“Didn't you know you'd get into trouble?”
“No-o-o, suh.”
“Know it now, don't you?”
“Ya-a-s, suh.”
“Have a good time in jail, Bob?”
“Ya-a-s, suh. Shot cra-a-aps nearly all de time tull de jailer broke hit up.”
“Wouldn't he let you shoot any more?”
“No-o-o, suh; not after he won all our money.” Here Bob flung up his head, poked out his lips like a bugle, and broke into a grotesque, “Hoo! hoo! hoo!” It was such an absurd laugh, and Bob's tale had come to such an absurd denouement, that the white men roared, and shuffled their feet on the flared base of the stove. Some spat in or near a box filled with sawdust, and betrayed other nervous signs of satisfaction. When a man so spat, he stopped laughing abruptly, straightened his face, and stared emptily at the rusty stove until further inquisition developed some other preposterous escapade in Bob's jail career.
The merchant, looking up at one of these intermissions, saw Peter standing at his counter. He came out of the circle and asked Peter what he wanted. The mulatto bought a package of soda and went out.
The chill north wind smelled clean after the odors of the store. Peter stood with his package of soda, breathing deeply, looking up and down the street, wondering what to do next. Without much precision of purpose, he walked diagonally across the street, north-
