Journeyman by Erskine Caldwell Page A

this game a little more interesting,” Semon said, shifting his weight to his left heel and picking up the dice. “I’m in favor of raising bets to a dollar.”
    Clay was excited now. He was willing, and anxious, to raise the limit. He nodded enthusiastically and squatted lower on the ground.
    Semon rolled the dice between his hands, warming them over and over again. When he was ready to throw them, he hurled them heavily to the hard sand. A nine came up. He grinned and scooped the dice.
    “Can’t beat the old man,” he said, blowing the dice and shaking them around his head. “Can’t never beat the old man at his own game. I’m a crap shooter from way back yonder, folks!”
    “Lucky?” Tom said, watching the dice. “No, not lucky. Just plain God-damn good at it. I was raised on these before breakfast. I’ve never forgot how, either.”
    The dice spun on the sand. The same nine lay on top. There was no way to beat luck like that.
    “How much are you in the watch now?” he asked Clay, winking at Tom.
    “A dollar,” Clay said. “I was in it three times before you shot.”
    “No, you aren’t,” Semon shouted angrily, reaching out and covering the watch with his hands. “We raised the limit to a dollar. That makes you only four bits in it now, Horey.”
    Clay was confused. He had not realized that almost all he owned in the watch had gone, and he could not understand how it went so easily. Reluctantly, he laid it in the ring.
    “Just a friendly little game, coz,” Semon said. “I wouldn’t have hard feelings crop up for no amount of money. When I shoot craps, I like for everybody to feel good, win or lose. That’s how I am about it.”
    “My time’s coming,” Tom said. “I just ain’t hit my stride yet.”
    “If I lose this time, I’m sunk,” Clay said dejectedly. “I won’t have nothing to put in the pot.”
    “Don’t shuck your corn till the hogs come home,” Semon said, counting his money.
    After that he threw the dice a second time. He got a five and a six.
    “What the hell kind of a game is this, anyhow?” Tom said.
    “When I shoot dice, I do just that. Now if you boys want to get your money back, just lay something down to shoot for.”
    “I’d like to get Dene’s daddy’s watch back,” Clay said, his eyes following it as it was dropped into Semon’s pocket.
    “You’ll have to work for it then, Horey. That’s how I got it. Nobody gets nothing in this world without working like almighty hell.”
    “How long have you owned those dice?” Tom asked.
    “Take a look at them for yourself,” Semon offered, throwing him the pair. “I don’t want nobody thinking I’d crook a game.”
    Tom inspected the dice closely, judging the size and weight, but he could find nothing wrong with them. He handed them back to Semon, shaking his head.
    “You must be a lucky-born crap shooter, preacher,” he admitted, still shaking his head.
    Semon shook the dice and held them poised over his head. He looked down at the ring. Clay felt his eyes upon him.
    “Somebody didn’t get in this time,” Semon stated.
    “I’m sticking,” Tom said. “That’s my dollar bill.”
    They both looked at Clay.
    “I’m cleaned out,” he said. “I ain’t got a cent.”
    Semon dropped his hand and rolled the dice in the open palm of his hand meditatively.
    “Ain’t in, coz?”
    Clay shook his head.
    “Ain’t got nothing else to put up?”
    “Not a doggone thing. That watch of Dene’s daddy’s is all I had.”
    Semon turned around on his heels, looking in the direction of the barn. His eyes came to rest upon the back end of Clay’s automobile under the shed. He jerked his head at the car, and looked around at Clay. Clay’s eyes opened wider.
    “You can put up your machine, can’t you, Horey?”
    “Couldn’t do that,” Clay said firmly.
    “Why couldn’t you?”
    “Doggone it all! That’s all I got to ride in!”
    “A good crap shooter like you ought not to be scared of losing. I can