billiard table, regarding some of whom, in supposing them to be white,
I made no mistake. At first I did not know what these men were doing;
they were using terms that were strange to me. I could hear only a
confusion of voices exclaiming: "Shoot the two!" "Shoot the four!"
"Fate me! Fate me!" "I've got you fated!" "Twenty-five cents he don't
turn!" This was the ancient and terribly fascinating game of
dice, popularly known as "craps." I myself had played pool in
Jacksonville--it is a favorite game among cigar makers--and I had seen
others play cards; but here was something new. I edged my way in to
the table and stood between one of my new-found New York friends and a
tall, slender, black fellow, who was making side bets while the dice
were at the other end of the table. My companion explained to me the
principles of the game; and they are so simple that they hardly need
to be explained twice. The dice came around the table until they
reached the man on the other side of the tall, black fellow. He lost,
and the latter said: "Gimme the bones." He threw a dollar on the table
and said: "Shoot the dollar." His style of play was so strenuous that
he had to be allowed plenty of room. He shook the dice high above his
head, and each time he threw them on the table, he emitted a grunt
such as men give when they are putting forth physical exertion with a
rhythmic regularity. He frequently whirled completely around on his
heels, throwing the dice the entire length of the table, and talking
to them as though they were trained animals. He appealed to them in
short singsong phrases. "Come, dice," he would say. "Little Phoebe,"
"Little Joe," "'Way down yonder in the cornfield." Whether these
mystic incantations were efficacious or not I could not say, but, at
any rate, his luck was great, and he had what gamblers term "nerve."
"Shoot the dollar!" "Shoot the two!" "Shoot the four!" "Shoot the
eight!" came from his lips as quickly as the dice turned to his
advantage. My companion asked me if I had ever played. I told him no.