"Do you know Jed Baskins thinks himself the{216} best eucher player in the 200th Ind.," said Shorty, forgetting himself in the exultation of his victory. "Jed Baskins the Rev. Jared Baskins's son a eucher player," gasped the Deacon. "Why, his father'd no more tech a card than he would a coal o' fire. Not so much, for I've often heard him say that a coal o' fire kin only burn the hands, while cards scorch the soul." "Well, Jed," continued Shorty, "bantered me to play three games out o' five for this here ax agin my galvanized brass watch. We wuz boss and hoss on the first two games; on the saw-off we had four pints apiece. I dealt and turned up the seven o' spades. Jed ordered me up, and then tried to ring in on me a right bower from another deck, but I knowed he hadn't it, because I'd tried to ketch it in the deal, but missed it an' slung it under the table. I made Jed play fair, and euchered him, with only two trumps in my hand. Jed's a mighty slick hand with the pasteboards, but he meets his boss in your Uncle Ephraim. I didn't learn to play eucher in the hay lofts o' Bean Blossom Crick for nothin', I kin tell you." An expression of horror came into Deacon Klegg's face, and he looked at Shorty with severe disapproval, which was entirely lost on that worthy, who continued to prattle on: "Jed Baskins kin slip in more cold decks on green horns than any boy I ever see. You'd think he'd spent his life on a Mississippi steamboat or follerin' a circus. You remember how he cleaned out them Maumee Muskrats at chuck-a-luck last pay-day? Why, there wuzn't money enough left in one company to buy postage stamps for their letters home. You know how he done it? Why, that galoot of a citizen gambler that we tossed in a blanket down there by Nashville, and then rid out o' camp on a rail, learned him how to finger the dice. I was sure some o' them Maumee smart Alecks'd git on to Jed, but they didn't. I declare they wouldn't see a six-mule team if it druv right across the board afore 'em. But I'm onto him every minit. I told him when he tried to ring in that jack on me that he{218} didn't know enough about cards to play with our Sunday school class on Bean Blossom Crick." "Josiah Klegg," said the Deacon sternly, "do you play cards?" "I learned to play jest a little," said Si deprecatingly, and getting very red in the face. "I jest know the names o' the cards, and a few o' the rules o' the game." "I'm surprised at you," said the Deacon, "after the careful way you wuz brung up. Cards are the devil's own picture-books. They drag a man down to hell jest as sure as strong drink. Do you own a deck o' cards?" "No, sir," replied Si. "I did have one, but I throwed it away when we wuz goin' into the battle o' Stone River." "Thank heaven you did," said the Deacon devoutly. "Think o' your goin' into battle with them infernal things on you. They'd draw death to you jest like iron draws lightnin'." "That's what I was afeared of," Si confessed.