"And you can depend upon them to vote as you wish—rather, instruct?" ventured Wyeth. At this Jackson gave a low, short laugh as he replied:
"That's whe' I plays the high ca'd 'n' gets a hund'd," and, laughing again in that peculiar fashion, he would say no more.
The polls had closed. Darkness had settled over the city. The saloons had opened their doors. From the streets came forth hilarious sounds, where the many hundreds, now steeped in liquor, reeled about. This confusion, mingled with the crash of heavy wagons, and horse hoofs hurrying over the cobblestones, filled the damp air with an almost deafening noise.
Sidney Wyeth lay stretched across the bed in his room, listening idly to the sounds that echoed and re-echoed through the frame building. Presently, his attention was attracted by another noise, familiar, but more noticeable on this day.
"T-click-i-lick-ilick—ah—ha dice! T-click-ilick-i-lick—ah—ha dice!"
"Aw, shake'm ole nigga, shake'm!"
"Yeh. Roll 'm out. Don' let 'm spin 'roun' on d' en' lak dat! Shake'm up. Make music!"
"T-click-i-lick-i-lick—ah—ha dice!"
"Trowed eight!"