The green clickers subsided near the end cushion of the pool table. A five spot smiled on the top side of one and a helpful dooce laughed cheerfully at the Wildcat from the other.
"Hot dam! Weddin' dice done rung de bell. 'At's fo' hund'ed dollars. Shoots fo' hundred! Fade me! You says yo' blood is hot fo' action. Fade me!"
The lower jaw swinging from the Spindlin' Spider's face drooped something less than a foot. His expression was suddenly full of quinine. He craved an exit while the exit business was good, but a reputation created by considerable indiscreet language had locked the door.
From his depleted roll he laid down forty ten-dollar bills.
"'At about cleans me." He looked at the remains of his stake. "'At about cleans me."
His voice had lost the aggressive quality which had marked his oratory five minutes earlier.
"'At's eight hund'ed dollars. More like I's used to shootin'." The Wildcat rubbed his fingers' tips quickly across the taper cubes.
"Eight hund'ed iron men. Lady Luck, stan' by me! Preacheh bones, make 'em bow down. Riveh dice, high an' dry. Over de riffle. Whuff! Bam! An' I reads seven."
"Ump!" The Spindlin' Spider grunted an accompaniment to a wave of grey which lightened the ebony of his features.
The Wildcat picked up the mass of banknotes and straightened them out. He turned to the Spider. "Mule Lip, how much is you got left? Shoots you fo' what you's got. Mebbe you builds up. Neveh can tell. Mah luck's boun' to break sometime."