The bar-keeper, with that nimbleness and dexterity which high art alone could have inspired, compounded a preparation of whiskey, lemon, and sugar with bitters, crushed ice, and a sprig of mint, and handed it to the Colonel, at the same time placing a decanter labelled “GIN” before Vance. The latter poured out two thirds of a tumbler of what seemed to be the raw spirit, and, adding neither water nor sugar, touched glasses with the Colonel, and swallowed it off as if it had been a spoonful of _eau sucré_. So overpowered with admiration at the feat was the Colonel, that he paused a full quarter of a minute before doing entire justice to the “nose-tickler” which had been brewed for him. Some of the loungers now drew round the Colonel, and asked him to join them in a game of euchre. He looked inquiringly at Vance, and the latter said, “Go and play, Colonel; I’ll rejoin you by and by.” Then, in a confidential whisper, he added, “I must find out about that yellow girl,—whether she’s for sale.” The Colonel winked, and answered, “All right,” and Vance walked away. “Who’s that?” asked Mr. Leonidas Quattles, a long-haired, swarthy youth, who looked as if he might be half Indian. “That’s Mr. Vance of Noo Orleenz,” replied the Colonel; “he’s my partik’lar friend, an’ a perfek high-tone gemmleman, I don’t car’ whar’ the other is.” “How stands the Champion now?” said another of the party. “Three miles astern, and thar she’ll stick,” exclaimed Quattles. As Vance reascended to the upper deck, he encountered the children at play. Little Clara Berwick, in high glee, was running as fast as her infantile feet could carry her, pursued by Master Onslow, while Hattie, the mulatto woman in attendance, held out the child’s bonnet, and begged her to come and have it on. But Clara, with her light-brown ringlets flying on the breeze, was bent on trying her speed, and the boy, fearful that she would fall, was trying to arrest her. Before he could do this, his fears were realized. Clara tripped and fell, striking her forehead. Vance caught her up, and her parents, with Mr. Onslow and Hattie, gathered round her, while the boy looked on in speechless distress. The little girl was so stunned by the blow, that for nearly a minute she could neither cry nor speak. Then opening her eyes on Mr. Vance, who, seating himself, held her in his lap, she began to grieve in a low, subdued whimper. “The dear little creature! How she tries to restrain her tears!” said Vance. “Cry, darling, cry!” he added, while the moisture began to suffuse his own eyes. Then, taking from his pocket a small morocco case, he said to Mrs. Berwick, “I have some diluted arnica here, madam, the best lotion in the world for a bruise. With your permission I will apply it.” “Do so,” said the mother. “I know the remedy.”