the
principles of the game; and they are so simple that they hardly need
to be explained twice. The dice came around the table until they
reached the man on the other side of the tall, black fellow. He lost,
and the latter said: "Gimme the bones." He threw a dollar on the table
and said: "Shoot the dollar." His style of play was so strenuous that
he had to be allowed plenty of room. He shook the dice high above his
head, and each time he threw them on the table, he emitted a grunt
such as men give when they are putting forth physical exertion with a
rhythmic regularity. He frequently whirled completely around on his
heels, throwing the dice the entire length of the table, and talking
to them as though they were trained animals. He appealed to them in
short singsong phrases. "Come, dice," he would say. "Little Phoebe,"
"Little Joe," "'Way down yonder in the cornfield." Whether these
mystic incantations were efficacious or not I could not say, but, at
any rate, his luck was great, and he had what gamblers term "nerve."
"Shoot the dollar!" "Shoot the two!" "Shoot the four!" "Shoot the
eight!" came from his lips as quickly as the dice turned to his
advantage. My companion asked me if I had ever played. I told him no.
He said that I ought to try my luck: that everybody won at first. The
tall man at my side was waving his arms in the air, exclaiming: "Shoot
the sixteen!" "Shoot the sixteen!" "Fate me!" Whether it was my
companion's suggestion or some latent dare-devil strain in my blood
which suddenly sprang into activity I do not know; but with a thrill
of excitement which went through my whole body I threw a twenty-dollar
bill on the table and said in a trembling voice: "I fate you."

I could feel that I had gained the attention and respect of everybody
in the room, every eye was fixed on me, and the widespread question,
"Who is he?" went around. This was gratifying to a certain sense of
vanity of which I have never been able to rid myself, and I felt that
it was worth the money even if I lost. The tall man, with a whirl on
his heels and a double grunt, threw the dice; four was the number
which turned up. This is considered as a hard "point" to make. He
redoubled his contortions and his grunts and his pleadings to the
dice; but on his third or fourth throw the fateful seven turned up,
and I had won. My companion and all my friends shouted to me to follow
up my luck. The fever was on me. I seized the dice. My hands were so