Charley and Jones were sitting back to back, their chairs almost touching. Jones turned around, and, with his lips within an inch of the back of Charley’s head, spoke in measured tones, “He—is—after—a—particular—trick, Uncle Tom; hence his peculiar play.” Every one laughed, even Charley. Alice’s cheeks rivalled the tints of the conch-shell; and Mary, charmed to see her for once on the defensive, clapped her hands till half her cards were on the floor. I should not have said that everybody laughed, for my grandfather did not even smile. No suspicion of the state of things to which Jones had maliciously alluded had ever crossed his mind. He was totally absorbed in contemplation of the enormity of playing out one’s ace of trumps second in hand. And that Charley—Charley, whom he had trained from a boy to the rigor of the game according to Hoyle—that _he_ should seem to defend such—so—so horrible a solecism! It was too much. He was a picture to look at, as he stood erect, the nostrils of his patrician nose dilated with a noble indignation, his snowy hair contrasting with his dark and glowing eyes, that swept from group to group of mirthful faces, and back again, sternly wondering at their untimely merriment. “But, Uncle Tom,” put in Jones— “No, no!” interrupted Mr. Whacker, with an impatient wave of his hand. “Nothing can justify such play.” “But, Uncle Tom, suppose—” “Very well,” replied Mr. Whacker, in a gentler tone, mollified by the anticipation of easy and certain victory, “very well; make your supposition.” And he assumed a judicial brow. “Now, suppose that there is a particular hand—” Billy paused. “Well, go on.” “A _very_ particular hand.” My grandfather’s eyes began to flash. The vast host of those who believe in playing “according to their hands” rose before his mind. “Go on,” added he, controlling himself with an effort. “Suppose there is a certain hand that a fellow—a hand that a certain fellow—for example—wants—wants—to get possession of.” Charley winced, and Alice’s color rose in spite of her utmost efforts to look unconcerned. “A hand that he wants to get possession of!” cried Mr. Whacker, with unspeakable amazement. “What gibberish is this? I was supposing all along that he _had_ the hand!” “No; but he wants it aw-ful-ly,” said Jones, with sepulchral solemnity. Peal after peal of laughter arose, while Charley shuffled his cards with the vigor of desperation. Poor fellow, he had never been in love before, and—keen humorist that he was—he knew full well that no man could be in love without being at the same time ridiculous. My grandfather looked on, mystified but smiling. “This is one of your jokes,” said he, taking Billy by both ears. “On the contrary, it is a case—ouch!—of the very deadest earnest that I have ever—smi-ling-ly beheld. But, honestly, Uncle Tom, suppose there was a suit—a suit, mind you—” “C-c-c-cut the cards,” yelled Charley. “A suit,” continued the implacable Billy, “that you were prosecuting—”