The simple Mr. Suggs had only a vague idea of the pasteboard abomination called _cards_; and though he decidedly inclined to the opinion that this was one, he was by no means certain of the fact. Had Simon known this, he would certainly have escaped; but he did not. His father, assuming the look of extreme sapiency which is always worn by the interrogator who does not desire or expect to increase his knowledge by his questions, asked: “What’s this, Simon?” “The Jack a-dimunts,” promptly responded Simon, who gave up all as lost after this _faux pas_. “What was it doin’ down thar, Simon, my sonny?” continued Mr. Suggs, in an ironically affectionate tone of voice. “I had it under my leg thar, to make it on Bill, the first time it come trumps,” was the ready reply. “What’s trumps?” asked Mr. Suggs, with a view of arriving at the import of the word. “Nothin’ ain’t trumps _now_,” said Simon, who misapprehended his father’s meaning, “but _clubs_ was, when you come along and busted up the game.” A part of this answer was Greek to the Reverend Mr. Suggs, but a portion of it was full of meaning. They had, then, most unquestionably been “throwing” cards, the scoundrels! the “oudacious” little hellions! “To the “Mulberry,” with both on ye! in a hurry,” said the old man, sternly. But the lads were not disposed to be in a “hurry,” for the “Mulberry” was the scene of all formal punishment administered during work hours in the field. Simon followed his father, however; but made, as he went along, all manner of “faces” at the old man’s back; gesticulated as if he were going to strike him between the shoulders with his fists; and kicking at him so as almost to touch his coat-tail with his shoe. In this style they walked on to the mulberry-tree, in whose shade Simon’s brother Ben was resting.