“We’re not playing right,” said he. “We should call alternately.”
“What’s that?”
“One after the other.”
“I’m not going to play any more,” said Jude. “I’m broke. The bank’s bust and I kin’t pay you, not till I get to Havana—unless I play you double or quits. You call; I’ll toss.”
“Heads.”
She sent the coin six feet high and it fell on the sand—heads!
“That settles it,” said Jude. “Ten dollars I owe you. You’ll have to wait till we get to Havana, for if Satan knew I was tossing for coins he’d sculp me. I can get some money out of the bank at Havana, pretending it’s for something else. I haven’t a cent, an’ this old dollar’s no use: it’s a dud.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” said Ratcliffe. “We were only tossing for fun.” The words were no sooner out of his mouth than he regretted them.
Jude flushed red under her freckles and sunburn.
“I’m not taking your money, thank you,” said she; then breaking out, “What the blizzard d’you think we’ve been playing at, and what you take me for? S’posin’ I’d won, you’d a paid, wouldn’t you?”