King Cole solemnly chanted the last lines and stopped.
“I can’t play no more. That damned wine makes me dry.”
The conversation turned upon decent prostitutes and honest gamblers, a discussion over which Paul Kruger alone had taken the affirmative every time.
“You betcha there can be decent gold-diggers. And honest gamblers, too,” he was saying.
“What’s so funny about that? They’re nothing but ways of making a living.”
“Yes, but, Paul,” one of the men interrupted, “if a woman goes around and sleeps with everybody she can’t be very decent, can she?”
“As decent as your damned society women every time. Now look here. A woman gits married. And then she leaves her husband.” He stopped. “Got that? Well, she marries another guy and then another. Now, how is she any better than a regular gold-digger?”
“This ain’t no place to talk about things like that. No place at all. You all bettah be prayin’ to Gawd that this hyah wah’ll soon be ovah,” said Pugh.
Mercifully, the officer of the day walked by and ordered them off to bed.