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[Illustration]

NOTES FROM THE JACKET DUSTCOVER OF THE FORGED NOTE:

It is sometimes asked what inspires people to begin to write. Many
reasons may be given, but in this particular instance, a brief statement
of the author's experiences might be of interest.

At the age of twenty-one he was a homesteader on the Rosebud Indian
Reservation, South Dakota, where he was about the only <DW64> settler. At
twenty-six he was prosperous; and when another strip of the famous
reservation was thrown open to settlement, he helped some of his
relatives to secure land by furnishing money with which to purchase
relinquishments on homesteads and other expenses. He also secured for a
young lady another homestead, upon which she made filings. Six months
later they were married and then went to live on her homestead.

She was the daughter of a minister in one of the leading <DW64> churches
and was well educated, loved her husband devotedly--to all
appearances--and they were happy.

Her father and husband represented beings with different points of view,
and on this account an enmity grew up between them. The husband had
often publicly criticised some of the leaders in his race as not being
sincere, particularly many of the preachers. A year after the marriage,
the preacher paid his second visit and when the husband was away, to
indicate his dislike for the pioneer, he had his daughter, who was sick
in bed, forge her husband's name to a check for a large sum, secured the
money and took his daughter to his home in Chicago.

The homestead had been contested previous to this, and the minister had
denounced the white man (a banker), who filed the contest, scathingly
for trying to beat his daughter out of her homestead. Left alone after
her departure, with only his ninety-year-old grandmother, who had raised
a family in the days of slavery, for company, Mr. Micheaux wrote his
first book. In the meantime, the case dragged through all the land
courts at Washington, being finally settled by Secretary of the Interior
Lane in her favor. About this time, the book appeared, and was called
"THE CONQUEST".

In this was told anonymously the story of a base intrigue on the part of
the preacher to vent his spite. The white banker, whose bank in the
meantime had failed, read the book, and understood.... He went to
Chicago and sent the preacher money to Cairo to come to Chicago, which
the preacher did. Although unsuccessful in his effort before the
government to beat Mr. Micheaux's wife out of her homestead, which had
cost Mr. Micheaux thirty-five hundred dollars and which at that time was
worth six thousand dollars, the banker succeeded in having the preacher
persuade his daughter to sell him the homestead, giving her in
consideration, only three hundred dollars.[A]

    [A] NOTE--Until a homestead is commuted--proved up on--it may be
    relinquished by the holder without any person's or persons' consent.
    The woman, therefore, in this case could sell the homestead without
    her husband's consent.




[Illustration: "Nice,--Hell! How long do you figure those church people
would kite you about, if I told them _what you were_ back in--you know
where?"]




THE FORGED NOTE

[Illustration: They stood together now upon the walkway, and suddenly he
gripped her hand.]

[Illustration: They regarded the clock strangely, and uttered audibly,
"Eighteen minutes left," and in the meantime it tick-tocked the fatal
minutes away.]




        THE FORGED NOTE

  _A Romance of the Darker Races_

             BY

        OSCAR MICHEAUX
  _Author of_ "The Conquest"

  _ILLUSTRATED BY C.W. HELLER_

      Lincoln, Nebraska
  WESTERN BOOK SUPPLY COMPANY
            1915

[Illustration]




     COPYRIGHT, 1915
          BY
  WOODRUFF BANK NOTE CO.

  _All rights reserved_

[Illustration: "Has it occurred to you that you have told me nothing,
absolutely nothing, about yourself?" The look she gave him was severe;
but he only regarded her strangely.]

      Press of the
  Woodruff Bank Note Co.
     Lincoln, Nebr.

[Illustration: Murphy conducted a blind tiger in his loft; he also ran a
crap game in connection; and it was his place that "Legs" visited
frequently.]

[Illustration: "I own the L. & N. Railroad."]




TO ONE WHOSE NAME DOES NOT APPEAR


I am leaving you and Dixie land tomorrow. It is customary perhaps to
say, "Dear Old Dixie" but, since I happen to be from that little place
off in the northwest, of which I have fondly told you, the _Rosebud
Country_, where I am returning at once, and which is the only place that
is dear to me, I could not conscientiously use the other term. Still, I
am grateful, and well I should be; for, had I not spent these eighteen
months down here, I could never have written _this_ story. No
imagination, positively not mine, could have created "Slim", "T. Toddy",
"Legs", "John Moore", et al. I really knew them. I haven't even changed
their names, since what's the use? They, unless by chance, will never
know, for, as I knew them, they never read. Only one of them I am sure
ever owned a book. That one did, however, and that I know, for he stole
my dictionary before I left the town. Whatever he expected to do with
it, is a puzzle to me, but since it was leather-bound, I think he
imagined it was a Bible. He was very fond of Bibles, and I recall that
was the only thing he read. He is in jail now, so I understand; which is
no surprise, since he visited there quite often in the six months I knew
him. As to "Legs", I have no word; but since summer time has come, I am
sure "Slim" has either gone into "business" or is "preaching." "T.
Toddy" was pretty shaky when I saw him last, and I wouldn't be surprised
if he were not now in Heaven. And still, with what he threatened to do
to me when he was informed that I had written of him in a book, he may
be in the other place, who knows! I recall it with a tremor. We were in
a restaurant some time after the first threat, but at that time, he
appeared to understand that I had written nothing bad concerning him,
and we were quite friendly. He told of himself and his travels, relating
a trip abroad, to Liverpool and London. In the course of his remarks, he
told that he used to run down from Liverpool to London every morning,
since it was just over the hill a mile, and could be seen from Liverpool
whenever the fog lifted. He advised me a bit remonstratingly, that,
since I had written of him in the book, if I had come to him in advance,
he would have told me something of himself to put into it that would
have interested the world. I suggested that it was not then too late,
and that he should make a copy of it. He intimated that it would be
worth something and I agreed with him, and told him I would give him
fifty cents. He said that would be satisfactory, but he wanted it then
in advance. I wouldn't agree to that, but told him that he would have to
give me a brief of his life, where and when he was born, if he had been,
also where and when he expected to die, etc. first. He got "mad" then
and threatened to do something "awful". Took himself outside and opened
a knife, the blade of which had been broken, and was then about a half
inch long, and told me to come out, whereupon he would show me my heart.
As he waited vainly for me, he took on an expression that made him
appear the worst man in all the world. I did not, of course go out, and
told him so--through the window.

That was the end of it--and of him, so far as I know. But you can
understand by this how near I have been to death in your Dixie Land.
When I come back it will not be for "color"; but--well, I guess you
know.

New Orleans, La., August 1, 1915.
O.M.

[Illustration: He awakened from a strange dream. The Bible had fallen to
the floor, and lay open at a chapter under which was written, "_THOU
SHALT NOT STEAL!_"]




BOOK ONE

WHICH DEALS WITH ORIGINALS


CONTENTS

  CHAPTER              PAGE

     I  THE BARRIER      15

    II  ATTALIA      31

   III  NEXT DAY--DISCOVERIES      40

    IV  AND HE NEVER KNEW      47

     V  B.J. DICKSON      51

    VI  "OH, YOU SELL BOOKS!"      59

   VII  IN THE OFFICE OF THE GRAND SECRETARY      63

  VIII  HENRY HUGH HODDER      67

    IX  "SWEET GENEVIEVE"      74

     X  "DO SOMETHING AND YOU'LL FIND OUT"      78

    XI  "JEDGE L'YLES' CO'T"      84

   XII  A JEW; A GENTILE; A MURDER--AND SOME MORE      93

  XIII  "'CAUSE NIGGA'S 'S GITTIN' SO RICH"      105

   XIV  AND THEN CAME SLIM      111

    XV  "SHOO FLY!"      124

   XVI  "WHY DO YOU LOOK AT ME SO STRANGELY?"      130

  XVII  "I'LL NEVER BE ANYTHING BUT A VAGABOND!"      140


BOOK TWO

THE BEAST AND THE JUNGLE


CONTENTS

      I  EFFINGHAM      149

     II  "THESE <DW64>s IN EFFINGHAM ARE NIGGA'S PROPER"      164

    III  "I HAVE BEEN MARRIED", SAID SHE      173

     IV  "EIDDER STUCK UP AH SHE'S A WITCH!"      181

      V  "A BIGGA LIAH THEY AIN'T IN TOWN!"      189

     VI  "YES--_MISS_ LATHAM!"      196

    VII  "IT ALL FALLS RIGHT BACK ON SOCIETY!"      202

   VIII  "WHERE ARE YOU FROM?"      206

     IX  "BUT SMITH IS NOT HIS REAL NAME"      211

      X  "WHEN YOU HAVE BEEN GRASS WIDOWED, IT'S DIFFERENT"      224

     XI  "I'M WORRIED ABOUT MILDRED"      232

    XII  AND THEN SHE BEGAN TO GROW OTHERWISE      241

   XIII  ENTER--MR. TOM TODDY!      243

    XIV  THE DISAPPEARING CHIN      256

     XV  "WILSON! WILSON! MILDRED HAS GONE!"      268

    XVI  THE BEAST AND THE JUNGLE      273

   XVII  "THIS IS MR. WINSLOW, MADAM!"      278

  XVIII  "THOU SHALT NOT STEAL"      285

    XIX  THEY TURNED HER OUT OF CHURCH      290

     XX  "I _LOVE_ YOU"      299

    XXI  "PLEASE GET D' OLE MAN OUTTA JAIL"      302

   XXII  "THIS MAN IS LOSING HIS MIND!"      309

  XXIII  "I'LL BRAND YOU AS A FAKER!"      317

   XXIV  THE ARRAIGNMENT      324

[Illustration: "A crooked mother can't raise a straight daughter. It's
up to the daughter--and I've failed!"]


BOOK THREE

A MATTER OF TWENTY-FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS


CONTENTS

     I  "THAT GAL'S CROOKED"      336

    II  "_IT WAS IN THAT CHURCH LAST SUNDAY!_"      344

   III  "UH! 'ES GOT 'IM A NIGGA!"      349

    IV  "PLEASE GO!" SHE  CRIED HOARSELY      355

     V  THE TIME LIMIT      362

    VI  REMINISCENCES--CHARGE OF THE BLACK CAVALRY      369

   VII  "PLEASE STOP--AND SAVE ME!"      375

  VIII  WHAT HER EYES SAW      381

    IX  "WHA'S Y' MAN?"      386

     X  "KICK HIGHER DARE GAL!"      392

    XI  "MY WIFE--SICK--_HELL!_"      397

   XII  MID-NIGHT DECEMBER THIRTY-FIRST      407

  XIII  INTO THE INFINITE LONG AGO      412

   XIV  "GO, BROTHER! IN GOD'S NAME, GO!"      418


BOOK FOUR

THE QUEST ETERNAL


CONTENTS

     I  "'SCRIMINATIN' 'GINST NIGGA'S"      422

    II  AT LAST SHE DIDN'T CARE      432

   III  "THEY KNEW HE HAD WRITTEN THE TRUTH!"      439

    IV  THE WOMAN WITH THE THREE MOLES      446

     V  "HELLO BROWN SKIN"      450

    VI  "_WHO'RE YOU!_" SHE REPEATED      456

   VII  "AT LAST, OH LORD, AT LAST!"      462

  VIII  "WELL I'M GOING." AND SHE WENT      468

    IX  "I HOPE YOU--WON'T--BE--ANGRY"      473

     X  VELLUN PARISH--JEFFERSON BERNARD      478

    XI  "MILDRED, I'VE COME BACK"      495

   XII  THE SLAVE MARKET      504

  XIII  "RESTITUTION"      515

[Illustration: She had never felt that he would rebuke her, but now she
turned her head away to shut out the scorn in the look he had given
her.]

[Illustration: "Wha's yo' man?" "I--I have no _man_," Mildred replied,
turning her face away. "I am alone--alone in everything."]

[Illustration: "That last woman I married" said Slim, "was such a devil
she almost made me lose my religion."]




THE FORGED NOTE




CHARACTERS


   SYDNEY WYETH, An Observer, Who had the Courage of His Convictions.

   MILDRED LATHAM, A Girl of Mystery, Whose Fortunes are What We
     Follow.

   FURGESON AND THURMAN, Originals, Who Possessed some Wit and Humor.

   B.J. DICKSON, An Editor, and a Fighter of the Right Sort.

   V.R. COLEMAN, (SLIM) A Summertime Professor and "Business Man". (?)

   "LEGS", a "Crap Shooter", Who Reformed and Became a Hero.

   JOHN MOORE, A Character, Who Read the Bible--and did Other Things.

   MISS PALMER, Grasswidow and School Teacher, Who Desired to Remarry.

   DR. RANDALL, A Druggist, Who Knew Everybody's Business.

   WILSON JACOBS, A Minister, Who Works for Uplift among Black People.

   CONSTANCE JACOBS, His Sister, a Friend of the Girl of Mystery.

   STEPHEN MYER, With a Heart, but a Sinner, Who Died and Went to----.




THE FORGED NOTE




BOOK I.




CHAPTER ONE

_The Barrier_


He sat at a desk in the small office he had taken. Before him were
papers and bills--unpaid--and letters too, he had not opened, while to
one side were others he had read, and had typed replies thereto. He had
paused in his work, and was gazing stupidly at the litter before him.

His name was Sidney Wyeth, and his home was away off in the great
northwest, in a strip of territory known as the _Rosebud Country_. As we
meet him now, however, he is located on the fifth floor of an office
building, slightly toward the outskirts of the business district of one
of our great American cities. He is by profession an author, which might
explain his presence at a desk. It happens, however, that he is not
there this time as a weaver of dreams, but attending to matter in
connection with the circulation of his work, for he is his own
publisher.

At that moment, however, he was nothing, for he was sick. For days he
had felt a strange illness. Obviously it had almost reached an acute
stage; for, apparently unable to maintain an upright position at the
desk, he presently stretched himself face downward.

He might have been in this position an hour, or it might have been only
a few minutes; but of a sudden he was brought to a position again erect,
with ears alert, since he was sure he had heard a sound without. He
strained his ears in silence.

Outside, a soft rain was falling. As he continued to listen, his gaze
wandered out over the city below, with its medley of buildings that rose
to various heights, and sparkled with electric lights. His gaze, in
drifting, presently surveyed the main street of the city, an unusually
wide thoroughfare, filled with the accustomed traffic. Beyond lay the
harbor, for the city is a great port, and the same was then filled with
innumerable vessels from far and near. A huge man-o-war arrested his
attention for a while, and then his gaze wandered further. A wind had
risen, from the way the water was dashed to spray against the windows.
The sound of a clock striking five resounded through the damp air, and
echoed in stentorian tones. It was late-winter, but, due perhaps to the
overcast skies, twilight was rapidly fading into darkness.

Failing to hear any further sound, he presently resumed his tired
position, and a few minutes later was lost in a sickly slumber.

There could be no mistake now! A step sounded in the hallway. It was a
light step, but firm and brisk and forward. It was unmistakably that of
a young woman. Onward it came in the direction of his small office.
There was a brief pause when the footsteps reached the door, and then a
knock, but without response from within. Presently the door was pushed
open, and the intruder entered the room lightly. Still, Sidney Wyeth,
unconscious of the presence of his visitor, did not move or speak.

The stranger paused hesitatingly, when once inside, and observed him
closely, where he sat with his face buried in his arms.

She was an attractive <DW52> girl, trimly dressed in a striking,
dark-blue tailored suit, cut in the latest fashion. A small hat reposed
jauntily upon her head, while a wealth of dark hair was gathered in a
heavy mass over her ears. Her delicately molded face, set off by a
figure seemingly designed by an artist, were sufficient to captivate the
most discriminating critic.

A thin dark strap extended over one shoulder, at the ends of which a
small case was attached. Presently she drew a book from this same case,
and crossed the room to where the man sat.

"Good evening," she ventured, pausing at his side, and fumbling the book
she had taken from the case, in evident embarrassment. He mumbled
something inaudible, but remained silent. His outwardly indifferent
reception had not a discouraging effect upon his visitor, however, for
no sooner had she caught the sound of his voice, than she fell into a
concentrated explanation of the book.

Soft and low, in spite of the rapid flow of words, her voice fell upon
his ears, and served to arouse him at last from his apparent lethargy;
but it was not that alone which made him rise to a half sitting posture,
and strain his ears. It was a peculiar familiarity in the tone. As he
continued to listen, he became convinced that somewhere, in the months
gone by, he had heard that voice before. "Where was it?" he whispered,
but, in his sluggish thoughts, he could not then recall. There was one
thing of which there was no doubt, however, and which added strangely to
the mystery. She was explaining his own book, _The Tempest_.

At last, in his morbid thoughts, he gave up trying to connect the voice
with a person he had once known, and, with a tired, long drawn sigh,
raised his hand wearily to his head, and grasped it as if in pain. The
flow of words ceased at once, and the voice now cried, with a note of
pain, and plainly embarrassed:

"You are ill and I have disturbed you! Oh, I'm _so_ sorry! Can you
overlook--pardon such an awkward blunder?" She clasped her hands
helplessly, and was plainly distressed. And then, as if seized with a
sudden inspiration, she cried, in a low, subdued voice: "I'll make a
light and bathe your forehead! You seem to have fever!"

Turning nimbly, and before he could object, had he wished to, she
crossed quickly to where a small basin hung from the wall; above this
was an electric button, which could be seen in the semi-darkness.
Touching this, whereupon the room became aglow with light, she caught up
a towel; and, dampening one end, she recrossed to where he sat,
strangely stupid, and, without hesitation, placed the wet end over his
burning forehead, and held it there for possibly a minute.

"Now," she inquired softly, in a tone of solicitous relief, "do you feel
better?"

As she concluded, she stepped where she could see his face more easily,
and sought his eyes anxiously. The next moment, both recoiled in sudden
recognition, as he cried:

"You!"

She was likewise astonished, and, after only a fraction of a moment, but
in which she regarded him with an expression that was akin to an appeal,
she likewise exclaimed:

"And _you_!" Quickly she became composed; and, catching up the book, as
though discovered in some misdemeanor, with a hurried, parting glance,
without another word, she abruptly left the room.

She was gone, but his brain was in a tumult.

And then the illness, that had been hovering over him for some time,
like a sinister ghost, suddenly came into its own, and a moment later,
with a convulsive gasp, he fell forward across the desk, deathly sick.

       *       *       *       *       *

It had begun in Cincinnati more than a year before. Wyeth, accompanied
by an assistant, had come down from Dayton for the purpose of
advertising his book, _The Tempest_ in that city. It was just preceding
an election, that resulted in a change in the city government. And it
was then he became acquainted with Jackson.

Now, being of an observant turn of mind, Wyeth took an interest in the
state of affairs. He found the city very much worked up on his arrival.
He had not yet secured accommodation, but, while standing on a corner
after checking his luggage in a nearby drug-store, he was gazing up and
down the street taking in the sights.

"Gentlemen," said someone, and turning, Wyeth and his companion looked
upon a man. He was a large mulatto with curly hair, small eyes, a sharp
nose, a firm chin, and an unusually small mouth for a <DW64>. He was
dressed in a dark suit, the worse for wear, while his shoes appeared
never to have been shined--in fact, his appearance was not altogether
inviting. And yet, there was something about the man that drew Wyeth's
attention, and he listened carefully to what he said. "You seem to be
strangers in the city, and of co'se will requiah lodgin'. He'ah is my
ca'd," he said, extending the bit of paste board upon which Sidney read
at a glance

     THE JACKSON HOUSE

     FIRST CLASS ROOMS, TRANSIENT OR REGULAR

     OPEN DAY AND NIGHT

"I'm the proprietor and the place is at yo' disposal. Supposin' you stop
with me while youah in the city. I'll sho treat y' right."

Sidney believed him, but his appearance made him hesitant. He looked
questioningly at his companion. The other's expression was unfavorable
to Jackson. So, after a pause and a perfunctory nod, they dismissed him
and proceeded to look further in quest of accommodation.

An hour or more was thus lost, and, being unable to find a room that
satisfied them, they at last, with some reluctance, found their way to
_The Jackson House_.

Inspection still left them dissatisfied, but it was getting late, so
they decided to spend the night. Jackson showed them to what he termed
his "best room." Wyeth looked with evident disfavor about the walls that
were heavy with cob webs, while the windowsill was as heavy with dust.
Jackson, following his gaze, hastily offered apology and excuse.

"Eve'thing needs a little dusting up, and the reason you happen to find
things as you do, is because I've been so busy with politics of late,
that I have jes' nach'elly neglected my business".

Ah! That was it, thought Sidney. He had felt this man was in some way
out of the ordinary. "So you're a politician?" he queried, observing him
carefully now.

"You hit it, son," he chuckled. "Yeh; that's my line, sho." Turning now,
with his face wreathed in smiles, he continued: "Big 'lection on in a
few days, too."

"So I understand," said Sidney. "I shall be glad to talk with you
regarding the same at your convenience later," and, paying him for the
room, they betook themselves to the street.

Election day was on, and Jackson was the busiest man in town. He was
what may be called a "good mixer," to say the least, and Sidney and he
had become good friends. So said Jackson that morning.

"Got a big job on t'day, kid; yeh, a big job."

"So...."

"Yeh; gotta vote thirty-five ah fo'ty nigga's, 'n', 'f youah 'quainted
wi' ouh fo'kes, you c'n 'preciate what I'm up ag'inst."

"Indeed...."

"Yeh; nigga's o'nry y' know; and lie lak dogs; but I'm 'n' ole han' at
the bus'ness, cause that's my line. Yeh. Been votin' nigga's in this
precinct now fo' mor'n thi'ty yeahs, so you'n see I autta know what I'm
'bout."

"I'd bet on that."

Jackson chuckled again. "The fust and wo'st difficulty is the dinge's
ig'nance". Drawing a sample ballot from somewhere, he displayed and
explained it at some length. "Now we gotta pu'ty faih line up on this
ticket this trip--'co'se the's a lotta suckers on it that I'd lak t' see
scratched; but we cain' affo'd to take the risk, 'cause it's lak this.
Nigga's so ig'nant 'n' pig headed they'd sho spile it all 'f we tried to
have them do any scratching. So the only sho thing is to instruct them
t' vote straight. Get me, Steve?"

Wyeth, listening carefully, nodded, and for a moment, a picture of the
titanic struggle of a half century before, rose before him; its cause,
its moral and more; it's sacrifice. Jackson was speaking again.

"Now we sho gotta win out this time; this 'lection has _got_ to put in
ouh candidates; 'cause 'f we don't--and this is between me 'n' you 'n'
that can a beah--things sho go'n break bad wi' me! But 'f things slide
through O.K.--'n my candidates walk in, it means a cole hund'd fo' muh;
think of it," he repeated, "a cole hund'd, Ah!" And, smacking his lips
after a long draught of beer, he emitted an exclamation to emphasize
what it _would_ mean to him, that wouldn't look very nice in print.

"What do these _others_ get if your candidates are elected?" asked
Wyeth, when Jackson paused.

"Aw, _them_ suckers gets theahs wether my men's 'lected a' not. That's
always my goal. 'f I could get them t' vote so much ah' nothin' I could
make a who' lot mo'; but we gotta fo'k out two dollahs a piece, win or
lose--and, a co'se, plenty of liquah; but we don' give a damn 'bout
that, as the saloon men furnish that, gratis."

"And you can depend upon them to vote as you wish--rather, instruct?"
ventured Wyeth. At this Jackson gave a low, short laugh as he replied:

"That's whe' I plays the high ca'd 'n' gets a hund'd," and, laughing
again in that peculiar fashion, he would say no more.

       *       *       *       *       *

The polls had closed. Darkness had settled over the city. The saloons
had opened their doors. From the streets came forth hilarious sounds,
where the many hundreds, now steeped in liquor, reeled about. This
confusion, mingled with the crash of heavy wagons, and horse hoofs
hurrying over the cobblestones, filled the damp air with an almost
deafening noise.

Sidney Wyeth lay stretched across the bed in his room, listening idly to
the sounds that echoed and re-echoed through the frame building.
Presently, his attention was attracted by another noise, familiar, but
more noticeable on this day.

"T-click-i-lick-ilick--ah--ha dice! T-click-ilick-i-lick--ah--ha dice!"

"Aw, shake'm ole nigga, shake'm!"

"Yeh. Roll'm out. Don' let'm spin 'roun' on d' en' lak dat! Shake'm
up. Make music!"

"T-click-i-lick-i-lick--ah--ha dice!"

"Trowed eight!"

"Dime he'n make it!"

"Make it a nickel!"

"Ah fate yu'".

"Hu'ry up, ole shine! Git yu' bet down."

"Shoot um!"

"T-click-i-lick-i-lick--ah, ha dice!"

"Two bits 'ell seben!"

"Ah got yu'!"

"T-click-i-lick-i-lick-ah, eighty day-es!"

"Cain' make eight wid a one up!"

"Do'n' try no kiddin'."

"T-click-i-lick-ilick--ah--eighter from Decatur!"

"Make music nigga, make music!"

"Two bits I'n pass!"

"Ah got yu'!"

"T-click-i-lick-i-lick--ah--eighty day-es!"

"Trowed seben!"

"Gimme d' craps!"

"Now, dice; ah-seben ah 'leben!"

"Throwed craps!"

"Hole on! Hole on! You caught dem dice, ole nigga!"

"Caught Hell! You trowed craps, d'y 'e heah! Two big sixes!" A
scrambling, mingled with much swearing, ensued.

"Say, cut out dis awgun' 'n' squabblin'," interposed one.

"'E cain' take mah money lak dat," protested the loser.

"'F you don' git y' rough mit offa dat coin, yuh big lump a dough, I
g'in' finish spreadin' dat nose ovah y' face!"

"I'on lak dis-a-way a messin' wi' mah jingle!"

"Youse a cheap nigga, Bad Eye, 'n' y' know it. You all time buttin' int'
a game wid about a dime, den sta'tin' a big argerment."

"Hush! Ain' dat Jackson a-comin'?"

Silence for possibly a minute. A muttering began to go around as they
schuffled about.

"Ah done ca'ied out mah'structions 'n' now ah wants muh dough-rine,"
some one spat out ominously.

"Me, too," said another.

"Aw, be patient. Jack's all right," argued one.

"Sho", echoed another.

"Yeh, dat' all right,'s fur it goes; but I'n handle mah money bet'n
anybody else."

A heavy step sounded in the hallway,