cat'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.

The Spider produced a roll of bills and peeled a ten spot therefrom.
"Roll 'em! You an' me both craves action."

The Wildcat had hooked his fish.

He twisted the green taper dice in a handful of fingers whose tips
bulged with a fine technique that had distilled from years of study and
practice.

Here on the green cloth of the pool table was his field of battle.

Before him lay his entire capital, matched by an equal amount from the
Spindlin' Spider's roll.

"I's a Wildcat for revenge, an' I's on my prowl! Pay-day dice, speak
mah name! Bam! Five and a dooce. I lets it lay. Shower down!"

The Spindlin' Spider covered his bet.

"Gallopers, stay lame on seven. Train robber babies, fo'ty dollars in
de sack. I reads six-five! Rally roun', boys. Shoots fo'ty dollars.
Fade me, boy. Bugle dice, blow de cash call. Harvest babies, pick yo'
cotton! Bam! An' I reads fo' trey!"

The Wildcat stowed away a trio of ten-dollar bills as an insurance
policy against accident.

"Shoots fifty dollars!"

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