“So set down an’ eat, an’ don’ plague me,” he said, appealingly. “Evvything hyuh on de table for you. An’ if you want somh’n, I’ll be right hyuh in de yard, an’ you kin call me.... Da’s alright?” He asked hesitatingly. “Go on,” Mr. Amos told him with an amused smile. “Maybe the fresh air will revive you; and later on you’ll be more sociable.” He didn’t need no fresh air to revive his feelin’s; Felo argued with himself as he worked with his beans. Wasn’t he out in the fresh air nearly all day? But that didn’t keep him from gittin’ down-casted. Even with music playin’, and the Peefus members marchin’ back and forth around Gussie’s tomb, callin’ out to the devil and beatin’ him off with their battle axes. And with the people singin’ and talkin’ and goin’ on like they did.... Excitement ain’t had nothin’ to do with his feelin’s bein’ upset. It was what people did to him that made him feel troubled in his mind.... Just like Mr. Amos thinkin’ he wasn’t sociable. Somebody onsociable was ’most as bad as somebody what wasn’t no Chrishtun.... He went on ruminating. What make Mr. Amos think he ain’t sociable, after he done come back from Gritny plumb disgusted with evvything; glad to git home where he could look over his mind peaceful, when he was doin’ his cookin’ and tryin’ to make things look nice and invitin’ to please nobody but him.... That wasn’t no way to talk to an ole-time fellow-servant, just because he ain’t ready to stretch his eyes and grin the minute somebody look at him.... It sho was disencouragin’.... Couldn’t Mr. Amos keep patience, and wait till he got through twistin’ them snap-beans? And finished up evvything in the kitchen, so he could talk to him free and light-minded, after both of them went upstairs? It sho was strange, for people what was raised together, and played with each-another from the days of their younger youth, not to be able to ’zern anybody condition when they seen them lookin’ like somh’n heavy was layin’ on their mind.... “De man ain’ know me yet; an’ hyuh I bin servin’ ’im thoo evvy kind o’ close quarters all dese many years? Lawd, Lawd! Hyuh somh’n else done comed up povokin’,” he went on cogitating aloud; hurrying through his work to get upstairs, where he knew he would find Mr. Amos in his room, lying down, reading. Hearing Felo’s habitual goat-like sniff with which he playfully announced his arrival, Mr. Amos turned and saw him leaning against the door frame, waiting to be invited to have a seat. Knowing Felo’s propensity for all kinds of “good stimalashun,” and wanting to see him in a pleasant frame of mind, Mr. Amos gave him the keys of the armoire, and told him to get the bottle of Scotch whiskey he would find on the shelf, and help himself to a comforting drink. Felo brought the bottle and two glasses and put them on the washstand, and sat down, looking at the bottle without speaking. “Don’t you want a drink?” Mr. Amos asked in surprise. “Lord knows you look like you need one.”