The Wildcat paid no heed to his companion's words. He was engaged in twisting the dice in the nervous fingers of his right hand.
"Dey feels right! Dey sho' feels right! Boy, de thumb twist come to me befo' I was nine yeahs old. When I was fo'teen mah uncle Gabe learnt me neveh to dooce, trey, or twelve. Wid dese bones an' yo' ten-dollah bill, when I gits th'oo wid 'at nigger he won't have no mo' money than a frog has feathers."
The pair entered the hotel.
The Mud Turtle went directly to his room, wherein he began the difficult business of oozing his number twelve feet into a pair of number ten shoes.
The Wildcat sought the Spindlin' Spider in whose web he had sacrificed his thousand dollars earlier in the day.
He found his man leaning against a pool table in a room adjoining the lobby of the hotel.
"Howdy, boy." The honeyed accents of gentle forgiveness dripped from the Wildcat's quiet salutation.
The Spindlin' Spider looked at him. "Howdy. How is you?"
"Me? I's noble—an' bustin' wid a cravin' fo' revenge." The Wildcat raised his voice. "Shoots ten dollahs!"
Under the flat nose of the Spindlin' Spider he waved the ten-dollar bill which he had borrowed from the Mud Turtle.