The Mysteries of London Volume 1

by Reynolds, George W. M.

  The business of the Court was concluded in a few days; and Richard was removed to the Giltspur Street Compter. There he was dressed in the prison garb, and forced to submit to a régime peculiarly trying to the constitution of those who have been accustomed to tender nurture. The gruel, which constituted his principal aliment, created a nausea upon his stomach; the thin and weak soup was far from satisfying the cravings of the appetite; the bread was good, but doled out in miserably small quantities; and the meat seemed only offered to tantalise or provoke acuteness of hunger.

  The Resurrection Man was set at liberty.

  Stephens, Mac Chizzle, and Crankey Jem were removed to the hulks at Woolwich, previous to the sailing of a convict-ship for New South Wales.

  Eliza Sydney remained in Newgate.

  Bill Bolter, the murderer, also stayed for a short season in the condemned cell of that fearful prison.

  CHAPTER XXXIV.

  THE LESSON INTERRUPTED.

  THE moment the trial of Richard Markham was concluded, Sir Rupert Harborough and Mr. Chichester bade a cold and hasty adieu to Mr. Talbot, and left the court together.

  They wended their way up the Old Bailey, turned into Newgate Street, and thence proceeded down Butcher-hall Lane towards Bartholomew Close; for in that large dreary Square did Mr. Chichester now occupy a cheap lodging.

  This lodging consisted of a couple of small and ill-furnished rooms on the second floor. When the two gentlemen arrived there, it was past five o’clock—for the trial had lasted the entire day—and a dirty cloth was laid for dinner in the front apartment. Black-handled knives and forks, a japanned pepper-box, pewter salt-cellar and mustard pot, and common white plates with a blue edge, constituted the “service.” The dinner itself was equally humble, consisting of mutton-chops and potatoes, flanked by a pot of porter.

  The baronet and the fashionable gentleman took their seats in silence, and partook of the meal without much appetite. There was a damp upon their spirits: they were not so utterly depraved as to be altogether unmindful of the detestable part they had played towards Markham; and their own affairs were moreover in a desperate condition.

  A slip-shod, dirty, familiar girl cleared away the dinner things; and the gentlemen then took to gin-and-water and cigars. For some minutes they smoked in silence; till at length the baronet, stamping his foot impatiently upon the floor exclaimed, “My God! Chichester, is nothing to be done?”

  “I really don’t know,” answered that individual. “You heard how deucedly I got exposed to-day in the witness-box; and after that I should not dare show up at the west-end for weeks and months to come—even if the sheriff’s officers weren’t looking out for me.”

  “Well, something must be done,” observed the baronet. “Here am I, playing at hide-and-seek as well as you—all my horses sold—my furniture seized—my carriages made away with—my plate pawned—and not a guinea—not a guinea left!”

  “What should you say to a trip into the country?” demanded Chichester, after a pause. “London is too hot for both of us—at least for the present; indeed my surprise is that we were not arrested on those infernal bills, coming out of the court. But, as I was saying—a trip into the country might do more good. To be sure, this is no time for the watering places: we might, however, pay a visit to Hastings, Bath, and Cheltenham on a venture.”

  “And what could we do for ourselves there?”

  “Why—pick up flats, to be sure!”

  “You know, Chichester, that I am not able to work the cards and dice as you can.”

  “Then you must learn, as I did.”

  “And who will teach me?”

  “Why—myself, to be sure! Could you have a better master than Arthur Chichester?”

  “But it would take so long to understand all these manœuvres—I should never have the patience.”

  “Oh! nonsense, Harborough. Come—what do you say? Three days’ practice, and we will be off?”

  “But the money—the funds to move with?” cried the baronet, impatiently. “I am literally reduced to my last guinea.”

  “Oh! as for that,” returned Chichester, “I will engage to get a twenty pound note from my father to-morrow; and with that supply we can safely start off on our expedition.”

  “Well—if you can rely upon doing this,” observed the baronet, “we will put your plan into execution. So let us lose no time; but please to give me my first lesson.”

  “That’s what I call business,” cried Chichester, rising from his seat and drawing the curtains, while the baronet lighted the two tallow candles that adorned the wooden mantel-piece.

  Chichester locked the door of the room, and then produced from his writing-desk the necessary implements of a gambler—packs of cards, dice-boxes, and dice.

  Having reseated himself, he took up a pair of dice and a box, and said, “Now, my dear fellow, be a good boy, and learn your lesson well. You will soon meet with your reward.”

  “I am all attention,” observed the baronet.

  “In the first place I shall show you how to secure,” continued Chichester; “and as you know the game of Hazard well enough, I need say but little more on that head. There are two ways of securing. The first is to hold one of the dice between the fore and middle fingers, or the middle and third fingers, against the side of the box, so that one finger must cover the top of the die—in this way, you see.”

  “I understand,” said the baronet, attentively watching the proceedings of his companion, who by certain clever and adroit manipulations with the dice-box, illustrated his oral descriptions.

  “This system is not so easy as the second, which I shall presently show you,” continued Chichester; “because the die must be kept cleverly inside the box, so as not to be seen. The second way of securing is by taking hold of one of the dice by the little finger, and keeping it firm against the palm of the hand while you shake the box, so as to be able to drop it skilfully upon the table at the proper moment, when it will seem as if it came from the box along with the other. This is the way.”

  “I shall soon understand,” said the baronet. “Of course by being able to secure one die, you may make it turn up any number you choose.”

  “When you mean to practise this dodge,” continued Chichester, “call five for a main; because you can secure the four, and there is only the six on the loose die that can come up against you. If you have a good stake to get, secure a five every time because when the main is six to five, or seven to five, or eight to five, or nine to five, or ten to five, you must win every time, because you can’t possibly throw out while the five is secured.”

  “But will not the ear tell the pigeon that there is only one die rattling in the box?” demanded the baronet.

  “Look at this box,” exclaimed Chichester. “It has two rims cut inside, near the bottom: the one die shaking against them produces the sound of two dice.”

  “Are there not some peculiarities about these dice?” asked Sir Rupert, pointing to a pair which Chichester had placed apart from the rest.

  “Yes—those are unequal dice, and are so well made that no one, except a regular sharper, could detect them. They are bigger at one end than the other, and the sixes are placed on the smaller squares, because you must play with these dice to win upon high numbers, which are on those smaller squares. The dice will in nine cases out of ten fall upon the larger squares, and thus show the high numbers uppermost.”

  “And these dice?” enquired the baronet, taking up two others.

  “Loaded ones,” replied Chichester. “These are to throw low; and so the two sides which have got four and five on them are loaded.”

  “How are they loaded?” asked Sir Rupert.

  “The corner pip of the four side, next to the five side, is bored very neatly to a certain
depth; the same is done to the corner pip of the five side adjoining the four side. Thus the two holes, so bored, meet each other at right angles. One of the holes is covered over with some strong cement; quicksilver is then poured in; and the other hole is covered over with the cement. The spots are blackened; and your dice are ready for use. These being intended to throw low, you must call a main and take the odds accordingly.”

  “Well,” said the baronet, “I think I can now safely say that I know enough of the elements of your grammar to enable me to practise myself. Let us devote half an hour to the working of cards.”

  “The ways of managing the cards,” said Chichester, taking up a pack, and shuffling them, “are numerous. These, for instance, are Longs and Shorts. All the cards above the eight, are the least thing longer than those below it. I have a machine which was invented on purpose to cut them accurately. Nothing under an eight can be cut, you see, with these cards, lengthways.”

  “And that pack so carefully wrapped up in the paper?”

  “Oh! these are my Concaves and Convexes. All from the two to the seven are cut concave; and all from the eight to the king are cut convex. By cutting the pack breadthways a convex card is cut; by cutting it lengthways, a concave one is secured.”

  “I have often heard of the bridge,” said Sir Rupert; “what does that mean?”

  “Oh! the bridge is simply and easily done,” replied Chichester, shuffling the pack which he held in his hand. “You see it is nothing but slightly curving a card, and introducing it carelessly into the pack. Shuffle the cards as your opponent will, you are sure to be able to cut the bridged one.”

  “I could do that without study,” observed Sir Rupert Harborough. “Is my initiation now complete?”

  “There are several other schemes with the cards,” answered Chichester, “but I think that I have taught you enough for this evening. One famous device, however, must not be forgotten. You have heard of the way in which Lord de Roos lately attempted to cheat his noble companions at the club? The plan practiced by him is called sauter la coupe, and enables the dealer to do what he chooses with one particular card, which of course he has selected for his purpose. Now look how it is done; for I can better show practically than explain verbally.”

  Scarcely was this portion of the lesson accomplished, when steps were heard ascending the stairs; and immediately afterwards a heavy fist knocked with more violence than courtesy at the parlour door.

  The baronet and Chichester both turned pale.

  “They can’t have found us out here?” murmured the one to the other in a hoarse and tremulous tone.

  “What shall we do?”

  “We must open—happen what will.”

  Chichester unlocked the door: two ill-looking men entered the room.

  “Mr. Arthur Chichester?” said one.

  “He isn’t here—we don’t know him. My name is Davis—ask the landlady if it is not,” cried Chichester hurriedly, and in a manner which only served to convince the officer that he was right.

  “Come—come, none of that there gammon,” said the bailiff. “I knows you well enough: my name’s Garnell; and I’ll stand the risk of your being Chichester. Here’s execution out against you for four hundred and forty-seven pounds. I don’t suppose that you can pay—so you’d better come off at once.”

  “Where to?” demanded Chichester, seeing that it was no use disputing his own identity any longer.

  “Where to!” cried the officer; “why—to Whitecross, to be sure! Where the devil would you go to?”

  “Can I not be allowed to sleep in a sponging-house?”

  “No—this is an execution, and a large sum, mind. I don’t dare do it.”

  “Well, then—here goes for Whitecross Street!” said Chichester; and after exchanging a few words in a whisper with the baronet, he left the house with the sheriff’s officers.

  CHAPTER XXXV.

  WHITECROSS-STREET PRISON.

  A COLD drizzling rain was falling, as Chichester proceeded along the streets leading to the debtors’ prison. The noise of pattens upon the pavement; the numbers of umbrellas that were up; the splashing of horses’ feet and carriage-wheels in the kennels; the rush of cabs and the shouting of omnibus-cads, were all characteristic of a wet night in a crowded metropolis.

  Chichester shivered—more through nervousness than actual cold; and he felt an oppressive sensation at the bottom of his stomach, as well as at the chest.

  The officer endeavoured to console him, by observing that “it was lucky he had been taken so close to the prison on such a rainy night.”

  The ruined young man envied many a poor wretch whom he passed on his way; for he knew that it was far easier to get into a debtors’ gaol than to get out of it.

  At length they arrived at the prison.

  It was now nine o’clock; and the place, viewed by the flickering light of the lamp at the gate of the governor’s house, wore a melancholy and sombre appearance. The prisoner was introduced into a small lobby, where an elderly turnkey with knee-breeches and gaiters, thrust a small loaf of bread into his hand, and immediately consigned him to the care of another turnkey, who led him through several alleys to the staircase communicating with the Receiving Ward.

  The turnkey pulled a wire, which rang a bell on the first floor.

  “Who rings?” cried a voice at the top of the stairs.

  “Sheriff’s debtor—Arthur Chichester—L. S.,” replied the turnkey, in a loud sing-song voice.

  Chichester afterwards learnt that he was mentioned as a sheriff’s prisoner, in contra-distinction to one arrested by a warrant from the Court of Requests, and that L. S. meant London side—an intimation that he had been arrested in the City of London, and not in the County of Middlesex.

  Having ascended a flight of stone steps, Chichester was met at the door of the Receiving Ward by the steward thereof. This steward was himself a prisoner, but was considered a trustworthy person, and had therefore been selected by the governor to preside over that department of the prison.

  The Receiving Ward was a long low room, with windows secured by bars, at each end. There were two grates, but only one contained any fire. The place was remarkably clean—the floor, the deal tables, and the forms being as white as snow.

  The following conversation forthwith took place between the new prisoner and the steward:—

  “What is your name?”

  “Arthur Chichester.”

  “Have you got your bread?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well—put it in that pigeon-hole. Do you choose to have sheets to-night on your bed?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Then that will be a shilling the first night, and sixpence every night after, as long as you remain here. You can, moreover, sleep in the inner room, and sit up till twelve o’clock. Those who can’t afford to pay for sheets sleep in a room by themselves, and go to bed at a quarter to ten. You see we know how to separate the gentlemen from the riff-raff.”

  “And how long shall I be allowed to stay up in the Receiving Ward?”

  “That depends. Do you mean to live at my table? I charge sixpence for tea, the same for breakfast, a shilling for dinner, and four-pence for supper.”

  “Well—I shall be most happy to live at your table.”

  “In that case, write a note to the governor to say you are certain to be able to settle your affairs in the course of a week; and I will take care he shall have it the very first thing to-morrow morning.”

  “But I am sure of not being able to settle in a week.”

  “Do as you like. You won’t be allowed to stay up here unless you do.”

  “Oh! in that case I will do so at once. Can you oblige me with a sheet of writing-paper?”

 
“Certainly. Here is one. A penny, if you please.”

  Chichester paid for the paper, wrote the letter, and handed it to the Steward.

  He then cast a glance round the room; and saw three or four tolerably decent-looking persons warming themselves at the fire, while fifteen or sixteen wretched-looking men, dressed for the most part as labourers, were sitting on the forms round the walls, at a considerable distance from the blazing grate.

  The Steward, perceiving that the new prisoner threw a look of inquiry towards him, said,—“Those gentlemen at the fire are Sheriff’s Debtors, and live at my table: those chaps over there are Court of Requests’ Men, and haven’t a shilling to bless themselves with. So, of course, I can’t allow them to associate with the others.”

  “How many prisoners, upon an average, pass through the Receiving Ward in the course of one year?”

  “About three thousand three hundred as near as I can guess. All the Debtors receive each so much bread and meat a-week. The prison costs the City close upon nine thousand pounds a year.”

  “Nine thousand a-year, spent to lock men up, away from their families!” exclaimed Chichester. “That sum would pay the debts of the greater portion of those who are unfortunate enough to be brought here.”