The Mysteries of London, Vol. II [Unabridged & Illustrated] (Valancourt Classics)

by George W. M. Reynolds

  “So do I, sir,” answered the baronet. “My friend here, however—the Honourable Mr. Chichester—fancies the Haggerstone Pet.”

  “I heard him say so,” returned the young man. “But, if he hasn’t made up his book, I don’t mind betting him five hundred pounds—hic—to his four—that’s the odds, I believe——”

  “Yes—those are the odds,” observed Mr. Chichester, carelessly: then, taking out his book, he said, “But I am already so deep in this fight, that I really am afraid——however, if you wish it, I don’t mind——”

  “Is it a bet, then, sir?” asked the young gentleman, looking round the room with an air of importance, as if he were quite accustomed to the thing although it was in reality the first wager he had ever laid in his life.

  “It shall be so, if you choose, sir,” returned Chichester: then, glancing in an inquiring manner towards his new acquaintance, he said with a bland smile, “I really beg your pardon—but I have not the pleasure——”

  “Oh! truly—you don’t know me from Adam!” interrupted the other. “But you shall know me, sir—and I hope we shall know each other better too—hic.”

  He then produced his card; and Mr. Chichester, of course, affected not to have been previously aware of the young gentleman’s name.

  The bet between them was duly recorded—by Mr. Chichester in his little book, and by Mr. Albert Egerton on the back of a love-letter.

  The latter gentleman then called for his bill, and having glanced at the amount, paid it without a murmur, adding a munificent donation for the waiter. Having effected this arrangement, by means of which he got rid of the women who had fastened themselves on him, he coolly passed round to the table at which his new acquaintances were seated, and called for another bottle of champagne.

  When it was brought, he was about to pay for it; but Sir Rupert interrupted him, saying, “No—that would be too bad. If you sit at our table, you are our guest;—and here’s to a better acquaintance.”

  The bottle went round rapidly; and Mr. Egerton became quite enchanted with the agreeable manners of Sir Rupert Harborough, Bart., and the off-hand pleasant conversation of the Honourable Arthur Chichester.

  It was now past one o’clock; and the baronet proposed to depart.

  “Which way do you—hic—go?” inquired Egerton.

  “Oh! westward, of course,” returned Harborough, in a tone of gentle remonstrance, as much as to say that there could have been no doubt upon the subject. “Will you walk with us?”

  “Certainly,” was the answer: “and we will smoke a—hic—cigar as we go along.”

  The baronet called for the bill, paid it, and led the way from the room, followed by Egerton and Chichester, the former of whom insisted upon stopping at the bar to take some soda water, as he declared himself to be “half-seas—hic—over.”

  While the three gentlemen were engaged in partaking each of a bottle of the refreshing beverage, Sir Rupert felt his coat-sleeve gently pulled from behind; and, turning round, he perceived a man whom he had noticed in the coffee-room. Indeed, this was one of the black-legs already alluded to as having been engaged in treating Cyprians to supper and champagne.

  The baronet instantly comprehended the nature of the business which this individual had to address him upon; and making him a significant sign, he said to Chichester, “Do you and Mr. Egerton go very slowly along the Strand; and I will follow you in a few minutes. I have a word to say to this gentleman.”

  Gentleman indeed!—one of the most astounding knaves in London! But vice and roguery compel the haughty aristocrat to address the lowest ruffian as an equal.

  Chichester took Egerton’s arm, and sauntered out of the house, attended to the door by the obsequious master of the establishment—an honour shown only to those who drink champagne or claret.

  “Well, sir, what is it?” asked the baronet, taking the black-leg aside, and speaking to him in a whisper.

  “Only this, Sir Rupert,” returned the man: “you’ve got that youngster in tow, and he’ll turn out profitable, no doubt. Me and my pal, which is inside the room there, meant to have had him somehow or another; and we planted our vimen on him to-night:—but we thought he wasn’t drunk enough; and then you come in and take him from us. Your friend has nailed him for a bet of five hundred, which he’s safe to pay; so you must stand someot for my disappointment.”

  “I understand you, sir,” said the baronet. “Here are twenty pounds: and if the bet be paid, you shall have thirty more. Will that do?”

  “Thank’ee for the twenty, which is ready,” answered the black-leg, consigning the notes to his pocket. “Now never mind the other thirty; but make the best you can out of that young chap; and all I ask in return is just a word or two about the mill that’s coming off.”

  “I don’t understand you,” said the baronet colouring.

  “Come, come—that won’t do,” continued the man. “But don’t be afeard—it’s all in the way of business that I’m speaking. I see you and Mr. Chichester at a public about three veeks ago along with the Birmingham Bruiser; and therefore I knowed you was the friends which deposited the money for him, but which kept in the back-ground. So all I want is the office—just a single word: is the Bruiser to win or to make a cross of it?”

  “Really, my good fellow——” stammered the baronet.

  “Only just one word, so that I may know how to lay my money,” persisted the black-leg, “and your secret is safe with me. For my own interest it will be so, if you tell me which way it is to be.”

  “Can I rely on you?” said Sir Rupert. “But of course I may, if you really mean to bet. Now keep the thing dark—and you may win plenty of money. The Bruiser is to lose: the odds are five to four on him now—and they will be seven to four in his favour before the fight comes off. No one suspects that it is to be a cross; and the reports of the Bruiser’s training are glorious.”

  “Enough—and as mum as a dead man, Sir Rupert,” whispered the black-leg.

  He then returned to the supper-room; and the baronet hastened after his friends.

  CHAPTER CCXLI.

  CROCKFORD’S.

  Sir Rupert Harborough, Mr. Albert Egerton, and Mr. Arthur Chichester were walking arm-in-arm, and smoking cigars, along the West Strand, about ten minutes after the little incident which closed the preceding chapter, when they were met by two tall and fashionable-looking gentlemen, who immediately recognised the baronet and Chichester.

  Both parties stopped; and the two gentlemen were in due course introduced to Mr. Egerton as Lord Dunstable and the Honourable Colonel Cholmondeley.

  By the significant tone and manner of the baronet—a sort of freemasonry known only to the initiated,—both Dunstable and the Colonel were given to understand that a flat had been caught in the person of Mr. Albert Egerton; and they immediately received their cue as completely as if they had been prompted by half an hour’s explanation.

  “What have you been doing with yourselves, gentlemen, this evening?” inquired Dunstable, as they all now proceeded together through Trafalgar Square.

  “My friends and myself have been supping at the Paradise,” answered the baronet, carelessly.

  Mr. Egerton drew himself up an inch higher immediately, although somewhat top-heavy with the champagne and cigars;—but he felt quite proud—quite another man, indeed—at being numbered amongst Sir Rupert Harborough’s friends, and at walking familiarly in the company of a real lord.

  “Cholmondeley and I were thinking of looking in at Crockford’s before we encountered you,” observed Dunstable, forgetting at the moment that himself and friend were proceeding in quite a contrary direction when the meeting alluded to took place. “What say you? shall we all go to Crockford’s?”

  Egerton noticed not the little oversight. The word “Crockford’s” perfectly electrified him. He h
ad often passed by the great pandemonium in St. James’s Street, and looked with wistful eyes at its portals—marvelling whether they would ever unfold to give admission to him; and now that there seemed a scintillation of a chance of that golden wish, which he had so often shadowed forth, being substantially gratified, he could scarcely believe that he was in truth Albert Egerton, the son of an outfitter, and having a very respectable widowed aunt engaged in the haberdashery line on Finsbury Pavement;—but it appeared as if he had suddenly received a transfusion of that aristocracy in whose company he found himself.

  Already did he make up his mind to cut the good old aunt and the half-dozen of fair cousins—her daughters—for ever:—already did he vow never to be seen east of Temple Bar again. But then he thought how pleasant it would be to drop in at Finsbury Pavement on some Sunday—just at the hour of dinner, which he could make his lunch—and then astound his relatives with the mention of his aristocratic acquaintances,—no, his friends,—Lord Dunstable, Sir Rupert Harborough, the Honourable Colonel Cholmondeley, and the Honourable Arthur Chichester!

  And what glorious names, too:—nothing plebeian about them—nothing lower than an Honourable!

  Had he known how cheaply Mr. Chichester held his titular decoration, Albert Egerton would have perhaps assumed one himself: but he did not entertain the least suspicion concerning the matter, and therefore envied the pawnbroker’s son almost as much as either of the others.

  But to return.

  Lord Dunstable had said, “Shall we all go to Crockford’s?”

  Deep was the suspense of Mr. Egerton until Sir Rupert Harborough replied, “With much pleasure. It would be the very thing to teach our young friend Egerton here a little of life.”

  “But I am not a member,” he murmured, in a disconsolate tone.

  “We are all members, however,” said Lord Dunstable; “and can pass you in with ease. Let me and Harborough take charge of you.”

  This arrangement was rendered necessary by the fact that Mr. Chichester was not a member of Crockford’s, and would, therefore, require to be introduced by Colonel Cholmondeley. Dunstable, Harborough, and Egerton accordingly walked on together; while the Colonel and Chichester followed at some little distance, as it was not thought worth while to allow the young flat to perceive that the Honourable Arthur Chichester must be smuggled in, as it were, as well as himself.

  In this manner the two parties repaired to the celebrated—or rather notorious—Saint James’s Club; and Egerton’s wildest dream was realized—the acme of his ambition was reached—the portals of Crockford’s were darkened by his plebeian shadow!

  Although excited by wine and by the novelty of his situation, he nevertheless maintained his self-possession so far as to avoid any display of vulgar wonderment at the brilliant scene upon which he now entered. Leaning on the arms of Lord Dunstable and Sir Rupert Harborough, he passed through the marble hall, and was conducted to the coffee-room on the right-hand side.

  There they waited for a few minutes until Cholmondeley and Chichester joined them; and Egerton had leisure to admire the superb pier-glasses, the magnificent chandeliers, the handsome side-boards, the costly plate, and the other features of that gorgeous apartment.

  When the Colonel and Chichester made their appearance, the party proceeded to the supper-room. There Egerton’s eyes were completely dazzled by the brilliant looking-glasses, all set in splendid frames with curious designs—the crystal chandeliers—the elegant sconces—the superb mouldings—the massive plate—and the immense quantities of cut glasses and decanters. The curtains were of the richest damask silk; the walls were hung with choice pictures; and the whole magic scene was brilliantly lighted up with innumerable wax candles, the lustre of which was reflected in the immense mirrors. In a word, the voluptuousness and luxury of that apartment surpassed any thing of the kind that young Egerton had ever before witnessed.

  Seated near one of the fire-places in conversation with an elderly gentleman, was an old man, somewhat inclined to stoutness, and very slovenly in his costume. His clothes were good; but they appeared to have been tossed upon him with a pitch-fork. His coat hung in large loose wrinkles over his rounded shoulders: his trousers appeared to hitch up about the thighs, as if through some defect in their cut; two or three of his waistcoat buttons had escaped from their holes, or else had not been fastened in them at all; his cravat was limp; and his shirt-frill was tumbled. His countenance was pale and sickly, and totally inexpressive of that natural astuteness and sharpness which had raised him from the most obscure position to be the companion of the noblest peers in the realm. His eyes were of that lack-lustre species which usually predicate mental dullness and moral feebleness, but which was at variance with the general rule in this instance. In a word, his entire appearance bespoke an individual whose health was wasted by long vigils and the want of needful repose and rest.

  When Lord Dunstable’s party entered the room, there were already three or four groups occupying supper-tables, on which the French dishes, prepared in Ude’s best style steamed, with delicious odour.

  “Will you take supper, Mr. Egerton?” inquired Lord Dunstable.

  “No, I thank you, my lord,” was the reply. “I believe Sir Rupert Harborough informed you that we had already been feeding together.”

  It was not true that Egerton had supped with the baronet and Chichester, as the reader knows; but Sir Rupert had already said so of his own accord, and Mr. Egerton was not the young man to contradict a statement which seemed to place him upon a certain degree of intimacy with the aforesaid baronet.

  “Vot, no supper, my lord?” cried the stout gentleman, rising from his seat near the fire, and accosting Dunstable. “Yes—your lordship and your lordship’s friends vill do that honour to Mosseer Ude’s good things.”

  “No, I thank you,” said Dunstable, coolly: “we shall not take any supper. We mean to step into the next room and amuse ourselves for an hour or so—eh, Mr. Egerton?”

  And a significant glance, rapid as lightning, from Lord Dunstable’s eyes, conveyed his meaning to the stout elderly gentleman with the sickly face.

  “Wery good, my lord. I’ll send some nice cool claret in; and the groom-porters is there. Valk that vay, my lord: valk that vay, gentlemen;—valk that vay, sir.”

  These last words were addressed to Egerton, and were accompanied by a very low bow.

  Dunstable took the young man’s arm, and led him into the next apartment, where there was a French hazard table.

  “Who is the good-natured old gentleman that spoke so very politely, my lord?” inquired Egerton, in a whisper, when they had passed from the supper-room.

  “That good-natured old gentleman!” cried Dunstable, aloud, and bursting out into a fit of laughter so hearty that the tears ran down his cheeks: “why—that’s Crockford!”

  “Crockford!” repeated Egerton, in astonishment; for, although he had denominated the presiding genius of the place “a good-natured old gentleman,” he had not failed to observe the execrable English which he spoke, and was overwhelmed with surprise to learn that the friend of nobles was at such open hostilities with grammar.

  “Yes—that is no other than the great Crockford,” continued Lord Dunstable, in an under tone. “He once kept a small fishmonger’s shop near Temple Bar; and he is now rich enough to buy up all the fishmongers’ shops in London, Billingsgate to boot. But let us see what is going on here.”

  There were only three or four persons lounging about in the Hazard-Room, previously to the entrance of Dunstable, Egerton, Harborough, Cholmondeley, and Chichester; and no play was going on. The moment, however, those gentlemen made their appearance, the loungers to whom we have just alluded, and who were decoy-ducks connected with the establishment, repaired to the table and called for dice, while his croupiers took their seats, and the groom-porter instantly mounted upon his stool.


  “What does he get up there for?” asked Egerton, in a whisper.

  “To announce the main and chance,” replied Lord Dunstable. “But don’t you play hazard?”

  “No, nev—that is, not often—not very often,” said the foolish young man, afraid of being deemed unfashionable in the eyes of his new acquaintances if he admitted that he never yet handled a dice-box in his life.

  “Oh! no—not often—of course not!” exclaimed Dunstable, who saw through the artifice: “neither do I. But here comes Crockey with the bank.”

  And, as he spoke, Mr. Crockford made his appearance, holding in his hands an elegant rosewood case, which he placed upon the table, and behind which he immediately seated himself.

  The dice-box was now taken by Lord Dunstable, who set ten sovereigns, called “five” as a main, and threw seven.

  “Seven to five!” exclaimed the groom-porter.

  “Three to two are the odds,” said Sir Rupert Harborough to Egerton: “I’ll take them of you in fifties?”

  “Done,” cried Egerton; and in another moment he had the pleasure of handing over his money to the baronet.

  After Lord Dunstable had thrown out, Mr. Chichester took the box, and Cholmondeley in his turn ensnared Egerton into a private bet, which the young man of course lost. But he parted from his bank-notes with a very good grace; for, although considerably sobered by the soda-water which he had drunk at the Paradise, yet what with the wine and the idea of being at that moment beneath Crockford’s roof, he was sufficiently intoxicated to be totally reckless of his financial affairs.

  Thus, after having lost a bet to each of his friends, he was easily persuaded to take the box, and dispense a little more of his cash for the especial benefit of Mr. Crockford.

  “I’ll set a hundred pounds,” cried Egerton, “and call five the main.”

  He then threw ten.