“Jus’ a little touch fer ole time sake,” he whispered. “’Tain’t ’nough ter hurt er fly. An’ it ain’t goin’ ter cos’ yer one cent.”
She stood a moment longer, and her hand trembled, spilling a few grains between her fingers. Then suddenly she clapped her palm over her mouth. When she took it away it was quite empty.
Sportin’ Life heaved a sigh of relief, turned and leant against the wall—and waited.
In the corner by Serena’s bench the party was breaking up. Only a few women were left, and instead of the blur of general talk, remarks leapt clear. They were discussing the crap game that had just closed.
“Dey is somet’ing berry queer ’bout de way de money always go tuh de same place,” a voice was saying.
The moonlight ebbed from the corner where Bess and Sportin’ Life stood. Five minutes had passed since she had made her sudden decisive gesture. She stood oddly rigid, with her hands clenched at her sides.
Abruptly she spun around. “Yuh gots mo’ ob dat?” Her voice was low and taut.
“Sho’ I has!” came the answer, with a confident laugh. “But it don’t come cheap. Gimme dat money yer got dere.”
Silently she held out her hand, and poured the coins into his palm.
He gave her a small folded paper.