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“Been in 'e army, nigger, wha I's been fed,” said the grinning brown man, delightedly. “I sho is picked up, ain't I?”

“And what are you doing here in Cairo?”

“Tryin' to bridle a lil white mule.” Mr. Pack winked a whisky-brightened eye jovially and touched his coat to indicate that some of the “white mule” was in his pocket and had not been drunk.

“How'd you get here?”

“Wucked my way down on de St. Louis packet an' ​got paid off at Padjo [Paducah, Kentucky]; 'n 'en I thought I'd come on down heah an' roll some bones. Been hittin' 'em two days now, an' I sho come putty nigh bein' cleaned; but I put up lil Joe heah, an' won 'em all back, 'n 'en some.” He touched the medal on his coat, winked again, slapped Siner on the leg, and burst into loud laughter.

Peter was momentarily shocked. He made a place on the seat for his friend to sit. “You don't mean you put up your medal on a crap game, Tump?”

“Sho do, black man.” Pack became soberer. “Dat's one o' de great benefits o' bein' dec'rated. Dey ain't a son uv a gun on de river whut kin win lil Joe; dey all tried it.”