Ben and I had both travelled “some” since we had parted, and he had, as well as myself, many things to tell. I was sitting on the upper deck, consulting the opinions of one of Job Patterson’s A No. 1 Havanas, when a pretty muscular and sun-burnt specimen of humanity hove alongside, and brought a rather big paw down upon my right shoulder with a bim that made me start _a little_. “How are you old J comp’ny?” was the first broadside. “I ha’nt set eyes on you sence we had the scrimmidge down to the Washington ball-room, Orleans. Rayther a time that ar?” and he winked his little black eyes until I fancied I heard the lids snap. “Ben Wilson?” I inquired. “’Zactly; you’ve hit it on the head this time. How’ve you ben, and whar?” “Travelling generally,” I responded; “been looking at the Rhode Island Legislature of late. About health I’m as snug as a kitten, and as hearty as you seem to be.” “I? Yes; ef I’d a had them sinners” (showing a lump of bones and muscles _something_ larger than mine, I think), “when that ar scrimmidge took place, there’d a been a different report of killed and wounded at the perlice shop. But that ain’t no consekense now, tho’ thar is a ugly sort of a seam on the larboard side of my phizognomy. What’ll you sample?” Such a polite invitation was not under the circumstances to be refused, and a liquid strengthener was presently applied to the in’nards of both. A couple more of Job’s regalias were lighted, and we walked forward to look at the sights and enjoy a little quiet conversation. “You hev’nt got that thar took-pick about you, hev you?” asked Ben, as we got afront of the wheelhouse. “No.” “I’m sorry for that, for I’d a like to had it for a keepsake, _that_ knife. You punched it into my jowl rather vigorously that night.” “And this,” said I, rolling up my right sleeve, and pointing to a very pretty stiletto scar. “’Twarn’t mine, by all the broad horns that ever run in Mississip’!” roared Ben. “’Twas the French bar-keeper did that.” “Never mind, Ben,” said I, “I thought ’twas you at the time; but anyhow, a man hasn’t much time to debate nice questions when that pile of ivory” (pointing to his big fist) “is making love to his windpipe.” “No more he han’t, and no more you hadn’t,” said Ben, “en it’s all forgiv’. Less change the topick.” “Been boating since I met you?” I inquired, after a short pause. “Well, yes, mostly,” answered Ben, deliberately. “Druv a pretty fair business last year; only sunk one broad-horn, en that war snagged. Saved part of the load, en lost it agin at a _cre_-vasse. I had a fust-rate openin’ this spring, but a awkward accident kicked all the fat into the fire.” “Bad luck, eh? how was it?” “Did you ever jug for buffalo fish?” “Never.” “Han’t no idee on the _pre_-cise way it is done?” “Not the least. Yes, I did see something about it in the ‘Spirit,’ but I’ve forgotten all about it.”