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A PRETTY CAMPING-GROUND. 101 
ger was assigned to me as a partner, and the stakes to be 
played for were tobacco, lead, or powder ; in fact, any thing 
we possessed. My antagonists were both miners from the 
north of England, but a long time residents in the New 
Land; my partner a regular down-east Yankee. For some 
time all went on straight and fair, but it was not destined 
that such should continue. We had been euchred three 
times in succession, when both my partner and self detect- 
ed our opponents passing cards to each other beneath the 
blanket that covered our knees. Hard language immedi- 
ately ensued, knives and pistols were drawn; but all thought 
better of it, and peace between the belligerents was pro- 
claimed for the night. 
On the morrow, however, we, partner and self, left’ the 
old camp, and started with the intention of founding a set- 
tlement of our own. 
Half an hour before dark we reached one of the prettiest 
camping-grounds that the eye of wearied hunter ever rested 
on; and as the night was fine, we satisfied ourselves with a 
fire, without taking the trouble to erect a wigwam of boughs. 
Thus far I had not studied my new friend; from his man- 
ner on the previous evening, he undoubtedly was pluck 
to the backbone; not insufficiently educated, but crude— 
deucedly crude. I say this from a habit he had, namely, of 
expectorating on whatever offered a fair surface for a shot 
—the piece of birch-bark that had been pinned up. at the 
corner to make a wash-dish; in fact, any thing smooth he 
could not resist squirting at. The first time he indulged 
in this weakness was to deluge the upper of my cow-skin 
boot. On my angrily remonstrating, he protested that he 
meant no insult, but simply wished to see what kind of map 
he made. “Well, what do you make out of it?” said I, 
half indignant, still partially appeased. 
“ Why,” returned he, “a map of Asia; and these splashes 
