The Spindlin' Spider shaved five ten-dollar bills from his roll, "Roll 'em," he said.
The Wildcat lifted his brace of tapered cubes high above his head.
"Honey-bee babies, git yo' stinger hot. Shotgun dice, spout yo' lead. Key cubes, unlock de han'cuffs. Bam! Dey reads seven. I lets it lay. Shower down, boy. Fade me. Shoots a hund'ed dollars!"
"You're faded." The Spider had his feet wet, and now he waded deeper into the river of revenge.
The Wildcat rolled the dice against his legs.
"Squirrel dice, ketch de top limb! Ham cubes, drip yo' gravy! Mule bones, resurrection morn. Breakin' on de B. & O.—Bust an' out. Baptisin' babies, hold his head under."
The gallopers rattled across the pool table and went to sleep with a six-five staring the Spindlin' Spider in the face.
"I lets it lay! Shoots two hundred dollars. De gin dice makes de big boy sick. Fade me, ol' mule-lip. What fo' is yo' mouth draggin'?"
A look of doubt began to travel across the Spindlin' Spider's features, but the moral pressure of the crowd about him forced him into the slaughter house. He counted two hundred dollars from his roll and laid it beside the Wildcat's stake.
The Wildcat breathed the hot breath of hope upon the twin cubes in his hand. "Lady dice, git lovely. Snake babies, coil 'roun' de coin. Grub cubes, 'semble yo' rations! Army gallopers, as you was! Bam!"