“Sam,” she exclaimed, “whaih’s my money?  Whaih’s my money I been wo’kin’ fu’ all dis time?”

“Why—­Why, Polly—­”

“Don’ go beatin’ ‘roun’ de bush.  I want ’o know whaih my money is; you tuck it.”

“Polly, I dremp—­”

“I do’ keer what you dremp, I want my money fu’ my dress.”

His face was miserable.

“I thought sho’ dem numbers ’u’d come out, an’—­”

The woman flung herself upon the floor and burst into a storm of tears.  Sam bent over her.  “Nemmine, Polly,” he said.  “Nemmine.  I thought I’d su’prise you.  Dey beat me dis time.”  His teeth clenched.  “But when I ketch dem policy sha’ks—­”

THE TRAGEDY AT THREE FORKS

It was a drizzly, disagreeable April night.  The wind was howling in a particularly dismal and malignant way along the valleys and hollows of that part of Central Kentucky in which the rural settlement of Three Forks is situated.  It had been “trying to rain” all day in a half-hearted sort of manner, and now the drops were flying about in a cold spray.  The night was one of dense, inky blackness, occasionally relieved by flashes of lightning.  It was hardly a night on which a girl should be out.  And yet one was out, scudding before the storm, with clenched teeth and wild eyes, wrapped head and shoulders in a great blanket shawl, and looking, as she sped along like a restless, dark ghost.  For her, the night and the storm had no terrors; passion had driven out fear.  There was determination in her every movement, and purpose was apparent in the concentration of energy with which she set her foot down.  She drew the shawl closer about her head with a convulsive grip, and muttered with a half sob, “’Tain’t the first time, ’tain’t the first time she’s tried to take me down in comp’ny, but—­” and the sob gave way to the dry, sharp note in her voice, “I’ll fix her, if it kills me.  She thinks I ain’t her ekals, does she?  ‘Cause her pap’s got money, an’ has good crops on his lan’, an’ my pap ain’t never had no luck, but I’ll show ’er, I’ll show ’er that good luck can’t allus last.  Pleg-take ’er, she’s jealous, ’cause I’m better lookin’ than she is, an’ pearter in every way, so she tries to make me little in the eyes of people.  Well, you’ll find out what it is to be pore—­to have nothin’, Seliny Williams, if you live.”

The black night hid a gleam in the girl’s eyes, and her shawl hid a bundle of something light, which she clutched very tightly, and which smelled of kerosene.

The dark outline of a house and its outbuildings loomed into view through the dense gloom; and the increased caution with which the girl proceeded, together with the sudden breathless intentness of her conduct, indicated that it was with this house and its occupants she was concerned.