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A fire shining through the woods guided the gamesters to the crap grounds. A picket stationed some fifty yards from the fire identified the newcomers and allowed them to pass on. If an officer approached, this picket whistled a warning and the gamesters pocketed their money and dice and were found simply standing around a fire blackguarding each other in their usual social fashion.

The gambling place was a hard bare circle of earth, swept clear of twigs and grass, about fifteen feet in diameter. A fire of pine knots gave light. Half-a-dozen hillmen and two or three Negroes were already in the ring playing. A Negro squatted on his haunches had the dice and was shooting them out with a jerk of his hand and a snap of his fingers. As he shot he grunted, "Huh . . . hot dam, come up, Tom Paine . . huh. . . . Come up, old Tom Paine . . . huh. . . . Come up an' look at yo' daddy . . . huh!"

At each "huh" he gave the dice a twitch which sent them spinning on their corners on the hard, smooth dirt. The pair would dance like tops, settle, and the Negro would whisk them up almost instantly and continue his monotonous chant.

Every player strained his eyes in the firelight to see what pips had rolled uppermost. Suddenly someone shouted, "Dough pips!"

The Negro stared at his seven, struck the earth with his fist. "Hot damn, old Tom Paine th'owed me down wid dough pips!"

Came a moving of the little piles of coins in the ring as they changed owners. The next player took up the dice and began the same sing-song "Big Dick frum Boston . . huh. . . . Come uhlong, Big Dick. . . ."

Abner joined the circle and stood looking at the shooters weave their bodies about and spin out the dice. Other labourers were continually joining the ring. From the pickets came a series of guarded whistles which challenged each newcomer. Presently the crowd grew so thick that another