddenly aroused by a quick splash and a violent exclamation.

[Amos Struggled to Free Himself.]

Just before him, and struggling in the middle of the stream, were two persons. [Amos], who was one of them, almost prostrate in the shallow water, [was struggling to free himself] from the grip of a man about thirty-five years old.

“You black rascal,” exclaimed the man. “What d’you mean. Seinin’, eh? Take that!”

At the word he planted the flat of his hand on the black boy’s back. As Amos fell flat in the stream and rolled over in the water there was a splashing behind his assailant. The man turned just in time to see Morey, his ragged, baggy trousers wet and impeding his progress, plugging furiously forward.

“Oh, you’re his pal, eh?” laughed the man. “Well, come on and get the same. I’ll teach you young whelps to know better. I’ll—.”

But he neither had time to administer the same nor to finish his speech. The agile Amos with the water running from his clothes and mouth, had recovered himself and with head down lunged forward. The next instant both boy and man were locked together and almost submerged in the sluggish current.

As they rolled over and over Morey made desperate efforts to stop the struggle. But he only complicated matters. Slipping, he fell upon the two combatants. Cold water, however, is a great cooler of angry passions. Without knowing just how it happened, in a moment, the man and the two boys were standing in mid-stream, sputtering and gasping for breath. Morey still gripped his rod, the man was glancing dejectedly toward his own broken pole, now well down the creek and Amos was gripping a moss-covered rock dug up from the bed of the creek.

“I suppose you know you are trespassing on private property?” began Morey, forgetting, in his indignation, that the creek no longer was a part of his mother’s plantation.

The man, shaking himself, turned as if surprised.

“This boy is my servant. Have you any explanation to make?”

The man’s surprise increased to astonishment. After another look at Morey’s ragged garments he fixed his eyes upon the lad’s face.

“He was seining trout—” began the stranger indignantly.

“Da’s a lie,” exclaimed Amos.

“He was fishing for suckers,” explained Morey.

“Look in his pockets,” retorted the stranger.

Morey hesitated a moment.

“My name is Mortimer Marshall, sir, of Aspley Place. This boy is my mother’s servant. He—”

At that moment Morey saw a suspicious movement of Amos’ hand.

“Amos,” he exclaimed sternly, “come here!”

Slowly the black boy splashed forward, the rock still in his hand, but with one cautious eye on the stranger.

Morey ran his hand into the colored boy’s pocket and drew slowly forth a still flopping three-quarter pound trout.

“Fo’ de lan’s sake, Marse Morey, who done put dat fish in dar?”

The man did not smile.