ing sun, by the margins of turgid
south-western rivers, where his "leaders" shied at the alligators asleep
in the stage-road; through dreary pine woods, where the owls hooted at
silence; over red, reedy, slimy causeways; in cane-breaks and bayous;
past villages where civilization looked westward with a dirk between its
teeth, and cracked its horsewhip; past rich plantations where the
negroes sang afield, and the planter in the house-porch took off his hat
to bow--here, there, always, everywhere, with his cold, hard,
pock-marked face, thin lips and spotted eye, Auburn Risque sat brooding
behind the reins, computing, calculating, overreaching, waiting for his
destiny to wrestle with Chance and bind it down while its pockets were
picked.

His whole life might have been called a game of cards. He carried a
deck forever next his heart. Sometimes he gambled with other
vehicles--stocks, shares, currency--but the cards were still his
mainstay, and he was well acquainted with every known or obsolete game.
There was no trick, nor fraud, nor waggery which he had not at his
fingers-ends.

It was his favorite theory that there was method in what seemed chance;
principles underlying luck; measures for infinity; clues to all
combinations.

Given one pack of cards, one man to shuffle, one to cut, one to deal,
and fair play, and it was yet possible to know just how many times in a
given number of games each card would fall to each man.

Given a roulette circle of one hundred numbered spaces and a blindfolded
man to spin the ball; it could be counted just how many times in one
thousand said ball would come to rest upon any one number.

No searcher for perpetual motion, no blind believer in alchemy, clung to
his one idea closer than Auburn Risque. He had shut all themes,
affections, interests, from his mind. He neither loved nor hated any
living being. He was penurious in his expenditures--never in his wagers.
He would stake upon anything in nature--a trot, an election, a battle, a
murder.

"Will you play picquet for one sou the game, one hundred and fifty
points?" says a soldier near by.

He accepts at once; the afternoon passes to night, and the lamps in the
roof are lighted. The cards flicker upon the seat; the boors gather
round to watch; they pass the French frontier, and see from their
windows the forges of Belgium, throwing fire upon the river Meuse.
Still, hour after hour, though their eyes are weary, and all the folks
a