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A moment's reflection told Peter how simple and natural it was for Pack to prize his military medal as a good-luck piece to be used as a last resort in crap games. He watched Tump stroke the face of his medal with his fingers.

“My mother wrote me about your getting it, Tump. I was glad to hear it.”

The brown man nodded, and stared down at the bit of gold on his barrel-like chest.

“Yas-suh, dat 'uz guv to me fuh bravery. You know whut a skeery lil nigger I wuz roun' Hooker's Ben'; well, de sahgeant tuk me an' he drill ever' bit o' dat right out 'n me. He gimme a baynit an' learned me to stob dummies wid it over at Camp Oglethorpe, ontil he felt lak I had de heart to stob anything; 'n' 'en ​he sont me acrost. I had to git a new pair breeches ever' three weeks, I growed so fas'.” Here he broke out into his big loose laugh again, and renewed the alcoholic scent around Peter.

“And you made good?”

“Sho did, black man, an', 'fo' Gawd, I 'serve a medal ef any man ever did. Dey gimme dish-heah fuh stobbin fo' white men wid a baynit. 'Fo' Gawd, nigger, I never felt so quare in all my born days as when I wuz a-jobbin' de livers o' dem white men lak de sahgeant tol' me to.” Tump shook his head, bewildered, and after a moment added, “Yas-suh, I never wuz mo' surprised in all my life dan when I got dis medal fuh stobbin' fo' white men.”