“You have no fixed work, you can knock off when you like, you haven’t to carry cargo, or be bothered with owners, or be up to time. You are as free as the gulls.”
Jude took his hand and removed his arm from around her waist just as one removes a belt. She wanted to shift her position. She seemed to have lost interest in the conversation. Sand had got between her toes, and she removed it, running her finger between them. She had no handkerchief,—never used one or needed to use one: the perfectly healthy animal never does.
Then, crossing her legs like a tailor and squatting in front of him, she dived into the right hand pocket of her trousers and produced a dollar, a slick, evil, suspicious-looking dollar. She seemed utterly to have forgotten the gulls’-nesting business and how the time was running on, and having little passion for the business he was content not to remind her.
“I’ll match you for dollars,” said Jude. She was no longer the person of a moment ago. She was the harbor larrikin, the clodder of bathing nigger girls, a person to be avoided by pious boys with possessions in the form of money or land.
The coin spun in the air.
“Tails is the bird,” cried Jude.
“Heads, then.”
“Tails! Y’owe me a dollar.”
It spun again.
“Heads! We’re quits. Heads again, heads—oh, hell!—what you want sticking to heads for? That’s two dollars I owe you. Tails—scrumps! that’s three! Tails again, that’s four. What you want sticking to tails for? Why don’t you wabble about an’ give a body a chance? Heads—holy Mike! What’s wrong with the durned thing? Five dollars gone on a bang!”