I stood watching this pool game until I was called by my friends, who were still in the bar-room, to go upstairs.  On the second floor there were two large rooms.  From the hall I looked into the one on the front.  There was a large, round table in the center, at which five or six men were seated playing poker.  The air and conduct here were greatly in contrast to what I had just seen in the pool-room; these men were evidently the aristocrats of the place; they were well, perhaps a bit flashily, dressed and spoke in low modulated voices, frequently using the word “gentlemen”; in fact, they seemed to be practicing a sort of Chesterfieldian politeness towards each other.  I was watching these men with a great deal of interest and some degree of admiration when I was again called by the members of our party, and I followed them on to the back room.  There was a door-keeper at this room, and we were admitted only after inspection.  When we got inside, I saw a crowd of men of all ages and kinds grouped about an old billiard table, regarding some of whom, in supposing them to be white, I made no mistake.  At first I did not know what these men were doing; they were using terms that were strange to me.  I could hear only a confusion of voices exclaiming:  “Shoot the two!” “Shoot the four!” “Fate me!  Fate me!” “I’ve got you fated!” “Twenty-five cents he don’t turn!” This was the ancient and terribly fascinating game of dice, popularly known as “craps.”  I myself had played pool in Jacksonville—­it is a favorite game among cigar makers—­and I had seen others play cards; but here was something new.  I edged my way in to the table and stood between one of my new-found New York friends and a tall, slender, black fellow, who was making side bets while the dice were at the other end of the table.  My companion explained to me the principles of the game; and they are so simple that they hardly need to be explained twice.  The dice came around the table until they reached the man on the other side of the tall, black fellow.  He lost, and the latter said:  “Gimme the bones.”  He threw a dollar on the table and said:  “Shoot the dollar.”  His style of play was so strenuous that he had to be allowed plenty of room.  He shook the dice high above his head, and each time he threw them on the table, he emitted a grunt such as men give when they are putting forth physical exertion with a rhythmic regularity.  He frequently whirled completely around on his heels, throwing the dice the entire length of the table, and talking to them as though they were trained animals.  He appealed to them in short singsong phrases.  “Come, dice,” he would say.  “Little Phoebe,” “Little Joe,” “’Way down yonder in the cornfield.”  Whether these mystic incantations were efficacious or not I could not say, but, at any rate, his luck was great, and he had what gamblers term “nerve.”  “Shoot the dollar!” “Shoot the two!” “Shoot the four!” “Shoot the eight!” came from his lips as quickly as the dice turned to his