introduced myself, and said that I hoped he had learned wisdom with increasing years, and had eschewed policy-playing from a conviction of its foolishness, even if the stringent laws against ticket selling had not deterred him from so doing. He parried my thrust at his weakness by meeting me thus:

“Why, dere is just as much policy-playing about dese corners as ever, only you got to get your tickets on de street. We got walking policy shops now; de pore police are looking everywhere for de shops. Just as if de boys war a going to gub themselves away. We are bound to play in spite of ’em.”

I learned, on investigation, that there are men who go about furnishing slips to all who wish to purchase, and the liquor shops and groceries which are frequented by the players have bulletins twice a day announcing the fateful numbers. Uncle Webster cited the fact, in illustration of how things were prospering, that one agent, familiarly known as “Nosey,” was making $200 per day. My simple-minded friend did not stop to inquire by what process it was made; he had no reverence for the unbending law of costs and compensations. He knew he was still untramelled to toast his heavy frame behind a roaring fire and speculate on numbers; to go out and place his pittance on his favorite figures, and return to a renewal of the speculation. Free as the wind to sit and doze the afternoon away—and hope; to seek his humble, perhaps squalid, home at night richer, perhaps, but poorer, probably; free to wander, later, through the mazes of that endless dream of numbers and hunt lucky combinations in a vision. That was enough for him.

All of the above, which was written more than a year ago, goes literally for nothing so far as it applies to Uncle Daniel. A few days ago a shadow was cast on the page I was writing, and looking up to ascertain the cause thereof, I beheld Uncle Webster standing beside me. Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like Uncle Daniel on this occasion. After a brief greeting he informed me with a great deal of circumlocution, and in words about the size of his hand, that he had “cut ’em this time, Marse John, cut ’em berry deep—eight hundred dollars.” I understood of course that he had struck the first number in Kentucky and had won some money. I tried several times to congratulate him, but he invariably said: “Hole on, Marse John, your old uncle am nearly through.” Finally he did finish his story, concluding with the gratifying intelligence that he had “quit gigs and saddles, hosses and bridles forebber fo’ God.”

This brought me to my feet, and grasping him by the hand, I said: “Uncle Daniel, I have always looked upon you as a superstitious, simple-minded, and incorrigible policy-player. But you have redeemed yourself. In you, sir, I behold a man—one man in ten thousand, uncle—who has the fixedness of purpose and general clear headedness to quit a losing game when you have temporarily beaten it. Would to goodness others might go and do likewise. I tell you, uncle—”

He interrupted me with a laugh that waked the echoes, and between his repeated explosions managed to say:

“Marse John, I does like to hear you talk. You wus allers a master hand to take de tucks out ob de dictionary book. I do wish you would precipitate yourself and exhort up to our Crosby Street Methodis’ church,” and then he was lost again in a paroxysm of laughter that stirred up all my associates, and made them wonder what sort of a guest had dropped in upon me.

But the interview was ended betimes, and Uncle Webster took his leave after imparting the information that his brother, who was a head waiter at the Farragut House, at Rye Beach, had sent for him to come down and drive a stage between the railroad station at Hampton and the hotel, and that he would start that day by the Fall River boat. Long after he had disappeared I heard him shuffling down the iron staircase, and there rose aloft a peal of genuine, hearty, happy laughter, that told of a contented heart and of Ethiopian lungs.

Thus Uncle Webster left us. I fancy him this beaming afternoon cracking his whip gaily over his springing horses, and I see the old yellow coach go bounding from the depot over the rough country road till it disappears among the trees forming the gentle landscape. Drive on, oh, driver, from Hampton! light