Gathering the little heap of pennies and nickels, he passed them behind him to Bess, who squatted in the shadows. She took the money in silence, counted it, dropped it into her apron pocket, and continued to watch the game intently, smiling her cryptic smile when Porgy won, but saying scarcely anything at all. The negro known as Sportin’ Life had come in just as the game was commencing, and had sat in. That he was not altogether above suspicion was evidenced by the fact that the little circle of men refused to allow him to use his own dice, and told him so frankly. He scowled at them, dropped the dice back into his pocket, and started to leave. Then he seemed to think better of it, and joined the circle. As the game proceeded it became evident that Porgy’s luck was with him; he was the most consistent winner, and Sportin’ Life was bearing most of the burden. But the mulatto was too good a gambler to evince any discomfiture. He talked steadily, laughed much, and missed no opportunity to drop a sly word of suspicion when Porgy drew in a pot. There was nothing that could be taken up and resented, but Porgy was mystified, and Bess’ face was dark with anger more than once. He had a way of leaning over just as Porgy cast, and placing his face almost on the flags so that he could see under the dice when they struck. Then he would look up, laugh meaningly into Porgy’s face, and sometimes clap his hands as though the cripple had managed something very cleverly. When the game finally broke up it was clear that he had poisoned the minds of the company, and the good nights lacked their usual warmth. Bess reached into her apron pocket, and drew out the evening’s winnings. The coins made quite a little weight in her hand. A late fragment of moon swung over the wall and poured its diminished light into her open palm. She commenced to count the money, Porgy left her, and drew himself into his room. She proceeded to count, absorbed in her task. § “Porgy lucky,” said a low voice beside her. “Mus’ be yer gots two dollar dere fer um.” Sportin’ Life lifted his elegant trousers, so that the knees would not bag, and squatted on the flags at her side. He removed his stiff straw hat, with its bright band, and spun it between his hands. The moonlight was full upon his face, with its sinister, sensuous smile. She looked at him squarely a moment, then said in a cold, level voice: “I can’t ’member ebber meetin’ a nigger dat I like less dan I does you.” “Thank yer kindly,” he replied, not in the least degree daunted. “But jus’ de same, I wants ter be frien’ wid yer. Me and you ain’t usen ter dese small-town slow ways. We ain’t been above seein’ night-life what is night-life, an’ I jus’ wants ter talk to you now and den; dat’s all.” “I gots no time fuh talk,” she told him. “An’ wut mo’, I t’rough wid de kin’ ob nights you is t’inking ’bout.” “No mo’ red-eye; none ’tall?” he queried. “Nebber gits t’irsty, eh?”