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"Crapped out!" shouted the Negro. The man raked Abner's quarter into his pile with a single gesture.

The sight of his quarter shifting to his opponent's money shook at Abner's nerves. He felt an angry necessity of winning it back. He got out another quarter with still unsteadier hands and flung that on the ground.

"I bet he"— then he hesitated not knowing whether to say wins or loses—"loses."

His neighbour covered Abner's coin with the quarter he had already won from the boy. He bet carelessly because he was betting inside Abner's pocket.

The shooter who was half drunk stoof on his knees, weaving about, chanting at each shot, "Come up, Little Joe! Don't deceive yo' pappy! . . . huh. . . . Hot dam, Eights frum Decatur! Come up, you little son uv a gun . . . huh. . . . Hot dam, Big Dick frum Boston! . . ."

The succession of shots formed a continuous strain on Abner's nerves. He leaned forward, peering intently through the firelight to see what pips rolled uppermost. Every nerve in him vibrated. He did not know it, but the swift succession of suspenses and dénouements was a profound relief from the plodding monotony of his week's work. It was a spiritual refreshment. Hope and fear, gain and loss rushed past quickly enough for Abner to lose himself in the impetuous current of the game.

The dice whirled out, were snatched back, were whirled out again. . . . A Negro was shooting now, and at each sway and croon he might have been screwig up a string in Abner's head.

"Little Feevy!" Five was the black man's point.

Abner bet against him.

"Come on, little gal!" quavered the Negro, weaving about. "Stan up fuh yo' baby . . . huh. . . . Go way, box cars, come on little feevy . . . huh. . . . Thah you ah, honey chile, lookin' yo' baby in de eye. . . ."