The poor darkey saw that his “stamps” were gone. Still, he tried it once more. He shook the lock—and something loose within rattled with a taunting sound, tapped it against the capstan, pulled at the bolt, pressed the delusive spring, pulled and pressed, again and again. All was in vain. He gave it up; but, O, with what a poor grace! and handed the lock to Number Two. “I b’lieve dah’s som’in’ wrong about it,” said he. “It seems, I’ve won the money,” Number Two observed, carelessly; and Number One handed him the two hundred dollars. Another laugh went round. O, the heartlessness of human beings! What they would regard as a grave misfortune, if it happened to themselves, they look upon as an excellent joke, when another is the victim. “Dat’s nuffin,” said the darkey, trying to appear unconcerned. But, O, how poorly he succeeded! “Nothing, when you get used to it once,” observed one of the spectators, soothingly. “But it takes a fellow a deuce of a time to get used to it,” put in another unfeeling passenger. Poor darkey turned away, as sad a picture as I ever saw, went and took a seat on the capstan, and tried to whistle a careless tune. But his clumsy lips were dry and unsteady, and he couldn’t get them puckered in any sort of shape. “Confound if I haven’t come near forgetting my valise, with this fooling,” said Number Two, abruptly, after he had stowed away his money. “I left it up in Quincy, and must go and get it.” So, he walked down the gangway plank, up the wharf, and disappeared in the city. “I wouldn’t be surprised if that fellow were a regular rogue,” observed Number One, gazing after him. “I intend to keep my eye on him.” And he, too, went ashore. Soon after, the boat backed out from the landing, and proceeded up the river; but neither Number One nor Number Two were among the passengers. CHAPTER XXXIV. A GAME OF CHECKERS. IN traveling up the Mississippi river, I could not help remarking that the Illinois shore was, with but few exceptions, very low—in many places not more than a foot or two above ordinary water, and, in some places, even submerged; while the western shore—that of Missouri and Iowa—was, with some exceptions, reasonably high. Illinois is a low, swampy State, nearly all over. I have visited all portions of it, both the borders and the interior; and, excepting the vicinity of Peoria, and some few bluffs along the Mississippi river, the ground is low, flat, marshy, and evidently anything but salubrious. The soil, however, is as rich as any in the world; and things grow there in a way that would be quite novel to an eastern man. By and by, it will be drained, grow more healthy, and, perhaps, become the richest and most desirable State of the Mississippi Valley.