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.

“I’m really sorry, my boy, that I struck you. I’m a great lover of this sport and I lost my head. I apologize to you. And to you,” he added, turning to Morey.

Morey turned again to Amos.

“Where did you get that trout, Amos?”

“Cross my ha’t, Marse Morey, I reckon dat fish done swum in ma’ pocket. Trouts is cute fishes.”

Morey picked up Amos’ seine, still tangled among the rocks, and grasping the rotten sticks to which it was attached, he broke them over his knee. Then he pointed to the bank and Amos crawled dejectedly ashore.

“My name is Purcell, Lieutenant Purcell, of the United States Army,” said the stranger.

“I am glad to know you,” replied Morey reaching out his hand. “I am fond of fishing myself.”

[CHAPTER IV]
A SECRET AMBITION REVEALED.

As Lieutenant Purcell and Morey clambered out on the bank the military man began laughing heartily.

“I suppose they are a pretty wide fit,” remarked Morey holding out Marsh Green’s loosely hanging trousers with one hand.

“I was laughing at my mistake in thinking you were a ‘pot’ fisher,” explained the soldier. “But I’d known if I had seen your rod—it’s a beauty.”

Morey handed Lieutenant Purcell his father’s old split bamboo, silver ferruled, and colored a rich brown from long use.

“Since we caused you to lose your own rod I want you to take mine,” said Morey promptly. “It is a little heavy and old-fashioned but it has landed many a fine fish. It was my father’s.”

“Your father is dead?”

“Yes sir. My mother lives—Aspley Place is our home.”

“Well, I want to shake hands with you, sir, and to say again I am heartily sorry I lost my head. Losing my rod serves me right. I couldn’t think of taking yours. It’s a beauty,” he added, taking the rod in his hands.

“But I want you to,” exclaimed Morey. “My father was a sportsman. He loved his horse, rod and gun. I don’t know what Amos meant. I reckon it’s the first time a trout was ever taken out of Aspley Creek in a net. I’ll feel better if you’ll take the rod. If you don’t,” he added, his eyes snapping, “I’ll take it and break it over that nigger’s back.”

Amos, skulking within earshot—the rock still in his hand—hurried away among the pines.

“I insist that the fault was all mine. But I’ll compromise. I am stationed near Linden, some miles from here, on special duty. It was a long drive over here and a man will be waiting for me some miles down the stream. I’d like to fish the creek down to my rendezvous. If you lend me your rod I’ll send it to you tomorrow.”

“At least,” said Morey, giving ready assent, “you will consider yourself as having at all times, for yourself and friends, the use of the creek. And when you are nearby,” he continued, pointing among the trees toward the west, “my mother will be glad to have you call at our home. A real fisherman will always find a welcome there. I’ve got better pants at home,” laughed Morey.

The soldier shrugged his shoulders and laughed in turn. Then he lifted the lid of Morey’s broken creel and saw the two small trout. In turn he exposed his own catch—seven beautiful fish, one weighing at least a pound and a quarter. Before Morey could stop him the lieutenant had dumped his own string into the boy’s basket.

“With my compliments to your mother, my boy.”

The pride of the Marshalls rose in the water-soaked, ragged boy’s heart.

“On one condition, sir; that you will take dinner with us this evening.”

The man hesitated.

“Not today, thank you. I’m deuced glad to meet a son of one of our old families—I’m a Virginian myself—but, not today.”

“You are stationed at Linden, you say?”

“For a time. I may leave any day. If I do I hope we may meet again. Won’t you take my card?”

He handed Morey a card reading: “Lieutenant Fred Purcell, U. S. Signal Corps, Fort Meyer, Virginia.”

“It will be a favor to me if you’ll take the rod,” insisted Morey.

“The obligation is all mine,” insisted the stranger. “And, if we meet again I hope I can find opportunity to return the favor in some way.”

When the two finally parted company Morey had little reason to suspect how much that statement meant, nor how soon he was to avail himself of Lieutenant Purcell’s kind offices.

A half hour later Morey reached his home and entered the musty, quiet horse lot. There was hardly a breath of air and the sun lay on the place with almost midsummer heat. A few chickens pecked in silence but no other living thing was in sight. Until then the boy had not realized how desolate and run-down was the place where once the activities of a busy plantation centered. There were hardly signs even, of the farm implements that had rotted away for years. The yard seemed abandoned.

With a little lump in his throat the boy hurried forward, his long, ragged trousers gathering new dust and weight as he did do. As he climbed the broken-down fence and got a view of the big, paintless, loose-boarded house beyond he almost sighed. But there at least were flowers and he could hear the hum of bees among the hollyhocks by the garden fence. There he could see Marsh, his old hat well down on his head, bent over his hoe, as the colored man rose at times among the rank weeds. Beyond the garden patch, in the low meadow, he could see, too, old Betty and Jim the mule. Amos was not in sight.

“Old Marsh is getting pretty careless,” said Morey to himself. “There’s a good many things he ought to do around here. Lazy niggers,” he mused.

It did not occur to Morey that he might do some of these things himself. Such had not been the lad’s training. With another sigh he made his way to Marsh Green’s cabin. Never before had it looked so poor and desolate.

“Marsh ought to fix up his old place,” Morey muttered. Then he turned and looked at the big house. The wide shingles, green with moss, were missing in many places. The big chimney, with one side of the top missing, stood like a monument to the departed glories of other days. On the grey-green roof a few chimney bricks lay where they had fallen. But, around the far corner where the gallery showed, the honeysuckle, crawling over the columns and roof, hung a deep green curtain of new fragrance. And, through the crookedly hanging shutters which were the color of dead grass, he saw fresh white curtains.

For the first time in his life the sight of the bricks on the roof annoyed Morey. With a sharp reprimand on his tongue he was about to call to the busy Marsh when a sound fell upon his ear. There was some one in the cabin. Stealing around behind the crumbling shack Morey cautiously approached it and peered through a crack. Amos, crooning to himself, was standing in the middle of the hard, clay floor with Morey’s Richmond trousers held up, before him in his outstretched hands.

Amos’ eyes were set. On his solemn black face there was a look of longing. His temptation was too great. Squatting on the floor the colored boy emptied the contents of the trousers’ pockets on the clay; seventy-five cents in money—dimes, nickels and a shining quarter—Morey’s key ring, a silver pencil case, note-book, handkerchief, rubber eraser and his new pocket knife, the last thing he had bought in Richmond.

Each thing the colored lad fondled, felt and smelled. Then he opened the knife, tested it and held it off at arm’s length. Gradually he returned each object to its place, the knife last of all. He sprang to his feet, and Morey was just about to call out, but stopped. The black boy, giving way to temptation, plunged his hand again into a pocket of the trousers and pulled out the new knife. He shoved the knife into his own pocket and dropped the trousers where Morey had left them.

Chuckling to himself, Morey, a few moments later, sauntered into the cabin.

“Amos,” said Morey, “did that man hurt you when he pushed you over?”

“Push me?” said Amos. “He done hit me wid his fis’.”

“Did he hurt you?” persisted Morey, doffing Marsh’s unwieldly trousers.

For answer Amos produced and exhibited the mossy boulder that he had carried from the creek.

“Don’ mak no diffunce ’bout dat. But ef dat man ebber comes dis way,” and he shook his head belligerently, “yo’ don’ need ast him no sich quesson. He ain’t gwine to be hurted—he gwine to be kilt—da’s right.”

“Anyway don’t stab him,” said Morey putting on his own trousers.

“I ain’t no stabbin’ colored boy,” began Amos with dignity, “an’ I ain’t gwine hit no pusson when he ain’t lookin!”

“Good. Never do any thing behind another man’s back.”

The colored boy shifted a little uneasily but Morey only laughed and said no more. As the two boys passed out of the cabin Morey pointed to the distant home.

“Amos,” he said, “why don’t you get up there and take those bricks down?”

“Yo’ ma don’ tell me to take no bricks down. How I gwine to git ’way up dar? ’Sides, I ain’t got no time—.”

“Well, I tell you—”

“Miss Marshall, don’ tell me—.”

“Git, boy!” snapped Morey nodding toward the house.

But Amos hung back, digging his toes into the dust, with a defiant look on his face. Morey began to feel in his pockets and his face assumed a puzzled look.

“I reckon I must have dropped my new knife in the cabin,” said Morey, turning back.

There was a swift pat-pat of bare feet and, as Morey glanced over his shoulder he saw Amos in a cloud of dust loping at the top of his speed toward the house.

Morey followed the flying colored boy who in a few minutes was scrambling up the kitchen roof. Mammy Ca’line was in the kitchen ironing and singing softly to herself. Throwing the now stiff trout on a table Morey said:

“Here you are, Mammy, trout for supper.”

“Ain’t you all gwine to Major Carey’s dis ebenin’?”

Morey’s jaw fell. He had forgotten about the proposed call.

“Anyway,” he said, “we aren’t going there for supper.”

“Wha’ fo’ yo’ gwine den? Yo’ ma’ she always stay fo’ eatin’.”

“Where is mother?” asked Morey.

“Sh! sh!” whispered Mammy Ca’line, “yo ma been gettin’ her beauty sleep, chile.”

“You cook the fish, Mammy; we’ll go after supper.”

The old colored woman looked up with a shrewd smile.

“Yo’ all bettah go ’long to Major Carey’s tomorrow, lessen yo’ git ’nother mess o’ fish. Major Carey ain’t gwine to turn no one way from de table. De Carey’s has fish when dey wants dem. We all has ’em when we kin get ’em.”

Morey grew thoughtful. But, passing on into the hall he made his way lightly upstairs, that he might not disturb his mother, and entered his own little room.

It certainly looked restful, after his day’s activity, and throwing himself on the big, high-posted bed, he prepared to rest. But Morey was not used to passing the daylight hours thus and in a few minutes he was up and busy. His unpacked trunk was before him and he squatted on the floor beside it.

About five o’clock Mrs. Marshall, fresh and smiling, dressed in white and with a spray of honeysuckle in her dress, softly opened the door. On the floor, fast asleep, lay Morey. About him, in the direst confusion and disorder, were books, circulars, catalogues and newspaper clippings. The floor was littered with what had apparently been the principal contents of the boy’s trunk.

Mrs. Marshall picked her way among them; automobile catalogues, price list of motors, advertisements of balloon manufacturers, descriptions of aeroplane and dirigible balloon motors; newspaper clippings relating to airships and their flights; motor-boat pictures. By the unconscious boy’s arm lay a paper backed volume, “Aeroplanes; their Manufacture and Use.” Not less than fifty such items constituted the litter on the floor.

Mrs. Marshall touched Morey on the forehead. He sprang up, rubbed his eyes and yawned.

“Is this your school library?” asked his mother, laughing.

“Some of it,” answered Morey soberly. “I borrowed the rest.”

Mrs. Marshall looked surprised.

“Does this interest you?” she went on, picking up a picture of a revolving gyroscopic motor as if it were dynamite.

“Interest me?” exclaimed Morey. “I reckon it interests any one in my business.”

“Your business?”

“Surely. That’s what I’m goin’ to be.”

Mrs. Marshall could only look at him, dazed and bewildered.

“Haven’t had time to tell you,” smiled Morey. “I’m an aviator. I’m going to make an aeroplane this summer.”

[CHAPTER V]
A VISIT OF CEREMONY.

“You don’t mean to tell me you don’t know what ‘aeroplane’ means?” almost shouted Morey, when he saw from his mother’s look that she was puzzled. “Well, I’ll be—”

“Mortimer!” exclaimed Mrs. Marshall with as much sternness as she ever used.

“Mater,” he laughed, “you certainly are behind the times.”

“What does it mean?” she asked placidly.

“I suppose you never heard of ‘aviator’ either?”

“I’ve heard of ‘aviary’. I believe that has something to do with birds.”

“Right! Though I never heard of an aviary,” added Morey, partly to himself. “It is a bird. It’s a human bird. An ‘aviator’ is a man who drives an aeroplane.”

“And this—this airy—?”

“Mother, sit down,” answered Morey in despair, “and I’ll begin your aeronautical education.”

For the next quarter of an hour Mrs. Marshall dodged and parried verbal volleys of airship talk. Beginning with hot air balloons Morey led his mother along through a history of aeronautics until he came to aeroplanes. And then, not satisfied with the bewildered condition of his patient parent, he began with the dreams of the enthusiast.

“In war and peace, in commerce and pleasure, from the Pole to the tropics, these human birds will darken the air on pinions swifter than the eagle’s wing. The snow-crested peaks of the Himalayas, the deepest recesses of the tropic wilderness, the uncharted main and the untrodden ice of the hidden Poles will unroll before the daring aviator like the—like—the—”

“The pictured pleasures of the panorama,” continued his mother, pointing to the underscored page of the “History of Aeroplanes” which she had been holding during Morey’s discourse.

“Yes,” said Morey, blushing, and then recovering himself. “Anyway, that’s my plan of a career. I’m going to be an ‘aviator’. And I’m going to begin at the bottom. I’m going to start by making an aeroplane right here—out in the old carpenter shop.”

“Mortimer, I suppose I am just a little behind the times. Is this a desirable thing?”

“Beats the world.”

“Have you been studying this at school?”

“’Taint in the course, but everybody’s studying it.”

“When did you interest yourself in such a peculiar subject?”

“Oh, ages ago—long before Christmas,” answered Morey. “I’ve read all the books in the public library at Richmond and all the magazines, and I’ve got all the circulars I could find. All I want now is a set of tools and some spruce lumber and some silk and an engine—I can do it. Needn’t fear I can’t.”

“And these things,” suggested Mrs. Marshall, her smooth brow wrinkling just a trifle, “do they require any considerable outlay of funds?”

“Well,” said Morey—hesitating a little now—“The tools won’t cost much, but I wanted to ask you about the engine. Of course,” and he put his arm affectionately about his mother’s shoulders, “I know it isn’t just as if father was with us, and I ain’t figuring on the best engine. I would like a revolving motor, that’s the newest thing, one with a gyroscopic influence, but that costs a good deal.”

“How much?” asked his mother taking the illustrated price list of engines that Morey handed her.

“Twelve hundred dollars.”

His mother gasped and the circular dropped from her hand.

“I thought myself that was too much,” quickly exclaimed Morey, puckering his lips. “But, mater, I’m not going to be extravagant. I’ve arranged for a cheap one, a second-hand one. It’s at Hammondsport. I saw it when I was visiting at Uncle’s.”

His mother sighed, looked for a moment out toward the ruined and ramshackle barn and then, with a new smile, asked indifferently:

“And the price of this—approximately?”

“This one,” answered Morey, proudly, “is a real Curtiss six-cylinder, and it’s a regular aeroplane engine. It’s cheap, because the man it was made for didn’t take it. Cousin Jack knows a boy who works in Mr. Curtiss’ shop. I saw Mr. Curtiss about it myself. It was such a bargain that I—I—well I bought it.”

Mrs. Marshall breathed a little heavily and rearranged her dress.

“You didn’t mention the price,” she said at last, patting Morey’s hand.

“Only four hundred dollars!”

His mother laughed nervously. “I’m afraid my boy is a little extravagant,” she remarked slowly.

“Do you know what that engine’s worth!” exclaimed Morey. “It’s worth $800 any day.”

“Well, I suppose the young men of today must have their amusements. Your father’s was horses and hunting. But it did not interfere with his business as a planter. I trust you will not become extreme in the fancy. It must not be carried too far.”

“Too far? I’m not going to do anything else until I get rich.”

“Nothing else? You mean no other amusement?”

“That’s not amusement; it’s business. It’s going to be my job.”

“You mean along with tobacco planting?”

“I should say not. What, me a farmer? Tobacco is played out.”

“Mortimer Marshall!”

“You don’t think I’m going to be a planter, do you?”

“Mortimer!” Mrs. Marshall was erect in her chair, her cheeks pale.

“Why, mater, I had no idea that you felt that way. You don’t mean that I’m to come back here and take old Marsh Green’s place. I can’t grow tobacco. I don’t know how and I don’t want to. Young men don’t do those things nowadays. They get out and hustle.”

“Mortimer, your father was a planter from boyhood until he died. His father was one and his father’s father. Aspley Place has grown tobacco for one hundred and fifty years. In Virginia it is a gentleman’s life.”

“No, mater,” answered Morey in a low and kind voice. “It was. But it isn’t now. You love this place—so do I. But I’ve been out in the world, a little—you haven’t. Things have gone on all around us and we didn’t know it. I can’t be a tobacco planter. I won’t.”

Mrs. Marshall’s lips trembled but she said nothing.

“I’ll go to school, mater; I’ll even go to college if you like. But then I want to go to an engineering school. After that I’m going to make you famous. I’m going to make the perfect flying machine. Then we’ll move away from this old place—”

“Mortimer!” quivered his mother. “From Aspley Place? Your father’s home? Never!” Then, with an effort, she became calm. Rising, as if both hurt and indignant, she exclaimed:

“My son, I am your mother and your guardian. I have my own plans for your future—your father’s plans. From now you will dismiss these ideas. I shall countermand your foolish purchase or ask your uncle to do so. This summer you will spend with me. You will return to your school and then to the University. When, in time, you graduate and are able to do so you will return here and assume charge of the patrimony bequeathed you by your father. Meanwhile, Mr. Green will remain in charge.”

And leaving Morey standing crestfallen among the jumble of books and papers, his mother walked sadly from the room.

It was the first time Mortimer had ever been balked in his life. For six months he had thought and dreamed of nothing else. His pride was hurt, too, for to his cousin Jack, in Hammondsport, he had outlined carefully the exact details of his future plans. He had managed to secure an invitation from Jack Marshall to visit Hammondsport soon after his investigation into aeroplane and airship affairs had revealed to him that in that little town Inventor Curtiss had his motor shop and aeroplane factory and that other balloon manufacturers and experimenters had collected there in sufficient numbers to make it the aeronautical center of America. There he had seen real dirigible balloons, had met and talked with Carl Meyers, the oldest balloon navigator in the country, had witnessed flights of the Curtiss aeroplane, had gazed upon the renowned Professor Graham Bell, had lounged for days about the mysterious and fascinating shops and factories, and, best of all and most unforgettable, had tasted the joys of gliding on the kites and planes of the various aeronautical experts.

Then he recalled the mocking laugh of his uncle.

He was a stubborn boy, but—he did not know whether he was a disobedient one. In all his life he had never been tested. Flushed and sick with disappointment he caught up his precious books and circulars and was banging them into the trunk when the door opened and Amos stuck his head into the room:

“Marse Morey, yo’ ma says yo’ all gwine ober to Marse Major Carey’s soon as yo’ has yo’ supper. An’ yo’s to put on yo’ bestest cloe’s an’ slick up.”

Bang! went “Aeroplanes, their Manufacture and Use.” It missed the colored boy’s head and crashed against the door jamb.

“Here, you black rascal,” shouted Morey, red in the face and full of anger, “come back here and give me my knife, you thief!”

But the accusation was lost. Amos was on the long stair rail shooting to the bottom like a sack of wheat.

When the old-fashioned supper bell clanged out in the hall below, Morey, white of face, marched downstairs and into the dining room in silence. At the humble board with Morey’s trout, almost the only dish, on the snowy white cloth before her, sat his mother, also pale, but with her usual smile. A look of surprise swept over her face as she noticed that Morey had ignored her orders.

“The evening is very agreeable,” said his mother softly. “It will be light for some time. Major Carey has asked you to come and see him. We are going immediately after supper. I have ordered out the carriage.”

“Won’t tomorrow do?” said Morey sharply—and then he was sorry.

“If you prefer,” answered his mother. “Your trout are delicious.”

“Oh, I’ll go tonight,” said Morey, ashamed of his anger.

“The Careys are our oldest friends,” went on his mother, smiling again. “I had hoped you would look your best. When Major Carey does me the honor to appear in our home he comes clothed as a gentleman. He carries his gold-headed cane. His linen is immaculate.”

“It won’t take me but a minute,” said Morey, crowding back a tear of mortification but disposing of a couple of crisp trout nevertheless. “I’ll be ready as soon as you are.”

He was about to dash from the room when he turned, hastened to his mother’s side and kissed her on the cheek.

“That’s a good boy, Mortimer. I’m glad you realize that I know best.”

While Morey was making his hasty toilet he heard a creaking sound outside. Rushing to the window he was about to break out into laughter. Then he stopped and a little flush came into his face. Slowly advancing along the road from the stable lot was his mother’s carriage. It was the old surrey that his father had once used in transporting the hounds to the distant meets. Paintless, its bottom gaping, its top cracked and split and its wheels wobbling, it groaned forward toward the mounting block at the end of the gallery. To it was hitched fat Betty, sleek and shiny with rubbing. The harness used only on such occasions, still withstood the final ravages of time, for on one bridle blinder shone one glittering polished silver M—old Marsh’s pride and joy.

What had amused Morey was the sight of the old servitor, “Colonel Marshall’s overseer,” Marsh Green. His shoes were shining, and a fresh white shirt showed resplendent beneath his worn coat, but the old man’s chief glory was his battered silk hat. By his side rode Amos, splendid in his shoes and Morey’s trousers—his “meetin’ pants.”

What had brought the flush to Morey’s face was the sudden thought: “the Careys do not come to Aspley Place in such a turnout.” And, for the first time in his life, Morey felt ashamed of the old home and its surroundings.

[CHAPTER VI]
MOREY LEARNS HE IS A BANKRUPT.

Major Carey’s mansion in the village of Lee’s Court House connected that old-fashioned, white-housed settlement with the plantations lying about the town. It was of red brick, square and solemn, with a slate mansard roof. In front, four gigantic white wooden columns stood like towers. Unlike the Aspley house, these columns—very cold in a coat of new paint—carried an upper gallery or balcony extending the width of the house. And at the left end of the lower gallery a slender circular stairway, concealed behind a trellis of green slats and partly covered with ivy, led to the upper balcony. Immense oak trees afforded shade in what had once been an extensive dooryard.

But the village, which was not wholly asleep, encroaching on the place, had eaten off sections of the old yard on each side. What the Carey home had been at one time, while tobacco growing had been profitable and before Major Carey had begun to devote himself to banking and money lending in town, might be seen from the little windows on the roof. From this elevated point an observer might see that the oak trees in the yard had once extended in two long rows half a mile from the front gallery, marking the old plantation drive. New streets had cut across these and only the tops of the mighty oaks could be made out stretching through the growing town.

It was almost dusk when Amos Green, stiff in his heavy shoes, sprang from the surrey and admitted Mrs. Marshall and her son through the gate into the Carey grounds. Major Carey, his wife, and Mrs. Bradner, their married daughter, whose husband was the cashier in Captain Barber’s bank, were sitting on an iron settee along the driveway, near the house.

The arrival of Mrs. Marshall was almost sensational. The Careys marched alongside the “carriage” to the horse block and Major Carey like a cavalier assisted his guests to light. Mrs. Carey kissed her girlhood friend, and Major Cary saluted her with a profound bow, but for Mrs. Bradner there was but a light grasp of the hand. The former Miss Carey had married a man whom no one knew, a bank clerk from the West with no other recommendation than his sobriety and industry.

To Morey the call was wearisome in the extreme. He reported on his school experiences, carefully omitting his aeronautical studies, and his mother exchanged with Mrs. Carey old-fashioned, stilted gossip concerning their homes and servants. Mrs. Bradner, in a beautifully made tailor gown, sat quietly by. When Morey saw how cheap his mother’s dress appeared in comparison with Mrs. Bradner’s, the thoughts that had troubled him all day came back again.

Then there were refreshments and the formality relaxed somewhat.

“Major Carey,” said Mrs. Marshall suddenly, “I really wish you would talk to Morey. I’m afraid the boy has got some queer ideas in Richmond. However,” and she smiled kindly toward the somewhat embarrassed Morey, “perhaps it is unnecessary now. He has promised me to forget them.”

Major Carey smiled graciously.

“Well, boys will be boys, I’m afraid,” he began. “But just what form of—well sir, what are you up to now?” he asked, turning to Morey.

The boy’s embarrassment increased.

“Mother thinks I’m a farmer,” he said with an attempt at a smile. “I can’t agree with her.”

“But,” interrupted Mrs. Marshall graciously, “perhaps we ought not bother our friends with these family details. Especially since Morey now sees that he was wrong. He has agreed with me to finish the full course at his present school, to take a university training and then become one of us again.”

“To take charge of Aspley plantation?” asked Mrs. Carey.

Mrs. Marshall nodded her head with a satisfied smile.

“And what had you planned?” exclaimed Major Carey, who did not seem to join in Mrs. Carey’s and Mrs. Marshall’s satisfaction.

“I was willing to finish my schooling,” answered Morey soberly, “and I’ll even spend four years in the university if my mother likes, but I want a technical training. I want to understand airships. I meant,” and he looked at his mother covertly, “to become an aviator if I couldn’t become an inventor.”

“You mean this new-fangled aeroplane business?” asked Major Carey.

“I’m very enthusiastic over it,” went on Morey.

“Do you know, Major, the boy actually wants to build an aeroplane at our home this summer. And just when I know he needs rest and recreation.”

Major Carey had risen and was nervously toying with his heavy gold watch chain. Before he could speak, Mrs. Marshall added:

“He has even purchased a—some machinery of some kind—to go in it.”

Major Carey’s hand dropped from his cane.

“But he has given up the idea, you say?”

Mrs. Marshall waved her hand toward her son who sat nervously twisting his hat.

“I’ll give it up if I have to,” said Morey, further abashed, “but I don’t know what I’ll do with my motor engine. I’ve ordered that and I reckon it’s on the way.”

“These engines are rather expensive, are they not?” continued the Major quizzically.

“Oh, that depends,” answered Morey, “a new one is. This is a cheap one, second-hand. It cost only four hundred dollars.”

“You haven’t paid for it, have you?”

Morey looked up, shook his head and fell to twirling his hat again.

“I’m going to suggest that he countermand the order,” said Mrs. Marshall. “It really seems to me a piece of extravagance. What do you think, Major?”

Major Carey’s jaw had dropped and he was looking at Mrs. Marshall and Morey as if in deep thought. Recovering himself suddenly he made an effort to smile and then said:

“Perhaps,” he muttered. “Yes, I agree with you.”

“There, now,” exclaimed Mrs. Marshall in gay humor. “You see Major Carey quite agrees with me. If you could only persuade him, Major, that he should follow in his father’s steps—”

The banker-planter coughed and resorted to his watch chain again.

“Perhaps Morey and I had better have a little talk alone,” he answered at last.

“If you would be so good. Business always hurts my head,” laughed Morey’s mother. The old Virginian bowed again and slipped his arm in Morey’s. Down the long brick walk they strolled until the last iron settee was reached. Major Carey, perspiring, had hardly seated himself when he exclaimed:

“Morey, how old are you?”

“Eighteen, sir, last month.”

His companion nodded his head.

“My son, your father was my best friend. Your mother has as fine and sweet a nature as any woman in Rappahannock County. But she has no more business sense than your old Betty.”

Morey started in indignant surprise.

“And, in many ways, you resemble your mother.”

“What do you mean, Major Carey? What have we done?”

“What did you mean by ordering a four hundred dollar steam engine?”

“It isn’t a steam engine; its a Curtiss gasoline.”

The elder waved his hand in impatience.

“Who is going to pay for it?”

Morey’s surprise turned to indignation.

“Perhaps that is our affair, Major Carey.”

“Your affair!” snorted the old man breaking out at last. “Morey, it’s time for you to know the truth. It’s bad enough for your mother to fool herself. That’s her nature. But you are almost a man. Neither you nor your mother has the money to pay for this extravagance.”

“I thought”—began the boy.

“You have not thought right. I am your mother’s friend. Four months ago I determined to tell her she was worse than penniless. She is involved in debt. Aspley place is mortgaged—”

“You mean we are poor?” asked Morey, in a quavering voice. “I don’t mean that—I know we are poor. But that we owe people money we can’t pay?”

“I tell you the truth,” went on Major Carey, “only because you’ve got to get some sense into your head. Your mother is heavily involved. Your place is carrying a heavy debt. Your purchase of an engine is worse than foolish—it is shocking.”

The proud boy’s head fell on his breast.

“It won’t make matters easier for you to go on this way. I can’t make it easy for you. You make it hard yourself by not suspecting.”

“I’ll send word not to ship it,” said Morey, not even yet realizing the whole truth.

“Don’t you understand, Morey?” Major Carey exclaimed. “That isn’t the trouble. It’s every thing. You can’t go to school, you can’t take years to educate yourself. You’ve got to go to work—now.”

The white-faced boy rose to his feet.

“Oh, that’s it, is it? Well I’m not scared. That’s what I am ready to do.”

“And you’ll have to give up your home.”

“Give up our home? Why?”

“The people who hold your father’s notes and the mortgage are ready to foreclose and take the place.”

“Give up Aspley Place?” repeated Morey, the tears coming into his eyes.

His father’s old friend nodded his head slowly and tremulously wiped his face.

“Major Carey,” said Morey with a throb in his throat, “that would break Mother’s heart. She can’t do that.”

“The sooner you realize that it must be, the better for both of you.”

“Was there any way to prevent this?”

The old Major sighed.

“It isn’t your mother’s fault, Morey. And it isn’t yours. It all began a long time ago.”

“You mean—?”

“Your father was not a good business man. He was a gentleman and my friend—”

“We don’t have to discuss him, do we, Major Carey?” exclaimed the boy with a new-born glint in his eye. The flush of confusion and the tremor of alarm seemed to have gone from Morey.

Major Carey was startled by the sudden change.

“What do you think we should do?” went on the lad and he was beginning to feel like a young man.

“Your mother has a little money of her own that will keep her from want. I and others of her friends believe she should give up the plantation and rent a cottage in the village. You must go to work and help support her.”

“Major Carey,” said Morey in a low voice, “of course you know what you are saying. But I can hardly believe it.”

“Morey, your mother is bankrupt.”

The boy bowed his head for a few moments.

“How did this happen?” he exclaimed suddenly.

“It is a long story—perhaps you are not old enough to understand.”

“I’m old enough to have to understand.”

“It was your father. He mortgaged the plantation. After he died your mother could not even pay the interest on the borrowed money.”

“To whom do we owe this money?”

Major Carey moved a little uneasily.

“To the Barber Bank, principally.”

“To any one else?”

Again the old Virginian squirmed.

“Your mother has given me notes for unpaid interest.”

“To you and Captain Barber?” repeated Morey, sitting up and looking at the man beside him.

“Yes.”

“And you and Captain Barber will own our home?”

“It would naturally be that way.”

“How much do we owe you?” asked the boy suddenly and leaning forward in the evening gloom.

Major Carey coughed and arose nervously.

“More than you can repay, my lad. More than I like to say.”

“But I’m going to pay it,” said Morey in a desperate voice, laying his hand on the Major’s arm to detain him. “I don’t know how, but I’m going to do it. You think I’m a fool. I have been. If I hadn’t been soaked full of ideas that I got from every one around me I’d have known. And don’t you believe I got ’em all from my mother. I got ’em from everything and everybody around here. But I understand now. I might have understood long ago if I hadn’t been living the life every one lives around here.”

“Careful my boy. Remember, it is to your friends that you owe much.”

“And I thank them,” retorted Morey angrily. “To those who have loaned us money I’ll repay every cent. How much do we owe you?”

“What I have told you is for your own good,” was Major Carey’s only reply. The old Virginian’s indignation was rising.

“Major Carey,” almost sobbed the boy, “don’t take offense. But why didn’t you tell me this long ago?”

“I tried to tell your mother, but it wasn’t possible. I’m sorry she has to know.”

For a moment the man and the boy stood in silence. Then Morey extended his hand and made a brave effort to smile.

“We won’t tell her—not just yet—Major Carey. Because a kid has been a fool is no sign that he is going to keep it up. I’m game. I’m going to be a man, and I’m going to have business sense. I’m going to ‘get there’ and I’m not scared. Tomorrow morning at ten o’clock I’m coming to the bank and I want to know the whole story.”

Major Carey shook his head.

“I’m afraid it’s too late.”

“Too late to know what struck you?” laughed Morey. “Perhaps I’ve got more brains than you think.”

“At ten o’clock in the morning, then,” sighed Major Carey.

“That’s the first business engagement I ever had,” replied Morey, “and I rather like it. I’ll be there.”

[CHAPTER VII]
AN EXCITING INTERVIEW.

Old Marsh Green was perhaps the poorest farmer in Rappahannock County. But when it came to facts in relation to the Marshall family or the land it had owned, his information was profuse and exact. When Morey knocked on his cabin door at six o’clock the next morning and ordered the white-haired darkey to turn out and saddle Betty and Jim, Marsh and Amos were more than amazed. They were confounded. No Marshall had ever risen at such an hour within the colored man’s recollection.

“Somepin gwine come frum dis,” muttered Marsh. “Tain’t natchal.”

Amos was greatly relieved to find that the early morning business did not relate to the knife he had purloined.

Marsh knew no more after Morey had accomplished his purpose. In an hour and a half the boy and the “overseer” had ridden from one end of the plantation to the other and across it; not only the present one hundred and sixty-acre piece immediately about the “mansion,” but east and west, north and south, over all the acres once attached to the place. On a bit of paper Morey made a rough chart of the land as his father had known and cultivated it and on each, parcel and division he set down notes concerning the quality of the soil, when last cultivated by the Marshalls, and its present physical condition.

At nine o’clock he breakfasted with his mother and at ten o’clock he was at the Barber Bank in Lee’s Court House, above which Major Carey had an office.

“I believe, Morey,” began Major Carey, “after giving this problem a great deal of thought, that the best thing to do, possibly, would be to let my son-in-law, Mr. Bradner, take charge of the matter.”

“A stranger,” exclaimed Morey.

“Well, you see,” explained Major Carey, “he knows the situation and he can talk to your mother. I confess that I can’t, and you are rather young to undertake it. It’s a business proposition now and he’s a business man.”

“We won’t talk to my mother at all. At least not yet. And, when we do, I’ll do it. There’s no call to bring in an outsider. I’m ready for business. Now what does this all mean?”

Major Carey sighed and pointed to a chair on one side of a dusty, paper-littered table.

“It means,” began the planter money-lender, “that your mother owes $14,092 with an additional $800 soon due.”

Morey, instead of sitting down, sprang to his feet.

“Why—why, we have never had all that money.”

“That’s it. It began when your father was alive. Eleven thousand of it he had. The rest of it is interest and—”

“But my mother has money of her own. She had a fortune that is hers.”

“So she believes,” explained Major Carey, “but, Morey, money is an unknown quantity to your dear mother. She had and still has $5,000. It is safely invested and brings a revenue of $300 a year. On that and with what little your place has produced in the last three years you have lived.”

“My schooling cost more than that.”

“There you have it. Captain Barber advanced the money for your school bills.”

Morey’s face whitened and his lip quivered. Then he leaned across the table, his hand shaking, and exclaimed:

“And that’s what you call looking out for our interests! How could you let me make such a fool of myself? Do you imagine I hadn’t the manhood to do the right thing?”

“I’d have told you, but, my boy, your mother is different. She couldn’t stand it.”

“Yet you are willing now, when we are in over our heads and about ready to drown, to let a stranger tell her.”

“What can we do?”

“You can treat me like a man. Go on,” said Morey stoutly. “Tell me what has happened. If we are ‘all in’ I want to know just how deep the water is. Don’t you be afraid. You’re not talking to Mother now.”

Major Carey seemed almost to be saying to himself, “I wish I were.” His restlessness increased.

“There are three mortgages on Aspley Place,” he began, drawing a green box from his old-fashioned desk. “The first one was made to the Richmond Trust Co. and is on the big one hundred and eighty-acre piece now in corn. This is for $4,500. On the two sixty-acre pieces to the north, the meadow and the tobacco ground, there is a mortgage of $3,000 for money advanced by Captain Barber. Just before your father died I loaned him $3,750 on the one hundred and sixty-acre home piece and the forty acres of low land on the east next the creek.”

Morey’s lips were tightly set. Each new item came like a stab; but he had his pencil out.

“That’s $11,250,” he commented.

“These notes all draw seven per cent,” explained the planter, rising and laying off his coat, for the morning was warm and he was perspiring. “That is $787.50 a year interest. Your mother has not been in a position to meet these payments. I have advanced this amount annually for three years.”

“I must certainly thank you for that—”

“And took her notes, which, of course, are morally protected by the mortgage I hold on the home, and—”

“That’s $2,262.50 more,” added Morey with a start.

“Then,” added Major Carey, “your mother’s account at the bank is overdrawn $580, four hundred of it for your Richmond bills.”

The boy set down the items, added them, saw that they corresponded to the other’s total and turned, without speaking, to gaze out of the window into the street below.

“And I reckon you all want your money,” he said in a low voice at last.

“We are not pushing matters,” explained Major Carey, “but we have all agreed that you ought to know the real facts.”

“And this Richmond Trust Co. note,” broke in Morey suddenly. “I suppose the note is due. Perhaps they won’t renew it. I don’t know much about these things, but they could push us, couldn’t they? They might foreclose on the land and take it, mightn’t they?”

Major Carey coughed. “That note has passed into the hands of other parties.”

“Whose? Do you know?”

“Captain Barber’s bank.”

“Oh,” exclaimed Morey, “our bank? Yours and Captain Barber’s?”

“Yes. But, of course, it is one of the bank’s assets now and the directors are anxious to get their money.”

“Why? Isn’t the interest enough? The security is certainly ample.”

“That’s the trouble, Morey. The security is not the best. Farm lands hereabouts have fallen so in value that we are calling in all loans of that sort.”

“That ground is worth $100 an acre, any way,” exclaimed Morey, glancing at the chart he had made and the estimate he had secured from Marsh Green.

“Perhaps $25, but I doubt if that could be realized at a forced sale.”

Morey’s face fell.

“Isn’t any of it worth more than that?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Then the whole plantation isn’t worth more than $15,000.”

The Major nodded his head.

“I reckon we are up against it,” exclaimed Morey with a grim smile. “And I had figured it out to be worth $60,000 any way.”

“Some of the old place isn’t worth $10 an acre,” replied the planter. “The house you can not count as worth anything.”

“Except to us,” broke in Morey stoutly. “To us it’s worth just enough to make us want to keep it.”

“There will be another $800 due as interest this fall,” the elder man explained with a long face and puckered lips, “and I don’t see how I can advance any more money to care for it.”

Morey, who had been desperately trying to see some ray of light in the chaos of financial gloom, had a sudden idea.

“This land is really ours, still, isn’t it? That is, so long as the mortgages are not foreclosed?”

“Certainly,” answered Major Carey, a little nervously.

“How comes it then that Captain Barber carted away our tobacco shed?”

“Did he do that?” began Major Carey. “Yes, I believe he did. Well, it was in ruins. I think he got your mother’s consent. Then there were the taxes,” he continued, as if the thought had just come to him. “He had advanced the money for taxes on the tobacco land.”

“And the one hundred and eighty-acre corn piece?” persisted Morey. “Marsh Green says he was ordered off it—that Captain Barber said it belonged to the bank.”

“No,” explained the Major, “not exactly that. But old Green couldn’t farm it. He tried it the year after your father died and the weeds took his crop.”

“Who did farm it?” asked the boy, the Marshall jaw setting itself in spite of his despair.

“We tried to look after it for your mother—the bank.”

“And the bank had two years’ corn crop on it?”

“Yes, that is, it rented it out. But crops were poor both years. And the ground is run down. There wasn’t much in it. We had to buy fertilizer and pay taxes and—”

“Was there anything in it?”

Morey looked across the table at his father’s old friend.

“Maybe—a little.”

“You have everything figured out in cents that we owe you. Shouldn’t there have been another column to show what you and the bank owes us?”

“Do I understand, sir,” exclaimed Major Carey indignantly, “that you are making charges? You don’t reckon we have taken advantage of your mother? Young man, if it hadn’t been for our bank you’d be working at day labor—”

“And I expect to,” came the quick answer. “That’s neither here nor there. You needn’t send Mr. Bradner to talk to my mother—you needn’t say anything yourself. I’ll attend to this. I never earned a dollar in my life but I can add and subtract. You’ve been mighty good to us, Major Carey, and I’m not going to pay you with thanks. How long will you give me to take up the obligations?”

“How long? What d’you mean?” exclaimed Major Carey.

“You don’t reckon I’m going to let the Barber Bank scoop up six hundred acres of good Virginia dirt for $14,000 do you?” said Morey significantly. “I don’t think my father’s old friend would be willing to see us permit that.”

Major Carey sprang to his feet.

“All we want is our money,” exclaimed the planter in a thick voice. “We’re entitled to that, you know.”

“Certainly. But wouldn’t you rather have the land?”

“That’s what I was going to suggest,” blurted out the Major, the banker and money-lender in him coming to the top.

Morey smiled.

“I thought so,” he remarked tartly.

“What do you mean?” shouted the Major, his face almost purple with sudden rage.

“I mean,” answered Morey coldly, “that for $14,000 you and Captain Barber and Mr. Bradner—and I reckon that’s the Barber Bank—are planning to get our plantation.”

Major Carey exploded:

“Young man, you have some high and mighty ideas. Aspley plantation is dear at $20 an acre. This is the return for all my generosity.”

“You’re getting seven per cent annually for your generosity,” retorted the boy.

“Are you prepared to pay this debt?” came from Major Carey savagely.

“I’ll be prepared in time,” rejoined Morey with assurance. “Our farm isn’t worth $20 an acre for tobacco. Perhaps it isn’t worth any more for corn. But, you know, land can be used for other things. It’s worth $200 an acre for fruit. I’ll sell enough of it to pay you all and I’ll be ready to make good when the money’s due.”

Major Carey sank into a chair.

“And if you or Captain Barber or Mr. Bradner have any occasion to see my mother on business in the meantime I suggest they make a report on the two years’ use of our one hundred and eighty-acre corn piece. And, by the way,” added Morey, “if my mother needs some small amounts of money this summer I wish you would instruct Mr. Bradner to let her have what she needs. You can charge it to our open corn rent account.”

The perspiration was rolling from the excited planter’s face. Leaning forward he grasped Morey by the arm.

“You’re a fool,” he said huskily.

“So you told me last night—that I resembled my mother.”

“You don’t know what you are talking about. Who told you to say this?”

“The foolishness I inherited from my mother. Good-bye!”

[CHAPTER VIII]
A CONSULTATION WITH AN ATTORNEY.

It was one thing for Morey to announce that he meant to take care of his mother’s debts. It was another thing to decide just how this promise was to be carried out. But, although Morey had climbed the dusty, narrow stairs to Major Carey’s office with nervous dread, he came down with something of assurance—as far as one could make out from the expression on the boy’s countenance. His face was red, he was perspiring, his hat was well back on his mussed-up hair and he still held, absent-mindedly, the scrap of paper on which he had been figuring.

Within the entryway at the bottom of the stairs he paused, scratched his head, took out and counted all the money he had in the world—seventy-five cents. Then he laughed.

“I only need $14,091.75 more,” he said.

For some moments he gazed out into the almost silent street. On a sudden impulse he pulled his hat down, started forward, and, reaching the sidewalk, gazed to the right and left. Midway in the next block and over the postoffice he saw a sign, in washed-out blue and pale gold: “E. L. Lomax, Attorney and Counselor At Law. Fire Insurance and Money Loaned.”

He started toward it but, passing the drug store on the corner, he entered, purchased a sheet of paper, an envelope and a stamp and on a greasy soda water counter wrote this note:

Lee’s Court House, Virginia.

Mr. Glenn Curtiss,
Hammondsport, N. Y.

Dear Sir.—My order of recent date concerning the purchase of a six-cylinder aeroplane engine is hereby countermanded. Circumstances have arisen that force me to ask you to stop shipment; to wit, I have no money to pay for the engine.

Your obedient servant,

Mortimer Marshall.

Sealing and stamping the note, Morey ordered and drank a five-cent ice cream soda as if to fortify himself, and then, dropping his letter in the postoffice, he mounted the creaking stairs to the office of E. L. Lomax. The door was open, but the place was deserted. A few law books, a typewriter, white with dust, a box of sawdust used as a spittoon, a stove crammed full of paper scraps as if already prepared for the next winter, a disarranged desk and four walls almost completely covered with insurance advertisements, and several brown and cracked maps of Rappahannock County, confronted him.

Morey turned to leave. On the door he saw a scrap of paper which seemed to have been there many days. “Gone out. Back soon,” it read. He turned, sat down and waited. An hour went by and the lawyer did not appear. Morey determined to make some inquiries. As he reached the bottom of the stairs a middle-aged man in a wide black hat and a long coat, who was sitting in the window of the postoffice, rose and greeted him.

“Did you want to see me?” the man asked.

“Are you Mr. Lomax?”

The man, who had a large quid of tobacco in his mouth, of which there were traces on his shirt front, carefully expectorated through a grating on the flag stone sidewalk and waved his hand toward the stairs, on which there were more signs of tobacco.

“Well, so long, Judge,” drawled a man who had been sitting in the same open window.

“Are you Judge Lomax?” began Morey when the two had reached the musty office above. In the vague roster of the town celebrities the name was familiar to him.

“How can I serve you?” answered the man, kicking the sawdust-filled cuspidor into the middle of the floor. “I am Judge Lomax, but I have retired from the bench.”

“My name is Marshall, Mortimer Marshall.”

“Colonel Aspley Marshall’s son?”

“Yes sir.”

“Proud to meet you, my boy. Yo’ fathah was one of my best friends. How can I serve you?”

“Do you deal in lands? Do you buy and sell property?” asked Morey directly.

“I am an attorney,” answered Judge Lomax, “but my legal business throws me more or less into such business.”

“Have you any knowledge of our place? That is, do you know anything about the value of Aspley plantation?”

“I know every foot of it. It is a fine bit of land.”

“What is it worth?”

Judge Lomax expectorated, rose and consulted one of the many land charts hanging on the wall, and then opened a worn volume on the table showing the farms of the county by section lines.

“Well, as to that,” he answered evasively, “it is hard to say—off hand. Are you desiring to sell the property?”

“I want to borrow some money on it and, later perhaps, if the price is right, we may sell it.”

Judge Lomax looked out of the window.

“I understand,” he said, after a pause, “that the entire place is mortgaged.”

“For $14,000,” answered Morey. “The Barber Bank holds the notes. They are due this fall. I want to pay them and save the place. I can’t let the land go for $14,000.”

“That’s a good deal of money,” commented the lawyer.

“But it’s nowhere near the value of the land. That’s only a little over $20 an acre for it. The land is certainly worth more than that.”

“I reckon, if you can find a buyer. But it’s pretty hard to dispose of a parcel of ground of that size.”

“How much is it worth, in your judgment, at a forced sale.”

“I, ah, well, I could hardly say, off hand.”

“How much will you lend me on it.”

The lawyer shook his head.

“Money is pretty close just now. And my clients are a little slow about lending on these old tobacco plantations. We know they are good land, but they don’t rank well as security.”

“Couldn’t you lend me $15,000 at least?” asked Morey nervously.

“I’ll look about for you and consult some of my moneyed clients.”

“When can you give me an answer?”

Judge Lomax knit his brows in thought and took a fresh chew of tobacco.

“Just you wait here a minute,” he said at last. “I’ll run out and see a party. Perhaps I can help you out.”

The lawyer hastened from his office. Ten minutes went by and he had not returned. The room was hot. Morey, in an effort to get a little fresh air moved to one of the windows. He sat down in it and looked out. At the same moment he caught sight of Judge Lomax on the steps of Barber’s Bank, in the next block. By the side of the lawyer stood the tall, heavy figure of Major Carey. Morey sprang up, looked again and then watched the two men in earnest talk for several minutes.

When the attorney came slowly into the room after another five minutes Morey knew what the verdict would be. Instinctively he had come to a quick conclusion. Judge Lomax had put him off until he could consult the enemy.

“I’m afraid,” began the lawyer, “that it’s going to be difficult to do what you want. Money is pretty tight now.”

“Then you can’t do it?” said Morey with composure.

“Not just now—later, perhaps.”

“You wouldn’t mind telling me what Major Carey instructed you to say the land was worth?” continued the boy, successfully suppressing his indignation.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You’ve done me a low down trick. I saw you rush right over to Barber and Carey for orders. Do you get a commission from them for not dealing with me?”

“I’ll kick you downstairs.”

“Try it.”

The boy stood ready, his clear eyes fixed on the embarrassed loan agent.

“You’re not a lawyer,” sneered Morey, “you’re a shyster.”

Judge Lomax started forward, but Morey squared himself.

“Oh, I’m not afraid of you—tattle tale!” exclaimed the boy, knowing no more expressive epithet. “Come on!”

“If you weren’t a child—”

“Got your orders, did you?” taunted Morey. “You’re a fine bunch here in this town. I’ll see you all, later. And I’ll make you all feel so small you can jump through a finger ring. And mark me,” added the boy, “if you ever get yourself mixed up with this Aspley place deal I’ll come for you first.”

He turned and was about to leave the room when something prompted him to look around. The lawyer, white of face and trembling like a leaf, had lunged forward and an iron paper weight whizzed past the boy’s head striking and shattering the white frosted glass in the door. Morey dodged, stumbled, recovered himself and then, his own anger getting the better of him, he, too, sprang forward. The crazed lawyer was reaching for some object on his disordered desk. Morey could not see what it was—it might be a deadly weapon. He himself was unarmed.

Alarmed and frenzied the boy threw himself forward, leaped on the lawyer’s back, clasped him in his strong young arms just as he caught sight of a revolver and then hurled the struggling man with all his might to the floor. There was a crash as Judge Lomax’s head struck the wooden cuspidor. The revolver rolled under the table and [Morey ran from the office].

It was now noon. Lee’s Court House streets were deserted. Hastening to the front of Barber’s Bank, where he had left Betty, Morey was about to mount when, to his surprise, Captain Barber and Major Carey suddenly appeared in the door of the bank. Morey was fighting mad.

“I’ve just left your friend, Judge Lomax,” exclaimed the boy impudently. “He’s on the floor of his office with a busted head. He delivered your message all right.”

“Morey,” said Major Carey sharply and sternly. “You’ve lost your senses. You’re going too far. You’re making the mistake of your life.”

“Somebody’s making a mistake—Judge Lomax did. You gentlemen have been running this town so long that you think you own it. I reckon the people here think you do. I don’t.”

[Morey Ran from the Office.]

Major Carey came forward across the walk with all the dignity that was commensurate with his indignation.

“Come into the bank. We want to talk to you,” he ordered with the authoritative tone of a parent.

“Are you ready to make a settlement for the rent of the corn land?”

A couple of bystanders were within earshot and the two bankers looked at each other in alarm.

“When I enter your office again, Major Carey, I’ll be ready to settle with you. I hope you’ll be ready to settle with me.”

And jumping on fat Betty’s back Morey loped down the dusty street toward Aspley place two miles away.

At home he found a note from Lieutenant Purcell with the returned fishing rod. The note said:

“My dear young friend:

“I had hoped to bring the rod in person and to have the pleasure of meeting you and your mother. I cannot thank you too much for the kind invitation you gave me and am most grateful for the use of your rod. I am forced today to proceed at once to Washington in the line of my present duty and for some weeks shall be stationed at Fort Meyer. Possibly, on my return, after a month or so, we may meet again.

“Fred Purcell.”

Morey passed a good part of the afternoon in his room. He thought, figured, walked the floor and at times went out into the yard and looked critically at things that, heretofore, he had never seen. At the evening meal his mother commented on his quietness. She attributed it to disappointment over the loss of his aeroplane motor.

“After all, Mortimer,” she said indulgingly, “I’ve been wondering today if we were not just a little hard with you. Perhaps it might be arranged.”

The boy smiled, patted his mother’s shapely hand and said:

“Don’t bother about that, mater. I’ve put it out of my mind. Major Carey’s arguments were absolutely convincing.” And he smiled again.

“We never can repay Major Carey for all he has done for us,” said Mrs. Marshall, sipping her tea.

“Well, any way, I’m going to try,” answered Morey.

But this meant nothing to Mrs. Marshall, who was buttering a biscuit.

“You had quite a long talk with our old friend. What was the nicest thing he said to you?”

“He said I inherited some of your qualities,” answered Morey with another smile.

“The kind old flatterer,” murmured Morey’s mother.

Nor could she then understand why Morey laughed so heartily. As the two left the table, on an inspiration, the boy took his mother in his arms and kissed her. It was the last kiss he gave her for some weeks.

[CHAPTER IX]
THE SECRET OF AN OLD DESK.

Full as the day had been for Morey the coming of night did not put a stop to the working of his brain. Thinking seriously for the first time in his life, he had enough to engage him. Concerning his encounter with Judge Lomax he said nothing. In comparison with the difficult problem of saving his mother’s property this encounter was a small matter. And yet it was this that decided his first step in the struggle that was before him.

The boy was hungry for advice, the counsel of some good friend. His first thought was of Lieutenant Purcell. The soldier was a stranger, but Morey had already cut himself off from the people at Lee’s Court House whom, twenty-four hours before, he would have counted as his best friends.

“There isn’t one of them, young or old,” said the lad to himself, “who would give me a square deal if it cost them a cent.” And by “them” he meant Carey, Barber and Bradner of the bank.

Since Lieutenant Purcell had already left for Washington this avenue of help was closed. Morey’s mother, of course, could be of no more assistance than a child. Never before had Morey felt so lonesome. For the first time he realized that he was fatherless and alone. When night fell a breeze came down from the mountains and it became too cool to stay outdoors. Mrs. Marshall, who had been sitting on the decaying gallery, retired to the musty old parlor and after Mammy Ca’line had lighted the crystal-hung table lamp, she made herself comfortable with an ancient copy of Dickens. Morey, standing by her side, gazed upon the shadowy painting of his father.

Suddenly, out of the new longing in him, came an inspiration; he bethought him of his father’s old room and desk and papers. Perhaps there might be something there, some scrap to help him in his dilemma. He had no idea what there might be among his father’s things. But at least, since he had never even looked inside the desk, he wished to do so. He did not speak of what was in his mind, for the room and its contents were held almost sacred by his mother.

Slipping quietly from his mother’s side, he had not reached the door when she recalled him.

“Mortimer,” she said in her tone of fine breeding, “I have been worrying about you all evening. We have not been considerate enough. I have been thinking of your dear father.”

“Yes, mother, so have I.”

“Major Carey says you take after me in some respects.”

Morey smiled.

“It is your father you resemble. This wild fancy of yours is natural. If your father had had his way—”

Then she paused and sighed.

“What, mother? I never knew—”

“You never knew that he spent two years abroad as a young man—that he studied in Germany—chemistry I think.”

Morey caught his mother’s arm.

“Some foolish idea. But he abandoned it. His father wished otherwise and he was as dutiful as you are going to be.”

“What was it?” exclaimed Morey. “What was his idea? What were his hopes?”

His mother sighed again.

“I never understood,” she added. “It was all behind him when I knew him first. But it was something about paint made out of rocks or dirt—I can’t remember now.”

“And they wouldn’t let him work out his ambitions?” exclaimed Morey.

His mother smiled.

“He became a planter, a gentleman and my husband.”

“Well,” said Morey, a little bitterly, “don’t think of me any more this evening if it makes you think of father.”

“And he had other notions,” continued Mrs. Marshall in a reminiscent tone, “why, before we were married, he had a workshop somewhere here on the plantation.”

“What was he working on?” asked Morey abruptly.

The mother shook her head.

“I never knew,” she answered lightly, “but I do know, now, that his boy ought not be blamed for having the same fancies. I know you’ll get over them,” she said, patting his hand, “and that’s why I’ve relented. It may be extravagant but, Morey, I’m not going to countermand your purchase. You may have your engine.”

His mother straightened up in her chair ready for Morey’s burst of gratitude. But it did not come.

“It’s awfully good of you,” said Morey slowly and with the tears almost in his eyes, “but I’m reconciled. I think Major Carey knows best. We can’t get it just now.”

“Morey, I’m proud of you. There you are really like your father. He quit his foolish experiments to please me.” And drawing the lad to her she patted his cheek.

Morey’s head filled with a dozen ideas—among them, the wild desire to examine his father’s desk drew him like a magnet. When his mother had returned to her book again the boy slipped into the hall. A single candle flickered in the gloom. With this in his nervous fingers he made his way to the hall above. He knew that his father’s old office and study—the room in front across from his mother’s bed room was locked but he knew, too, where her keys hung. From the hook at the head of her bed he took these and, a moment later, he was in the long-locked apartment.

He had been in it before but never alone. The air was heavy and hot. Between the two front windows stood the flat-topped table with its three drawers on each side. In the room were many other things—discarded clothing, two trunks, a case of books, a box of plantation account books—all these Morey had seen and wondered at on the few occasions when he had been permitted to remove, from time to time, his father’s saddle, gun, rod and—only the fall before, as a great prize—the old riding crop.

But these things did not interest him now. Falling on his knees he drew open the drawers, tight with disuse. Each was full; insurance policies, bills of sale, weight tickets, auction lists, letters, small account books. In one a case of pistols; in another, European guide books and old steamship circulars. His hands covered with dust and his clothes white with it he paused after a quick examination. Then, with boyish impulse he turned again to the drawer containing the pistol case. As he drew the case from its dusty bed he saw, beneath it, a flat packet of blue paper tied with red tape.

Holding the mahogany pistol box under one arm with his free hand he lowered the dripping candle to the drawers. On the packet, about eight inches long by four inches wide and an inch deep, he read with difficulty, for the inscription was in faded brown ink: “To whom it may concern. A dream of the future. Aspley Marshall, February 5th, 1889.”

Grasping the package, he let the pistol case sink back into the drawer and, his heart beating wildly, hurried from the room. Locking the door and replacing the keys, he ran to his own little bedroom at the far end of the dark and wide upper hallway. Lighting his own candle he hesitated a moment and then slipped the rotten tape from the parcel.

Opened, the packet turned out to be twelve sheets of heavy blue letter paper. The two bottom ones were covered with the outlines of a mechanical device resembling the cylinder of an engine. These were in black with figures on them in red, and seemed to be front and side elevations of some power apparatus. Next to them were two sheets of formulæ in red figures with chemical equations. Morey made no attempt to understand them. Like the projections on the last pages they were beyond his comprehension. Between these four sheets and a single sheet containing a few lines in brown ink on top, lay seven closely written pages beginning, “Stuttgart, 1888—Last will and testament of a man with a dream.”

The inscription on the top sheet, evidently written later, was brief:

“To whomsoever may take the trouble to open and read this record:

“To those who are striving to harness and apply the forces of nature to man’s uses, these experiments are dedicated and bequeathed. In the knowledge that hydrogen gas in its free and pure state is the most powerful force known, I herein propound, theoretically, the practicability of using it as a motive power. The inefficiency of coal, as transformed into steam, and the known high efficiency of hydrogen as an explosive force being recognized, placing it first in the list of potentialities, I suggest the introduction of hydrogen gas into engine cylinders. The following pages discuss:

“1. The liquefaction of pure hydrogen to render it practically portable.

“2. Its admixture with air behind a piston to secure a maximum of expansive force.

“In brief, a plan for indefinitely increasing the power of gas engines by mixing unstable hydrogen with air.”

Morey laid the sheets on the table as if they weighed pounds. He drew a long breath and whistled.

“Well, what do you think of that,” he exclaimed to himself.

He had no idea what it meant. But that was not his first surprise. His astonishment was over the fact that such a record had been made by his father. That was more than he could reason out. Then he read the top sheet again.

“The practicability of using hydrogen gas as a motive power!”

Suddenly a bit of information Morey had learned at Hammondsport came back to him—“hydrogen is sixteen times as powerful as dynamite.”

He began thinking. “When my father wrote that we had no automobiles and no automobile motors. We had not even dreamed of the aeroplane and the delicate, powerful engine it demands. His idea must have been a dream. If he had a practical plan for increasing the efficiency of the motor he thought ahead of his day.”

Morey tried to examine further into the technical manuscript. But it was wholly beyond him. In the midst of his examination he sprang to his feet.

“The trouble with aeroplanes,” he said to himself, “is that the power developed is not sufficient. My father’s dream may solve the problem. His hydrogen may make engines powerful enough to make the perfect airship.”

The perplexities of the day seemed to disappear. Rays of hope burst through the gloom of the boy’s despondency. Mingled with the wave of sorrow that swept over him when he thought of his little understood, and no doubt disappointed father, was a sudden glow of enthusiasm. He would finish his father’s work. He would carry forward the dream into a practical idea for the sake of his mother.

It was nine o’clock. Tingling with excitement Morey hastily concealed the precious manuscript and drawings in his trunk and sought his mother. In the lower hall he heard a familiar low whistle. It was Amos crouching in the dark at the foot of the stairs. The black boy put his hand on Morey’s arm and motioned him silently to come out to the rear of the house. He shook his head ominously.

“Wha’ fo’ yo’ don’ tell me yo’ beat up Jedge Lummix?”

“I didn’t beat him up,” laughed Morey.

“Dey say yo’ nigh kilt ’im. De town’s all ’citement.”

“Is he hurt?” asked Morey, a little alarmed. Then he told the colored boy what had happened. At the end Amos shook his head.

“I been to town fo’ a pail o’ lard. Marshall Robi’son gwine come fo’ yo’ in de mornin’. Yo’ gwine be ’rested an’ locked up. Da’s what.”

“Who told you?” asked Morey now thoroughly alarmed. “I only acted in self defense. They can’t do anything to me.”

“Mr. Robi’son done ast me was I Miss Marshall’s boy. An’ he said I kin tell yo’ he gwine come an’ git yo’ tomorrer.”

“Why didn’t he come today?”

Amos shook his head.

“Ain’t tol’ me dat. But yo’ better make has’e and see Major Carey.”

“Is that what he told you to say?” asked Morey indignantly, clinching his fists.

“Da’s what he says prezacly.”

Morey walked down the path in a feverish quandary, Amos following him like a dog. Why had he not been arrested at once if a warrant was out? Why should he be told to go and see Major Carey? The possibilities alarmed him. What if he was arrested and fined? He had no money to pay a fine. Would he be locked up in jail? Would the whole thing be used as a club over him? And just when he had the big, new project in mind—a resolution to put his father’s dream to the test?

Suddenly a wild thought came to him. His face flushed and then his jaw set. He did not mean to be arrested and submit to the disgrace of it; he was determined to see and consult with those who would properly estimate the value of his mother’s farm and sell it if possible; he meant to find those who could understand the meaning of his father’s secret. He had resolved to leave Aspley Place at once. But where should he go? There was only one answer. He had but one friend old enough to advise him—Lieutenant Fred Purcell. But Lieutenant Purcell was in Washington.

At eight o’clock the next morning, when Mammy Ca’line took Mrs. Marshall’s black coffee to her room she found, beneath the door, a note. She handed it to her mistress, who read:

“Dear Mother: I have gone away for a short time—a few weeks, I reckon. It’s on business. Amos is with me. I took him because I know you’ll feel better about my going. Don’t worry. I can’t tell you where I am. In a short time I’ll write. You’ll hear that I licked Judge Lomax. I didn’t. He insulted me and I protected myself. If Major Carey or Captain Barber asks you where I am, tell him it’s none of their business. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you good-bye, but I was afraid you wouldn’t stand for what I’m doing, and I had to go.

“Your loving son,

“Morey.”

[CHAPTER X]
AMOS BECOMES A SANCHO PANZA.

“Amos, we’re going traveling,” exclaimed Morey.

“Yo’ gwine run away?”

“I’m going to run away and you are going with me.”

“No, sah. I ain’t done no hahm. I ain’t skeered.”

“I’m not scared, exactly, but I’m going away. I am going to seek my fortune.” The boy smiled as he said it. Could he have seen the black boy’s face he would have been puzzled indeed.

“Wha’ dat yo’ sayin’, Marse Morey?”

“I’m going to leave this place; goin’ away to do something—to help myself.”

“Yo’ is skeered—da’s what.”

“Well, let it go at that. Tonight I’m goin’ to duck—vamoose. I won’t be back here for a good many days—perhaps.”

“Da’s foolish talk, Marse Morey. How come it yo’ gwine away when yo’ all jes’ got home to yo’ ma?”

“You might understand and you might not, Amos. It is a new story but it is a long one already. All you have to know is this—did you ever hear of any one working for a living?”

“Not no white person, ’less’n he wanted to.”

“I want to. I’m in trouble. It’ll be worse if I stay around here. So we’re going to Washington.”

“Yo’ and yo’ ma?”

“You and me!”

“Me?”

“We are going to slip away tonight. If I had money I wouldn’t take you. I’d go on the train. But I haven’t any money. So I’m going to drive there in the surrey with Betty.”

“Me gwine to Whas’ton?”

“Tonight. And we start as soon as we can get ready.”

The black boy had edged away in a state of half terror.

“No, sah, chile. No, sah, Marse Morey. My pa won’t let me.”

“Your father won’t know anything about it. And my mother won’t. That’s the reason we are going. If you speak of it to your father I’ll thrash you. Do you hear?”

“I cain’t go to no Wash’ton now. I’se gwine camp meetin’ Sunday.”

“You’ll probably be camping by the roadside next Sunday,” laughed Morey.

“No, sah, Marse Morey, I can’t do dat. I been to Linden once when de circus show was dere and pa done lambast me fo’ dat. How fur dat Wash’ton?”

“About seventy-five miles.”

“An’ yo’ reckon we gwine git dar wid ole Betty?”

“Or walk.”

“Escuse me. Escuse me. How yo’ mean ’bout dat ‘fortune and wukkin’?”

“I mean, Amos, that things aren’t going right around here. We may have to move away from Aspley Place.”

“Yo’ done makin’ spoht—”

“I can’t tell you about it, but I’ve got to go away to arrange things so that my mother and your father and Mammy Ca’line and you and I can stay here. If you don’t come along and help me and look after Betty we’ll have to find another home.”

Amos was open-mouthed.

“We all ain’t got no other home, Marse Morey. We’s bound to stay here. Who gwine make us go ’way?”

“Never mind, now. But if you won’t go I’ll have to go alone. I thought you’d stick by me.”

“Who gwine do chores fo’ Mammy?”

“Who’s going to look after me?” answered Morey.

The black boy was in a quandary.

“I reckon yo’ ma gwine blame me fo’ dis.”

“Amos, did you ever hear of Don Quixote?”

“Dat a seegar?”

“Don Quixote was a man. He lived a long time ago—before even the Marshalls began to raise tobacco. He was poor as, as, well as we are. But, like a young man I know, this didn’t seem to make much difference to him. He sat, day after day, reading books about impossible things for this was in the time of chivalry—”

“Yas, sah—I knows dat—chivaree. Da’s when yo’ get married.”

Morey laughed, stopped his story and laying his hand on Amos’ arm led him into the dark, silent house, up the stairs to his room and, closing the door, lit his candle.

“Like to hear more about Don Quixote?” he asked, sitting down on his trunk.

“I ain’t hear ’bout him.”

“Well, he was a fine fellow, only he was crazy. He got so twisted in his head that he couldn’t see anything straight. He thought his home and the things about him were all right. But the place was tumbling over his head and he didn’t know it. When his servant stole chickens for him—”

“Who stole chickens? I ain’t steal no chickens. We done borrow ouah chickens.”

Morey held up a warning finger, with a smile.

“He couldn’t even see that the barn was rotten and no use; that there were weeds all over his place; that the house was too old to stand up.”

Amos sighed and knit his brows in an effort to connect the old knight with something he could grasp mentally.

“And that wasn’t the worst,” went on Morey, “when Don Quixote got so bad that he began to ‘see things’; when he was ‘conjured’ out of his wits, he up, one day, and decided to leave his home and seek his fortune in other places.”

“He done gwine to Wash’ton?”

“About the same thing,” explained Morey. “He took his old horse and rode away looking for—well everything he didn’t have at home.”

“Dey gwine to take his farm away?”

“No,” went on Morey, “he just went because he had a foolish idea that the impossible things he had read about might come true.”

Amos sighed again.

“Dey comin’ fo’ yo’ in de mawnin’” he interrupted.

“That isn’t all about Don Quixote. He went away and everything turned out wrong. If it hadn’t been for one thing the old man would have starved. He had all kinds of trouble. How do you reckon he got home again, all safe and sound?”

“How dat?” queried the black boy, straining his wits to understand.

“I say, the old Knight of La Mancha, in other words, Don Quixote, filled with the delusion that the world was really a land of chivalry, which in truth had even then passed away, set forth upon his knightly steed to do deeds of valor in honor of fair ladies and to show his courage. Instead he found only derision, cuffs, kicks and a foodless reception. How then, do you imagine he was able to return home again?”

“Mus’ ’a been dat chivaree.”

“Listen, Amos, this crazy old man got back home because the only person in all the world who really cared for him went with him and looked after him.”

“He done have a colored man?”

“Almost. He had old Sancho Panza. Sancho was his boy, and he never left him.”

Amos was in sore straits. Morey said no more for a few moments, but he began making preparations for his departure. He laid out a few clothes and took down the old, battered traveling bag that he had unpacked but the day before; the black boy’s eyes filled with tears.

“Marse Morey,” whimpered Amos, “yo’ ain’t foolin’ me? Yo’ sho’ gwine away to Wash’ton?”

“As soon as I can pack my grip, write a note to my mother, get together all Mammy Ca’line’s loose food and hitch up.”

“An’ yo’ ain’t goin’ to tell yo’ ma?”

Morey shook his head.

“But she ain’t gwine skin yo’ like my pa trounce me!”

“I’ll see that you aren’t punished.”

Big tears rolled down Amos’ sunken cheeks. Then his big black hands wandered over his patched and tattered garments. As Morey laid some fresh linen in his valise the colored boy looked shamefacedly at his own faded blue calico shirt. Then he dug his shoeless toes into the carpet.

Finally, with a gulp, he exclaimed:

“Marse Morey, I jes’ natchally cain’t.”

“Then I’ve got to go alone and take my chances,” answered Morey, opening his trunk and taking out the blue packet, his father’s “dream,” that was to mean so much to him.

“I ain’t got no clo’es,” almost sobbed the black boy.

“What’s the matter with your meetin’ pants and the shoes you had on last night?”

“Dem’s my Sunday cloes!”

“All right. Goodbye.”

“Sides, pa’s in de cabin.”

Morey turned, smiled and put his arm on Amos’ shoulder.

“Of course you’re going. We’ve lived together all our lives. You go and tell your father I want to see him right away, out on the kitchen gallery. While he is gone pack up your duds. I’ll tell him to hitch up, that we have to go to town. Hide your things in the surrey while he is gone.”

There was no delay in carrying out this plan. By the time Marsh Green had responded to Morey’s summons, hooked up old Betty to the surrey and brought the ancient equipage to the barnyard gate, Morey was ready. His letter to his mother had been written and in the weeds and grass, well down toward the front yard gate was a little pile of baggage, a bulging traveling bag, a package of books and circulars, two blankets and a basket of such food as he could find—two loaves of bread, a dozen cold biscuits, a small paper of sugar, a few pinches of tea, a quart cup, two glasses of jelly, a tin can of some preserves and a half pound of salt pork. Amos’ baggage was not even tied in a bundle.

“Marse Morey,” said old Marsh, as Morey and Amos climbed into the creaking vehicle, “yo doin’ right. Go right to Major Carey. He git yo’ outen yo’ trouble. But don’t yo’ go traipsin’ ’roun’ dat Captain Barber. He ain’ no better dan Jedge Lummix. Go right to Major Carey—he’s yo’ frien.’”

“Still,” laughed Morey, “we might meet Marshal Robinson and he might put me in jail. So goodbye until I see you again.” He held out his hand.

“Go ’long, boy. Ain’t no Marshal Rob’ison gwine git yo’,” and the old darkey chuckled. “Amos,” he added with mock sternness, “don’t yo’ come back ’yar widdout Marse Morey.”

“No, sah, I won’t,” responded the perturbed Amos.

“Anyway, goodbye, Marsh, ’till we see you again. We may not come back right away. Goodbye.”

The old “overseer” turned away with another chuckle.

“Major Carey’ll git yo’ outen yo’ mess. I’ll leab de gate open. Take care ob dat hoss.”

By the time sleepy Betty had reached Morey’s cache of clothing and provisions, old Marsh was well on his way back to his cabin. As Morey stored the valise, basket and blankets in the surrey, his hand fell on a hard round object. Drawing it out into the pale starlight he discovered something tied in an old red bandanna handkerchief.

“This yours, Amos?” he asked, feeling the unyielding contents.

“Das mine, shorely.”

“What is it?”

“Ain’t we gwine to Washn’ton?”

“As soon as we can get there!”

“Ain’t dat officer man dar?”

“Lieutenant Purcell? Yes. But—”

“Da’s my rock.”

“Your rock?”

“Da’s ma rock from de crick. Dat soldier man gwine to git his if we eber comes togedder.”

[CHAPTER XI]
MOREY MAKES AMOS A NOTE.

It was eleven o’clock of a moonless June night when Morey and Amos closed the disjointed gate and turned their backs on Aspley Place. There was a little chill in the air and the vapor of dew. On each side of the broad and rough dirt road little more could be seen than the creeper-covered fences. Neither cabin nor farmhouse showed a light. Even over the distant village of Lee’s Court House, toward which old Betty’s head was turned, hung a pall of blackness.

Morey was in high spirits. Considering the dire possibilities of his flight he might well have been downhearted. But the spell of coming adventure was on him. He patted his feet on the rickety bottom of the surrey, he whistled, he cocked his feet on the loose dashboard as he smacked the lines on Betty’s back, and he hummed the darky songs that Amos knew. But Amos did not join in the choruses. The black boy was far from being in jovial spirits.

“Yo’ all ain’t gwine plumb thro’ de town is yo’?”

This was his first concern.

“You don’t think the marshal is awake now, do you?” answered Morey, with a resounding “Giddap, Betty.”

“He’s loafin’ on de square, ef de saloons is open,” Amos assured him.

“Perhaps it would be safer to go around,” concluded Morey, “but it’s a long way.”

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.”

“Well, you dream about unhooking Betty and finding her some water and grass.”

“I done dream dat old crazy man yo’ all’s tellin’ ’bout been chasin’ me.”

“Don Quixote?”

“Da’s him. He been ridin’ right hyar wid us in de back seat.” And Amos turned suddenly as if expecting to see the ghost of the old knight sitting in the surrey.

Morey laughed as he forced Betty through the underbrush.

“What did he say?”

“He been shoutin’ ‘Go on, niggah! Go on, white boy! I’s wid you!’ No, sah, I ain’t gwine on, I’s gwine home. Dat ol’ boy sho’ly don’ mean no good. Da’s his ghos’—I seen him. He cain’t conjure me, no, sah. I don’t reckon I’ll go no furder. Marse Morey, dat ol’ hoss done played out a’ready.”

Morey was on the ground limbering his stiffened limbs and laughing.

“If I could just find my knife I lost,” he murmured while he felt in his pockets, “I’d cut a new whip.”

Amos started, opened his mouth and closed it nervously and then climbed from the surrey without further comment.