I will not state which cause the villains professed to be attached to, who murdered the Doctor’s son, and left him a blank and desolate old age. There were wrongs and outrages committed on both sides during the war. No reasonable person will fail to admit this. A civil war gives a horrible license to bad men; and God forbid that our land should ever be blighted by another. Gambling was not allowed on board the Nightingale, but there was a good deal of euchre-playing, for amusement, during the voyage. At Evansville, Indiana, a flourishing town of eight thousand inhabitants, we landed for half-an-hour, and, while there, several passengers came aboard; among them was a well-dressed young man, with what I considered a bad countenance. He had cold, gray, almost expressionless “windows” for his “soul,” to look out at, a smooth, beardless face, and a mouth with an unusually crescent-like shape. This person had not been aboard very long—in fact, the boat had barely backed away from the landing and begun to move on down the river, when he suggested to a green-looking fellow that they should get up “a little four-handed game of euchre—just for amusement.” Mr. Greeney assented; and inducing two other passengers to join them, they began to while away the time, as we glided down the river, “passing,” “taking it up,” “turning it down,” “ordering it up,” “assisting”, “making it,” “going it alone,” and the like. If I remember correctly, Mr. Greeney and Mr. Sharper—I take the liberty of providing these names for them—were “partners.” Well, a game was played through, pleasantly enough, and another commenced: and, by and by, it was Mr. Sharper’s deal, for the third time. There is something magical about that number _three_. “The third time is the charm,” it is said. The third time a man does any particular thing, something unusual is sure to happen. This was no exception. “My hand would be a good one if we were playing poker,” observed Mr. Sharper, carelessly, as he took up his cards. I chanced to be standing behind Mr. Greeney at the moment, and lo! as he picked up his cards, he, too, held no trifling poker hand: four kings and a seven spot. “I myself,” said Mr. Greeney, “haven’t a bad hand on poker.” “A pity we’re not playing it then,” Mr. Sharper lazily rejoined. “Well, what will you do?” He addressed this pointed inquiry to the player on his left. “I pass,” replied the latter. “I pass.” said Mr. Greeney. “I pass,” repeated the player on Mr. Greeney’s left and Mr. Sharper’s right. “I turn it down,” said Mr. Sharper, adroitly whirling the face of the trump card downward. “Who will make it?” “I won’t,” said the player on his left. “I won’t,” said Mr. Greeney. “But—but—” “Well, what is it?” said Mr. Sharper, in a tone barely tinged with impatience. “Why,” rejoined Mr. Greeney, with a frankness that spoke better for his heart than his head, “I just wish it was poker!” “Why?” asked Mr. Sharper. “Because, I’d bet some—”