“Yes, Gawd knows, I does git t’irsty now and den,” she said impulsively; then added sharply, “But I done t’rough now, I tells yer; I done t’rough.” She arose to go. “Yo’ kin’ mek me sick,” she told him; “an’ I ain’t wants tuh hab no mo’ talk wid yuh.” He got spryly to his feet, and stood beside her. “Oh, come on, le’s let bygone be bygone, an’ be frien’.” Then his voice became low and ingratiating: “Come; gimme yer han’, Sister,” he said. Acquiescent, but mystified, she held out her open palm. He poured a little pile of white powder into it. There it lay in the moonlight, very clean and white on her dark skin. “Happy dus’!” she said, and her voice was like a gasp. “Take dat t’ing away, nigger. I t’rough wid um, I tells yuh.” But she did not turn her hand over and let it fall upon the ground. “Jus’ a little touch fer ole time sake,” he whispered. “’Tain’t ’nough ter hurt er fly. An’ it ain’t goin’ ter cos’ yer one cent.” She stood a moment longer, and her hand trembled, spilling a few grains between her fingers. Then suddenly she clapped her palm over her mouth. When she took it away it was quite empty. Sportin’ Life heaved a sigh of relief, turned and leant against the wall--and waited. In the corner by Serena’s bench the party was breaking up. Only a few women were left, and instead of the blur of general talk, remarks leapt clear. They were discussing the crap game that had just closed. “Dey is somet’ing berry queer ’bout de way de money always go tuh de same place,” a voice was saying. The moonlight ebbed from the corner where Bess and Sportin’ Life stood. Five minutes had passed since she had made her sudden decisive gesture. She stood oddly rigid, with her hands clenched at her sides. Abruptly she spun around. “Yuh gots mo’ ob dat?” Her voice was low and taut. “Sho’ I has!” came the answer, with a confident laugh. “But it don’t come cheap. Gimme dat money yer got dere.” Silently she held out her hand, and poured the coins into his palm. He gave her a small folded paper. “I got more ob dat when yer needs it,” he said, as he turned away. But she did not hear him. She snatched the paper, opened it, and threw the contents into her mouth. The court was sinking to sleep. One by one the lighted windows went blank. The women at the washbench got to their feet. One yawned noisily, and another knocked her clay pipe out on the flags in a shower of sparks. Then a voice came clearly--the one that had complained before about the crap game. “I ain’t sayin’ ef it conjer, er jus’ plain loaded dice. All I gots tuh say is dat dam nigger, Porgy, steal my Sam’ wages off him now t’ree week runnin’.” Out of the shadows and across the moonlit square a figure flashed, gesturing wildly.