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His audience roared again, swayed around, and pounded one another in an excess of mirth.

Siner shouted from across the street two or three times before he caught Tump's attention. The ex-soldier looked around, sobered abruptly.

“Whut-chu want, nigger?” His inquiry was not over-cordial.

Peter nodded him across the street.

The heavily built black in khaki hesitated a moment, then started across the street with the dragging feet of a reluctant negro. Peter looked at him as he came up.

“What's the matter, Tump?” he asked playfully.

“Ain't nothin' matter wid me, nigger.”

Peter made a guess at Tump's surliness.

“Look here, are you puffed up because Cissie Dildine struck you for a ten?”

Tump's expression changed.

“Is she struck me fuh a ten?”

​“Yes; on that school subscription.”

“Is dat whut you two niggers wuz a-talkin' 'bout over thaiuh in yo' house?”

“Exactly.” Peter showed the list, with Cissie's name on it. “She told me to collect from you.”

Tump brightened up.

“So dat wuz whut you two niggers wuz a-talkin' 'bout over at yo' house.” He ran a fist down into his khaki, and drew out three or four one-dollar bills and about a pint of small change. It was the usual crap-shooter's offering. The two negroes sat down on the ramshackle porch of an old jeweler's shop, and Tump began a complicated tally of ten dollars.