After finishing all his chores in the kitchen, Felo went through the house, seeing that all the windows and doors were fastened, before he went upstairs. Going into the room where Mr. Amos was, he found him lying on the bed reading, with the cat asleep on his chest. The cat, like Mr. Amos, was one of Felo’s constant worries. He didn’t know which one of them was “de wusser.” It was a splendid excuse for him to expostulate. “Y’awter put dat ole cat out-doahs. All two of you keep dis place lookin’ like a fatal rabbit-nes’, de way yo’ hair be fallin’ ove’ evvything. I kin shake dem blankets till my two arms be stiff, an’ de hair yet hanging’ to ’um. An’ de onles way to git y’all hair off des flo’-rugs,—I gotta git down on my knees an’ brush ’um wid a swiss-broom.” Mr. Amos put his book aside and laughed heartily. “Keep on!” Felo began again. “One dese nights you goin’ see dat same cat cut yo’ breath fum you; lay’n ’cross yo’ buzzum like dat.... An’ some dese w’ite-folks only goin’ be too glad to say ’twan nobody but nigger Felo did ’way wid you. An’ who you reckon goin’ be hyuh in de house to put it on de cat, aft’ dey done spread de news?... Nobody. Da’s who.” Mr. Amos looked at him and asked quietly: “Did you come up here to give a lecture on the cat? Or did you say you had something worrying you, and you wanted to talk about it?” “I come up hyuh to look aft’ yo’ comfut,” he replied, taking a pillow from the opposite side of the bed and making ready to arrange it under Mr. Amos’s head. “Hyuh; lemme slip dis pilluh und’ yo’ head; an’ leave dat ole cat slide down further on yo’ stummic, whah ’tain so dang’us.” This little attention performed, Felo sat down in the rocking chair and began looking about the room, uncertain how to start his communication. After an awkward silence, he asked: “You goin’ keep on readin’?” “What have you got to say?” Mr. Amos questioned, without looking away from his book. “Man, put yo’ book down, an’ be soshable,” he commanded. “You ain’ sattafy peepin’ up in books all day long, you gotta come hyuh at night-time strainin’ yo’ eyesight over agin?... W’a’s de matter, you don’ wan’ talk?” “No; I want to listen,” said Mr. Amos, closing the book and putting it aside. “What have you to tell me?” “I wan’ tell you ’bout a upsetment me an’ Lethe had las’ night,” he began apologetically. “I know Lethe done blabbed it all over Gritny by now; an’ I know she goin’ tell Miss Tilly; an’ Miss Tilly sho ain’ goin’ miss tell you soon’s she see you; so I wan’ tell you de whole thing so you know de straight tale w’en you hyeah it fum somebody else.”