James questions me, Virgil and his “pretty cockfight,” Rachel tailors my clothes, I confide in her
I was so excited and satisfied with myself that when I came out the back door of Old Master’s fine house rented from Mr. Leipur, I plain leaped the stoop steps—and would have run the garden path all the way to the coach house and then out to Market Street, or High as some called it, except for James Hemings, Master’s body servant.
“Whoa there!” he shouted out.
I stopped in mid-stride.
“How many times I got to tell you, Granger,” he said, as I slowly turned about, “you don’t be running from Mr. Jefferson’s domicile. We are a respectable residence here. In a respectable neighborhood. Besides, you ain’t no boy anymore and ought not to act like one.”
As usual, James was well-dressed, in a tr
