“Darned ef it is though!” responded Peter; “I ain’t as green as you ’Gusty folks thinks. Blamed ef I don’t know whar that ball is jist as well as you does, and dod-drapped ef I don’t bet four hundred and fifty-one dollars no cents (the price of the cotton) agin the load o’ cotton, that it’s under the middle thimble.” “No, _Sir_,” said the little man, with another smile, “you are wrong, and I’d hate to win your money.” That smile deceived Peter—it manifested a friendly consideration for his welfare, which he felt he did not need, and after bullying the “Gimblit-man” for a few minutes, he succeeded in inveigling him (as he thought) into a bet, which was duly closed and sealed, to the entire satisfaction of his _friend_! Alas for poor Peter! he had awakened the wrong passenger. But the idea of being too smart for an Augusty feller, and he was sure he had cornered one this time, was too great a temptation for him to withstand. “Drot it,” said he to himself, “I seen him put it under that ere middle thimble, I seen it myself, and I know it’s thar, and why not win the old man’s cotton back when it’s jest as easy as nothin’? And ef I do win it, why in course the old man can’t claim more’n four hundred and fifty-one dollars no how.” (Peter forgot that the profits to be realized ought of course to belong to the owner of the capital invested.) “The time me and that Yankee swapped critters, warn’t I thar? Hain’t I cut my gums? Don’t the old man, yes, and all the settle_ment_, say I’m smart, and then thar’s Kitty Brown, I reckon she ort to know, and don’t she say I’m the peertest feller in our parts? _I’ve_ bin to Augusty, and this time, dod-drapped ef I don’t leave my mark.” The result we need hardly relate. Peter was tempted—tempted sorely, and he fell. Sick at heart, he ordered Bob, the driver, to turn his mules homeward, and late on Saturday evening he entered the lane which led to his father’s house. The blow was now to come; and some time before the waggon got to the house, Peter saw his father, and mother, and sisters coming out to meet him. At last they met. “Well, son,” said the old man, “I s’pose you’ve been well?” Here Mrs. Wilkins and the gals commenced hugging and kissing Peter, which he took very coldly, and with the air of a man who felt he was getting a favour which he didn’t deserve. “Reasonably well,” said Peter, in reply to his father’s question; “but I’ve lost it.” “Lost what?” said his father. “Lost _it_.” “Lost the dockyments?” said the old man. “No, here they are,” said Peter, handing the papers containing the weights of his cotton, to his father, who began to read, partly aloud, and partly to himself: “‘Eight bags of cotton—350—400—348—550—317—15½ cents a pound—sold to Jonathan Barker.’ Very good sale,” said he; “I knowed you’d fix things rite, Peter.” The waggon by this time had reached the house, and turning to Bob, the old man told him to put the molasses in the cellar, and the sugar and coffee in the house.