“For one as eager to play as I am,” he responds, “it does look as though I ought to know more about the game. However, since it's your last night, we might as well preserve a record.” Andy the horse-faced yields to the rabid anxiety of mine host Brown to gamble. The game shall be played presently; meanwhile, there is an errand which takes him to his rooms. Andy goes to his rooms; mine host Brown, after preparing a table in the long-room for the promised game, saunters fatly--being rotund as a publican should be--into the kitchen, to leave directions concerning that triangular supper. There he encounters his wife, as rotund as himself, supervising the energies of a phalanx of black Amazons, who form the culinary forces of the Rowan House. “Young Jackson leaves in the morning, mother,” observes mine host Brown to Mrs. Brown, whom he always addresses as “mother.” “For good?” asks Mrs. Brown, who is singeing the pin feathers from a chicken of much fatness, and exceeding yellow as to leg. “Oh, I knew he was going,” returns mine host Brown, rather irrelevantly. “Spruce Mc-Cay told me that he was about to advise him to emigrate to the western counties. Spruce says the Cumberland country is just the place for him.” “And now I suppose,” remarks Mrs. Brown, “you'll let him win a good-by game of cards, to square his bill.” “Why not?” returns mine host Brown. “He's got no money; never had any money. You yourself said, when he came here, to give him his board free, because you knew and loved his dead mother. Now the Christian thing is to let him win it. In that way his pride is saved; at the same time it gives me amusement.” “Well, Marmaduke,” says Mrs. Brown, moving off with the yellow-legged fowl, “I'm sure I don't care how you manage, only so you don't take his money.” “There never was a chance, mother. He never has any money, after his clothes are bought.” The game of all-fours is played; and is won by Andy of the horse face, who thereby rounds off a run of card-luck that has continued unbroken for two years. “It looks as though I'd never beat you!” exclaims mine host Brown, pretending sadness and imitating a sigh. “You ought never to gamble,” advises the horse-faced Andy solemnly. Mine host Brown produces his bill, wherein the charges for board, lodging, laundry, tobacco, and whisky in pints, quarts and gallons are set down on one side, to be balanced and acquitted by divers sums lost at all-fours, the same being noted opposite. “There you are! All square!” says mine host Brown. “But the charges for to-night's supper?” “Mother”--meaning Mrs. Brown--“says the supper is to be with her compliments.” Steaming hot, the supper comes promptly at seven. It is followed, steaming hot, by unlimited whisky punch. Pipes are lighted, and, with glasses at easy hand, the three boys draw about the fire. The punch, the pipes, and the crackling log fire are very comfortable adjuncts on an October night.