WISHING to visit some portions of Iowa, I started up the Mississippi in June, on a boat running regularly between Saint Louis and Keokuk, an Iowa town or city with a population of eight thousand, situated at the mouth of the Des Moines river. It is two hundred and twenty-four miles above Saint Louis.

Only one funny thing happened during my voyage from Saint Louis to Keokuk, and, probably, one of the parties concerned could not have been led to agree that even that was funny. It occurred during the day following our departure from Saint Louis, while the boat was lying at the landing at Quincy, a city of twenty-five thousand souls, on the Illinois shore.

The boat laid there for half an-hour; I know not what for, as no freight was being shipped or put ashore. During that brief half-hour, two sharpers came aboard. They were confederates, or “pals,” but pretended not to know each other. In fact, one of them, whom I shall style Number One—although they were both number one rogues—came aboard a few minutes before the other, whom I shall call Number Two. He did not go up to the cabin deck, but stood on the boiler deck, talking with the deck-hands—most of whom were darkeys—and asking such questions as were calculated to convince any one that he was badly green.

By and by, Number Two, Esquire, came aboard, carrying a kind of padlock in his hand, and, with a respectful manner, said to Number One:

“My friend, can you tell me how soon this boat will go up the river?”

“No, sir,” replied Number One; “I just came aboard.”

“She go up de riber in a little bit,” put in one of the darkeys that were lounging idly about the bulkhead.

“Thank you,” said Number Two, who appeared to be a perfect gentleman. He was walking up the steps leading to the cabin deck, when Number One called out:

“Stranger—excuse me—but are you the gentleman I saw up in town with the new patent lock?”

“Yes,” returned Number Two, pausing on the stairs: “this is it.”

“Would you be kind enough to let me look at it?”

“Certainly,” returned Number Two, with an obliging air, as he descended the stairs.

“Perhaps,” suggested Number One, “you are in a hurry, and—”

“O, no,” replied Number Two; “not at all. I intend to take passage on the boat, and I can go up to the office at any time and pay my fare.” And he handed Number One the lock.

“I believe I heard you say,” observed Number One, as he began to inspect it, “that this is your own invention.”

“It is,” replied Number Two.

“Have you a patent for it?”

“Yes, it was patented but lately.”

The deck-hands and several passengers, who happened to be strolling about the lower deck, now collected around and gazed on the lock with curious eyes.

“Did I understand you to say,” queried Number One, “that no key is used to open the lock?”

“Correct. No key is required, I can simply take it, shoot the ring-bolt into its place, and I’ll bet any man a hundred dollars that he can’t open it.”

The spectators looked on with increased interest.

“Lock it for me,” said Number One, handing it back to the owner. “I would like to try it.”

“Certainly.” Number Two took the lock—a spring-lock, apparently—shot the bolt into its place, with a snap, and returned it to Number One. “There,” said he, “you’ll be the sharpest man I ever saw if you open it.”

The spectators now gathered around closer, and looked on with an interest that was intense.

Number One took the lock, inserted his finger in the ring-bolt and took a dead pull on it.

“It won’t come open that way,” he remarked, as he pretended to scan it more closely.

“No,” replied Number Two; “you might as well pull against two yoke of oxen.”

Presently, Number One appeared to discover a slight,—almost imperceptible,—protuberance, which looked as though it might connect with a secret spring; and pressing this slyly, he opened the lock, and handed it back to Number Two, with an air of triumph.

“There,” said he; “when you invent another lock bring it to me and I’ll open it for you.”

A loud laugh went round at the expense of Number Two, who seemed much disconcerted.

“Ha, ha, ha,” laughed an ebony deck-hand. “If all de locks was dat easy opened a fellah’s prwopehty wouldn’t be very safe.”

“You can’t open it,” retorted Number Two, a little irritated.

“What’ll you bet?” said darkey.

“I’ll bet a hundred dollars you can’t,” said Number Two, whom discomfiture seemed to have rendered reckless.

“Will you bet me a hundred dollars that I can’t open it?” asked Number One, boldly.

“No,” returned Number Two. “You have opened it once, and know how; or else I would. Why didn’t you bet before you tried it? you would have won then.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t now,” said Number One.

“O, pshaw!” said the same darkey who had spoken before. “I seen how him opened it!”

“Well, you can’t open it,” retorted Number Two, banteringly.

“An’ will you bet me a hundred dollahs I can’t?” said the darkey, on whose black face I could read enterprise.

I happened to be sitting by the railing of the cabin deck just above, and could look down and witness the whole scene.

“Why—I—yes—yes, I will,” stammered Number Two, with well-feigned hesitation.

“You’ll lose then,” Number One said, in a low tone, as though speaking to himself.

“Will you put up de money?” pursued the darkey.

“I—why wouldn’t—yes, I will. I won’t be backed out, even if I lose. I’ll put up the money in the hands of this gentleman or any one else.” When he said “this gentleman,” he pointed to Number One.

“You had better not trust me with the stakes,” said the latter jocosely, “I might run off.”

“O, no fear of that,” replied Number Two. “We’ll trust you. I know a gentleman when I see one.”

“By golly!—I—I bet,” said the darkey, decidedly. And he produced a fifty-dollar bill and some odd tens and fives amounting in all to one hundred dollars; and he handed the money to Number One, who was to act as stake holder.

“Come, now,” said another darkey, to Number Two, as the latter hesitated. “Don’t back out. Put up your money.”

“Confound me if I’ll be backed out!” he said, as he took out his pocket-book, counted out one hundred dollars and handed it to the stake-holder.

O, that money was in precious hands!

“Now,” said the darkey, who had made up his mind to win or lose one hundred dollars, “fix de lock fur me.”

Number Two “fixed” it.

The darkey took it, and first, merely as a matter of form, took a pull at the ring-bolt. It would not open, of course. Well, no matter: he knew where that “secret spring” was. You bet! He easily found the little protuberance, and pressed on it with his thumb. But it wouldn’t open. He pressed harder. No go. He pressed harder still, and pulled harder at the ring-bolt, at the same time. Bootless. He pressed harder still and pulled harder still. Vain efforts. He got a little apprehensive and a little desperate. The sum of one hundred dollars was at stake. The lock must be opened. He inserted the ring-bolt between his white teeth, placed his thumb on the imaginary spring, and pulled and pressed, and pressed and pulled, with the energy of despair. The lock was firm: his efforts futile.

A laugh now went round at the poor darkey’s expense; and he trembled, perceptibly, while his face assumed a sort of lead-color, with a greenish tinge. His thick lips also became quite void of moisture, and he spoke in a husky voice.

“Dun’no—dun’no—wedder I kin open him or not.”

“I don’t think you can,” said Number Two, calmly.

The poor darkey saw that his “stamps” were gone. Still, he tried it once more. He shook the lock—and something loose within rattled with a taunting sound, tapped it against the capstan, pulled at the bolt, pressed the delusive spring, pulled and pressed, again and again. All was in vain. He gave it up; but, O, with what a poor grace! and handed the lock to Number Two.

“I b’lieve dah’s som’in’ wrong about it,” said he.

“It seems, I’ve won the money,” Number Two observed, carelessly; and Number One handed him the two hundred dollars.

Another laugh went round. O, the heartlessness of human beings! What they would regard as a grave misfortune, if it happened to themselves, they look upon as an excellent joke, when another is the victim.

“Dat’s nuffin,” said the darkey, trying to appear unconcerned. But, O, how poorly he succeeded!

“Nothing, when you get used to it once,” observed one of the spectators, soothingly.

“But it takes a fellow a deuce of a time to get used to it,” put in another unfeeling passenger.

Poor darkey turned away, as sad a picture as I ever saw, went and took a seat on the capstan, and tried to whistle a careless tune. But his clumsy lips were dry and unsteady, and he couldn’t get them puckered in any sort of shape.

“Confound if I haven’t come near forgetting my valise, with this fooling,” said Number Two, abruptly, after he had stowed away his money. “I left it up in Quincy, and must go and get it.” So, he walked down the gangway plank, up the wharf, and disappeared in the city.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if that fellow were a regular rogue,” observed Number One, gazing after him. “I intend to keep my eye on him.” And he, too, went ashore.

Soon after, the boat backed out from the landing, and proceeded up the river; but neither Number One nor Number Two were among the passengers.